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 edition 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.