“Yes, of course,” I said. “It was a lovely present, Beatrice.”
She looked pleased. “Glad you liked them,” she said.
The car sped along. She kept her foot permanently on the accelerator, and took every corner at an acute angle. Two motorists we passed looked out of their windows outraged as she swept by, and one pedestrian in a lane waved his stick at her. I felt rather hot for her. She did not seem to notice though. I crouched lower in my seat.
“Roger goes up to Oxford next term,” she said, “heaven knows what he’ll do with himself. Awful waste of time I think, and so does Giles, but we couldn’t think what else to do with him. Of course he’s just like Giles and myself. Thinks of nothing but horses. What on earth does this car in front think it’s doing? Why don’t you put out your hand, my good man? Really, some of these people on the road today ought to be shot.”
We swerved into a main road, narrowly avoiding the car ahead of us. “Had any people down to stay?” she asked.
“No, we’ve been very quiet,” I said.
“Much better, too,” she said, “awful bore, I always think, those big parties. You won’t find it alarming if you come to stay with us. Very nice lot of people all round, and we all know one another frightfully well. We dine in one another’s houses, and have our bridge, and don’t bother with outsiders. You do play bridge, don’t you?”
“I’m not very good, Beatrice.”
“Oh, we shan’t mind that. As long as you can play. I’ve no patience with people who won’t learn. What on earth can one do with them between tea and dinner in the winter, and after dinner? One can’t just sit and talk.”
I wondered why. However, it was simpler not to say anything.
“It’s quite amusing now Roger is a reasonable age,” she went on, “because he brings his friends to stay, and we have really good fun. You ought to have been with us last Christmas. We had charades. My dear, it was the greatest fun. Giles was in his element. He adores dressing-up, you know, and after a glass or two of champagne he’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. We often say he’s missed his vocation and ought to have been on the stage.” I thought of Giles, and his large moon face, his horn spectacles. I felt the sight of him being funny after champagne would embarrass me. “He and another man, a great friend of ours, Dickie Marsh, dressed up as women and sang a duet. What exactly it had to do with the word in the charade nobody knew, but it did not matter. We all roared.”
I smiled politely. “Fancy, how funny,” I said.
I saw them all rocking from side to side in Beatrice’s drawing room. All these friends who knew one another so well. Roger would look like Giles. Beatrice was laughing again at the memory. “Poor Giles,” she said. “I shall never forget his face when Dick squirted the soda syphon down his back. We were all in fits.”
I had an uneasy feeling we might be asked to spend the approaching Christmas with Beatrice. Perhaps I could have influenza.
“Of course our acting was never very ambitious,” she said. “It was just a lot of fun among ourselves. At Manderley now, there is scope for a really fine show. I remember a pageant they had there, some years ago. People from London came down to do it. Of course that type of thing needs terrific organization.”
“Yes,” I said.
She was silent for a while, and drove without speaking.
“How is Maxim?” she said, after a moment.
“Very well, thanks,” I said.
“Quite cheerful and happy?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, rather.”
A narrow village street engaged her attention. I wondered whether I should tell her about Mrs. Danvers. About the man Favell. I did not want her to make a blunder though, and perhaps tell Maxim.
“Beatrice,” I said, deciding upon it, “have you ever heard of someone called Favell? Jack Favell?”
“Jack Favell,” she repeated. “Yes, I do know the name. Wait a minute. Jack Favell. Of course. An awful bounder. I met him once, ages ago.”
“He came to Manderley yesterday to see Mrs. Danvers,” I said.
“Really? Oh, well, perhaps he would…”
“Why?” I said.
“I rather think he was Rebecca’s cousin,” she said.
I was very surprised. That man her relation? It was not my idea of the sort of cousin Rebecca would have. Jack Favell her cousin. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, I hadn’t realized that.”