Cause Célèbre

by Terence Rattigan

  MRS DAVENPORT. Stella’s coming to take me to have dinner with General and Lady Whitworth.

  TONY. Oh yes. And they’re important because of the new house, or something.

  MRS DAVENPORT. He’s Chairman of the Bournemouth Country Club, which owns the whole estate – He’s a terrible old snob, according to Stella, so I expect it’ll be an excruciating evening. A lot of small talk about gout and cricket, and trouble with the undergardeners.

  TONY. Is it worth it?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Oh yes, darling, it’s a lovely little house – quite perfect for just the two of us, so I’ll have to be a good girl and say all the right things. They’re determined only to let in ‘a certain class of person’!

  TONY. Not Mrs Rattenbury! (Laughs). Oops, sorry.

  MRS DAVENPORT smiles.

  You don’t have to worry, Mum, I’m sure you’ll manage your grapefruit perfectly.

  MRS DAVENPORT. And not eat peas with a knife?

  TONY. Or tell any of those filthy stories of yours.

  He laughs.

  MRS DAVENPORT (embracing him). You’re a naughty boy.

  Your hair needs cutting.

  TONY. Tomorrow.

  There is a ring at the front door.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Just stay and say hullo, and then leave us alone for a moment, will you? (Calling off.) Hello, Stella, did you come by car?

  She goes out. We hear the sound of greeting in the hall. TONY fishes out the discarded copy of the Evening News, folds it up and puts it into his breast pocket.

  STELLA comes in, also wearing evening dress but, because she is rich, probably a real Chanel rather than a fake Molyneux.

  STELLA (as she comes in). No, I sent the Rolls on ahead and had Phillips pick me up off the train. It wasn’t the Belle, of course, but it had a perfectly good Pullman – hullo Tony.

  TONY. Hullo, Aunt Stella.

  He allows himself to be kissed.

  STELLA. You get handsomer every time I see you. (To MRS DAVENPORT.) Any girls in his life yet?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Oh yes… Happily they all live in Hollywood.

  STELLA (to TONY). Wouldn’t nearer be better?

  MRS DAVENPORT (sharply). He’s too young for girls.

  STELLA. Darling, I wasn’t being serious. My dear, what about this murder case!

  TONY. Did you ever meet her, Aunt Stella?

  STELLA. Mrs Rattenbury? Oh no. But the awful thing is I suppose one could have. Your Uncle Henry, of course, is going around boasting he did meet her – at a cocktail party somewhere – and she sang one of her songs. But you know what a liar he is. By next week he’ll have had an affair with her –

  TONY. Which wasn’t too difficult, I gather.

  STELLA. Difficult for Henry – even with Mrs Rattenbury. I said to him – ‘You’d better be careful, dear. You don’t know what the gardener’s boy and I get up to when you’re up at the Stock Exchange. We might swing a mallet on you any time – ’

  TONY (excitedly). Do you think they both swung together, or took it in turns? I mean, did Wood hit the old boy first and then she finished him off – or –

  STELLA. Oh, they both swung together, of course – like two Etonians.

  (Singing.) ‘And we’ll both swing together, and swear by the best of – ’ what? Not ‘schools’ – ‘pools’ would do. I gather from the Commissioner there was a pool of blood all over the floor, inches deep – and she was dancing the black bottom in it.

  TONY. No, really?

  STELLA. Stark naked, my dear, and trying to kiss all the policemen – and shouting out, ‘I did it, I did it – I bumped him off!’

  MRS DAVENPORT (violently). Will you please stop!

  STELLA looks at her uneasily. She knows her sister’s temperament.

  TONY. Mum’s very shocked by it all.

  STELLA. Well, of course she is. Of course we all are. (To her sister.) But with a thing as appalling as this – and in the heart of Bournemouth too – the only thing one can do is to make a joke of it. If one starts trying to think of it seriously, one would go mad. I mean, it being with a servant! To me, that’s the real horror.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony, go to your room.

  TONY. Yes, Mum. (Kisses STELLA.) Goodbye, Aunt Stella.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Goodnight, darling.

  TONY kisses her.

  I’ll try not to disgrace you with the General.

  TONY. You’ll be a smashing success, I know. (Goes.)

  MRS DAVENPORT. To me the real horror is the boy’s age – exactly the same age as Tony –

  STELLA. When he met her perhaps. Now he’s a year older. Eighteen. Old enough to hang.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Oh God! The law’s unjust. It’s the woman who should hang.

  STELLA. Oh, she will. No doubt of that, thank heavens. But after all, the boy did kill his employer. He really shouldn’t get away with that.

  MRS DAVENPORT (violently). I don’t know. I only know she ought to be lynched!

  STELLA. Well, she might be. You should hear what they’re saying about her in Bournemouth –

  MRS DAVENPORT. I suppose I’m being silly but whenever I think about that horrible case, I think about Tony.

  STELLA. Yes. I’m afraid you are being rather silly, darling. I doubt if Tony’s going to commit murder for a middle-aged nympho-dipso-songwriter. There can’t be many in Bournemouth.

  MRS DAVENPORT (darkly). There was a married woman at Dieppe last Christmas, well over thirty, who had an eye on him. French too.

  STELLA. Was Tony interested?

  MRS DAVENPORT. I didn’t give him a chance to be. I changed hotels.

  STELLA. Yes. You would. There are worse ways for a boy to start than with a married woman who knows how to take the right precautions – coupled with a bit of French élan.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Stella!

  There is a ring at the front door.

  Just a moment –

  She goes out. We hear her voice.

  (Off.) Oh, hullo, Randolph.

  BROWNE (off). Hullo, Mrs Davenport.

  MRS DAVENPORT (off). Tony’s in his bedroom. You know where that is.

  BROWNE (off). Yes. Thank you.

  She comes back.

  Tony’s best pal at Westminster. Randolph Browne. A bishop’s son – and a very good friend for him…

  STELLA. Well, shall we go?

  MRS DAVENPORT. There’s something I want to ask you. Should I mention tonight about John and…?

  STELLA. Not the bed part –

  MRS DAVENPORT. Really! As if I would –

  STELLA. …Well, don’t mention the word ‘divorce’ tonight. Leave it to me. When’s the decree absolute?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Not for another couple of months.

  STELLA. Well, I hope it’s not in the Bournemouth Echo –

  MRS DAVENPORT. Stella – after all, I am the innocent party.

  STELLA. My dear, in Bournemouth nobody in a divorce is ever the innocent party.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Well, let them see me as a glamorous divorcée then.

  STELLA (as she goes). Frankly, darling, I don’t think that’s very likely either.

  MRS DAVENPORT. It’s all clear, Tony.

  TONY (off). Thank you. Goodbye.

  Fade on the sitting room as they go out, and fade up on the bedroom, where RANDOLPH BROWNE, bespectacled and studious, sits, deep in the Evening Standard. Beside him sits TONY, deep in his rescued Evening News. There is a pause.

  BROWNE (at length). Have you got to the orgy in the Royal Palace Hotel?

  TONY. I wonder how many times they did it all together…

  BROWNE. From the time he went to live in the house – which was – it’s here somewhere – Yes – ‘Congress first took place a month after he was employed –’

  TONY. ‘Congress’?

  BROWNE. Legal for ‘it’.

  TONY. What about the Congress of Anglican Bishops? (As he makes his calculation.) Assuming twice a night for…

  BROWNE. Why only twice a night? He wasn’t in t
raining for anything.

  TONY. You mean you could have made it more?

  BROWNE. Double – easily.

  TONY. Bollocks – Here it is. At twice a night until the murder, three hundred and fourteen times!

  BROWNE. You know, when they open that trapdoor he’ll probably float upwards, not drop downwards.

  TONY. I’m not being funny, Browne. I really do almost envy him…

  BROWNE. Mind you, three hundred and fourteen times – That’s nothing in a lifetime, and for him it will be a lifetime, poor sod. I hope to put up a million before I die.

  TONY. Not a hope. You’ll never get enough girls.

  BROWNE. You only need one.

  TONY. When you’re eighty it’ll probably still be Jones Minor.

  BROWNE. You’re out of date.

  TONY. Who is it now?

  BROWNE. Shuttleworth.

  TONY. I don’t know him.

  BROWNE. He’s in the choir.

  TONY. God, you are disgusting! Randy by name, and randy by nature.

  BROWNE. That’s right. Anyway, a chap’s got to do something, hasn’t he? Or else he’d go raving mad.

  Pause.

  TONY. It’s hell, isn’t it?

  BROWNE. Oh, I don’t know. It’ll do till something better comes along.

  TONY. But when will that be? God, it’s frustrating. To be seventeen is hell… I mean, seventeen and English and upper class and living in this century is hell… It wasn’t always like that. Romeo was only seventeen, Juliet only thirteen.

  BROWNE. And a ripe mess they made of things.

  TONY. But no one in Shakespeare’s time thought they were too young, did they? ‘A boy of seventeen and a girl of thirteen? How too utterly disgusting, my dear!’

  BROWNE. Your mother?

  TONY nods.

  Not a good imitation.

  Doing his own imitation, evidently of his father.

  ‘My dear Randolph, should you be troubled with impure thoughts, you will find a cold tub and a brisk trot will work wonders – ’

  TONY. The bishop?

  BROWNE. Verbatim.

  TONY. I wonder what our parents think we do between thirteen and twenty-one.

  BROWNE. Solo, I should think, or else have cold tubs and brisk trots.

  TONY. It’s such damn humbug. Of course, they know we’re safe – apart from Shuttleworths, which they don’t like to think about. You should have heard my mother on this Mrs Rattenbury. The murder apart, my mother seems to think she’s the monster of Glamis, just because she’s twenty years older than Wood… And why not? Look at her. (Slaps the paper.) She’s damned attractive.

  BROWNE. Not bad at all.

  TONY (muttering). Three hundred and fourteen times. My God, I’ve a good mind to – and with Mum out – How much money have you got?

  BROWNE. ‘Good mind to’ what?

  TONY. Try it. Tonight.

  BROWNE. With Mrs Rattenbury?

  TONY. No, idiot. ‘It.’

  BROWNE. Oh. (Counting.) Seventeen and threepence.

  TONY. And I’ve got ten bob. What do you suppose we could get for one pound seven and threepence?

  BROWNE. Both of us?

  TONY. Don’t you want to?

  BROWNE. Not for – thirteen and sevenpence halfpenny, thank you.

  TONY. Will you lend it to me then?

  BROWNE. Are you serious?

  TONY. Yes.

  BROWNE. I know nothing about it.

  He hands him fifteen shillings.

  TONY. Why? What can happen to me? She can only say no. (Goes to the door, and stops nervously.) You won’t come with me?

  BROWNE. Davenport, you are speaking to the son of a bishop. When I do it it’ll be Jermyn Street, and a fiver. I think I should warn you, my dear child, that it’s not going to be Romeo and Juliet – or even Wood and Mrs Rattenbury…

  The lights begin to fade.

  TONY (calling off). Be out when Mum gets back.

  BROWNE. I’m not staying here!

  The lights now come up to illumine a small cell, at the moment empty. We hear the sound of a metal door being unlocked.

  JOAN (off). In there.

  ALMA comes on. As a remand prisoner she is allowed to wear her own clothes, and she has on a simple but smart dress. She is followed by a wardress (JOAN WEBSTER), a gruff-voiced, rather forbidding woman, younger than ALMA.

  Wait.

  She goes across the cell to another unseen door, which we hear opening. Then a murmur of voices. Finally, JOAN returns. ALMA meanwhile sits.

  I didn’t say you could sit.

  ALMA. Sorry, dear.

  She gets up.

  JOAN. If the lawyers allow you to, that is their business. I have to obey prison regulations.

  ALMA. Yes, of course. What’s your name, dear?

  JOAN. Wardress Webster.

  ALMA. I mean your Christian name.

  JOAN. We are not allowed to use first names.

  ALMA. Phyllis did. And she used to call me Alma.

  JOAN. Who is Phyllis?

  ALMA. The other lady. The one that’s gone on leave.

  JOAN. Oh, Mrs Stringer. Well, she should not have.

  ALMA. Oh, I’m sure it was quite wrong. But she was an awful dear, all the same. (Laughs.) She used to tell me about her little son, same age as my youngest – my little John.

  No response from JOAN.

  Poor little John… Oh well, he doesn’t know yet. Christopher – that’s my eldest – he does, of course. But in his letters he’s quite cheerful.

  No response from JOAN.

  Of course, he doesn’t quite understand…

  Her voice trails off.

  How long do you think my trial will last?

  JOAN. I could not say, I’m sure.

  ALMA. Mr Montagu – such a dear, Mr Montagu, and so good looking too – he says it’ll last five days. What will I be allowed to wear?

  JOAN. It will be your privilege to dress exactly as you please.

  ALMA. Could I wear my pyjamas?

  JOAN. I would think what you are currently wearing would be more suitable.

  ALMA. Oh, I wasn’t serious. Phyllis would have seen the joke. No, I mean, that’s what they always write about. ‘The female prisoner, wearing a fetching blue ensemble’… Well, they did at the Magistrates’ Court, anyway. I just can’t go on wearing a ‘fetching blue ensemble’ five days running. I mean, on the fifth day it’ll stop ‘fetching’ and start carrying…

  She laughs gaily. JOAN does not crack a smile.

  (After a pause.) What made you become a wardress, dear? Did you think you were cut out for it?

  JOAN. We are not allowed to answer personal questions.

  ALMA. Aren’t you? Phyllis always told me –

  JOAN. Mrs Stringer may have had other ideas. I prefer to abide by the rules.

  ALMA. Yes –

  There is the sound of a metal door opening.

  O’CONNOR (off). Thank you, Chief.

  JOAN (rapping out the order). Prisoner Rattenbury, on your feet.

  ALMA (a shade plaintively). I am on my feet.

  O’CONNOR and MONTAGU come in.

  O’CONNOR (as they come in). I don’t know… quite frankly we’ll have our work cut out, whoever we get. If we come up at the end of May, it’ll probably be Humphreys. Just so long as it isn’t Goddard!… All right, wardress, you may leave us.

  JOAN. Sir.

  She marches out.

  O’CONNOR. Good morning.

  ALMA. Good morning.

  O’CONNOR. Sit down, please, Mrs Rattenbury.

  ALMA. Oh, thank you –

  She sits down. Both barristers sit at a table facing her. O’CONNOR busily arranges papers in front of him. MONTAGU, a young man, opens a packet of Player’s cigarettes and offers it to her.

  MONTAGU. Mrs Rattenbury.

  ALMA. – Player’s. My favourites. Oh, Mr Montagu, you are a duck.

  He hands her the packet.

  MONTAGU. Will those keep
you for a time?

  ALMA. Oh yes.

  MONTAGU. Is there anything else I can get you that you need?

  ALMA. Well, not really things that a man would know about, kirby grips and things. Irene will see to those.

  MONTAGU. She’s still coming to see you?

  ALMA. Oh yes. You can’t keep her away.

  O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury, do you persist in saying that your various statements to the police regarding the murder are true?

  ALMA. Well, I can’t go back on them, can I?

  O’CONNOR. You can very easily go back on them. In fact, Mrs Rattenbury, to save your life – I repeat that – to save your life, you must.

  ALMA. Mr O’Connor. I’d like to say the things you want me to say, I really would. But I can’t.

  O’CONNOR. Very well. Let me read to you some of the official statements you made to the police. Late on the night of the murder, after the body had been removed to hospital, you say to Inspector Mills: ‘I was playing cards with my husband when he dared me to kill him as he wanted to die. I picked up a mallet, and he said, “You have not the guts to do it.” I then hit him with the mallet.’ Did you say that?… Mrs Rattenbury, please pay attention.

  ALMA. Yes. I’m sorry. What?

  O’CONNOR. Did you say that to Inspector Mills?

  ALMA. Yes.

  O’CONNOR. You remember saying every word?

  ALMA. Yes.

  O’CONNOR. In spite of having consumed the best part of a bottle of whisky?

  ALMA. My mind was perfectly clear.

  O’CONNOR. ‘Perfectly clear’? Half an hour before you signed that you were playing the gramophone full blast, dancing about the room half-dressed, and trying to kiss several of the policemen –

  ALMA. Oh dear! Was I really? They didn’t say that at the Magistrates’ Court.

  O’CONNOR. No, because it didn’t suit their case. But they’ll say it at the trial because it’ll suit mine.

  ALMA. Oh… Must you?… Dancing about half-naked, and –

  She covers her face and shoulders.

  – Oh dear! How could I have!

  O’CONNOR. You mean you don’t remember doing that?

  ALMA. No. Nothing like that at all. Just a lot of noise and people there, and me trying to forget and – oh, how awful! Oh, I couldn’t have –

  O’CONNOR. This has come to you as a complete surprise.

  ALMA. Oh yes –

  O’CONNOR. And yet you remember clearly every word of a statement you made only half an hour later, when according to the police you had had even more to drink?… Mrs Rattenbury!