Books: Night Must Fall

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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.

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