By the time the train had shunted into Paddington, the silence between them seemed to have gained a sound of its own; a kind of rasping tension, like the noise of someone grinding their teeth in their sleep at night. They queued for a taxi at the station, and then both sat hunched in their own corners of the back seat, Tommy gripping the handles of his suitcase, his knuckles whitened, his hands shaking slightly. Was it the vibrations of the engine, Daphne wondered, that made his hands tremble, or was it still the after-effects of the treatment at the nursing home? She reached out, suddenly overcome with pity for her husband, and put her right hand over his. 'It's like shell shock, isn't it?' she said to Tommy.
'What is?' he said.
'What we've been through, this summer. It's as if we've both got battle fatigue, and now we must rest up and recover . . .'
But there was no rest to be had in London; there was no peace to be found there, only gloomy despondency. Daphne could not write in the dreary Chelsea flat, with its faint smell of gas that permeated everything, and its dismal view of sooty chimney pots and blank walls and the occasional diseased pigeon perched on the windowsill, limping on deformed and twisted claws. It was impossible, she could not breathe there, surrounded by the traffic and the grey-faced crowds, the redbrick canyons bearing down on her, no open space except for that bit of dusty scrub in Sloane Square, all of it choked and obscured in the thick fog of a million strangers' thoughts. She could only concentrate at home in Menabilly, in the silence, her island, her Gondal, away from the city's babble of meaningless talk; it was sending her crazy, being away from her safe house and her hut in the garden and the path to the sea, away from her routine, from her routes, from everything that kept her sane . . . Apart from Rebecca; Rebecca was part of Menabilly, and not safe at all, but at least she was a familiar danger, and Daphne had tactics to keep her at bay, or in the bay, if need be, alongside the shipwreck, that was the way to steer clear of her; let the sea submerge her, though she was uncovered at low tide, and there was nothing that one could do to avoid her then, but at least one could be prepared for those occasions.
Finally, Daphne gave up trying to write in the confined little flat, and decided to get on with her research in the Reading Room of the British Museum, for T. J. Wise's collection of Brontë manuscripts was held there, along with other rare letters and books that she needed to consult. She would work there all day, she decided, and perhaps meet up with Peter for lunch, as his office was just across the road from the museum entrance in Great Russell Street.
So why did she not ring Peter that day? Why, just after Tommy left for work in the morning, did she ring the Snow Queen instead? She had not planned the conversation, but suddenly found herself flicking through Tommy's address book by the telephone, and then dialling the number, half hoping that no one would answer. But there was an answer, and when Daphne heard the other woman's voice, saying, 'Hello?' she had to force herself to speak, to fill the questioning silence. What, then, should she say to the Snow Queen? Daphne wanted to ruffle her, to make her feel as disturbed as she was, to make the ice melt, to make this woman real, instead of a looming figure in Daphne's imagination. She wanted to be cruel, to reduce the woman to tears. But she found herself saying something else, something she had not expected. 'I'm in London, as you may already know,' she said, 'And I thought it might be a good idea if we were to meet.' She did not give the other woman time to disagree, but kept talking, quickly, suggesting that they meet later that day, in the forecourt outside the British Museum.
And though the Snow Queen's voice had remained cool on the end of the telephone, she agreed to the meeting, rather to Daphne's surprise. But it was hopeless, of course, she was as difficult to read as the Brontë manuscripts inside the museum: she gave nothing away, this woman, and Daphne had to struggle not to stare at her, as they sat on a bench together, side by side like a couple on a first date, or lovers on a secret assignation. The Snow Queen was as composed and graceful as a ballet dancer, or one of Gerald's leading ladies. Nothing seemed to make her falter or stumble, and she was unmoved by the sight of the tears that welled up in Daphne's eyes, or at least, she pretended not to notice, just smoothed back her blonde chignon, and her cold blue gaze remained steady. Daphne felt inelegant beside her, and badly dressed, her trousers too mannish, her shirt too shapeless, a hat jammed over her hair; entirely unsophisticated next to the Snow Queen's perfectly tailored beige silk dress and expensive cashmere coat. And Daphne's fingers were stained with black ink, her nails were broken and bitten, unlike the Snow Queen's, which were painted a shimmering pastel pink, though they should have been blood red talons.
It was as if she had suddenly been turned back into the hapless, nameless second Mrs de Winter, Daphne de Winter, inept and inexperienced when faced with her rival. But her rival was alive, indisputably real this time, not dead like Rebecca, though the Snow Queen had something of Rebecca about her, she was beautiful and could never be defeated, and her voice was steady and her stare unwavering when she told Daphne that she would not promise to stop seeing Tommy.
'I love him,' she said to Daphne, 'and he loves me, you must realise that.' Daphne wanted to tell her that a Snow Queen can know nothing of love, only of destruction, but she remained silent, just looked away.
The woman continued talking. 'I've given up my husband for Tommy,' she said, 'and don't you think it's time to be realistic about your own marriage? From what Tommy tells me, it sounds like there have been irresolvable problems between the two of you for years, since the war. And it's not as if you've been faithful to him, have you? You can't claim to occupy the moral high ground.' Daphne did not answer her, she could think of nothing to say, it was all too futile for words, and after a few minutes, the woman stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and said, 'We're not getting anywhere like this, are we? I think it would be better if you didn't try to get in touch with me again, unless you've got something useful to discuss.'
Daphne was too distracted to say goodbye, because by then she'd begun to notice them, in the corners of her eyes, the figures in the lengthening afternoon shadows of the British Museum, several of them amidst the stone columns of the portico, though it was hard to be certain, as they slipped between the unknowing passers-by. She was sure they were watching her, or was it the Snow Queen they were spying on? No, that couldn't be right, because after the Snow Queen walked away, her sharp grey heels tapping on the flagstones, the watchers had remained beside the colonnade. There were too many of them to be private detectives, she thought, and anyway, surely Tommy would not set detectives on her trail? He was the one with the secrets, after all; for Gertie was dead, and she had nothing left to hide from him . . .
She felt panicky when she went back into the museum, unable to concentrate either on her encounter with the Snow Queen or her study of Branwell's manuscripts; she stared at his faded handwriting, but it made no sense, none of it made any sense, the pages might as well have been covered with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, like the papyrus relics displayed alongside the mummified bodies in a gallery nearby; and when she turned to her notebook, she had nothing to write, the pages remained blank, like blind, unseeing eyes. There were other eyes, though, that were watching her. Inside the Reading Room, she was safe, she had to be, they would not dare to follow her in there, but outside, they were waiting, she sensed them, though she did not understand what they wanted from her.
Daphne stayed in the Reading Room until closing time, when one of the librarians, a young man, came over to her and said, apologetically, that it was necessary for him to take the Brontë manuscripts back from her, but would she like him to reserve them for her tomorrow morning? She gazed at him, aghast, and he looked concerned, asking if he could do anything to help, and she just shook her head, then rushed out, head down, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. She'd bought a return ticket from Sloane Square underground station that morning, having planned to take the tube home again, from Russell Square, so as not to have to sit on the bus as it stopped and star
ted through the interminable traffic, but when she walked out of the museum gates, she set off in a different direction, not thinking straight, knowing only that she needed to shake off the figures who were still following her. There was a tall man in a tweed suit and a trilby hat; he was the leader, she thought; the others followed his hat through the crowded streets, the hat was a signal to them. The men were getting closer, gaining on her, and she started to run, stumbling past office workers on their way home, and they looked at her, startled, but no one helped, no one could help her, and she feared going underground, someone might push her beneath a train, disposing of her as easily as a piece of tissue paper. So she hailed a passing taxi, and asked the driver to take her to Buckingham Palace. He looked at her through the open car window, half-smiling, and then she feared that he was part of this conspiracy that she did not understand. She pulled back from the taxi, horrified, and the driver called after her, but she did not stop, she was running faster now, and jumped on to a bus, it didn't matter where it was going, as long as it took her away from this place.
At Piccadilly Circus she got her bearings, and caught another bus to throw them off the scent, and then slipped on to a different one at Hyde Park Corner, and finally, she reached Sloane Square, and was almost certain that no one was following her down the King's Road, as she hurried back to the flat.
The main entrance hall to the block smelt of rubber, as always, but there was something else in the air; an almost imperceptible scent of the Snow Queen's perfume, or was it even more poisonous than that? She held her breath, and dashed into the lift, the iron gates clattering behind her; and by the time she got out, Daphne felt choked of oxygen, as if some invisible presence in the lift had wrapped its fingers around her throat to suffocate her. Tommy was already there when she unlocked the front door, and he looked at her strangely. 'What on earth is the matter, old girl?' he said. And she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror, ashen-faced and sweating. She wanted to tell him everything - about the meeting with the Snow Queen, about the people who had been following her, about the menacing ringleader in his trilby hat - but then she was struck by a terrible thought. What if Tommy was in on the plot? Could he have been brainwashed, just as he'd been deluded by the Snow Queen, so that he could no longer see straight? Could that have been the reason for his breakdown? Not the slow moving of his blood, but water washing into his brain, a rising tide, swallowing everything he held dear?
After that terrible day, Daphne came home to Menabilly. She would be safer here, in the house hidden from the outside world, invisible, even, from the sea. She must be very cautious, very careful, she now realised. It was dangerous to let one's guard down to strangers, dangerous to even allow their letters into the house. She would not reply to Mr Symington's letters, nor to anyone else's, except those from her children (but what if they had been got at? No, surely not . . . though how could she be certain?). Tod could be trusted, at least, but the doors must be locked at night, the rusting wrought iron gates kept closed at the West Lodge, and the second set of gates must be shut, as well, closer to the house. They might come through the woods, if she was not careful; you couldn't be too careful, these days. She must speak to the farmer about renewing the barbed wire around the boundaries of the estate; she would retreat, yet also be prepared against attack. Menabilly had withstood siege in the Civil War, as a Royalist stronghold. Let it be a stronghold again, thought Daphne, as she checked and re-checked that the front door was bolted; as she walked the passageways at night, like a restless ghost, like Rebecca, too swiftly for anyone to catch her; fighting sleep, until the dawn came, and she lay down at last.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Newlay Grove, November 1957
Symington felt old, declining as the year drew to its close. He was tired, and his bones ached, and his head hurt, as did his eyes. Everything was blurred around him, his spectacles no longer worked, he could not read, even the legible words in Branwell's manuscripts swam away from him, the letters dissolving into watery confusion.
He was so tired, he longed to close his eyes and sleep his way through the afternoons, but Beatrice would disapprove, and it didn't matter if she was out of the house, she somehow sensed if he had been in their bedroom while she was gone; she said he creased the sheets that she had smoothed and tucked in so carefully first thing in the morning.
Today, he considered stretching out on the floor of his study, but it was too dusty, too hard, and he worried that even if he managed to lower himself to the ground, he would be too stiff to get up again, his joints betraying him; he might petrify and fossilise there, and Beatrice would not care, she came into his study so seldom these days, she might not find him until it was too late.
Everything was silent now, the house shrouded and quiet, and the outside world seemed to have receded and disappeared in the winter fogs and perpetual rain clouds. There was no word from Daphne du Maurier, not even a brief acknowledgement of Symington's previous letter. Not that he had said much in the letter to her, it had been just a note, telling her that he had been unable to provide precise answers to her last set of questions, but that he was re-reading his notes and files, in the hope of revealing some new information. Which was, in fact, entirely truthful, though he did not tell her that his investigations concerned the wrongful attribution to Emily of an unfinished poem by Branwell. The poem, as it happened, was one of Symington's favourites, and he found himself quoting it out loud, knowing that no one would ever hear him.
The Heart which cannot know another
Which owns no lover friend or brother
In whom those names without reply
Unechoed and unheeded die.
Symington was surprised by the sound of his own voice, declaiming the lines, confident and strong, but he also realised, not for the first time, that he remained unsure of what, exactly, Branwell was suggesting in his poem. He knew that Wise had bound the manuscript in green morocco leather, as part of a slim volume sold to a wealthy American collector, Mr Bonnell, who had no interest in Branwell, but was happy to accept this fragment as being by Emily, once her forged signature was added to it. He knew, also, that the poem was written on the back of a letter drafted by Branwell in the summer of 1835, to the secretary of the Royal Academy, when Branwell was coming up to his eighteenth birthday, and hoping to come to London to study art. He knew that Branwell never went to the Academy; indeed, that his only trip to London, planned in the expectation of an interview at the Royal Academy, was alleged to have ended in disgrace, drunk in a Holborn tavern, after wandering the streets, if, indeed, Branwell ever actually made it to the capital city at all; which remained unproven, like many other episodes in the life of the Brontës. Symington knew all these things, from his studies at the Brontë Parsonage, which inherited, amongst other treasures from the Bonnell collection, the green morocco volume of poetry, the same volume that Symington had brought home with him while he was working there in order to examine it in more detail.
The green morocco volume was still in his study - for safekeeping - but Symington worried that he would die before making sense of the poem, for even though it was written in a clearly legible hand, unlike Branwell's Angrian histories and manuscripts, it was nevertheless as opaque in meaning as it had been when he first read it at the Parsonage, over a quarter of a century ago.
'The Heart which cannot know another,' muttered Symington, again. 'Which owns no lover friend or brother. . .' As was so often the case with Branwell, the composition was fragmentary, inconclusive and spattered with misspellings and grammatical quirks; but he liked the sound of the words, their rhythm and pace, which gave them purposefulness. And though the meaning had proved elusive, there must be a purpose to the poem; it was simply a matter of finding it. 'Press on, Symington,' he urged himself. 'Press on . . .'
He closed his eyes, and tried to remember a time when his heart had echoed with thoughts of another, another who was not Branwell. And into his mind floated the memory of the last time he had felt prospe
rous; back in 1948, it must have been, he sold a stack of manuscripts to Rutgers University, and one of their professors travelled all the way to Leeds to see him. Beatrice had cooked them roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for lunch, and then Symington took him to his library annexe in the house next door, and the American had been impressed, the look on his face was unmistakeable, when he saw the book cases stacked to the ceiling with treasures. 'This is an Aladdin's Cave,' said the professor, 'it is quite extraordinary . . .'
Afterwards, Symington had shown Beatrice the cheque for $10,000, and she put her arms around him and said, 'Oh Alex!', and he waltzed her about the room, and she threw her head back and laughed. It was a winter of fuel cuts and fog, he remembered that, but the house seemed full of light that evening. . . and the next day, he bought tickets for them to go to the theatre, for Beatrice's birthday treat. What was it they had seen? Of course - and Symington slapped his hand on the desk as the memory surfaced - it was the play by Daphne du Maurier.
He stood up, suddenly struck by an idea, and went over to a packing case, and rifled through its contents. It was in here somewhere, he knew it was, and after several minutes of scrabbling, he found it - the programme for September Tide, November 1948, starring Miss Gertrude Lawrence; he had not been mistaken.
Could this possibly be a clue to the purpose in Branwell's words? Was this the hidden message of the poem, after all these years, that he should swallow his pride, and relinquish solitude, if he was to avoid following in Branwell's wake, unheeded, sinking into oblivion? Symington felt a surge of energy and excitement, and a sense of awakening, of adventure, even. He understood the poem at last: it was a call to arms, not an admission of defeat; a message of hope, rather than despair or submission. He must write again to Daphne. They would be comrades in their endeavours.
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