Rebecca

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "Yes," I said, "yes, we must try to."

  "My car is here in the drive. I wonder whether Crawley would like a lift. Crawley? I can drop you at your office if it's any use."

  "Thank you, sir," said Frank.

  He came and took my hand. "I shall be seeing you again," he said.

  "Yes," I said.

  I did not look at him. I was afraid he would understand my eyes. I did not want him to know that I knew. Maxim walked with them to the car. When they had gone he came back to me on the terrace. He took my arm. We stood looking down at the green lawns towards the sea and the beacon on the headland.

  "It's going to be all right," he said. "I'm quite calm, quite confident. You saw how Julyan was at lunch, and Frank. There won't be any difficulty at the inquest. It's going to be all right."

  I did not say anything. I held his arm tightly.

  "There was never any question of the body being someone unknown," he said. "What we saw was enough for Doctor Phillips even to make the identification alone without me. It was straightforward, simple. There was no trace of what I'd done. The bullet had not touched the bone."

  A butterfly sped past us on the terrace, silly and inconsequent.

  "You heard what they said," he went on; "they think she was trapped there, in the cabin. The jury will believe that at the inquest too. Phillips will tell them so." He paused. Still I did not speak.

  "I only mind for you," he said. "I don't regret anything else. If it had to come all over again I should not do anything different. I'm glad I killed Rebecca. I shall never have any remorse for that, never, never. But you. I can't forget what it has done to you. I was looking at you, thinking of nothing else all through lunch. It's gone forever, that funny, young, lost look that I loved. It won't come back again. I killed that too, when I told you about Rebecca... It's gone, in twenty-four hours. You are so much older..."

  22

  That evening, when Frith brought in the local paper, there were great headlines right across the top of the page. He brought the paper and laid it down on the table. Maxim was not there; he had gone up early to change for dinner. Frith stood a moment, waiting for me to say something, and it seemed to me stupid and insulting to ignore a matter that must mean so much to everyone in the house.

  "This is a very dreadful thing, Frith," I said.

  "Yes, Madam; we are all most distressed outside," he said.

  "It's so sad for Mr. de Winter," I said, "having to go through it all again."

  "Yes, Madam. Very sad. Such a shocking experience, Madam, having to identify the second body having seen the first. I suppose there is no doubt then, that the remains in the boat are genuinely those of the late Mrs. de Winter?"

  "I'm afraid not, Frith. No doubt at all."

  "It seems so odd to us, Madam, that she should have let herself be trapped like that in the cabin. She was so experienced in a boat."

  "Yes, Frith. That's what we all feel. But accidents will happen. And how it happened I don't suppose any of us will ever know."

  "I suppose not, Madam. But it's a great shock, all the same. We are most distressed about it outside. And coming suddenly just after the party. It doesn't seem right somehow, does it?"

  "No, Frith."

  "It seems there is to be an inquest, Madam?"

  "Yes. A formality, you know."

  "Of course, Madam. I wonder if any of us will be required to give evidence?"

  "I don't think so."

  "I shall be only too pleased to do anything that might help the family; Mr. de Winter knows that."

  "Yes, Frith. I'm sure he does."

  "I've told them outside not to discuss the matter, but it's very difficult to keep an eye on them, especially the girls. I can deal with Robert, of course. I'm afraid the news has been a great shock to Mrs. Danvers."

  "Yes, Frith. I rather expected it would."

  "She went up to her room straight after lunch, and has not come down again. Alice took her a cup of tea and the paper a few minutes ago. She said Mrs. Danvers looked very ill indeed."

  "It would be better really if she stayed where she is," I said. "It's no use her getting up and seeing to things if she is ill. Perhaps Alice would tell her that. I can very well manage the ordering. The cook and I between us."

  "Yes, Madam. I don't think she is physically ill, Madam; it's just the shock of Mrs. de Winter being found. She was very devoted to Mrs. de Winter."

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, I know."

  Frith went out of the room after that, and I glanced quickly at the paper before Maxim came down. There was a great column, all down the front page, and an awful blurred photograph of Maxim that must have been taken at least fifteen years ago. It was dreadful, seeing it there on the front page staring at me. And the little line about myself at the bottom, saying whom Maxim had married as his second wife, and how we had just given the fancy dress ball at Manderley. It sounded so crude and callous, in the dark print of the newspaper. Rebecca, whom they described as beautiful, talented, and loved by all who knew her, having been drowned a year ago, and then Maxim marrying again the following spring, bringing his bride straight to Manderley (so it said) and giving the big fancy dress ball in her honor. And then the following morning the body of his first wife being found, trapped in the cabin of her sailing boat, at the bottom of the bay.

  It was true of course, though sprinkled with the little inaccuracies that added to the story, making it strong meat for the hundreds of readers who wanted value for their pennies. Maxim sounded vile in it, a sort of satyr. Bringing back his "young bride," as it described me, to Manderley, and giving the dance, as though we wanted to display ourselves before the world.

  I hid the paper under the cushion of the chair so that Maxim should not see it. But I could not keep the morning editions from him. The story was in our London papers too. There was a picture of Manderley, and the story underneath. Manderley was news, and so was Maxim. They talked about him as Max de Winter. It sounded racy, horrible. Each paper made great play of the fact that Rebecca's body had been found the day after the fancy dress ball, as though there was something deliberate about it. Both papers used the same word, "ironic." Yes, I suppose it was ironic. It made a good story. I watched Maxim at the breakfast table getting whiter and whiter as he read the papers, one after the other, and then the local one as well. He did not say anything. He just looked across at me, and I stretched out my hand to him. "Damn them," he whispered, "damn them, damn them."

  I thought of all the things they could say, if they knew the truth. Not one column, but five or six. Placards in London. Newsboys shouting in the streets, outside the underground stations. That frightful word of six letters, in the middle of the placard, large and black.

  Frank came up after breakfast. He looked pale and tired, as though he had not slept. "I've told the exchange to put all calls for Manderley through to the office," he said to Maxim. "It doesn't matter who it is. If reporters ring up I can deal with them. And anyone else too. I don't want either of you to be worried at all. We've had several calls already from locals. I gave the same answer to each. Mr. and Mrs. de Winter were grateful for all sympathetic inquiries, and they hoped their friends would understand that they were not receiving calls during the next few days. Mrs. Lacy rang up about eight-thirty. Wanted to come over at once."

  "Oh, my God..." began Maxim.

  "It's all right, I prevented her. I told her quite truthfully that I did not think she would do any good coming over. That you did not want to see anyone but Mrs. de Winter. She wanted to know when they were holding the inquest, but I told her it had not been settled. I don't know that we can stop her from coming to that, if she finds it in the papers."

  "Those blasted reporters," said Maxim.

  "I know," said Frank; "we all want to wring their necks, but you've got to see their point of view. It's their bread-and-butter; they've got to do the job for their paper. If they don't get a story the editor probably sacks them. If the editor does not produce a saleable edit
ion the proprietor sacks him. And if the paper doesn't sell, the proprietor loses all his money. You won't have to see them or speak to them, Maxim. I'm going to do all that for you. All you have to concentrate on is your statement at the inquest."

  "I know what to say," said Maxim.

  "Of course you do, but don't forget old Horridge is the Coroner. He's a sticky sort of chap, goes into details that are quite irrelevant, just to show the jury how thorough he is at his job. You must not let him rattle you."

  "Why the devil should I be rattled? I have nothing to be rattled about."

  "Of course not. But I've attended these coroner's inquests before, and it's so easy to get nervy and irritable. You don't want to put the fellow's back up."

  "Frank's right," I said. "I know just what he means. The swifter and smoother the whole thing goes the easier it will be for everyone. Then once the wretched thing is over we shall forget all about it, and so will everyone else, won't they, Frank?"

  "Yes, of course," said Frank.

  I still avoided his eye, but I was more convinced than ever that he knew the truth. He had always known it. From the very first. I remembered the first time I met him, that first day of mine at Manderley, when he, and Beatrice, and Giles had all been at lunch, and Beatrice had been tactless about Maxim's health. I remembered Frank, his quiet turning of the subject, the way he had come to Maxim's aid in his quiet unobtrusive manner if there was ever any question of difficulty. That strange reluctance of his to talk about Rebecca, his stiff, funny, pompous way of making conversation whenever we had approached anything like intimacy. I understood it all. Frank knew, but Maxim did not know that he knew. And Frank did not want Maxim to know that he knew. And we all stood there, looking at one another, keeping up these little barriers between us.

  We were not bothered with the telephone again. All the calls were put through to the office. It was just a question of waiting now. Waiting until the Tuesday.

  I saw nothing of Mrs. Danvers. The menu was sent through as usual, and I did not change it. I asked little Clarice about her. She said she was going about her work as usual but she was not speaking to anybody. She had all her meals alone in her sitting room.

  Clarice was wide-eyed, evidently curious, but she did not ask me any questions, and I was not going to discuss it with her. No doubt they talked of nothing else, out in the kitchen, and on the estate too, in the lodge, on the farms. I supposed all Kerrith was full of it. We stayed in Manderley, in the gardens close to the house. We did not even walk in the woods. The weather had not broken yet. It was still hot, oppressive. The air was full of thunder, and there was rain behind the white dull sky, but it did not fall. I could feel it, and smell it, pent up there, behind the clouds. The inquest was to be on the Tuesday afternoon at two o'clock.

  We had lunch at a quarter to one. Frank came. Thank heaven Beatrice had telephoned that she could not get over. The boy Roger had arrived home with measles; they were all in quarantine. I could not help blessing the measles. I don't think Maxim could have borne it, with Beatrice sitting here, staying in the house, sincere, anxious, and affectionate, but asking questions all the time. Forever asking questions.

  Lunch was a hurried, nervous meal. We none of us talked very much. I had that nagging pain again. I did not want anything to eat. I could not swallow. It was a relief when the farce of the meal was over, and I heard Maxim go out onto the drive and start up the car. The sound of the engine steadied me. It meant we had to go, we had to be doing something. Not just sitting at Manderley. Frank followed us in his own car. I had my hand on Maxim's knee all the way as he drove. He seemed quite calm. Not nervous in any way. It was like going with someone to a nursing home, someone who was to have an operation. And not knowing what would happen. Whether the operation would be successful. My hands were very cold. My heart was beating in a funny, jerky way. And all the time that little nagging pain beneath my heart. The inquest was to be held at Lanyon, the market town six miles the other side of Kerrith. We had to park the cars in the big cobbled square by the marketplace. Doctor Phillips' car was there already, and also Colonel Julyan's. Other cars too. I saw a passerby stare curiously at Maxim, and then nudge her companion's arm.

  "I think I shall stay here," I said. "I don't think I'll come in with you after all."

  "I did not want you to come," said Maxim. "I was against it from the first. You'd much better have stayed at Manderley."

  "No," I said. "No, I'll be all right here, sitting in the car."

  Frank came and looked in at the window. "Isn't Mrs. de Winter coming?" he said.

  "No," said Maxim. "She wants to stay in the car."

  "I think she's right," said Frank; "there's no earthly reason why she should be present at all. We shan't be long."

  "It's all right," I said.

  "I'll keep a seat for you," said Frank, "in case you should change your mind."

  They went off together and left me sitting there. It was early-closing day. The shops looked drab and dull. There were not many people about. Lanyon was not much of a holiday center anyway; it was too far inland. I sat looking at the silent shops. The minutes went by. I wondered what they were doing, the Coroner, Frank, Maxim, Colonel Julyan. I got out of the car and began walking up and down the market square. I went and looked in a shop window. Then I walked up and down again. I saw a policeman watching me curiously. I turned up a side street to avoid him.

  Somehow, in spite of myself, I found I was coming to the building where the inquest was being held. There had been little publicity about the actual time, and because of this there was no crowd waiting, as I had feared and expected. The place seemed deserted. I went up the steps and stood just inside the door.

  A policeman appeared from nowhere. "Do you want anything?" he said.

  "No," I said. "No."

  "You can't wait here," he said.

  "I'm sorry," I said. I went back towards the steps into the street.

  "Excuse me, Madam," he said, "aren't you Mrs. de Winter?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Of course that's different," he said; "you can wait here if you like. Would you like to take a seat just inside this room?"

  "Thank you," I said.

  He showed me into a little bare room with a desk in it. It was like a waiting room at a station. I sat there, with my hands on my lap. Five minutes passed. Nothing happened. It was worse than being outside, than sitting in the car. I got up and went into the passage. The policeman was still standing there.

  "How long will they be?" I said.

  "I'll go and inquire if you like," he said.

  He disappeared along the passage. In a moment he came back again. "I don't think they will be very much longer," he said. "Mr. de Winter has just given his evidence. Captain Searle, and the diver, and Doctor Phillips have already given theirs. There's only one more to speak. Mr. Tabb, the boatbuilder from Kerrith."

  "Then it's nearly over," I said.

  "I expect so, Madam," he said. Then he said, on a sudden thought, "Would you like to hear the remaining evidence? There is a seat there, just inside the door. If you slip in now nobody will notice you."

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, I think I will."

  It was nearly over. Maxim had finished giving his evidence. I did not mind hearing the rest. It was Maxim I had not wanted to hear. I had been nervous of listening to his evidence. That was why I had not gone with him and Frank in the first place. Now it did not matter. His part of it was over.

  I followed the policeman, and he opened a door at the end of the passage. I slipped in, I sat down just by the door. I kept my head low so that I did not have to look at anybody. The room was smaller than I had imagined. Rather hot and stuffy. I had pictured a great bare room with benches, like a church. Maxim and Frank were sitting down at the other end. The Coroner was a thin, elderly man in pince-nez. There were people there I did not know. I glanced at them out of the tail of my eye. My heart gave a jump suddenly as I recognized Mrs. Danvers. She was sitting right at the back.
And Favell was beside her. Jack Favell, Rebecca's cousin. He was leaning forward, his chin in his hands, his eyes fixed on the Coroner, Mr. Horridge. I had not expected him to be there. I wondered if Maxim had seen him. James Tabb, the boatbuilder, was standing up now and the Coroner was asking him a question.

  "Yes, sir," answered Tabb, "I converted Mrs. de Winter's little boat. She was a French fishing boat originally, and Mrs. de Winter bought her for next to nothing over in Brittany, and had her shipped over. She gave me the job of converting her and doing her up like a little yacht."

  "Was the boat in a fit state to put to sea?" said the Coroner.

  "She was when I fitted her out in April of last year," said Tabb. "Mrs. de Winter laid her up as usual at my yard in the October, and then in March I had word from her to fit her up as usual, which I did. That would be Mrs. de Winter's fourth season with the boat since I did the conversion job for her."

  "Had the boat ever been known to capsize before?" asked the Coroner.

  "No, sir. I should soon have heard of it from Mrs. de Winter had there been any question of it. She was delighted with the boat in every way, according to what she said to me."

  "I suppose great care was needed to handle the boat?" said the Coroner.

  "Well, sir, everyone has to have their wits about them, when they go sailing boats, I won't deny it. But Mrs. de Winter's boat wasn't one of those cranky little craft that you can't leave for a moment, like some of the boats you see in Kerrith. She was a stout seaworthy boat, and could stand a lot of wind. Mrs. de Winter had sailed her in worse weather than she ever found that night. Why, it was only blowing in fits and starts at the time. That's what I've said all along. I couldn't understand Mrs. de Winter's boat being lost on a night like that."

  "But surely, if Mrs. de Winter went below for a coat, as is supposed, and a sudden puff of wind was to come down from that headland, it would be enough to capsize the boat?" asked the Coroner.

  James Tabb shook his head. "No," he said stubbornly, "I don't see that it would."

  "Well, I'm afraid that is what must have happened," said the Coroner. "I don't think Mr. de Winter or any of us suggest that your workmanship was to blame for the accident at all. You fitted the boat out at the beginning of the season, you reported her sound and seaworthy, and that's all I want to know. Unfortunately the late Mrs. de Winter relaxed her watchfulness for a moment and she lost her life, the boat sinking with her aboard. Such accidents have happened before. I repeat again we are not blaming you."