Cause Célèbre

by Terence Rattigan

  O’CONNOR. Oh no. That would be most deeply improper.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. Well, I honestly think my opening will have helped remove some of her prejudices –

  O’CONNOR. Yes.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. I emphasised that this was in no way a court of morals – and that they were to direct their attention only to the facts of the case.

  O’CONNOR (unable to contain himself). – brought against ‘this woman and this boy’ –

  CROOM-JOHNSON. Ah. I did notice your uneasiness at the appellation ‘boy’. But what else in all honesty could I call him, O’Connor? The jury have only to look at the dock –

  O’CONNOR. – and see a hulking young man, old enough to be hanged, and a woman young-looking enough to pass herself off successfully as his sister.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. But the gap in ages is so much a part of the case. One must steel oneself, must one not, to face facts, however disagreeable. (Gathers up his papers.)

  O’CONNOR. Bloody man! – Do you know I drew him in the Bar golf tournament, and he wouldn’t give me a fourteen-inch putt?… I missed it too. I’ve got to beat that bugger – (Smiles at CROOM-JOHNSON as he passes again.) if it’s the last thing I do.

  As the lawyers leave the court, the lights fade, coming up as MRS DAVENPORT enters wearily. STELLA, lying on a sofa, is reading an evening newspaper.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Has Tony come home?

  STELLA. Tony? No.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Oh, God, I won’t let John take him away from me, I won’t, I won’t. (Sits on sofa.)

  STELLA. Darling, you’ve had a tiring day. Do you want a cup of tea?

  MRS DAVENPORT. No, but I’d love a drink. A whisky.

  STELLA. That’s bold of you. (Gets up to pour the whisky.) So it didn’t work this morning?

  MRS DAVENPORT. No. And what’s worse, the jury has elected me Forewoman because I’d let out that father was a judge.

  STELLA. My dear, how too splendid. What d’you have in court tomorrow?

  MRS DAVENPORT. The rest of the prosecution witnesses, I think. Oh, Stella, it’s all so foul.

  She goes out to the bedroom. STELLA picks up her newspaper and crosses to the phone.

  STELLA (calling). Darling, do you know what odds the bookmakers are laying on Mrs Rattenbury being convicted?

  MRS DAVENPORT (off). ‘Odds’? How can they be so unfeeling?

  STELLA. No principles, bookmakers. In the city they’re even taking bets on whether she’ll hang. Good odds too. But for her being convicted – it’s here somewhere. (Looks in the paper.) Yes, they’re giving three to one.

  MRS DAVENPORT (off). Only three to one? That woman – it’s absurd.

  STELLA. Well – if ever I heard a tip straight from the horse’s mouth – (Into phone.) Hello – still at the office? There’s a good Henry!… Look, darling, apparently you can get three to one on Mrs Rattenbury being convicted – well – (Lowering her voice.) Edie’s just back from court, and she says that in her view those odds are madly generous… Yes, and they’ve made her Forewoman too, so of course she’ll have a big say… Yes, a real hot snip. Well, put on six hundred for me, would you?…

  TONY comes in.

  Thank you, darling… I will. Henry sends his love. (Hangs up.) Tony!

  TONY. Hullo, Aunt Stella.

  MRS DAVENPORT comes back in, wearing a dressing gown.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony!

  TONY. … Hullo, Mum.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony, thank God. You’ve come back.

  TONY. No, I haven’t. Dad’s here.

  MRS DAVENPORT. I won’t see him!

  JOHN DAVENPORT enters.

  I’m not allowed to see you. The Judge said –

  DAVENPORT. I remember very well what the Judge said. ‘No communication of any kind.’ Hullo, Stella.

  STELLA. Hullo, John.

  DAVENPORT. So this letter I’ve brought is just as wrong as my presence. (Holds out a letter.)

  MRS DAVENPORT. I won’t read it.

  DAVENPORT. I thought not, which is why I’m delivering it myself.

  STELLA. I’ll go.

  MRS DAVENPORT. No, don’t. Please.

  DAVENPORT. I don’t mind Stella hearing what I’ve got to say. Tony, go down and wait in the car, would you?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Are you taking him away?

  DAVENPORT. To the cottage.

  MRS DAVENPORT. And I forbid him to go.

  DAVENPORT. Go ahead, Tony.

  MRS DAVENPORT. No –

  TONY. Sorry, Mum. Really. I’ll call you tomorrow. (Goes.)

  MRS DAVENPORT. I’ve only to ring the police –

  DAVENPORT. Yes. Then I’d have to give my exact reasons to the Judge for taking my son away from here. Of course he’d find the reasons quite insufficient, and I’d be fined or committed, and Tony would be returned to you. There’d probably be a little something in the papers, which probably would be read by Tony’s headmaster –

  MRS DAVENPORT. This is pure blackmail.

  DAVENPORT. Yes it is, I suppose. It’s also a truthful forecast of what would happen, must happen, if you invoke the law.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Exactly what lies have you told his headmaster?

  DAVENPORT. I told him the truth. Not all of it, but I said the boy had had a severe psychological shock, that he’d attempted suicide –

  MRS DAVENPORT. That’s a lie!

  DAVENPORT. It’s not. The night before last he swallowed some sleeping pills.

  MRS DAVENPORT. No –

  DAVENPORT. If you don’t believe me, go into the bathroom and look for your sleeping pills. Luckily there were only seven or eight left, and they made him sick at once.

  MRS DAVENPORT. But I’d have heard if –

  DAVENPORT. Tony’s a polite boy. He can even vomit quietly enough not to wake his mother. And then apparently lie on the bathroom floor, sobbing – but into a towel, quietly.

  MRS DAVENPORT. But is this – thing he has as dreadful as that?

  DAVENPORT. Medically it’s nothing, provided it’s treated promptly… It’s the psychological shock he won’t get over so easily, and he’d never get over it here… unless…

  Pause.

  Are you going to read my letter?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Never.

  DAVENPORT. Then I’ll read it to you. (Takes the letter and opens it.) ‘My dearest Edie – for the sake of Tony, and also for our own sakes, I want you to rescind the decree nisi. It’s very easily done, by application to a judge in chambers.

  I must tell you with complete truth that there is no other woman in my life. No single other woman, that is. The one you know about left me some months ago, with no regrets on either side. She wasn’t important to me. No woman has ever been important to me except yourself. I admit that I’ve had occasional affairs, but they were necessary to me – you know why – always brief, and usually with a mercenary tinge.

  Without you, Edie, and without Tony, I have been a very lonely man. So, I believe, are you lonely without me. Please let me come back into your life. If you do I promise to behave as well as I can. That doesn’t, I’m afraid, mean as well as you’d want me to. It can never mean that, Edie my darling, as you know. But if you can only bring yourself to overlook an occasional late night at the office, or the odd dinner at the Club with the Permanent Secretary, I swear a solemn oath to you that you will never otherwise be humiliated. I renounce my conjugal rights entirely, but I earnestly entreat you to let me once again be your loving husband.

  John.’

  He puts it back in the envelope and hands it to her. She won’t take it. He puts it on the coffee table.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Your terms.

  DAVENPORT. Yours as well.

  MRS DAVENPORT. The answer is no.

  STELLA. Think about it, Edie. For God’s sake, think about it.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Stella, how can you? He wants me to – condone adultery? It’s unthinkable and you know it, I will not break the standards by which I’ve lived all my life.

  DAVENPORT. Tho
se standards could be wrong, you know. They’re certainly becoming a little dated… You won’t reconsider?

  No reply.

  Well, I’ll say goodbye. (At the door.) Tell me – this Mrs Rattenbury, is she for it?

  MRS DAVENPORT. We’re not allowed to talk about it.

  DAVENPORT (smiling). I don’t give much for her chances with you judging her. I don’t know anything about Mrs Rattenbury, except what I’ve read in the papers, but that’s enough to tell me that her vices, which I am sure are deplorable, do add up to some kind of affirmation. Your virtues, Edie, which I know are admirable, add up to precisely nothing. Goodbye!

  He goes. MRS DAVENPORT picks up the letter, then tears it up decisively. The lights fade as she goes to her room. STELLA picks up the pieces of the letter, then sits.

  The Old Bailey. The trial is in its second day, and POLICE SERGEANT BAGWELL is being examined by CROOM-JOHNSON for the prosecution. The dock is unseen.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. At what time did you receive this call from the hospital? You may use your notebook, if there is no objection.

  CASSWELL and the JUDGE both nod acceptance.

  O’CONNOR is too busy muttering to MONTAGU to notice.

  SERGEANT. The call came through at 2.13 a.m., sir, saying that all attempts to revive the deceased had failed.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. What did you do then?

  SERGEANT. Acting on this information, I duly presented myself at the Villa Madeira, at 2.47 a.m. There was a lot of commotion proceeding from inside –

  CROOM-JOHNSON. What kind of commotion?

  The lights fade to a spot on the SERGEANT.

  SERGEANT. There was a gramophone playing at full blast, sir – and some female laughter of a shrill nature. There being no answer to the bell, I tried the door and found it open. I then entered the sitting room, and found the female prisoner attired in a nightdress, and two police officers to whom she was making flourishing gestures with her bed jacket – in imitation of bullfighting or some such. I immediately summoned the two officers outside, asked what their business had been, and sent them away. I then proceeded back into the house.

  The lights have come up on the sitting room of the Villa Madeira where ALMA, dressed as described by the SERGEANT, is continuing her cavortings to a now empty room. The gramophone is playing loudly. Suddenly she notices.

  ALMA. Oh, damn and blast! (Plaintively.) Where have you gone? Come back. We’re having fun.

  She takes a large swig from an evidently almost empty bottle. The record runs out and she goes to change it. She is very drunk. The SERGEANT comes in, knocking politely at the open door. ALMA, at the gramophone, has her back to him.

  SERGEANT. Beg pardon for the intrusion, but would you be –

  ALMA (with a shriek of joy). Oh, another lovely policeman! Come in. Come in. We’re having a gorgeous time –

  The deafening music has started up again.

  SERGEANT (shouting). Would you be Mrs Francis Rattenbury?

  ALMA. Alma to you, dear. Come and dance –

  She puts her arms round his neck. He detaches himself.

  SERGEANT. May we have the music down, please?

  ALMA. Why? How can we dance with no music?

  She tries again to get him to dance. Again he eludes.

  SERGEANT. Excuse me, madam. With your permission?

  He goes to the gramophone and turns it off.

  ALMA. Oh, why did you do that? Now it’s quiet. I don’t like it quiet –

  She goes to the gramophone again. He gently restrains her.

  SERGEANT. I’m sorry, madam, but you could be disturbing the neighbours.

  ALMA (laughing). Oh, that’s terrible. Disturbing the neighbours is terrible.

  SERGEANT. I must ask you again if you are Mrs Francis Rattenbury?

  ALMA. That’s right.

  SERGEANT. The widow of Francis Rattenbury.

  ALMA. Widow?

  SERGEANT. You have not been informed of your husband’s death?

  ALMA. Don’t talk about awful things. Let’s have some music –

  SERGEANT (restraining her). I must ask you, madam, what you know about your husband’s death.

  ALMA. Everything. I know everything. (Shudders and covers her face, then emerges brightly smiling.) I did it, you see. All by myself. All alone. (Singing and dancing.) All alone, all alone.

  She goes to the bottle. The SERGEANT takes it from her.

  SERGEANT. Who else is in this house?

  ALMA. Only Irene.

  SERGEANT. Irene?

  ALMA. She’s my maid. My friend. I sent her up to bed. She knows nothing about it. I want my whisky –

  ALMA takes the bottle from him. She seems to finish it.

  SERGEANT. And this Irene is the only other person in the house?

  ALMA, in the act of looking for another bottle, stops and turns slowly.

  ALMA. There’s George too –

  SERGEANT. George?

  ALMA. My chauffeur. He’s only a boy. He’s nothing – just an odd-job boy –

  SERGEANT. Where is he?

  ALMA. How would I know? I’m not his mother… I expect he’s upstairs, asleep. He’s very young, you see –

  SERGEANT. Madam, I must now caution you. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you follow me?

  ALMA. Anywhere. Are you married? You’ve lots of girls, I expect – Would you like ten pounds? No, it’s a crime to give a policeman money.

  SERGEANT. Madam, please.

  ALMA. He wanted to die, you see. He said he’d lived too long. He gave me a mallet and dared me to kill him, so I did.

  SERGEANT. Where is the mallet?

  ALMA (yawning). What?

  SERGEANT. The mallet? Where is the mallet?

  ALMA. Oh, I’ll remember in the morning. (Gets up.) No, mustn’t sleep. I might dream. Let’s have that music again –

  SERGEANT (closing his notebook). Madam, I propose to telephone the police station, using the call box outside –

  ALMA. There’s one in there. Better still, there’s one in the bedroom.

  SERGEANT. I shall use the call box, thank you, madam.

  ALMA. Please yourself, but you don’t know what you’re missing –

  The SERGEANT goes out. As he disappears, ALMA is going towards the gramophone. After he has left she covers her face, emitting a sob, as reality seems to hit her. Then, swaying, she places the record back on the turntable and the music starts up again, deafeningly loud.

  The lights fade as she moves in time to the music, and come up on the courtroom. The SERGEANT is continuing his evidence. The music overlaps until it too fades out.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. A general question, Sergeant, about Mrs Rattenbury’s behaviour. Remembering that only a few hours before, her husband had been brutally killed, how did you react in your mind to her attitude that night?

  SERGEANT. I was – disgusted, sir.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. In one word, how would you describe her behaviour?

  SERGEANT (after thought). Callous. Downright brutal.

  CROOM-JOHNSON. Thank you, Sergeant.

  He sits down.

  MONTAGU. Look at the press boys scampering out. Imagine the headlines.

  O’CONNOR. They should have waited. (Rises.) Sergeant, how long have you been in the police force?

  SERGEANT. Twenty years, sir.

  O’CONNOR. In that time you would, of course, have attended at many gruesome occasions – car accidents and the like?

  SERGEANT. Yes, sir. Many.

  O’CONNOR. You must then be familiar with the medical phenomenon known as shock?

  SERGEANT. I’ve seen cases of shock, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Severe shock?

  SERGEANT. Some severe.

  O’CONNOR. How do such persons usually behave?

  SERGEANT. Well, I’d say, sometimes they’re not quite all there.

  O’CONNOR. ‘Not quite all there’? Not aware of thei
r surroundings, or excited and over-talkative?

  SERGEANT. Both, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Inclined to fits either of hysterical weeping or, quite as likely, hysterical laughter – and, generally speaking, inclined to behave entirely out of character?

  SERGEANT. Yes, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Why then were you so disgusted at Mrs Rattenbury’s behaviour that night?

  SERGEANT. I didn’t think it was shock, sir. I mean, I saw no occasion –

  O’CONNOR. You ‘saw no occasion’? Can you imagine a greater occasion for shock than the brutal murder of a dearly loved husband in her own home? Can you?

  SERGEANT. She didn’t seem disturbed, sir. Like I said – she was laughing, and dancing and playing about.

  O’CONNOR (forcefully). Good God, man – have you never heard of hysteria?

  JUDGE. Mr O’Connor.

  O’CONNOR. I’m sorry, my lord. Have you never heard of hysteria, Sergeant?

  SERGEANT. Of course, sir.

  O’CONNOR. What form does it take?

  SERGEANT. Laughing, sir. But this wasn’t hysterical laughing –

  O’CONNOR. And who are you to judge?

  SERGEANT. I’ve seen hysteria, sir –

  O’CONNOR. You’ve also seen shock, and you failed to recognise that, didn’t you? What is the treatment for shock? (As SERGEANT hesitates.) Come on. You’ve read your manual. What does it say?

  SERGEANT. One should keep the victim warm, using blankets when obtainable –

  O’CONNOR. This victim was half-dressed, on a night in March. Was there a fire in the grate?

  SERGEANT. No, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Were the windows open?

  SERGEANT. Yes, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Do you remember what the temperature was that night in Bournemouth?

  SERGEANT. No, sir. Not exactly.

  O’CONNOR. Would it surprise you to learn that at two o’clock on the morning of March twenty-fifth, the temperature on the Town Hall roof was recorded as three degrees below freezing?

  SERGEANT. I remember it was a bit chilly, sir. I didn’t know it was as cold as that.

  O’CONNOR. It was as cold as that. And the windows in the sitting room were open?

  SERGEANT. Yes, sir.

  O’CONNOR. Back to the manual. If the victim is not kept warm, what does it say can happen to the victim? What is there a danger of?

  SERGEANT. Collapse, sir.