Favell stared at him a moment. I could see he was planning something in his mind, and he was still not sober enough to carry it through. He put his hand slowly in his waistcoat pocket and brought out Rebecca’s note. “This note was written a few hours before Rebecca was supposed to have set out on that suicidal sail. Here it is. I want you to read it, and say whether you think a woman who wrote that note had made up her mind to kill herself.”
Colonel Julyan took a pair of spectacles from a case in his pocket and read the note. Then he handed it back to Favell. “No,” he said, “on the face of it, no. But I don’t know what the note refers to. Perhaps you do. Or perhaps de Winter does?”
Maxim did not say anything. Favell twisted the piece of paper in his fingers, considering Colonel Julyan all the while. “My cousin made a definite appointment in that note, didn’t she?” he said. “She deliberately asked me to drive down to Manderley that night because she had something to tell me. What it actually was I don’t suppose we shall ever know, but that’s beside the point. She made the appointment, and she was to spend the night in the cottage on purpose to see me alone. The mere fact of her going for a sail never surprised me. It was the sort of thing she did, for an hour or so, after a long day in London. But to plug holes in the cabin and deliberately drown herself, the hysterical impulsive freak of a neurotic girl—oh, no, Colonel Julyan, by Christ no!” The color had flooded into his face, and the last words were shouted. His manner was not helpful to him, and I could see by the thin line of Colonel Julyan’s mouth that he had not taken to Favell.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “it’s not the slightest use your losing your temper with me. I’m not the Coroner who conducted the inquiry this afternoon, nor am I a member of the jury who gave the verdict. I’m merely the magistrate of the district. Naturally I want to help you all I can, and de Winter, too. You say you refuse to believe your cousin committed suicide. On the other hand you heard, as we all did, the evidence of the boatbuilder. The sea-cocks were open, the holes were there. Very well. Suppose we get to the point. What do you suggest really happened?”
Favell turned his head and looked slowly towards Maxim. He was still twisting the note between his fingers. “Rebecca never opened those sea-cocks, nor split the holes in the planking. Rebecca never committed suicide. You’ve asked for my opinion, and by God you shall have it. Rebecca was murdered. And if you want to know who the murderer is, why there he stands, by the window there, with that Goddamned superior smile on his face. He couldn’t even wait could he, until the year was out, before marrying the first girl he set eyes on? There he is, there’s your murderer for you, Mr. Maximilian de Winter. Take a good long look at him. He’d look well hanging, wouldn’t he?”
And Favell began to laugh, the laugh of a drunkard, high-pitched, forced, and foolish, and all the while twisting Rebecca’s note between his fingers.
24
Thank God for Favell’s laugh. Thank God for his pointing finger, his flushed face, his staring bloodshot eyes. Thank God for the way he stood there swaying on his two feet. Because it made Colonel Julyan antagonistic, it put him on our side. I saw the disgust on his face, the quick movement of his lips. Colonel Julyan did not believe him. Colonel Julyan was on our side.
“The man’s drunk,” he said quickly. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Drunk, am I?” shouted Favell. “Oh, no, my fine friend. You may be a magistrate and a colonel into the bargain, but it won’t cut any ice with me. I’ve got the law on my side for a change, and I’m going to use it. There are other magistrates in this bloody county besides you. Fellows with brains in their heads, who understand the meaning of justice. Not soldiers who got the sack years ago for incompetence and walk about with a string of putty medals on their chest. Max de Winter murdered Rebecca and I’m going to prove it.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Favell,” said Colonel Julyan quietly, “you were present at the inquiry this afternoon, weren’t you? I remember you now. I saw you sitting there. If you felt so deeply about the injustice of the verdict why didn’t you say so then, to the jury, to the Coroner himself? Why didn’t you produce that letter in court?”
Favell stared at him, and laughed. “Why?” he said, “because I did not choose to, that’s why. I preferred to come and tackle de Winter personally.”
“That’s why I rang you up,” said Maxim, coming forward from the window; “we’ve already heard Favell’s accusations. I asked him the same question. Why didn’t he tell his suspicions to the Coroner? He said he was not a rich man, and that if I cared to settle two or three thousand on him for life he would never worry me again. Frank was here, and my wife. They both heard him. Ask them.”