Produced by Georgia Young, Tiffany Vergon, Charles

Aldarondo, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreaders Team

EMLYN WILLIAMS

NIGHT MUST FALL

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE PERFORMING RIGHTS OF THIS PLAY ARE FULLY PROTECTED, AND PERMISSION TO PERFORM IT, WHETHER BY AMATEURS OR PROFESSIONALS, MUST BE GAINED IN ADVANCE FROM THE AUTHOR'S SOLE AGENT, WALTER PEACOCK, 60 HAYMARKET, LONDON, S.W. I.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE VAN REES PRESS

EH

To M. W.

THE CHARACTERS

(in the order of their appearance)

THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE
MRS. BRAMSON
OLIVIA GRAYNE Her niece
HUBERT LAURIE
NURSE LIBBY
MRS. TERENCE Mrs. Bramson's cook
DORA PARKOE Her maid
INSPECTOR BELSIZE
DAN

BEFORE THE PLAY

The Court of Criminal Appeal

The action of the play takes place in the sitting-room of Forest Corner, Mrs. Bramson's bungalow in Essex.

The time is the present.

ACT I: A morning in October.

ACT II SCENE I: An afternoon twelve days later. SCENE II: Late afternoon, two days later.

ACT III SCENE I: Half an hour later. Nightfall. SCENE II: Half an hour later.

BEFORE THE PLAY

The orchestra plays light tunes until the house lights are turned down; the curtain rises in darkness, accompanied by solemn music. A small light grows in the middle of the stage, and shows the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE sitting in judgment, wearing wig and red robes of office, in the Court of Criminal Appeal. His voice, cold and disapproving, gradually swells up with the light as he reaches his peroration.

LORD CHIEF JUSTICE: … and there is no need to recapitulate here the arguments for and against this point of law, which we heard in the long and extremely fair summing up at the trial of the appellant at the Central Criminal Court. The case was clearly put to the jury; and it is against sentence of death for these two murders that the prisoner now appeals. Which means that the last stage of this important and extremely horrible case has now been reached. On a later page in the summing up, the learned judge said this … (turning over papers) … "This case has, through the demeanour of the prisoner in the witness-box, obtained the most widespread and scandalous publicity, which I would beg you most earnestly, members of the jury, to forget." I cannot help thinking that the deplorable atmosphere of sentimental melodrama which has pervaded this trial has made the theatre a more fitting background for it than a court of law; but we are in a court of law, nevertheless, and the facts have been placed before the court. A remarkable and in my opinion praiseworthy feature of the case has been that the sanity of the prisoner has never been called into question; and, like the learned judge, the Court must dismiss as mischievous pretence the attitude of this young man who stands convicted of two brutal murders in cold blood. This case has, from beginning to end, exhibited no feature calling for sympathy; the evidence has on every point been conclusive, and on this evidence the jury have convicted the appellant. In the opinion of the Court there is no reason to interfere with that conviction, and this appeal must be dismissed.

The chords of solemn music are heard again, and the stage gradually darkens. A few seconds later the music merges into the sound of church bells playing far away, and the lights come up on.

ACT I

The sitting-room of Forest Corner, MRS. BRAMSON'S _bungalow in a forest in Essex, A fine morning in October.

Centre back, a small hall; in its left side the front door of the house (throughout the play, "left" and "right" refer to the audience's left and right). Thick plush curtains can be drawn across the entrance to the hall; they are open at the moment. Windows, one on each side of the hall, with window-seats and net curtains beyond which can be glimpsed the pine-trees of the forest. In the left wall, upstage, a door leading to the kitchen. In the left wall, downstage, the fireplace; above it, a cretonne-covered sofa, next to a very solid cupboard built into the wall; below it a cane armchair. In the right wall, upstage, a door leading to _MRS. BRAMSON'S _bedroom. In the right wall, downstage, wide-open paned doors leading to the sun-room. Right downstage, next the sun-room, a large dining-table with four straight chairs round it. Between the bedroom and the sun-room, a desk with books on it, a cupboard below it, and a hanging mirror on the wall above. Above the bedroom, a corner medicine cupboard. Between the hall and the right window, an occasional table.

The bungalow is tawdry but cheerful; it is built entirely of wood, with an oil lamp fixed in the wall over the occasional table. The room is comfortably furnished, though in fussy and eccentric Victorian taste; stuffed birds, Highland cattle in oils, antimacassars, and wax fruit are unobtrusively in evidence. On the mantelpiece, an ornate chiming clock. The remains of breakfast on a tray on the table_.

MRS. BRAMSON is sitting in a wheeled chair in the centre of the room. She is a fussy, discontented, common woman of fifty-five, old-fashioned both in clothes and coiffure; NURSE LIBBY, a kindly, matter-of-fact young north-country woman in district nurse's uniform, is sitting on the sofa, massaging one of her hands. OLIVIA GRAYNE sits on the old woman's right; holding a book; she is a subdued young woman of twenty-eight, her hair tied severely in a knot, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles; there is nothing in any way remarkable about her at the moment. HUBERT LAURIE _is sitting in the armchair, scanning the "Daily Telegraph." He is thirty-five, moustached, hearty, and pompous, wearing plus fours and smoking a pipe.

A pause. The church bells die away_.

MRS. BRAMSON (sharply): Go on.

OLIVIA (reading): "… Lady Isabel humbly crossed her attenuated hands upon her chest. 'I am on my way to God,' she whispered, 'to answer for all my sins and sorrows.' 'Child,' said Miss Carlyle, 'had I anything to do with sending you from …' (turning over) '… East Lynne?' Lady Isabel shook her head and cast down her gaze."

MRS. BRAMSON (aggressively): Now that's what I call a beautiful character.

NURSE: Very pretty. But the poor thing'd have felt that much better tucked up in 'ospital instead of lying about her own home gassing her 'ead off——

MRS. BRAMSON: Sh!

NURSE: Sorry.

OLIVIA (reading): "'Thank God,' inwardly breathed Miss Corny….
'Forgive me,' she said loudly and in agitation. 'I want to see
Archibald,' whispered Lady Isabel."

MRS. BRAMSON: You don't see many books like East Lynne about nowadays.

HUBERT: No, you don't.

OLIVIA (reading): "'I want to see Archibald,' whispered Lady
Isabel. 'I have prayed Joyce to bring him to me, and she will not——'"

MRS. BRAMSON (sharply): Olivia!

OLIVIA: Yes, auntie?

MRS. BRAMSON (craftily): You're not skipping, are you?

OLIVIA: Am I?

MRS. BRAMSON: You've missed out about Lady Isabel taking up her cross and the weight of it killing her. I may be a fool, but I do know East Lynne.

OLIVIA: Perhaps there were two pages stuck together.

MRS. BRAMSON: Very convenient when you want your walk, eh? Yes, I am a fool, I suppose, as well as an invalid.

OLIVIA: But I thought you were so much better——

NURSE: You'd two helpings of bacon at breakfast, remember——

MRS. BRAMSON: Doctor's orders. You know every mouthful's agony to me.

HUBERT (deep in his paper): There's a man here in Weston-super-Mare who stood on his head for twenty minutes for a bet, and he hasn't come to yet.

MRS. BRAMSON (sharply): I thought this morning I'd never be able to face the day.

HUBERT: But last night when you opened the port——

MRS. BRAMSON: I've had a relapse since then. My heart's going like anything. Give me a chocolate.

OLIVIA rises and fetches her a chocolate from a large box on the table.

NURSE: How does it feel?

MRS. BRAMSON: Nasty. (Munching her chocolate.) I know it's neuritis.

NURSE: You know, Mrs. Bramson, what you want isn't massage at all, only exercise. Your body——

MRS. BRAMSON: Don't you dictate to me about my body. Nobody here understands my body or anything else about me. As for sympathy, I've forgotten the meaning of the word. (To OLIVIA) What's the matter with your face?

OLIVIA (startled): I—I really don't know.

MRS. BRAMSON: It's as long as my arm.

OLIVIA (drily): I'm afraid it's made like that.

She crosses the room, and comes back again.

MRS. BRAMSON: What are you walking up and down for? What's the matter with you? Aren't you happy here?

OLIVIA: It's a bit lonely, but I'll get used to it.

MRS. BRAMSON: Lonely? All these lovely woods? What are you talking about? Don't you like nature?

NURSE: Will that be all for to-day?

MRS. BRAMSON: I suppose it'll have to be.

NURSE (rising and taking her bag from the sofa): Well, I've that confined lady still waiting in Shepperley. (Going into the hall) Toodle-oo!

MRS. BRAMSON: Mind you call again Wednesday. In case my neuritis sets in again.

NURSE (turning in the hall): I will that. And if paralysis pops up, let me know. Toodle-oo!

She marches cheerily out of the front door.

MRS. BRAMSON cannot make up her mind if the last remark is sarcastic or not. She concentrates on OLIVIA.

MRS. BRAMSON: You know, you mustn't think just because this house is lonely you're going to get a rise in salary. Oh, no…. I expect you've an idea I'm worth a good bit of money, haven't you?… It isn't my money you're after, is it?

OLIVIA (setting chairs to rights round the table): I'm sorry, but my sense of humour can't stand the strain. I'll have to go.

MRS. BRAMSON: Can you afford to go?

OLIVIA (after a pause, controlling herself): You know I can't.

MRS. BRAMSON: Then don't talk such nonsense. Clear the breakfast things.

OLIVIA hesitates, then crosses to the kitchen door.

(Muttering): Sense of humour indeed, never heard of such a thing….

OLIVIA (at the door): Mrs. Terence, will you clear away?

She goes to the left window, and looks out.

MRS. BRAMSON: You wait, my girl. Pride comes before a fall. Won't catch a husband with your nose in the air, you know.

OLIVIA: I don't want a husband.

MRS. BRAMSON: Don't like men, I suppose? Never heard of them, I suppose? Don't believe you. See?

OLIVIA (resigned): I see. It's going to be a fine day.

MRS. BRAMSON (taking up "East Lynne" from the table): It'll cloud over, I expect.

OLIVIA: I don't think so. The trees look beautiful with the sun on them. Everything looks so clean. (Lifting up three books from the window seat) Shall I pack the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood?

MRS. BRAMSON: Mrs. Henry Wood? Who's Mrs. Henry Wood? Pack the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood? What are you talking about?

OLIVIA: She wrote your favourite book—East Lynne.

MRS. BRAMSON (looking at her book): Oh … (Picking a paper out of it.) What's this? (Reading ponderously) A sonnet. "The flame of passion is not red but white, not quick but slow—"

OLIVIA (going to her and snatching it from her with a cry):
Don't!

MRS. BRAMSON: Writing poetry! That's a hobby and a half, I must say!
"Flame of passion …" well!

OLIVIA (crossing to the fireplace): It's only a silly poem I amused myself with at college. It's not meant for anybody but me.

MRS. BRAMSON: You're a dark horse, you are.

MRS. TERENCE enters from the kitchen. She is the cook, middle-aged,
Cockney, and fearless. She carries a bunch of roses.

MRS. TERENCE (grimly): Would you be wanting anything?

MRS. BRAMSON: Yes. Clear away.

MRS. TERENCE: That's Dora's job. Where's Dora?

OLIVIA: She's gone into the clearing for some firewood.

MRS. BRAMSON: You can't expect the girl to gather firewood with one hand and clear breakfast with the other. Clear away.

MRS. TERENCE (crossing to the table, under her breath): All right, you sour-faced old hag.

HUBERT drops his pipe. MRS. BRAMSON winces and looks away. MRS. TERENCE clears the table.

HUBERT (to OLIVIA): What—what was that she said?

MRS. TERENCE: She 'eard. And then she 'as to save 'er face and pretend she 'asn't. She knows nobody but me'd stay with 'er a day if I went.

MRS. BRAMSON: She oughtn't to talk to me like that. I know she steals my sugar.

MRS. TERENCE: That's a living lie. (Going round to her) Here are your roses.

MRS. BRAMSON: You've cut them too young. I knew you would.

MRS. TERENCE (taking up her tray and starting for the kitchen): Then you come out and pick the ones you want, and you'll only 'ave yourself to blame.

MRS. BRAMSON: That's a nice way to talk to an invalid.

MRS. TERENCE: If you're an invalid, I'm the Prince of Wales.

She goes back into the kitchen.

OLIVIA: Would you like me to read some more?

BRAMSON: No. I'm upset for the day now. I'd better see she does pick the right roses. (Wheeling herself, muttering) That woman's a menace. Good mind to bring an action against her. She ought to be put away…. (Shouting) Wait for me, wait for me!

Her voice dies away in the kitchen. The kitchen door closes. HUBERT and OLIVIA are alone.

OLIVIA: That's the fifth action she's threatened to bring this week. (She crosses to the right window.)

HUBERT: She's a good one to talk about putting away. Crikey! She'll be found murdered one of these days…. (Suddenly reading from his paper) "In India a population of three and a half hundred million is loyal to Britain; now——"

OLIVIA: Oh, Hubert! (Good humouredly) I thought I'd cured you of that.

HUBERT: Sorry.

OLIVIA: You've only had two weeks of her. I've had six.

A pause. She sighs restlessly.

HUBERT: Fed up?

OLIVIA: It's such a very inadequate expression, don't you think?… (After a pause) How bright the sun is to-day….

She is pensive, far-away, smiling.

HUBERT: A penny for 'em.

OLIVIA: I was just thinking … I often wonder on a very fine morning what it'll be like … for night to come. And I never can. And yet it's got to…. (Looking at his perplexed face) It is silly, isn't it?

DORA comes in from the kitchen with a duster and crosses towards the bedroom. She is a pretty, stupid, and rather sluttish country girl of twenty, wearing a maid's uniform. She looks depressed.

Who are those men, Dora?

DORA: What men, miss?

OLIVIA: Over there, behind the clearing.

DORA: Oh…. (Peering past her) Oh. 'Adn't seen them. What are they doing poking about in that bush?

OLIVIA (absently): I don't know. I saw them yesterday too, farther down the woods.

DORA (lamely): I expect they're looking for something.

She goes into the bedroom.

HUBERT: She looks a bit off-colour, doesn't she?

OLIVIA: The atmosphere must be getting her down too.

HUBERT: I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to stand it myself.
Coming over here every day for another week.

OLIVIA (smiling): There's nothing to prevent you staying at home every day for another week … is there?

HUBERT (still apparently reading his paper): Oh, yes, there is. What d'you think I invite myself to lunch every day for? You don't think it's the old geyser, do you?

OLIVIA (smiling): No.

She comes down to the table.

HUBERT: Don't want to sound rude, et cetera, but women don't get men proposing to them every day, you know … (Turning over a page) Gosh, what a wizard machine—

OLIVIA (sitting at the left of the table): I can't think why you want to marry me, as a matter of fact. It isn't the same as if I were very pretty, or something.

HUBERT: You do say some jolly rum things, Olivia, upon my soul.

OLIVIA: I'll tell you why, then, if it makes you feel any better. You're cautious; and you want to marry me because I'm quiet. I'd make you a steady wife, and run a home for you.

HUBERT: There's nothing to be ashamed of in being steady. I'm steady myself.

OLIVIA: I know you are. HUBERT: Then why aren't you keen?

OLIVIA (after a pause, tolerant but weary): Because you're an unmitigated bore.

HUBERT: A bore? (Horrified) Me, a bore? Upon my word, Olivia, I think you're a bit eccentric, I do really. Sorry to be rude, and all that, but that's put the kybosh on it! People could call me a thing or two, but I've never been called a bore!

OLIVIA: Bores never are. People are too bored with them to call them anything.

HUBERT: I suppose you'd be more likely to say "Yes" if I were an unmitigated bounder?

OLIVIA (with a laugh): Oh, don't be silly….

HUBERT (going to her): You're a rum girl, Olivia, upon my soul you are. P'raps that's why I think you're so jolly attractive. Like a mouse one minute, and then this straight-from-the-shoulder business…. What is a sonnet?

OLIVIA: It's a poem of fourteen lines.

HUBERT: Oh, yes, Shakespeare…. Never knew you did a spot of rhyming, Olivia! Now that's what I mean about you…. We'll have to start calling you Elizabeth Bronte!

She turns away. He studies her.

You are bored, aren't you?

He walks to the sun-room. She rouses herself and turns to him impetuously.

OLIVIA: I'm being silly, I know—of course I ought to get married, and of course this is a wonderful chance, and—HUBERT (moving to her): Good egg! Then you will? OLIVIA (stalling): Give me a—another week or two—will you?

HUBERT: Oh. My holiday's up on the twenty-seventh.

OLIVIA: I know I'm being tiresome, but—

MRS. BRAMSON (in the kitchen): The most disgraceful thing I've ever heard—

HUBERT: She's coming back….

OLIVIA rises and goes to the right window. HUBERT hurries into the sun-room. MRS. BRAMSON is wheeled back from the kitchen by MRS. TERENCE, to the centre of the room. She (MRS. BRAMSON) has found the pretext for the scene she has been longing to make since she got up this morning.

MRS. BRAMSON: Fetch that girl here. This minute.

MRS. TERENCE: Oh, leave the child alone.

MRS. BRAMSON: Leave her alone, the little sneak-thief? Fetch her here.

MRS. TERENCE (at the top of her voice): Dora! (Opening the front door and calling into the trees) Dora!

OLIVIA: What's Dora done now?

MRS. BRAMSON: Broken three of my Crown Derby, that's all. Thought if she planted them in the rose-bed I wouldn't be well enough ever to see them, I suppose. Well, I have seen.

MRS. TERENCE (crossing and calling to the bedroom): You're wanted.

DORA'S VOICE: What for?

MRS. TERENCE: She wants to kiss you good morning, what d'you think….

She collects the table-cloth, fetches a vase from the mantelpiece, and goes into the kitchen. DORA enters gingerly from the bedroom, carrying a cup and saucer on a tray.

DORA: Did you want me, mum?

MRS. BRAMSON: Crown Derby to you, my girl.

DORA (uncertain): Beg pardon, mum?

MRS. BRAMSON: I suppose you think that china came from Marks and
Spencer?

DORA: Oh…. (Snivelling) Oh … oh …

OLIVIA (coming between DORA and MRS. BRAMSON): Come along, Dora, it's not as bad as all that.

DORA: Oh, yes, it is…. Oh….

MRS. BRAMSON: You can leave, that's all. You can leave.

Appalled, DORA drops the tray and breaks the saucer.

That settles it. Now you'll have to leave.

DORA (with a cry): Oh, please I … (Kneeling, and collecting broken china) Oh, ma'am—I'm not meself, you see…. (Snivelling) I'm in a terrible trouble….

MRS. BRAMSON: Have you been stealing?

DORA (shocked): Oh, no!

OLIVIA (after a pause): Are you going to have a baby?

After a pause, DORA nods.

DORA (putting the china in her apron): The idea of me stealing…. I do go to Sunday school, anyways….

MRS. BRAMSON: So that's the game. Wouldn't think butter would melt in her mouth…. You'll have to go, of course; I can't have that sort of thing in this house—and stop squeaking! You'll bring my heart on again. It's all this modern life. I've always said so. All these films and rubbish.

OLIVIA: My dear auntie, you can't have a baby by just sitting in the pictures.

MRS. BRAMSON: Go away, and don't interfere.

OLIVIA goes to the left window. DORA _rises.

(Triumphantly_) So you're going to have a child. When?

DORA (sniffling): Last August Bank Holiday….

MRS. BRAMSON: What?… Oh!

DORA: I 'aven't got a penny only what I earn—and if I lose my job 'ere—

MRS. BRAMSON: He'll have to marry you.

DORA: Oh, I don't think he's keen….

MRS. BRAMSON: I'll make him keen. Who is the gentleman?

DORA: A boy I know; Dan his name is—'leas' 'e's not a gentleman. He's a page-boy at the Tallboys.

MRS. BRAMSON: The Tallboys? D'you mean that new-fangled place all awnings and loud speakers and things?

DORA: That's right. On the by-pass.

MRS. BRAMSON: Just the nice ripe sort of place for mischief, it always looked to me. All those lanterns…. What's his character, the good-for-nothing scoundrel?

DORA: Oh, he's nice, really. He done the wrong thing by me, but he's all right, if you know what I mean….

MRS. BRAMSON: No, I don't. Where does he come from?

DORA: He's sort of Welsh, I think. 'E's been to sea, too. He's funny, of course. Ever so open. Baby-face they call him. Though I never seem to get 'old of what 'e's thinking, somehow—

MRS. BRAMSON: I'll get hold of what he's thinking, all right. I've had my knife into that sort ever since I was a girl.

DORA: Oh, mum, if I got him to let you speak to him—d'you think I could stay on?

MRS. BRAMSON (after a pause): If he marries you at once.

DORA: Shall I—(Eagerly) As a matter of fact, ma'am, he's gone on a message on his bicycle to Payley Hill this morning, and he said he might pop in to see me on the way back—

MRS. BRAMSON: That's right; nothing like visitors to brighten your mornings, eh? I'll deal with him.

DORA: Yes…. (Going, and turning at the kitchen door—in impulsive relief) Oh, ma'am—

MRS. BRAMSON: And I'll stop the Crown Derby out of your wages.

DORA (crestfallen): Oh!

MRS. BRAMSON: What were you going to say?

DORA: Well, ma'am, I was going to say I don't know how to thank you for your generosity….

She goes into the kitchen. The clock chimes.

MRS. BRAMSON: Olivia!

OLIVIA: Yes, auntie?

MRS. BRAMSON: You've forgotten again. Medicine's overdue. Most important.

OLIVIA crosses to the medicine cupboard and fetches the medicine. MRS. TERENCE comes in from the kitchen with a vase of flowers and barges between the sofa and the wheelchair.

MRS. TERENCE (muttering): All this furniture …

MRS. BRAMSON (to her): Did you know she's having a baby?

MRS. TERENCE (coldly): She did mention it in conversation.

MRS. BRAMSON: Playing with fire, that's the game nowadays.

MRS. TERENCE (arranging flowers as OLIVIA gives MRS. BRAMSON her medicine): Playing with fiddlesticks. We're only young once; that 'ot summer too. She's been a fool, but she's no criminal. And, talking of criminals, there's a p'liceman at the kitchen door.

MRS. BRAMSON: A what?

MRS. TERENCE: A p'liceman. A bobby.

MRS. BRAMSON: What does he want?

MRS. TERENCE: Better ask 'im. I know my conscience is clear; I don't know about other people's.

MRS. BRAMSON: But I've never had a policeman coming to see me before!

DORA runs in from the kitchen.

DORA (terrified): There's a man there! From the p'lice! 'E said something about the Tallboys! 'E—'e 'asn't come about me, 'as 'e?

MRS. TERENCE: Of course he 'asn't—

MRS. BRAMSON: He may have.

MRS. TERENCE: Don't frighten the girl; she's simple enough now.

MRS. BRAMSON (sharply); It's against the law, what she's done, isn't it? (To DORA) Go back in there till he sends for you.

DORA creeps back into the kitchen.

OLIVIA (at the left window): He isn't a policeman, as a matter of fact. He must be a plain-clothes man.

MRS. TERENCE (sardonically): Scotland Yard, I should think.

BELSIZE is seen outside, crossing the left window to the front door.

MRS. BRAMSON: That place in those detective books? Don't be so silly.

MRS. TERENCE: He says he wants to see you very particular—

_A sharp rat-tat at the front door.

(Going to the hall_) On a very particular matter…. (Turning on MRS. BRAMSON) And don't you start callin' me silly!

Going to the front door, and opening it.

This way, sir….

BELSIZE enters, followed by MRS. TERENCE. He is an entirely inconspicuous man of fifty, dressed in tweeds: his suavity hides any amount of strength.

BELSIZE: Mrs. Bramson? I'm sorry to break in on you like this. My card ….

MRS. BRAMSON (taking it, sarcastically): I suppose you're going to tell me you're from Scotland Ya—(She sees the name on the card.)

BELSIZE: I see you've all your wits about you!

MRS. BRAMSON: Oh. (Reading incredulously) Criminal Investigation
Department!

BELSIZE (smiling): A purely informal visit, I assure you.

MRS. BRAMSON: I don't like having people in my house that I don't know.

BELSIZE (the velvet glove): I'm afraid the law sometimes makes it necessary.

MRS. TERENCE gives him a chair next the table. He sits. MRS.
TERENCE stands behind the table.

MRS. BRAMSON (to her): You can go.

MRS. TERENCE: I don't want to go. I might 'ave to be arrested for stealing sugar.

BELSIZE: Sugar?… As a matter of fact, you might be useful. Any of you may be useful. Mind my pipe?

MRS. BRAMSON blows in disgust and waves her hand before her face.

MRS. BRAMSON: Is it about my maid having an illegitimate child?

BELSIZE: I beg your pardon?… Oh no! That sort of thing's hardly in my line, thank God … Lonely spot … (To MRS. TERENCE) Long way for you to walk every day, isn't it?

MRS. TERENCE: I don't walk. I cycle.

BELSIZE: Oh.

MRS. BRAMSON: What's the matter?

BELSIZE: I just thought if she walked she might use some of the paths, and have seen—something.

(Note: The following pair of lines are spoken simultaneously.)

MRS. BRAMSON: Something of what?

MRS. TERENCE: Something?

BELSIZE: I'll tell you. I—

_A piano is heard in the sun-room, playing the "Merry Widow" waltz.

(Casually_) Other people in the house?

MRS. BRAMSON (calling shrilly): Mr. Laurie!

The piano stops.

HUBERT'S VOICE (as the piano stops, in the sun-room): Yes?

MRS. BRAMSON (to OLIVIA, sourly): Did you ask him to play the piano?

HUBERT comes back from the sun-room.

HUBERT (breezily): Hello, house on fire or something?

MRS. BRAMSON: Very nearly. This is Mr.—er—Bel—

BELSIZE: Belsize.

MRS. BRAMSON (drily): Of Scotland Yard.

HUBERT: Oh…. (Apprehensive) It isn't about my car, is it?

BELSIZE: No.

HUBERT: Oh. (Shaking hands affably) How do you do?

BELSIZE: How do you do, sir….

MRS. BRAMSON: He's a friend of Miss Grayne's here. Keeps calling.

BELSIZE: Been calling long?

MRS. BRAMSON: Every day for two weeks. Just before lunch.

HUBERT: Well—

OLIVIA (sitting on the sofa): Perhaps I'd better introduce myself. I'm Olivia Grayne, Mrs. Bramson's niece. I work for her.

BELSIZE: Oh, I see. Thanks. Well now …

HUBERT (sitting at the table, effusively): I know a chap on the Stock Exchange who was taken last year and shown over the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.

BELSIZE (politely): Really—

MRS. BRAMSON: And what d'you expect the policeman to do about it?

HUBERT: Well, it was very interesting, he said. Bit ghoulish, of course—

BELSIZE: I expect so…. (Getting down to business) Now I wonder if any of you've seen anything in the least out of the ordinary round here lately? Anybody called—anybody strange wandering about in the woods—overheard anything?

They look at one another.

MRS. BRAMSON: The only visitor's been the doctor—and the district nurse.