Cause Célèbre

by Terence Rattigan

  ALMA looks up at him, realising she is caught.

  And you’ll say that in court?

  ALMA. I certainly will.

  O’CONNOR. Right. Where did you find this mallet?

  Pause.

  ALMA. Lying about.

  O’CONNOR. In the sitting room?

  ALMA. No. It couldn’t have been, could it? It must have been in the hall.

  O’CONNOR. Did you know that Wood had borrowed it from his father earlier that evening?

  ALMA. No.

  O’CONNOR. What did you do with the mallet afterwards?

  ALMA. I hid it.

  O’CONNOR. Why?

  ALMA hesitates.

  If you were going to confess, why did you hide it?

  ALMA. It looked so horrible.

  O’CONNOR. More horrible than the body of your husband with his head caved in?

  ALMA (with a half-scream). Don’t –

  O’CONNOR. I must. Where did you hide it, Mrs Rattenbury?

  ALMA. I can’t remember, even now.

  O’CONNOR. Why should Wood know where the mallet was, and not you?

  ALMA. He didn’t know.

  O’CONNOR. He did. On his arrest, two days after yours, he described to the police exactly where he had hidden it in the garden. And exactly there they found it – with his fingerprints all over it.

  ALMA. Well, they would be. He’d carried it all the way from his father’s.

  O’CONNOR. And why weren’t yours on it?

  Pause.

  ALMA. I wore gloves.

  O’CONNOR. Where did you find the gloves?

  ALMA. Oh, I have them upstairs. Lots of pairs.

  Pause.

  O’CONNOR. Your story then is this: your husband asks you to kill him. You agree. You go out into the hall to find a suitable implement, and find a gardener’s mallet, borrowed that evening by Wood. You leave it there, go upstairs and choose a pair of gloves. You come downstairs, pick up the mallet in your gloved hands and hit your husband three times on the back of the head – the back of the head, Mrs Rattenbury, not the front –

  ALMA. Don’t – don’t –

  O’CONNOR. And kill him. You then hide the mallet somewhere in the garden, but you can’t remember where, and presumably you put the gloves back in a drawer of your bedroom. You then ring up the police, to whom you give a full confession.

  ALMA is silent. She is trapped and knows it.

  Mrs Rattenbury, if I told that story in court, the jury’s laughter would drown my voice.

  ALMA (indifferent). Well, if they don’t believe it, that’s that.

  O’CONNOR. No, it isn’t quite that, Mrs Rattenbury. If I tell that story in court, do you know what the jury will believe, they will believe that it was Wood who killed your husband, with a mallet specially acquired for precisely that purpose, and that he did so with your knowledge and your consent, certainly under your influence, and very probably at your urging. That will make you both equally guilty of murder, and your efforts to shield Wood will have the effect of putting a noose around his neck just as surely as around your own.

  ALMA. You’re just trying to scare me. If I say I did it alone, how can they find him guilty?

  O’CONNOR. They can and they will. Mrs Rattenbury, would you like to tell us the truth?

  ALMA, struggling to keep her composure, finds it hard to reply. But when she does her voice is firm and unwavering.

  ALMA. I’ve already told you, I killed Ratz alone and George had nothing to do with it.

  Pause. O’CONNOR stares at her steadily, then begins to put his papers together.

  O’CONNOR. Montagu – it seems there is nothing more.

  MONTAGU. Mr O’Connor. Might I – ?

  O’CONNOR. By all means.

  He continues to gather his papers. MONTAGU leans forward with a smile.

  MONTAGU. Mrs Rattenbury, we’ve come to know each other quite well in the last few weeks, haven’t we?

  ALMA. Oh yes, very well.

  MONTAGU. During our talks, one of those things I’ve found out about you is that you’re a very affectionate person. I mean, for instance, you told me how much you like that wardress –

  ALMA. Phyllis? Oh yes. She’s a dear.

  MONTAGU. And Irene Riggs.

  ALMA. I love Irene.

  MONTAGU. Then you’ve told me often how fond you were of your husband.

  ALMA. Old Ratz? (Sincerely.) Yes. He was a funny old thing in his way, but I was fond of him. Very fond of him, really.

  MONTAGU (gently). Mrs Rattenbury, how can you possibly expect me – to believe that you deliberately hit him with a garden mallet with such force that his blood gushed out on the carpet –

  ALMA. Stop…

  MONTAGU. – at the first stroke, that you shattered his skull with the second –

  ALMA (jumping up). Stop it, stop it!

  MONTAGU. – opening up his head so that his brains were exposed –

  ALMA (screaming). No, no, no! Stop it!

  She puts her hands over her ears. MONTAGU continues inexorably.

  MONTAGU. – that you changed the grip on the mallet and hit him on the right side of his head, opening up a gash just over the eye from which the blood spurted half across the room, and would have blinded him helplessly if he’d stayed alive –

  ALMA, hands to her ears, is now sobbing helplessly.

  – and that you coldly left him there in that chair to die, suffocating in his own blood – while you calmly hid the mallet in the garden, and the gloves upstairs.

  Helpless with sobs, she has tried now to get away from him as far as she can, but he comes up to her.

  How can you expect me to believe that you, of all people, did that to him?

  Moaning, she makes no reply. With a brusque gesture he pulls her hands from her ears.

  Above all, how can you go on loving and shielding the man who did?

  She falls into a chair, sobbing. He puts his hand gently on her shoulder.

  He joins O’CONNOR, who has been watching the scene dispassionately, except for a faint annoyance that it was his junior and not himself that achieved the breakthrough. He presses a bell.

  O’CONNOR (in what he plainly thinks is an inaudible murmur). Yes. That was quite good work, Montagu.

  JOAN comes in.

  MONTAGU. We’re going, wardress.

  JOAN. Yes, sir. On your feet, Rattenbury.

  MONTAGU. No, no. Let her sit for a moment.

  JOAN (understanding the reason). Yes, sir.

  MONTAGU. Please try and save your life, Mrs Rattenbury, believe me, I think it’s worth saving.

  JOAN goes off with the two lawyers.

  O’CONNOR (off). But it’s just a matter of timing, you see. A breakthrough of that kind is of little moment unless one can follow it up at once. And that, of course – after you, my dear fellow – you were quite unable to do.

  We hear a door clang, then JOAN comes back. ALMA’s tears have nearly stopped, but it is plain that her small handkerchief has become a soggy ball. JOAN watches her for a moment in silence, then reaches for the ‘soggy ball’ and substitutes for it a massive but serviceable handkerchief of her own.

  ALMA (seated). Ta.

  She wipes her eyes and face, offers the handkerchief back to JOAN.

  JOAN. Keep it.

  ALMA. Thank you, love. Thank you, Wardress Webster.

  She stuffs the vast napkin into her bag and stands up. JOAN pushes her roughly back again. Then, after a lot of fumbling, she produces a packet of cigarettes and proffers it.

  JOAN (at length). What is it?

  ALMA. Nothing. They’re trying to get me to say something and I won’t, that’s all.

  JOAN. They usually know best.

  ALMA. Not in this case. In this case I know best. You see, Wardress Webster –

  JOAN. Joan –

  ALMA. Well, you see, Joan, they both seemed to think just now that I didn’t want to save my life – as if anyone in the world doesn’t want to save t
heir life – me above all others. I love life – I always have.

  JOAN nods sympathetically.

  It’s just the cost, you see –

  She could be speaking about the price of a length of crêpe de Chine. JOAN nods sympathetically, however, as if she understood. The lights fade.

  The lights come up on the sitting room.

  STELLA. Is anything the matter, Tony?

  TONY. No, nothing!

  STELLA. Nervous?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Petrified.

  STELLA. I heard on the wireless there’s an enormous crowd already, and they’re getting out mounted police for tomorrow. ‘Fears for the female prisoner’s safety’ or something… I suppose you’re sure you’ll be in Court Number One?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Yes. ’Fraid so.

  STELLA. Have you got your speech ready?

  MRS DAVENPORT. I know what I’m going to say. I can’t judge this woman fairly and no power on earth can make me.

  STELLA. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee?

  MRS DAVENPORT. Oh, all right, yes.

  STELLA. It’s very sweet of you to have these qualms but if I were you I’d go in there, play noughts and crosses for four or five days, and then vote guilty with the eleven others.

  She goes out.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony, what’s the matter with you?

  TONY. Nothing.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. I know what it is.

  TONY (startled). What?

  MRS DAVENPORT. You’ve written to Irene Dunne, and she hasn’t answered.

  TONY doesn’t reply. MRS DAVENPORT gets up to go to the door.

  TONY. Mum – I want to see Dad.

  MRS DAVENPORT. You can’t – without my permission.

  TONY. I want your permission.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. When?

  TONY. Now. Tonight.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Certainly not.

  TONY. I have to see him. I have to. It’s a matter of life and death –

  MRS DAVENPORT. Don’t be absurd.

  TONY. I meant that literally, Mum. Life and death. What’s more, whether I get your permission or not, I’m going to see him – now, if he’s in. If he’s not, I’ll wait until he is.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. What happened?

  TONY. I can’t tell you.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. There’s nothing you can’t tell me. Whatever it is, Tony, you’ve got to tell me.

  TONY. I’d sooner die.

  MRS DAVENPORT (trying to make light of it). And I suppose you mean that literally too?

  TONY. Yes! I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s something that can only be talked about between men.

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. When did you become a man?

  TONY. Do you remember the evening I was reading about Mrs Rattenbury and you took the paper away from me?

  Pause.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Yes. Very clearly. It was the evening you went to The Kensington with Randolph.

  TONY. Yes. Only I didn’t go to the cinema. I went – somewhere else – on my own – don’t blame Randy. He warned me – he didn’t want me to go –

  MRS DAVENPORT is silent and unmoving.

  I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.

  MRS DAVENPORT. No, it isn’t. A boy should be able to tell his mother everything.

  TONY. I’m not a boy any longer, Mum. I’m grown up… A pretty horrible way to grow up, I know – but it’s happened, and there it is… I went to a doctor and I know what I’ve got to face now.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Who is this doctor?

  TONY. Oh, anonymous. I’m anonymous too. Someone at St George’s Hospital. There’s a notice up in lavatories in Tube stations telling you where to go. I didn’t have the courage until today.

  MRS DAVENPORT. You should have seen Dr Macintyre –

  TONY. And have him tell you?

  MRS DAVENPORT. You’ve told me.

  TONY. Not the lot. Not the sordid details. Not the things I’ve got to do in the bathroom twice a day. But not in this bathroom – I’m determined on that.

  MRS DAVENPORT (bravely). Why not this bathroom?

  TONY smiles and shakes his head.

  … I won’t say a word to you about it. I promise you… If it’s not serious, if it’s just something you’ll get over with treatment –

  TONY. Mum – twice a day for maybe six weeks, maybe longer, I’ll have to lock myself in there – (Points off.) and you’ll hear a tap running. Do you honestly think I can hope to come out of there without knowing what you’re saying to yourself: ‘My son has committed a filthy, disgusting act, and he’s been punished for it with a filthy, disgusting disease and a filthy, disgusting treatment – ’

  MRS DAVENPORT (roused). Well, isn’t that true?

  TONY. No. What I did that night was silly, if you like, but the act was as natural as breathing – and a good deal more pleasant. Goodnight, Mum.

  MRS DAVENPORT. Tony, don’t you realise what I’ve got to go through tomorrow? You’re not going to him now. I won’t allow it.

  TONY. What will you do? Get out a warrant? And have me tell the Judge about my adventure in Paddington? I’m sorry, Mum. I am terribly sorry. (Goes to the door.) Don’t wait up. If he’ll have me, I’ll stay the night. (Goes.)

  MRS DAVENPORT is motionless for a moment – then suddenly she shudders – quite violently, as if she were ill.

  STELLA (coming in). Where’s Tony?

  MRS DAVENPORT (incoherently muttering). That… that… woman.

  The lights fade.

  Cries of ‘Kill her!’ ‘Hang her!’ Odd screams of ‘Hanging’s too good for her! Give her the cat too!’ can also be heard. Interspersed with barked orders from the police, and over all, the sound of JOAN, incensed, as she roars abuse at the crowd.

  JOAN (off). Out of the way, you old bitch, or I’ll fetch you one in the crutch – … You, you bastard, call yourself a man? Bash ’em, Officer!… What’s your baton for? Hit that old cow on the conk – that’s more like it! Push, push! Run, dear, run.

  The lights have dimly lit a cell. A woman, seemingly a wardress, runs inside and cowers in the corner. We do not see her face.

  (Off.) Get that door closed, Officer!

  A door clangs and there is comparative silence.

  (Off.) Bloody morons – the lot of ’em.

  JOAN comes into the cell and turns on the light simultaneously. We see she has made a gallant attempt to dress as ALMA might be expected to – with pretty femininity, and a decorative hat. What now spoils the effect is that the hat is over one eye, her dress is torn nearly off her and she has an incipient black eye.

  (Cheerfully.) Well, dear, that worked a treat, didn’t it?

  The huddled figure in wardress uniform reveals herself to be a very scared and bewildered ALMA.

  There’s no better weapon than a lady’s handbag, I always say.

  JOAN drops the handbag onto a table whence it emits a sharp sound.

  Come on, now. Get out of that uniform. Your dress is here.

  She throws the dress down on the table.

  ALMA. They were shouting: ‘Kill her!’

  JOAN. You mustn’t take any notice, dear. There are a lot of ill people in the world. Far more than anyone knows. Have a cup of coffee.

  Out of the bag (which also contains a brick) she brings a thermos.

  ALMA. Joan –

  JOAN. Yes, dear?

  ALMA. Why?

  JOAN. God knows. I’ve seen it often before. Never as bad as this, I grant, but – envy, that’s what I think it is – plain envy.

  ALMA. How can they envy me now?

  JOAN. Well, you in the Old Bailey, centre of attention… But of course, now it’s hate-mob hate, which is the nastiest, illest, ugliest thing in the whole world… Mind you, I’m not the Pope. Let’s get changed, dear. I don’t want the lawyers to catch us like this.

  ALMA (hands to her face). Hatred is awful!

  JOA
N. Forget them! It’s a compliment to be hated by them. (Spreading out the dress.) There’s the dress you wanted. You’re going to look a picture in court, I know it –

  The lights fade as they both dress, coming up immediately on the lawyers’ robing room. Some lockers and a bench are all that is necessary. CASSWELL is finishing robing himself as O’CONNOR comes in.

  O’CONNOR. Ah, Casswell, just the man I want to see. Is the enemy about?

  CASSWELL. Croom-Johnson? He’s just left to muster his witnesses.

  O’CONNOR. And quite a crowd he’s got, I gather. Was he looking cocky?

  CASSWELL (gloomily). He’s every reason to, hasn’t he?

  O’CONNOR. We’ll see. How’s your lad?

  CASSWELL. Wood? I haven’t seen him yet today.

  O’CONNOR. Very spirited disposition, I hear.

  CASSWELL. That’s one word for it. I call it cheeky. Cheeky and stubborn.

  O’CONNOR. A bad combination. How far are you involving us in the borrowing of the mallet?

  CASSWELL. Wood’s father is going to say he assumed the boy was borrowing it with your client’s knowledge and consent!

  O’CONNOR. Assumption is nothing. I can tear that apart. What exactly did he tell the father he was borrowing it for?

  CASSWELL. To put up a sun-shelter. In the garden.

  O’CONNOR. A sun-shelter? In mid-March, and on one of the coldest days of the year?

  CASSWELL. Was it?

  O’CONNOR. Yes.

  CASSWELL. Should I have known that? Is it important?

  O’CONNOR. It is to me.

  CASSWELL. Why?

  O’CONNOR. Trade secret, dear boy. If I thought it would help you, I’d tell you – but it won’t.

  CASSWELL (suspiciously). You look cheerful.

  O’CONNOR. I always look cheerful. It’s half the battle. You’d better do something about yourself. Try a little rouge or something.

  CASSWELL (looking at himself). I didn’t sleep at all last night.

  O’CONNOR. That’s a mistake. I had a large dinner at the Garrick, got away from the bloody actors and slept two hours in the smoking room. After that – home and bed. Now listen, Casswell, I don’t want to bully, but any suggestion that we wielded that mallet and I shall not hesitate to remind the jury that while we are a poor, weak woman who couldn’t drive an iron peg into soft peat in under forty whacks, you are a hulking great muscular brute of an ex-builder who can easily knock a man’s head off in three.