Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  “Of course, there is Mrs. Danvers,” he said in a meditative way, his gaze never leaving my face. “The housekeeper at Manderley. She was close to Rebecca from her childhood onward. You know about Danny? Hear anything about her when you were sniffing around in Kerrith?”

  “I haven’t tracked her down yet. In any case, I wanted to talk to you first. She may be able to help, but she must be old now, and she’s a woman. I’d rather hear a man’s view—especially if the man concerned was close to Rebecca.”

  “You could be right there. And I was closer than most. An intimate, you could say.” Favell winked and then laughed. “Cigarette, old boy?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid. Kicked the habit during the war.”

  “Had a good war, did you? What outfit were you in?”

  “The RAF. Never made it beyond Flight Lieutenant. Nothing glamorous—pen pushing and square bashing mostly. Let me get you another drink.”

  Not a good idea to say I’d spent the war in Military Intelligence, I felt sure. And the RAF seemed safe; Favell, given his age, would have escaped call-up. He was perhaps a man who liked an opportunity to patronize others. This misinformation certainly seemed to incline him in my favor.

  “Lowly Flight Lieutenant, eh?” He laughed. “Ah, well, we can’t all be heroes. I wangled a nice little billet—Ministry of Supply. Lots of opportunities there. And then I had a lot of Yank friends. So I could lay my hands on whatever I needed…. I had a good war. Best years of my life, I think sometimes.”

  I was making some progress, I thought—and the second drink helped. Favell remained watchful, but he warmed up considerably. I let him talk on about the war years, and at first made no attempt to rein him in. Most interviewees, I’ve discovered, cannot wait to hold forth. They want to talk, and love to claim special insight, even when they possess very little. It helps if you can identify, then exploit, an informant’s weakness, his Achilles’ heel. Sometimes it’s vanity or a taste for self-justification, sometimes it’s simply garrulity. What was Favell’s? As he talked on, I was watching for an opening.

  Favell was a heavy drinker, that was obvious just looking at him—and I was beginning to wonder if he’d been drinking before I met him that evening. I could see he was vain, and he did respond to flattery. But I needed something more, and I finally saw it. It was when I recognized the light of long-buried grievances in his pale eyes that I knew I had my opening. I bought him another whisky—a single. I didn’t want him too drunk, and I didn’t want him too sober.

  I asked him about Rebecca’s death and the “cover-up” afterwards. That led to ten minutes of accusations against Max de Winter (as Favell called him) and “that old snob” Colonel Julyan, who had hushed things up for his friend. I had the impression these accusations had been Favell’s party piece for years.

  “Max killed her,” Favell said. “I don’t give a damn about that doctor’s evidence. I still don’t believe it was suicide, and I never bloody well will. All right, Rebecca was ill, she was dying, and that’s why she wanted to see me that night, of course. She must have been going to tell me about her illness….” He hesitated, and his manner became evasive. “I never went to Manderley as she asked, you see. Got her note too late. I was out at a party, on the razzle, didn’t get back till four in the morning. And it was damn lucky I didn’t go, as I realized afterward. If Max had found us together, he’d probably have killed me, too. He was being eaten alive by jealousy—he wasn’t sane when it came to Rebecca.”

  Favell then changed the subject, which surprised me. He moved rapidly on to other examples of prejudice against him. Not only did Favell nurse grievances, I discovered, but they went way back—to his father; his teachers at the boarding school he attended in Kenya; his instructors at Dartmouth Naval College; the officers on the ship where he served as a midshipman; the officers superior to him on every other ship he’d ever served on; the officer in charge of the court-martial that led to his leaving the Royal Navy; the so-called friends who’d refused to help him when he was back on civvy street; and the numerous friends who had let him down since. There was no reference to his prison sentence, but then I didn’t expect there to be. And there was no sign that his cousin Rebecca was exempt from these charges of neglect and indifference.

  I listened very carefully. And I noticed something interesting: the reference to Kenya, of course, but beyond that the striking consistency of his complaints. Favell had a mountainous chip on his shoulder, and the only person in this saga that he did exclude from his charges of persecution, snobbery, and neglect was his mother. She had been a “saint”; she had scrimped and saved to pay his school fees in Africa; she’d gone without to raise the money for his passage to England when he was seventeen; she’d had a “miserable” life, with a spendthrift snobbish husband, who looked down on her and abused her both verbally and physically throughout Favell’s childhood. All her love and hope and expectation had been lavished on her son—and that son now felt he had failed her.

  “I never made it up to her,” Favell said, and his eyes watered. “I left Kenya early in 1915, and I never saw her again. I used to write—not as often as I should have done, but I’m not much of a letter writer. I tried to hide it from her, how much I loathed the Navy, that bloody farce of a court-martial—but she found out. Some so-called friend wrote and told her. If I’d gone back to Kenya then, I could have explained, I could always talk her round. But I hung about in the Far East. You could live well there for next to nothing in those days. So I wasn’t with her when she died: 1928. Worst year of my life. That’s when I cut my losses and came back to England—which wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, I can tell you. And that’s when I remet Rebecca.”

  Drawing on another cigarette, he began to explain what had happened when he returned to England. What did he discover? Why, the little cousin that he hadn’t set eyes on or heard from in years was mistress of Manderley, and was married to the very rich Max de Winter.

  “Well, when I found that out I cheered up, old boy, I can tell you,” he said. “I made a few inquiries. Rebecca and I had lost touch; it must have been a good ten years since I last saw her, and I hadn’t written for seven at least—not one of nature’s correspondents, as I told you. But Rebecca was always damn fond of me. We’d been very close for a couple of years when we were young, and, not to put too fine a point on it, when I found I was a bit short of the readies, I thought she’d be sure to come through. Had my eye on a nice little flat in Cadogan Square; so I spruced myself up, and hightailed it down to Manders. Didn’t get the warmest of welcomes, old boy. Met the husband—a cold fish if ever there was one. Met Rebecca—and there was quite a change there, I can tell you. But would she help cousin Jack? No. Couldn’t put me up because the house was full for the weekend. Couldn’t help out on the financial front. Said she didn’t have any money of her own—said it to my face, when just one of her rings would have paid for that flat, with some change left over.”

  He paused, his face clouding, as if he had just remembered some detail that worried him. He stubbed out one cigarette, and lit another. I asked him if anything was wrong.

  “No. Just thought of something, that’s all. Not important. Where was I? Ah, yes—trying to get my little cousin to help me through a rough patch. And getting turned down. Not very pleasant. Got told a few home truths, old boy. She had a cutting tongue, Rebecca.”

  He hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hold it against her. A couple of months later, when I really was in Queer Street, she came through for me—on her terms, of course. She was like that. She bought a car through me; I did a few car deals for friends, even back then. This was a real beauty, a Bentley, went like the wind, and Rebecca paid way over the odds for it. She knew perfectly well she was paying through the nose, you could never put one over on her, but that was her way of helping me out. Maybe she thought it would hurt my pride less, doing it indirectly like that. It’s possible—she could be good like that, Rebecca.”

  He pau
sed, then laughed. “On the other hand, she might have thought she was buying me off. She didn’t want me at Manderley, you see. I’d wangled a few more invitations. Knew some of her London friends, her more bohemian friends.” He gave me a small glance. “Gate-crashed a few parties. And that didn’t suit my little cousin at all. No ifs and buts about it—she didn’t want me there.”

  “Why do you think that was?” I asked. I could well see why Rebecca might not want this cousin at her smart parties. Favell had a different explanation.

  “Knew her too well, old boy,” he said, “Knew her of old, didn’t I? Rebecca couldn’t hide things from me. I’d heard all the stories—love at first sight, how happy they were, the ideal couple, still on their honeymoon after nearly three years of marriage…Well, she couldn’t fool me. I knew within ten minutes of walking into that house she wasn’t happy, and neither was he. I knew, as soon as I saw them together—there was something badly wrong. Right at the core.”

  He paused, frowning into the middle distance. Again I had the impression that he was scarcely aware of me, that he was locked back in his own memories. After an interval, he seemed to snap back into the present; he gave a shrug.

  “Not sure I ever got to the bottom of that, old boy. A little mystery there, I think. But I’ll tell you one thing for free. It was a fake, their marriage. A fake from start to finish. What’s that term the French use? A marriage blanc, that’s it. They weren’t sleeping together. No sex—and I’d have laid money on it.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I may have raised my eyebrows or given some other indication of disbelief because Favell showed immediate signs of irritation. As I was beginning to learn, he disliked the least hint of contradiction.

  “Fine. Don’t believe me, it’s no skin off my nose, old chum. But I’m telling you I’m right. Oh, I don’t doubt he had slept with her—and before they were married, knowing Rebecca. I don’t doubt he still wanted to sleep with her. I could see that in his face every time he looked at her—it was naked. That man was dying inside, and I wasn’t surprised. That’s the effect Rebecca had on men, and it started way back, when she was still in her teens. She could break your heart with one glance when she was fourteen years old, and didn’t she know it! She was born a tease, she was bloody shameless—lapped up admiration, led you on, and then slapped you down…. I looked at Max, and it was like looking in the mirror. I knew how it felt to be on the receiving end, you see—”

  He broke off abruptly. “So I had plenty in common with Max,” he went on, after a pause. “And I once made the mistake of telling him that. Shouldn’t have done, I suppose—family loyalty and all that. But Rebecca’s attitude was narking me, to be perfectly frank, and I’d had a few drinks too many probably, so I put it to him straight…. Wasn’t news to him, as it turned out; in fact, I was surprised how much he knew, because Rebecca was always secretive. Anyway, the long and short of it was, I got myself banned from Manderley. Thrown out on my ear, old boy. Still no point in dwelling on all that now. Any chance of another drink? I’m feeling a bit low. Been a bloody awful week for me, as a matter of fact. One thing after another—problems with my lease, blasted accountant on my back, thought I’d sold that Jag, then I hadn’t…. I could do with another scotch.”

  I’d seen something in his face then, something in his eyes. There was an evasion. I would have liked to know just what information he had given de Winter, and whether it was true or false; I was absolutely certain he wouldn’t tell me.

  I persuaded him to fill in a few details—the names of some of those more “bohemian” friends, for instance, and what he’d heard about the first meeting between Rebecca and Maxim. He was informative on the first, vague and nonspecific on the second. I suggested that rather than having another drink there, we go on to the restaurant in Soho. When I mentioned its name, he seemed to forget the proviso he had made on the telephone. “Good idea,” he said. “Might buck me up a bit. I could do with a night on the town. Spot of decent food. I don’t get out and about as much as I did. Little lady in my life cracking the whip—you know how that feels, I expect? You married, Gray?”

  “No. I’m not.” I rose; with one last reluctant glance toward the bar, Favell pushed his chair back.

  “Ever have been?” he continued, as we walked out to the lobby. “No? Me neither. Hang on to the liberty as long as one can, that’s what I say. But sooner or later, the ultimatums start—don’t you find that? Usually, I see the warning signals, I’m off, but this time it’s been a bit tricky. Never mix business and pleasure, eh? I should have thought of that sooner, but the lease on the showroom came up, and I was a bit short, and my little Susie was flush at the time, so, there you are. In up to my neck, not so easy to extricate myself.”

  “You mean your partner—Johnston—that’s a woman?” We came out into Park Lane and stood on the pavement, waiting for a taxi.

  “Got it in one.” Favell winked. “Sleeping partner in more than one sense. All fine to begin with, but women change, don’t you find? I meet this girl, cute as a button, pretty little blonde, sweet as pie. Common as they come, but good natured—or so I thought—and with a very nice little nest egg. Just been left several thou’ by some sugar daddy. Looking for investment opportunities was how she put it, eager to help me out—and then what happens? Hard as nails, old boy. Wants the ring on the finger. Starts dictating terms. Well, I wasn’t having that.” His face clouded. “The hell with her—I’m well shot of her in any case.”

  A taxi drew alongside and we climbed into it. I gave the driver directions; Favell slumped back in the seat beside me. His mood seemed to change again, and the man-to-man bravado deserted him. As we turned east, he stared out of the windows at the streets; dusk was falling.

  I had numerous leads, but it seemed best to avoid pressing him before we reached the restaurant, so I kept silent. Favell surfaced from his brooding state once or twice to ask a few questions; he asked me about my “visits” to Kerrith, and whether I’d seen Manderley itself, and whether it “had fallen down yet,” but my brief answers scarcely seemed to penetrate. He seemed surprised to hear that Colonel Julyan was still alive.

  “Thought he’d have kicked the bucket years ago. I cooked his goose good and proper,” he said, gazing at the passing cars. “Didn’t see why he should cover up for his friend and get off scot-free. Didn’t like his attitude, old boy. Bloody snob. So, I spread the word, I had the odd contact in Kerrith. I heard he’d resigned from the Bench—I knew my job was done then. Haven’t set foot in that part of the world since Rebecca’s inquest, of course. Couldn’t face it, frankly. Stayed in touch with a few people for a couple of years. Robert Lane, used to be a footman at Manderley—good sport, old Robert, liked a drink, liked redheads; have you come across him? But I lost touch, lost interest. Then there was the war—you know how it is, old boy.”

  I did; more important, I believed him. I saw now what the Colonel and Ellie had meant last night: I could not believe this man would have left that azalea garland at the boathouse; I was pretty certain he’d had nothing to do with the notebook, either. Favell, I judged, was motivated almost exclusively by self-interest: Where was the advantage to him in sending Colonel Julyan that anonymous offering? Nor could I see how Favell would have obtained it, in view of the information he’d given me. That left one other obvious candidate, the person who, as Ellie had told me, had been in possession of Rebecca’s appointments book after her death. I waited awhile, then raised the question of Mrs. Danvers.

  Favell evinced little interest, and I had the impression his thoughts were elsewhere. “Danny? Haven’t laid eyes on her in…what? Eight years? Nine? Haven’t a clue where she is. Don’t care, to be honest with you. Rebecca could always handle her—but Danny’s a weird woman. Obsessional. Tightfisted, too. Never any help to me, only ever saw me because she wanted to talk about Rebecca all the time. Rebecca this. Rebecca bloody that. She never understood about Rebecca and me. I got sick of it in the end. I mean, why make the effort? Life’s to
o short. She was back in London last I heard. Could have died in the blitz. Could have died of old age. Could have died of bitterness—she was well on the way the last time I saw her. Look at that….”

  We were approaching Piccadilly Circus by a side-street route; Favell was gesturing along a terrace of fine early-nineteenth-century houses, in the middle of which was a bomb site. It was boarded up, but you could see broken walls, sprouting weeds. A fireplace hung over air; the bricks still retained patches of plaster, and—extraordinarily, after all these years—thin obstinate strips of wallpaper.

  “Why don’t they clear the place up? Why don’t they rebuild?” Favell glowered out of the window. “Six years—and you’d think the war ended yesterday. Look at it! There’s London for you, there’s England. You win a bloody war and, six years later, you can’t buy decent food, and you can’t get decent clothes, a bottle of scotch costs a fortune—and no one knows how to have fun any more. Look at it, like a bloody morgue. You see that place there, that bomb site? That used to be a restaurant. One of the best. French food. French wine. French waiters—I loved that place. La Pomme d’Or, it was called. It was the first London restaurant anyone ever took me to. I was straight off the boat from Mombasa, and green as they come. Seventeen years old. Jack Devlin met me off the Southampton train and he brought me there, gave me anything I wanted—oysters, champagne, brandy; I was sick as a dog afterward. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was: the white tablecloths, and the candles, and the silver glittering. That’s the first time I saw Rebecca. Sitting at that table. I can’t remember how old she was then—fourteen, maybe. She looked twelve, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She never said a word, not a single word, all evening. A black dress, I remember that. That’s it, a black dress, because she was in mourning for her mother. A black dress, and this white skin, and these huge dark eyes…. Christ. Tell that driver to get a move on, will you?”