The Mousetrap and Other Plays

by Agatha Christie

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising) I came in here—this being your study, Henry—with the window there and the fireplace here. I had been talking to Simmonds about pillow cases—let’s hang on to pillow cases—and I distinctly remember crossing—(She moves to the writing table) over to the fireplace—and thinking we must get a new poker—the curate, not the rector—(She looks at the INSPECTOR) you’re probably too young to know what that means.

  (The INSPECTOR and the SERGEANT look at each other.)

  And I remember opening the drawer and taking out the Derringer—it was a nice handy little gun—I’ve always liked it—and dropping it in the egg basket. And then I . . . No, there were so many things in my head—(She eases to the sofa and sits) what with bindweed in the border—and hoping Mrs. Medway would make a really rich nègre en chemise.

  SERGEANT. (Unable to contain himself) A nègre en chemise

  LADY ANGKATELL. Yes, chocolate, eggs and cream. John Cristow loved a really rich sweet.

  INSPECTOR. (Moving to Left of the sofa) Did you load the pistol?

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Thoughtfully) Ah, did I? Really, it’s too ridiculous that I can’t remember. But I should think I must have, don’t you, Inspector?

  INSPECTOR. I think I’ll have a few more words with Gudgeon. (He turns and crosses to the door Left.) When you remember a little more, perhaps you’ll let me know, Lady Angkatell?

  (The SERGEANT crosses to the door Left.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. Of course. Things come back to one quite suddenly sometimes, don’t they?

  INSPECTOR. Yes.

  (He exits Left. The SERGEANT follows him off. The clock strikes eleven.)

  SIR HENRY. (Crossing to Left of the sofa) Why did you take the pistol, Lucy?

  LADY ANGKATELL. I’m really not quite sure, Henry—I suppose I had some vague idea about an accident.

  SIR HENRY. Accident?

  LADY ANGKATELL. Yes, all those roots of tree sticking up—so easy to trip over one. I’ve always thought that an accident would be the simplest way to do a thing of that kind. One would be dreadfully sorry, of course, and blame oneself . . . (Her voice trails off.)

  SIR HENRY. Who was to have had the accident?

  LADY ANGKATELL. John Cristow, of course.

  SIR HENRY. (Sitting Left of her on the sofa) Good God, Lucy!

  (LADY ANGKATELL’s manner suddenly changes. All the vagueness goes and she is almost fanatical.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. Oh, Henry, I’ve been so dreadfully worried. About Ainswick.

  SIR HENRY. I see. So it was Ainswick. You’ve always cared too much about Ainswick, Lucy.

  LADY ANGKATELL. You and Edward are the last of the Angkatells. Unless Edward marries, the whole thing will die out—and he’s so obstinate—that long head of his, just like my father. I felt that if only John were out of the way, Henrietta would marry Edward—she’s really quite fond of him—and when a person’s dead, you do forget. So, it all came to that—get rid of John Cristow.

  SIR HENRY. (Aghast) Lucy! It was you . . .

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Her elusive self again) Darling, darling, you don’t imagine for a moment that I shot John? (She laughs, rises, crosses to the fireplace and picks up the box of chocolates from the mantelpiece.) I did have that silly idea about an accident. But then I remembered that he was our guest. (She eases Centre.) One doesn’t ask someone to be a guest and then get behind a bush and have a pop at them. (She moves above the sofa and leans over the back of it.) So you musn’t worry, Henry, any more.

  SIR HENRY. (Hoarsely) I always worry about you, Lucy.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Taking a chocolate from the box) There’s no need to, dear. (She holds up the chocolate.) Look what’s coming. Open.

  (SIR HENRY opens his mouth.)

  (She pops the chocolate into SIR HENRY’s mouth.) There! John has been got rid of without our having to do anything about it. It reminds me of that man in Bombay who was so rude to me at a dinner party. (She crosses to the window Right.) Do you remember? Three days later he was run over by a tram.

  (She exits Right. The telephone rings. SIR HENRY rises, moves to the telephone and lifts the receiver.)

  OPERATOR. Your Regent call, sir.

  SIR HENRY. (Into the telephone) Hullo—yes—Regent call?

  (MIDGE enters Left.)

  MIDGE. For me?

  SIR HENRY. Yes.

  (MIDGE crosses to the telephone and takes the receiver from SIR HENRY, who exits Right.)

  MIDGE. (Into the telephone Right) Hullo. Is that Madame?

  VOICE. No, it’s Vera.

  MIDGE. Can I speak to Madame herself?

  VOICE. Hold on, will you.

  (There is a short pause, then another VOICE is heard through the telephone.)

  VOICE. ’Ullo. This is Madame Henri speaking.

  MIDGE. It’s Miss Harvey.

  VOICE. Why are you not ’ere? You are coming back this afternoon, yes?

  MIDGE. No, no, I’m afraid I can’t come back this afternoon.

  (EDWARD enters up centre from Left and moves to Left Centre.)

  VOICE. Oh, always these excuses.

  MIDGE. No, no, it’s not an excuse.

  (EDWARD asks by a gesture whether she minds him staying.)

  (She puts her hand over the mouthpiece. To EDWARD) No—no, don’t go. It’s only my shop.

  VOICE. What is it then?

  MIDGE. (Into the telephone) There’s been an accident.

  (EDWARD picks up a magazine from the coffee table, then sits on the sofa at the Left end of it.)

  VOICE. An accident? Don’t tell me these lies. Don’t make these excuses.

  MIDGE. No, I’m not telling you lies or making excuses. I can’t come back today. I’m not allowed to leave. It’s the police.

  VOICE. The police?

  MIDGE. Yes, the police.

  VOICE. What ’ave you done?

  MIDGE. It’s not my fault. One can’t help these things.

  VOICE. Where are you?

  MIDGE. I’m at Dowfield.

  VOICE. Where there is a murder?

  MIDGE. Yes, you read about it in the paper?

  VOICE. Of course. This is most inconvenient. What do you think my customers will say when they know you are mixed up in a murder?

  MIDGE. It’s hardly my fault.

  VOICE. It’s all most upsetting.

  MIDGE. Murder is.

  VOICE. It’s very exciting for you. Very nice for you to be in the limelight.

  MIDGE. I think you are being rather unjust.

  VOICE. If you do not return today, you will not ’ave any job. There are plenty of girls who would be ’appy to ’ave it.

  MIDGE. Please don’t say such things. I’m very sorry.

  VOICE. You will return tomorrow or don’t dare to show your face again.

  (MIDGE replaces the receiver. She is near to tears.)

  EDWARD. Who was that?

  MIDGE. My employer.

  EDWARD. You should have told her to go to hell.

  MIDGE. And get myself fired?

  EDWARD. I can’t bear to hear you so—subservient.

  MIDGE. You don’t understand what you’re talking about. (She moves above the sofa.) To show an independent spirit one needs an independent income.

  EDWARD. My God, Midge, there are other jobs—interesting jobs.

  MIDGE. Yes—you read advertisements asking for them every day in The Times.

  EDWARD. Yes.

  MIDGE. (Moving up Centre) Sometimes, Edward, you make me lose my temper. What do you know about jobs? Getting them and keeping them? This job, as it happens, is fairly well-paid, with reasonable hours.

  EDWARD. Oh, money!

  MIDGE. (Moving to Left of the sofa) Yes, money. That’s what I use to live on. I’ve got to have a job that keeps me, do you understand.

  EDWARD. Henry and Lucy would . . .

  MIDGE. We’ve been into that before. Of course they would. (She crosses to the fireplace.) It’s no good, Edward. You’re an Angkatell and Henry and Lucy are Angka
tells, but I’m only half an Angkatell. My father was a plain little businessman—honest and hardworking and probably not very clever. It’s from him I get the feeling I don’t like to accept favours. When his business failed, his creditors got paid twenty shillings in the pound. I’m like him. I mind about money and about debts. Don’t you see, Edward, it’s all right for you and Lucy. Lucy would have any of her friends to stay indefinitely and never think about it twice—and she could go and live on her friends if necessary. There would be no feeling of obligation. But I’m different.

  EDWARD. (Rising) You dear ridiculous child. (He puts the magazine on the coffee table.)

  MIDGE. I may be ridiculous but I am not a child.

  EDWARD. (Crossing to the fireplace and standing above MIDGE) But it’s all wrong that you should have to put up with rudeness and insolence. My God, Midge, I’d like to take you out of it all—carry you off to Ainswick.

  MIDGE. (Furiously and half crying) Why do you say these stupid things? You don’t mean them. (She sits on the pouffe.) Do you think it makes life any easier when I’m being bullied and shouted at to remember that there are places like Ainswick in the world? Do you think I’m grateful to you for standing there and babbling about how much you’d like to take me out of it all? It sounds so charming and means absolutely nothing.

  EDWARD. Midge!

  MIDGE. Don’t you know I’d sell my soul to be at Ainswick now, this minute? I love Ainswick so much I can hardly bear to think of it. You’re cruel, Edward, saying nice things you don’t mean.

  EDWARD. But I do mean them. (He eases Centre, turns and faces MIDGE.) Come on, Midge. We’ll drive to Ainswick now in my car.

  MIDGE. Edward!

  EDWARD. (Drawing MIDGE to her feet) Come on, Midge. We’re going to Ainswick. Shall we? What about it, eh?

  MIDGE. (Laughing a little hysterically) I’ve called your bluff, haven’t I?

  EDWARD. It isn’t bluff.

  MIDGE. (Patting EDWARD’s arm, then crossing to Left of the sofa) Calm down, Edward. In any case, the police would stop us.

  EDWARD. Yes, I suppose they would.

  MIDGE. (Sitting on the sofa at the Left end of it; gently) All right, Edward, I’m sorry I shouted at you.

  EDWARD. (Quietly) You really love Ainswick, don’t you?

  MIDGE. I’m resigned to not going there, but don’t rub it in.

  EDWARD. I can see it wouldn’t do to rush off there this moment—(He moves to Left of the sofa) but I’m suggesting that you come to Ainswick for good.

  MIDGE. For good?

  EDWARD. I’m suggesting that you marry me, Midge.

  MIDGE. Marry . . . ?

  EDWARD. I’m not a very romantic proposition. I’m a dull dog. I read what I expect you would think are dull books, and I write a few dull articles and potter about the estate. But we’ve known each other a long time—and perhaps Ainswick would make up for me. Will you come, Midge?

  MIDGE. Marry you? (She rises.)

  EDWARD. Can you bear the idea?

  MIDGE. (Kneeling at the Left end of the sofa and leaning over the end of it towards EDWARD; incoherently) Edward, oh, Edward—you offer me heaven like—like something on a plate.

  (EDWARD takes her hands and kisses them. LADY ANGKATELL enters Right.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (As she enters) What I feel about rhododendrons is that unless you mass them in big clumps you don’t get . . .

  MIDGE. (Rising and turning to LADY ANGKATELL) Edward and I are going to be married.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Dumbfounded) Married? You and Edward? But, Midge, I never dre . . . (She recovers herself, moves to MIDGE, kisses her, then holds out her hand to EDWARD.) Oh, darling, I’m so happy. (She shakes EDWARD’s hand and her face lights up.) I am so delighted. You’ll stay on here and give up that horrid shop. You can be married from here—Henry can give you away.

  MIDGE. Darling Lucy, I’d love to be married from here.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Sitting on the sofa at the Right end of it.) Off-white satin, and an ivory prayer book—no bouquet. Bridesmaids?

  MIDGE. Oh no, I don’t want any fuss.

  EDWARD. Just a very quiet wedding, Lucy.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Yes, I know exactly what you mean, darling. Unless one carefully chooses them, bridesmaids never match properly—there’s nearly always one plain one who ruins the whole effect—usually the bridegroom’s sister. And children—children are the worst of all. They step on the train, they howl for Nannie. I never feel a bride can go up the aisle in a proper frame of mind while she’s so uncertain what’s happening behind her.

  MIDGE. I don’t need to have anything behind me, not even a train. I can be married in a coat and skirt.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising and crossing Left Centre) Oh no, Midge—that’s too much like a widow. Off-white satin, and I shall take you to Mireille.

  MIDGE. I can’t possibly afford Mireille.

  LADY ANGKATELL. Darling, Henry and I will give you your trousseau.

  MIDGE. (Crossing to LADY ANGKATELL and kissing her) Darling. (She turns, crosses to EDWARD and holds his hands.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. Dear Midge, dear Edward! I do hope that band on Henry’s trousers won’t be too tight. I’d like him to enjoy himself. As for me, I shall wear . . . (She closes her eyes.)

  MIDGE. Yes, Lucy?

  LADY ANGKATELL. Hydrangea blue—and silver fox. That’s settled. What a pity John Cristow’s dead. Really quite unnecessary after all. But what an exciting weekend. (She moves to Left of MIDGE and EDWARD.) First a murder, then a marriage, then this, then that.

  (The INSPECTOR and the SERGEANT enter Left.)

  (She turns.) Come in—come in. These young people have just got engaged to be married.

  INSPECTOR. (Easing Left Centre.) Indeed. My congratulations.

  EDWARD. Thank you very much.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Crossing to the door Left) I suppose I ought to get ready for the inquest. I am so looking forward to it. I’ve never been to an inquest before.

  (She exits Left. The SERGEANT closes the door. EDWARD and MIDGE cross and exit Right.)

  SERGEANT. (Crossing to Right) You may say what you like, she’s a queer one. (He nods towards the window Right.) And what about those two? So it was her he was keen on, and not the other one.

  INSPECTOR. So it seems now.

  SERGEANT. Well, that about washes him out. Who have we got left?

  INSPECTOR. We’ve only got Gudgeon’s word for it that the gun in Lady Angkatell’s basket is what he says it was. It’s still wide open. You know, we’ve forgotten one thing, Penny—the holster.

  SERGEANT. Holster?

  INSPECTOR. Sir Henry told us that the gun was originally in a brown leather holster. Where’s the holster?

  (SIR HENRY enters Left.)

  SIR HENRY. I suppose we ought to be starting—(He crosses to the windows Right.) but everyone seems to have disappeared for some extraordinary reason. (He looks out of the window and calls.) Edward. Midge.

  (LADY ANGKATELL enters Left. She wears her hat and coat. She carries a prayer book and one white glove and one grey glove.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Moving Left Centre) How do I look? Is this the sort of thing one wears?

  SIR HENRY. (Turning and moving to Right of the sofa) You don’t need a prayer book, my dear.

  LADY ANGKATELL. But I thought one swore things.

  INSPECTOR. Evidence isn’t usually taken on oath in a Coroner’s court, Lady Angkatell. In any case, the proceedings will be purely formal today. (He crosses to the door Left.)

  (The SERGEANT crosses to the door Left.)

  Well, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll both be getting on our way.

  (He exits Left. The SERGEANT follows him off.)

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Easing to the fireplace) You and I and Gerda can go in the Daimler, and Edward can take Midge and Henrietta.

  SIR HENRY. (Moving Centre) Where’s Gerda?

  LADY ANGKATELL. Henrietta is with her.

  (EDWARD and MIDGE enter Right. MIDGE picks up her b
ag and gloves from the writing table, and moves below the sofa. EDWARD crosses above the sofa to Right of SIR HENRY.)

  SIR HENRY. Well, what’s this I hear about you two? (He shakes hands with EDWARD.) Isn’t this wonderful news? (He crosses to Left of MIDGE and kisses her.)

  EDWARD. Thank you, Henry.

  MIDGE. Thank you, Cousin Henry.

  LADY ANGKATELL. (Looking at her gloves) Now what made me take one white glove and one grey glove? How very odd.

  (She exits Left.)

  EDWARD. (Moving up Centre) I’ll get my car round.

  (He exits up Centre to Left.)

  MIDGE. (Sitting on the sofa) Are you really pleased?

  SIR HENRY. It’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time. You don’t know what it’ll mean to Lucy. She’s got Ainswick on the brain, as you know.

  MIDGE. She wanted Edward to marry Henrietta. (Troubled) Will she mind that it’s me?

  SIR HENRY. Of course not. She only wanted Edward to marry. If you want my opinion, you’ll make him a far better wife than Henrietta.

  MIDGE. It’s always been Henrietta with Edward.

  SIR HENRY. (Crossing to the fireplace) Well, don’t you let those police fellows hear you say so. (He fills his cigarette case from the box on the mantelpiece.) Best thing in the world from that point of view that he’s got engaged to you. Takes suspicion right off him.

  MIDGE. (Rising) Suspicion? Off Edward?

  SIR HENRY. (Turning) Counting Gerda out of it, I should say he was suspect number one. To put it bluntly, he loathed John Cristow’s guts.

  MIDGE. (Crossing to Centre then moving up Left) I remember—the evening after the murder—so that’s why . . . (Her face grows desperately unhappy.)

  (HENRIETTA enters Left.)

  HENRIETTA. Oh, Henry, I’m taking Gerda with me. (She crosses to the drinks table and picks up her gloves and bag.) She is in rather a nervous state—and I think that one of Lucy’s conversations would just about finish her. We’re starting now.

  SIR HENRY. (Moving to the door Left) Yes, we ought to be starting too.

  (He exits Left, leaving the door open.)

  (Off; calling.) Are you ready, Lucy?

  HENRIETTA. (Putting on her gloves) Congratulations, Midge. Did you stand on a table and shout at him?

  MIDGE. (Solemnly) I rather think I did.

  HENRIETTA. I told you that was what Edward needed.