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….”
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 boundaries 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.
“Of course, we’ve given him every encouragement!” Jocelyn, the younger Briggs, cried. “We think it would be so suitable in every way, don’t we, Elinor? He’s made the cottage so very snug and charming—and it’s only ten minutes walk, less, to The Pines! What could be more convenient?”
“Convenient for whom?” I asked coldly.
“Why, everyone, Arthur, dear,” said Jocelyn, becoming flustered.
“We mean,” Elinor put in, giving her sister an admonitory look, “that it would be delightful if he were to stay here permanently. And so nice for you, Arthur, dear! You’re such great friends now, and you share so many interests…” She paused. “I find it hard to believe he never told you about his childhood. He never mentioned his Aunt May? How strange! Jocelyn and I were counting on you to fill in the gaps—we thought you’d be familiar with the whole story….”
I was familiar with the whole story. I had read it, or variations upon it, in countless novels. It had Dickensian echoes that unsettled me. Did I believe in Auntie May, alias Betsy Trotwood? Not being as gullible as the Briggs spinsters, I wasn’t at all sure that I did. I thought there might be very good reasons why the Terrier had spared me these details—he couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes, and I think he knew that.
My suspicions being thus aroused (What was Gray hiding? Could he be illegitimate? Ye gods, could he be married? Could there be a deserted wife and child in Peebles or Perth?), I took care what I divulged, and I watched with an eagle eye the precise nature of his inquiries. At once, his angle became obvious. Medieval field boundaries? What a dimwit I’d been! Gray was interested in the de Winter family, yes, but his chief interest was, and always had been, Rebecca.
Now why should that be? Once I had marked his interest, that was the question I asked myself. Could there be some small personal link that explained it? I wondered. If Gray’s claims regarding childhood holidays could be believed, he’d have been coming here during the latter half of the 1920s, when Rebecca was still alive and at the height of her social fame. If his visits continued into his teens, he might have stayed here at the time of her disappearance, or the subsequent inquest. Details of that were splashed across the pages of the newspapers, and gossip was rife. Had Gray and his Aunt May, staying in a modest boardinghouse, perhaps, heard these stories? Had the seeds of Gray’s interest been planted then? It seemed possible. Crime (and punishment) were certainly subjects that interested him.
Finally, exasperated, I asked him straight out. I put this scenario to him. He denied it. He had been aware of Manderley as a boy, he added—how could he not be when every second shop sold postcards showing views of the house? He and his aunt generally stayed farther up river; they used to rent a tiny waterside cottage near the ancient church at Pelynt. He thought he might have made a visit to the Manderley church to take brass rubbings of the medieval de Winter tombs on one occasion, but he and his aunt moved in very modest social circles and he could remember no discussion locally of those exalted beings, Rebecca and Maxim de Winter. As for the inquest and the subsequent fire, he thought he could remember reading about them in the national newspapers—but he was at least fifteen then, and the holidays in this area had ceased.
He paused; then, as if satisfied with this thumbnail portrait of an earnest little boy, an infant historian in the making, he changed the subject. On balance, I believed that story about brass rubbings. It was in character. Even as an adult, Gray retains a fondness for churches and tombs, and will walk miles in all weathers to visit them. It goes hand in hand with his passion for old books and documents, for the days he spends trawling through archives, newspaper libraries, and antiquarian bookshops.
This is a man who loves evidence—or so I initially thought—a man who delights in reconstructing the past by means of estate records, church registers, the incunabula of birth, wedding, and death certificates; this is a peruser of wills, a disinterer of dusty forgotten letters, diaries, and notebooks—and I could quite see that for such a man Manderley represented a special challenge. Why? Because there were gaps—huge gaps—and the historian in Gray was at once drawn to this apparent vacuum.
When Manderley burned down, the contents of the house were destroyed completely. The fire occurred within thirty-six hours of the inquest into Rebecca’s death. It began at night and raged through the building. Everything went: all the exquisite furniture Rebecca had assembled, all those spying portraits that so terrorized me as a child—and all the de Winter family papers.
But the estate records, as I’ve said, had survived. At the time of the fire, they’d been lodged at the estate office, under Frank Crawley’s fussy care; now they had passed to the very archive where Gray works, and—needless to say—Gray was quick to make himself familiar with them. His fascination with this dry-as-dust stuff amused me at first. That a fit, active young man with a good mind should choose to bury himself in these details of acreages, tenant farms, rents, and crop rotations seemed to me absurd. My own interest in history takes a more romantic turn; Malory has left an enduring legacy. I like love affairs, fatal passions, dastardly deeds, battles, and derring-do—and, fool that I was, I felt patronizing toward Gray for the footling matters that so absorbed him. The more he labored away at the coalface, the less I thought of him.
I can now see that these labors were preparatory; I suspect Gray may have uncovered several little gems in those records that no one could have foreseen. He has certainly shown a marked interest in one de Winter tenant family, the Carminowes, whom I remember well from my childhood, and about whom I have long held my own conjectures. Their story is a sad one—three sons dead in the first war, their pretty widowed mother left to bring up her two surviving children herself, and one of those children—the boy, Ben—an idiot from birth.
It was Gray who bothered to follow up on their history, and Gray who discovered that Ben Carminowe, who used to haunt the coves below Manderley, was dead—apparently he ended his days in the county asylum. Maybe it was when Gray began to cross-question me about these loyal de Winter tenants that I first became uneasy. My misgivings soon deepened. Having exhausted the estate papers, Gray turned his attention to my own little archive. The Manderley family records might have gone up in smoke, but what about all that rich information packed away in my study—and in my memory?
It was then that the Terrier’s interrogations really started. He wanted to know about Lionel and poor Virginia and the Termagant. He wanted to know about Maxim as a boy, and he became very animated indeed when I let slip that, millennia ago, when my bluestocking sister, Rose, was young and lovely, she and Maxim had for a brief period been expected to marry. “Just before the first war?” he asked sharply.
“Round about then,” I said, retreating rapidly. “Probably nothing to it, now I look back. People were always speculating—he was the heir, after all. He and Rose were close in age; they were friends, which was surprising in some ways…”
“Why?”
“Because Rose always had her nose in a book, even then. And that wasn’t really Maxim’s taste at all. Most of the de Winters were philistines, now I think about it, and Maxim was influenced by them. He liked to be outdoors. He sailed. He rode. On the other hand, he was handsome. He was dashing. There was a streak of melancholy even then, even before the war—I expect that intrigued Rose….”
“He was also very rich, of course. One day, he would own Manderley.”
I was annoyed. “And you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think that would influence my sister,” I said with some heat. “You don’t know Rose. Rose was a socialist in the nursery. She was a suffragette at six. All Rose wanted to do was to go off to Cambridge, God help us, and spend the rest of her life writing unreadable books with lots of footnotes. Which is exactly what she did do. She’s now Dr. Julyan. She may even be Professor Julyan. She’s a feminist, a man-hating eccentric, and an embarrassment to the entire family.”
“I see you’re fond of her,” said Gray with a smile. “I’d like to meet your sister. I wonder if she’d talk to me?”
“Not a chance,” I said, somewhat piqued. “In the first place, Rose left here donkey’s years ago. She skedaddled off to Girton College, and she’s been in the Fens ever since. In the second, she’s vague and very unreliable. And in the third, she’s virtually a recluse.”
“A recluse? The Fens? Really? But Ellie said—”
“Unsociable, then,” I said, interrupting swiftly. “Forget the whole idea, Gray. Now—what were we talking about? I think we got a little sidetracked. Where were we? Remind me.”
“We were talking about Rebecca de Winter. That led you to the subject of her husband, and the type of women that interested him…. So I suppose we did sidetrack a little. But as always, sir, it was illuminating.”
Dry again! I cast a little glance in his direction. Gray was given to understatement, and I was never sure when he might be needling me. His expression now was perfectly bland and innocent. He steepled his fingers. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “we were speaking of Rebecca’s death. Which interests me, as you know. A mysterious life—so little known—and an equally mysterious death. I was wondering, Colonel Julyan, if—”
“Time for my nap,” I said firmly. “We’ll discuss that another day. Down, Barker—in heaven’s name what’s the matter with that blasted dog? Will you stop that infernal whining and whiffling? Down, dammit, Gray is leaving….”
WE DID DISCUSS IT ANOTHER DAY—ON MANY OTHER days. At least, Gray attempted to do so, and I grew more recalcitrant and evasive. The habit of silence is hard to break, and a twenty-year-plus silence on this subject was, on my part, near insuperable. Things were not made any easier by my knowing full well that in Kerrith my failure to cooperate was unusual. Everyone else was only too eager to talk—including those like Marjorie Lane, whose ignorance is total. They were all at it, bending Gray’s ear, pouring out to him their unreliable tenth-hand gossip and their frankly ludicrous theories. Not content with unsupported speculation as to Rebecca’s origins, how she came to meet Maxim in the first place, et cetera (areas where my own knowledge is infinitely superior), they sank their teeth into the question of her death, just as they’ve been doing at intervals, whenever they’re bored with bridge, or the weather is bad, for the last two decades.
The likes of Marjorie Lane fed him the tuppence-colored versions originally peddled by that wretched Evans man: that Rebecca was having an affair (identity of the lover unknown); that she had frequent assignations in the boathouse below Manderley; that she was murdered—strangled, smothered, stabbed, take your pick—either by the lover, or more probably by her husband who came upon them in flagrante; that her body was then dumped in her boat, Je Reviens, which was taken out into the bay by the murderer and scuttled.
Marjorie Lane gave these suggestions a twist of her own. In her view, she told Gray (who repeated it to me), Maxim de Winter was a obvious deviant, a homosexual (or “pansy” as she put it) who had been “carrying on” with that estate manager of his, Frank Crawley, and who had then killed his wife when she threatened to reveal his predilections to the world in a divorce court. Her evidence for this was a little confused, but placed great emphasis on the fact that Maxim and his second wife had slept in twin beds—as she had learned on the best authority, that is, from the ex-Manderley maid who changed the sheets on them.
I was outraged when I heard this. I couldn’t believe the woman’s crassness and audacity. I couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to tell Gray this farrago of rubbish, and I noted she’d never dared mention it to me. “Talk to the Briggs sisters,” I said. “They’ll soon set you straight. They knew Maxim very well, and they know exactly what happened.”
Gray did so. The Briggs sisters, as expected, gave him my “authorized version.” Both sisters had been devoted to Rebecca and were quick to defend her. They explained that poor Rebecca had learned from a doctor in London that she was mortally ill; she had returned at once to Manderley, gone out at night in her boat, and ended her own life as decisively and courageously as she had lived it. The inquest verdict of suicide, they added, was correct, and fully justified.
Obviously, this version was influenced by conversations with me; but, unfortunately, the Briggs sisters are not subtle. I’ve told them a thousand times that, given the doctor’s evidence, the suicide verdict could not be challenged. They simply cannot see, or remember, that there is a very important distinction between “challenged” and “justified.”
I did not expect Gray, who is subtle, to accept what they said—and indeed, he didn’t.
“Rather an unusual way to kill yourself, isn’t it?” he remarked. “To scuttle your own sailboat, and then wait in the cabin to drown? What was wrong with an overdose? Or cutting the wrists in a warm bath? Or jumping off a cliff, come to that? There are plenty of suitable cliffs hereabouts, in all conscience. What in God’s name were the jury-men at the inquest thinking of? They didn’t even have the information that she was ill, at that point—am I right?”
“Yes. You are.”
“Then the suicide verdict is even more nonsensical. Was the possibility of foul play mooted?”
“Briefly. Yes. The coroner raised that issue, as he was bound to do. But there was no evidence given in court that Rebecca had enemies—that there was anyone who wished her harm. There were no signs of violence to the body….”
“The body had been in the water for over a year. It was heavily decomposed—at least so the evidence given at the inquest suggests. Was that the case, Colonel Julyan? You were there, I understand, when her body was brought up.”
“Yes. I was. I was present in my capacity as local J.P., as magistrate, and…look here, Gray, I prefer not to discuss this. The memories are painful, even now.”
“I can understand that, sir.” His tone softened, but he continued to regard me intently. “You were her friend. You were also her husband’s friend. But—forgive me—I’m still puzzled. I can see the London doctor’s evidence gave a motive for suicide—but surely it left a great many questions unanswered. She left no suicide note. She took her life in an unusual way, to put it mildly. Did she have any enemies? People seem to know virtually nothing about her marriage or her circumstances, yet they’re happy to pronounce judgment: Either she killed herself and she’s a saint, or she was murdered and she’s a sinner. Every single analysis of this case suggests the same thing: If she was killed, it was because she had a lover—or lovers. But was that true? Where’s the evidence?”
“I’m not going to discuss this. We’re talking about a woman I greatly admired.”
“Then surely, sir, you must believe she had rights? And wasn’t one of them the right to have her death investigated as fully as possible?”
“It was investigated.”
“With respect, Colonel Julyan, I don’t agree with you. If Rebecca de Winter was killed, then her murderer went free. No sooner was she dead than her character was attacked. The blame began to attach itself to her almost immediately: She was an unfaithful wife, therefore she was killed. Given the lack of evidence, doesn’t it ever strike you that, as far as she’s concerned, there may have been a double miscarriage of justice?”
“It happened over twenty years ago,” I replied, after a very long pause. “I regret the stories about Rebecca more than I can say, but I’m powerless to stop them. Nothing can be proved now, anyway. Rebecca is dead. Maxim de Winter is dead. I’m not likely to see too many more summers. The world moves on, Gray. You’re young. You knew none of these people. I don’t understand—why should it matter to you?”
“The truth matters,” he replied in an obstinate way. “It matters to me, and I believe it matters to you….”
“Go home. Go home,” I said to him. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, and you’re wearing me out. I’ve had enough of it. You remind me of—” I stopped abruptly.
Of my son, I could have added, though I didn’t. And it’s true, Gray does sometimes remind me of Jonathan. He asks the questions my son would have asked of me had he lived, and it’s when I notice a resemblance between them—sometimes there is a likeness around the eyes—that I feel most weak, and long to unburden myself to him.
I THOUGHT OF THIS CONVERSATION DURING OUR LUNCH. A week had passed since we had that discussion, and I knew it had influenced me. The final point Gray had made then was indeed crucial: Did the truth matter? Yes, indeed, it mattered if you wanted to live with yourself. It mattered urgently if, as may be my case, there is precious little time left to you.
During lunch, I tried to watch and listen to Gray very carefully. I was trying to assess him. How do you measure a man? I gave him the following marks: nine out of ten for table manners (pretty good, given “Auntie May” and that grammar school); seven out of ten for his suit (it was off the peg, but freshly pressed, and the tie was unexceptional); five out of ten for conversational skills (like most Scots, he’s inclined to be taciturn); and ten out of ten for patience—we had reached the pudding stage before he mentioned Manderley.
I had hoped this “marking” process would tell me something, but of course it didn’t. Those kind of markers, which I’ve relied on all my life, made me ashamed of myself. They were utterly trivial, and they were not the signposts I should now be using. Sub specie aeternitatis. I might be off to meet my Maker at any second; if so, I’d better reform, and pull my moral socks up.
I was feeling low again, and I was so deep in thought that, if Ellie had asked, I couldn’t have told her whether the pudding I was eating was stewed apples or stewed cactus. I was busy trying to decide if I could trust this young man, whether I should confide in him, whether he should be my Watson or not; whether, indeed, there might be an even more significant role for him at The Pines in the future…. Then I suddenly realized something very obvious. Terence Gray was my conscience. That was my conscience sitting opposite me now; my conscience was wearing a ready-made suit and eating apples and custard.
This idea threw me completely—so much so that Gray and Ellie had been discussing Rebecca’s famous fancy-dress balls at Manderley for some while before I even noticed. It was not until Ellie mentioned the costume that Rebecca chose for the last ball she gave, and I heard the words “Caroline de Winter” and “Raeburn portrait” that I surfaced. I saw my opportunity and interrupted.
“Those parties made work for the servants,” I said. “Frith used to complain about that. Which reminds me, Gray—what did he have to say when you saw him yesterday?”
“Frith? He sent you his respects, sir. He made a point of that.”
“His respects?” I looked at Gray closely. “Is that all he’s sent me recently? He didn’t mention sending me anything else, I suppose?”
“No.” Gray looked mystified. “What sort of thing, sir? I don’t quite follow—”
“Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Time for our walk, I think.” I rose. “Ellie, for heaven’s sake, leave the plates, there’s no need for you to deal with them. Someone else can attend to all that. We’ll skip coffee. We’re missing the best of the afternoon as it is. Barker—where’s that damn dog got to? Barker—heel.”
In the hall, I kitted myself out: hat, scarf, gloves, stick, overcoat. Grasping Barker firmly by the lead I waited in the porch with my conscience while Ellie fetched the car from the garage. I looked my conscience up and down. “Look here, Gray. There’s something I must ask you,” I burst out. “Did you send me a parcel—arrived this morning? About so big? Brown envelope?”
“No, sir.” Gray frowned. “I don’t quite understand. If I wanted to show you something, I’d bring it over myself. And if I posted it, I’d enclose a letter.”
“Of course you would. Just thought—maybe the letter, or note, got left out by mistake. Never mind. It’s not important. Forget I mentioned it.”
I allowed Gray to help me down the path to the car. There was one last test ahead for him, and much depended on how he conducted himself at Manderley. Meanwhile, his reactions to my question had surprised me.
When I said I had something I must ask him, he tensed. When I posed the actual question and he denied all knowledge of that parcel, I saw transparent honesty—but I also saw relief.
Now why should that be? Gray had been anticipating a different question, I thought. He had been expecting me to ask him something else.
And whatever it was, the prospect had alarmed him. It was the first time I had ever seen him visibly nervous.