The Mousetrap

WARGRAVE. (Acidly) For them or for you?

MARSTON. Well, I was thinking—for me—but, of course, you’re right, sir. It was damned bad luck for them too. Of course, it was pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly nuisance.

ARMSTRONG. This speeding’s all wrong—all wrong. Young men like you are a danger to the community.

MARSTON. (Wanders to Right window; picks up his glass, which is half-full.) Well, I couldn’t help it. Just an accident.

ROGERS. Might I say a word, sir?

LOMBARD. Go ahead, Rogers.

ROGERS. There was a mention, sir, of me and Mrs. Rogers, and of Miss Jennifer Brady. There isn’t a word of truth in it. We were with Miss Brady when she died. She was always in poor health, sir, always from the time we came to her. There was a storm, sir, the night she died. The telephone was out of order. We couldn’t get the doctor to her. I went for him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. We’d done everything possible for her, sir. Devoted to her, we were. Anyone will tell you the same. There was never a word said against us. Never a word.

BLORE. (In a bullying manner) Came into a nice little something at her death, I suppose. Didn’t you?

ROGERS. (Crosses down Right toBLORE. Stiffly) Miss Brady left us a legacy in recognition of our faithful service. And why not, I’d like to know?

LOMBARD. (Right Centre. With meaning) What about yourself, Mr. Blore?

BLORE. What about me?

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.)