And yet now she avoided this lovely place she had made. She appeared on formal, arranged occasions, as she had always done, but when they were over, or when her time was free, she came here, to a tiny single-storey stone building on the edge of the sea. I wanted to know why; I had to know why, and one evening in early April, a week or so before she died, I walked along the cliffs as dusk fell, saw the square gold light in those windows, and went down to ask her.
The last of her dogs—and her favorite—Jasper, was with her. Either he or perhaps Rebecca herself heard my feet crunch on the shingle as I approached. At least I assume that, for my visit seemed neither to surprise nor startle her.
I tapped on the door, and then went in. And that afternoon, standing by the gorse, leaning on my stick, with my eyes tight shut, I went in again, and again and again—watching closely, closely, so I knew no detail escaped me. The small whitewashed space was warm; it smelled of wood smoke and faintly of the Turkish cigarettes Rebecca now smoked constantly. There was a red rag rug on the floor, of the simple homemade kind one often used to see in cottages hereabouts; on the small bed to my left, which served as a sofa, Jasper was curled up on a plaid blanket. There was a shelf, with a row of little model boats, crudely made, but charming. There was another shelf with books, cups, and plates, and a small Primus stove beneath it. Next to the bright fire, on which driftwood was burning, stood a small armchair with a worn cover, a chair that looked as if it might once have done service in some maid’s bedroom at Manderley.
On the other side of the fire, opposite the sofa-bed, was a deal table, at which Rebecca was sitting. It was piled with books and inks and pens; there was a bright pink blotting pad and an ashtray, in which one of her distinctive oval cigarettes was burning. An oil lamp stood here, its brass brightly polished; it created a warm circle of light in the quiet room, and gave it an atmosphere of pleasant serenity. I looked, and looked again, and looked again. Even now, twenty years later, I still saw what I first saw then: a simple place, that had been made delightful simply. Something, perhaps the bright colors or the little model boats or the small scale of the furniture, made me think of a child’s room. It had a comforting ambience that, rightly or wrongly, I associate with that refuge, that palace of play, that had once, at The Pines, been Rose’s and my nursery.
Rebecca was sitting at her improvised desk, her face and hair lit by the circle of lamplight. She was wearing her sailing clothes, and they were old but comfortable: trousers, a thick Guernsey sweater. Her hair, which had once been long, she had recently cut short, as was the fashion then. This altered her appearance radically—in fact, I still wasn’t used to it, so, each time I saw her, it still took me by surprise. It made her look disturbingly androgynous, boyish yet intensely female; if possible, it increased her beauty.
She looked up as I came in, but neither smiled nor spoke a greeting. I looked at her hands, in the pool of lamplight. They were thin, long fingered, tanned from the previous summer’s sailing; she was still, but her hands moved restlessly across the table, moving the blotter an inch, picking up then setting down a pen. They were fine and capable hands. Rebecca never wore gloves when she gardened or rode or sailed; she would have despised the idea of “lady’s” hands, I think. I looked at her hands, again and again, down a tunnel twenty years long I looked at them.
On her left hand, she wore two rings on her wedding finger—as she always did, I never saw her without them: a narrow gold wedding band and a thin circlet of diamonds, of the kind called an eternity ring. Her right hand was bare, and its first two fingers were inky.
I could sense Rebecca was preoccupied, and that my visit was unwelcome; I didn’t stay long, ten or fifteen minutes at most—and I suppose that I stayed there even less time that afternoon as I stood above the cove. In my mind, I seemed to be there, warmed by the fire, looking, looking, for a long time; in fact, the vision, or visitation, lasted only a minute or so. I now think that, giddy and distressed as I was, I knew I was looking for something, and had known all day at the back of my mind that, if I concentrated, I could find it.
So I looked and looked: at the plaid rug, and the books, and the bright fire, at Rebecca’s face and her restless hands; then Barker gave a whine—and at last I saw it. Next to the pink blotter, under her left hand: a square black-covered exercise book, in which she had been writing just before I entered, which she quickly blotted and closed as I entered, and which she laced up, tying its leather fastenings in a neat bow on its spine, and pushed out of sight before rising….
“I’ve interrupted you. You were writing. What were you writing, Rebecca?”
“What sharp eyes you have, Grandmama! A letter, I expect.”
“You write letters in notebooks?”
“Oh, very well. My life story. I felt autobiographical today. I wrote pages! Tomorrow, I’ll tear it up, I expect. Or maybe I’ll keep it. For my grandchildren. For my own children. They can read it one rainy day—it will while away an hour or two, don’t you think? I’d like them to know me.”
“Rebecca, they’ll know you anyway.”
“I suppose so. Maybe.”
I opened my eyes again; I stared at the sea and the cove, which were steady. The giddiness had gone. My heart still ached, but my mind was clear—and I want to stress that point, in view of what happened next. I stood there, certain that I had remembered this conversation accurately, that I remembered the interior of the boathouse, the tone of Rebecca’s voice. I was absolutely certain about the notebook, too. The one now lying on my desk at The Pines was identical, and that was why—when I first saw it that morning—it had seemed familiar and made me uneasy. Identical, yet different in one crucial respect: The notebook sent to me was empty. The one I remembered had been written in.
Where was that now? Lost in the Manderley fire? Or saved, and preserved all these years? My mind began to race; an idea came to me.
Someone was calling to me. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ellie running toward me from my left; I looked down at the cove, and saw Gray walking toward the boathouse; I saw him stop, look up at Ellie and me, then turn and begin running toward the path across the shingle.
I looked at the boathouse itself. I had a clear view of the landward window. I have good vision, despite my age (I also want to stress this), and am, if anything, longsighted now, wearing spectacles only for close work or reading. So I could see that window perfectly; it wasn’t in the least blurred or hazy. I saw someone move behind the glass. I saw someone raise a hand, catch hold of something, and then drag it across the window. It could have been a remnant of curtain; it could have been a piece of old sacking or canvas, anything. But someone was in there, and someone didn’t want to be seen—and I still insist on that, despite the skepticism of Gray and Ellie.
That is what I saw—and I might have had a better chance of persuading my companions had I then behaved less foolishly. Such a great mad hope leaped up in my heart. I thought, She isn’t dead. We buried the wrong woman. She’s alive. And now at last she’s come back…. I heard again that voice in my dream: Let me out, I must talk to you….
“Rebecca,” I said as Ellie reached my side; and then something curious happened, I’m not sure what, but I found myself on the ground. I was lying full length, with Gray’s jacket under my head; my collar had been loosened and my scarf unwound and my coat unbuttoned. Gray was kneeling beside me, and bending over me, and Ellie was holding my wrist and saying “It’s very faint and unsteady.”
“Now, Ellie,” I heard myself say in a very odd reedy voice. “Don’t start—I’ll be fine in a jiffy.”
“Oh, God, oh, God,” said Ellie, and started weeping.
They got me back to the car. How they got me back isn’t important. It took a long time, and it was awkward and difficult, and we’d never have managed it without Terence Gray. He behaved—and I will say this without equivocation—magnificently. Women are always hopeless in a crisis of this kind, and will flap about being emotional and foolish. Gray remained calm; h
e allowed me to direct operations, and the fact that he is extremely fit and strong proved invaluable. They settled me down on the backseat, finally, and by then I had warmed to Gray to such a degree that I was glad when he seated himself next to me. I thanked him. I may even have said, “Thank you, Terry.”
Back at The Pines, the doctor was summoned. Ellie was being so exceptionally stern that I didn’t dare argue, and I hadn’t the energy anyway. Fortunately, for once, the good doctor wasn’t an alarmist. He examined me; he went into the next room to have a brief talk with Ellie and Gray, and then returned to me with the verdict. A faint. As simple as that. I had overdone it, and then I had fainted.
“I could have told you that,” I said, and my voice was improving.
There was a good deal more, of course. I was confined to barracks again, inevitably. I scarcely listened to all that rigmarole about rest and diet and horse pills and a total ban on all agitation and excitement. The point was: It was an ordinary common or garden faint. Not another heart attack, not a stroke—nothing, in any way, that could have affected, or is likely to affect, my faculties. Just a faint, brought on by temper, by my own inexcusable behavior to Ellie, by distress, by overexertion—and by seeing someone at that boathouse window.
I didn’t mention that to the doctor, of course. He is not an imaginative man, and I didn’t want him thinking I was losing my marbles.
“Now take care of yourself, Arthur,” he said, as he prepared to leave. “Try not to get yourself worked up. Think of this as another warning, there’s a good chap. And this time, make sure you heed it.”
I certainly will. I don’t want to keel over now—there’s far too much to do. I have already made a start. (Obviously, rather more time has passed than I indicated at the beginning of this narrative; it’s taken longer to write than I anticipated, especially as I seem to tire quite easily. It is, as I write now, a day or so since the events I describe happened—but they are fresh in my memory.)
First: I have apologized to Ellie, made my peace with her, and begged her forgiveness. Ellie has begged mine. I have told her that she spoke the truth to me, and the truth needs no forgiveness. Second: I’ve decided to trust Terence Gray, and I’ve already enlisted his assistance. His kindness to me after that foolish fainting fit will not be forgotten. Third: I’ve made this record of these events, for my own benefit and Gray’s, so we can all be clear how this quest began, and I can remind myself, should I need to do so, of the many clues I’ve detailed here, and the state of affairs as they were, at the outset.
Gray is coming to see me in a day or two, when I’ve had a chance to rest thoroughly. We’ve already agreed on a division of responsibilities. It turns out that he has a number of “leads”—I think I may call them that—which came out of his discussions with Frith and his recent visit to London. He’s going to postpone his meeting with Jack Favell for a few days, until he’s sure I’m recovered. He’s assured me that he will, at all times, remember the question of bias, and, if in doubt, will consult me. I, meanwhile, will open up my boxes and files; I will search my memory, and I will tell him the whole story, in interview with him or—if I feel up to it—in writing. Meanwhile, just to be on the safe side (I might keel over; you never know), there is this testimony.
To mark the importance of this pact, which we made on the evening of our visit to Manderley, we shook hands, and exchanged certain confidences. Gray told me exactly what he had discovered among all those dusty Manderley estate ledgers (no surprises there: As I suspected, it concerned the Carminowe family) and what he discovered in London at Somerset House and the Public Record Office—and that did surprise me. With some emotion, I showed him that strange black notebook sent to me, with its picture of a winged child. Yes, I showed him Rebecca’s Tale. And, finally, I gave him—this was a great wrench—my key to the gates of Manderley.
“Go back there tomorrow,” I said. “And whatever else you do, Gray, make sure you take a close look at that boathouse. Someone was there, I know it. What’s more, I’m pretty damn sure I know who it was….”
“Of course I will,” he answered gently. “I’ll go over there as soon as I can. You mustn’t worry about it. Try and forget it for the moment, sir. The pills the doctor gave you should be making you sleepy—I think you should rest now.”
“I’m going to rest—I will in a minute. Gray—listen: Someone else is on the same trail as we are, that’s what I think. Don’t tell Ellie, will you? Ellie will just say I’m imagining it; she’ll say I see plots right, left, and center…. Well, for once, Ellie’s wrong. No, Gray, listen: Whoever was there in the boathouse…I think it was the same person that sent me the notebook. Someone’s out to make trouble—I’ve got a hunch about it. And, if I’m right, it can only be one of two people.”
I gave him the two names. “That’s astonishing, Colonel Julyan,” Gray said politely. “Very ingenious. I’d never have thought of that, sir. Now—I mustn’t let you talk any more. You’ve had an exhausting day, and Ellie’s very concerned about you. I promised her I wouldn’t stay long…. You really must sleep.”
His gentleness and the obvious concern in his face touched me. I think Gray doesn’t like to betray this more sentimental side to his nature, because he then bent down to straighten my eiderdown, so I couldn’t see his expression. (I should have explained—I had been packed off to bed by this time, so this conversation was taking place in my bedroom.) He wished me good night and began to move toward the door.
“Just one last thing, Gray,” I said, as he opened it.
“Yes, Colonel Julyan?”
“This is important, Gray. Always remember, if you should need to talk this over, and if I should happen to be unavailable—if I should be having a rest, say, or taking a nap, something of that kind—you can’t do better than talk to Ellie. She has a good heart and a sound head on her shoulders.”
“I already know that, sir,” he quietly replied. “I became aware of that almost as soon as I met her.”
I was satisfied with this reply, and the steadfast way in which it was made. In that moment, the last of my reservations fell away. I forgave him everything that had caused me doubts: his occasional evasiveness, his unfortunate dryness of tone, his unilateral tendencies—even that grammar school.
“Over to you now,” I said.
When he had left, I settled myself back on my pillows, with loyal Barker at my bedside, and the sound of the sea just audible. I fell into a doze. In an instant, I was back in the Manderley woods, and coming toward me through the trees, in her white dress, wearing that little blue enamel butterfly brooch, was Rebecca.
2
Gray
APRIL 13, 1951
TEN
April 13—Thursday
IT’S ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING; THE WIND HAS VEERED round to the southwest, which means rain, and it’s gusting. I came back too late to light a fire, so the cottage is freezing. I’m sitting here in three sweaters, with a glass of the black-market malt whisky I bought in London. Colonel Julyan and Ellie finally took me to Manderley on my first official visit this afternoon—with disastrous results. In view of what’s happened, I can’t leave Kerrith now; I’ll have to rearrange my schedule—and I won’t be able to meet Jack Favell in London until next week, Monday at the earliest.
It was past eleven when I finally left The Pines; I felt anxious and restless, so I went for a long solitary walk upriver from Kerrith toward Pelynt, before coming all the way back here again. I hoped that might have some calming effect—or at least put the day’s events in perspective. There’s no sign of that happening. I’ve tried looking at this from every possible point of view. I’d like to believe Ellie when she says that this could have happened at any time, the doctor had warned her. I’d like to believe that, as she claims, the Colonel’s stroke was caused by a quarrel she had with him; but I don’t. I am responsible.
I’ve been pressing him too hard with my questions recently—I should have had the sense to draw back. And I made a selfish
error in going down to the boathouse cove this afternoon; I wanted to inspect it in daylight—it never occurred to me that he’d attempt to follow. Until he talked to me tonight, I hadn’t understood how much that place means to him. This is just one example of the maddening way he witholds information: He’d never told me how much time Rebecca spent there in the months before her death, and he’d never explained that, in his view, it was her last place of refuge. I wish I’d known that months ago. In the light of what the Colonel told me and showed me today, I’ll have to rethink everything.
Even so, I should have foreseen how upset he’d be. I know how protective he is of Rebecca. It was blind stupidity on my part not to see that I should go down there only if he had sanctioned it—and to go there as I did, without permission from him, was in his eyes a kind of sacrilege.
I hadn’t even reached the boathouse when I heard Ellie calling. I’ve never approached the cove from that route before. The path is very overgrown, and there’s been landslip in several places. I was walking toward the boathouse when I heard Ellie’s shouts, looked up, and saw him collapse. She reached her father first and she was distraught—I’m sure she thought he was dead. For a moment, I feared the same; then I realized that he was breathing, but very shallowly. I knew it was a stroke at once. His lips were blue, and there was slight paralysis on the left side; I saw it in the facial muscles first, then, when he started to come round, his speech was slurred. His right hand was functioning—he gripped my arm with astonishing strength, as if he’d never let go of it—but his left arm and hand were completely slack.
I had to make a decision and make it fast: Which was worse, to leave him with Ellie and go for help (Ellie would not leave his side), or try to move him? Manderley is isolated. The nearest house with a telephone that Ellie knew of was a cottage off the Four Turnings road once lived in by the Carminowe family—but that was a good three miles away. Then there would have been more delays while we waited for assistance. I was afraid that, if we did this, the Colonel might die in Ellie’s arms, and she’d be left alone there by the sea with him. I wanted to spare her that; I decided to risk moving him.
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