Rebecca's Tale

  Gray has excellent hearing, but can affect a peculiar deafness on occasion. This was one of them. Somehow, he heard my inquiry as to the sherry, but not my inquiry as to the perkiness or otherwise of antediluvian Frith. He held up his glass to the light, took a sip, suffered a brief coughing fit, and said, “Hmm, most…unusual. Where did you get hold of it, Colonel Julyan?”

  “Glad you like it,” I said. “The Briggs sisters put me on to it. Some fellow over at Tregarron let them have a case. Fell off the back of a boat, I gather….” I tapped my nose. “Remarkably reasonable. The Briggses were feeling guilty about it, so they seemed quite keen to off-load a bottle or six.”

  “Black market. Well, well…,” said Gray, taking another sip. “The color is remarkable, sir. And the taste…I can’t find the words to describe it….” He bent down to pat Barker again, which I felt was unnecessary. He wandered off to the window, remarking what a fine day it was. I did not intend to tolerate this.

  “So what did old Frith have to say?” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “You should have mentioned you were popping over there, I’d have been glad to come with you. Years since I’ve seen him—must be fifteen at least…Did he talk about Lionel de Winter at all—Maxim’s father? He was devoted to him—he helped nurse Lionel in his final illness, was there when he died in 1914—”

  “Nineteen fifteen, sir. I think.”

  “Yes. Yes. Had a bit of a tendency to harp on about it, as I recall. Somewhat morbid, I feel, our old friend Frith.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice that. He did mention Lionel de Winter once or twice, but only in passing. He’s lonely, of course, but he seemed remarkably cheerful. He’s wheelchair bound now, but very sprightly—keeps the nurses on their toes.”

  I could imagine that only too well: Frith who had once marshaled an army of Manderley servants; Frith who could spot a speck of dust at a hundred paces. The word “sprightly,” I found, made me curiously depressed. Only someone young would select it. Gray is somewhere in his thirties. I wasn’t sure I liked the word “lonely,” either. Could Gray think of me as lonely, too? That would be intolerable. I took a good swallow of the sherry; it had a most peculiar undertaste, somewhere between fish and syrup; it was alarming at first, but was definitely improving now the air had got at it. On I pressed.

  “So, did he mention Rebecca at all?” I said, affecting nonchalance. “I expect he did. He had a bit of a ‘thing’ about her, as a matter of fact.”

  “A ‘thing,’ sir?”

  “Well, he never liked her—I must have mentioned that? Resented her, in fact. She brought in Mrs. Danvers as housekeeper, and that put Frith’s nose right out of joint. Having a housekeeper that actually stood up to him—old Frith wasn’t too keen on that. Not that Mrs. D. could be faulted. She ran her side of things superbly—and that annoyed him even more, I always thought. I hope you bore all that in mind, Gray. What’s more, if you’re going to see that blasted Jack Favell—are you going to see Favell?”

  “I am. He’s finally agreed, after stalling me for weeks. He’s now decided he wants to see me as soon as possible. So I’m going up to London on Friday morning.”

  “Well, I hope you remember the advice I’ve given you all along. You can’t trust Frith—and you certainly can’t trust Favell. He’ll feed you a pack of lies. You should take his testimony with a fistful of salt. I’ve warned you a hundred times, Gray—watch out for the biased witness!”

  “Indeed you have warned me, sir,” Gray replied. “And I remember that particular piece of advice constantly. It’s never far from my thoughts.”

  Dry. His manner was dry. His tone was definitely dry. It could be said to have verged on the sarcastic, though I fail to see why. I was about to take him up on this dryness of his when Ellie, somewhat flushed from her exertions in the kitchen, popped her head around the door and announced lunch.

  “Ellie, my dear, there you are!” I said. “I was wondering where you’d got to. Let me pour you a glass of sherry.”

  This innocuous statement was a bit of a blind, I’ll admit. I knew only too well where Ellie had been, since meat rationing makes things very difficult, and she makes a palaver about preparing a meal on the occasions—all too rare now—when we have guests. Ellie had been in the kitchen, with her head in the Aga, or with her hands in the sink. She’d been peeling and parboiling and whisking and stirring—and I don’t like outsiders to know this. Ellie says I’m being absurd, that scarcely anyone has a cook nowadays, let alone a maid, and anyway she likes cooking and cleaning, so why should I try to hide such things? There is no answer to this, other than the fact that such work makes me ashamed, and, no matter how hard I try, I cannot overcome this.

  If I were of a different generation, perhaps; if I weren’t bitterly conscious that such activities advertise the puniness of my pension, that they betray my pathetic caution with investments, so what was once a good and sufficient private income has been sucked down in the marshland of gilts…The long and short of it is that money is a bit on the tight side, and I’d die rather than let Gray or anyone else know this.

  Ellie’s eyes flew to Gray’s face. Her color deepened. Ellie is very protective of me and my weaknesses, and I was pretty sure she was searching Gray’s face for the least sign of satire. “I don’t think I will have any sherry, thank you, Daddy,” she began. “I’m sure it’s delicious, but…”

  “I recommend it,” Gray said, and, his eyes meeting Ellie’s, he smiled. This endorsement seemed to do the trick.

  “Oh, well, why not?” she said, smiling in return. “Just half a glass, but no more, or it will make me indiscreet.”

  This confession was somehow very charming. I think Gray was charmed—I certainly caught that glint of amusement in his eyes again. His unfortunate dryness of manner seemed to disappear at once, and he warmed up, chatting to Ellie in a polite way about this and that. Ignoring his demurrals, I topped up his glass as a reward. Some ten or so minutes later, Ellie announced that the pie would not wait much longer, and that the first course was potted shrimps—my favorite. With this, my own manner thoughtful, we went through to the dining room (I had vetoed the kitchen) and sat down to a fine lunch.

  I’d just been reminded yet again how slippery a customer Gray is. You no sooner impale him on the hook than he wriggles off. It’s harder to get a straight answer out of him than almost anyone I know—other than myself. Obviously, he was hiding something. The question was—what?

  SEVEN

  I WILL COME TO OUR LUNCH, AND OUR SUBSEQUENT WALK in the Manderley woods, presently. The afternoon’s events were strange, even revelatory, but they left me in a very perturbed state, and I want to be sure I feel up to the task of recording them—as I must. Meantime, as promised, I see I must deal with a connected matter—Terence Gray himself. I’d intended Gray to play a minor role in my narrative, I saw him as secretary-cum-sidekick, as Watson to my Holmes. But events later that day were to change my attitude. They made me realize that Gray was crucial to my Rebecca “quest.” I’ve perhaps been reluctant to deal with the question of the Terrier, or the Terror, but I must now bite the bullet. He must be explained and introduced.

  Gray first arrived in Kerrith roughly six months ago, at a time when my own fortunes were at a low ebb. I’d been laid up after suffering episodes of dizziness, and one mysterious collapse. Our good doctor, an alarmist, diagnosed a minor heart attack. I disagreed with this verdict, and still do, but no one listened to me, and I was confined to barracks forthwith.

  My “cure” was to consist of horse pills, none of which made the slightest difference, absence of all anxiety, and rest. I’ve never been a good patient, and this regime made me “difficult,” I confess. I was crochety and bored; my anxieties spiraled; it was then I began to suffer from nightmares, and I became very depressed. The situation was not helped by the weather, which was atrocious, one of the worst winters I ever remember, and by what I viewed as Ellie’s overprotectiveness. It rained. Day after day it rained, and I sat h
ere by the fire, thinking about Rebecca, trying to think of ways in which I could make amends for my past failures—in short, being feeble and feeling sorry for myself.

  I think I made life very hard for Ellie—in fact, I know I did. I wish I could pretend that age and illness evinced sudden nobility of character on my part, but I can’t. I turned into someone I disliked, and the more I disliked myself, the worse it was. Ellie grew quite desperate, I think, and I know she consulted my old friends the Briggs sisters, the daughters of Lady Briggs, formerly Evangeline Grenville. The sisters Elinor and Jocelyn are both spinsters, and as I’ve mentioned, my great cronies and chief informants in this neighbourhood. A plot was hatched. As a result, one teatime in the midst of a howling December gale, a newcomer to Kerrith, Terence Gray, was introduced.

  Into my study strode a tall dark-haired young man with a firm handshake, a faint trace of an accent—lowlands Scottish, I thought—and a preadvertised interest in local history. He had been “looking forward to meeting me and hearing my stories of Manderley,” the Briggs sisters declared; they had been longing to “get us together.” I took this with a fistful of salt. I noticed Gray made Ellie blush when he addressed her, and I was displeased to observe that the Briggs sisters (indefatigable matchmakers, both of them) also noticed this. I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t entirely for my own welfare that Mr. Gray had been introduced. I eyed the interloper sternly, refused to be charmed, and was curt.

  After he left, Ellie and I had a row—which happens very rarely. I was less than kind about Gray’s accent, clothes, haircut, manner of drinking tea, et cetera. I made some anodyne remark—“Not quite top drawer” or “Why doesn’t the fellow get a proper haircut?” or something like that, and Ellie hit the roof. She told me I was an unmitigated snob; she said I was living in the wrong century and ought to be ashamed of myself. I was ostracized and my breakfast toast was burned. I had to eat humble pie for a week before she fully forgave me. I initiated inquiries into Gray’s antecedents and status immediately, of course.

  Gray had fluttered the dovecotes of Kerrith on his arrival, I learned. Initially, this was due to his good looks and his pleasant manners; then came the electrifying news that he was unmarried—thanks to the last war, bachelors of any description are unusual hereabouts, and eligible bachelors are rarer than hens’ teeth. Not that long after my first introduction to him, I witnessed at first hand exactly how potent a combination of forces this was.

  I had had a couple more talks with Gray in the interim; the weather had improved, and so to a degree had my health. I had begun to go out and about again on mild days, and had been prevailed upon to address our local history society by its current secretary, Marjorie Lane, a terrible woman of advanced views, who moved here ten minutes ago from London, who believes herself to be an expert on matters about which she knows nothing whatsoever (including Manderley and Rebecca, of course), and who currently occupies a “bijou” cottage overlooking the harbour, where she paints daubs and makes pots.

  “That nice Mr. Gray will be joining us for our meeting,” she told me, when, clasping our ration books, I bumped into her in the butcher’s (they were keeping a chicken for Ellie—under the counter, of course). “He and I are the greatest of friends already—and I’ve persuaded him to join our society. We need some young blood, don’t you agree, Colonel? I know he’s looking forward to your talk—as we all are. Have you decided on a subject yet? Is it still a secret? I know Mr. Gray’s hoping for your ‘Memories of Manderley’ or ‘Manderley as I Knew It’—may we look forward to that?”

  “Not much to tempt one, is there?” I replied, ignoring the question, and indicating the postwar plenty on display—a string of sausages, some scrag-end of mutton, and several skinned rabbits that even Barker would not have touched. The horrid woman gave an arch smile at this.

  “Apparently not,” she replied, with a most peculiar and unnecessary emphasis.

  “But there are lots of juicy morsels tucked away—or so I hear, at any rate….”

  THE EVENING OF MY TALK ARRIVED. I WENT SPRUCED UP in a tweed suit; I had toyed with the idea of discussing this area’s many notable Arthurian connections, but in the end, and with few references to my copious notes, I gave a most entertaining, even erudite, account of the old gibbet sites surrounding our historic town. Terence Gray was indeed in the audience, and his presence caused…well, to call it a sensation would not be to overstate.

  At the end of the meeting there were, as always, refreshments: stewed coffee, well-named rock cakes, and sausage rolls. Ellie and I stood to one side; Mr. Gray was instantly surrounded. A posse of old pussies, led by the Lane woman, closed in. Were they discussing gibbet sites and my revelations concerning them? No, they were not. They had instantly homed in on the question of marriage—never far from their minds at the best of times, of course.

  “Why weren’t you snapped up years ago, Mr. Gray?” Elinor Briggs piped up, as I advanced from the rearguard, intent on rescue (Elinor has always been quick off the mark). All the old bats bared their teeth in roguish smiles, and I awaited Gray’s reply with interest. Would he venture some quip? Make some smooth disclaimer? No, neither. He colored and stammered a defensive answer. Did they lose interest? Far from it. Women cannot resist shyness in a handsome man. The capitulation of Kerrith’s female population was instantaneous.

  Months later, this pertinent question still remains unresolved, and Gray’s biography may be summarized in brief. He hails from Scotland—from the Borders, I think. After attending a grammar school I’ve never heard of, he won a scholarship to Cambridge (my own alma mater; I was at Trinity prior to Sandhurst; Gray was at some other college. King’s? Caius? I forget). He took a good degree (it may even have been a first) in History, and I think became a teacher of some kind until, in 1939, the war intervened. I assume he then volunteered or was called up—but he chooses never to discuss this period and having a respect for such silences myself, I have not pressed him. Recently, there seems to have been some personal crisis, almost certainly involving a woman. Whatever it was that happened, it led him to make changes in his life.

  He seems to have thrown in his job, cut all his ties, and come looking for employment in, of all unlikely places, this neighborhood. Once here, despite being ludicrously overqualified, he applied for and got a temporary and part-time position at our county archive library in Lanyon—a position so short-term, dull, and ill-paid that it had remained unfilled for months. There he now works, three days a week, cataloging the de Winter estate papers, deposited there after Maxim’s death, as I understand it, by lawyers acting for the second Mrs. de Winter. He rents a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Kerrith, and devotes the rest of his ample free time to what he calls “his researches.” He always speaks of these in a very modest way, but I believe there is a great deal more to Mr. Gray than meets the eye and I suspect him of writing. In my opinion he has ambitions as an author, and these “researches” are intended to form the basis of a book. I have a pretty damn shrewd idea of its subject matter, too…but I mustn’t get ahead of myself.

  When I first began to suspect this, I’d known Gray about six weeks, we had begun to meet regularly and I had warmed to him. He is an excellent listener; he is astute, knowledgeable, persistent, and highly intelligent. I welcomed the idea that Gray might make use of material I could give him. The book I then envisaged his writing was a very general one, rather like my grandfather’s inestimable History of the Parishes of Manderley and Kerrith, with Walks.

  Safe in this belief, I opened up. Then I became aware that Gray’s field of interest was narrowing. From concerning himself with a large local area and several ancient family estates, he homed in on one estate in particular: Manderley. I was still so convinced that Gray was a dull dog librarian, whose chief concern was such topics as medieval field boundaries, that even then I felt no alarm. I allowed him to draw me out. More than was prudent, I feel in retrospect.

  Then, gradually, I began to notice: Medieval field boundarie
s were not his concern; he was not really interested in the early history of the de Winter family, either. It is a colorful history, with the beddings, bastardy, and amours of the eighteenth century being particularly eventful, but all my stories about these de Winters, including the most colorful of all, wicked Caroline de Winter and her rake of a brother, fell on deaf ears. Mr. Gray’s concerns were far more modern.

  When I finally realized that—and I now curse myself for being so slow—I at once became cautious, and renewed my own inquiries. Who exactly was Mr. Terence Gray, lately come amongst us? Why had he been so anxious to take that ill-paid minor job—and why had he been so anxious to befriend me? Was it truly, as Ellie claimed, that he liked me? I began to doubt his motives and this philanthropy.

  The Briggs sisters, Marjorie Lane, and others, filled me in. Terence Gray, it seemed, had a sad and touching background: Orphaned as a small boy, or as a baby (everyone seemed suspiciously vague on this point), he had spent his early childhood in various children’s homes. He had then been adopted by a woman known as “Auntie May,” a saintly and kindhearted body living near Peebles (or possibly Perth). Auntie May had relations in this neck of the woods and had brought the boy here on numerous holidays, when he had gamboled on the sands, walked the coast paths, et cetera, et cetera, and had formed an emotional bond with Kerrith and the surrounding neighborhood.

  After the war, Auntie May had died, leaving wee Terence a small legacy. This legacy gave him a measure of independence, allowing him to return to the scenes of his childhood idyll, and it now eked out his inadequate salary. There were even rumors that enough had been salted away by this prudent Scotswoman to enable Gray to consider buying the property he was renting. The Briggs sisters were particularly warm on this aspect of the story. For reasons beyond my comprehension they seemed to believe that whether or not Gray was sufficiently set up in life to own property would be a matter of concern to me.