Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  And Ben Carminowe’s sister—why was I so haunted by this sister, especially these last few days? I knew the answer to that: It was because of that notebook sent to the Colonel, with the postcard of Manderley inside it. It was because it suggested a link between Rebecca as a child and the de Winter family—and I had gone chasing after that tenuous suggestion with the desperation born of months of fruitless inquiries into Rebecca’s background and antecedents.

  It was utterly stupid. It was equally stupid to be influenced by the conversation at lunch concerning costumes and legendary eigh-teenth-century incest. I was looking for a connection that didn’t exist; the dates, the ages—none of it corresponded. According to her death certificate, Rebecca de Winter died in 1931, at the age of thirty. She must then have been born in either 1900 or 1901, on the cusp of this blighted century. Lucy Carminowe was born in 1905. There was not the least resemblance between the poor sick child Frith had spoken of and Rebecca as a woman. Lucy Carminowe, sad little ghost that she was, had probably died in infancy—and if I went back through the records and the church registers one more time, no doubt I would eventually find her. If I didn’t, then possibly, like me, she had been adopted. In which case, as I know only too well, any tracing procedures would be very difficult, if not impossible.

  Not only was I losing my capacity to be objective; I was losing my capacity to think rationally. I was being affected by the half-truths, the quarter-truths, the endless rumors, legends, and fabrications that pass for history in a place like Kerrith. What I needed was a rest from the place, and a dose of London, I told myself. Well, I would get it tomorrow. I hurled the last of my stones as far as it would go out into the river, and watched the ripples circle.

  I turned to look at the cottage where May, Edwin, and I stayed that first summer. I minded desperately about my birth in those days: A boy at the orphanage had told me my father could be any man with five shillings in his pocket, that my mother only had me after the gin and the knitting needle failed her. I believed him—and there’s probably one part of me, even to this day, that still does, even though he had no more knowledge of my parentage than his own, as I can see now. “That is a wicked lie,” May said, one night when I confessed this story, in the little room under the eaves that was my bedroom when we stayed here. “A wicked lie. Why, she wept when she had to give you up, the matron told me. Whoever your poor mother was, she loved you—just as I do.”

  I now know this was not true, either. May had had no such conversation with the matron at the home, and the matron concerned had never met my mother. Even so, there’s a part of me that believes that story of May’s, too. I stood looking up at the small window under the eaves; I thought that with this legacy, peculiar to children in my situation, I was ill suited to this particular investigation. No wonder I ran after the story of Ben and Lucy Carminowe; no wonder I started to leap to conclusions and chase shadows: It’s in my blood. I have made myself an historian, but on my birth certificate there is a blank and the word “unknown” in the space where a father’s name and a mother’s should be written. “A blank, my lord”: I have the illegitimate child’s fatal weakness—a longing to discover identity and lineage, in myself and in others.

  I turned away from the cottage, and walked at a swift pace back to Kerrith. I called in at The Pines, as Ellie had suggested. Colonel Julyan, much restored from his restful day, was in good spirits, but I was not; I think he sensed something was wrong, for his manner was kind, and he did not cross-examine me.

  I sat in his study for a while with him and his gentle dog. Barker, so sensitive to his master’s moods, now seems to be attuning himself to mine. He sat his great rump down on my foot, and licked my hand occasionally. He is not the most sweet smelling of dogs, but I felt consoled by him. We talked about Jack Favell for a while—Colonel Julyan said he wanted to prepare me. Then he listened to my edited account of my day; I wasn’t ready to discuss what Frith had told me, but I did tell him about the boathouse and the azalea wreath I had found there.

  This seemed to perplex him very much, and he kept returning to the subject. He had assumed that the person he’d glimpsed at the boathouse was the same person that had sent him the notebook, but he was now forced to reject that idea. “Favell could well have sent the notebook,” he said, shaking his head. “I can see him doing that, anything to stir up trouble or cause distress, even after twenty years. But Favell would never leave that wreath there. An azalea garland? Never.”

  We could both see that Favell was one of the few people who might have laid hands on the notebook—he could have been given it by Rebecca herself or by Mrs. Danvers, Colonel Julyan thought. Since Favell had claimed to be more than a cousin as far as Rebecca was concerned, I felt he might be responsible for the wreath, too; it was the kind of gesture a lover might make—always supposing he and Rebecca had been lovers. I couldn’t understand why the Colonel rejected that idea so firmly. He wouldn’t elaborate.

  “Wait until you meet him, Gray,” he said. “Then you’ll see. But I’m telling you, it’s an impossibility.”

  Even then, the old man continued to fret, and eventually Ellie was called in to “consult,” as the Colonel put it—and this surprised me. I had never seen him inclined to consult Ellie previously. The story was repeated; Ellie listened quietly and thoughtfully. At last she was called upon to adjudicate: Could Jack Favell have left that garland at Rebecca’s boathouse?

  “Absolutely not,” said Ellie.

  That settled the matter, as far as Colonel Julyan was concerned. He looked proudly at Ellie, and then at me. I was still mystified. As I understood it, Ellie had met Jack Favell precisely once, aged eleven, at a Manderley garden party that Favell had “infiltrated,” as her father put it. Did this provide grounds for an answer that had been given without hesitation? My instinct told me Ellie believed Favell had not sent the notebook, either.

  I wasn’t in a mood to trust my own instincts, however. Both Ellie and her father pressed me to stay to supper, but I refused. I wanted to write up my account of the day while its details were fresh in my mind—and besides, I knew I’d be poor company. I rose to leave, and was presented with a curious fait accompli. The Colonel said he’d been worrying (I’d seen no sign of it) about my journey tomorrow. Which train was I catching? How did I propose to get to the station? The bus? The buses were slow and unreliable. Fortunately, tomorrow was Monday, and on Monday the Julyans’ charwoman came up to The Pines from Kerrith: Ellie was therefore free and was going to drive me to the station.

  I think Ellie was as surprised at this development as I was, but the Colonel would brook no arguments—and those buses are slow. Slightly puzzled, I thanked him, patted his dog, and left. Ellie showed me to the door, and I stepped out into a beautiful violet dusk, with a thin sea mist rising.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” Ellie said. She lingered in the doorway; I lingered in the driveway. For a moment, I saw her as I’d done earlier that day, as a girl in a fairy tale, a princesse lointaine imprisoned in an enchanted and impenetrable castle, under guard, and awaiting rescue. I glanced up at the extravagant turrets of The Pines; in the distance came the hushed expectant sound of the waves. I knew I was being fanciful, yet I felt strangely reluctant to leave. I had the same sensation that I’d had this morning—that there was something I might say or she might say. It drifted away in the mist, and I couldn’t grasp it.

  “That azalea garland…” Ellie said after an interval. “There’s one possibility none of us mentioned. A woman might have left it. Had that thought not occurred to you?”

  It hadn’t. And I think Ellie knew that. She lifted her hand, and then slipped back into the shadowy hall. I walked home slowly.

  In retrospect, I think this suggestion is unlikely, but, even so, the fact that I hadn’t considered it annoyed me. I’ve discovered enough blind spots in the course of the day; I don’t need to discover any others. If May were here, no doubt she’d give me a lecture on female insights and female intuition—and
that I can well do without.

  It’s very late. I shall go and pack, not that I need to take much with me. No more Gray suits, thank God. My own clothes await me in London.

  FIFTEEN

  April 17—Monday

  THE TRAIN FROM LANYON WAS ON TIME, BUT THE JOURNEY was interminable, and uncomfortable. The nonsmoking carriages were all full, and I ended up in one infested with pipe smokers, wailing babies, and a woman who munched cheese and pickle sandwiches most of the way to London. I’d left without breakfast, and by Exeter I was starving but I couldn’t risk the dining car because that abomination, Marjorie Lane, a woman I cannot stand, was on the train. I was hoping she hadn’t spotted me at the station, and I was praying she hadn’t seen Ellie and me in the Lanyon waiting room. At Paddington, when we finally arrived six hours later, I skulked behind a porter, only to bump into Kerrith’s most assiduous gossipmonger in the queue at the taxi rank. She was dressed to kill in a black suit, black high-heeled shoes, black gloves, and a regrettable hat with a regrettable veil, and a deeply regrettable scarlet feather.

  “Mr. Gray!” she cried. “I thought it was you at Lanyon! I did wave—but you and Ellie were so deep in conversation…. Well! I must say you’re full of surprises. Quite the dark horse! I’m just up for a day or two to do some shopping. Shall we share a cab? Which way are you heading?”

  I’m sure she’d have been delighted to know, and I had no intention of telling her. “Potter’s Bar,” I said, and shot off to the Underground.

  Only two stops to Baker Street, then a short walk through Regent’s Park. Within twenty minutes I was here, in my familiar room with its familiar view along the curve of the Nash terrace and out across the park. The cherry trees were in bloom, and the grass was strewn with petals. Rus in urbe. The first time Nicky brought me here to meet his parents, I thought this was one of the most beautiful houses I’d ever seen; that was before the war, and circumstances have greatly changed since then, but I still think so, and my heart lifted as I approached it. Despite everything that has happened, my memories of the Osmonds’ house, unlike Nicky’s, are happy ones.

  Mrs. Henderson was here to greet me and seemed pleased to see me; the family scarcely uses the place now, and I imagine she gets lonely. She had gone to a great deal of trouble, as she always does. The bed had been made up in the little attic room that for years now she’s spoken of as “my” room; despite my protests, she’d laundered the shirts I used when I was last here, and eyed the shirt I was wearing with a critical eye. It didn’t meet the Henderson standards, I could tell—but then I’d ironed it, so that wasn’t surprising.

  I was taken on my usual tour of the house, and shown the latest wonder: Nicky’s father has provided her with a television. He’s always been keen on gadgetry, and apparently thought it would be company for her. It stands in the corner of her sitting room, a big beast in a shiny mahogany cabinet. The screen is quite large, about eight inches across. Mrs. Henderson gave me a demonstration; it took a while to warm up, like a wireless set, then these ghosts came flickering out of the dark—it was strange, like watching a dream or a memory.

  She had made sandwiches for me. I was allowed to eat in the kitchen, which is a privilege I’ve had to fight for, and she sat with me, bringing me up to date. She’s heard from Nicky more recently than I have, and thinks he will stay another three months in Paris at least. His mother is on some cruise ship in the Caribbean—with the latest man, I suspect, though Mrs. Henderson did not say so. His father still shows no signs of recovering from Julia’s death, although it’s over a year now. I’m fond of Sir Archie and had hoped I might see him on this visit, but Mrs. Henderson said he rarely leaves the Oxfordshire house, and although he has been promising her to come to London, he never does. “He never thought of Julia as a daughter-in-law,” she said. “To him, she was the daughter he always wanted.” She paused, and then added, looking at me, “Poor man. He can’t relinquish her, you see. Even now.”

  Neither can Nicky, which is why he’s likely to stay in Paris a great deal longer than three months. Both Mrs. Henderson and I knew that; neither of us said so.

  I stayed talking to her for about half an hour, but began to feel increasingly restless. I was due to meet Jack Favell at 6:30 at Favell Johnston Ltd.’s car showrooms in Mayfair. The arrangement was that we would go for a drink at what he described as one of his “local watering holes,” and then—if I passed muster—he might allow me to take him out to dinner.

  I’d traced Favell without difficulty—he is in the London telephone directory, and has a flat in a mansion block in Maida Vale—but it was not easy to persuade him to see me. My first letter, sent to his flat, was not answered, and, when I telephoned, there was never a reply. I sent a second letter to the Mayfair car showroom, and, after a delay of several weeks, a follow-up note finally produced a noncommittal answer. Favell stalled; he wouldn’t rule out a meeting, but he wouldn’t commit to one either. Then, just when I was beginning to believe he’d continue to stall indefinitely, he telephoned me out of the blue, proposing we meet—and meet soon.

  This call came last Wednesday morning, on the day the Colonel took me to Manderley, and I still don’t know what provoked Favell’s change of heart. I think he was intrigued (I’ve discovered that’s a powerful weapon when persuading people to talk), but I suspect he’s hard up and may have scented money, too. I can’t be sure what it was that finally tipped the scales in my favor, but I do know that a meeting he’s avoided for months is now, for some reason, urgent. When I had to postpone it, his reaction was one of annoyance.

  I’d already booked a table at a French restaurant in Soho where the wine and the food were good. That was as far as I was prepared to go. I had no intention of bribing him, so, if Favell refused to talk, I’d have to find some way of persuading him. Meanwhile, the prospect of the meeting was putting me on edge; I didn’t want to spend the next two and a half hours kicking my heels, so I called Simon Lang, who now works for London’s leading dealer in books and manuscripts. After deflecting numerous questions about King’s, and where I was now, and what I was up to, and why hadn’t anyone set eyes on me for the last six months, et cetera, I was finally given the advice I’d hoped for.

  “There’s a chap in Compass Yard,” he said. “Just off the Charing Cross Road—you know it? Francis Browne—with an ‘e,’ he’s very fussy about that. Mention my name. He deals in that sort of stuff. Rooms of it. Cataloged by subject and place. He’s your best bet. Why the sudden interest in rubbish like that? Not exactly your period, is it? You’re not going to tell me, I suppose? No. Ah, well, I might have known. Say ‘hello’ to Nicky from me. Oh, by the way, we sold a copy of one of your books the other day. Let me think, which was it? The one on Walsingham? No, the Sidneys. What a tome! A first edition, mint. So mint I had the teeniest suspicion it hadn’t been read. Terribly learned, dear. What a mole you are, burrowing away. We got quite a nice price for it, too. What was the print run, d’you know?”

  “About a hundred and fifty,” I said ruefully. “Most went to libraries.”

  Simon laughed. “That explains it. Rarity value, dear, you can’t beat it.”

  I rang off, took a taxi, and twenty minutes later found myself outside Francis Browne’s premises. His shop was next to a gaping bombsite; it looked dirty, disreputable, and unpromising. I hesitated, foreseeing a wasted journey, then went in holding the Rebecca’s Tale picture postcard of Manderley.

  Francis Browne was on the premises; he looked even more disreputable than his shop. He was a tall, thin man, with a camp, mournful demeanour, a silvery beard, a pinstripe suit that had seen better days, and a dubious regimental tie with soup stains on it. He had shifty eyes, and in a shifty way, as if unsure whether I were a punter or a policeman, he kept lowering his voice and telling me that he had “more specialized items” for his “discerning collectors,” and I was “very welcome to go through to the back room” if I couldn’t find the exact type of postcard I needed. I looked around me with dis
belief. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to buy this stuff, let alone collect it.

  I wasn’t searching for any type of card, but, if I had been, I’m sure that sooner or later I would have found it. The shop was quite large, but it was almost impossible to move in it. It bristled with cards; there were thousands upon thousands. The four walls were stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of cards; there were boxes underfoot, boxes on trestles. I could see hundreds of handwritten labels. On the table in front of me were Aviation—Early; Aviation—Mid.; Locomotives; Religious—Churches A–C; Lochs—Various; Theatrical—Assorted; and Views—Midlands & Essex Marshes. On a shelf to my right was a bulging box with the simple label, Saucy.

  It took time to convince Francis Browne that I hadn’t come to buy, and that I wanted advice. Simon Lang’s name proved completely useless—rather as I’d feared. “Him? Mr. Hoity-toity? Well, I’m not speaking to him, dear boy. Tell him to put that in his pipe and smoke it…. Oh, very well, if I must, let me have a look at it. Ah—Manderley. I have a batch of those somewhere. West Country, where are you? I think I put it out, someone was looking through it only the other day. Let me see, Pixies—no. Potteries—no. What’s the photographer’s name again? Ah, John Stevenson. Of course—know his work well. Some of my topographical collectors are very fond of his stuff—it’s excellent quality. I’ve a separate entry for him, somewhere…. Let me see. Let me see….”