JUDGE. Romaine Heilger, will you go back into the witness box?
(ROMAINE rises and enters the witness box.)
You have heard that letter read. What have you to say?
ROMAINE. (Frozen in defeat.) Nothing.
LEONARD. Romaine, tell him you didn’t write it. I know you didn’t write it.
ROMAINE. (Turning and fairly spitting out the words) Of course I wrote it.
SIR WILFRID. That, my lord, concludes the case for the defence.
JUDGE. Sir Wilfrid, have you any evidence as to whom these letters were addressed?
SIR WILFRID. My lord, they came into my possession anonymously, and there has been as yet no time to ascertain any further facts. It would seem likely that he came to this country illegally and is engaged on some subversive operations here . . .
ROMAINE. You will never find out who he is—never. I don’t care what you do to me. You shall never know.
JUDGE. Do you wish to re-examine, Mr. Myers?
(SIR WILFRID sits.)
MYERS. (Rising rather unhappily) Really, my lord, I find it somewhat difficult in view of these startling developments. (To ROMAINE.) Mrs. Heilger, you are, I think, of a highly nervous temperament. Being a foreigner you may not quite realize the responsibilities that lie upon you when you take the oath in an English court of law. If you have been intimidated into admitting something that is not true, if you wrote a letter under stress or in some spirit of make-believe, do not hesitate to say so now.
ROMAINE. Must you go on and on torturing me? I wrote the letter. Now let me go.
MYERS. My lord, I submit that this witness is in such a state of agitation that she hardly knows what she is saying or admitting.
JUDGE. You may remember, Mr. Myers, that Sir Wilfrid cautioned the witness at the time of her previous statement and impressed upon her the sacred nature of the oath she had taken.
(MYERS sits.)
Mrs. Heilger, I wish to warn you that this is not the end of the matter. In this country you cannot commit perjury without being brought to account for it, and I may tell you that I have no doubt proceedings for perjury will shortly be taken against you. The sentence for perjury can be severe. You may stand down.
(ROMAINE stands down. The POLICEMAN opens the door. ROMAINE crosses and exits. The POLICEMAN closes the door.)
Sir Wilfrid, will you now address the Jury on behalf of the defence?
SIR WILFRID. (Rising) Members of the Jury, when truth is clearly evident it speaks for itself. No words of mine I’m sure can add to the impression made upon you by the straightforward story which the prisoner has told, and by the very wicked attempt to incriminate him, evidence of which you have just witnessed . . .
(As SIR WILFRID speaks the LIGHTS dim to black-out. After a few seconds the LIGHTS come up. The JURY are out but are just re-entering the box.)
CLERK. (Rising) Vole, stand up.
(LEONARD rises.)
Members of the Jury, are you all agreed upon your verdict?
FOREMAN. (Standing) We are.
CLERK. Do you find the prisoner, Leonard Vole, guilty or not guilty?
FOREMAN. Not guilty, my lord.
(A buzz of approbation goes round the court.)
USHER. (Rising and moving down C.) Silence!
JUDGE. Leonard Vole, you have been found not guilty of the murder of Emily French on October fourteenth. You are hereby discharged and are free to leave the Court. (He rises.)
(ALL rise. The JUDGE bows to the Court and exits up R., followed by the ALDERMAN and the JUDGE’S CLERK.)
USHER. All persons who have anything further to do before my lady the Queen’s justices of Oyer and Terminer and general gaol delivery for the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court may depart hence and give your attendance here again tomorrow morning at ten-thirty o’clock. God Save The Queen.
(The USHER, the JURY and the STENOGRAPHER exit down R. The BARRISTERS, ASSISTANTS and the CLERK OF THE COURT exit up C. The WARDER and the POLICEMAN exit up L. LEONARD leaves the dock and crosses to MAYHEW.)
MAYHEW. Congratulations, my boy!
LEONARD. I can’t thank you enough.
MAYHEW. (Tactfully indicating SIR WILFRID) This is the man you’ve got to thank.
(LEONARD crosses to C. to meet SIR WILFRID, but comes face to face with MYERS, who glares at him, and exits up C. SIR WILFRID crosses to R. of LEONARD.)
LEONARD. (Turning to SIR WILFRID) Thank you, sir (His tone is less spontaneous than it was to MAYHEW. He dislikes SIR WILFRID it seems.) You—you’ve got me out of a very nasty mess.
SIR WILFRID. Nasty mess! Do you hear that, John? Your troubles are over now, my boy.
MAYHEW. (Moving to L. of LEONARD) But it was a near thing, you know.
LEONARD. (Unwillingly) Yes, I suppose it was.
SIR WILFRID. If we hadn’t been able to break that woman down . . .
LEONARD. Did you have to go for her the way you did? It was terrible the way she went to pieces. I can’t believe . . .
SIR WILFRID. (With all the force of his personality.) Look here, Vole, you’re not the first young man I’ve known who’s been so crazy over a woman that he’s been blinded to what she’s really like. That woman did her level best to put a rope round your neck.
MAYHEW. And don’t you forget it.
LEONARD. Yes, but why? I can’t see why. She’s always seemed so devoted. I could have sworn she loved me—and yet all the time she was going with this other fellow. (He shakes his head.) It’s unbelievable—there’s something there I don’t understand.
WARDER. (Enters up L. and moves to L. of the table.) Just two or three minutes more, sir. We’ll slip you out to a car by the side entrance.
LEONARD. Is there still a crowd?
(ROMAINE, escorted by the POLICEMAN, enters up L.)
POLICEMAN. (In the doorway.) Better wait in here, ma’am. The crowd’s in a nasty mood. I’d let them disperse before you try to leave.
ROMAINE. (Moving down L. of the table) Thank you.
(The POLICEMAN and the WARDER exit up L. ROMAINE crosses towards LEONARD.)
SIR WILFRID. (Intercepting ROMAINE) No, you don’t.
ROMAINE. (Amused) Are you protecting Leonard from me? Really, there’s no need.
SIR WILFRID. You’ve done enough harm.
ROMAINE. Mayn’t I even congratulate Leonard on being free?
SIR WILFRID. No thanks to you.
ROMAINE. And rich.
LEONARD. (Uncertainly.) Rich?
MAYHEW. Yes, I think, Mr. Vole, that you will certainly inherit a great deal of money.
LEONARD. (Boyishly) Money doesn’t seem to mean so much after what I’ve been through. Romaine, I can’t understand . . .
ROMAINE. (Smoothly.) Leonard, I can explain.
SIR WILFRID. No!
(SIR WILFRID and ROMAINE look at each other like antagonists.)
ROMAINE. Tell me, do those words the Judge said mean that I shall—go to prison?
SIR WILFRID. You will quite certainly be charged with perjury and tried for it. You will probably go to prison.
LEONARD. (Awkwardly.) I’m sure that—that everything will come right. Romaine, don’t worry.
MAYHEW. Will you never see sense, Vole? Now we must consider practicalities—this matter of probate.
(MAYHEW draws LEONARD down R., where they murmur together. SIR WILFRID and ROMAINE remain, measuring each other.)
SIR WILFRID. It may interest you to know that I took your measure the first time we met. I made up my mind then to beat you at your little game, and by God I’ve done it. I’ve got him off—in spite of you.
ROMAINE. In spite—of me.
SIR WILFRID. You don’t deny, do you, that you did your best to hang him?
ROMAINE. Would they have believed me if I had said that he was at home with me that night, and did not go out? Would they?
SIR WILFRID. (Slightly uncomfortable) Why not?
ROMAINE. Because they would have said to themselves: this woman loves th
is man—she would say or do anything for him. They would have had sympathy with me, yes. But they would not have believed me.
SIR WILFRID. If you’d been speaking the truth they would.
ROMAINE. I wonder. (She pauses.) I did not want their sympathy—I wanted them to dislike me, to mistrust me, to be convinced that I was a liar. And then, when my lies were broken down—then they believed . . . (In the Cockney accent of the WOMAN who visited SIR WILFRID at his office.) So now you know the whole story, mister—like to kiss me?
SIR WILFRID. (Thunderstruck.) My God!
ROMAINE. (As herself) Yes, the woman with the letters. I wrote those letters. I brought them to you. I was that woman. It wasn’t you who won freedom for Leonard. It was I. And because of it I shall go to prison. (Her eyes close.) But at the end of it Leonard and I will be together again. Happy—loving each other.
SIR WILFRID. (Moved.) My dear . . . But couldn’t you trust me? We believe, you know, that our British system of justice upholds the truth. We’d have got him off.
ROMAINE. I couldn’t risk it. (Slowly.) You see, you thought he was innocent . . .
SIR WILFRID. (With quick appreciation.) And you knew he was innocent. I understand.
ROMAINE. But you do not understand at all. I knew he was guilty.
SIR WILFRID. (Thunderstruck.) But aren’t you afraid?
ROMAINE. Afraid?
SIR WILFRID. Of linking your life with a murderer’s.
ROMAINE. You don’t understand—we love each other.
SIR WILFRID. The first time I met you I said you were a very remarkable woman—I see no reason to change my opinion. (Crosses and exits up C.)
WARDER. (Off up L.) It’s no good going in there, miss. It’s all over.
(There is a COMMOTION off up L. and then a GIRL comes running on up L. She is a very young strawberry blonde with a crude, obvious appeal. She rushes to LEONARD through the Q.C.’s bench and meets him down R.C.)
GIRL. Len, darling, you’re free. (She embraces him) Isn’t it wonderful? They’re trying to keep me out. Darling, it’s been awful. I’ve been nearly crazy.
ROMAINE. (With sudden violent harshness.) Leonard—who—is—this girl!
GIRL. (To ROMAINE, defiantly.) I’m Len’s girl. I know all about you. You’re not his wife. Never have been. (She crosses to R. of ROMAINE.) You’re years older than him, and you just got hold of him—and you’ve done your best to hang him. But that’s all over now. (She turns to LEONARD.) We’ll go abroad like you said on one of your cruises—to all those grand places. We’ll have a wonderful time.
ROMAINE. Is—this—true? Is she your girl, Leonard?
LEONARD. (Hesitates, then decides that the situation must be accepted.) Yes, she is.
(The GIRL crosses above LEONARD to R. of him.)
ROMAINE. After all I’ve done for you . . . What can she do for you that can compare with that?
LEONARD. (Flinging off all disguise of manner, and showing coarse brutality.) She’s fifteen years younger than you are. (He laughs.)
(ROMAINE flinches as though struck.)
(He crosses to R. of ROMAINE. Menacingly.) I’ve got the money. I’ve been acquitted, and I can’t be tried again, so don’t go shooting off your mouth, or you’ll just get yourself hanged as an accessory after the fact. (He turns to the GIRL and embraces her.)
ROMAINE. (Picks up the knife from the table. Throwing her head back in sudden dignity.) No, that will not happen. I shall not be tried as an accessory after the fact. I shall not be tried for perjury. I shall be tried for murder—(She stabs LEONARD in the back.) the murder of the only man I ever loved.
(LEONARD drops. The GIRL screams. Mayhew bends over LEONARD, feels his pulse and shakes his head.)
(She looks up at the JUDGE’S seat.) Guilty, my lord.
CURTAIN
Towards Zero
Presented by Peter Saunders at the James’s Theatre, London, on the 4th September, 1956, with the following cast of characters:
(In the order of their appearance)
THOMAS ROYDE
Cyril Raymond
KAY STRANGE
Mary Law
MARY ALDIN
Gillian Lind
MATTHEW TREVES
Frederick Leister
NEVILE STRANGE
George Baker
LADY TRESSILIAN
Janet Barrow
AUDREY STRANGE
Gwen Cherrell
TED LATIMER
Michael Scott
SUPERINTENDENT BATTLE, C.I.D.,
Scotland Yard
William Kendall
INSPECTOR LEACH, local C.I.D.
Max Brimmell
P. C. BENSON
Michael Nightingale
Directed by MURRAY MACDONALD
Décor by MICHAEL WEIGHT
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
The action of the play passes in the drawing room at Gull’s Point, Lady Tressilian’s house at Saltcreek, Cornwall.
ACT I
SCENE 1: A morning in September.
SCENE 2: After dinner, four days later.
ACT II
SCENE 1: Early the following morning.
SCENE 2: Two hours later.
ACT III
SCENE 1: The next morning.
SCENE 2: The same evening.
TIME: The present
ACT ONE
Scene I
SCENE: The drawing room at Gull’s Point, Lady Tressilian’s house at Saltcreek, Cornwall. A morning in September. It is a large, very beautiful room, obviously belonging to somebody with exquisite taste. It has been furnished to combine elegance with comfort. There is a deep, arched alcove up R. with French windows opening on to a terrace overlooking the garden and tennis court. A large curved-bay window up L., with a built-in window-seat, shows a view across the river to Easterhead Bay, with a large hotel on the cliff opposite. This window is slightly raised above the rest of the stage on a platform or rostrum. A door down L. leads to the other parts of the house. There is a chaise-longue R. C.; easy chairs down R. and down L. and armchairs L. C. and R. In the alcove R. there is a bureau-bookcase with a carver chair, a small table and an upright chair. A wastepaper basket stands L. of the bureau. Down R. there is a small table, and on it a framed photograph of Audrey. A standing work-basket is R. of the armchair L. C. On the rostrum in the bay window is a low butler’s tray with a variety of drinks and glasses. A large circular coffee table stands C. A low bookcase, with a table-lamp on it, is L. of the window and there is a corner table R. of the window. On the window-seat, at the L. end is a portable record player with some loose records. At night the room is lit by electric-candle wall-brackets down L. and above and below the alcove R. The switches are below the door down L.
When the curtain rises, the room is empty. An incongruous carpet sweeper stands negligently against the easy chair down L. Thomas Royde enters immediately by the French windows. He is a bronzed middle-aged man, good-looking in a rugged way. He carries a suitcase and a set of golf clubs. As he reaches the upstage end of the chaise, the door down L. is banged by someone as though rushing out of the room. Royde shrugs, moves to the window bay, puts his case and clubs at the L. end of it, opens the C. sash of the window, then takes his pipe and pouch from his pocket and stands gazing out of the window and filling his pipe. Kay Strange rushes in R. She is dressed in tennis kit and carries a towel. Clearly upset about something, she does not see Royde, tosses the towel on the chaise, goes to the table down R. and takes a cigarette from the box on it. As she does so, she sees the photograph of Audrey, drops the cigarette, picks up the photograph, rips it from the frame, tears it in half and throws it angrily into the wastepaper basket. Royde turns sharply. Kay pauses a moment, then looks round and sees Royde. She looks at once like a guilty child and is for a moment too startled to say anything.
KAY. Oh! Who are you?
ROYDE. (Moving to R. of the rostrum) I’ve just walked up from the bus stop. I’m . . .
KAY. (Interrupting
.) I know who you are. You’re the man from Malaya.
ROYDE. (Gravely.) Yes, I’m the man from Malaya.
KAY. (Moving to the coffee table C.) I just—came in, to get a cigarette. (She takes a cigarette from the box on the coffee table, crosses to the French windows and turns.) Oh, hell, what’s the good of explaining? What do I care what you think, anyway? (Kay rushes out R. Royde stares thoughtfully after her. Mary Aldin enters L. She is a dark-haired woman of about thirty-six, pleasant and noncommittal in manner and entirely competent. Nevertheless there is something faintly intriguing about her reserve. Royde turns to Mary.)
MARY. (Moving L. C.) Mr. Royde? (Royde moves to R. of Mary and shakes hands with her.) Lady Tressilian is not down yet. I am Mary Aldin—Lady Tressilian’s dogsbody.
ROYDE. Dogsbody?
MARY. The official term is secretary—but as I don’t know shorthand and such talents I have are purely domestic, “dogsbody” is a much better word.
ROYDE. I know all about you. Lady Tressilian told me in her Christmas letter what a wonderful difference you had made to her.
MARY. I’ve very fond of her. She has a lot of personality.
ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the chaise) That’s quite an understatement. (He turns to Mary.) How’s her arthritis?
MARY. It makes her rather helpless, poor dear.
ROYDE. I’m sorry about that.
MARY. (Moving on to the rostrum) Can I offer you a drink?
ROYDE. No, thank you. (He moves on to the R. end of the rostrum and looks out of the window.) What’s that great caravanserai over there?
The Mousetrap and Other Plays Page 46