ANGELA. Towards Caroline? Because she had spoiled my beauty? (She laughs) I never had much to spoil. No, I never gave it a second thought.
(CARLA picks up her bag from the seat beside her, takes out a letter and hands it to Angela)
CARLA. She left a letter for me—I’d like you to read it.
(There is a pause as ANGELA reads the letter. CARLA stubs out her cigarette)
I’m so confused about her. Everyone seems to have seen her differently.
ANGELA. She had a lot of contradictions in her nature. (She turns a page and reads) “. . . want you to know that I did not kill your father.” Sensible of her. You might have wondered. (She folds the letter and puts it on the table)
CARLA. You mean—you believe she wasn’t guilty?
ANGELA. Of course she wasn’t guilty. Nobody who knew Caroline could have thought for one moment that she was guilty.
CARLA. (slightly hysterical) But they do—they all do—except you.
ANGELA. More fool they. Oh, the evidence was damning enough, I grant you, but anybody who knew Caroline well should know that she couldn’t commit murder. She hadn’t got it in her.
CARLA. What about . . . ?
ANGELA. (pointing to her scar) This? How can I explain? (She stubs out her cigarette) Because of what she did to me, Caroline was always watching herself for violence. I think she decided that if she was violent in speech she would have no temptation to violence in action. She’d say things like, “I’d like to cut So-and-so in pieces and boil him in oil.” Or she’d say to Amyas, “If you go on like this, I shall murder you.” Amyas and she had the most fantastic quarrels, they said the most outrageous things to each other. They both loved it.
CARLA. They liked quarreling?
ANGELA. Yes. They were that kind of couple. Living that way, with continual rows and makings up, was their idea of fun.
CARLA. (sitting back) You make everything sound different. (She picks up the letter and puts it in her bag)
ANGELA. If only I could have given evidence. But I suppose the sort of thing I could have said wouldn’t count as evidence. But you needn’t worry, Carla. You can go back to Canada and be quite sure that Caroline didn’t murder Amyas.
CARLA. (sadly) But then—who did?
ANGELA. Does it matter?
CARLA. Of course it matters.
ANGELA. (in a hard voice) It must have been some kind of accident. Can’t you leave it at that?
CARLA. No, I can’t.
ANGELA. Why not?
(CARLA does not answer)
Is it a man? (She sips her brandy)
CARLA. Well—there is a man, yes.
ANGELA. Are you engaged?
(CARLA, slightly embarrassed, takes a cigarette from her packet)
CARLA. I don’t know.
ANGELA. He minds about this?
CARLA. (frowning) He’s very magnanimous.
ANGELA. (appreciatively) How bloody! I shouldn’t marry him.
CARLA. I’m not sure that I want to.
ANGELA. Another man? (She lights Carla’s cigarette)
CARLA. (irritably) Must everything be a man?
ANGELA. Usually seems to be. I prefer rock paintings.
CARLA. (suddenly) I’m going down to Alderbury tomorrow. I want all the people concerned to be there. I wanted you as well.
ANGELA. Not me. I’m sailing tomorrow.
CARLA. I want to re-live it—as though I were my mother and not myself. (Strongly) Why didn’t she fight for her life? Why was she so defeatist at her trial?
ANGELA. I don’t know.
CARLA. It wasn’t like her, was it?
ANGELA. (slowly) No, it wasn’t like her.
CARLA. It must have been one of those four other people.
ANGELA. How persistent you are, Carla.
CARLA. I’ll find out the truth in the end.
ANGELA. (struck by Carla’s sincerity) I almost believe you will. (She pauses) I’ll come to Alderbury with you. (She picks up her brandy glass)
CARLA. (delighted) You will? But your boat sails tomorrow.
ANGELA. I’ll take a plane instead. Now, are you sure you won’t have some brandy? I’m going to have some more if I can catch his eye. (She calls) Waiter!
CARLA. I’m so glad you’re coming.
ANGELA. (sombrely) Are you? Don’t hope for too much. Sixteen years. It’s a long time ago.
ANGELAdrains her glass as theLIGHTSdim toBLACK-OUTand—
the CURTAIN falls
ACT TWO
SCENE—Alderbury, a house in the West of England.