The Mousetrap

JUSTIN. (rising, moving to Carla and offering his hand) How do you do?

CARLA. How do you do, Mr. Fogg? (She looks at him in dismay, ignoring his outstretched hand) But you’re young!

(JUSTIN looks at Carla for a moment, amused, although still formal)

JUSTIN. Thank you. But I can assure you I’m a fully qualified solicitor.

CARLA. I’m sorry—it’s just—that I expected you to be—rather old.

JUSTIN. Oh, you expected my father? He died two years ago.

CARLA. I see. I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. (She offers him her hand)

(JUSTIN shakes hands with Carla)

JUSTIN. (indicating the chairC) Do sit down.

(CARLA sits C)

(He returns to his desk and sits at it) Now, tell me what I can do for you.

(There is a pause whilst CARLA looks at Justin, a little uncertain how to begin)

CARLA. Do you know who I am?

JUSTIN. Miss Carla Le Marchant of Montreal.

CARLA. (looking away) My name isn’t really Le Marchant.

JUSTIN. Oh, yes, it is. Legally.

CARLA. (leaning forward) So—you do know all about me?

JUSTIN. We have acted for Mr. Robert Le Marchant over a number of years.

CARLA. All right, then, let’s get down to it. My name may be legally Le Marchant by adoption—or deed poll—or habeas corpus—or whatever the legal jargon is. (She removes her gloves) But I was born—(she pauses) Caroline Crale. Caroline was my mother’s name, too. My father was Amyas Crale. Sixteen years ago my mother stood her trial for poisoning my father. They found her—guilty. (She takes a deep breath. Defiantly) That’s right, isn’t it?

JUSTIN. Yes, those are the facts.

CARLA. I only learned them six months ago.

JUSTIN. When you came of age?

CARLA. Yes. I don’t think they wanted me to know. Uncle Robert and Aunt Bess, I mean. They brought me up believing my parents were killed in an accident when I was five years old. But my mother left a letter for me—to be given me when I was twenty-one, so they had to tell me all about it.

JUSTIN. Unfortunate.

CARLA. Do you mean you think they ought not to have told me?

JUSTIN. No, no, I don’t mean that at all. I meant it was unfortunate for you—it must have been a bad shock.

CARLA. Finding out that my father was murdered and that my mother did it?

JUSTIN. (after a pause; kindly) There were—extenuating circumstances, you know.

CARLA. (firmly) It’s not extenuating circumstances I’m interested in. It’s facts.

JUSTIN. Yes, facts. Well, you’ve got your facts. Now—you can put the whole thing behind you. (He smiles encouragingly) It’s your future that matters now, you know, not the past. (He rises and crosses above the desk of the table L)

CARLA. I think, before I can go forward—I’ve got to—go back.

(JUSTIN, arrested and puzzled, turns to Carla)

JUSTIN. I beg your pardon?

CARLA. It’s not as simple as you make it sound. (She pauses) I’m engaged—or I was engaged—to be married.

(JUSTIN picks up the cigarette box from the table L and offers it to CARLA who takes a cigarette)

JUSTIN. I see. And your fiancé found out about all this?

CARLA. Of course, I told him.

JUSTIN. And he—er—reacted unfavourably? (He replaces the box on the table)

CARLA. (without enthusiasm) Not at all. He was perfectly splendid. Said it didn’t matter at all.

JUSTIN. (puzzled) Well, then?

CARLA. (looking up at Justin) It isn’t what a person says . . . (She leaves it at that)

JUSTIN. (after a moment) Yes, I see. (He lights Carla’s cigarette with the lighter from the tableL) At least, I think I do.

CARLA. Anyone can say things. It’s what they feel that matters.

JUSTIN. Don’t you think that perhaps you’re super-sensitive?

CARLA. (firmly) No.

JUSTIN. But, my dear girl . . .

CARLA. Would you like to marry the daughter of a murderess? (She looks at Justin)

(JUSTIN looks down)

(Quietly) You see, you wouldn’t.