LOMBARD. Your name was on the list
BLORE. I know, I know. Landor, you mean? That was the London & Commercial Bank robbery.
WARGRAVE. (Crosses Right below sofa to mantelpiece. Lights pipe.) I remember the name, though it didn’t come before me. Landor was convicted on your evidence. You were the police officer in charge of the case.
BLORE. (Up to him) I was, my Lud.
WARGRAVE. Landor got penal servitude for life and died in Dartmoor a year later. He was a delicate man.
BLORE. He was a crook. It was him put the nightwatchman out. The case was clear from the start.
WARGRAVE. (Slowly) You were complimented, I think, on your able handling of the case.
BLORE. I got my promotion. (Pause) I was only doing my duty.
LOMBARD. (Sits Right sofa) Convenient word—duty. (There is a general suspicious movement. VERA rises, moves as if to cross Left, sees EMILY, turns. She sits again chair Right Centre. WARGRAVE moves up to windowseat. ARMSTRONG to Centre window.) What about you, Doctor?
ARMSTRONG. (Shakes his head good-humouredly) I’m at a loss to understand the matter. The name meant nothing to me—what was it? Close? Close? I really don’t remember having a patient of that name—or its being connected with a death in any way. The thing’s a complete mystery to me. Of course, it’s a long time ago. (Pause) It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital. They come too late, so many of these people. Then, when the patient dies, it’s always the surgeon’s fault.
LOMBARD. And then it’s better to take up nerve cases and give up surgery. Some, of course, give up drink.
ARMSTRONG. I protest. You’ve no right to insinuate such things. I never touch alcohol.
LOMBARD. My dear fellow, I never suggested you did. Anyway, Mr. Unknown is the only one who knows all the facts.
(WARGRAVE to Left of VERA. BLORE to Right of her.)
WARGRAVE. Miss Claythorne?
VERA. (Starts. She has been sitting, staring in front of her. She speaks unemotionally and without feeling of any kind) I was nursery governess to Peter Hamilton. We were in Cornwall for the summer. He was forbidden to swim out far. One day, when my attention was distracted, he started off—as soon as I saw what happened I swam after him. I couldn’t get there in time—
WARGRAVE. Was there an inquest?
VERA. (In the same dull voice) Yes, I was exonerated by the Coroner. His mother didn’t blame me, either.
WARGRAVE. Thank you. (Crosses Left) Miss Brent?
EMILY. I have nothing to say.
WARGRAVE. Nothing?
EMILY. Nothing.
WARGRAVE. You reserve your defence?
EMILY. (Sharply) There is no question of defence. I have always acted according to the dictates of my conscience. (Rises; moves up Left.)
(BLORE to fireplace.)
LOMBARD. What a law-abiding lot we seem to be! Myself excepted—
WARGRAVE. We are waiting for your story, Captain Lombard.
LOMBARD. I haven’t got a story.
WARGRAVE. (Sharply) What do you mean?
LOMBARD. (Grinning and apparently enjoying himself) I’m sorry to disappoint all of you. It’s just that I plead guilty. It’s perfectly true. I left those natives alone in the bush. Matter of self-preservation.
(His words cause a sensation. VERA looks at him unbelievingly.)
MACKENZIE. (Rises. Sternly) You abandoned your men?
(EMILY moves to windowseat up Right.)
LOMBARD. (Coolly) Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But after all, self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do—(To Right; sits fireplace fender.)
(There is a pause. LOMBARD looks around at EVERYONE with amusement. WARGRAVE clears throat disapprovingly.)
WARGRAVE. Our enquiry rests there. (ROGERS crosses to Left 1 door) Now, Rogers, who else is there on this island besides ourselves and you and your wife?
ROGERS. Nobody, sir. Nobody at all.
WARGRAVE. You’re sure of that?
ROGERS. Quite sure, sir.
WARGRAVE. Thank you. (ROGERS moves as if to go) Don’t go, Rogers. (To EVERYBODY) I am not yet clear as to the purpose of our unknown host in getting us to assemble here. But in my opinion he’s not sane in the accepted sense of the word. He may be dangerous. In my opinion, it would be well for us to leave this place as soon as possible. I suggest that we leave tonight.
(General agreement. MACKENZIE sits up Left.)
ROGERS. I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s no boat on the island.
WARGRAVE. No boat at all?
ROGERS. No, sir.
WARGRAVE. Why don’t you telephone to the mainland?
ROGERS. There’s no telephone. Fred Narracott, he comes over every morning, sir. He brings the milk and the bread and the post and the papers, and takes the orders.
(A chorus of “I agree,” “Quite so,” “Only thing to be done.”)
MARSTON. (Picks up drink from windowseat; crosses down Right to front of Right sofa. Raising his voice) A bit unsporting, what? Ought to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thing’s like a detective story. Positively thrilling.
WARGRAVE. (Acidly) At my time of life, I have no desire for thrills. (Sits down Left.)
(BLORE to Left end sofa. MARSTON grins; stretches out his legs.)
(WARN Curtain.)
MARSTON. The legal life’s narrowing. I’m all for crime. (Raises his glass) Here’s to it. (Drinks it off at a gulp, appears to choke, gasps, has a violent convulsion and slips on to sofa. Glass falls from his hand.)
ARMSTRONG. (Runs over to him, bends down, feels pulse, raises eyelid) My God, he’s dead!
(MACKENZIE to Left end sofa. The OTHERS can hardly take it in. ARMSTRONG sniffs lips, then sniffs glass. Nods.)
MACKENZIE. Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—died?
ARMSTRONG. You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation, right enough.
MACKENZIE. Never knew a man could die like that—just a choking fit.
EMILY. (With meaning) In the middle of life we are in death. (She sounds inspired.)
ARMSTRONG. A man doesn’t die of a mere choking fit, General MacKenzie. Marston’s death isn’t what we call a natural death.
VERA. Was there something in the whisky?
ARMSTRONG. Yes. By the smell of it, cyanide. Probably Potassium Cyanide. Acts pretty well instantaneously.
LOMBARD. Then he must have put the stuff in the glass himself.
BLORE. Suicide, eh? That’s a rum go.
VERA. You’d never think he’d commit suicide. He was so alive. He was enjoying himself.
(EMILY comes down and picks up remains of Indian from behind chair Right Centre.)
EMILY. Oh! Look—here’s one of the little Indians off the mantelpiece—broken. (Holds it up.)
CURTAIN
ACT TWO
Scene I
The same. The following morning.
The windows are open and the room has been tidied. It is a fine morning. There are only eight Indians on the mantelpiece.
Suitcases are piled up on the balcony. ALL are waiting for the boat to arrive. MACKENZIE is sitting up Left in his chair, looking definitely a little queer. EMILY is sitting Right Centre, knitting, with her hat and coat on. WARGRAVE is sitting windowseat up Right, a little apart, and is thoughtful. His manner is judicial throughout scene. VERA, by window Centre, is restless. She comes into the room as if to speak, no one takes any notice, goes down Left and sits.
ARMSTRONG and BLORE come up Right on balcony.
ARMSTRONG. We’ve been up to the top. No sign of that boat yet.
VERA. It’s very early still.
BLORE. Oh, I know. Still, the fellow brings the milk and the bread and all that. I should have thought he’d have got here before this. (Opens door Right 2 and looks in) No sign of breakfast yet—Where’s that fellow Rogers?
VERA. Oh, don’t let’s bother abo
ut breakfast—
WARGRAVE. How’s the weather looking?
BLORE. (To window Centre) The wind has freshened a bit. Rather a mackerel sky. Old boy in the train yesterday said we were due for dirty weather. Shouldn’t wonder if he wasn’t right—
ARMSTRONG. (Up Centre. Nervously) I wish that boat would come. The sooner we get off this island the better. It’s absurd not keeping a boat on the island.
BLORE. No proper harbour. If the wind comes to blow from the south-east, a boat would get dashed to pieces against the rocks.
EMILY. But a boat would always be able to make us from the mainland?
BLORE. (To Left of EMILY) No, Miss Brent—that’s just what it wouldn’t.
EMILY. Do you mean we should be cut off from the land?
BLORE. Yes. Condensed milk, Ryvita and tinned stuff till the gale had blown itself out. But you needn’t worry. The sea’s only a bit choppy.
EMILY. I think the pleasures of living on an island are rather overrated.
ARMSTRONG. (Restless) I wonder if that boat’s coming. Annoying the way the house is built slap up against the cliff. You can’t see the mainland until you’ve climbed to the top. (To BLORE) Shall we go up there again?
BLORE. (Grinning) It’s no good, Doctor. A watched pot never boils. There wasn’t a sign of a boat putting out when we were up there just now.
ARMSTRONG. (To down Right) What can this man Narracott be doing?
BLORE. (Philosophically) They’re all like that in Devon. Never hurry themselves.
ARMSTRONG. And where’s Rogers? He ought to be about.
BLORE. If you ask me, Master Rogers was pretty badly rattled last night.
ARMSTRONG. I know. (Shivers) Ghastly—the whole thing.
BLORE. Got the wind up properly. I’d take an even bet that he and his wife did do that old lady in.
WARGRAVE. (Incredulous) You really think so?
BLORE. Well, I never saw a man more scared. Guilty as hell, I should say.
ARMSTRONG. Fantastic—the whole thing—fantastic.
BLORE. I say, suppose he’s hopped it?
ARMSTRONG. Who, Rogers? But there isn’t any way he could. There’s no boat on the island. You’ve just said so.
BLORE. Yes, but I’ve been thinking. We’ve only Rogers’s word for that. Suppose there is one and he’s nipped off in the first thing.
MACKENZIE. Oh! No. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave the island. (His tone is so strange they stare at him.)
BLORE. Sleep well, General? (Crosses Right of MACKENZIE.)
MACKENZIE. I dreamed—yes, I dreamed—
BLORE. I don’t wonder at that.
MACKENZIE. I dreamed of Lesley—my wife, you know.
BLORE. (Embarrassed) Oh—er—yes—I wish Narracott would come. (Turns up to window.)
MACKENZIE. Who is Narracott?
BLORE. The bloke who brought us over yesterday afternoon.
MACKENZIE. Was it only yesterday?
BLORE. (Comes down Centre. Determinedly cheerful) Yes, I feel like that, too. Batty gramophone records—suicides—it’s about all a man can stand. I shan’t be sorry to see the back of Indian Island, I give you my word.
MACKENZIE. So you don’t understand. How strange!
BLORE. What’s that, General?
(MACKENZIE nods his head gently. BLORE looks questioningly at ARMSTRONG, then taps his forehead significantly.)
ARMSTRONG. I don’t like the look of him.
BLORE. I reckon young Marston’s suicide must have been a pretty bad shock to him. He looks years older.
ARMSTRONG. Where is that poor young fellow now?
BLORE. In the study—put him there myself.
VERA. Doctor Armstrong, I suppose it was suicide?
ARMSTRONG. (Sharply) What else could it be?
VERA. (Rises, crosses to Right sofa; sits.) I don’t know. But suicide—(She shakes her head.)
BLORE. (Crosses to behind Left sofa.) You know I had a pretty funny feeling in the night. This Mr. Unknown Owen, suppose he’s on the island. Rogers mayn’t know. (Pause) Or he may have told him to say so. (Watches ARMSTRONG) Pretty nasty thought, isn’t it?
ARMSTRONG. But would it have been possible for anyone to tamper with Marston’s drink without our seeing him?
BLORE. Well, it was standing up there. Anyone could have slipped a dollop of cyanide in if they’d wanted to.
ARMSTRONG. But that—
ROGERS. (Comes running up from Right on balcony. He is out of breath. Comes straight to ARMSTRONG.) Oh, there you are, sir. I’ve been all over the place looking for you. Could you come up and have a look at my wife, sir?
ARMSTRONG. Yes, of course. (Goes towards door Left 1) Is she feeling under the weather still?
ROGERS. She’s—she’s—(Swallows convulsively; exits Left 2.)
ARMSTRONG. You won’t leave the island without me?
(They go out Left 1.)
VERA. (Rises; to Left of windows) I wish the boat would come. I hate this place.
WARGRAVE. Yes. I think the sooner we can get in touch with the police the better.
VERA. The police?
WARGRAVE. The police have to be notified in a case of suicide, you know, Miss Claythorne.
VERA. Oh, yes—of course. (Looks up Right towards the door of study and shivers.)
BLORE. (Opening door Left 2) What’s going on here? No sign of any breakfast.
VERA. Are you hungry, General? (MACKENZIE does not answer. She speaks louder) Feeling like breakfast?
MACKENZIE. (Turns sharply) Lesley—Lesley—my dear.
VERA. No—I’m not—I’m Vera Claythorne.
MACKENZIE. (Passes a hand over his eyes) Of course. Forgive me. I took you for my wife.
VERA. Oh!
MACKENZIE. I was waiting for her, you see.
VERA. But I thought your wife was dead—long ago.
MACKENZIE. Yes. I thought so, too. But I was wrong. She’s here. On this island.
LOMBARD. (Comes in from hall Left 1) Good morning.
(VERA to above Left sofa.)
BLORE. (Coming to down Left) Good morning, Captain Lombard.
LOMBARD. Good morning. Seem to have overslept myself. Boat here yet?
BLORE. No.
LOMBARD. Bit late, isn’t it?
BLORE. Yes.
LOMBARD. (To Vera) Good morning. You and I could have had a swim before breakfast. Too bad all this.
VERA. Too bad you overslept yourself.
BLORE. You must have good nerves to sleep like that.
LOMBARD. Nothing makes me lose my sleep.
(VERA to mantelpiece.)
BLORE. Didn’t dream of African natives, by any chance, did you?
LOMBARD. No. Did you dream of convicts on Dartmoor?
BLORE. (Angrily) Look here, I don’t think that’s funny, Captain Lombard.
LOMBARD. Well, you started it, you know. I’m hungry. What about breakfast? (To Left sofa—sits.)
BLORE. The whole domestic staff seems to have gone on strike.
LOMBARD. Oh, well, we can always forage for ourselves.
VERA. (Examining Indian figures) Hullo, that’s strange.
LOMBARD. What is?
VERA. You remember we found one of these little fellows smashed last night?
LOMBARD. Yes—That ought to leave nine.
VERA. That ought to leave nine. I’m certain there were ten of them here when we arrived.
LOMBARD. Well?
VERA. There are only eight.
LOMBARD. (Looking) So there are. (To mantelpiece.)
(They look at each other.)
VERA. I think it’s queer, don’t you?
LOMBARD. Probably only were nine to begin with. We assumed there were ten because of the rhyme. (ARMSTRONG enters Left 1. He is upset, but striving to appear calm. Shuts door and stands against it.) Hullo, Armstrong, what’s the matter?
ARMSTRONG. Mrs. Rogers is dead.
(WARGRAVE rises.)
BLORE and VERA. No! How?
> (VERA to Right end Left sofa.)
ARMSTRONG. Died in her sleep. Rogers thought she was still under the influence of the sleeping draught I gave her and came down without disturbing her. He lit the kitchen fire and did this room. Then, as she hadn’t appeared, he went up, was alarmed by the look of her and went hunting for me. (Pause) She’s been dead about five hours, I should say. (Sits down Left. VERA sits Left sofa.)
BLORE. What was it? Heart?
ARMSTRONG. Impossible to say. It may have been.
BLORE. After all, she had a pretty bad shock last night.
ARMSTRONG. Yes.
WARGRAVE. (Comes down to Left end of Right sofa) She might have been poisoned, I suppose, Doctor?
ARMSTRONG. It is perfectly possible.
WARGRAVE. With the same stuff as young Marston?
ARMSTRONG. No, not cyanide. It would have to have been some narcotic or hypnotic. One of the barbiturates, or chloral. Something like that.
BLORE. You gave her some sleeping powders last night, didn’t you?
ARMSTRONG. (Rises; crossing to cabinet Right for drink of water) Yes, I gave her a mild dose of Luminal.
BLORE. Didn’t give her too much, did you?
ARMSTRONG. Certainly not. What do you mean?
BLORE. All right—no offence, no offence. I just thought that perhaps if she’d had a weak heart—
ARMSTRONG. The amount I gave her could not have hurt anyone.
LOMBARD. Then what exactly did happen?
ARMSTRONG. Impossible to say without an autopsy.
WARGRAVE. If, for instance, this death had occurred in the case of one of your private patients, what would have been your procedure?
ARMSTRONG. (Crossing Left; sits down Left) Without any previous knowledge of the woman’s state of health, I could certainly not give a certificate.
VERA. She was a very nervous-looking creature. She had a bad fright last night. Perhaps it was heart failure.
ARMSTRONG. Her heart certainly failed to beat—but what caused it to fail?
EMILY. (Firmly and with emphasis) Conscience.
(They all jump and look at her. WARGRAVE to Right.)
ARMSTRONG. What exactly do you mean by that, Miss Brent?
EMILY. You all heard—She was accused, together with her husband, of having deliberately murdered her former employer—an old lady.
BLORE. And you believe that’s true, Miss Brent?
EMILY. Certainly. You all saw her last night. She broke down completely and fainted. The shock of having her wickedness brought home to her was too much for her. She literally died of fear.
The Mousetrap and Other Plays Page 4