“Yes.”
No rain fell. Nothing since those two drops on my hand. I went back and sat in the library. At half past five Robert came into the room.
“The car has just driven up to the door now, Madam,” he said.
“Which car?” I said.
“Mr. de Winter’s car, Madam,” he said.
“Is Mr. de Winter driving it himself?”
“Yes, Madam.”
I tried to get up but my legs were things of straw, they would not bear me. I stood leaning against the sofa. My throat was very dry. After a minute Maxim came into the room. He stood just inside the door.
He looked very tired, old. There were lines at the corner of his mouth I had never noticed before.
“It’s all over,” he said.
I waited. Still I could not speak or move towards him.
“Suicide,” he said, “without sufficient evidence to show the state of mind of the deceased. They were all at sea of course, they did not know what they were doing.”
I sat down on the sofa. “Suicide,” I said, “but the motive? Where was the motive?”
“God knows,” he said. “They did not seem to think a motive was necessary. Old Horridge, peering at me, wanting to know if Rebecca had any money troubles. Money troubles. God in heaven.”
He went and stood by the window, looking out at the green lawns. “It’s going to rain,” he said. “Thank God it’s going to rain at last.”
“What happened?” I said, “what did the Coroner say? Why have you been there all this time?”
“He went over and over the same ground again,” said Maxim. “Little details about the boat that no one cared about a damn. Were the sea-cocks hard to turn on? Where exactly was the first hole in relation to the second? What was ballast? What effect upon the stability of the boat would the shifting of the ballast have? Could a woman do this unaided? Did the cabin door shut firmly? What pressure of water was necessary to burst open the door? I thought I should go mad. I kept my temper though. Seeing you there, by the door, made me remember what I had to do. If you had not fainted like that, I should never have done it. It brought me up with a jerk. I knew exactly what I was going to say. I faced Horridge all the time. I never took my eyes off his thin, pernickety, little face and those gold-rimmed pince-nez. I shall remember that face of his to my dying day. I’m tired, darling; so tired I can’t see, or hear or feel anything.”
He sat down on the window seat. He leaned forward, his head in his hands. I went and sat beside him. In a few minutes Frith came in, followed by Robert carrying the table for tea. The solemn ritual went forward as it always did, day after day, the leaves of the table pulled out, the legs adjusted, the laying of the snowy cloth, the putting down of the silver teapot and the kettle with the little flame beneath. Scones, sandwiches, three different sorts of cake. Jasper sat close to the table, his tail thumping now and again upon the floor, his eyes fixed expectantly on me. It’s funny, I thought, how the routine of life goes on, whatever happens, we do the same things, go through the little performance of eating, sleeping, washing. No crisis can break through the crust of habit. I poured out Maxim’s tea, I took it to him on the window seat, gave him his scone, and buttered one for myself.
“Where’s Frank?” I asked.
“He had to go and see the vicar. I would have gone too but I wanted to come straight back to you. I kept thinking of you, waiting here, all by yourself, not knowing what was going to happen.”
“Why the vicar?” I said.
“Something has to happen this evening,” he said. “Something at the church.”
I stared at him blankly. Then I understood. They were going to bury Rebecca. They were going to bring Rebecca back from the mortuary.
“It’s fixed for six-thirty,” he said. “No one knows but Frank, and Colonel Julyan, and the vicar, and myself. There won’t be anyone hanging about. This was arranged yesterday. The verdict doesn’t make any difference.”
“What time must you go?”
“I’m meeting them there at the church at twenty-five past six.”
I did not say anything. I went on drinking my tea. Maxim put his sandwich down untasted. “It’s still very hot, isn’t it,” he said.
“It’s the storm,” I said. “It won’t break. Only little spots at a time. It’s there in the air. It won’t break.”
“It was thundering when I left Lanyon,” he said, “the sky was like ink over my head. Why in the name of God doesn’t it rain?”