No One Told You The Deadly Price Women Paid for Rex Harrisons Elegance – Hw

No one told you the deadly price women paid for Rex Harrison’s elegance. There is a question that Hollywood has never answered directly. Why do intelligent women, talented women, brave women disappear when they stand too close to certain men? not disappear in the figurative sense, not fade from memory, not lose their confidence, not shrink themselves to fit into someone else’s life, disappear in the most permanent, irreversible sense of the word.

One woman dead at 29, one woman dead at 53, one woman dead at 33, without ever knowing she was dying. Three women, one man at the center of all three stories. And that man is remembered by the entire world as the ultimate symbol of elegance, intelligence, and charm. His name was Rex Harrison. And if you have never heard of him, that is exactly why this story needs to be told.

Because the people who shaped how we remember the past decided that his image was more important than their lives. Before I tell you anything else, I want you to sit with something. Not an abstract idea, something specific. Have you ever been in a situation where you were doing everything right, working harder, being more patient, asking for less, and the other person simply walked away, not because you failed, but because your pain, your effort, your presence was never the point.

You were convenient until you weren’t. And the moment you became inconvenient, they left. And somehow the world around you kept protecting them, kept making excuses for them, kept advancing their career, inviting them to dinner, handing them awards. Carol Landis knew that feeling. Rachel Roberts knew it. K.

Kendall knew it in a way that was more cruel than either of them because she never knew it at all. This is their story, but it is also about the system that made sure none of them were protected. A system that is not a relic of the 1940s. A system that changed its name and kept operating. The afternoon on Capri Drive.

July 5th, 1948. Pacific Palisades, California. A man walks into a house on Capri Drive. He has been here before. He knows the layout. He walks through the living room, past the kitchen, to the bathroom at the back of the house. He pushes open the door. A woman is lying on the floor. She’s not asleep.

Her head rests against a small jewelry box as though she lay down carefully, deliberately. Around her on the tile floor are empty bottles. The man kneels down. He checks for a pulse. There is none. He stands up and he walks out of the house. He does not call emergency services. He does not call the police. He does not call her mother, her friends, anyone who loved her.

The first call he makes is to his personal lawyer. The second call is to Daryl F. Xanic, the head of 20th Century Fox, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, a man who understood exactly what needed to happen before law enforcement was allowed to enter that house. That evening, Rex Harrison attended a dinner party with his wife. The woman on the floor of that bathroom was Carol Landis. She was 29 years old.

She had survived malaria on the front lines of World War II. She’d walked through mud in North Africa to sing for American soldiers who were terrified and far from home. She had done things that most of the men handing her career over to someone else would never have had the courage to do.

She did not survive a dinner in Los Angeles. And I am going to tell you exactly why. The king before he was crowned, his real name was Reginald Kerry Harrison. He was born on March 5th, 1908 in Heonen, Lanasher, an industrial town in northern England that looked nothing like the drawing rooms and champagne receptions that would come to define his public image.

His family was middle class, comfortable enough, but there was nothing in the gray terrace streets of Heen that suggested a man who would one day be kned by the Queen of England. When Reginald was 7 years old, he contracted measles, a serious case. His eyesight was partially damaged. He was pulled out of school for months, isolated from other children, confined to a world that had suddenly become smaller and less reliable than it had seemed the week before.

He was a child who learned very early that stability was an illusion. That the things you counted on could vanish without warning. That the only reliable protection against loss was control. Control over your environment. Control over the information available to others. Control over the way people perceived you. He found the theater.

On stage, everything obeyed him. Every word had been written down. Every reaction from the audience could be shaped by his delivery, his timing, his choice of where to stand and how to hold his body. The stage was the one place where nothing could disappear on him without his permission. He kept that need for control offstage.

He kept it in his dressing room, in his trailer, in every conversation where someone dared to challenge him. He kept it in every relationship with every woman who made the mistake of believing that the version of him they fell in love with was the whole picture. Hollywood gave him the name Rex. In Latin, it means king.

The name was designed to sound like authority that requires no justification. And it worked. By the time the 1940s arrived, Rex Harrison was an international star. British accent, impeccable suits, the kind of confidence that reads as sophistication from a distance and reveals itself as something far colder up close. He married Lily Palmer in 1943.

She was a German actress, sharp and accomplished, and she was well aware of who she had married. Over the years, she became very skilled at the one thing his marriages required above all else, the ability to look in a different direction at precisely the right moment. His first wife, Noel Marjgerie Colette Thomas, had divorced him in 1942.

On the divorce papers, she listed the reason as mental cruelty. She described years of verbal abuse, deliberate humiliation in front of others, and a systematic erosion of her confidence that she could not fully explain to people who had only seen him on screen. Nobody listened. The role he was being offered was too good.

The money was too good. And a first wife’s complaint in 1942 in Hollywood was the kind of thing that went into a file and stayed there. In 1947, Rex Harrison met Carol Landis, and the file got thicker. The woman they reduced to a label. The press called her the ping girl. They called her the chest. Two labels, one human being, and an entire industry that was perfectly comfortable pretending those two things were the same.

Her real name was Francis Lillian Mary Rida. She was born on January 1st, 1919 in Fairchild, Wisconsin to a family that gave her very little of what children need most. Her father left when she was young. Her mother remarried more than once. There was no fixed point in her early life. No person she could count on to still be there the following year.

She learned, as children in unstable homes always learn, that the safest way to exist was to make herself useful to whoever held the power in the room, to be agreeable, to be what was needed, to never take up more space than was offered. She arrived in Hollywood at 15. The studio system looked at her and saw a body that could sell tickets.

her comedic timing, her genuine warmth on screen, her ability to hold an audience’s attention without relying solely on the obvious. None of that was relevant to the category they had already assigned her to. They put her in pictures that asked nothing of her except that she show up and look the way they wanted her to look.

They called her the ping girl because a pinup girl had even less professional dignity than a pinup, and the press found that funny. They named her by the parts of her body they found commercially useful, and they never once asked how she felt about it. But in 1942, Carol Landis did something that the men who labeled her never did and would never have done.

She volunteered to go to the front lines. Not in the abstract, not by signing something in an office in Beverly Hills. She traveled to North Africa. She traveled to the South Pacific. She performed for American soldiers in conditions that had nothing to do with the world she had come from. Mud, heat, no sound system, no lighting rig, nothing between her and the men she was there to reach except the air between them.

She contracted malaria in the South Pacific and continued performing. She wrote about the experience afterward in a memoir called Four Gills in a Jeep, published in 1944. It is the account of a person with genuine courage. Not the manufactured courage of a press release, but the real thing. The kind that comes from deciding to go somewhere dangerous because it matters.

Even when no one with power over your career is watching. When she came back to Hollywood, the studio system looked at her the same way it always had. A body, a label, a commodity approaching the end of its most commercially viable years. Four marriages had already ended. Each one had begun with something that felt like the possibility of stability and ended with the same lesson repeated in a different key.

She was someone people moved toward and then moved on from. She carried that pattern like a wound that never properly closed and she was not always able to see clearly through it. When Rex Harrison walked into her life in 1947, she was 38 years old in an industry that had already decided she was past her peak. He was intelligent.

He was attentive. He talked to her about literature and theater and things that had nothing to do with the roles she was being offered. He made her feel for the first time in a long time that she was being seen as a person rather than a product. She believed him. That was not a failure of intelligence.

That was the entirely human response of someone who had been hungry for exactly that for a very long time. The illusion of being chosen. From 1947 onward, Rex Harrison and Carol Landis met regularly. This was not a secret. It was the kind of open secret that Hollywood specializes in. the kind that everyone knows about and no one acknowledges in public because acknowledging it publicly would require someone to do something about it.

Lily Palmer knew. She had known about other women before Carol and would know about others after. She had made a calculation that many women in her position made in that era that the price of confrontation was higher than the price of silence. Her career was tied to his. Her public image was built alongside his.

The structure of her professional life in Hollywood was not something she could dismantle without dismantling herself in the process. So she looked in the other direction and she became very good at it. Rex Harrison, for his part, gave Carol Landis exactly enough to keep her waiting. That is a specific kind of cruelty and I want to name it precisely.

It is not the cruelty of open rejection. Open rejection would have been kinder. It is the cruelty of maintaining someone in a state of suspended hope. Giving them enough warmth to feel wanted, enough distance to feel insecure, enough attention to believe they matter, and enough absence to ensure they never feel safe enough to leave.

Every evening Rex Harrison returned to Lily Palmer was an answer to a question Carol was too afraid to ask directly. She was being told over and over in the language of routine that she was not the one he would choose. But the answer came in a language she could not quite bring herself to read. This is not a failure unique to Carol Landis.

It is the predictable outcome of what happens when a person who has spent years being told they are not enough finally encounters someone who treats them like they might be. The logic of it is almost impossible to resist from the inside. You do not see the pattern. You see the exception you believe you might become. By the summer of 1948, Carol Landis had been waiting for almost a year.

She had been given enough reason to stay and not enough reason to leave. She was 38 years old and she was exhausted in a way that went much deeper than tired. The evening of July 4th, 1948 began normally enough. She hosted a pool party at her home on Capri Drive. Friends came. The afternoon was warm and social, and by all accounts, she seemed fine.

People who were there that day said she seemed relaxed. They said nothing seemed wrong. She smiled. She was a good host. She sent everyone home early because she had plans that evening. Rex Harrison arrived at approximately 7 in the evening. It was the seventh consecutive dinner they had shared that month.

What was said between them at that table is not recorded anywhere. There are no witnesses, no letters, no account from Rex Harrison himself that can be trusted as complete. What is known is the outcome. At some point during that dinner, Rex Harrison told Carol Landis that he had accepted a leading role in a new Broadway production, a play called Anne of the Thousand Days.

He would be moving to New York, and he would not be divorcing Lily Palmer. Not then, not ever. That was the answer to the question she had been too afraid to ask for a year. At approximately 9:00 in the evening, Rex Harrison stood up from the table and walked out of the house. He drove back into the city.

He joined his wife at a social engagement that evening, and nothing about his behavior suggested that anything unusual had happened. That night, Carolandis took 40 sleeping. 40. I am asking you not to move past that number quickly. Not because it is meant to shock you, but because it tells you something important.

40 pills is not an impulsive act. 40 pills is the decision of a person who had been standing at the edge of something for a very long time and who finally had no reason left to step back. Rex Harrison did not create that edge, but he had been watching her stand on it for months. He knew how close she was and he walked away anyway.

The first phone call. The afternoon of July 5th, 1948. Rex Harrison returned to the house on Capri Drive. He found Carol Landis in the bathroom. She was lying on the floor. Her head was resting against a small jewelry box, the empty still around her. She had been dead for several hours.

He checked her pulse and then he made a decision that tells you everything you need to know about the distance between who Rex Harrison was on screen and who he was in that bathroom. He did not call emergency services. He did not call the police. He walked out of the bathroom, picked up the telephone, and called his personal lawyer. Then he called Daryl F.

Xanic at 20th Century Fox. Xanic was not surprised. Men like Xanic are never surprised by calls like this because their entire professional purpose is to be prepared for exactly these situations. He knew what needed to happen in the next several hours. The narrative surrounding the death needed to be established before investigators arrived. Witnesses needed to be reached.

Press contacts needed to be briefed on the appropriate angle. Any materials at the scene that could be damaging needed to be located and accounted for. This was not corruption in the dramatic cinematic sense. It was the routine operation of a system built to protect its most valuable assets. Rex Harrison was a valuable asset.

Carol Landis was not. Not anymore. Only after the groundwork was laid did someone call the police. Carol Landis lay on that bathroom floor throughout all of it alone. When investigators arrived, they found two letters. The first was addressed to Carol’s mother, signed with the words, “Your baby.” It expressed love and asked for forgiveness.

That letter was released to the press. That letter is the one history recorded. The second letter was addressed to Rex Harrison. It was never read aloud at the coroner’s inquest. It was never entered into the official record. Several people present that day reported its existence. Nobody has confirmed seeing it after that morning.

Those who were there said that Rex Harrison read it. What happened to it after that? No one will say on the record. What we know is that it no longer exists in any archive, any collection, any official file. A letter written by a dying woman to the man she held responsible. Gone. The coroner’s inquest convened shortly afterward.

Rex Harrison appeared and testified. He stated clearly that he and Carol Landis had been close friends, nothing more. She had no romantic feelings for him. He said her death was the result of long-standing financial anxiety and psychological instability that had nothing to do with their friendship. He did not mention the seven consecutive dinners.

He did not mention the conversation on the evening of July 4th. He did not address the time between finding her body and calling the authorities. He said what the system needed him to say in the precise and controlled voice of a man who had spent his entire career delivering lines with conviction. The inquest ruled her death a su. No further inquiry was conducted.

20th Century Fox terminated Rex Harrison’s contract, not because of moral conviction, but because the public reaction in the weeks following Carol’s death made his continued employment a liability. It was a business calculation stated in the language of principle. Two years later, he was working again, consistently, successfully, without impediment.

The machine had done exactly what it was designed to do. What the machine was built to do. In 1948, a female actress in Hollywood had no legal mechanism to hold a studio accountable for how it handled her welfare. There was no labor protection specific to the entertainment industry. There was no avenue through which a woman in Carol Landis’ position could have filed a complaint, sought redress, or compelled anyone to account for what had happened. Daryl F.

Xanic could remove a performer’s name from every contract, every production schedule, and every future conversation at 20th Century Fox within 24 hours. He had done it before, and he would do it again. He could also do the reverse. Could insulate, protect, and rehabilitate an actor whose continued employment served the studio’s financial interests.

This is not a conspiracy. It does not require secret meetings or coded communication. It requires only that the people with power share a common understanding of where their interests lie and that they act accordingly. The system did not protect Rex Harrison because anyone made a deliberate choice to let Carolandis die.

It protected him because protecting him was profitable. And the cost of that protection was borne entirely by women who had no equivalent leverage. That is what a system looks like from the inside. It is not dramatic. It is not villainous in the way that makes for a satisfying story. It is simply a set of incentives that consistently produces the same outcome.

The people with the least power absorbed the consequences of the choices made by the people with the most. Rex Harrison stood before the coroner’s inquest and delivered his account of events with the same professional composure he brought to every role he ever played. And the institutional response was to accept that account without further examination.

What is perhaps most revealing is not what was said at that inquest. It is what was not asked. No one asked why the first call went to a lawyer. No one asked about the gap between finding the body and contacting authorities. No one asked about the content of the second letter or where had it gone. No one asked a single question that the system had not already prepared an answer for.

Silence in an investigation is a choice. The decision not to ask a question is as meaningful as any answer. And the silence in that inquest room in the summer of 1948 speaks as clearly as anything Rex Harrison said out loud. Carol Landis was not an exception. Here is where everything you have heard so far has to be read again from the beginning.

Because Carolandis was not a tragic incident in an otherwise unremarkable life. She was the first name in a pattern that continued for three more decades and claimed two more women in different ways with different details and the same man standing at the center. K. Kendall. She was the finest comic actress Britain produced in the 1950s.

If you have seen Genevieve made in 1953, you know what she could do. A kind of physical and verbal precision that makes comedy look effortless in the way that only the genuinely skilled can manage. She had warmth and timing and a presence that could hold a frame without effort. She was extraordinary. In 1957, she received a diagnosis, leukemia.

The doctors delivered the news and as was sometimes the practice then they told the family before they told the patient. In this case the family was Rex Harrison. They had married that year. Rex Harrison received the diagnosis. He knew that his wife had perhaps 2 years to live and he decided not to tell her. He told her the condition was minor, a manageable form of anemia, something that could be treated, something that did not require her to prepare, to grieve, to say the things that people say when they know they are running out of time. He managed

her access to the truth of her own body for the entirety of the time she had left. K. Kendall died in 1959. She was 33 years old. She died without knowing she had been dying. She died without the chance to choose how to spend the time she had. She died with her reality having been constructed and maintained by the man she trusted most.

Rex Harrison described this decision in interviews as an act of love. He did not want her to worry. He wanted her final years to be happy. What he wanted, more precisely, was to be in control of what she knew. The justification he offered love, protection, kindness is the justification that has been offered for this kind of control throughout human history.

It does not survive contact with the actual experience of the person it was done to. K. Kendall was never given the opportunity to decide whether she wanted to be protected in that way. The decision was made for her about her life, about her death, without her knowledge, and without her consent. That is not love. That is ownership. Rachel Roberts.

She met Rex Harrison in 1961 and married him the following year. She was an intensely gifted actress, nominated for the Academy Award for best actress for This Sporting Life in 1963. and she was also by many accounts one of the most emotionally open and vulnerable people in a profession that does not reward vulnerability. The marriage lasted 9 years.

It ended in 1971. What happened inside those 9 years was not fully visible to the public, but Rachel Roberts recorded it herself. She kept a diary. After the marriage ended, she wrote in it with a cander that is almost unbearable to read. One entry quoted by people who had access to the document contains a line that requires no interpretation.

He makes me feel like I don’t exist unless he acknowledges me. That sentence is a clinical description of a specific kind of psychological dynamic. It is the dynamic of a person whose sense of their own reality has been made dependent on the approval of someone who dispenses that approval unpredictably. It is a form of conditioning.

It leaves marks that do not heal easily and sometimes do not heal at all. In 1980, 9 years after the divorce, Rachel Roberts died by suicide at her home in Los Angeles. She was 53 years old. Consider the timeline. Carol Landis, 1948, 29 years old. K. Kendall, 1959, 33 years old. Rachel Roberts, 1980, 53 years old.

Three women, 32 years between the first and the last, three different circumstances, three different forms of harm, and one man who was present in different ways in each story, and who in each case walked away and continued his career. This is not a coincidence. This is not a cluster of unrelated tragedies that happens to involve the same person.

This is a pattern. And patterns, unlike coincidences, have causes. The irony that My Fair Lady doesn’t want you to see. In 1956, Rex Harrison opened on Broadway in a musical adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s Pigon. The show was called My Fair Lady. He played Professor Henry Higgins, a linguist, an intellectual, a man of absolute conviction in his own superiority, who takes a workingclass flower girl named Eliza Doolittle, and undertakes to transform her into someone the upper classes will accept as one of their own. The role made him a legend.

When the film adaptation was released in 1964, it won eight Academy Awards, including best picture and best actor for Rex Harrison. His performance is considered one of the finest in the history of the Hollywood musical. The image of him, vest, pocket watch, measured diction, the heir of a man who has never once doubted his own judgment, is the image that history preserved.

Professor Higgins has a famous line in My Fair Lady. He asks with genuine bewilderment a question that the show treats as comic. Why can’t a woman be more like a man? The audience laughs. They have been laughing at that line for 60 years. Because in the context of the show, it reveals Higgins’s emotional blindness, his inability to understand that Eliza is a fully formed human being with her own interior life.

The comedy comes from the gap between what he sees and what is actually there. But Rex Harrison in his actual life was asking a different version of that question. A version that was not comedic, a version that was not about emotional blindness, but about something far more deliberate. He was asking, “Why do women insist on having needs I am not interested in meeting? Why does Carol Landis keep expecting me to choose her when I have made it clear in every way except direct words that I will not? Why does Rachel Roberts keep needing

acknowledgement to feel that she exists when I have decided that her existence is not my responsibility? Why does Kay Kendall insist on having the right to know about her own illness when managing that information is so much more convenient for me? The professor Higgins of the stage is a man who eventually learns.

The final moment of My Fair Lady is ambiguous. Whether Eliza returns to him or not is left open, but the emotional arc of the show is built on the idea that Higgins is capable of growth. That the experience of knowing Eliza changes him. Rex Harrison in life did not grow. He moved from one woman to the next, applying the same patterns with the same results.

And each time the woman paid the cost and he continued intact. The irony is not subtle. The man the world chose to embody the idea of refined, educated, superior masculinity, the man who taught audiences what a gentleman looks and sounds like, spent his private life doing the opposite of what a decent person does.

And the world gave him an Oscar for it. The world gave him a knighthood. The world gave him 30 more years. The next time you watch My Fair Lady, when Higgins stands on that stage, vest perfect, voice controlled, explaining to Eliza what she must become, I want you to hear the question underneath the question, not the one the show is asking, the one Rex Harrison was asking his entire life.

And I want you to notice that none of the women in his life were given the opportunity to answer it. The night they handed him the award, April 5th, 1965, the 37th Academy Awards. Rex Harrison walked to the podium to accept the Oscar for best actor for his performance in My Fair Lady. He was 56 years old. He was wearing a suit.

His voice was steady and measured. the voice of a man accustomed to being listened to, accustomed to the room being organized around him. He thanked his director, George Cukor. He thanked a producer, Jack Warner. He thanked the musical team, the costume designer, Cecil Beaton, the Academy. He did not mention Carol Landis, who had been dead for 17 years and who had died in a house he had been inside hours before. He did not mention K.

Kendall, who had spent the last 2 years of her life believing she was going to recover. Rachel Roberts was still alive in 1965. She was at that moment his wife. She was not mentioned either. The room applauded. The cameras moved on. History recorded his name in the category of best actor and moved him into the permanent cannon of great Hollywood performances.

In the same year, 20th Century Fox, the studio that had terminated his contract in the weeks after Carol Landis died, resigned him to a long-term agreement. In 1989, Queen Elizabeth II awarded him a knighthood. He became Sir Rex Harrison. The honor was given in recognition of his contributions to British theater and film.

In 1990, Rex Harrison died of pancreatic cancer at his home in New York. He was 82 years old. His death was peaceful. His affairs were in order. The obituaries were respectful and in many cases admiring. They talked about My Fair Lady and Dr. Doolittle and his unmistakable presence on stage and screen. Very few of them mentioned Carol Landis by name.

Almost none of them mentioned K. Kendall’s diagnosis and who had known about it and who had not. Rachel Roberts received a brief sentence in some of them. Cause of death listed. No context provided. Carol Landis stopped at 29. K. Kendall stopped at 33 without knowing she was stopping. Rachel Roberts stopped at 53.

Rex Harrison lived to 82. received every honor his industry and his country could offer and is remembered as one of the great gentlemen of the golden era of film. This is not a story with a satisfying ending. It does not have the structure of justice. It has the structure of reality, which is to say, it has the structure of a system working exactly as designed, distributing its rewards and its costs according to who had power and who did not.

the bill and who paid it. The next time you watch My Fair Lady, I want you to remember something simple. Professor Henry Higgins spends the entirety of that film teaching Eliza Doolittle that she is capable of dignity. That dignity is something she can learn, earn, perform, and eventually possess. It is the central promise of the story that with the right guidance from the right person, a woman can become worthy of being seen.

The man who played that role spent his real life operating on a precisely opposite principle. The women around him were not taught dignity. They were taught methodically and over time that their dignity was contingent on his approval, that they existed most fully when he acknowledged them, and barely existed at all when he turned away.

Carol Landis was stripped of that acknowledgement on the evening of July 4th, 1948 at a dinner table in Pacific Palisades, and she did not survive the night. K. Kendall was stripped of something even more fundamental. The right to know the truth about her own body, her own prognosis, her own remaining time.

She was managed, handled, kept comfortable and uninformed until there was no time left to inform her. Rachel Roberts was stripped of her sense of her own reality slowly over 9 years until the boundary between what she knew to be true and what he needed her to believe had been worn away to almost nothing. Three women, three different mechanisms of harm, one consistent outcome, and a system, the studio machinery, the press, the legal apparatus, the social contract of a certain era that treated the protection of his reputation as more

important than the protection of their lives. I am not asking you to carry a verdict about a man who died 35 years ago. Whatever Rex Harrison was or was not, whatever proportion of his behavior was cruelty, and what proportion was the damage of his own history compounding across decades, none of that is mine to determine with certainty, and none of it would bring those women back.

What I am asking you to do is something smaller and more specific. I am asking you to remember Carol Landis as who she was, not as a footnote in someone else’s biography, but as the woman who traveled to the front lines of a world war because she believed it mattered and who came home to an industry that saw only her face and never her courage.

I am asking you to remember Kay Kendall as who she was. one of the most genuinely talented actresses of her generation who deserved the right to die knowing what she was dying of and who was denied that right by the person who was supposed to love her most. I am asking you to remember Rachel Roberts as who she was a serious powerful deeply feeling artist who described her own experience with a clarity that still holds 30 years after her death.

And then I am asking you to ask the question that this story has always been asking even when no one was listening. When a system is built to protect the people with the most power and the cost of that protection is paid by the people with the least, who is responsible? The man who made the choices? The studio that managed the consequences? The press that printed the approved version? the audience that bought the tickets and believed the image.

In 1948, the answer was nobody. Nobody was held responsible. The machine absorbed the impact, distributed the cost to those least able to bear it, and kept moving. The bill for Rex Harrison’s elegance was paid in full, just not by him. Carol Landis paid at 29 years old on a bathroom floor in Pacific Palisades while the man who should have called for help was on the phone with his lawyer.

That is the story. The whole story. The one no one told you. Carol Landis 1919 to 1948. She deserved more. K. Kendall 1926 to 1959. She deserved to know. Rachel Roberts 1927 to 1980. She deserved to be believed.