The Mousetrap and Other Plays

ACT ONE

Scene I

SCENE—Justin Fogg’s room in the offices of Fogg, Fogg, Bamfylde and Fogg, Solicitors. An early autumn afternoon in London.

The room is rather old-fashioned and cramped for space. The walls are lined with books. An arch up LC leads to the rest of the building and there is a sash window across the corner up R. A large desk and swivel chair stand in front of the window. There is a chair C for visitors, and a table covered with files is against the wall L. There is a telephone on the desk.

When the CURTAIN rises, the stage is in darkness, then the LIGHTS come up. JUSTIN FOGG is seated at the desk, speaking into the telephone. The window is half-open. JUSTIN is a young man in the early thirties, sober, staid, but likeable.

JUSTIN. (into the telephone) I quite see your point, Mrs. Ross, but the Law can’t be hurried, you know—

(TURNBALL, an elderly clerk, appears in the archway. He is carrying a file)

—we have to wait for their solicitors to reply to our letter . . .

(TURNBALL coughs)

(To Turnball) Come in, Turnball. (Into the telephone) No, it would be most inadvisable for you to take any steps yourself . . . Yes, we will keep you informed. (He replaces the receiver) Women!

(TURNBALL places the file on the desk in front of Justin)

Miss Le Marchant?

TURNBALL. She’s here now, sir.

JUSTIN. Show her in, Turnball. I don’t want any interruptions at all. Put anything urgent through to Mr. Grimes.

TURNBALL. Very good, sir.

(TURNBALL exits. JUSTIN rises, crosses to the table L, selects a file, returns to his desk, sits, and puts Turnball’s file in the desk drawer. TURNBALL re-enters and stands to one side)

(He announces) Miss Le Marchant.

(CARLA enters. She is aged twenty-one, pretty, and determined. She wears a coat and carries bag and gloves. She speaks with a Canadian accent. TURNBALL exits)

JUSTIN. (rising, moving to Carla and offering his hand) How do you do?

CARLA. How do you do, Mr. Fogg? (She looks at him in dismay, ignoring his outstretched hand) But you’re young!

(JUSTIN looks at Carla for a moment, amused, although still formal)

JUSTIN. Thank you. But I can assure you I’m a fully qualified solicitor.

CARLA. I’m sorry—it’s just—that I expected you to be—rather old.

JUSTIN. Oh, you expected my father? He died two years ago.

CARLA. I see. I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. (She offers him her hand)

(JUSTIN shakes hands with Carla)

JUSTIN. (indicating the chair C) Do sit down.

(CARLA sits C)

(He returns to his desk and sits at it) Now, tell me what I can do for you.

(There is a pause whilst CARLA looks at Justin, a little uncertain how to begin)

CARLA. Do you know who I am?

JUSTIN. Miss Carla Le Marchant of Montreal.

CARLA. (looking away) My name isn’t really Le Marchant.

JUSTIN. Oh, yes, it is. Legally.

CARLA. (leaning forward) So—you do know all about me?

JUSTIN. We have acted for Mr. Robert Le Marchant over a number of years.

CARLA. All right, then, let’s get down to it. My name may be legally Le Marchant by adoption—or deed poll—or habeas corpus—or whatever the legal jargon is. (She removes her gloves) But I was born—(she pauses) Caroline Crale. Caroline was my mother’s name, too. My father was Amyas Crale. Sixteen years ago my mother stood her trial for poisoning my father. They found her—guilty. (She takes a deep breath. Defiantly) That’s right, isn’t it?

JUSTIN. Yes, those are the facts.

CARLA. I only learned them six months ago.

JUSTIN. When you came of age?

CARLA. Yes. I don’t think they wanted me to know. Uncle Robert and Aunt Bess, I mean. They brought me up believing my parents were killed in an accident when I was five years old. But my mother left a letter for me—to be given me when I was twenty-one, so they had to tell me all about it.

JUSTIN. Unfortunate.

CARLA. Do you mean you think they ought not to have told me?

JUSTIN. No, no, I don’t mean that at all. I meant it was unfortunate for you—it must have been a bad shock.

CARLA. Finding out that my father was murdered and that my mother did it?

JUSTIN. (after a pause; kindly) There were—extenuating circumstances, you know.

CARLA. (firmly) It’s not extenuating circumstances I’m interested in. It’s facts.

JUSTIN. Yes, facts. Well, you’ve got your facts. Now—you can put the whole thing behind you. (He smiles encouragingly) It’s your future that matters now, you know, not the past. (He rises and crosses above the desk of the table L)

CARLA. I think, before I can go forward—I’ve got to—go back.

(JUSTIN, arrested and puzzled, turns to Carla)

JUSTIN. I beg your pardon?

CARLA. It’s not as simple as you make it sound. (She pauses) I’m engaged—or I was engaged—to be married.

(JUSTIN picks up the cigarette box from the table L and offers it to CARLA who takes a cigarette)

JUSTIN. I see. And your fiancé found out about all this?

CARLA. Of course, I told him.

JUSTIN. And he—er—reacted unfavourably? (He replaces the box on the table)

CARLA. (without enthusiasm) Not at all. He was perfectly splendid. Said it didn’t matter at all.

JUSTIN. (puzzled) Well, then?

CARLA. (looking up at Justin) It isn’t what a person says . . . (She leaves it at that)

JUSTIN. (after a moment) Yes, I see. (He lights Carla’s cigarette with the lighter from the table L) At least, I think I do.

CARLA. Anyone can say things. It’s what they feel that matters.

JUSTIN. Don’t you think that perhaps you’re super-sensitive?

CARLA. (firmly) No.

JUSTIN. But, my dear girl . . .

CARLA. Would you like to marry the daughter of a murderess? (She looks at Justin)

(JUSTIN looks down)

(Quietly) You see, you wouldn’t.

JUSTIN. You didn’t give me time to answer. I wouldn’t particularly want to marry the daughter of a murderer, or of a drunkard or of a dope-fiend or of anything else unpleasant. (He picks up the cigarette box, crosses above Carla to the desk and puts the lighter and cigarette box on it) But what the hell, if I loved a girl, she could be the daughter of Jack the Ripper for all I cared.

CARLA. (looking around the room) I don’t believe you would mind as much as Jeff does. (She shivers)

JUSTIN. Do you find it cold?

CARLA. I think your central heating’s kind of low.

JUSTIN. It’s kind of non-existent, I’m afraid. (He smiles) I mean, we haven’t any. Shall I get them to light the fire for you?

CARLA. No, please.

(JUSTIN looks at the window, sees it is open, quickly closes it, then leans over the desk to Carla)

JUSTIN. This Mr—er . . . This Jeff . . . ?

CARLA. You’ll see him. He’s coming to call for me, if you don’t mind. (She looks at her wrist-watch) Hell, I’m wasting time. I didn’t come to consult you about my love life. (Struck) At least, I suppose I did. I’ve got to find out the truth, you see.

JUSTIN. I told you just now that there were extenuating circumstances. Your mother was found guilty, but the jury made a strong recommendation to mercy. Her sentence was commuted to imprisonment.

CARLA. And she died in prison three years later.

JUSTIN. (sitting at the desk) Yes.

CARLA. In her letter, my mother wrote that she wanted me to know definitely that she was innocent. (She looks defiantly at Justin)

JUSTIN. (unimpressed) Yes.

CARLA. You don’t believe it?

JUSTIN. (carefully finding his words) I think—a devoted mother—might want to do the best she could for her daughter’s peace of mind.

CARLA. No, no, no! She wasn’t like that. She never told lies.

JUSTIN. How can you know? You were a child of five when you saw her last.

CARLA. (passionately) I do know. My mother didn’t tell lies. When she took a thorn out of my finger once, she said it would hurt. And going to the dentist. All those things. She was never one to sugar the pill. What she said was always true. (She rises quickly, and turns up L) And if she says she was innocent then she was innocent. You don’t believe me—but it’s so. (She takes a handkerchief from her bag and dabs her eyes)

JUSTIN. (rising) It’s better, always, to face the truth.

CARLA. (turning to him) That is the truth.

JUSTIN. (shaking his head; quietly) It isn’t the truth.

CARLA. How can you be so sure? Does a jury never make a mistake?

JUSTIN. There are probably several guilty people walking around free, yes; because they’ve been given the benefit of the doubt. But in your mother’s case—there wasn’t any doubt.

CARLA. You weren’t there. It was your father who attended the case . . .

JUSTIN. (interrupting) My father was the solicitor in charge of the defence, yes.

CARLA. Well—he thought her innocent, didn’t he?

JUSTIN. Yes. (Embarrassed) Yes, of course. You don’t quite understand these things . . .

CARLA. (cynically) You mean that it was technical only?

(JUSTIN is slightly at a loss how to explain)

(She moves C, in front of her chair) But he himself, personally—what did he think?

JUSTIN. (stiffly) Really, I’ve no idea.

CARLA. Yes, you have. He thought she was guilty. (She turns and faces L) And you think so, too. (She pauses, then turns to Justin) But how is it that you remember it all so well?

JUSTIN. (looking steadily at her) I was eighteen—just going up to Oxford—not in the firm, yet—but—interested. (Remembering) I was in court every day.

CARLA. What did you think? Tell me. (She sits C. Eagerly) I have to know.

JUSTIN. Your mother loved your father desperately—but he gave her a raw deal—he brought his mistress into the house—subjected your mother to humiliation and insult. Mrs. Crale endured more than any woman could be expected to endure. He drove her too far. The means were to hand—try and understand. Understand and forgive. (He crosses above the desk and stands down L)

CARLA. I don’t need to forgive. She didn’t do it.

JUSTIN. (turning to her) Then who the devil did?

(CARLA, taken aback, looks up at Justin)

(He crosses below Carla to R) Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Nobody else had the slightest motive. If you were to read up the reports of the case . . .

CARLA. I have. I’ve gone to the files. I’ve read up every single detail of the trial.

(JUSTIN crosses behind the desk and goes through the file he put on it)

JUSTIN. Well, then, take the facts. Aside from your mother and father, there were five people in the house that day. There were the Blakes—Philip and Meredith, two brothers, two of your father’s closest friends. There was a girl of fourteen, your mother’s half-sister—Angela Warren, and her governess—Miss—something or other, and there was Elsa Greer, your father’s mistress—and there wasn’t the least suspicion against any of them—and besides, if you’d seen . . . (He breaks off)

CARLA. (eagerly) Yes—go on . . .

JUSTIN. (turning to the window; with feeling) If you’d seen her standing there in the witness-box. So brave, so polite—bearing it all so patiently, but never—for one moment—fighting. (He looks at Carla) You’re like her, you know, to look at. It might be her sitting there. There’s only one difference. You’re a fighter. (He looks in the file)

CARLA. (looking out front; puzzled) She didn’t fight—why?

JUSTIN. (crossing down L) Montagu Depleach led for the defence. I think now that may have been a mistake. He had an enormous reputation, but he was—theatrical. His client had to play up. But your mother didn’t play up.

CARLA. Why?

JUSTIN. She answered his questions with all the right answers—but it was like a docile child repeating a lesson—it didn’t give old Monty his chance. He built up to the last question—“I ask you, Mrs. Crale, did you kill your husband?” And she said: “No—er—no, really I d-didn’t.” She stammered. It was a complete anti-climax, utterly unconvincing.

CARLA. And then what happened?

JUSTIN. (crossing above Carla to the desk) Then it was Asprey’s turn. He was Attorney-General, later. Quiet, but quite deadly. Logic—after old Monty’s fireworks. He made mincemeat of her. Brought out every damning detail. I—I could hardly bear it . . .

CARLA. (studying him) You remember it all very well.

JUSTIN. Yes.

CARLA. Why?

JUSTIN. (taken aback) I suppose . . .

CARLA. Yes?

JUSTIN. I was young, impressionable.

CARLA. You fell in love with my mother.

(JUSTIN forces a laugh and sits at the desk)

JUSTIN. Something of the kind—she was so lovely—so helpless—she’d been through so much—I—I’d have died for her. (He smiles) Romantic age—eighteen.

CARLA. (frowning) You’d have died for her—but you thought her guilty.

JUSTIN. (firmly) Yes, I did.

(CARLA is really shaken. She bends her head, fighting back her tears. TURNBALL enters and moves to L of the desk)

TURNBALL. A Mr. Rogers is here, sir, asking for Miss Le Marchant. (He looks at Carla)

CARLA. Jeff. (To Turnball) Please—ask him to wait.

TURNBALL. Certainly, Miss Le Marchant.

(TURNBALL looks closely at Carla for a moment, then exits)

CARLA. (looking after Turnball) He looked at me . . . (She breaks off)

JUSTIN. Turnball was at your mother’s trial. He’s been with us for nearly forty years.

CARLA. Please, ask him back.

(JUSTIN rises and moves to the arch)

JUSTIN. (calling) Turnball. (He returns to R of the desk)

(TURNBALL enters)

TURNBALL. Yes, sir?

(JUSTIN motions to Carla. TURNBALL moves down L of Carla)

CARLA. Mr. Turnball—I’m Carla Crale. I believe you were at my mother’s trial.

TURNBALL. Yes, Miss Crale, I was. Er—I knew at once who you were.

CARLA. Because I’m so like my mother?

TURNBALL. The dead spit of her, if I may put it so.

CARLA. What did you think—at the trial? Did you think she was guilty?

(TURNBALL looks at Justin. JUSTIN nods for Turnball to answer)

TURNBALL. (kindly) You don’t want to put it that way. She was a sweet, gentle lady—but she’d been pushed too far. As I’ve always seen it, she didn’t rightly know what she was doing.

CARLA. (to herself; ironically) Extenuating circumstances. (She looks at Justin)

(JUSTIN sits at the desk. After a while, CARLA looks back at Turnball)

TURNBALL. (after a pause) That’s right. The other woman—that Elsa Greer—she was a hussy if ever there was one. Sexy, if you’ll excuse the word. And your father was an artist—a really great painter; I understand some of his pictures are in the Tate Gallery—and you know what artists are. That Greer girl got her hooks into him good and proper—a kind of madness it must have been. Got him so he was going to leave his wife and child for her. Don’t ever blame your mother, Miss Crale. Even the gentlest lady can be pushed too far.

JUSTIN. Thank you, Turnball.

(TURNBALL looks from Carla to Justin, then exits)

CARLA. He thinks as you do—guilty.

JUSTIN. A gentle creature—pushed too far.

CARLA. (acquiescing) I—suppose so—yes. (With sudden energy) No! I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. You—you’ve got to help me.

JUSTIN. To do what?

CARLA. Go back into the past and find out the truth.

JUSTIN. You won’t believe the truth when you hear it.

CARLA. Because it isn’t the truth. The defence was suicide, wasn’t it?

JUSTIN. Yes.

CARLA. It could have been suicide. My father could have felt that he’d messed up everything, and that he’d be better out of it all.

JUSTIN. It was the only defense possible—but it wasn’t convincing. Your father was the last man in the world to take his own life.

CARLA. (doubtfully) Accident?

JUSTIN. Conine—a deadly poison, introduced into a glass of beer by accident?

CARLA. All right, then. There’s only one answer. Someone else.

(JUSTIN begins to thumb through the file on his desk, which contains separate sheafs of notes on each person connected with the case)

JUSTIN. One of the five people there in the house. Hardly Elsa Greer. She’d got your father besotted about her, and he was going to get a divorce from his wife and marry her. Philip Blake? He was devoted to your father and always had been.

CARLA. (weakly) Perhaps he was in love with Elsa Greer, too.

JUSTIN. He certainly was not. Meredith Blake? He was your father’s friend, too, one of the most amiable men that ever lived. Imagination boggles at the thought of his murdering anyone.

CARLA. All right. All right. Who else do we have?

JUSTIN. Angela Warren, a schoolgirl of fourteen? And the governess, Miss Whoever her name is.

CARLA. (quickly) Well, what about Miss Whoever her name was?

JUSTIN. (after a slight pause) I see the way your mind is working. Frustration, lonely spinster, repressed love for your father. Let me tell you that Miss—Williams—(he looks in the file) yes, that was her name—Williams—wasn’t like that, at all. She was a tartar, a woman of strong character, and sound commonsense. (He closes the file) Go and see her for yourself if you don’t believe me.

CARLA. That’s what I’m going to do.

JUSTIN. (looking up) What?

CARLA. (stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the desk) I’m going to see them all. (She rises) That’s what I want you to do for me. Find out where they all are. Make appointments for me with them.

JUSTIN. With what reason?

CARLA. (crossing to L) So that I can ask them questions, make them remember.

JUSTIN. What can they remember that could be useful after sixteen years?

CARLA. (putting on her gloves) Something, perhaps, that they never thought of at the time. Something that wasn’t evidence—not the sort of thing that would come out in court. It will be like patchwork—a little piece of this and a little piece of that. And in the end, who knows, it might add up to something.

JUSTIN. Wishful thinking. You’ll only give yourself more pain in the end. (He puts the file in the desk drawer)

CARLA. (defiantly) My mother was innocent. I’m starting from there. And you’re going to help me.

JUSTIN. (stubbornly) That’s where you’re wrong. (He rises) I’m not going to help you to chase a will-o’-the-wisp.

(CARLA and JUSTIN stare at each other.)

JEFF ROGERS suddenly strides in. TURNBALL, indignantly protesting, follows him on. JEFF is a big, slick, self-satisfied man of thirty-five, good-looking and insensitive to others. He wears an overcoat and carries a hat, which he throws on to the desk.

JEFF. (standing above the desk) Sorry to bust in, but all this sitting around in waiting rooms gives me claustrophobia. (To Carla) Time means nothing to you, honey. (To Justin) I take it you’re Mr. Fogg? Pleased to meet you.

(JEFF and JUSTIN shake hands)

TURNBALL. (in the archway; to Justin) I’m extremely sorry, sir. I was—er—quite unable to restrain this—gentleman.

JEFF. (cheerily) Forget it, Pop. (He slaps Turnball on the back)

(TURNBALL winces)

JUSTIN. It’s quite all right, Turnball.

(TURNBALL exits)

JEFF. (calling) No hard feelings, Turnball. (To Carla) Well, I suppose you haven’t finished your business, Carla?

CARLA. But I have. I came to ask Mr. Fogg something—(coldly) and he’s answered me.

JUSTIN. I’m sorry.

CARLA. All right, Jeff. Let’s go. (She moves to the arch)

JEFF. Oh, Carla—

(CARLA stops and turns)

—I rather wanted to have a word with Mr. Fogg, myself—about some affairs of mine here. Would you mind? I’ll only be a few minutes.

(CARLA hesitates)

CARLA. I’ll go and soothe Mr. Turnball’s feelings. He was absolutely horrified by your behaviour.

(CARLA exits)

JEFF. (moving to the arch and calling) That’s right, darling. Tell him I’m an overseas hick who knows no better. (He laughs loudly and turns) That old boy’s like something out of Dickens.

JUSTIN. (dryly) Come in, Mr.—er . . . (He looks unsuccessfully for Jeff’s name on the band inside his hat)

JEFF. (not listening) I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. Fogg. (He moves down C) It’s this business about Carla’s mother. The whole thing’s given her a bit of a jolt.

JUSTIN. (very cold and legal) Not unnaturally.

JEFF. It’s a shock to learn suddenly that your mother was a cold-blooded poisoner. I don’t mind telling you that it was a bit of a jolt to me, too.

JUSTIN. Indeed!

(JEFF moves and sits on the upstage end of the desk)

JEFF. There I was, all set to marry a nice girl, uncle and aunt some of the nicest people in Montreal, a well-bred girl, money of her own, everything a man could want. And then—out of the blue—this.

JUSTIN. It must have upset you.

JEFF. (with feeling) Oh, it did.

JUSTIN. (quietly) Sit down, Mr.—er . . .

JEFF. What?

JUSTIN. (nodding towards the chair C) On the chair.

(JEFF looks at the chair C, then rises, moves to the chair and sits on it)

JEFF. Oh, I’ll admit that, just at first, I thought of backing out—you know, kids—things like that?

JUSTIN. You have strong views about heredity?

JEFF. You can’t do any cattle breeding without realizing that certain strains repeat themselves. “Still,” I said to myself, “it isn’t the girl’s fault. She’s a fine girl. You can’t let her down. You’ve just got to go through with it.”

(JUSTIN picks up the box of cigarettes and lighter and crosses above Jeff to L of him)

JUSTIN. Cattle breeding.

JEFF. So I told her it made no difference at all. (He takes a packet of American cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket)

JUSTIN. But it does?

JEFF. (taking a cigarette from his packet) No, no, I’ve put it behind me. But Carla’s got some morbid idea in her head of raking the whole thing up. That’s got to be stopped. (He offers Justin a cigarette)

JUSTIN. Yes? No. (He puts the cigarette box quickly on the table L)

JEFF. She’ll only upset herself. Let her down lightly—but let your answer be “No.” See?

(JEFF lights his cigarette. At the same moment, JUSTIN flicks the lighter he holds, sees Jeff has his own, so extinguishes it quickly, and puts it on the table L)

JUSTIN. I see.

JEFF. Of course—I suppose making all these enquiries would be quite—er—good business for your firm. You know, fees, expenses, all that . . .

JUSTIN. (crossing below Jeff to R) We are a firm of solicitors, you know, not inquiry agents.

JEFF. Sorry, must have explained myself clumsily.

JUSTIN. Yes.

JEFF. What I want to say is—I’ll stump up the necessary—but drop it.

JUSTIN. (moving behind the desk) You will excuse me, Mr.—er . . . but Miss Le Marchant is my client.

JEFF. (rising) Yep, well, if you’re acting for Carla, you must agree that it’s best for her not to go harrowing herself raking up the past. Make her give it up. Once we’re married, she’ll never think of it again.

JUSTIN. And will you never think of it again?

JEFF. That’s a good question. Yes, I dare say I’ll have one or two nasty moments.

JUSTIN. If the coffee should taste bitter . . . ?

JEFF. That sort of thing.

JUSTIN. Which won’t be very pleasant for her.

JEFF. (cheerily) Well, what can a man do? You can’t undo the past. Glad to have met you, Fogg. (He offers his hand)

(JUSTIN looks at Jeff’s hand, then picks up Jeff’s hat from the desk and puts it in the outstretched hand. JEFF exits. JUSTIN turns to the window, opens it wide, then lifts the telephone receiver)

JUSTIN. (into the telephone) Has Miss Le Marchant left yet? . . . Well, ask her to come back for a minute. I shan’t keep her long. (He replaces the receiver, crosses to the table L, takes a cigarette from the box, lights it, then returns to R of the desk)

(CARLA enters)

CARLA. (looking coldly at Justin) Yes?

JUSTIN. I’ve changed my mind.

CARLA. (startled) What?

JUSTIN. That’s all. I’ve changed my mind. I will fix up an appointment for you to see Mr. Philip Blake here. I will let you know when.

(CARLA smiles)

Go on. Don’t keep Mr.—er . . . don’t keep him waiting. He wouldn’t be pleased. You’ll be hearing from me. (He ushers Carla to the arch)

(CARLA exits)

(He goes to the desk and lifts the receiver. Into the telephone) Get me Kellway, Blake and Leverstein, will you? I want to speak to Mr. Philip Blake personally. (He replaces the receiver) Cattle breeding!

The lights dim to BLACK-OUT

Scene II

SCENE—Justin Fogg’s room.

It is a very handsome room. A door up R leads to the outer office. Up L is a cupboard for drinks, let into the wall. A large and ornate desk is L with a damask-covered swivel chair behind it. A chair, to match, for visitors is down R. There are shaded, electric wall-brackets R and L. On the desk there is an intercom in addition to the telephone.

When the LIGHTS come up, PHILIP BLAKE is sitting at the desk, smoking and reading the “Financial Times.” He is a good-looking man of fifty odd, grey at the temples, with a slight paunch. He is self-important, with traces of nervous irritability. He is very sure of himself. The intercom buzzes. PHILIP presses the switch.

PHILIP. (into the intercom) Yes?

VOICE. (through the intercom) Miss Le Marchant’s here, Mr. Blake.

PHILIP. Ask her to come in.

VOICE. Yes, Mr. Blake.

(PHILIP releases the switch, frowns, folds his newspaper and lays it on the desk, rises, moves down L of the desk, turns and faces the door. He shows slight traces of uneasiness while he waits. CARLA enters. She wears a different coat, and carries different gloves and handbag)

PHILIP. Good Lord.

(PHILIP and CARLA look at each other for a moment, then CARLA closes the door and moves down C)

Well, so it’s Carla. (He recovers himself and shakes hands with her) Little Carla! (With rather forced geniality) You were—what—five years old when I saw you last.

CARLA. Yes. I must have been just about. (She screws up her eyes) I don’t think I remember you . . .

PHILIP. I was never much of a children’s man. Never knew what to say to them. Sit down, Carla.

(CARLA sits on the chair down R and places her handbag on the floor beside the chair)

(He offers the box of cigarettes from the desk) Cigarette?

(CARLA declines)

(He replaces the box on the desk, moves behind the desk and looks at his watch) I haven’t much time, but . . . (He sits at the desk)

CARLA. I know you’re a terribly busy person. It’s good of you to see me.

PHILIP. Not at all. You’re the daughter of one of my oldest and closest friends. You remember your father?

CARLA. Yes. Not very clearly.

PHILIP. You should. Amyas Crale oughtn’t to be forgotten. (He pauses) Now, what’s this all about? This lawyer chap—Fogg—son of old Andrew Fogg, I suppose—

(CARLA nods)

—wasn’t very clear about why you wanted to see me. (There is a trace of sarcasm in his voice during the following sentence) But I gathered that it wasn’t just a case of looking up your father’s old friends?

CARLA. No.

PHILIP. He told me that you’d only recently learnt the facts about your father’s death. Is that right?

CARLA. Yes.

PHILIP. Pity, really, you ever had to hear about it at all.

CARLA. (after a pause; firmly) Mr. Blake, when I came in just now you were startled. You said “Good Lord!” Why?

PHILIP. Well, I . . .

CARLA. Did you think, just for the moment, that it was my mother standing there?

PHILIP. There is an amazing resemblance. It startled me.

CARLA. You—you didn’t like her?

PHILIP. (dryly) Could you expect me to? She killed my best friend.

CARLA. (stung) It could have been suicide.

PHILIP. Don’t run away with that idea. Amyas would never have killed himself. He enjoyed life far too much.

CARLA. He was an artist, he could have had temperamental ups and downs.

PHILIP. He didn’t have that kind of temperament. Nothing morbid or neurotic about Amyas. He had his faults, yes—he chased women, I’ll admit—but most of his affairs were quite short lived. He always went back to Caroline.

CARLA. What fun that must have been for her!

PHILIP. She’d known him since she was twelve years old. We were all brought up together.

CARLA. I know so little. Tell me.

PHILIP. (sitting back comfortably in his chair) She used to come and stay at Alderbury for the holidays with the Crales. My family had the big house next door. We all ran wild together. Meredith, my elder brother, and Amyas were much of an age. I was a year or two younger. Caroline had no money of her own, you know. I was a younger son, out of the running, but both Meredith and Amyas were quite good catches.

CARLA. How cold-blooded you make her sound.

PHILIP. She was cold-blooded. Oh, she appeared impulsive, but behind it there was a cold calculating devil. And she had a wicked temper. You know what she did to her baby half-sister?

CARLA. (quickly) No?

PHILIP. Her mother had married again, and all the attention went to the new baby—Angela. Caroline was jealous as hell. She tried to kill the baby.

CARLA. No!

PHILIP. Went for her with a pair of scissors, I believe. Ghastly business. The child was marked for life.

CARLA. (outraged) You make her sound a—a monster!

PHILIP. (shrugging) Jealousy is the devil.

CARLA. (studying him) You hated her—didn’t you?

PHILIP. (startled) That’s putting it rather strongly.

CARLA. No, it’s true.

PHILIP. (stubbing out his cigarette) I suppose I’m bitter. (He rises, moves to R of the desk and sits on the downstage corner of it) But it seems to me that you’ve come over here with the idea in your head that your mother was an injured innocent. That isn’t so. There’s Amyas’s side of it, too. He was your father, girl, and he loved life . . .

CARLA. I know. I know all that.

PHILIP. You’ve got to see this thing as it was. Caroline was no good. (He pauses) She poisoned her husband. And what I can’t forget, and never will forget, is that I could have saved him.

CARLA. How?

PHILIP. My brother Meredith had a strange hobby. He used to fiddle about with herbs and hemlock and stuff and Caroline had stolen one of his patent brews.

CARLA. How did you know that it was she who had taken it?

PHILIP. (grimly) I knew all right. And I was fool enough to hang about waiting to talk it over with Meredith. Why I hadn’t the sense to realize that Caroline wouldn’t wait, I can’t think. She’d pinched the stuff to use—and by God, she used it at the first opportunity.

CARLA. You can’t be sure it was she who took it.

PHILIP. My dear girl, she admitted taking it. Said she’d taken it to do away with herself.

CARLA. That’s possible, isn’t it?

PHILIP. Is it? (Caustically) Well, she didn’t do away with herself.

(CARLA shakes her head. There is a silence)

(He rises and makes an effort to resume a normal manner) Have a glass of sherry? (He moves below and L of the desk to the cupboard up L, takes out a decanter of sherry and a glass and puts them on the desk) Now, I suppose I’ve upset you? (He pours a glass of sherry)

CARLA. I’ve got to find out about things.

PHILIP. (crossing and handing the glass to Carla) There was a lot of sympathy for her at the trial, of course. (He moves behind the desk) Amyas behaved badly, I’ll admit, bringing the Greer girl down to Alderbury. (He replaces the decanter in the cupboard) And she was pretty insolent to Caroline.

CARLA. Did you like her?

PHILIP. (guardedly) Young Elsa? Not particularly. (He turns to the cupboard, takes out a bottle of whisky and a glass and puts them on the desk) She wasn’t my type, damnably attractive, of course. Predatory. Grasping at everything she wanted. (He pours whisky for himself) All the same, I think she’d have suited Amyas better than Caroline did. (He replaces the bottle in the cupboard)

CARLA. Weren’t my mother and father happy together?

PHILIP. (with a laugh) They never stopped having rows. His married life would have been one long hell if it hadn’t been for the way of escape his painting gave him. (He squirts soda into his drink and sits at the desk)

CARLA. How did he meet Elsa?

PHILIP. (vaguely) Some Chelsea party or other. (He smiles) Came along to me—told me he’d met a marvellous girl—absolutely different from any girl he’d met before. Well, I’d heard that often enough. He’d fall for a girl like a ton of bricks, and a month later, when you mentioned her, he’d stare at you and wonder who the hell you were talking about. But it didn’t turn out that way with Elsa. (He raises his glass) Good luck, m’dear. (He drinks)

(CARLA sips her sherry)

CARLA. She’s married now, isn’t she?

PHILIP. (dryly) She’s run through three husbands. A test pilot who crashed himself, some explorer chap whom she got bored with. She’s married now to old Lord Melksham, a dreamy peer who writes mystical poetry. I should say she’s about had him by now. (He drinks)

CARLA. Would she have gotten tired of my father, I wonder?

PHILIP. Who knows?

CARLA. I must meet her.

PHILIP. Can’t you let things go?

CARLA. (rising and putting her glass on the desk) No, I’ve got to understand.

PHILIP. (rising) Determined, aren’t you?

CARLA. Yes, I’m a fighter. But my mother—wasn’t.

(The intercom buzzes. CARLA turns and picks up her bag)

PHILIP. Where did you get that idea? Caroline was a terrific fighter. (He presses the switch. Into the intercom) Yes?

VOICE. (through the intercom) Mr. Foster’s here, Mr. Blake.

PHILIP. Tell him I won’t keep him a moment.

VOICE. Yes, sir.

(PHILIP releases the switch)

CARLA. (struck) Was she? Was she really? But—she didn’t fight at her trial.

PHILIP. No.

CARLA. Why didn’t she?

PHILIP. Well, since she knew she was guilty . . . (He rises)

CARLA. (angrily) She wasn’t guilty!

PHILIP. (angrily) You’re obstinate, aren’t you? After all I’ve told you!

CARLA. You still hate her. Although she’s been dead for years. Why?

PHILIP. I’ve told you . . .

CARLA. Not the real reason. There’s something else.

PHILIP. I don’t think so.

CARLA. You hate her—now why? I shall have to find out. Good-bye, Mr. Blake. Thank you.

PHILIP. Good-bye.

(CARLA moves to the door and exits, leaving the door open)

(He stares after her for a moment, slightly perplexed, then he closes the door, sits at the desk and presses the intercom switch. Into the intercom) Ask Mr. Foster to come in.

VOICE. (through the intercom) Yes, sir.

PHILIP sits back in his chair and picks up his drink as the lights dim to BLACK-OUT

Scene III

SCENE—The sitting-room of an hotel suite.

There is an arch back C leading to a small entrance hall with a door L. There is a long window R. A french settee stands L with an armchair to match R. In front of the settee there is a long stool, and a small table with a house telephone stands under the window. There are electric wall-brackets R and L of the arch. In the hall there is a console table and a row of coathooks on the wall R.

When the LIGHTS come up, JUSTIN is by the armchair, placing some files in his brief-case. His coat is on the settee. CARLA enters the hall from L, puts her gloves and handbag on the hall table, removes her coat and hangs it on the hooks.

CARLA. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.

JUSTIN. (surprised and pleased) Really? (He puts his brief-case on the armchair and moves down R) Meredith Blake will be here at three o’clock.

CARLA. Good! What about Lady Melksham?

JUSTIN. She didn’t answer my letter.

CARLA. Perhaps she’s away?

JUSTIN. (crossing to L of the arch) No, she’s not away. I took steps to ascertain that she’s at home.

CARLA. I suppose that means that she’s going to ignore the whole thing.

JUSTIN. Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’ll come all right.

CARLA. (moving C) What makes you so sure?

JUSTIN. Well, women usually . . .

CARLA. (with a touch of mischief) I see—you’re an authority on women.

JUSTIN. (stiffly) Only in the legal sense.

CARLA. And—strictly in the legal sense . . . ?

JUSTIN. Women usually want to satisfy their curiosity.

(CARLA sees Justin’s coat on the settee, crosses and picks it up)

CARLA. I really do like you—you make me feel much better. (She moves towards the hooks)

(The telephone rings)

(She thrusts the coat at Justin, crosses and lifts the telephone receiver. Into the telephone) Hello? . . .

(JUSTIN hangs his coat in the hall)

Oh, ask him to come up, will you? (She replaces the receiver and turns to Justin) It’s Meredith Blake. Is he like his hateful brother?

JUSTIN. (moving C) A very different temperament, I should say. Do you need to feel better?

CARLA. What?

JUSTIN. You said just now I made you feel better. Do you need to feel better?

CARLA. Sometimes I do. (She gestures to him to sit on the settee)

(JUSTIN sits on the settee)

I didn’t realize what I was letting myself in for.

JUSTIN. I was afraid of that.

CARLA. I could still—give it all up—go back to Canada—forget. Shall I?

JUSTIN. (quickly) No! No—er—not now. You’ve got to go on.

CARLA. (sitting in the armchair) That’s not what you advised in the first place.

JUSTIN. You hadn’t started then.

CARLA. You still think—that my mother was guilty, don’t you?

JUSTIN. I can’t see any other solution.

CARLA. And yet you want me to go on?

JUSTIN. I want you to go on until you are satisfied.

(There is a knock on the hall door. CARLA and JUSTIN rise. CARLA goes to the hall, opens the door and steps back. JUSTIN crosses to R of the armchair and faces the hall. MEREDITH BLAKE enters the hall from L. He is a pleasant, rather vague man with a thatch of grey hair. He gives the impression of being rather ineffectual and irresolute. He wears country tweeds with hat, coat and muffler)

MEREDITH. Carla. My dear Carla. (He takes her hands) How time flies. May I? (He kisses her) It seems incredible that the little girl I knew should have grown up into a young lady. How like your mother you are, my dear. My word!

CARLA. (slightly embarrassed; gesturing to Justin) Do you know Mr. Fogg?

MEREDITH. My word, my word! (He pulls himself together) What? (To Justin) Ah, yes, I knew your father, didn’t I? (He steps into the room)

(CARLA closes the door then moves into the room and stands L of the arch)

JUSTIN. (moving to R of Meredith) Yes, sir. (He shakes hands) May I take your coat?

MEREDITH. (unbuttoning his coat; to Carla) And now—tell me all about yourself. You’re over from the States—

(JUSTIN takes Meredith’s hat)

—thank you—no, Canada. For how long?

CARLA. I’m not quite sure—yet.

(JUSTIN eyes Carla)

MEREDITH. But you are definitely making your home overseas?

CARLA. Well—I’m thinking of getting married.

MEREDITH. (removing his coat) Oh, to a Canadian?

CARLA. Yes.

(MEREDITH hands his coat and muffler to JUSTIN who hangs them with the hat, in the hall)

MEREDITH. Well, I hope he’s a nice fellow and good enough for you, my dear.

CARLA. Naturally I think so. (She gestures to Meredith to sit in the armchair)

(MEREDITH goes to sit in the armchair, sees Justin’s brief-case and picks it up. JUSTIN moves above the armchair)

MEREDITH. Good. If you’re happy, then I’m very happy for you. And so would your mother have been.

CARLA. (sitting on the settee at the upstage end) Do you know that my mother left a letter for me in which she said she was innocent?

MEREDITH. (turning and looking at Carla; sharply) Your mother wrote that?

CARLA. Does it surprise you so much?

(JUSTIN sees Meredith is uncertain what to do with the briefcase and offers to take it)

MEREDITH. Well, I shouldn’t have thought Caroline . . . (He hands the brief-case to Justin)

(JUSTIN puts the brief-case on the table R)

I don’t know—I suppose she felt—(he sits in the armchair) it would distress you less . . .

CARLA. (passionately) It doesn’t occur to you that what she wrote me might be true?

MEREDITH. Well, yes—of course. If she solemnly wrote that when she was dying—well, it stands to reason that it must be true—doesn’t it? (He looks up at Justin for support)

(There is a pause)

CARLA. What a rotten liar you are. (She rises)

MEREDITH. (shocked) Carla!

(CARLA goes into the hall and picks up her handbag)

CARLA. Oh, I know it was meant to be kind. But kindness doesn’t really help. I want you to tell me all about it. (She steps into the room and searches in her bag)

MEREDITH. You know the facts—(to Justin) doesn’t she?

JUSTIN. (crossing down L) Yes, sir, she does.

MEREDITH. Going over them will be painful—and quite unprofitable. Better let the whole thing rest. You’re young and pretty and engaged to be married and that’s all that really matters.

(JUSTIN sees CARLA searching in her bag, takes out his cigarette case and offers it to her, MEREDITH takes a snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket)

JUSTIN. (to Carla) You looking for one of these?

MEREDITH. (offering the snuff-box to Carla) Have a pinch of . . . No, I don’t suppose you do, but I’ll . . . (He offers the box to Justin) Oh, will you?

(JUSTIN declines. CARLA takes a cigarette from JUSTIN who also takes one)

CARLA. I’ve asked your brother Philip, you know. (She puts her bag on the stool)

(JUSTIN lights the cigarettes with his lighter)

MEREDITH. Oh—Philip! You wouldn’t get much from him. Philip’s a busy man. So busy making money, that he hasn’t time for anything else. If he did remember anything, he’d remember it all wrong. (He sniffs the snuff)

CARLA. (sitting on the settee at the upstage end) Then you tell me.

(JUSTIN sits on the settee at the downstage end)

MEREDITH. (guardedly) Well—you’d have to understand a bit about your father—first.

CARLA. (matter-of-fact) He had affairs with other women and made my mother very unhappy.

MEREDITH. Well—er—yes—(he sniffs) but these affairs of his weren’t really important until Elsa came along.

CARLA. He was painting her?

MEREDITH. Yes, my word—(he sniffs) I can see her now. Sitting on the terrace where she posed. Dark—er—shorts and a yellow shirt. “Portrait of a girl in a yellow shirt”, that’s what he was going to call it. It was one of the best things Amyas ever did. (He puts his snuff-box in his pocket)

CARLA. What happened to the picture?

MEREDITH. I’ve got it. I bought it with the furniture. I bought the house, too. Alderbury. It adjoins my property, you know. I didn’t want it turned into a building estate. Everything was sold by the executors and the proceeds put in trust for you. But you know that, I expect.

CARLA. I didn’t know you’d bought the house.

MEREDITH. Well, I did. It’s let to a Youth Hostel. But I keep one wing just as it was, for myself. I sold off most of the furniture . . .

CARLA. But you kept the picture. Why?

MEREDITH. (as though defending himself) I tell you, it was the best thing Amyas ever did. My word, yes! It goes to the nation when I die. (He pauses)

(CARLA stares at Meredith)

Well, I’ll try to tell you what you want to know. Amyas brought Elsa down there—ostensibly because he was painting her. She hated the pretence. She—she was so wildly in love with him and wanted to have it out with Caroline then and there. She felt in a false position. I—I understood her point of view.

CARLA. (coldly) You sound most sympathetic towards her.

MEREDITH. (horrified) Not at all. My sympathies were all with Caroline. I’d always been—well, in love with Caroline. I asked her to marry me—but she married Amyas instead. Oh, I can understand it—he was a brilliant person and very attractive to women, but he didn’t look after her the way I’d have looked after her. I remained her friend.

CARLA. And yet you believe she committed murder?

MEREDITH. She didn’t really know what she was doing. There was a terrific scene—she was overwrought . . .

CARLA. Yes?

MEREDITH. And that same afternoon she took the conine from my laboratory. But I swear there was no thought of murder in her mind when she took it—she had some idea of—of—doing away with herself.

CARLA. But as your brother Philip said, “She didn’t do away with herself.”

MEREDITH. Things always look better the next morning. And there was a lot of fuss going on, getting Angela’s things ready for school—that was Angela Warren, Caroline’s half-sister. She was a real little devil, always scrapping with someone, or playing tricks. She and Amyas were forever fighting, but he was very fond of her—and Caroline adored her.

CARLA. (quickly) After once trying to kill her?

MEREDITH. (looking at Carla; quickly) I’ve always been sure that that story was grossly exaggerated. Most children are jealous of the new baby.

CARLA. (after puffing at her cigarette) My father was found dead—after lunch, wasn’t he?

MEREDITH. Yes. We left him on the terrace, painting. He often wouldn’t go into lunch. The glass of beer that Caroline had brought him was there by his side—empty. I suppose the stuff was already beginning to work. There’s no pain—just a slow—paralysis. Yes. When we came out after lunch—he was dead. The whole thing was a nightmare.

CARLA. (rising; upset) A nightmare . . .

MEREDITH. (rising) I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t want to talk about it to you. (He looks at Justin)

CARLA. If I could go down there—to where it happened. Could I?

MEREDITH. Of course, my dear. You’re only to say the word.

CARLA. (moving C and turning to face Justin) If we could go over it there—all of us . . .

MEREDITH. What do you mean by all of us?

CARLA. (turning to face Meredith) Your brother Philip and you, and the governess, and Angela Warren, and—yes—even Elsa.

MEREDITH. I hardly think Elsa would come. She’s married, you know.

CARLA. (wryly) Several times, I hear.

MEREDITH. She’s changed very much. Philip saw her at a theatre one night.

CARLA. Nothing lasts. You loved my mother once—but that didn’t last, did it? (She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the stool)

MEREDITH. What?

CARLA. (crossing down L) Everything’s different from what I thought it would be. I can’t seem to find my way.

(JUSTIN rises)

If I could go down to Alderbury . . .

MEREDITH. You’re welcome at any time, my dear. Now, I’m afraid I must . . .

(CARLA gazes out front)

JUSTIN. (moving to the hall) I’ll get your coat, sir. (He sees Carla is in a brown study) Carla’s most grateful to you, sir. (He takes Meredith’s coat, hat and muffler from the hooks)

CARLA. (recollecting herself) Oh, yes. Yes, thank you for coming.

(MEREDITH goes to the hall where Justin helps him on with his coat)

MEREDITH. Carla, the more I think of it all . . .

CARLA. Yes?

MEREDITH. (moving C) I believe, you know, that it’s quite possible Amyas did commit suicide. He may have felt more remorseful than we know. (He looks hopefully at Carla)

CARLA. (unconvinced) It’s a nice thought.

MEREDITH. Yes, yes—well, good-bye, my dear.

CARLA. Good-bye.

MEREDITH. (taking his hat from Justin) Good-bye, Mr. Fogg.

JUSTIN. (opening the door) Good-bye, sir.

MEREDITH. (mumbling) Good-bye. Good-bye.

(MEREDITH exits. JUSTIN closes the door and moves C)

CARLA. Well!

JUSTIN. Well!

CARLA. What a fool!

JUSTIN. Quite a nice kindly fool.

(The telephone rings)

CARLA. (crossing to the telephone) He doesn’t believe anything of the sort. (She lifts the receiver) Why does he say so? (Into the telephone) Yes? . . . Yes. I see. (She replaces the receiver. Disappointed) She’s not coming.

JUSTIN. Lady Melksham?

CARLA. Yes. Unavoidably prevented.

(JUSTIN goes into the hall and collects his coat)

JUSTIN. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.

CARLA. (looking out of the window) I’ve got to see her, she’s the hub of it all.

JUSTIN. (moving C and putting on his coat) You’re going to take tea with Miss Williams, aren’t you?

CARLA. (flatly) Yes.

JUSTIN. (rather eagerly) Want me to come with you?

CARLA. (without interest) No, there’s no need.

JUSTIN. Maybe there’ll be a letter from Angela Warren in tomorrow’s post. I’ll phone you if I may?

CARLA. (still looking through the window) Please.

JUSTIN. (after a pause) What a fool your father was.

(CARLA turns)

Not to recognize quality when he had it.

CARLA. What do you mean?

JUSTIN. Elsa Greer was pretty brash, you know, crude allure, crude sex, crude hero worship.

CARLA. Hero worship?

JUSTIN. Yes. Would she have made a dead set at your father if he hadn’t been a celebrated painter? Look at her subsequent husbands. Always attracted by a somebody—a big noise in the world—never the man himself. But Caroline, your mother, would have recognized quality in a—(he pauses and self-consciously gives a boyish smile) well—even in a solicitor.

(CARLA picks up Justin’s brief-case and looks at him with interest)

CARLA. I believe you’re still in love with my mother. (She holds out the brief-case)

JUSTIN. Oh, no. (He takes the brief-case and smiles) I move with the times, you know.

(CARLA is taken aback, but is pleased and smiles)

Good-bye.

(JUSTIN exits. CARLA looks after him, taking in what he has said. The telephone rings. CARLA lifts the receiver. The light starts to dim as twilight falls)

CARLA. (into the telephone) Hullo? . . . Yes . . . Oh, it’s you, Jeff . . . (She takes the whole instrument and sits in the armchair with it, tucking one leg under her) It may be a silly waste of time, but it’s my time and if I . . . (She straightens the seam of her stocking) What? . . . (Crossly) You’re quite wrong about Justin. He’s a good friend—which is more than you are . . . All right, so I’m quarrelling . . . No, I don’t want to dine with you . . . I don’t want to dine with you anywhere.

(ELSA MELKSHAM enters the hall from L, quietly closes the door and stands in the hall, looking at Carla. ELSA is tall, beautiful, very made-up and extremely smart. She wears hat and gloves, and a red velvet coat over a black dress, and carries her handbag)

At the moment your stock is pretty low with me. (She bangs the receiver down, rises and puts the instrument on the table R)

ELSA. Miss Le Marchant—or do I say “Miss Crale”?

(CARLA, startled, turns quickly)

CARLA. So you’ve come after all?

ELSA. I always meant to come. I just waited until your legal adviser had faded.

CARLA. You don’t like lawyers?

ELSA. I prefer, occasionally, to talk woman to woman. Let’s have some light. (She switches on the wall-brackets by the switch L of the arch then moves down C and looks hard at Carla) Well, you don’t look very much like the child I remember.

CARLA. (simply) I’m like my mother.

ELSA. (coldly) Yes. That doesn’t particularly prejudice me in your favour. Your mother was one of the most loathsome women I’ve ever known.

CARLA. (hotly) I’ve no doubt she felt the same about you.

ELSA. (smiling) Oh, yes, the feeling was mutual. (She sits on the settee at the upstage end) The trouble with Caroline was that she wasn’t a very good loser.

CARLA. Did you expect her to be?

ELSA. (removing her gloves; amused) Really, you know, I believe I did. I must have been incredibly young, and naïve. Because I myself couldn’t understand clinging on to a man who didn’t want me, I was quite shocked that she didn’t feel the same. But I never dreamt that she’d kill Amyas rather than let me have him.

CARLA. She didn’t kill him.

ELSA. (without interest) She killed him all right. She poisoned him more or less in front of my eyes—in a glass of iced beer. And I never dreamed—never guessed . . . (With a complete change of manner) You think at the time that you will never forget—that the pain will always be there. And then—it’s all gone—gone—like that. (She snaps her fingers)

CARLA. (sitting in the armchair) How old were you?

ELSA. Nineteen. But I was no injured innocent. Amyas Crale didn’t seduce a trusting young girl. It wasn’t like that at all. I met him at a party and I fell for him right away. I knew he was the only man in the world for me. (She smiles) I think he felt the same.

CARLA. Yes.

ELSA. I asked him to paint me. He said he didn’t do portraits. I said what about the portrait he’d done of Marna Vadaz, the dancer. He said special circumstances had led to that. I knew they’d had an affair together. I said, “I want you to paint me.” He said, “You know what’ll happen? I shall make love to you.” I said, “Why not?” And he said, “I’m a married man, and I’m very fond of my wife.” I said that now we’d got that settled, when should we start the sittings? He took me by the shoulders and turned me towards the light and looked me over in a considering sort of way. Then he said, “I’ve often thought of painting a flight of outrageously coloured Australian macaws alighting on St. Paul’s Cathedral. If I painted you in your flamboyant youth against a background of nice traditional English scenery, I believe I’d get the same effect.” (She pauses. Quickly) So it was settled.

CARLA. And you went down to Alderbury.

(ELSA rises, removes her coat, puts it on the downstage end of the settee and moves C)

ELSA. Yes. Caroline was charming. She could be, you know. Amyas was very circumspect. (She smiles) Never said a word to me his wife couldn’t have overheard. I was polite and formal. Underneath, though, we both knew . . . (She breaks off)

CARLA. Go on.

ELSA. (putting her hands on her hips) After ten days he told me I was to go back to London.

CARLA. Yes?

ELSA. I said, “The picture isn’t finished.” He said, “It’s barely begun. The truth is I can’t paint you, Elsa.” I asked him why, and he said that I knew very well “why” and that’s why I’d got to clear out.

CARLA. So—you went back to London?

ELSA. Yes, I went. (She moves up C and turns) I didn’t write to him. I didn’t answer his letters. He held out for a week. And then—he came. I told him that it was fate and it was no use struggling against it, and he said, “You haven’t struggled much, have you, Elsa?” I said I hadn’t struggled at all. It was wonderful and more frightening than mere happiness. (She frowns) If only we’d kept away—if only we hadn’t gone back.

CARLA. Why did you?

ELSA. The unfinished picture. It haunted Amyas. (She sits on the settee at the upstage end) But things were different this time—Caroline had caught on. I wanted to have the whole thing on an honest basis. All Amyas would say was, “To hell with honesty. I’m painting a picture.”

(CARLA laughs)

Why do you laugh?

CARLA. (rising and turning to the window) Because I know just how he felt.

ELSA. (angrily) How should you know?

CARLA. (simply) Because I’m his daughter, I suppose.

ELSA. (distantly) Amyas’s daughter. (She looks at Carla with a new appraisement)

CARLA. (turning and crossing above the armchair to C) I’ve just begun to know that. I hadn’t thought about it before. I came over because I wanted to find out just what happened sixteen years ago. I am finding out. I’m beginning to know the people—what they felt, what they are like. The whole thing’s coming alive, bit by bit.

ELSA. Coming alive? (Bitterly) I wish it would.

CARLA. My father—you—Philip Blake—Meredith Blake. (She crosses down L) And there are two more. Angela Warren . . .

ELSA. Angela? Oh, yes. She’s quite a celebrity in her way—one of those tough women who travel to inaccessible places and write books about it. She was only a tiresome teenager then.

CARLA. (turning) How did she feel about it all?

ELSA. (uninterested) I don’t know. They hustled her away, I think. Some idea of Caroline’s that contact with murder would damage her adolescent mind—though I don’t know why Caroline should have bothered about damage to her mind when she had already damaged her face for her. When I heard that story I ought to have realized what Caroline was capable of, and when I actually saw her take the poison . . .

CARLA. (quickly) You saw her?

ELSA. Yes. Meredith was waiting to lock up his laboratory. Caroline was the last to come out. I was just before her. I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing in front of a shelf with a small bottle in her hand. Of course, she might only have been looking at it. How was I to know?

CARLA. (crossing to C) But you suspected?

ELSA. I thought she meant it for herself.

CARLA. Suicide? And you didn’t care?

ELSA. (calmly) I thought it might be the best way out.

CARLA. (crossing above the armchair to the window) Oh, no . . .

ELSA. Her marriage to Amyas had been a failure from the start—if she’d really cared for him as much as she pretended, she’d have given him a divorce. There was plenty of money—and she’d probably have married someone else who would have suited her better.

CARLA. How easily you arrange other people’s lives. (She moves down R) Meredith Blake says I may come down to Alderbury. I want to get everyone there. Will you come?

ELSA. (arrested, but attracted by the idea) Come down to Alderbury?

CARLA. (eagerly) I want to go over the whole thing on the spot. I want to see it as though it were happening all over again.

ELSA. Happening all over again . . .

CARLA. (politely) If it’s too painful for you . . .

ELSA. There are worse things than pain. (Harshly) It’s forgetting that’s so horrible—it’s as though you were dead yourself. (Angrily) You—stand there so damned young and innocent—what do you know about loving a man? I loved Amyas. (With fire) He was so alive, so full of life and vigour, such a man. And she put an end to all that—your mother. (She rises) She put an end to Amyas so that I shouldn’t have him. And they didn’t even hang her. (She pauses. In an ordinary tone) I’ll come to Alderbury. I’ll join your circus. (She picks up her coat and holds it out to Carla)

(CARLA crosses to Elsa and helps her on with her coat)

Philip, Meredith—Angela Warren—all four of us.

CARLA. Five.

ELSA. Five?

CARLA. There was a governess.

ELSA. (collecting her bag and gloves from the settee) Oh, yes, the governess. Very disapproving of me and Amyas. Devoted to Caroline.

CARLA. Devoted to my mother—she’ll tell me. I’m going to see her next. (She goes into the hall and opens the door)

ELSA. (moving to the hall) Perhaps you’ll get your legal friend to telephone me, will you?

(ELSA exits. CARLA closes the door and moves C)

CARLA. The governess!

The LIGHTS dim to BLACK-OUT

Scene IV

SCENE—Miss Williams’ bed-sitting-room.

It is an attic room with a small window in the sloping roof L. The door is presumed to be in the “fourth wall.” There is a fireplace, fitted with a gas fire, back C. There is a divan with cover and cushions R. A gate-legged table stands under the window. A small table with a table-lamp on it is R of the fireplace. Upright chairs stand L of the fireplace and down L and there is an old-fashioned armchair with a footstool under it, C. An electric kettle is plugged into the skirting, R of the fireplace.

When the LIGHTS come up, the lamp is on, but the window curtains are not yet closed. A tray of tea for two is on the table L. The kettle is steaming and the teapot is beside it. The gas fire is lit. MISS WILLIAMS is seated in the armchair C. She is sixty odd, intelligent, with clear enunciation and a pedagogic manner. She wears a tweed skirt and blouse, with a cardigan and a scarf round her shoulders. CARLA is seated on the divan, looking through a photograph album. She wears a brown dress.

CARLA. I do remember you. It’s all coming back. I didn’t think I did.

MISS WILLIAMS. You were only five years old.

CARLA. You looked after me?

MISS WILLIAMS. No, you were not my responsibility. I was in charge of Angela. Ah, the kettle’s boiling. (She rises, picks up the teapot and makes the tea) Now, are you going to be happy there, dear?

CARLA. I’m fine, thanks.

MISS WILLIAMS. (pointing to the album) That’s Angela—you were only a baby when that was taken.

CARLA. What was she like?

MISS WILLIAMS. (putting down the kettle) One of the most interesting pupils I ever had. Undisciplined, but a first-class brain. She took a first at Somerville and you may have read her book on the rock paintings of the Hazelpa?

CARLA. Um?

MISS WILLIAMS. It was very well reviewed. Yes, I’m very proud of Angela. (She puts the teapot on the tray L) Now, we’ll just let that stand a minute, shall we?

CARLA. (putting the album on the upstage end of the divan) Miss Williams, you know why I’ve come?

MISS WILLIAMS. Roughly, yes. (She moves to the fireplace) You have just learnt the facts about the tragedy that ended your father’s life, and you want fuller information about the whole matter. (She switches off the kettle)

CARLA. And, I suppose, like everybody else, you think I ought to forget the whole thing?

MISS WILLIAMS. Not at all. It appears to be perfectly natural that you should want to understand. Then, and only then, can you forget about it.

CARLA. Will you tell me everything?

MISS WILLIAMS. Any questions you like to put to me I will answer to the full extent of my knowledge. Now, where’s my little footstool? I have a little footstool somewhere. (She turns the armchair to face the divan and looks around for the footstool)

CARLA. (rising and drawing the footstool out from under the armchair) Here we are.

MISS WILLIAMS. Thank you, dear. (She seats herself comfortably in the armchair and puts her feet on the footstool) I like to keep my feet off the ground.

CARLA. I think—first—that I’d like to know just what my father and mother were like—what you thought they were like, I mean. (She sits on the divan)

MISS WILLIAMS. Your father, as you know, has been acclaimed as a great painter. I, of course, am not competent to judge. I do not, myself, admire his paintings. The drawing seems to me faulty and the colouring exaggerated. However, that may be, I have never seen why the possession of what is called the artistic temperament should excuse a man from ordinary decent behaviour. Your mother had a great deal to put up with where he was concerned.

CARLA. And she minded?

MISS WILLIAMS. She minded very much. Mr. Crale was not a faithful husband. She put up with his infidelities and forgave him for them—but she did not take them meekly. She remonstrated—and with spirit.

CARLA. You mean they gave each other hell?

MISS WILLIAMS. (quietly) That would not be my description. (She rises and crosses below the armchair to the table L) There were quarrels, yes, but your mother had dignity, and your father was in the wrong. (She pours the tea)

CARLA. Always?

MISS WILLIAMS. (firmly) Always. I was—very fond of Mrs. Crale. And very sorry for her. She had a lot to bear. If I had been Mr. Crale’s wife, I should have left him. No woman should submit to humiliation at her husband’s hands.

CARLA. You didn’t like my father?

MISS WILLIAMS. (tight-lipped) I disliked him—very much.

CARLA. But he was really fond of my mother?

(MISS WILLIAMS picks up a cup of tea and the sugar bowl and crosses to Carla)

MISS WILLIAMS. I believe honestly that he cared for her—but men . . . ! (She sniffs, then hands the cup of tea to Carla)

CARLA. (slightly amused) You don’t think much of men?

MISS WILLIAMS. (with slight fanaticism) Men still have the best of this world. I hope it will not always be so. (She thrusts the sugar bowl at Carla) Sugar?

CARLA. I don’t take it, thanks. And then Elsa Greer came along?

(MISS WILLIAMS crosses to the table, puts down the sugar bowl and picks up her cup of tea)

MISS WILLIAMS. (with distaste) Yes. Ostensibly to have her portrait painted; they made poor progress with the picture. (She crosses to C) Doubtless they had other things to talk about. It was obvious that Mr. Crale was infatuated with the girl and that she was doing nothing to discourage him. (She sniffs, then sits in the armchair)

CARLA. What did you think of her?

MISS WILLIAMS. I thought she was good-looking, but stupid. She had had, presumably, an adequate education, but she never opened a book, and was quite unable to converse on any intellectual subject. All she ever thought about was her own personal appearance—and men, of course.

CARLA. Go on.

MISS WILLIAMS. Miss Greer went back to London, and very pleased we were to see her go. (She pauses and sips her tea) Then Mr. Crale went away and I knew, and so did Mrs. Crale, that he had gone after the girl. They reappeared together. The sittings were to be continued, and we all knew what that meant. The girl’s manner became increasingly insolent, and she finally came out into the open with some outrageous remarks about what she would do at Alderbury when she was mistress there.

CARLA. (horrified) Oh, no!

MISS WILLIAMS. Yes, yes, yes. (She pauses and sips her tea) Mr. Crale came in, and his wife asked him outright if it was true that he planned to marry Elsa. There he stood, a great giant of a man, looking like a naughty schoolboy. (She rises, goes to the table L, puts down her cup, picks up a plate of biscuits and crosses to Carla) My blood boiled. I really could have killed him. Do have one of these biscuits, they’re Peek Frean’s.

CARLA. (taking a biscuit) Thank you. What did my mother do?

MISS WILLIAMS. I think she just went out of the room. I know I—I tried to say something to her of what I felt, but she stopped me. “We must all behave as usual,” she said. (She crosses and puts the plate on the table L) They were all going over to tea with Mr. Meredith Blake that afternoon. Just as she was going, I remember she came back and kissed me. She said, “You’re such a comfort to me.” (Her voice breaks a little)

CARLA. (sweetly) I’m sure you were.

MISS WILLIAMS. (crossing to the fireplace, picking up the kettle and unplugging it) Never blame her for what she did, Carla. It is for you, her daughter to understand and forgive.

CARLA. (slowly) So even you think she did it.

MISS WILLIAMS. (sadly) I know she did it.

CARLA. Did she tell you she did it?

MISS WILLIAMS. (taking the kettle to the table L) Of course not. (She refills the teapot)

CARLA. What did she say?

MISS WILLIAMS. She took pains to impress upon me that it must be suicide.

CARLA. You didn’t—believe her?

MISS WILLIAMS. I said, “Certainly, Mrs. Crale, it must have been suicide.”

CARLA. But you didn’t believe what you were saying.

MISS WILLIAMS. (crossing to the fireplace and replacing the kettle) You have got to understand, Carla, that I was entirely on your mother’s side. My sympathies were with her—not with the police. (She sits in the armchair)

CARLA. But murder . . . (She pauses) When she was charged, you wanted her acquitted?

MISS WILLIAMS. Certainly.

CARLA. On any pretext?

MISS WILLIAMS. On any pretext.

CARLA. (pleading) She might have been innocent.

MISS WILLIAMS. No.

CARLA. (defiantly) She was innocent.

MISS WILLIAMS. No, my dear.

CARLA. She was—she was. She wrote it to me. In a letter she wrote when she was dying. She said I could be sure of that.

(There is a stunned silence)

MISS WILLIAMS. (in a low voice) That was wrong—very wrong of her. To write a lie—and at such a solemn moment. I should not have thought that Caroline Crale would have done a thing like that. She was a truthful woman.

CARLA. (rising) It could be the truth.

MISS WILLIAMS. (definitely) No.

CARLA. You can’t be positive. You can’t!

MISS WILLIAMS. I can be positive. Of all the people connected with the case, I alone can be sure that Caroline Crale was guilty. Because of something I saw. I withheld it from the police—I have never told anyone. (She rises) But you must take it from me, Carla, quite definitely, that your mother was guilty. Now, can I get you some more tea, dear? We’ll both have some, shall we? It sometimes gets rather chilly in this room. (She takes Carla’s cup and crosses to the table L.)

CARLA looks distracted and bewildered as—

the LIGHTS dim to BLACK-OUT

Scene V

SCENE—A table in a restaurant.

The table is in an alcove decorated in delicate Oriental style, equipped with three banquettes.

When the LIGHTS come up, CARLA is seated R of the table and ANGELA WARREN is seated above and C of it. They are just finishing lunch. CARLA is wearing a mink-trimmed coat. ANGELA is a tall woman of thirty, of distinguished appearance, well-dressed in a plain suit with a mannish hat. There is a not too noticeable scar on her left cheek.

ANGELA. (putting down her brandy glass) Well, now that we’ve finished our meal, Carla, I’m prepared to talk. I should have been sorry if you’d gone back to Canada without our being able to meet. (She offers Carla a cigarette from a leather case)

(CARLA declines and takes a cigarette from an American pack on the table)

(She takes one of her own cigarettes) I wanted to fix it before, but I’ve had a hundred and one things to do before leaving tomorrow. (She lights Carla’s cigarette and then her own with a lighter which matches her case)

CARLA. I know how it is. You’re going by sea?

ANGELA. Yes, much easier when you’re carting out a lot of equipment.

CARLA. I told you I saw Miss Williams?

ANGELA. (smiling) Dear Miss Williams. What a life I used to lead her. Climbing trees and playing truant, and plaguing the life out of everyone all round me. I was jealous, of course.

CARLA. (startled) Jealous?

ANGELA. Yes—of Amyas. I’d always come first with Caroline and I couldn’t bear her to be absorbed in him. I played all sorts of tricks on him—put—what was it, now—some filthy stuff—valerian, I think, in his beer, and once I put a hedgehog in his bed. (She laughs) I must have been an absolute menace. How right they were to pack me off to school. Though, of course, I was furious at the time.

CARLA. How much do you remember of it all?

ANGELA. Of the actual happening? Curiously little. We’d had lunch—and then Caroline and Miss Williams went into the garden room, and then we all came in and Amyas was dead and there was telephoning, and I heard Elsa screaming somewhere—on the terrace, I think with Caroline. I just wandered about, getting in everyone’s way.

CARLA. I can’t think why I don’t remember anything. After all, I was five. Old enough to remember something.

ANGELA. Oh, you weren’t there. You’d gone away to stay with your godmother, old Lady Thorpe, about a week before.

CARLA. Ah!

ANGELA. Miss Williams took me into Caroline’s room. She was lying down, looking very white and ill. I was frightened. She said I wasn’t to think about it—I was to go to Miss Williams’ sister in London, and then on to school in Zurich as planned. I said I didn’t want to leave her—and then Miss Williams chipped in and said in that authoritative way of hers—(she mimics Miss Williams) “The best way you can help your sister, Angela, is to do what she wants you to do without making any fuss.” (She sips her brandy)

CARLA. (amused) I know just what you mean. There’s something about Miss Williams which makes you feel you’ve just got to go along with her.

ANGELA. The police asked me a few questions, but I didn’t know why. I just thought there had been some kind of accident, and that Amyas had taken poison by mistake. I was abroad when they arrested Caroline, and they kept it from me as long as they could. Caroline wouldn’t let me go and see her in prison. She did everything she could to keep me out of it all. That was just like Caroline. She always tried to stand between me and the world.

CARLA. She must have been very fond of you.

ANGELA. It wasn’t that. (She touches her scar) It was because of this.

CARLA. That happened when you were a baby.

ANGELA. Yes. You’ve heard about it. It’s the sort of thing that happens—an older child gets mad with jealousy and chucks something. To a sensitive person, like Caroline, the horror of what she had done never quite left her. Her whole life was one long effort to make up to me for the way she had injured me. Very bad for me, of course.

CARLA. Did you ever feel vindictive about it?

ANGELA. Towards Caroline? Because she had spoiled my beauty? (She laughs) I never had much to spoil. No, I never gave it a second thought.

(CARLA picks up her bag from the seat beside her, takes out a letter and hands it to Angela)

CARLA. She left a letter for me—I’d like you to read it.

(There is a pause as ANGELA reads the letter. CARLA stubs out her cigarette)

I’m so confused about her. Everyone seems to have seen her differently.

ANGELA. She had a lot of contradictions in her nature. (She turns a page and reads) “. . . want you to know that I did not kill your father.” Sensible of her. You might have wondered. (She folds the letter and puts it on the table)

CARLA. You mean—you believe she wasn’t guilty?

ANGELA. Of course she wasn’t guilty. Nobody who knew Caroline could have thought for one moment that she was guilty.

CARLA. (slightly hysterical) But they do—they all do—except you.

ANGELA. More fool they. Oh, the evidence was damning enough, I grant you, but anybody who knew Caroline well should know that she couldn’t commit murder. She hadn’t got it in her.

CARLA. What about . . . ?

ANGELA. (pointing to her scar) This? How can I explain? (She stubs out her cigarette) Because of what she did to me, Caroline was always watching herself for violence. I think she decided that if she was violent in speech she would have no temptation to violence in action. She’d say things like, “I’d like to cut So-and-so in pieces and boil him in oil.” Or she’d say to Amyas, “If you go on like this, I shall murder you.” Amyas and she had the most fantastic quarrels, they said the most outrageous things to each other. They both loved it.

CARLA. They liked quarreling?

ANGELA. Yes. They were that kind of couple. Living that way, with continual rows and makings up, was their idea of fun.

CARLA. (sitting back) You make everything sound different. (She picks up the letter and puts it in her bag)

ANGELA. If only I could have given evidence. But I suppose the sort of thing I could have said wouldn’t count as evidence. But you needn’t worry, Carla. You can go back to Canada and be quite sure that Caroline didn’t murder Amyas.

CARLA. (sadly) But then—who did?

ANGELA. Does it matter?

CARLA. Of course it matters.

ANGELA. (in a hard voice) It must have been some kind of accident. Can’t you leave it at that?

CARLA. No, I can’t.

ANGELA. Why not?

(CARLA does not answer)

Is it a man? (She sips her brandy)

CARLA. Well—there is a man, yes.

ANGELA. Are you engaged?

(CARLA, slightly embarrassed, takes a cigarette from her packet)

CARLA. I don’t know.

ANGELA. He minds about this?

CARLA. (frowning) He’s very magnanimous.

ANGELA. (appreciatively) How bloody! I shouldn’t marry him.

CARLA. I’m not sure that I want to.

ANGELA. Another man? (She lights Carla’s cigarette)

CARLA. (irritably) Must everything be a man?

ANGELA. Usually seems to be. I prefer rock paintings.

CARLA. (suddenly) I’m going down to Alderbury tomorrow. I want all the people concerned to be there. I wanted you as well.

ANGELA. Not me. I’m sailing tomorrow.

CARLA. I want to re-live it—as though I were my mother and not myself. (Strongly) Why didn’t she fight for her life? Why was she so defeatist at her trial?

ANGELA. I don’t know.

CARLA. It wasn’t like her, was it?

ANGELA. (slowly) No, it wasn’t like her.

CARLA. It must have been one of those four other people.

ANGELA. How persistent you are, Carla.

CARLA. I’ll find out the truth in the end.

ANGELA. (struck by Carla’s sincerity) I almost believe you will. (She pauses) I’ll come to Alderbury with you. (She picks up her brandy glass)

CARLA. (delighted) You will? But your boat sails tomorrow.

ANGELA. I’ll take a plane instead. Now, are you sure you won’t have some brandy? I’m going to have some more if I can catch his eye. (She calls) Waiter!

CARLA. I’m so glad you’re coming.

ANGELA. (sombrely) Are you? Don’t hope for too much. Sixteen years. It’s a long time ago.

ANGELA drains her glass as the LIGHTS dim to BLACK-OUT and—

the CURTAIN falls