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 amongst 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.'

'He probably used to go to Manderley a lot,' said Beatrice. 'I don't know. I couldn't tell you. I was very seldom there.' Her manner was abrupt. It gave me the impression she did not want to pursue the subject.

'I did not take to him much,' I said.

'No,' said Beatrice. 'I don't blame you.'

I waited, but she did not say any more. I thought it wiser not to tell her how Favell had asked me to keep the visit a secret. It might lead to some complication. Besides, we were just coming to our destination. A pair of white gates and a smooth gravel drive.

'Don't forget the old lady is nearly blind,' said Beatrice, 'and she's not very bright these days. I telephoned to the nurse that we were coming, so everything will be all right.'

The house was large, red-bricked, and gabled. Late Victorian I supposed. Not an attractive house. I could tell in a glance it was the sort of house that was aggressively well-kept by a big staff. And all for one old lady who was nearly blind.

A trim parlour-maid opened the door.

'Good afternoon, Norah, how are you?' said Beatrice.

'Very well, thank you, Madam. I hope you are keeping well?'

'Oh, yes, we are all flourishing. How has the old lady been, Norah?'

'Rather mixed, Madam. She has one good day, and then a bad. She's not too bad in herself, you know. She will be pleased to see you I'm sure.' She glanced curiously at me.

'This is Mrs Maxim,' said Beatrice.

'Yes, Madam. How do you do,' said Norah. We went through a narrow hall and a drawing-room crowded with furniture to a veranda facing a square clipped lawn. There were many bright geraniums in stone vases on the steps of the veranda. In the corner was a bath chair. Beatrice's grandmother was sitting there, propped up with pillows and surrounded by shawls. When we came close to her I saw that she had a strong, rather uncanny, resemblance to Maxim. That was what Maxim would look like, if he was very old, if he was blind. The nurse by her side got up from her chair and put a mark in the book she was reading aloud. She smiled at Beatrice.

'How are you, Mrs Lacy?' she said.

Beatrice shook hands with her and introduced me. 'The old lady looks all right,' she said. 'I don't know how she does it, at eighty-six. Here we are, Gran,' she said, raising her voice, 'arrived safe and sound.'

The grandmother looked in our direction. 'Dear Bee,' she said, 'how sweet of you to come and visit me. We're so dull here, nothing for you to do.'

Beatrice leant over her and kissed her. 'I've brought Maxim's wife over to see you,' she said, 'she wanted to come and see you before, but she and Maxim have been so busy.'

Beatrice prodded me in the back. 'Kiss her,' she murmured. I too bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

The grandmother touched my face with her fingers. 'You nice thing,' she said, 'so good of you to come. I'm very pleased to see you, dear. You ought to have brought Maxim with you.'

'Maxim is in London,' I said, 'he's coming back tonight.'

'You might bring him next time,' she said. 'Sit down, dear, in this chair, where I can see you. And Bee, come the other side. How is dear Roger? He's a naughty boy, he doesn't come and see me.'

'He shall come during August,' shouted Beatrice; 'he's leaving Eton, you know, he's going up to Oxford."

'Oh, dear, he'll be quite a young man, I shan't know him.'

'He's taller than Giles now,' said Beatrice.

She went on, telling her about Giles, and Roger, and the horses, and the dogs. The nurse brought out some knitting, and clicked her needles sharply. She turned to me, very bright, very cheerful.

'How are you liking Manderley, Mrs de Winter?'

'Very much, thank you,' I said.

'It's a beautiful spot, isn't it?' she said, the needles jabbing one another. 'Of course we don't get over there now, she's not up to it. I am sorry, I used to love our days at Manderley.'

'You must come over yourself some time,' I said.

'Thank you, I should love to. Mr de Winter is well, I suppose?'

'Yes, very well.'

'You spent your honeymoon in Italy, didn't you? We were so pleased with the picture-postcard Mr de Winter sent.'

I wondered whether she used 'we' in the royal sense, or if she meant that Maxim's grandmother and herself were one.

'Did he send one? I can't remember.'

'Oh, yes, it was quite an excitement. We love anything like that. We keep a scrap-book you know, and paste anything to do with the family inside it. Anything pleasant, that is.'

'How nice,' I said.

I caught snatches of Beatrice's conversation on the other side. 'We had to put old Marksman down,' she was saying. 'You remember old Marksman? The best hunter I ever had.'

'Oh, dear, not old Marksman?' said her grandmother.

'Yes, poor old man. Got blind in both eyes, you know.'

'Poor Marksman,' echoed the old lady.

I thought perhaps it was not very tactful to talk about blindness, and I glanced at the nurse. She was still busy clicking her needles.

'Do you hunt, Mrs de Winter?' she said.

'No, I'm afraid I don't,' I said.

'Perhaps you will come to it. We are all very fond of hunting in this part of the world.'

'Yes.'

'Mrs de Winter is very keen on art,' said Beatrice to the nurse. 'I tell her there are heaps of spots in Manderley that would make very jolly pictures.'

'Oh rather,' agreed the nurse, pausing a moment from the fury of knitting. 'What a nice hobby. I had a friend who was a wonder with her pencil. We went to Provence together one Easter and she did such pretty sketches.'

'How nice,' I said.

'We're talking about sketching,' shouted Beatrice to her grandmother, 'you did not know we had an artist in the family, did you?'

'Who's an artist?' said the old lady. 'I don't know any.'

'Your new granddaughter,' said Beatrice: 'you ask her what I gave her for a wedding-present.'