My Cousin Rachel

In the old days, when I was a child,

they used to hang our murderers at the Four Turnings Crossroads.

This is what one moment of passion can bring on a man, Philip.

For as long as I can remember,

old Tom was never anything but dull and honest.

But whatever the cause,

one day there came a moment of uncontrollable anger,

and when it was over,

this is what he had earned for himself.

For this is the price for murder.

That was 15 years ago.

I should have remembered his words.

Death is the price for murder.

My entire life has been spent on the Cornish coast ofEngland.

There, for more than a hundred years,

has stood the solid, comfortable home

in which I grew up from infancy in the care ofmy cousin Ambrose.

- What is it? - Open it.

Oh!

Happy birthday, dear boy.

Myparents died when I was but a few months old.

From then on, as long as he lived,

Ambrose was not only my kinsman and guardian

but father, brother, friend, everything in the world to me.

Andjust two years ago,

on the stormiest night that I can remember,

distant bells began to toll for him.

And now they tell me if I spend another winter in this blasted rain,

I'll end up a cripple in a Basque chair.

So I must go and search for the sun, I suppose.

- Where will you go? - Italy, perhaps.

Somewhere on the Mediterranean.

Well, uh, you'll want me to go with you, won't you?

I'd want you, of course,

but I don't think both of us should be away from here at the same time.

You don't think you'll need someone to help you in and out of carriages

- and all that sort of thing? - Good heavens, no.

I'm not exactly an invalid yet.

The only real trouble is I'm too much of a fool about my home.

I hate to leave it even for a week, and, well, this must be for months.

And so today, the Four Turnings Crossroads

is an even uglier place to me.

For it was there that I bade him farewell for the last time.

This is far enough. You don't want to be late getting back.

Good-bye, dear boy.

Good-bye, Ambrose.

- Good-bye, Louisia. - Good-bye.

You'd better keep an eye on this one, don't you think?

She's coming along pretty fast now.

Never mind about me.

What we want to know is who's going to keep an eye on you?

What did I tell you? Drive on.

Good-bye, children.

- I'll see you in the spring. - Good-bye, Ambrose.

Good-bye, Ambrose. God bless you.

But when winter had passed

and we were well into spring again,

and still there was no sign ofhis returning,

I came to be troubled by strange and formless fears,

wholly without reason but persistent and nagging,

and in some ways ominous.

Good morning.

Nick.

What news from our tourist now?

Still in Florence.

Can't seem to tear himself away from some people he's met there.

Oh? Who are they?

You ever heard of a family from these parts named Corin,

one of them once married to a member of our family?

Oh, yes, I remember the Corins. Why?

He writes that he's met one of them in Florence.

A Countess Sangaletti.

Half English, half Italian, a widow.

How old is she?

He doesn't say, but middle-aged, I suppose,

married and widowed and so on.

She's been showing him the gardens in Florence.

When's he coming home?

Didn't even mention it this time.

Is it really true, sir?

It is.

- What is it, dear? - Where's your father?

Here I am. What's the trouble?

Another letter. I want you to hear it yourself.

"My dearest boy, all is not well with me.

Better keep silent though she watches me all the time.

I have written to you several times, but there is no one here I trust,

and unless I can get out myself to post the letters,

they may not reach you.

Since my illness, this has been more difficult than ever.

As for the doctors, I have no belief in any of them.

They're all liars, and the new one recommended by her friend Rainaldi

I'm sure is a complete cutthroat,

but then he would be, coming from that quarter.

However, they have taken on a dangerous proposition in me,

and I will beat them yet. Ambrose."

Look at the writing.

I can't believe it.

Can't believe what?

It's not the letter of a man in his right senses.

That's not it.

There have been hints before in exactly the same tone.

There is nothing the matter with Ambrose's mind.

You may not know this,

but Ambrose's father died of a tumor on the brain.

It was never a matter much discussed in the family.

I have no idea whether these things are hereditary or not,

nor do the doctors seem to know.

The only other possibility I can think of,

and one which I would infinitely prefer,

is that Ambrose was drunk when he wrote this letter.

I've never seen Ambrose drunk in my life.

Nor I. I was merely trying to choose the better of two evils.

Well, whatever the truth, we'll know it soon.

I'm leaving for Florence first thing tomorrow morning.

Pull up a minute, please.

Whoa.

- Isn't that the post bag? - Yes, sir.

- Let me see the letters, please. - Yes, sir.

- Thank you. - Thank you, sir.

Drive on.

Villa Sangaletti?

Si.

Signor Ashley. Is he here?

No, no, signore.

Then, uh, Signora Ashley.

Excuse me.

Un momento, signore.

- Do you understand English? - Yes, signore.

Will you be good enough to announce me to Mr. Ambrose Ashley?

Excuse me, signore, but you are Mr. Ashley's son?

No. His cousin.

Is he here or not?

I am very sorry, signore, but he's not.

He's dead.

Since three weeks now.

Would you care for a glass of wine, signore?

No.

Thank you.

How did he die?

From the fever, signore.

I mean, was it quick or— or slow?

The illness was long and slow,

but the end was quick.

He fell asleep, truly.

You saw him?

Yes, signore.

It was very early in the morning,

and Signore Rainaldi send me for the doctor,

but it was too late.

I myself helped the contessa to light the candles.

And when the nuns had gone,

I went back to look at him again.

The violence had all gone now,

and on his face there was a look of peace.

What do you mean by violence?

During the fever, signore,

there were many times I had to hold him down in bed

when the attacks came on.

And when the pain went, he would be dazed

and heavy, his mind wandering.

That was the way it was the whole winter.

A strong man as helpless at last as a child.

And, uh, Mrs. Ashley...

she's still here?

No, signore.

She moved out the day after the funeral.

Signore Rainaldi thought it best.

Mr. Ashley's things?

- She packed them all up and— - What about this?

She must have overlooked it, signore.

I see.

And if there's no objection, I'll take it along for myself.

Of course, signore.

And this Signor Rainaldi.

You say he was of great help and comfort to Mrs. Ashley during her...

ordeal.

He never left the villa during that entire week.

He was their true friend as well as lawyer.

Where can I find him now?

In the rear verona , signore.

It's the first house on the left after the fountain.

Thank you.

Is this Signor Rainaldi's?

No, thank you.

A vanti.

Mr. Ashley?

Yes.

Philip Ashley.

Kinsman of Ambrose.

I can see the resemblance. Will you have a chair, sir?

I've just come from the Villa Sangaletti, Mr. Rainaldi.

I know. You have Ambrose's stick.

You have no objection, I trust.

How could I? It would have been sent to you anyway.

It was in that empty house, and from the lips of a servant

that I first learned of the death of my cousin.

I regret the circumstances, I assure you.

Why was I not informed at least of his illness?

Your cousin's death was quite sudden, Mr. Ashley.