TROTTER. (Looking at GILES; stolidly) We don’t frame people.
MOLLIE. (To TROTTER) Tell him you’re not going to arrest him.
TROTTER. (Moving to Left of MOLLIE; stolidly) I’m not arresting anyone. To do that, I’ve got to have evidence. I haven’t got any evidence—yet.
(CHRISTOPHER moves to the fire.)
GILES. I think you’re crazy, Mollie. (Moving up Centre. To TROTTER) And you, too! There’s just one person who fits the bill and, if only as a safety measure, he ought to be put under arrest. It’s only fair to the rest of us.
MOLLIE. Wait, Giles, wait. Sergeant Trotter, can I—can I speak to you a minute?
TROTTER. Certainly, Mrs. Ralston. Will the rest of you go into the dining room, please.
(The others rise and move down Right to the door: first MISS CASEWELL, then MR. PARAVICINI, protesting, followed by CHRISTOPHER and MAJOR METCALF, who pauses to light his pipe. MAJOR METCALF becomes aware of being stared at. They all exit.)
GILES. I’m staying.
MOLLIE. No, Giles, you, too, please.
GILES. (Furious) I’m staying. I don’t know what’s come over you, Mollie.
MOLLIE. Please.
(GILES exits after the others down Right, leaving the door open. MOLLIE shuts it. TROTTER moves to the arch up Right.)
TROTTER. Yes, Mrs. Ralston, (Moving above the armchair Centre) what is it you want to say to me?
MOLLIE. (Moving up to Left of TROTTER) Sergeant Trotter, you think that this—(She moves below the sofa) this crazy killer must be the—eldest of those three boys at the Farm—but you don’t know that, do you?
TROTTER. We don’t actually know a thing. All we’ve got so far is that the woman who joined with her husband in ill-treating and starving those children has been killed, and that the woman magistrate who was responsible for placing them there has been killed. (He moves down to Right of the sofa.) The telephone wire that links me with police headquarters has been cut . . .
MOLLIE. You don’t even know that. It may have been just the snow.
TROTTER. No, Mrs. Ralston, the line was deliberately cut. It was cut just outside by the front door. I found the place.
MOLLIE. (Shaken) I see.
TROTTER. Sit down, Mrs. Ralston.
MOLLIE. (Sitting on the sofa) But, all the same, you don’t know . . .
TROTTER. (Moving in a circle Left above the sofa and then Right below it) I’m going by probability. It all points one way; mental instability, childish mentality, desertion from the Army and the psychiatrist’s report.
MOLLIE. Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don’t believe it is Christopher. There must be other possibilities.
TROTTER. (Right of the sofa; turning to her) Such as?
MOLLIE. (Hesitating) Well—hadn’t those children any relations at all?
TROTTER. The mother was a drunk. She died soon after the children were taken away from her.
MOLLIE. What about their father?
TROTTER. He was an Army sergeant, serving abroad. If he’s alive, he’s probably discharged from the Army by now.
MOLLIE. You don’t know where he is now?
TROTTER. We’ve no information. To trace him may take some time, but I can assure you, Mrs. Ralston, that the police take every eventuality into account.
MOLLIE. But you don’t know where he may be at this minute, and if the son is mentally unstable, the father may have been unstable, too.
TROTTER. Well, it’s a possibility.
MOLLIE. If he came home, after being a prisoner with the Japs, perhaps, and having suffered terribly—if he came home and found his wife dead and that his children had gone through some terrible experience, and one of them had died through it, he might go off his head a bit and want—revenge!
TROTTER. That’s only surmise.
MOLLIE. But it’s possible?
TROTTER. Oh yes, Mrs. Ralston, it’s quite possible.
MOLLIE. So the murderer may be middle-aged, or even old. (She pauses.) When I said the police had rung up, Major Metcalf was frightfully upset. He really was. I saw his face.
TROTTER. (Considering) Major Metcalf? (He moves to the armchair Centre and sits.)
MOLLIE. Middle-aged. A soldier. He seems quite nice and perfectly normal—but it mightn’t show, might it?
TROTTER. No, often it doesn’t show at all.
MOLLIE. (Rising and moving to Left of TROTTER) So, it’s not only Christopher who’s a suspect. There’s Major Metcalf as well.
TROTTER. Any other suggestions?
MOLLIE. Well, Mr. Paravicini did drop the poker when I said the police had rung up.
TROTTER. Mr. Paravicini. (He appears to consider.)
MOLLIE. I know he seems quite old—and foreign and everything, but he mightn’t really be as old as he looks. He moves like a much younger man, and he’s definitely got makeup on his face. Miss Casewell noticed it, too. He might be—oh, I know it sounds very melodramatic—but he might be disguised.
TROTTER. You’re very anxious, aren’t you, that it shouldn’t be young Mr. Wren?
MOLLIE. (Moving to the fire) He seems so—helpless, somehow. (Turning to TROTTER) And so unhappy.
TROTTER. Mrs. Ralston, let me tell you something. I’ve had all possibilities in mind ever since the beginning. The boy Georgie, the father—and someone else. There was a sister, you remember.
MOLLIE. Oh—the sister?
TROTTER. (Rising and moving to MOLLIE) It could have been a woman who killed Maureen Lyon. A woman. (Moving Centre) The muffler pulled up and the man’s felt that pulled well down, and the killer whispered, you know. It’s the voice that gives the sex away. (He moves above the sofa table.) Yes, it might have been a woman.
MOLLIE. Miss Casewell?
TROTTER. (Moving to the stairs) She looks a bit old for the part. (He moves up the stairs, opens the library door, looks in, then shuts the door.) Oh yes, Mrs. Ralston, there’s a very wide field. (He comes down the stairs.) There’s yourself, for instance.
MOLLIE. Me?
TROTTER. You’re about the right age.
(MOLLIE is about to protest.)
(Checking her) No, no. Whatever you tell me about yourself, I’ve got no means of checking it at this moment, remember. And then there’s your husband.
MOLLIE. Giles—how ridiculous!
TROTTER. (Crossing slowly to Left of MOLLIE) He and Christopher Wren are much of an age. Say your husband looks older than his years, and Christopher Wren looks younger. Actual age is very hard to tell. How much do you know about your husband, Mrs. Ralston?
MOLLIE. How much do I know about Giles? Oh, don’t be silly.
TROTTER. You’ve been married—how long?
MOLLIE. Just a year.
TROTTER. And you met him—where?
MOLLIE. At a dance in London. We went in a party.
TROTTER. Did you meet his people?
MOLLIE. He hasn’t any people. They’re all dead.
TROTTER. (Significantly) They’re all dead?
MOLLIE. Yes—but oh, you make it sound all wrong. His father was a barrister and his mother died when he was a baby.
TROTTER. You’re only telling me what he told you.
MOLLIE. Yes—but . . . (She turns away.)
TROTTER. You don’t know it of your own knowledge.
MOLLIE. (Turning back quickly) It’s outrageous that . . .
TROTTER. You’d be surprised, Mrs. Ralston, if you knew how many cases rather like yours we get. Especially since the war. Homes broken up and families dead. Fellow says he’s been in the Air Force, or just finished his Army training. Parents killed—no relations. There aren’t any backgrounds nowadays and young people settle their own affairs—they meet and marry. It’s parents and relatives who used to make the enquiries before they consented to an engagement. That’s all done away with. Girl just marries her man. Sometimes she doesn’t find out for a year or two that he’s an absconding bank clerk, or an Army deserter or something equally u
ndesirable. How long had you known Giles Ralston when you married him?
MOLLIE. Just three weeks. But . . .
TROTTER. And you don’t know anything about him?
MOLLIE. That’s not true. I know everything about him! I know exactly the sort of person he is. He’s Giles. (Turning to the fire) And it’s absolutely absurd to suggest that he’s some horrible crazy homicidal maniac. Why, he wasn’t even in London yesterday when the murder took place.
TROTTER. Where was he? Here?
MOLLIE. He went across country to a sale to get some wire netting for our chickens.
TROTTER. Bring it back with him? (He crosses to the desk.)
MOLLIE. No, it turned out to be the wrong kind.
TROTTER. Only thirty miles from London, aren’t you? Oh, you got an ABC? (He picks up the ABC and reads it.) Only an hour by train—a little longer by car.
MOLLIE. (Stamping her foot with temper) I tell you Giles wasn’t in London.
TROTTER. Just a minute, Mrs. Ralston. (He crosses to the front hall, and comes back carrying a darkish overcoat. Moving to Left of MOLLIE) This your husband’s coat?
(MOLLIE looks at the coat.)
MOLLIE. (Suspiciously) Yes.
(TROTTER takes out a folded evening paper from the pocket.)
TROTTER. Evening News. Yesterday’s. Sold on the streets about three-thirty yesterday afternoon.
MOLLIE. I don’t believe it!
TROTTER. Don’t you? (He moves up Right to the arch with the coat.) Don’t you?
(TROTTER exits through the archway up Right with the overcoat. MOLLIE sits in the small armchair down Right, staring at the evening paper. The door down Right slowly opens. CHRISTOPHER peeps in through the door, sees that MOLLIE is alone, and enters.)
CHRISTOPHER. Mollie!
(MOLLIE jumps up and hides the newspaper under the cushion in the armchair Centre.)
MOLLIE. Oh, you startled me! (She moves Left of the armchair Centre.)
CHRISTOPHER. Where is he? (Moving to Right of MOLLIE) Where has he gone?
MOLLIE. Who?
CHRISTOPHER. The sergeant.
MOLLIE. Oh, he went out that way.
CHRISTOPHER. If only I could get away. Somehow—some way. Is there anywhere I could hide—in the house?
MOLLIE. Hide?
CHRISTOPHER. Yes—from him.
MOLLIE. Why?
CHRISTOPHER. But, darling, they’re all so frightfully against me. They’re going to say I committed these murders—particularly your husband. (He moves to Right of the sofa.)
MOLLIE. Never mind him. (She moves a step to Right of CHRISTOPHER.) Listen, Christopher, you can’t go on—running away from things—all your life.
CHRISTOPHER. Why do you say that?
MOLLIE. Well, it’s true, isn’t it?
CHRISTOPHER. (Hopelessly) Oh yes, it’s quite true. (He sits at the Left end of the sofa.)
MOLLIE. (Sitting at the Right end of the sofa; affectionately) You’ve got to grow up some time, Chris.
CHRISTOPHER. I wish I hadn’t.
MOLLIE. Your name isn’t really Christopher Wren, is it?
CHRISTOPHER. No.
MOLLIE. And you’re not really training to be an architect?
CHRISTOPHER. No.
MOLLIE. Why did you . . .?
CHRISTOPHER. Call myself Christopher Wren? It just amused me. And then they used to laugh at me at school and call me little Christopher Robin. Robin—Wren—association of ideas. It was hell being at school.
MOLLIE. What’s your real name?
CHRISTOPHER. We needn’t go into that. I ran away whilst I was doing my Army service. It was all so beastly—I hated it.
(MOLLIE has a sudden wave of unease, which CHRISTOPHER notices. She rises and moves to Right of the sofa.)
(Rising and moving down Left) Yes, I’m just like the unknown murderer.
(MOLLIE moves up to Left of the refectory table, and turns away from him.)
I told you I was the one the specification fitted. You see, my mother my mother . . . (He moves up to Left of the sofa table.)
MOLLIE. Yes, your mother?
CHRISTOPHER. Everything would be all right if she hadn’t died. She would have taken care of me—and looked after me . . .
MOLLIE. You can’t go on being looked after all your life. Things happen to you. And you’ve got to bear them—you’ve got to go on just as usual.
CHRISTOPHER. One can’t do that.
MOLLIE. Yes, one can.
CHRISTOPHER. You mean—you have? (He moves up to Left of MOLLIE.)
MOLLIE. (Facing CHRISTOPHER) Yes.
CHRISTOPHER. What was it? Something very bad?
MOLLIE. Something I’ve never forgotten.
CHRISTOPHER. Was it to do with Giles?
MOLLIE. No, it was long before I met Giles.
CHRISTOPHER. You must have been very young. Almost a child.
MOLLIE. Perhaps that’s why it was so—awful. It was horrible—horrible . . . I try to put it out of my mind. I try never to think about it.
CHRISTOPHER. So—you’re running away, too. Running away from things—instead of facing them?
MOLLIE. Yes—perhaps, in a way, I am.
(There is a silence.)
Considering that I never saw you until yesterday, we seem to know each other rather well.
CHRISTOPHER. Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it?
MOLLIE. I don’t know. I suppose there’s a sort of—sympathy between us.
CHRISTOPHER. Anyway, you think I ought to stick it out.
MOLLIE. Well, frankly, what else can you do?
CHRISTOPHER. I might pinch the sergeant’s skis. I can ski quite well.
MOLLIE. That would be frightfully stupid. It would be almost like admitting you’re guilty.
CHRISTOPHER. Sergeant Trotter thinks I’m guilty.
MOLLIE. No, he doesn’t. At least—I don’t know what he thinks. (She moves down to the armchair Centre, pulls out the evening paper from under the cushion and stares at it. Suddenly, with passion) I hate him—I hate him—I hate him . . .
CHRISTOPHER. (Startled) Who?
MOLLIE. Sergeant Trotter. He puts things into your head. Things that aren’t true, that can’t possibly be true.
CHRISTOPHER. What is all this?
MOLLIE. I don’t believe it—I won’t believe it . . .
CHRISTOPHER. What won’t you believe? (He moves slowly to MOLLIE, puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her round to face him.) Come on—out with it!
MOLLIE. (Showing the paper) You see that?
CHRISTOPHER. Yes.
MOLLIE. What is it? Yesterday’s evening paper—a London paper. And it was in Giles’s pocket. But Giles didn’t go to London yesterday.
CHRISTOPHER. Well, if he was here all day . . .
MOLLIE. But he wasn’t. He went off in the car to look for chicken wire, but he couldn’t find any.
CHRISTOPHER. Well, that’s all right. (Moving Left Centre) Probably he did go up to London after all.
MOLLIE. Then why shouldn’t he tell me he did? Why pretend he’d been driving all round the countryside?
CHRISTOPHER. Perhaps, with the news of this murder . . .
MOLLIE. He didn’t know about the murder. Or did he? Did he? (She moves to the fire.)
CHRISTOPHER. Good Lord, Mollie. Surely you don’t think—the Sergeant doesn’t think . . .
(During the next speech MOLLIE crosses slowly up stage to Left of the sofa. CHRISTOPHER silently drops the paper on the sofa.)
MOLLIE. I don’t know what the Sergeant thinks. And he can make you think things about people. You ask yourself questions and you begin to doubt. You feel that somebody you love and know well might be—a stranger. (Whispering) That’s what happens in a nightmare. You’re somewhere in the middle of friends and then you suddenly look at their faces and they’re not your friends any longer—they’re different people—just pretending. Perhaps you can’t trust anybody—perhaps everybody’s a stranger. (She puts her hands to her
face.)
(CHRISTOPHER moves to the Left end of the sofa, kneels on it and takes her hands away from her face. GILES enters from the dining room down Right, but stops when he sees them. MOLLIE backs away, and CHRISTOPHER sits on the sofa.)
GILES. (At the door) I seem to be interrupting something.
MOLLIE. No, we were—just talking. I must go to the kitchen—there’s the pie and potatoes—and I must do—do the spinach. (She moves Right above the armchair Centre.)
CHRISTOPHER. (Rising and moving Centre.) I’ll come and give you a hand.
GILES. (Moving up to the fire) No, you won’t.
MOLLIE. Giles.
GILES. Tête-à-têtes aren’t very healthy things at present. You keep out of the kitchen and keep away from my wife.
CHRISTOPHER. But really, look here . . .
GILES. (Furious) You keep away from my wife, Wren. She’s not going to be the next victim.
CHRISTOPHER. So that’s what you think about me.
GILES. I’ve already said so, haven’t I? There’s a killer loose in this house—and it seems to me you fit the bill.
CHRISTOPHER. I’m not the only one to fit the bill.
GILES. I don’t see who else does.
CHRISTOPHER. How blind are you—or do you just pretend to be blind?
GILES. I tell you I’m worrying about my wife’s safety.
CHRISTOPHER. So am I. I’m not going to leave you here alone with her. (He moves up to Left of MOLLIE.)
GILES. (Moving up to Right of MOLLIE) What the hell . . .?
MOLLIE. Please go, Chris.
CHRISTOPHER. I’m not going.
MOLLIE. Please go, Christopher. Please. I mean it . . .
CHRISTOPHER. (Moving Right) I shan’t be far away.
(Unwillingly CHRISTOPHER exits through the arch up Right. MOLLIE crosses to the desk chair, and GILES follows her.)
GILES. What is all this? Mollie, you must be crazy. Perfectly prepared to shut yourself up in the kitchen with a homicidal maniac.
MOLLIE. He isn’t.
GILES. You’ve only got to look at him to see he’s barmy.
MOLLIE. He isn’t. He’s just unhappy. I tell you, Giles, he isn’t dangerous. I’d know if he was dangerous. And anyway, I can look after myself.
GILES. That’s what Mrs. Boyle said!
MOLLIE. Oh, Giles—don’t. (She moves down Left.)
GILES. (Moving down to Right of Mollie) Look here, what is there between you and that wretched boy?