Rebecca's Tale (9 page)

It was in this final section that I’d made alterations since Gray was last here. Would he spot the red herrings? Could he spot the
clues
?
He misses very little and has a formidable memory. I caught a glint of amusement in his eyes; he took one of the volumes from the shelf (well spotted, Mr. Gray, you pass the test!) and smiled. Then—as I had also anticipated—he made a casual pass by my desk.

It is orderly, as I’ve said, and I had left my morning’s parcel in a conspicuous position. There was the envelope, and—right in the center—there was the black exercise book, closed, and with its leather ties fastened up. I watched Gray closely. No sign of a reaction. This, unfortunately, did not tell me very much, since a) he may genuinely not have noticed, and b) he is a very cool customer in any case.

He hove to, finally, by the fireside next to me, where he bent down to give Barker a pat and receive in return a malodorous lick. Barker was fonder of Gray than I was at this point; I was reserving judgment. Much depended on how Gray handled his cutlery at luncheon, what he said about Frith, and his demeanor once I revealed Manderley to him on our walk. I had given myself until the end of the day to make up my mind—and I did make up my mind, though not quite in the way I had anticipated, as will become evident in due course.

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?

S
EVEN

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 here 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….”

T
HE 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.