MRS. BOYLE. Amateurs—there should be a proper staff.
MAJOR METCALF. Excellent lunch, too.
MRS. BOYLE. Cornbeef.
MAJOR METCALF. But very well-disguised cornbeef. Red wine in it. Mrs. Ralston promised to make a pie for us tonight.
MRS. BOYLE. (Rising and crossing to the radiator) These radiators are not really hot. I shall speak about it.
MAJOR METCALF. Very comfortable beds, too. At least mine was. Hope yours was, too.
MRS. BOYLE. It was quite adequate. (She returns to the large armchair Right and sits.) I don’t quite see why the best bedroom should have been given to that very peculiar young man.
MAJOR METCALF. Got here ahead of us. First come, first served.
MRS. BOYLE. From the advertisement I got quite a different impression of what this place would be like. A comfortable writing room, and a much larger place altogether—with bridge and other amenities.
MAJOR METCALF. Regular old tabbies’ delight.
MRS. BOYLE. I beg your pardon.
MAJOR METCALF. Er—I mean, yes, I quite see what you mean.
(CHRISTOPHER enters Left from the stairs unnoticed.)
MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed, I shan’t stay here long.
CHRISTOPHER. (Laughing) No. No, I don’t suppose you will.
(CHRISTOPHER exits into the library up Left.)
MRS. BOYLE. Really that is a very peculiar young man. Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn’t wonder.
MAJOR METCALF. Think he’s escaped from a lunatic asylum?
MRS. BOYLE. I shouldn’t be at all surprised.
(MOLLIE enters through the archway up Right.)
MOLLIE. (Calling upstairs) Giles?
GILES. (Off) Yes?
MOLLIE. Can you shovel the snow away again from the back door?
GILES. (Off) Coming.
(MOLLIE disappears through the arch.)
MAJOR METCALF. I’ll give you a hand, what? (He rises and crosses up Right to the arch.) Good exercise. Must have exercise.
(MAJOR METCALF exits. GILES enters from the stairs, crosses and exits up Right. MOLLIE returns, carrying a duster and a vacuum cleaner, crosses the hall and runs upstairs. She collides with MISS CASEWELL, who is coming down the stairs.)
MOLLIE. Sorry!
MISS CASEWELL. That’s all right.
(MOLLIE exits. MISS CASEWELL comes slowly Centre.)
MRS. BOYLE. Really! What an incredible young woman. Doesn’t she know anything about housework? Carrying a carpet sweeper through the front hall. Aren’t there any back stairs?
MISS CASEWELL. (Taking a cigarette from a packet in her handbag) Oh yes—nice stairs. (She crosses to the fire.) Very convenient if there was a fire. (She lights the cigarette.)
MRS. BOYLE. Then why not use them? Anyway, all the housework should have been done in the morning before lunch.
MISS CASEWELL. I gather our hostess had to cook the lunch.
MRS. BOYLE. All very haphazard and amateurish. There should be a proper staff.
MISS CASEWELL. Not very easy to get nowadays, is it?
MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed, the lower classes seem to have no idea of their responsibilities.
MISS CASEWELL. Poor old lower classes. Got the bit between their teeth, haven’t they?
MRS. BOYLE. (Frostily) I gather you are a Socialist.
MISS CASEWELL. Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m not a Red—just pale pink. (She moves to the sofa and sits on the Right arm.) But I don’t take much interest in politics—I live abroad.
MRS. BOYLE. I suppose conditions are much easier abroad.
MISS CASEWELL. I don’t have to cook and clean—as I gather most people have to do in this country.
MRS. BOYLE. This country has gone sadly downhill. Not what it used to be. I sold my house last year. Everything was too difficult.
MISS CASEWELL. Hotels and guest houses are easier.
MRS. BOYLE. They certainly solve some of one’s problems. Are you over in England for long?
MISS CASEWELL. Depends. I’ve got some business to see to. When it’s done—I shall go back.
MRS. BOYLE. To France?
MISS CASEWELL. No.
MRS. BOYLE. Italy?
MISS CASEWELL. No. (She grins.)
(MRS. BOYLE looks at her enquiringly, but MISS CASEWELL does not respond. MRS. BOYLE starts writing. MISS CASEWELL grins as she looks at her, crosses to the radio, turns it on at first softly, then increases the volume.)
MRS. BOYLE. (Annoyed, as she is writing) Would you mind not having that on quite so loud! I always find the radio rather distracting when one is trying to write letters.
MISS CASEWELL. Do you?
MRS. BOYLE. If you don’t particularly want to listen just now . . .
MISS CASEWELL. It’s my favourite music. There’s a writing table in there.
(She nods towards the library door up Left.)
MRS. BOYLE. I know. But it’s much warmer here.
MISS CASEWELL. Much warmer, I agree. (She dances to the music.)
(MRS. BOYLE, after a moment’s glare, rises and exits into the library up Left. MISS CASEWELL grins, moves to the sofa table, and stubs out her cigarette. She moves up stage and picks up a magazine from the refectory table.)
Bloody old bitch. (She moves to the large armchair and sits.)
(CHRISTOPHER enters from the library up Left and moves down Left.)
CHRISTOPHER. Oh!
MISS CASEWELL. Hullo.
CHRISTOPHER. (Gesturing back to the library) Wherever I go that woman seems to hunt me down—and then she glares at me—positively glares.
MISS CASEWELL. (Indicating the radio) Turn it down a bit.
(CHRISTOPHER turns the radio down until it is playing quite softly.)
CHRISTOPHER. Is that all right?
MISS CASEWELL. Oh yes, it’s served its purpose.
CHRISTOPHER. What purpose?
MISS CASEWELL. Tactics, boy.
(CHRISTOPHER looks puzzled. MISS CASEWELL indicates the library.)
CHRISTOPHER. Oh, you mean her.
MISS CASEWELL. She’d pinched the best chair. I’ve got it now.
CHRISTOPHER. You drove her out. I’m glad. I’m very glad. I don’t like her a bit. (Crossing quickly to MISS CASEWELL) Let’s think of things we can do to annoy her, shall we? I wish she’d go away from here.
MISS CASEWELL. In this? Not a hope.
CHRISTOPHER. But when the snow melts.
MISS CASEWELL. Oh, when the snow melts lots of things may have happened.
CHRISTOPHER. Yes—yes—that’s true. (He goes to the window.) Snow’s rather lovely, isn’t it? So peaceful—and pure . . . It makes one forget things.
MISS CASEWELL. It doesn’t make me forget.
CHRISTOPHER. How fierce you sound.
MISS CASEWELL. I was thinking.
CHRISTOPHER. What sort of thinking? (He sits on the windowseat.)
MISS CASEWELL. Ice on a bedroom jug, chilblains, raw and bleeding—one thin ragged blanket—a child shivering with cold and fear.
CHRISTOPHER. My dear, it sounds too, too grim—what is it? A novel?
MISS CASEWELL. You didn’t know I was a writer, did you?
CHRISTOPHER. Are you? (He rises and moves down to her.)
MISS CASEWELL. Sorry to disappoint you. Actually I’m not. (She puts the magazine up in front of her face.)
(CHRISTOPHER looks at her doubtfully, then crosses Left, turns up the radio very loud and exits into the drawing room. The telephone rings. MOLLIE runs down the stairs, duster in hand, and goes to the telephone.)
MOLLIE. (Picking up the receiver) Yes? (She turns off the radio.) Yes—this is Monkswell Manor Guest House . . . What? . . . No, I’m afraid Mr. Ralston can’t come to the telephone just now. This is Mrs. Ralston speaking. Who . . . ? The Berkshire Police . . . ?
(MISS CASEWELL lowers her magazine.)
Oh yes, yes, Superintendent Hogben, I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’d never get here. We’re snowed up. Completely snowed up. The ro
ads are impassable . . .
(MISS CASEWELL rises and crosses to the arch up Left.)
Nothing can get through . . . Yes . . . Very well . . . But what . . . Hullo—hullo . . . (She replaces the receiver.)
(GILES enters up Right wearing an overcoat. He removes the overcoat and hangs it up in the hall.)
GILES. Mollie, do you know where there’s another spade?
MOLLIE. (Moving up Centre) Giles, the police have just rung up.
MISS CASEWELL. Trouble with police, eh? Serving liquor without a licence?
(MISS CASEWELL exits Left up the stairs.)
MOLLIE. They’re sending out an inspector or a sergeant or something.
GILES. (Moving to Right of MOLLIE) But he’ll never get here.
MOLLIE. That’s what I told them. But they seemed quite confident that he would.
GILES. Nonsense. Even a jeep couldn’t get through today. Anyway, what’s it all about?
MOLLIE. That’s what I asked. But he wouldn’t say. Just said I was to impress on my husband to listen very carefully to what Sergeant Trotter, I think it was, had to say, and to follow his instructions implicitly. Isn’t it extraordinary?
GILES. (Moving down to the fire) What on earth do you think we’ve done?
MOLLIE. (Moving to Left of GILES) Do you think it’s those nylons from Gibraltar?
GILES. I did remember to get the wireless licence, didn’t I?
MOLLIE. Yes, it’s in the kitchen dresser.
GILES. I had rather a near shave with the car the other day but it was entirely the other fellow’s fault.
MOLLIE. We must have done something . . .
GILES. (Kneeling and putting a log on the fire) Probably something to do with running this place. I expect we’ve ignored some tinpot regulation of some Ministry or other. You practically can’t avoid it, nowadays. (He rises and faces MOLLIE.)
MOLLIE. Oh dear, I wish we’d never started this place. We’re going to be snowed up for days, and everyone is cross, and we shall go through all our reserve of tins.
GILES. Cheer up, darling, (He takes MOLLIE in his arms) everything’s going all right at the moment. I’ve filled up all the coalscuttles, and brought in the wood, and stoked the Aga and done the hens. I’ll go and do the boiler next, and chop some kindling . . . (He breaks off.) You know, Mollie, (He moves slowly up to Right of the refectory table) come to think of it, it must be something pretty serious to send a police sergeant trekking out in all this. It must be something really urgent . . .
(GILES and MOLLIE look at each other uneasily. MRS. BOYLE enters from the library up Left.)
MRS. BOYLE. (Coming to Left of the refectory table) Ah, there you are, Mr. Ralston. Do you know the central heating in the library is practically stone cold?
GILES. Sorry, Mrs. Boyle, we’re a bit short of coke and . . .
MRS. BOYLE. I am paying seven guineas a week here—seven guineas—and I do not want to freeze.
GILES. I’ll go and stoke it up.
(GILES exits by the archway up Right. MOLLIE follows him to the arch.)
MRS. BOYLE. Mrs. Ralston, if you don’t mind my saying so, that is a very extraordinary young man you have staying here. His manners—and his ties—and does he ever brush his hair?
MOLLIE. He’s an extremely brilliant young architect.
MRS. BOYLE. I beg your pardon?
MOLLIE. Christopher Wren is an architect . . .
MRS. BOYLE. My dear young woman. I have naturally heard of Sir Christopher Wren. (She crosses to the fire.) Of course, he was an architect. He built St. Paul’s. You young people seem to think that no one is educated but yourselves.
MOLLIE. I meant this Wren. His name is Christopher. His parents called him that because they hoped he’d be an architect. (She crosses to the sofa table and takes a cigarette from the box.) And he is—or nearly one—so it turned out all right.
MRS. BOYLE. Humph. Sounds a fishy story to me. (She sits in the large armchair.) I should make some enquiries about him if I were you. What do you know of him?
MOLLIE. Just as much as I know about you, Mrs. Boyle—which is that you are both paying us seven guineas a week. (She lights her cigarette.) That is really all I need to know, isn’t it? And all that concerns me. It doesn’t matter to me whether I like my guests, or whether (Meaningly) I don’t.
MRS. BOYLE. You are young and inexperienced and should welcome advice from someone more knowledgeable than yourself. And what about this foreigner?
MOLLIE. What about him?
MRS. BOYLE. You weren’t expecting him, were you?
MOLLIE. To turn away a bona fide traveller is against the law, Mrs. Boyle. You should know that.
MRS. BOYLE. Why do you say that?
MOLLIE. (Moving down Centre) Weren’t you a magistrate, sitting on the Bench, Mrs. Boyle?
MRS. BOYLE. All I say is that this Paravicini, or whatever he calls himself, seems to me . . .
(PARAVICINI enters softly from the stairs Left.)
PARAVICINI. Beware, dear lady. You talk of the devil and there he is. Ha, ha.
(MRS. BOYLE jumps.)
MRS. BOYLE. I didn’t hear you come in.
(MOLLIE moves behind the sofa table.)
PARAVICINI. I came in on tiptoe—like this. (He demonstrates, moving down Centre.) Nobody ever hears me if I do not want them to. I find that very amusing.
MRS. BOYLE. Indeed?
PARAVICINI. (Sitting in the armchair Centre) Now there was a young lady . . .
MRS. BOYLE. (Rising) Well, I must get on with my letters. I’ll see if it’s a little warmer in the drawing room.
(MRS. BOYLE exits to the drawing room down Left. MOLLIE follows her to the door.)
PARAVICINI. My charming hostess looks upset. What is it, dear lady? (He leers at her.)
MOLLIE. Everything’s rather difficult this morning. Because of the snow.
PARAVICINI. Yes. Snow makes things difficult, does it not? (He rises.) Or else it makes them easy. (He moves up to the refectory table and sits.) Yes—very easy.
MOLLIE. I don’t know what you mean.
PARAVICINI. No, there is quite a lot you do not know. I think, for one thing, that you do not know very much about running a guest house.
MOLLIE. (Moving to Left of the sofa table and stubbing out her cigarette) I daresay we don’t. But we mean to make a go of it.
PARAVICINI. Bravo—bravo! (He claps his hands and rises.)
MOLLIE. I’m not such a very bad cook . . .
PARAVICINI. (Leering) You are without doubt an enchanting cook. (He moves behind the sofa table and takes MOLLIE’s hand.)
(MOLLIE draws it away and moves below the sofa down Centre.)
May I give you a little word of warning, Mrs. Ralston? (Moving below the sofa) You and your husband must not be too trusting, you know. Have you references with these guests of yours?
MOLLIE. Is that usual? (She turns to PARAVICINI) I always thought people just—just came?
PARAVICINI. It is advisable to know a little about the people who sleep under your roof. Take, for example, myself. I turn up saying that my car is overturned in a snowdrift. What do you know of me? Nothing at all! I may be a thief, a robber, (He moves slowly towards MOLLIE) a fugitive from justice—a madman—even—a murderer.
MOLLIE. (Backing away) Oh!
PARAVICINI. You see! And perhaps you know just as little of your other guests.
MOLLIE. Well, as far as Mrs. Boyle goes . . .
(MRS. BOYLE enters from the drawing room. MOLLIE moves up Centre to the refectory table.)
MRS. BOYLE. The drawing room is far too cold to sit in. I shall write my letters in here. (She crosses to the large armchair.)
PARAVICINI. Allow me to poke the fire for you. (He moves Right and does so.)
(MAJOR METCALF enters up Right through the archway.)
MAJOR METCALF. (To MOLLIE; with old-fashioned modesty) Mrs. Ralston, is your husband about? I’m afraid the pipes of the—er—the downstairs cloakroom are frozen.
MOLLIE. Oh dear. What an awful day. First the police and then the pipes. (She moves to the arch up Right.)
(PARAVICINI drops the poker with a clatter. MAJOR METCALF stands as though paralysed.)
MRS. BOYLE. (Startled) Police?
MAJOR METCALF. (Loudly; as if incredulous) Police, did you say? (He moves to the Left end of the refectory table.)
MOLLIE. They rang up. Just now. To say they’re sending a sergeant out here. (She looks at the snow.) But I don’t think he’ll ever get here.
(GILES enters from the archway up Right with a basket of logs.)
GILES. The ruddy coke’s more than half stones. And the price . . . Hullo, is anything the matter?
MAJOR METCALF. I hear the police are on their way here. Why?
GILES. Oh, that’s all right. No one can get through in this. Why, the drifts must be five feet deep. The roads are all banked up. Nobody will get here today. (He takes the logs to the fireplace.) Excuse me, Mr. Paravicini. May I put these down.
(PARAVICINI moves down stage of the fireplace. There are three sharp taps on the window as SERGEANT TROTTER presses his face to the pane and peers in. MOLLIE gives a cry and points. GILES crosses and throws open the window. SERGEANT TROTTER is on skis and is a cheerful, commonplace young man with a slight cockney accent.)
TROTTER. Are you Mr. Ralston?
GILES. Yes.
TROTTER. Thank you, sir. Detective Sergeant Trotter. Berkshire Police. Can I get these skis off and stow them somewhere?
GILES. (Pointing Right) Go round that way to the front door. I’ll meet you.
TROTTER. Thank you, sir.
(GILES leaves the window open and exits to the front door up Right.)
MRS. BOYLE. I suppose that’s what we pay our police force for, nowadays, to go round enjoying themselves at winter sports.
(MOLLIE crosses below the refectory table to the window.)
PARAVICINI. (Moving up to Centre of the refectory table, in a fierce whisper to MOLLIE) Why did you send for the police, Mrs. Ralston?
MOLLIE. But I didn’t. (She shuts the window.)
(CHRISTOPHER enters from the drawing room Left and comes to Left of the sofa. PARAVICINI moves to the Right end of the refectory table.)
CHRISTOPHER. Who’s that man? Where did he come from? He passed the drawing room window on skis. All over snow and looking terribly hearty.