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 learnedfrom 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
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 learnedfrom 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
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