The Mousetrap and Other Plays

by Agatha Christie

  MIDGE. I know.

  EDWARD. At Ainswick, you see, time stands still.

  (LADY ANGKATELL turns with a brusque movement, puts the newspaper on the coffee table, then moves to the drinks table, picks up the book from it and puts it in the bookshelves over the drinks table.)

  I always remember you as you used to be in the holidays when Uncle Hugh was alive. (He turns to LADY ANGKATELL.) I wish you’d come more often to Ainswick, Lucy. It’s looking so beautiful just now.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Is it, darling?

  (GUDGEON enters Left.)

  GUDGEON. Excuse me, m’lady, but Mrs. Medway would like to see you a moment. It’s about the savoury for dinner.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Chicken livers. (She crosses to Right of GUDGEON.) Butchers have no conscience about chicken livers. Don’t tell me they haven’t arrived.

  GUDGEON. They have arrived, m’lady, but Mrs. Medway is a little dubious . . .

  (LADY ANGKATELL crosses and exits Left. GUDGEON follows her off, closing the door behind him.)

  EDWARD. (Taking his cigarette case from his pocket) I sometimes wonder whether Lucy minds very much about Ainswick.

  MIDGE. In what way?

  EDWARD. Well, it was her home. (He takes a cigarette from his case.)

  MIDGE. May I?

  EDWARD. (Offering the case to her) Yes, of course.

  (MIDGE takes a cigarette.)

  If she’d been born a boy it would have gone to her instead of to me. I wonder if she resents it? (He replaces the case in his pocket and takes out his lighter.)

  MIDGE. Not in the sense you mean. After all, you’re an Angkatell and that’s all that matters. The Angkatells stick together. They even marry their cousins.

  EDWARD. Yes, but she does care very much about Ainswick.

  MIDGE. Oh yes. Lucy cares more about Ainswick than anything in the world. (She looks up at the picture over the mantelpiece.) That picture up there is the dominating note of this house. (She turns to EDWARD.) But if you think Lucy resents you, you’re wrong, Edward.

  EDWARD. (Lighting MIDGE’s cigarette) I never quite understand Lucy. (He turns, moves to Left of the sofa and lights his own cigarette.) She’s got the most extraordinary charm.

  MIDGE. Lucy is the most adorable creature I know—and the most maddening.

  (HENRIETTA enters Left and closes the door behind her. She has tidied herself.)

  HENRIETTA. Hullo, Edward.

  EDWARD. Henrietta, lovely to see you.

  HENRIETTA. (Crossing to Left of EDWARD) How’s Ainswick?

  EDWARD. It’s looking beautiful just now.

  HENRIETTA. (Turning to MIDGE). Hullo, Midge darling. How are you?

  EDWARD. (Offering HENRIETTA a cigarette) You ought to come, Henrietta.

  HENRIETTA. (Taking a cigarette) Yes, I know I ought—what fun we all had there as children.

  (LADY ANGKATELL enters Left. She carries a large lobster on a short length of string.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing to Right of the coffee table) Tradespeople are just like gardeners. They take advantage of your not knowing. Don’t you agree, Edward? When you want them to mass in big clumps—they start fiddling about with . . . (She suddenly becomes conscious of the lobster.) Now what is that?

  EDWARD. It looks to me like a lobster.

  LADY ANGKATELL. It is a lobster. Where did I get it? How did I come by it?

  HENRIETTA. I should think you got it off the kitchen table.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Holding the lobster against the back of the sofa) Oh! I remember. I thought a cushion this colour would look nice here. What do you feel about it?

  HENRIETTA. No!

  LADY ANGKATELL. No. Well, it was just a little thought.

  (GUDGEON enters Left and crosses to LADY ANGKATELL. He carries a salver.)

  GUDGEON. (Impassively) Excuse me, m’lady, Mrs. Medway says, may she have the lobster.

  (LADY ANGKATELL puts the lobster on the salver.)

  Thank you, m’lady.

  (He turns, crosses and exits Left. They all laugh.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. Gudgeon is wonderful. (She sits on the sofa.) He always appears at the right moment.

  HENRIETTA. (Aside) Could I have a light, Midge?

  EDWARD. (Moving to LADY ANGKATELL and offering her a cigarette) How’s the sculpture, Henrietta?

  LADY ANGKATELL. You know I don’t smoke, dear.

  (MIDGE picks up the table lighter from the mantelpiece.)

  HENRIETTA. Getting along. I’ve finished the big wooden figure for the International Group. Would you like to see it?

  EDWARD. Yes.

  HENRIETTA. It’s concealed in what I believe the house agent who sold Henry this house calls the “breakfast nook.”

  (MIDGE lights HENRIETTA’s cigarette, then replaces the lighter on the mantelpiece.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. Thank heavens that’s something I have never had—my breakfast in a nook.

  (They all laugh. HENRIETTA moves to the alcove up Left, draws back the curtain, switches on the light, then moves up Centre. EDWARD leads MIDGE to the alcove and stands Right of her as they both look off Left.)

  HENRIETTA. It’s called The Worshipper.

  EDWARD. (Impressed) That’s a very powerful figure. Beautiful graining. What wood is it?

  HENRIETTA. Pearwood.

  EDWARD. (Slowly) It’s—an uncomfortable sort of thing.

  MIDGE. (Nervously) It’s horrible.

  EDWARD. That heavy forward slant of the neck and shoulders—the submission. The fanaticism of the face—the eyes—she’s blind? (He turns to face HENRIETTA.)

  HENRIETTA. Yes.

  EDWARD. What’s she looking at—with her blind eyes?

  HENRIETTA. (Turning away) I don’t know. Her God, I suppose.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Softly) Poor Henrietta.

  HENRIETTA. (Moving to Right of the armchair Left Centre) What did you say, Lucy?

  (EDWARD crosses to the fireplace and flicks his ash into it.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising) Nothing. (She moves to Right of the sofa and glances off Right.) Ah look, chaffinches. Sweet. One ought to look at birds through glasses, on tops of trees, oughtn’t one? (She turns.) Are there still herons at Ainswick, Edward?

  EDWARD. Ah, yes—down by the river.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Softly) Down by the river—ah dear.

  (Her voice fades away as she exits Right.)

  EDWARD. Why did she say “Poor Henrietta?”

  (MIDGE closes the alcove curtain, switches off the light, crosses above the sofa to Right of it, then sits on it at the Right end.)

  HENRIETTA. Lucy isn’t blind.

  EDWARD. (Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the mantelpiece) Shall we go for a walk, Henrietta? (He moves Left Centre) I’d like to stretch my legs after that drive.

  HENRIETTA. I’d love to. (She moves to the coffee table and stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on it.) I’ve been modelling most of the day. Coming, Midge?

  MIDGE. No, thank you.

  (EDWARD moves slowly up Centre.)

  I’ll stay here and help Lucy with the Cristows when they arrive.

  EDWARD. (Stopping and turning; sharply) Cristow? Is he coming?

  HENRIETTA. Yes.

  EDWARD. I wish I’d known.

  HENRIETTA. (Belligerently) Why?

  EDWARD. (Very quietly) I could have come—some other weekend.

  (There is a pause, then HENRIETTA and EDWARD exit up Centre to Left. MIDGE watches them go, her face revealing her hopeless love for EDWARD. LADY ANGKATELL enters Right and moves above the Right end of the sofa.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Whispering) Have Henrietta and Edward gone for a walk?

  MIDGE. Yes.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Does Edward know about the Cristows?

  MIDGE. Yes.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Was it all right?

  MIDGE. Not noticeably.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Moving to the French windows Right) Oh dear. I knew this weekend was going to be awkward.

  (MIDGE rises, st
ubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, picks up her handbag and gloves and moves to LADY ANGKATELL.)

  MIDGE. Let’s go round the garden, Lucy. What’s on in the flower world at the moment? I’m such a hopeless cockney nowadays. Most dahlias?

  LADY ANGKATELL. Yes. Handsome—in a rather dull way. And so full of earwigs. Mind you, I’m told earwigs are very good mothers, not that it makes one like them any better.

  (LADY ANGKATELL and MIDGE exit Right. DORIS, the maid, enters Left and holds the door open. She looks slightly half-witted and is terrified of GUDGEON. GUDGEON enters Left and crosses to the drinks table. He carries a tray of drinks, a bowl of olives and a tea cloth. DORIS closes the door, moves Left Centre and stands gaping.)

  GUDGEON. (Putting the tray on the drinks table) Well, fold the papers, Doris, the way I showed you. (He starts to polish the glasses.)

  DORIS. (Moving hastily to Left of the coffee table) Yes, Mr. Gudgeon. (She picks up “The Times” and folds it.) Her ladyship is bats, isn’t she, Mr. Gudgeon?

  GUDGEON. (Turning) Certainly not. Her ladyship has a very keen intellect. She speaks five foreign languages, and has been all over the world with Sir Henry. Sir Henry was Governor of one of the principal provinces in India. He would have been the next Viceroy most probably if it hadn’t been for that terrible Labour Government doing away with the Empire.

  DORIS. (Putting the newspaper on the Left arm of the sofa) My dad’s Labour.

  (There is a pause as GUDGEON looks almost pityingly at DORIS.)

  (She takes a step back. Apologetically) Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Gudgeon.

  GUDGEON. (Tolerantly) You can’t help your parents, Doris.

  DORIS. (Humbly) I know they’re not class.

  GUDGEON. (Patronizingly) You are coming along quite nicely—(He turns to the drinks table and continues polishing the glasses) although it’s not what any of us have been used to. Gamekeeper’s daughter, or Head Groom’s daughter, a young girl who knows her manners, and has been brought up right.

  (DORIS picks up the “Daily Graphic” and folds it.)

  That’s what I like to train.

  DORIS. (Putting all the papers together tidily on the coffee table) Sorry, Mr. Gudgeon. (She crosses to the writing table, picks up the ashtray from it, returns to the coffee table and empties the ashtray she is carrying into that on the coffee table.)

  GUDGEON. Ah well, it seems those days are gone for ever.

  DORIS. (Replacing the ashtray on the writing table) Miss Simmonds is always down on me, too.

  GUDGEON. She’s doing it for your own good, Doris. She’s training you.

  DORIS. (Picking up the ashtray from the coffee table, crossing to the fireplace and emptying the ashtray into the one on the mantelpiece) Shan’t get more money, shall I, when I’m trained? (She replaces the ashtray on the coffee table.)

  GUDGEON. Not much, I’m afraid.

  DORIS. (Crossing to the fireplace) Doesn’t seem worth being trained, then, does it? (She picks up the full ashtray from the mantelpiece.)

  GUDGEON. I’m afraid you may be right, my girl.

  (DORIS is about to empty the ashtray into the fire.)

  Ah!

  (DORIS turns guiltily, and puts the ashtray on the mantelpiece.)

  The trouble is there are no proper employers nowadays. Nobody who knows what’s what. Those who have the money to employ servants don’t appreciate what a good servant is.

  DORIS. (Moving to the armchair Left Centre) My dad says I ought to call myself a domestic help. (She tidies the cushion on the armchair.)

  GUDGEON. (Moving above the sofa) That’s about all you are. (He leans over the back of the sofa and tidies the cushions.) Let me tell you, my girl, you’re very lucky to be in a household where wine glasses are used in the proper way, and where the master and mistress appreciate highly technical skill. (He moves to the chair down Right and tidies the cushion.) There aren’t many employers left who’d even notice if you went the wrong way round the table.

  DORIS. (Moving to the fireplace) I still think her ladyship does funny things. (She picks up the full ashtray from the mantelpiece.) Picking up that lobster, now.

  GUDGEON. (Crossing below the sofa to Right of the armchair Left Centre) Her ladyship is somewhat forgetful, not to say absentminded, but in this house I see to it that everything possible is done to spare her ladyship trouble and annoyance.

  (The sound of a motorcar horn is heard off.)

  (He crosses to the drinks table, picks up the tea-cloth, then crosses to Left Centre and picks up MIDGE’s suitcase.) That will be Doctor and Mrs. Cristow. Go upstairs and be ready to help Simmonds with the unpacking.

  DORIS. (Moving to the door Left and opening it) Yes, Mr. Gudgeon. (She starts to exit.)

  GUDGEON. (Reprovingly) Ah-ah!

  DORIS. (With a step back) Oh! (She holds the door open.)

  GUDGEON. (Crossing to the door Left) Thank you.

  (A clock strikes seven. He exits Left. DORIS follows him off, leaving the door open.)

  (After the fourth stroke. Off Left) Good evening, sir.

  JOHN. (Off Left) Good evening, Gudgeon. How are you?

  GUDGEON. (Off Left) Good evening, madam. Very well, thank you, sir.

  GERDA. (Off Left). Good evening, Gudgeon.

  (GUDGEON enters Left and ushers in JOHN and GERDA CRISTOW. JOHN is a good-looking man of thirty-eight with a dynamic personality, but is somewhat brusque in manner. GERDA is timid and rather stupid. She carries an arty leather handbag.)

  GUDGEON. (As he enters) Will you come through, madam.

  GERDA (Crossing to Left Centre) Very warm, still.

  GUDGEON. Still very warm, madam. I hope you had a pleasant drive down.

  (JOHN crosses to Centre.)

  GERDA. Yes, thank you.

  GUDGEON. (Closing the door) I think her ladyship is in the garden, sir. (He crosses to Right) I’ll inform her that you’ve arrived.

  JOHN. Thank you, Gudgeon.

  (GUDGEON exits Right.)

  (He goes out on to the terrace up Centre and looks off Left) Mm, wonderful to get out of town into this.

  GERDA. (Easing to Right of the armchair Left Centre; flatly) Yes, it’s very nice.

  JOHN. God, I hate being penned up in London. Sitting in that blasted consulting room, listening to whining women. How I hate sick people!

  GERDA. Oh, John, you don’t mean that.

  JOHN. I loathe illness.

  GERDA. If you hated sick people, you wouldn’t be a doctor, would you, dear?

  JOHN. (Moving above the sofa) A man doesn’t become a doctor because he has a partiality for sick people. It’s the disease that’s interesting, not the patient. (He crosses to Right, and studies the piece of sculpture on the pedestal.) You have odd ideas, Gerda.

  GERDA. But you do like curing people.

  JOHN. (Turning) I don’t cure them. (He moves and sits on the sofa at the Right end.) Just hand out faith, hope and probably a laxative. Oh, good Lord, I’m tired.

  GERDA. (Moving below the sofa) John, you work too hard. You’re so unselfish. (She sits on the sofa at the Left end of it.) I’m always telling the children how a doctor’s life is almost a dedication. I’m so proud of the way you give all your time and all your energy and never spare yourself.

  JOHN. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gerda. You don’t know in the least what you’re talking about. Don’t you realize I enjoy my profession? It’s damned interesting and I make a lot of money.

  GERDA. It’s not the money you do it for, dear. Look how interested you are in your hospital work. It’s to relieve pain and suffering.

  JOHN. Pain is a biological necessity and suffering will always be with us. It’s the techniques of medicine that interest me.

  GERDA. And—people suffering.

  JOHN. (Rising and moving above the sofa) Oh, for God’s sake . . . (He breaks off, suddenly ashamed.) I’m sorry, Gerda. I didn’t mean to shout at you. (He takes a cigarette case from his pocket.) I’m afraid I’ve been terribly
nervy and bad-tempered lately. I’m—I’m sorry.

  GERDA. It’s quite all right, dear. I understand.

  (There is a pause as JOHN moves below the armchair Left Centre and takes a cigarette out of his case.)

  JOHN. You know, Gerda, if you weren’t so patient, so long-suffering, it would be better. Why don’t you turn on me sometimes, swear at me, give as good as you get? Oh, don’t look so shocked. It would be better if you did. No man likes being drowned in treacle. (He shuts his cigarette case with a snap and replaces it in his pocket.)

  GERDA. You’re tired, John.

  JOHN. (Sitting in the armchair Left Centre; sombrely) Yes, I’m tired. (He leans back and closes his eyes.)

  GERDA. You need a holiday.

  JOHN. (Dreamily) I’d like to go to the South of France—the Mediterranean—the sun, the mimosa in flower . . .

  GERDA. (Rising and crossing to Right of JOHN) Why shouldn’t we go, then? (Doubtfully) Oh, I don’t quite know how we should manage about the children; of course, Terence is at school all day, but he’s so rude to Mademoiselle. She really has very little authority even over Zena. No, I don’t think I should be very happy. Of course, they could go to Elsie at Bexhill. Or perhaps Mary Foley would take them . . .

  JOHN. (Opening his eyes; vaguely) ’M, what were you saying?

  GERDA. The children.

  JOHN. What about them?

  GERDA. I was wondering how we could manage about them if we went to the South of France.

  JOHN. (Taking his lighter from his pocket) Why should we go to the South of France, what are you talking about? (He lights his cigarette.)

  GERDA. Because you said—you—would—like to.

  JOHN. Oh that! I was daydreaming.

  GERDA. (Crossing above the armchair Left Centre to Left of it) I don’t see why we couldn’t manage it—only it’s a little worrying if one feels that the person left in charge isn’t really reliable, and I do sometimes feel . . .

  JOHN. (Rising and crossing below the sofa to Right) You never stop worrying about something or other. For heaven’s sake let’s relax and enjoy this weekend. At least you have a respite from domestic bothers.

  GERDA. Yes, I know.

  JOHN. (Moving above the sofa) Wonderful people—the Angkatells. I always find them an absolute tonic.

  GERDA. Yes.

  JOHN. (Moving on the terrace up Centre) I wonder where they all are? (He glances off Left).