TROTTER. Well, that completes the tour. Nothing suspicious. I think I’ll make my report now to Superintendent Hogben. (He goes to the telephone.)
MOLLIE. (Moving to Left of the refectory table) But you can’t telephone. The line’s dead . . .
TROTTER. (Swinging round sharply) What? (He picks up the receiver.) Since when?
MOLLIE. Major Metcalf tried it just after you arrived.
TROTTER. But it was all right earlier. Superintendent Hogben got through all right.
MOLLIE. Oh yes. I suppose, since then, the lines are down with the snow.
TROTTER. I wonder. It may have been cut. (He puts the receiver down and turns to them.)
GILES. Cut? But who could cut it?
TROTTER. Mr. Ralston . . . Just how much do you know about these people who are staying in your guest house?
GILES. I—we—we don’t really know anything about them.
TROTTER. Ah. (He moves above the sofa table.)
GILES. (Moving to Right of TROTTER) Mrs. Boyle wrote from a Bournemouth hotel, Major Metcalf from an address in—where was it?
MOLLIE. Leamington. (She moves to Left of TROTTER.)
GILES. Wren wrote from Hampstead and the Casewell woman from a private hotel in Kensington. Paravicini, as we’ve told you, turned up out of the blue last night. Still, I suppose they’ve all got ration books—that sort of thing.
TROTTER. I shall go into all that, of course. But there’s not much reliance to be placed on that sort of evidence.
MOLLIE. But even if this—this maniac is trying to get here and kill us all—or one of us, we’re quite safe now. Because of the snow. No one can get here till it melts.
TROTTER. Unless he’s here already.
GILES. Here already?
TROTTER. Why not, Mr. Ralston? All these people arrived here yesterday evening. Some hours after the murder of Mrs. Stanning. Plenty of time to get here.
GILES. But except for Mr. Paravicini, they’d all booked beforehand.
TROTTER. Well, why not? These crimes were planned.
GILES. Crimes? There’s only been one crime. In Culver Street. Why are you sure there will be another here?
TROTTER. That it will happen here, no—I hope to prevent that. That it will be attempted, yes.
GILES. (Crossing to the fire) I can’t believe it. It’s so fantastic.
TROTTER. It isn’t fantastic. It’s just facts.
MOLLIE. You’ve got a description of what this—man looked like in London?
TROTTER. Medium height, indeterminate build, darkish overcoat, soft felt hat, face hidden by a muffler. Spoke in a whisper. (He crosses to Left of the armchair Centre. He pauses.) There are three darkish overcoats hanging up in the hall now. One of them is yours, Mr. Ralston . . . There are three lightish felt hats . . .
(GILES starts to move towards the arch up Right but he stops when MOLLIE speaks.)
MOLLIE. I still can’t believe it.
TROTTER. You see? It’s this telephone wire that worries me. If it’s been cut . . . (He crosses to the phone, bends down and studies the wire.)
MOLLIE. I must go and get on with the vegetables.
(MOLLIE exits through the archway up Right. GILES picks up MOLLIE’s glove from the armchair Centre and holds it absently, smoothing it out. He extracts a London bus ticket from the glove—stares at it—then after MOLLIE—then back to the ticket.)
TROTTER. Is there an extension?
(GILES frowns at the bus ticket, and does not answer.)
GILES. I beg your pardon. Did you say something?
TROTTER. Yes, Mr. Ralston, I said “Is there an extension?” (He crosses to Centre.)
GILES. Yes, up in our bedroom.
TROTTER. Go and try it up there for me, will you?
(GILES exits to the stairs, carrying the glove and bus ticket and looking dazed. TROTTER continues to trace the wire to the window. He pulls back the curtain and opens the window, trying to follow the wire. He crosses to the arch up Right, goes out and returns with a torch. He moves to the window, jumps out and bends down, looking, then disappears out of sight. It is practically dark. MRS. BOYLE enters from the library up Left, shivers and notices the open window.)
MRS. BOYLE. (Moving to the window) Who’s left this window open? (She shuts the window and closes the curtain, then moves to the fire and puts another log on it. She crosses to the radio and turns it on. She moves up to the refectory table, picks up a magazine and looks at it.)
(There is a music programme on the radio. MRS. BOYLE frowns, moves to the radio and tunes in to a different programme.)
VOICE ON THE RADIO . . . to understand what I may term as the mechanics of fear, you have to study the precise effect produced on the human mind. Imagine, for instance, that you are alone in a room. It is late in the afternoon. A door opens softly behind you . . .
(The door down Right opens. The tune of “Three Blind Mice” is heard whistled. MRS. BOYLE turns with a start.)
MRS. BOYLE. (With relief) Oh, it’s you. I can’t find any programme worth listening to. (She moves to the radio and tunes in to the music programme.)
(A hand shows through the open doorway and clicks the light switch. The lights suddenly go out.)
Here—what are you doing? Why did you turn out the light?
(The radio is at full volume, and through it are heard gurgles and a scuffle. MRS. BOYLE’s body falls. MOLLIE enters by the archway up Right and stands perplexed.)
MOLLIE. Why is it all dark? What a noise!
(She switches on the light at the switch up Right and crosses to the radio to turn it down. Then she sees MRS. BOYLE lying strangled in front of the sofa and screams as—the Curtain quickly falls.)
CURTAIN
ACT TWO
SCENE: The same. Ten minutes later.
When the Curtain rises, MRS. BOYLE’s body has been removed and EVERYONE is assembled in the room. TROTTER is in charge and is sitting on the upstage side of the refectory table. MOLLIE is standing at the Right end of the refectory table. The others are all sitting, MAJOR METCALF in the large armchair Right, CHRISTOPHER in the dark chair, GILES on the stairs Left, MISS CASEWELL at the Right end of the sofa, and PARAVICINI at the Left end.
TROTTER. Now, Mrs. Ralston, try and think—think . . .
MOLLIE. (At breaking point) I can’t think. My head’s numbed.
TROTTER. Mrs. Boyle had only just been killed when you got to her. You came from the kitchen. Are you sure you didn’t see or hear anybody as you came along the hallway?
MOLLIE. No—no, I don’t think so. Just the radio blaring out in here. I couldn’t think who’d turned it on so loud. I wouldn’t hear anything else with that, would I?
TROTTER. That was clearly the murderer’s idea—or (Meaningly) murderess.
MOLLIE. How could I hear anything else?
TROTTER. You might have done. If the murderer had left the hall that way (he points Left) he might have heard you coming from the kitchen. He might have slipped up the back stairs—or into the dining room . . .
MOLLIE. I think—I’m not sure—I heard a door creak—and shut—just as I came out of the kitchen.
TROTTER. Which door?
MOLLIE. I don’t know.
TROTTER. Think, Mrs. Ralston—try and think. Upstairs? Downstairs? Close at hand? Right? Left?
MOLLIE. (Tearful) I don’t know, I tell you. I’m not even sure I heard anything. (She moves down to the armchair Centre and sits.)
GILES. (Rising and moving to Left of the refectory table; angrily) Can’t you stop bullying her? Can’t you see she’s all in?
TROTTER. (Sharply) We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Ralston. Up to now, nobody has taken this thing seriously. Mrs. Boyle didn’t. She held out on me with information. You all held out on me. Well, Mrs. Boyle is dead. Unless we get to the bottom of this—and quickly, mind—there may be another death.
GILES. Another? Nonsense. Why?
TROTTER. (Gravely) Because there were three little blind mice.
GILES. A death for each of them? But there would have to be some connection—I mean another connection—with the Longridge Farm business.
TROTTER. Yes, there would have to be that.
GILES. But why another death here?
TROTTER. Because there were only two addresses in the notebook we found. Now, at twenty-four Culver Street there was only one possible victim. She’s dead. But here at Monkswell Manor there is a wider field. (He looks round the circle meaningly.)
MISS CASEWELL. Nonsense. Surely it would be a most unlikely coincidence that there should be two people brought here by chance, both of them with a share in the Longridge Farm case?
TROTTER. Given certain circumstances, it wouldn’t be so much of a coincidence. Think it out, Miss Casewell. (He rises.) Now I want to get down quite clearly where everyone was when Mrs. Boyle was killed. I’ve already got Mrs. Ralston’s statement. You were in the kitchen preparing vegetables. You came out of the kitchen, along the passage, through the swing door into the hall and in here. (He points to the archway Right.) The radio was blaring, but the light was switched off, and the hall was dark. You switched the light on, saw Mrs. Boyle, and screamed.
MOLLIE. Yes. I screamed and screamed. And at last—people came.
TROTTER. (Moving down to Left of MOLLIE) Yes. As you say, people came—a lot of people from different directions—all arriving more or less at once. (He pauses, moves down Centre and turns his back to the audience.) Now then, when I got out of that window (He points) to trace the telephone wire, you, Mr. Ralston, went upstairs to the room you and Mrs. Ralston occupy, to try the extension telephone. (Moving up Centre) Where were you when Mrs. Ralston screamed?
GILES. I was still up in the bedroom. The extension telephone was dead, too. I looked out of the window to see if I could see any sign of the wires being cut there, but I couldn’t. Just after I closed the window again, I heard Mollie scream and I rushed down.
TROTTER. (Leaning on the refectory table) Those simple actions took you rather a long time, didn’t they, Mr. Ralston?
GILES. I don’t think so. (He moves away to the stairs.)
TROTTER. I should say you definitely—took your time over them.
GILES. I was thinking about something.
TROTTER. Very well. Now then, Mr. Wren, I’ll have your account of where you were.
CHRISTOPHER. (Rising and moving to Left of TROTTER) I’d been in the kitchen, seeing if there was anything I could do to help Mrs. Ralston. I adore cooking. After that I went upstairs to my bedroom.
TROTTER. Why?
CHRISTOPHER. It’s quite a natural thing to go to one’s bedroom, don’t you think? I mean—one does want to be alone sometimes.
TROTTER. You went to your bedroom because you wanted to be alone?
CHRISTOPHER. And I wanted to brush my hair—and—er—tidy up.
TROTTER. (Looking hard at CHRISTOPHER’s dishevelled hair) You wanted to brush your hair?
CHRISTOPHER. Anyway, that’s where I was!
(GILES moves down Left to the door.)
TROTTER. And you heard Mrs. Ralston scream?
CHRISTOPHER. Yes.
TROTTER. And you came down?
CHRISTOPHER. Yes.
TROTTER. Curious that you and Mr. Ralston didn’t meet on the stairs.
(CHRISTOPHER and GILES look at each other.)
CHRISTOPHER. I came down by the back stairs. They’re nearer to my room.
TROTTER. Did you go to your room by the back stairs, or did you come through here?
CHRISTOPHER. I went up by the back stairs, too. (He moves to the desk chair and sits.)
TROTTER. I see. (He moves to Right of the sofa table.) Mr. Paravicini?
PARAVICINI. I have told you. (He rises and moves to Left of the sofa.) I was playing the piano in the drawing room—through there, Inspector. (He gestures Left.)
TROTTER. I’m not an Inspector—just a Sergeant, Mr. Paravicini. Did anybody hear you playing the piano?
PARAVICINI. (Smiling) I do not expect so. I was playing very, very softly—with one finger—so.
MOLLIE. You were playing Three Blind Mice.
TROTTER. (Sharply) Is that so?
PARAVICINI. Yes. It is a very catchy little tune. It is—how shall I say?—a haunting little tune? Don’t you all agree?
MOLLIE. I think it’s horrible.
PARAVICINI. And yet—it runs in people’s head. Someone was whistling it, too
TROTTER. Whistling it? Where?
PARAVICINI. I am not sure. Perhaps in the front hall—perhaps on the stairs—perhaps even upstairs in a bedroom.
TROTTER. Who was whistling Three Blind Mice?
(There is no answer.)
Are you making this up, Mr. Paravicini?
PARAVICINI. No, no, Inspector—I beg your pardon—Sergeant, I would not do a thing like that.
TROTTER. Well, go on, you were playing the piano.
PARAVICINI. (Holding out a finger) With one finger so . . . And then I hear the radio—playing very loud—someone is shouting on it. It offended my ears. And after that—suddenly—I hear Mrs. Ralston scream. (He sits at the Left end of the sofa.)
TROTTER. (Moving up to Centre of the refectory table; gesturing with his fingers) Mr. Ralston upstairs. Mr. Wren upstairs. Mr. Paravicini in drawing room. Miss Casewell?
MISS CASEWELL. I was writing letters in the library.
TROTTER. Could you hear what was going on in here?
MISS CASEWELL. No, I didn’t hear anything until Mrs. Ralston screamed.
TROTTER. And what did you do then?
MISS CASEWELL. I came in here.
TROTTER. At once.
MISS CASEWELL. I—think so.
TROTTER. You say you were writing letters when you heard Mrs. Ralston scream?
MISS CASEWELL. Yes.
TROTTER. And got up from the writing table hurriedly and came in here?
MISS CASEWELL. Yes.
TROTTER. And yet there doesn’t seem to be any unfinished letter on the writing desk in the library.
MISS CASEWELL. (Rising) I brought it with me. (She opens her handbag, takes out a letter, moves up to Left of TROTTER and hands it to him.)
TROTTER. (Looking at it and handing it back) Dearest Jessie—h’m—a friend of yours, or a relation?
MISS CASEWELL. That’s none of your damned business. (She turns away.)
TROTTER. Perhaps not. (He moves round the Right end of the refectory table to behind it Centre.) You know if I were to hear someone screaming blue murder when I was writing a letter, I don’t believe I’d take the time to pick up my unfinished letter, fold it and put it in my handbag before going to see what was the matter.
MISS CASEWELL. You wouldn’t? How interesting. (She moves up the stairs and sits on the stool.)
TROTTER. (Moving to left of MAJOR METCALF) Now, Major Metcalf, what about you? You say you were in the cellar. Why?
MAJOR METCALF. (Pleasantly) Looking around. Just looking around. I looked into that cupboard place under the stairs near the kitchen. Lot of junk and sports tackle. And I noticed there was another door inside it, and I opened it and saw a flight of steps. I was curious and I went down. Nice cellars you’ve got.
MOLLIE. Glad you like them.
MAJOR METCALF. Not at all. Crypt of an old monastery, I should say. Probably why this place is called “Monkswell.”
TROTTER. We’re not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We’re investigating a murder. Mrs. Ralston has told us that she heard a door shut with a faint creak. (He moves to Right of the sofa.) That particular door shuts with a creak. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs. Boyle, the murderer heard Mrs. Ralston (Moving to Left of the armchair Centre) coming from the kitchen and slipped into the cupboard pulling the door to after him.
MAJOR METCALF. A lot of things could be.
(MOLLIE rises, moves down to the small armchair and sits. There is a pause.)
CHRISTOPHER. (Rising) There would be fingerprints on the inside of the c
upboard.
MAJOR METCALF. Mine are there all right. But most criminals are careful to wear gloves, aren’t they?
TROTTER. It’s usual. But all criminals slip up sooner or later.
PARAVICINI. I wonder, Sergeant, if that’s really true?
GILES. (Moving to Left of TROTTER) Look here, aren’t we wasting time? There’s one person who . . .
TROTTER. Please, Mr. Ralston, I’m in charge of this investigation.
GILES. Oh, very well, but . . .
(GILES exits by the door down Left.)
TROTTER. (Calling authoritatively) Mr. Ralston!
(GILES reenters grudgingly and stands by the door.)
Thank you. (Moving behind the refectory table) We’ve got to establish opportunity, you know, as well as motive. And now let me tell you this—you all had opportunity.
(There are several murmured protests.)
(He holds up his hand.) There are two staircases—anyone could go up by one and come down by the other. Anyone could go down to the cellars by the door near the kitchen and come up by a flight of steps that leads up through a trapdoor to the foot of the stairs over there. (He points off Right.) The vital fact was that every one of you was alone at the time the murder was committed.
GILES. But look here, Sergeant, you speak as though we were all under suspicion. That’s absurd!
TROTTER. In a murder case, everyone is under suspicion.
GILES. But you know pretty well who killed that woman in Culver Street. You think it’s the eldest of those three children at the farm. A mentally abnormal young man who is now twenty-three years of age. Well, damn it all, there’s only one person here who fits the bill. (He points to CHRISTOPHER and moves slightly towards him.)
CHRISTOPHER. It’s not true—it’s not true! You’re all against me. Everyone’s always been against me. You’re going to frame me for a murder. It’s persecution, (Crossing to Left of MAJOR METCALF) that’s what it is—persecution.
(GILES follows him but pauses at the Left end of the refectory table.)
MAJOR METCALF. (Rising; kindly) Steady, lad, steady. (He pats CHRISTOPHER on the shoulder, then he takes out his pipe.)
MOLLIE. (Rising and moving up to Left of CHRISTOPHER) It’s all right, Chris. Nobody’s against you. (To TROTTER) Tell him it’s all right.