“I suppose you never had any idea of this, de Winter?” said Colonel Julyan.
“No,” said Maxim. “No.”
“Of course some people have a morbid dread of it,” said Colonel Julyan. “Women especially. That must have been the case with your wife. She had courage for every other thing but that. She could not face pain. Well, she was spared that at any rate.”
“Yes,” said Maxim.
“I don’t think it would do any harm if I quietly let it be known down in Kerrith and in the county that a London doctor has supplied us with a motive,” said Colonel Julyan. “Just in case there should be any gossip. You never can tell, you know. People are odd, sometimes. If they knew about Mrs. de Winter it might make it a lot easier for you.”
“Yes,” said Maxim, “yes, I understand.”
“It’s curious and very irritating,” said Colonel Julyan slowly, “how long stories spread in country districts. I never know why they should, but unfortunately they do. Not that I anticipate any trouble over this, but it’s as well to be prepared. People are inclined to say the wildest things if they are given half a chance.”
“Yes,” said Maxim.
“You and Crawley of course can squash any nonsense in Manderley or the estate, and I can deal with it effectively in Kerrith. I shall say a word to my girl too. She sees a lot of the younger people, who very often are the worst offenders in story-telling. I don’t suppose the newspapers will worry you anymore, that’s one good thing. You’ll find they will drop the whole affair in a day or two.”
“Yes,” said Maxim.
We drove on through the northern suburbs and came once more to Finchley and Hampstead.
“Half past six,” said Colonel Julyan; “what do you propose doing? I’ve got a sister living in St. John’s Wood, and feel inclined to take her unawares and ask for dinner, and then catch the last train from Paddington. I know she doesn’t go away for another week. I’m sure she would be delighted to see you both as well.”
Maxim hesitated, and glanced at me. “It’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think we had better be independent. I must ring up Frank, and one thing and another. I dare say we shall have a quiet meal somewhere and start off again afterwards, spending the night at a pub on the way, I rather think that’s what we shall do.”
“Of course,” said Colonel Julyan, “I quite understand. Could you throw me out at my sister’s? It’s one of those turnings off the Avenue Road.”
When we came to the house Maxim drew up a little way ahead of the gate. “It’s impossible to thank you,” he said, “for all you’ve done today. You know what I feel about it without my telling you.”
“My dear fellow,” said Colonel Julyan, “I’ve been only too glad. If only we’d known what Baker knew of course there would have been none of this at all. However, never mind about that now. You must put the whole thing behind you as a very unpleasant and unfortunate episode. I’m pretty sure you won’t have anymore trouble from Favell. If you do, I count on you to tell me at once. I shall know how to deal with him.” He climbed out of the car, collecting his coat and his map. “I should feel inclined,” he said, not looking directly at us, “to get away for a bit. Take a short holiday. Go abroad, perhaps.”
We did not say anything. Colonel Julyan was fumbling with his map. “Switzerland is very nice this time of year,” he said. “I remember we went once for the girl’s holidays, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The walks are delightful.” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “It is just faintly possible certain little difficulties might arise,” he said, “not from Favell, but from one or two people in the district. One never knows quite what Tabb has been saying, and repeating, and so on. Absurd of course. But you know the old saying? Out of sight, out of mind. If people aren’t there to be talked about the talk dies. It’s the way of the world.”
He stood for a moment, counting his belongings. “I’ve got everything, I think. Map, glasses, stick, coat. Everything complete. Well, goodbye, both of you. Don’t get over-tired. It’s been a long day.”
He turned in at the gate and went up the steps. I saw a woman come to the window and smile and wave her hand. We drove away down the road and turned the corner. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. Now that we were alone again and the strain was over, the sensation was one of almost unbearable relief. It was like the bursting of an abscess. Maxim did not speak. I felt his hand cover mine. We drove on through the traffic and I saw none of it. I heard the rumble of the buses, the hooting of taxis, that inevitable, tireless London roar, but I was not part of it. I rested in some other place that was cool and quiet and still. Nothing could touch us anymore. We had come through our crisis.