Truth Is a 4-Letter Word
Based on the short story “No Motive” by Daphne Du Maurier
Written for the stage by Yogesh J. Raut
Dramatis Personae
John SMITH, a detective.
RICHARDSON, a butler.
Lord Denholm ELLIOTT, a grieving husband.
Ms. Vanessa REDGRAVE, a maiden aunt.
Mr. Richard ATTENBOROUGH, a banker.
WAKEFIELD, a vicar.
Old HARRIS, an Irish gardener.
Mr. Derek JACOBI, headmaster of St. Bees’ co-educational school.
Miss NICOLE Harris, daughter of Old Harris.
Ms. Celia JOHNSON, an elderly matron.
Mr. Michael GOUGH, superintendent of St. Edmund’s Home for Offspring of Unmarried Mothers.
Mr. James BROADBENT, London branch manager of the Argento Furniture Company.
Mr. Paul BETTANY, a traveling salesman.
PROLOGUE
The stage is dark.
JOHN SMITH
(voice-over)
At about half-past eleven on the morning of May 13, 1952, Lady Mary Elliott went into her husband’s gun room. She took her husband’s revolver, loaded it, and shot herself. The butler heard the sound of the shot from the pantry. He went to investigate, and saw Lady Elliott lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. She was dead. After a swift consultation with the housekeeper, a decision was reached to telephone first the doctor, followed by the police, and finally Lord Elliott, who was in a board meeting.
The butler, RICHARDSON, steps onstage. He picks up a phone.
RICHARDSON
Her Ladyship has had an accident. She is lying in the gun room with a gunshot wound in her head. I fear she is dead.
Stage goes dark again.
SMITH
(voice-over)
There was no doubt that the death was suicide. Lady Elliott had scribbled the words “Forgive me, darling” on a pad of paper which she left on the desk in the gun room. (beat) Her Ladyship was loved by all, and the entire household was crushed by the tragedy, but none more than Lord Elliott. He could not, no matter how hard he tried, make sense of his wife’s death. They were a happy couple and had had an extremely satisfactory marriage. No clouds appeared to be looming on the horizon. Lord Elliott’s doctors urged him to move beyond his grief, but His Lordship could not rest until he had discovered the motive for his wife’s suicide. That is how I came to be involved in the situation. (beat) I am a private detective.
SCENE 1
Setting: Lord Elliott’s study. ELLIOTT, an imposing man, is sitting behind a large table, composed but obviously bereaved. SMITH enters. He is the kind of man who has no set personality, and thus can adapt himself to any situation. SMITH says nothing upon entering, waiting for the Lord to address him.
ELLIOTT
I was told that you were discreet. (roughly, when there is no reply) Well? Sit down.
SMITH sits down.
ELLIOTT
You know the facts of the case?
SMITH
Only what was in the papers.
ELLIOTT
And is there any more you need to know?
SMITH
As a matter of fact, there is. Though I respect Your Lordship’s desire for discretion, it is vital that I have as much information as possible about Her Ladyship’s actions on the day in question, prior to the ... incident.
ELLIOTT
Very well then. I can tell you that. We had breakfast at half-past eight, as is our custom. We made plans for the afternoon - I was to take her for a drive immediately after the board meeting. At approximately half-past ten, the housemaid talked with Mary in the master bedroom. A shipment of colored shawls that my wife was expecting had just come by parcel post, and my wife was examining them.
SMITH
Did your wife say anything to the maid?
ELLIOTT
Yes. Just as the maid entered, she had just decided which shades of pink and blue to keep, and ...
SMITH
(with surprise)
Pink and blue?
ELLIOTT
Yes. (pause) We were ... expecting. (pause) I mean, Mary was. We did not know if it would be a boy or a girl, so Mary was preparing for either. (pause) The papers didn’t mention that?
SMITH
No, sir. Please continue.
ELLIOTT
Yes. Where was I? The maid ... Yes, Mary told her which shades she was planning on keeping, and which she meant to send back. At eleven, a traveling salesman came to call. He was from a firm that made garden furniture. At eleven-twenty, he departed.
SMITH
Did Her Ladyship buy anything from him?
ELLIOTT
Yes. Immediately after the man left, Richardson - the butler - came in to ask Mary if there were any instructions for the chauffeur. She told him that she would not be going out until after lunch. She also showed him the catalogue and informed him that she had bought two garden chairs.
SMITH
This was at eleven-twenty?
ELLIOTT
Yes. When Richardson departed, Mary was drinking a glass of milk. Ten minutes later, she was ... dead.
SMITH
Had she shown any signs of agitation prior to eleven-twenty, or at any time during the previous weeks?
ELLIOTT
Absolutely none. Richardson reported - this is all in the police record, by the way - that she was completely calm when he left her that day. Neither myself nor anyone in the household noticed anything unusual about my wife’s behavior anytime prior to when she shot herself.
SMITH
Excuse me, sir, but may I ask if the two of you spent a great deal of time together?
ELLIOTT
I’m afraid I don’t quite see how that is relevant.
SMITH
With all due respect, sir, I think that I should be the one to decide what is and what is not relevant.
ELLIOTT
(after a pause, with a bitter smile)
Very well then; we were inseparable. (beat) You were wondering if she had a lover? If the child perhaps was not mine? (no reply) I tell you it is NOT POSSIBLE!
SMITH
(calmly)
The police did rule that out. I was just making sure.
ELLIOTT
The facts of the case, Mr. Smith, are very simple. At twenty minutes past eleven, my wife was perfectly fine. Ten minutes later, she shot herself. In that intervening time, something took place. I do not know what. The police cannot tell me. The coroner’s jury cannot tell me. Mary, God save her soul, cannot tell me. That is why I am paying you, Mr. Smith. Find out what happened in those ten minutes. Go wherever you wish, talk to whomever you wish, turn this house upside down if it will prove useful. You have carte blanche. Just get me the answer.
SCENE 2
SMITH
(voice-over)
Over the next several days, I interrogated the maid, the butler, and the housekeeper. All of their statements corroborated with the police record and with what Lord Elliott told me. I interviewed the rest of the staff and inspected the scene of the killing. Nothing of interest came to light. Finally, I asked His Lordship for another meeting.
Lights up. Scene same as before.
ELLIOTT
What is it you want, Mr. Smith?
SMITH
Sir, in cases like this, there is a general procedure that we follow - a system, if you will. First, we examine the present: the witnesses, the locale, and so on. Then we move on to the past. If our search is still barren, we move even further into the past.
ELLIOTT
Yes?
SMITH
Sir, with your permission I have been through every inch of your wife’s desk. I have searched all of her papers and correspondence for any trace of a burden on her mind. I have found nothing. Now, I wish to try something else.
ELLIOTT
Go on.
SMITH
It was my understanding that you and Lady Elliott - or Miss Redgrave, as she was called then - first met while you were on a visit to Switzerland three years ago. She was living with an elderly aunt, Ms. Vanessa Redgrave.
ELLIOTT
That is correct.
SMITH
They lived in Sierre and also in Lausanne, and you met both the Misses Redgrave at the house of a mutual friend in Sierre. You struck up a friendship with the younger Miss Redgrave, and by the end of your holiday you had fallen in love with her, and she with you, and you asked her to marry you.
ELLIOTT
Yes.
SMITH
The elder Ms. Redgrave made no objection; in fact, she was delighted. It was arranged between you that you should make her an allowance to cover the expenses of a companion to take her niece’s place, and within a couple of months or so you were married - at Lausanne, if I am not mistaken.
ELLIOTT
Correct again.
SMITH
There was no question of the aunt coming to live with you in England?
ELLIOTT
No. Mary wanted her to - she was very much attached to her aunt - but the old lady refused. She had lived in Switzerland so long that she couldn’t face the English climate or the English food.
SMITH
Did you visit her while the two of you were married?
ELLIOTT
Yes, Mary and I went out to see her twice during our marriage.
SMITH
And have you heard from her since the ... the tragedy?
ELLIOTT
Oh, of course! She wrote at once, as soon as she heard the news. She was absolutely horrified, and completely puzzled as to what could have driven Mary to it. She even said that Mary had written her a joyful letter just a week before it happened. Mary was very excited about having the baby.
SMITH
I take it that the two ladies, when you first met them, were living very quietly?
ELLIOTT
Yes. They had this small villa, and about twice a year they used to go down to Lausanne and take rooms in a pension. The old lady had some sort of trouble with her lungs, but not serious enough for a sanatorium or anything like that. Mary was a most devoted niece; it was one of the first things that drew me to her. She was constantly by her aunt’s side.
SMITH
So your wife, the younger Miss Redgrave, did not get about much? Not many friends her own age, and that sort of thing?
ELLIOTT
I suppose not. It did not seem to worry her; she had such a contented nature.
SMITH
And this had been her life since she was quite small?
ELLIOTT
Yes. Ms. Redgrave was Mary’s only relative. She had adopted her when Mary’s parents died - Mary was only five years old at the time.
SMITH
And how old was your wife when you married her?
ELLIOTT
Twenty-eight.
SMITH
No history of a previous engagement or love affair?
ELLIOTT
None. I used to tease Mary about it. She said she had never seen anyone who gave her even the slightest flutter. And her aunt agreed - I remember her saying to me when we became engaged, “It’s rare to find anyone so unspoilt as Mary. She’s got the prettiest face and is quite unaware of it, and the sweetest nature and doesn’t realize that either. You’re a very lucky man.” (pause; sincere) And I was.
SMITH
(after appropriate silence)
So it really was a love match on both sides? You’re quite certain there was no pull in your title and position? I mean, the aunt might have told her niece that here was a chance she musn’t miss, another man like you might not come along, et cetera.
ELLIOTT
(confidently)
Oh no. The elder Ms. Redgrave many have had an eye on the main chance, but Mary did not. I am quite sure of that. Right from the beginning it was I who sought her, not the other way around. If Mary had been looking about for a husband, she have shown signs of it when we first met. The friend at whose chalet I first met the Redgraves would have warned me that here was a girl over twenty-five who was looking for a husband. She said no such thing. She said, “I want you to meet a perfect darling of a girl whom we all adore and feel rather sorry for because she leads such a lonely life.”
SMITH
Yet she didn’t appear lonely to you?
ELLIOTT
Not at all. She seemed perfectly content.
SMITH
May I ask you one more question?
ELLIOTT
What is it?
SMITH
Are you absolutely certain that you want to go through with this inquiry?
ELLIOTT
You mean, why don’t I just accept the coroner’s verdict of temporary derangement? Mr. Smith, I knew Mary. Every night I went to bed beside her and every morning I woke up with her in my arms. She was not the kind of person, Mr. Smith, who would all of a sudden go insane. Something happened to her, and I will not rest until I know what it is.
SMITH
It will take ... time. And it will require ... expenses.
ELLIOTT
My checkbook is at your disposal.
SMITH
Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear. Now, if Your Lordship will excuse me ...
ELLIOTT
Where are you going?
SMITH
To Switzerland. On the first flight that leaves tomorrow morning.
SCENE 3
SMITH
(voice-over)
I explained to Ms. Redgrave that I was a friend of Lord Elliott, and she was eager to see me. She was curious to learn of any relevant information I might have. I was curious to learn of any relevant information she might have.
Lights go up on Ms. Redgrave’s room. It is neat and orderly, with many photographs and other such mementos all around. REDGRAVE is elderly, but with a steely confidence and dignity; she does not look like an invalid. She and SMITH are just starting a conversation.
SMITH
Ms. Redgrave, you knew Lady Elliott better than any of us, even her husband. His Lordship thinks you may have some ... ideas about the tragedy.
REDGRAVE
Ideas? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I even wrote to Lord Elliott about how absolutely horrified and baffled I was. Didn’t he tell you that?
SMITH
Yes, yes, he did. In fact, he showed me the letter. It must have slipped my mind. (pause) I gather you and your niece were very attached?
REDGRAVE
I was deeply fond of Mary, and I like to think she was equally fond of me. Heaven knows I can be cantankerous at times, but Mary never seemed to mind. She was the sweetest-natured girl.
SMITH
You were sorry to lose her at the time?
REDGRAVE
Of course I was sorry! I missed her terribly, and I still do. But naturally her happiness came first.
SMITH
His Lordship told me he gave you an allowance to cover the cost of your present companion.
REDGRAVE
Yes, yes, quite generous of him. (pause; trying not to show concern) Do you think it will continue?
SMITH
His Lordship didn’t say. But I’m sure you would have heard from him or his lawyers by now if it were otherwise.
Nervous silence.
SMITH
(suddenly)
There was nothing in your niece’s past that would account for her suicide?
REDGRAVE
What on earth do you mean?
SMITH
No previous engagement, love affair gone wrong ...
REDGRAVE
(relieved)
Heavens, no! Lord Elliott was Mary’s only love. She led a rather solitary life with me, you know. Not many young people in the district. Even in Lausanne she never seemed to seek out people her own age. It was not that she was particulary shy or reserved; just self-contained.
SMITH
What about school friends?
REDGRAVE
I taught her lessons myself when she was small. She had a few terms in Lausanne when she was older, but never as a boarder; we lived in a pension close by. I seem to remember one or two girls coming by for tea, but no special friends.
SMITH
Do you have any photographs of her at that age?
REDGRAVE
Yes, several. I’ve got them all in an album somewhere. Would you care to see them?
SMITH
Yes, I would. His Lordship showed me many photographs, but I don’t think that any were from before their marriage.
REDGRAVE reaches into a drawer, takes out a photo album, and spreads it on the table. SMITH pages through it thoroughly. He puts it down.
SMITH
Is that the lot?
REDGRAVE
I’m afraid it is. She was such a pretty girl, wasn’t she? Those warm brown eyes ...
SMITH
You haven’t any snaps of her when she was a child?
REDGRAVE
Why, yes, I do - look at these ...
SMITH
These start when she was around fifteen. What about the ten years she lived with you prior to that?
REDGRAVE
(pause)
Oh, I ... I don’t think I had a camera in those days.
SMITH
(suspicious, but not showing it)
What a pity. I always think it’s interesting to trace the child in the adult face. I’m a married man myself, and my wife and I wouldn’t be without the first albums of our daughter for all the world.
REDGRAVE
Yes, yes, it was stupid of me, wasn’t it?
SMITH
I expect you have the ordinary studio portraits?
REDGRAVE
No. Or if I once did, I must have lost them. In the move, you know. We didn’t come here until Mary was fifteen. We were in Lausanne before that.
SMITH
And you adopted Mary when she was ... five?
REDGRAVE
(glad to be on safe territory again)
Yes, she would have been about five.
SMITH
Do you have any photographs of Lady Elliott’s parents?
REDGRAVE
No.
SMITH
Yet her father was your only brother, I understand?
REDGRAVE
My only brother, yes.
SMITH
If you don’t mind my asking, what made you decide to adopt Lady Elliott when she was a child?
REDGRAVE
Well, the parents were dead, and everyone involved felt that it was in the best interests of the child.
SMITH
Did your brother leave you an inheritance?
REDGRAVE
(pause)
Unfortunately, no. Toward the end of his life he became involved with one of those dreadful “scientific” cults, and he left them everything.
SMITH
Everything? He didn’t leave even a small allowance for care of the child?
REDGRAVE
(quickly correcting herself)
Oh, well of course he did! I couldn’t have managed otherwise ... (she trails off) Mr. Smith, you ask the most extraordinarily remote questions! I don’t see why the allowance paid to me by my brother’s estate is of the slightest interest to you. What you want to know is why poor Mary killed herself, and so does her husband, and so do I.
SMITH
Anything remotely connected with Lady Elliott’s past life is of interest to me. You see, I am not really a personal friend of His Lordship. I am a private detective in his employ.
Ms. Redgrave’s worst fears have been confirmed. She loses her former confidence.
REDGRAVE
What did you come here to find out?
SMITH
Everything.
REDGRAVE attempts to mask her trepidation with indignation.
REDGRAVE
If Lord Elliott has found out about the allowance and thinks that I have been defrauding him all these years, he might have had the decency to tell me himself rather than employ a detective.
SMITH
Lord Elliott did not mention the word “fraud.” He merely thought that the circumstances were rather strange.
REDGRAVE
Of course they were strange. I tried to act for the best, and I believe that I did. I can swear to you, Mr. Smith, that I used very little money for myself, and that the most part of it went for Mary’s upkeep, according to the agreement with the child’s father. When Mary married - and, as it happened, married well - I did not think there was any harm in keeping the capital for myself. Lord Elliott was rich enough that Mary would not miss it.
SMITH
I take it that Lady Elliott knew nothing of what was going on financially?
REDGRAVE
Nothing. She was never interested in money matters. (playing for sympathy) You don’t think Lord Elliott intends to prosecute me? If he won a case against me, which he undoubtedly would, I would be left destitute.
SMITH
(after pretending to consider and letting her sweat)
I don’t think Sir John intends anything of the sort, Ms. Redgrave, but ... he would like to know the truth of what happened.
REDGRAVE
(resigned, after a silence)
Now that Mary is dead, I suppose the truth can’t hurt her. The fact is, Mr. Smith, she wasn’t my niece at all. I was paid a large sum of money to look after her. The money should have gone to her upon majority, but I kept it for myself. Mary’s father, with whom I signed the agreement, had died in the meantime. Living here in Switzerland, no one knew anything about the matter; it was so simple to keep it a secret. Believe me, I never intended any harm.
SMITH
I see. Well, Ms. Redgrave, I don’t want to go into the details of what you did with the money intended for Lady Elliott. What does interest me is this: if she wasn’t your niece, who was she?
REDGRAVE
She was the only daughter of a Mr. David Warner. That is all I ever knew. He never told me his address or where he lived. All I knew was the address of his bankers, and the branch in London; four checks were paid to me from that address. After I took Mary into my care, Mr. Warner went to Canada and died there five years later. The bank informed me of this, and as I never heard from them again, I believed myself safe to do - what I did - with the money.
Smith has taken out a pad of paper and is making notes.
SMITH
Warner, you said? And what was the name of the bank?
REDGRAVE
It was the Fifth Third Bank of London, located at 47 Firth Street.
SMITH
(after writing this down)
Mr. Warner was not a personal friend of yours?
REDGRAVE
Oh no, I only met him twice. The first was when I answered his advertisement in the paper for someone to take charge of a delicate girl for an indefinite period of time. I was very poor at the time and had just lost a post as governess to an English family because they were returning to England. I did not want to take a position in a school, and so this advertisement came as a godsend, especially as the sum to be paid for the child’s upkeep was so generous. Frankly, I knew that I should be able to live as I had never lived before. You understand my motivation.
SMITH
Yes. Tell me more about the meeting.
REDGRAVE
There is little to tell. He asked very few questions about myself or my background. The only point he made clear was that he wanted Mary to remain with me for good; he had no intention of having her back with him again, or corresponding with her. He planned to go to Canada, he told me, and cut himself off from all former connections. I was entirely free to bring up his daughter as I saw fit. In other words, he washed his hands entirely of her.
SMITH
He sounds very callous.
REDGRAVE
No, not callous. He looked anxious and careworn, as though the responsibility of looking after the child had been too much for him. His wife apparently was dead. Then I enquired in what way the child was delicate, because I knew little of nursing and did not particularly relish an ailing child. He explained to me that she was not physically delicate, but that she had witnessed a terrible train accident a few months previously and the shock of this had caused her to lose her memory. She was perfectly normal otherwise, perfectly sane. But she remembered nothing previous to the shock. She did not even know that he was her father. This was the reason, he told me, that he wanted her to begin a new life in a new country.
SMITH
(continuing to make notes)
So you were willing to take the risk of having this child, suffering from mental shock, on your hands for the rest of your life?
REDGRAVE
(somewhat indignant)
I have been a teacher, Mr. Smith. I am used to taking care of delicate minds. (continuing) In any event, I accepted the offer on the condition that I took to the child and she took to me. At our second meeting he brought Mary with him. It was impossible not to feel an affection for her at once - that pretty face, those large eyes, and such a soft, gentle manner ... She seemed quite normal, if a bit “young for her age,” if you know what I mean. I chatted with her and asked if she would like to come and stay with me, and said she would in the sweetest way! I told Mr. Warner yes and the bargain was struck. He left Mary with me that evening and neither of us ever saw him again. It was easy enough to tell the child she was my niece, as she remembered nothing of her past; she accepted anything I told her about herself as the gospel truth. It was all very ... easy.
SMITH
And from that day forward she did not once recover her memory?
REDGRAVE
Never. For her, life began when her father handed her over to me in that hotel in Lausanne. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Smith, it began for me then too. I could not have loved her better if she had been my actual niece.
SMITH gets up and puts his notes in his pocket.
SMITH
So beyond the fact that you knew she was the daughter of a Mr. David Warner, you were completely ignorant as to her background?
REDGRAVE
Completely.
SMITH
She was merely a little girl of five who had lost her memory?
REDGRAVE
Fifteen.
SMITH
Fifteen?
REDGRAVE
(flushed)
Oh, I forgot to tell you. I misled you earlier this afternoon. I always told Mary, and everybody else, that I had adopted my niece when she was five. It made it so much easier for me, and for Mary too, because she remembered nothing of her life prior to coming to live with me. But in point of fact she was fifteen. (as an afterthought) You will of course realize that this is why I possess no photographs of her as a young child.
SMITH
Yes, of course. I must thank you, Ms. Redgrave, for being so helpful. I don’t think that Lord Elliott is likely to raise any questions about the money, and for the present I shall keep the whole story that you have told me entirely confidential. Now you must excuse me, but the information you have given me has been most useful.
REDGRAVE
Wait; I will ring for my companion to show you out. Oh, Mr. Smith?
SMITH
Yes?
REDGRAVE
There is one more thing I should tell you. There was something about the situation with Mr. Warner that puzzles me to this day. At no time has Mary has never shown any fear of trains. Also, I have checked several sources, and there is no record of a severe train crash taking place in England - or anywhere else for that matter - during the months prior to Mary’s arrival.
SCENE 4
SMITH
(voice-over)
I did not deem it necessary to reveal the news of Lady Elliott’s adoption to her husband; it would only serve to upset him further and it is highly unlikely that it was the cause of her suicide. This mysterious Mr. Warner, however, did intrigue me, and so my next stop was the Fifth Third Bank of London.
SMITH is now talking with the bank manager, Mr. ATTENBOROUGH, in the latter’s office. ATTENBOROUGH is a broadly played comic character.
SMITH
Mr. Attenborough, I telephoned you earlier about the object of my visit.
ATTENBOROUGH
Yes, yes, I read about the tragedy in the papers. Quite an unfortunate incident, it was.
SMITH
Yes, it was; but my business is about Mr. David Warner.
ATTENBOROUGH
Yes, I went to the trouble of going over his file prior to your arrival. Here is what we have on Mr. Warner: He was a long-standing customer, having opened his account with us in 1918, not long after the Armistice. In 1931, he was widowed. In 1936, he left the country and moved to Canada. While out there, he became married a second time. In 1941, he passed away and his widow wrote us closing the account.
SMITH
Do you know if he started a second family in Canada?
ATTENBOROUGH
You mean, did he have any children from his second wife? No, I’m afraid I don’t know that.
SMITH
Do you have his widow’s address?
ATTENBOROUGH
(after scrutinizing the file)
No, I’m sorry.
SMITH
You do at least have his address prior to leaving for Canada?
ATTENBOROUGH
Ah yes, we do have that! It was ... let’s see, the rectory at All Saints Church, at Long Common in Hampshire.
SMITH
Rectory?
ATTENBOROUGH
Yes, didn’t you know? Mr. Warner was a clergyman.
SMITH
No, I didn’t know that.
ATTENBOROUGH
Well, is it helpful?
SMITH
At this stage, I can’t tell what information is helpful and what isn’t. But it is most interesting. Thank you very much, Mr. Attenborough. (gets up) Oh, may I ask you one brief question before I take my leave?
ATTENBOROUGH
Certainly, what is it?
SMITH
I am curious about the name of your bank. Why exactly is it called the “Fifth Third Bank of London”?
ATTENBOROUGH
Oh, that is very easy to answer. It was created as such when the Fifth Bank of London bought out the Third Bank of London. All operations were transferred to the Fifth Bank building.
SMITH
But I was under the impression that the Fifth Bank building was on Second Street.
ATTENBOROUGH
Oh, that was the old Fifth Bank building. The new one is here on Firth Street. (smiles) Not First Street, you’ll notice, but “Firth.”
SMITH
Of course. As in the Firth of Forth?
ATTENBOROUGH
Excuse me?
SMITH
The “Firth of Forth.” (no sign of recognition) You haven’t been to Scotland, have you?
ATTENBOROUGH
Which part of Scotland?
SMITH
Edinburgh?
ATTENBOROUGH
(mistaking his meaning)
No, no, Attenborough. Like that “Brighton Rock” fellow.
SMITH
Never mind. Good day, sir. Thank you once again for your assistance.
ATTENBOROUGH
Oh, it was my pleasure.
SCENE 5
SMITH
(voice-over)
Although Warner had not lived in Long Common for nearly 16 years, I thought it would be a good idea to interview the current residents to see what they remembered about him. I decided to start with Warner’s successor, the current vicar, a man named Wakefield. Not wanting to tip my hand too early, I came up with a cover story: I was an amateur naturalist who had been touring the Hampshire countryside when I was seized by a sudden attack of anxiety and began questioning my former agnosticism. After calming down some, I sought out the nearest clergyman for a rational discussion of the question of faith.
Lights up on WAKEFIELD and SMITH, conversing while walking in the church garden.
WAKEFIELD
Scientists say that they do not believe in God because they cannot see him, hear him, smell him, or measure him with their instruments. Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Smith: Have you ever actually seen evolution take place?
SMITH
Well, actually one time when I was at the university a professor did show us under a microscope ...
WAKEFIELD
(hurriedly cutting him off)
Well, specifics are beside the point. But what I am driving at is that Mr. Darwin gave us only theories ...
SMITH
Mr. Wakefield, this is very fascinating, but being a naturalist I could not help but take in some of the plant life in this garden. Tell me, where did you get the idea to plant azaleas and marigolds so close together? They appear to have cross-pollinated and produced the most beautiful hybrids.
WAKEFIELD
I really couldn’t tell you that, Mr. Smith. We have a gardener who takes care of those things, and the landscaping was already completed before I became vicar. At any rate, as I was saying, Mr. Darwin ...
SMITH
Would your predecessor know?
WAKEFIELD
My predecessor is with God, Mr. Smith.
SMITH
But was the landscaping done during his tenure?
WAKEFIELD
I ... I suppose so. Mr. Smith, I was under the impression that we came here to discuss something slightly more important than azaleas.
SMITH
What was his name?
WAKEFIELD
What?
SMITH
Your predecessor. What was his name?
WAKEFIELD
I ... don’t see why it matters to you, but I believe it was Warner. Yes, yes, Warner. I remember exactly. Now, what was I saying?
SMITH
Something about Mr. Darwin.
WAKEFIELD
Ah, yes, Darwin. Darwin ... I seem to have lost my train of thought. Let’s see ... I already mentioned the inacuracies inherent in any evidence based on the so-called “fossil record” ... No, I can’t remember it. At any rate, I was also planning on mentioning to you that several theologians have succeeding in developing ways of reconciling scientific thought - not including, of course, the theory of evolution - and Christianity. I would particularly recommend to you the Summa Theologica by Aquinas and ...
SMITH
Was his first name David?
WAKEFIELD
No, Thomas. Saint Thomas Aquinas, a 13th century ...
SMITH
No, your predecessor. Was his name David Warner?
WAKEFIELD
Um, yes. Yes, David Warner. Now ...
SMITH
And did he have a wife named ... named ... named ...
WAKEFIELD
Emily?
SMITH
Yes, Emily!
WAKEFIELD
As a matter of fact, he did. She died young, and is buried in the church cemetery. Is there any particular reason you ask?
SMITH
Well, it’s just that ... I grew up with a girl named Emily. We lost touch a while back, but the last I heard from her she was married to a clergyman named Warner and living somewhere in rural Hampshire. Do you think it could be the same person?
WAKEFIELD
(skeptical)
Well, I suppose it’s a possibility, but you seem rather young to have known Emily Warner as a girl, and Warner is a rather common name ...
SMITH
Oh, she was a few years older than me, certainly, but we were good friends. If it really is her, I am very sorry to hear about her death, and I would very much like to contact her family. We really were very close, you know, back in the day ... it’s too bad we lost touch, but I guess no two people can stay friends forever, eh? At any rate, do you know how I might get in touch with the family?
WAKEFIELD
Well ... if it is the same Emily Warner, then I can sympathetize with you, but I’m afraid that when I came to this parish the lady had been dead for five years. I only knew the man himself by reputation; he left shortly before I arrived.
WAKEFIELD exits and after a slight delay HARRIS enters. He is a rather elderly man, probably Irish at one time, and easily distracted.
HARRIS
You the man the vicar said wanted to see me?
SMITH
Yes, that would be me. Did he say what it was I wanted to see you about?
HARRIS
No; he seemed to be in somethin’ of a hurry.
SMITH
Ah, well then. Did you know the previous vicar, Mr. Warner, and his wife?
HARRIS
Well I don’t see how I couldn’t, since I worked for ’em for over ten years. Why, who wants to know?
SMITH
It’s just that ... I knew an Emily Warner growing up - her family and mine were very close - and I wanted to find out if she and the vicar’s late wife were one and the same.
HARRIS
(scratches head)
Well, if she was Emily Warner when you was growing up, and then she got married, she wouldn’t be Emily Warner no more, would she?
SMITH
Oh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid than in my effort to condense my story I forced you to misunderstand me. No, her name wasn’t Warner when I knew her, but last I heard from her she was married to a man named Warner.
HARRIS
Ah! Well, I don’t know if I can help you. As you know, Mrs. Warner’s buried in that there cemetery, and last I heard the Reverend was living in Canada.
SMITH
Oh, is that so? Yes, I suppose he just couldn’t bear to stay around here after his wife’s death.
HARRIS
Oh, that had nothin’ to do with it.
SMITH
No?
HARRIS
No, you see they - the Reverend and his wife - had a daughter - Mary, I think her name was - and she came down with the rheumatic fever. The Reverend said that they had to go abroad after that - Doctor’s orders.
SMITH
Rheumatic fever, eh? That’s a nasty thing to get.
HARRIS
It wasn’t anything to do with the beds here, I’ll tell you that! My wife kept the place aired and looked after everything, just as she used to when Mrs. Warner was living. No, it was at school Miss Mary caught it. I remember saying to my wife that the vicar ought to sue the teachers up there for neglect - the child nearly died of it!
SMITH
Why didn’t he?
HARRIS
Hmm?
SMITH
Why didn’t he sue the school?
HARRIS
He never told us if he did or not. All we was told was to pack up Miss Mary’s things and send them off to the address in Cornwall he gave us, and then to get his own things packed and dust covers put over the furniture, and before we knew what was happening a great van came to pack the furniture and take it to the store, or to be sold - we heard afterwards it was sold - and then that the vicar had given up the living and they were going off to Canada. My wife was most upset about Miss Mary; she never heard a word from her or the vicar, and we had served them all those years!
SMITH
Yes, that is a rather shabby return for your services. So the school was in Cornwall? I’m not surprised at anyone catching rheumatic fever there; it’s a very damp county.
HARRIS
Oh, no, sir. Miss Mary went down to Cornwall for her convalescence - place called Carnleath, I think it was. Her school was at Hythe, in Kent.
SMITH
Oh, is that so! I have a daughter at school near there; I hope it’s not the same place. What was the name of Miss Mary’s school?
HARRIS
I believe it was called St. Bees Academy. I remember Miss Mary saying it was a lovely place, right on the sea, and she was very happy there, fond of the games and that.
SMITH
Ah, can’t be the same then. My daughter’s school is inland. (reflecting) It’s funny how people can get hold of the wrong end of the stick. (end reflection) You know, I heard Mr. Warner’s name spoken down in the village this evening - interesting, isn’t it, that sometimes you hear a name and it means nothing to you and then later you hear it again and all of a sudden it’s significant? - anyway, someone said that the reason they went to Canada was that the daughter had been injured in a train accident.
HARRIS
(laughs scornfully)
Them fellows at the pub, they’ll say anything when they’ve got a drop inside of ’em. Train accident indeed! Why, the whole village knew at the time that it was rheumatic fever and that the vicar was almost out of his mind with the worry of it, being sent for so sudden up to the school and all. I’ve never seen a man so demented! Tell you the truth, neither the wife nor myself had ever thought him so fond of Miss Mary until that happened. He used to neglect her, we thought - she was so much her mother’s girl. But his face was terrible when he came back from the school, and he said to my wife that God would punish the head teacher there for criminal negligence. Those were his exact words: “criminal negligence.”
SMITH
Perhaps he had an uneasy conscience and blamed the school for negligence, when at heart he blamed himself.
HARRIS
Could be. (considers) Could be. He’d always look for the fault in the other fellow.
SCENE 6
SMITH
(voice-over)
Harris was an easily distracted fellow, so by the end of our meeting he had completely forgotten our original purpose of talking. The portrait he painted of the Reverend David Warner was not a very flattering one, but I was hesitant to pass judgement on someone of whom I know so little. After we parted, I contacted St. Bees and told them that I had a daughter whom I was considering enrolling in their school. I made an appointment to see the headmaster, a Mr. Jacobi, and by the following Thursday morning I was in Kent.
Lights up on Jacobi’s office. SMITH is seated in front of the desk, paging through some pamphlets. JACOBI enters and sits behind the desk.
JACOBI
Good morning, Mr. Smith. Have you had time to look through our literature?
SMITH
Yes, yes, I have. I was somewhat surprised to learn - not surprised in a negative way, you understand, but just surprised - that St. Bees is a co-educational school.
JACOBI
Yes, here at St. Bees we pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of the educational movement. I know there is still some residual prejudice against co-education - people say that it makes girls masculine and boys effeminate, but I’ve never seen any sign of it myself. The children always look like most any other children and more importantly, they look happy.
SMITH
Yes, yes, I pride myself on being open-minded as well. But you understand that with my own daughter I wish to get as complete a picture of the academy as possible. What is most important to me is Kathleen’s happiness. After all, she is at that awkward age ...
JACOBI
Awkward? Then St. Bees is exactly the place for - Kathleen, did you say her name was? Yes, there are no “awkward” children at St. Bees. You will not see happier, healthier children in all of England!
SMITH
Yes, from the looks of the photographs on these pamphlets I must agree. But I am extra-careful about Kathleen, she being my only daughter and all, also ... well, she is not a very strong child. She gets colds rather easily and I wonder if the air might not be too ... rough for her.
JACOBI
(with a little laugh)
My dear Mr. Smith, St. Bees has one of the best health records of any school in England! Here is our procedure - which, I might add, is located in one of the pamphlets near the bottom of the pile, which is no doubt why you didn’t see it. First, let’s say a child develops a cold. He or she is immediately isolated, before the cold has any time to spread. In the winter months, noses and throats are sprayed as a matter of routine. In the summer months the children do exercises for the lungs in front of open windows. We have not had an influenza epidemic for five years. One case of measles, two years ago. One case of whooping cough, three years ago. I have here a list of illnesses contracted by the boys and girls over the years, and it is a list I am proud to show to every parent.
SMITH
(paging through the list)
Hmm, this is quite remarkable. Of course, modern methods of hygiene have helped you to have such an excellent record. It can’t have been the same several years ago.
JACOBI
(trying to conceal his pride)
It has always been the same, Mr. Smith. Choose any year you fancy; you won’t catch me out.
SMITH
1935-36.
JACOBI
(not expecting him to actually take up the challenge)
Excuse me?
SMITH
I chose a year. The school year from the fall term of 1935 to the corresponding term in 1936.
JACOBI
(a bit incredulous, but game)
Very well then. (takes the list from SMITH and flips through it until he gets to the right pages) Here.
SMITH scans the list thoroughly. He finds nothing of interest.
JACOBI
Well?
SMITH
Most impressive. (JACOBI beams) May I ask you a general question?
JACOBI
(still smiling)
Why, certainly.
SMITH
Have you ever had a case of rheumatic fever here? My wife is particularly afraid of that for Kathleen.
JACOBI
Never. We are far too careful. The boys and girls always have a rubdown after games, and the linen and clothing are aired most scrupulously.
SMITH
(handing back the list; getting serious)
Mr. Jacobi, I like what I have seen of St. Bees so far. But let me be frank with you. My wife was given a list of schools with yours amongst it and she at once struck it off because she remembered being very put off it by a friend several years ago. This friend had a friend - well, you know how it is, but the long and short of it is that the friend was obliged to remove his daughter from St. Bees - and even talked of suing the school for negligence.
JACOBI
(suddenly not so friendly)
I should be very much obliged if you would give me the name of this “friend.”
SMITH
Certainly. He later left the country and moved to Canada. He was a clergyman. And his name was the Reverend David Warner.
JACOBI
(doing his best to remain calm)
The Reverend David Warner ... Reverend ... Warner ... now let me see ...
SMITH
(cutting off this stall)
“Criminal negligence” was the phrase used, Mr. Jacobi, and oddly enough I ran across a relative of Mr. Warner’s only the other day, who happened to bring the matter up. I was told that Mary Warner nearly died.
JACOBI
(antagonistic)
You obviously know the story from the family’s point of view only, Mr. Smith. Any “criminal negligence” was purely on the part of the father, not on ours.
SMITH
(shrugging)
But how can a parent be sure?
JACOBI
HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?? Because I would have you know that Mary Warner’s case was one isolated incident that had never happened before and will never happen again! (pauses, takes a breath) We were careful then. And we are careful now. I told the father that what had occurred must have occurred during the holidays, and most definitely and finally not at school. He would not believe me and insisted that our boys were to blame, through lack of supervision. Lack of supervision! Mr. Smith, I had every boy over a certain age up here before me, in this very room. I questioned them privately, and they spoke the truth. My boys were not to blame. It was useless to try to get any sense out of the girl herself; she did not know what we were talking about or what we were asking her. I need hardly tell you that the whole thing was the most frightful shock to myself and my wife - to our entire staff! - and the story is one which, thank God, we have lived down - and which we hoped had been forgotten.
SMITH
What happened? Did Warner tell you he was going to remove his daughter?
JACOBI
Did he tell us? No indeed, we told him! How on earth could we possibly keep Mary Warner here, once we found out she was five months pregnant?
SCENE 7
SMITH
(voice-over)
Though the Reverend Mr. Warner’s behavior was not exactly fitting for a man of God, I could almost excuse him. What a shock it must have been! It was now obvious what drove Lady Elliott to lose her memory, but the mystery of her suicide still remained. I decided that the next place my investigation would take me would be Carnleath, where old Harris said that Miss Warner had gone for her convalescence. As I headed toward the West Country, a sudden impulse decided me to stop in and see the old man again. As luck would have it, he was out, but his daughter Nicole, who was about the same age as Her Ladyship, was there, and I decided it might be productive to put a few questions to her.
Lights up on SMITH and Harris’ daughter, NICOLE. She is a hearty country lass.
NICOLE
I am sorry, sir, but tonight is my father’s night to go into town. He should be back in a few hours - I don’t know if you can wait, but ...
SMITH
Oh, that’s all right. I was just in the vicinity, and I had such pleasant memories of my first visit that I thought I’d stop in again. There is one thing, though - if you could just tell your father that I was in Hythe a day or two ago, seeing my girl who is at school there, and curiously enough I happened to meet the headmaster of St. Bees.
NICOLE
St. Bees?
SMITH
Yes, you know, the school where Miss Mary Warner was educated? Your father was telling me about it, about how the vicar became so angry when his daughter came down with rheumatic fever.
NICOLE
Ah, yes! I remember when that happened.
SMITH
The headmaster - Jacobi, his name was - he remembered Miss Warner very well, and in fact it was still something of a sore point for him, even after all these years. He insisted that the girl did not contract rheumatic fever at the school, and it must have been some virus that she picked up at home.
NICOLE
Oh, really? Well, I suppose he had to say something for the sake of the school. Yes, St. Bees, that was the name. Miss Mary used to talk about it all the time. I often wondered what kind of saint would have parents who named her after an insect. Eh, I supposed it instilled fortitude ...
SMITH
You knew Miss Warner well, back then?
NICOLE
Oh yes! She used to let me ride her bicycle when she was home. I know it seems insignificant now, but it was a great deal to me back then.
SMITH
She was friendly, then?
NICOLE
Oh yes, very!
SMITH
More so than her father?
NICOLE
(laughs)
Oh, most certainly! I’m afraid nobody had a very high opinion of the vicar, though I daresay he must have been a good man, being in the clergy and all. But Miss Mary was a dear; everyone liked her.
SMITH
Oh, I see. You must have been very sorry, then, when she went down to Cornwall.
NICOLE
Do you know - she never even came home to say goodbye! I could not understand it. I even wrote to her down there, but she never made no reply. It hurt me quite a bit, and Mother too. It was so unlike Miss Mary!
SMITH
(after a slight pause)
It must have been lonely at the rectory all on her own. I expect she was glad of your company during the holidays.
NICOLE
I don’t think Miss Mary was ever lonely; she was such a friendly soul, with a kind word for everybody - not stuck up, like the vicar. But we did spend a lot of time together, playing games, pretending we were Indians and such - you know how kiddies are.
SMITH
No boy friends and cinemas then?
NICOLE
Oh no, we weren’t that sort at all! You know, it’s just terrible how girls are today, isn’t it? They start going out so young - and some of them even chase the men!
SMITH
Yes, I quite agree with you, it’s shocking.
NICOLE
Besides, the vicar would never have allowed Mary to have any “admirers.”
SMITH
Was she afraid of him, then?
NICOLE
Afraid? No ... I don’t think so. But she was careful never to displease him.
SMITH
He put her on a curfew? Always home by a certain time?
NICOLE
Oh yes, certainly. Miss Mary was never out after dark.
SMITH
Ah; I could never enforce something like that on my daughter, but I do wish sometimes that I could keep her from coming back so late! Do you know, sometimes on summer evenings it’s nearly eleven o’clock before she gets in? It’s not right! Especially after you read the things that happen in the newspapers ...
NICOLE
(sympathetic)
Oh, I know!
SMITH
But this ... now this is a quiet neighborhood. I don’t suppose you get many characters of a bad sort around here.
NICOLE
Oh no, not anymore. Of course, back when the hoppers came, well now that was different.
SMITH
Hoppers?
NICOLE
Oh yes, this is a great district for growing hops! And though it doesn’t happen all that often nowadays, back then the hoppers used to come down and camp in the neighborhood every summer. They were quite a rough crowd, from some of the worst parts of London.
SMITH
That’s very interesting. You know, I wasn’t even aware that they grew hops in this part of Hampshire.
NICOLE
Oh yes, it’s been an industry for quite a long time.
SMITH
I suppose you weren’t allowed anywhere near them when you were young, nor Miss Mary either.
NICOLE
(slight smile)
Well, no - at least, we weren’t supposed to. But we did, of course - every child that age has something of a rebellious streak, I suppose. I remember one time we snuck off to see them after supper - we’d gotten friendly with one of the families, y’know? - and they were having a celebration, I didn’t know what for, they seemed to have them all the time, and they gave me and Miss Mary some beer. We’d never had any before, and we got real tipsy. Miss Mary was worse that I; she told me afterwards that she didn’t remember a single thing that happened all evening. It was a very ... strange feeling for us; we’d never been among these people much before, and our heads were going round and round, and to be honest it was quite scary. I’ve often wondered what the vicar would have done if he’d found out, or me own dad for that matter. I would have got a thrashing, I’ll tell you straight out, and Miss Mary would have gotten a sermon. And we’d have deserved it, too!
SMITH
What age were you both then?
NICOLE
Well, let’s see ... I was around thirteen, and Miss Mary had just turned fourteen. It was the last summer holiday she ever had at the rectory; her father packed her off not long after. Poor Miss Mary. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. She’s probably married now, over in Canada. They say it’s a lovely country.
SMITH
(wrapping up)
Yes, Canada is a fine place, by all accounts. Well, I musn’t stay here too long gossiping. Please give my best wishes to your father, and tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see him.
NICOLE
Oh, I will, sir, and good day to you. Thank you very much for stopping by.
SMITH
On the contrary. Thank you.
SCENE 8
SMITH
(voice-over)
Hoppers and beer. Fair enough. The time factor fitted too; Mr. Jacobi and his boys were absolved. I decided to continue with my original plan of heading down to Carnleath. Warner and his daughter had undoubtedly used aliases, but Carnleath turned out to be a rather small town, and there was only one nursing home specializing in maternity cases. I visited it under the pretense that my wife was pregnant and I was looking for a place to take care of her. I was shown to the office of the matron, Ms. Celia Johnson, who had been with the home for several years and would undoubtedly have been in charge if and when the Warners arrived.
Lights up on Ms. JOHNSON and SMITH, in the former’s office. She is a vivacious, if over-talkative, old lady.
JOHNSON
Now, what did you say your wife’s name was again, Mr. Smith?
SMITH
Oh ... Kathleen.
JOHNSON
Ah, Kathleen, such a lovely name! I’m sure she’s a lovely woman. And when do you expect the blessed event?
SMITH
In May. My wife is with my in-laws at the moment, which is why I’m here alone. She is determined to be beside the sea for the great occasion, and she has a rather sentimental liking for this spot; it was where we spent our honeymoon.
JOHNSON
(winking)
Oh, returning to scene of the crime, are we? (laughs) You know, not all of my patients are so fond of the backward glance. You’d be surprised.
SMITH
I hope you aren’t going to shatter my illusions.
JOHNSON
Illusions? Believe me, we have few if any here. They all go west in the labor ward. What was sauce for the ganders turns out to be a pain under the pinny for the goose.
SMITH
Oh, well. My wife’s a plucky girl. She’s not at all frightened; I must say, though, that she’s a great deal younger than myself. Only just turned eighteen, in fact. That’s the one thing that worries me about this business. Is eighteen too young to be having a baby, Ms. Johnson?
JOHNSON
Oh, there’s no such thing! The younger, the better - their bones aren’t so set, and they’re not muscle-bound. It’s the old ones that give me the headaches. Come to me at thirty-five and think they’re in for a picnic. Well, we soon show ’em! Your wife play a lot of tennis?
SMITH
Er ... no. Doesn’t play at all.
JOHNSON
Good for her. Had a girl here last week, she was local champion over in Newquay, and she was so muscle-bound she was in labor for thirty-six hours. The nurses and I were worn to a frazzle over it.
SMITH
What about the girl?
JOHNSON
Oh, she was alright once we stitched her up.
SMITH
That’s good. Just out of curiosity, have you had patients as young as eighteen before?
JOHNSON
Oh, younger, yes, younger! We cater for all ages here, fourteen to forty-five. And they haven’t all had pleasant honeymoons, if you know what I mean.
SMITH
Oh?
JOHNSON
Oh yes, as I said, we’ve had all sorts here at Sea View. I tell you, when I get around to writing my memoirs, such stories I’ll have to tell! I’m sure it’ll be a ... what do you call it? ... best-seller. Yes - no names, of course. I couldn’t do that. We have a reputation for being discreet.
SMITH
Ah, I see.
JOHNSON
Yes. (leans forward confidentially) You’d be staggered to know what some people pay. I don’t mean honest-to-God married people like yourself - but those who have ... slipped up. They come down here to get the business over with, and they pretend to be above-board, all nice and pretty, but they can’t fool old Celia Johnson! Oh no, I’ve been in the game too long. I’ll tell you a little secret, Mr. Smith. We’ve had titled patients here at Sea View. Oh yes, they pretend to be Mrs., and their husbands think they’re having a holiday in the South of France. (chuckles) There, I hope that didn’t shock you!
SMITH
Oh, I’m unshockable. (smiles)
JOHNSON
Oh, that’s good. Yes, it’s always good when people know their onions - it saves them many tears.
SMITH
May I ask you something? What happens to the unwanted babies? In the cases you mentioned?
JOHNSON
Oh, I have contacts. There’re plenty of foster mothers in this part of the world who won’t say no to twenty-five shillings a week until a child reaches school age, no questions asked. Sometimes I’ll see the face of the real mother in the paper afterwards, and I’ll show it to the nurses and we’ll have a nice quiet laugh about it. “She didn’t wear that pretty smile in the labor ward!,” I’ll say.
SMITH
I see. I must admit, though, that I am still worried about my wife’s age. What’s the youngest you’ve ever had?
JOHNSON
(pausing)
Sixteen ... fifteen? Yes, yes, fifteen it was. We had a fifteen-year-old once - barely fifteen, as I recall. That was a right sad case. Long time ago, though.
SMITH
Would you mind telling me about it? No names, of course.
JOHNSON
Well, I really shouldn’t, but ... (conspiratorially) well, she came of well-to-do people too. The father would have paid anything I asked, but I’m not a grasper. I told him a sum I thought right, and if I remember correctly he was so pleased to dump his daughter on me that he gave a bit extra. I had her here for five months, which is much longer than the rule, but he said that it was either that or a remand home, and I felt so sorry for the poor girl that I took her in.
SMITH
How did it happen?
JOHNSON
Co-ed school, the father said. I didn’t believe it for a second; I know how strict those places are run. But I could never find out any better.
SMITH
Couldn’t the girl herself tell you?
JOHNSON
Well now, that was the real amazing thing. I generally get the truth from my patients, but I never got it from her. She couldn’t tell us a stitch! She said her father had told her that it was the greatest disgrace that could ever come upon any girl, and she couldn’t figure out why, because her father was a clergyman, and he had always preached that what happened to the Virgin Mary was the most wonderful thing in the world.
SMITH
(asking for clarification by repeating the words)
“What happened to the Virgin Mary” ...?
JOHNSON
You know, the virgin birth, the “Immaculate Conception” ...
(Yes, I know what the Immaculate Conception really was. But Ms. Johnson doesn’t.)
SMITH
(cutting her off, surprised)
You mean to say that the girl thought the whole thing was ... supernatural?
JOHNSON
I wouldn’t have believed it myself, Mr. Smith, but that’s exactly what she did think! Nothing could shake her; we told her the facts of life, but she wouldn’t believe us! She said that nothing so horrid could ever have happened to her - maybe to other people, but not her. Do you know what else she said? She said that she often dreamt about angels, and she was sure that one had come in the night, while she was asleep, and that was why she was like this. And when the baby was born, she said, her father would be the first to apologize, because it would be the new Messiah and everyone would fall down and worship it. The most extraordinary thing! I tell you, she was so sure of herself, it was quite painful to listen to. She told us that she loved children and she wasn’t the least bit afraid. She only hoped that she was good enough to be its mother; she knew that this time he really would save the world. Dreadful, isn’t it?
SMITH
(shaking his head)
Horrible.
JOHNSON
(less judgemental)
We became ever so fond of the child, in spite of everything. You just couldn’t help it; she had such a sweet nature. Do you know, we almost came to believe in her theory ourselves. She reminded us that Mary had been about the same age as her, maybe a year or so younger, when Jesus was born, and Joseph had also tried to hide her away when he found that she was enciente. “You see,” she told us, “there’ll be a great star in the sky the night the night my baby is born,” and sure enough there was! It was only Venus, of course, but the nurses and I were glad for the child’s sake that it was there. It made it easier for her; took her mind off what was happening. (pauses; looks at her watch) Oh, I must be wasting so much of your time, Mr. Smith!
SMITH
Oh no, this is fascinating, please go on. How did it all end?
JOHNSON
Well, she had her baby, and it was a boy, and I’ve never seen anything sweet as that child sitting up in bed with that baby in her arms; it might been a doll given her for a birthday present; she was so pleased, she couldn’t say a single sensible thing, just “Oh, Matron, Oh, Matron” over and over again. Lord knows I’m no softie, but I was absolutely in tears.
SMITH
(after a pause)
It was a healthy baby?
JOHNSON
Completely healthy! Bright blue eyes, and the loveliest shock of red hair ... I tell you, whoever was responsible for this must have been a redhead, because that boy’s head was practically a fireball. I don’t think he was ever actually christened while he was with us, but a few days after the birth, the nurses and I went to a movie which had the funniest comedian in it, and he was a redhead too, his name was Danny Kaye - he later became a big star, of course, but back then hardly anyone had heard of him - and anyway we came back and for the next week or so the movie was all we could talk about, and we told the girl all about it, and of course the jokes weren’t nearly as good when we did them, but she still laughed, and it kept her in a good mood, and eventually someone remarked that the baby bore a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Kaye, and we all agreed, and so from then on we called it Danny, and so did she. Yes, we all became quite attached to that little boy; I don’t ever want to go through again what happened when we parted them.
SMITH
Parted them?
JOHNSON
Well, we had to. Her father came to take her away, to begin a new life, and of course that couldn’t happen as long as she had that baby, not at her age. We kept her and Danny for only four weeks, but even that was too long; she’d grown too attached to him. I talked it over with the head nurse, and we decided that the only thing to do was to tell her that Danny had died during the night. I know it sounds cruel, but any alternative would have been even worse. But I tell you, Mr. Smith, none of us anticipated her reaction. She turned dead white, and then she screamed ... I think I shall remember the sound of that scream until my dying day; it was so terrible. Then she fainted right away, and we thought she’d never come round - we were truly afraid that she had died! We called in the doctor, which we don’t do as a rule - we attend to the patients ourselves - and he said that the whole thing was monstrous and the shock of losing the baby might turn her mental. She eventually came to, and do you know what happened? She lost her memory. All of it; it was totally gone. Aside from that, she was 100% physically and mentally well. The doctor said that under the circumstances, it was the most merciful thing that could have happened. But if it ever came back, he said, it would be like waking up to hell for the poor girl. (stops; looks at her watch) Good heavens, look at the time! I’m very sorry to end this evening on a note of tragedy, but ...
SMITH
Oh, that’s perfectly all right! I found your story extremely interesting, and I definitely think that you should include it in your memoirs when you get time to write them. By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to the baby?
JOHNSON
(getting up to show Smith out)
They took him in at St. Edmund’s Home at Newquay. I arranged it through a friend on the Board of Governors, but it was quite a troublesome business. Poor lad. You know, sometimes when I think back on it, I wonder if he really is destined to save the world. God knows, if anything needs saving ... (silence) Well, Mr. Smith, I do hope that your wife - Kathleen, it was? - will come to stay with us. I hope to see you again soon.
SMITH
Well, we shall have to see. But thank you very much for your time and helpfulness.
SCENE 9
SMITH
(voice-over)
Newquay is only a few miles further southwest than Carnleath, and I figured that since I had already come this far, I might as well drive out a few more miles to check out this lead. As it turned out, Mr. Gough, the superintendent of St. Edmund’s, was not as easy to pry information from as Ms. Johnson had been.
Lights up on GOUGH and SMITH.
GOUGH
I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but there is no way that I can give you any information about any of the children given over to our care.
SMITH
But surely ... after all these years it can do no harm?
GOUGH
The children are brought to us very young, Mr. Smith. This home is all they know of their childhood. I’m sure you can imagine how it would unsettle them if their parents ever tried to get in touch with them later in life. It would lead to all sorts of complications. (pauses; sighs) You see, Mr. Smith, we are not in the business of keeping secrets from the public. But sometimes it cannot be avoided.
SMITH
I quite understand. But in this case, as I said, there would be no complications. The father is unknown, and the mother is dead.
GOUGH
I’m afraid I have only your word for that, and that is not sufficient. It is strictly against our policy to divulge any information about any of our wards.
SMITH
You do have that information, however?
Silence.
GOUGH
There is only one ward answering the description you gave who came to us during the time period you specified. I know his name, but I cannot tell it to you. We do have some records on him, though they are far from comprehensive.
SMITH
Are you absolutely certain that you could not give me any relevant information on him?
Another silence.
GOUGH
He lives in London. (beat) He has a job there. (beat) A traveling salesman. I regret that I cannot tell you any more.
SMITH
Thank you, Mr. Gough.
GOUGH
I doubt that the information I gave you will be of any use to you, and I most sincerely apologize.
SMITH
On the contrary, Mr. Gough. You have told me quite a bit.
SCENE 10
SMITH
(voice-over)
The last person to see Lady Elliott before she died was the butler, Richardson. The second-to-last person to see her alive was a traveling salesman - from the Argento Furniture Company, according the catalogue found among Her Ladyship’s effects. I contacted the central office of Argento and arranged to speak with their branch manager in London, a Mr. Broadbent. I felt that a cover story would be gratuitous at this point, so I went ahead and told him the truth.
Lights up on SMITH and BROADBENT.
SMITH
As I explained to your secretary over the phone, I am investigating the recent suicide of Lady Mary Elliott, at the behest of her husband, Lord Elliott. Shortly before she died, Lady Elliott spoke to a traveling salesman employed by your firm. I would very much like to speak with this man.
BROADBENT
I would very much like to oblige you, Mr. Smith, but we have three salesman who cover that district, and all three of them are out travelling right now.
SMITH
Is there any way you can get in touch with them?
BROADBENT
I’m afraid not; you see, it is quite impossible to contact them while they are on the road. (pause) Do you know the name of the man you wish to question?
SMITH
Not the full name, but perhaps ... what are the names of your three salesmen?
BROADBENT
They are Ian Scofield, Tony Quayle, and Paul Bettany.
SMITH
Hmm. (pause) Does one of them have bright red hair?
BROADBENT
(smiles)
You are a good detective! A regular Sherlock Holmes. Yes, Paul Bettany has a shock of bright red hair. You could warm your hands on it.
SMITH
When will Mr. Bettany be back?
BROADBENT
Let’s see ... (checks) He will not return for another five days. If you would care to come to this office then, I’m sure we can arrange ...
SMITH
His Lordship is eager to bring an end to this inquiry as soon as possible. Are you certain that there is no way I could possibly talk to Mr. Bettany sooner?
BROADBENT
I am afraid not. Well ... I suppose the absolutely earliest you could see him would be on the evening of the fourth day, which is when he would most likely get back to London. His lodgings are in ... (checks again) Norwood.
SMITH
Thank you very much. I think I shall go and see him there, actually. Please excuse me; you have been most helpful.
SCENE 11
SMITH
(voice-over)
It would be easy to conclude that as soon as Her Ladyship saw Paul Bettany, her memory came flooding back, she could no longer deal with it, and so she killed herself. But 10 minutes before she died, Richardson saw her drinking a glass of milk, apparently without a care in the world. She even told him that she would be going for a drive after lunch with her husband. The pieces of the puzzle did not all fit. Something was amiss, and to discover what it was I decided to pay a call on Mr. Paul Bettany at his lodgings in Norwood.
Lights up. BETTANY is sitting down, finishing up a meal. There is a knock at the door.
BETTANY
(loudly)
Come in!
SMITH enters. BETTANY looks up at him, obviously on the defensive.
BETTANY
What’s up?
SMITH
My name is John Smith. I’m from a private-enquiry agency. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.
BETTANY
(standing up; suspicious)
What are you getting at? I’ve not been doing anything.
SMITH
(sitting down)
I’m not suggesting you have. And I’m not here to look at your order book, if that’s what scaring you. But I happen to know that you visited a Lady Elliott on your rounds recently, and she gave you an order for two garden seats.
BETTANY
What about it?
SMITH
That’s all. Tell me what happened at the interview.
BETTANY
(after a pause)
All right. Let’s say I did go to this Lady Elliott, let’s say she did give me a couple of orders; I’ll make it all right with the firm when I see them, if they’ve got wind of it. I can say I asked for the check to be made out to me, through a mistake, and it won’t happen again.
SMITH
I think it would much simpler for you, and for your relations with the firm, if you told me the truth straightaway. If you do, I won’t report you, either to the firm or to Mr. Gough.
BETTANY
Mr. Gough? Who’s that?
SMITH
The superintendent at St. Edmund’s.
BETTANY
You’ve come from them, then. I might have known it. Always down on me, they were, right from the start. Never had a chance, not me.
SMITH
I’m not interested in your childhood, only in your very immediate past - specifically the interview you had with Lady Elliott. You may not know it, but the lady is dead.
BETTANY
(nodding)
Saw it in the evening paper the day it happened. (pause) That’s what really decided me to do it.
SMITH
Do what?
BETTANY
Spend the money. Spend the money, cross the order off my book, and say nothing to nobody about it. Easy done.
SMITH
Yes, easy done. (beat) Tell me more.
BETTANY
(relaxing a little; seeing that Smith isn’t going to turn him in)
Lady Elliott was on the list of the big nobs in the district - plenty of money, and an easy touch. So I called there, and the butler showed me in, and I gave the lady my catalog, and she chose two seats, and I asked for a check. She wrote it out, and I took it. No more to it than that.
SMITH
Wait. Was Lady Elliott pleasant to you? Did she take any particular notice of you?
BETTANY
Notice of me? No. Why should she? I wasn’t anyone; just a chap trying to sell her garden seats.
SMITH
What did she say to you?
BETTANY
She just looked through the catalog, while I stood by waiting, and then she marked two items with a pencil, and then I asked her to make out the check, and she asked who she should make it out to, and I said “bearer” - I figured it was worth a try, she had that big dumb face that’ll fall for anything - and sure enough she went over to that big desk of hers and made out the check just like I said. Easy as that.
SMITH
How much was the check for?
BETTANY
Twenty quid; ten pound a seat. I took it from her, and then I said good morning, and she rang for the butler and I was showed out. I went off and cashed the check right away, and I put the money in my wallet, but even then I wasn’t sure whether to spend it or not, but then when I saw in the paper the lady was dead, I said to myself, “Well, there you go.” First break I ever got in my life - well, you can hardly blame me.
SMITH
You’re not ashamed of yourself?
BETTANY
Ashamed? No, not me. There’s no one in this world who don’t got secrets, Mr. Smith. But no one’s ever ashamed until they get caught out. So this dodge didn’t work out - I knew that as soon as I heard your knock. So I’ll pick a better one next time.
SMITH
I’ve got a dodge for you. (BETTANY gives him a curious look) Saving the world. Ever consider it?
BETTANY gives him a look of incomprehension.
SMITH
Good day, Mr. Bettany. I am quite glad that we had this conversation. It has been most ... illuminating.
SCENE 12
SMITH
(voice-over)
Paul Bettany was the last stop on my trail of clues. I now knew just about all there was to know about Lady Mary Elliott - everything but why she killed herself. Well, I’m no fool. The first piece of professional advice I was ever given, and the first I’d give to anyone who ever asked me, is, “Don’t get too attached to a case.” So when I went in to make my final report to Lord Elliott, it was my intention to tell him that I appreciated all the resources he had put at my disposal, but despite my best efforts there was no way I could ever tell him beyond a shadow of a doubt why the woman he loved had killed herself. It was further my intention to bow graciously, accept his payment, and move on to my next case without a second glance. But there was something about this case that kept bothering me, like a speck in my eye. I felt as though I had not exhausted every possibility.
Lights up on Lord Elliott’s study. RICHARDSON shows SMITH in.
RICHARDSON
His Lordship will be with you in a minute, sir. (He turns to leave)
SMITH
Wait. (RICHARDSON turns to him) May I take just a few seconds of your time? There are a handful of minor details I’d like to be absolutely sure of.
RICHARDSON
Certainly, sir.
SMITH
Think back to the day of Lady Elliott’s suicide. There was a traveling salesman who came to call at approximate eleven o’clock. You showed him into the drawing room and left him with Her Ladyship. Is that correct so far?
RICHARDSON
Yes, sir.
SMITH
After about five minutes, Her Ladyship rang and you showed the salesman out. After that, you came in again with Her Ladyship’s glass of milk. Am I still correct?
RICHARDSON
Quite so, sir.
SMITH
When you came in with the glass of milk, what was Her Ladyship doing?
RICHARDSON
She was just standing, sir, over by her desk, going through the catalog.
SMITH
Nothing unusual about the way she looked?
RICHARDSON
No, sir.
SMITH
What happened then? I know you’ve been asked this over and over, but I must check one last time before I make my final report to Lord Elliott. Please be as thorough as possible; even if something appeared to be just a minor detail, I still want to hear it.
RICHARDSON
Well, sir, I gave Her Ladyship the milk. I asked if there were orders for the chauffeur, and she said no, Sir John would be driving her in the afternoon. She then told me that she had ordered two garden seats, and she showed me them marked in the catalog. I said that I thought they would be useful. I saw her put the catalog down on the desk, and then she walked toward the window to drink the glass of milk.
SMITH
She said nothing else? She didn’t refer at all to the salesman who had brought her the catalog?
RICHARDSON
No, sir, she did not. (pause) But I remember that I did, just as I was leaving the room - though I’m sure Her Ladyship didn’t hear me, as she made no reply.
SMITH
What did you say?
RICHARDSON
Well, I said - you understand, sir, that Her Ladyship and I had a rather familar relationship, as I have been with the family for so long, and so I often made playful statements to her - I said that if the salesman ever called again, I would have no trouble remembering him, because of his bright red hair. I said that he reminded me of my favorite motion-picture star: Danny Kaye.
SMITH is silent.
RICHARDSON
Will there be anything else, sir?
SMITH
(deep in thought)
No, no, Richardson. That’s all.
RICHARDSON
Thank you, sir.
He exits. ELLIOTT enters.
ELLIOTT
(briskly)
Well, Mr. Smith? What is the verdict?
FIN
Dedicated to Daphne du Maurier (1907-1989).
Special thanks to Jeffrey Treviño for the title.
Thanks to Greg Taylor, Carly Hawkins, and Teresa Kim for input and suggestions.
Thanks also to Nicholas Eliopulos.
This play was written as an homage, and is not intended for any commercial application or profit.
