The Daughter of Time by David Muncaster from Josephine Tey

This Play is the copyright of the Author and must NOT be Performed without the Author's PRIOR consent

The Daughter of Time

Act One Scene One

In a hospital room Inspector Grant lies in bed with his leg slightly raised in traction. He should be half sitting up so that he can reach objects on the table beside him and the audience can see his upper body. Nurse Ingham is at his side tucking in the sheets, having just tidied up.

Grant: To think that the highlight of my day is you changing the sheets. What has become of me?

Ingham: Well, why don't you read, then? Just look at that lovely pile of books your friends have brought you.

Grant: Have you ever tried reading whilst lying on your back with your leg in traction, Bedbug?

Ingham: It’s Nurse Ingham if you don’t mind. But I know what you mean.

Grant: Yes, just look at them all. It seems to me that there are far too many books in this world. Anyway, it's damned awkward trying to read but, do you know, I've examined that ceiling for so long I know every single crack by heart. I’ve explored them all, drawn maps, discovered hidden objects, seen birds, fishes and even faces. I hate the sight of that ceiling, Bedbug. For Heaven's sake, at least turn my bed round a bit so that I've got a new patch to look at.

Ingram: Certainly not. Whatever would Matron say?

Grant: Oh yes, we can’t go disturbing the nice symmetry. In a hospital, symmetry is next to cleanliness, with Godliness a poor third.

Ingram: (Teasing.) Now, now Inspector Grant. You sound constipated to me. Would you like me to give you something?

Grant: No! Get away from me, Bedbug.

Ingham: (Exiting, laughing.) Nurse Ingham!

Grant: (Calling after her.) If you see anyone approaching with more books tell them I’ve died!

Marta Hallard enters.

Marta: Alan? Shall I come another time?

Grant: No, no, Marta, not you. You're always welcome. You are looking very chic.

Marta: Thanks, I'm glad you like it. This will have to be a flying visit; I have rushed over between matinee and evening performance. Here, I brought you some chocolate.

Grant: How lovely.

Marta: And I brought a couple of books, though I feel I shouldn’t have bothered.

Grant: I can't read anything.

Marta: Why not? Oh, Alan darling, are you in pain?

Grant: I’m in agony, but it’s not my leg.

Marta: What is it then?

Grant: Boredom. I am struck with what my cousin calls “the prickles of boredom”.

Marta: Your cousin is correct. One would expect boredom to be a great yawning emotion, but it isn’t, of course. It’s a small niggling thing.

Grant: It is neither small nor niggling. It is like being beaten with a bunch of nettles.

Marta: What about taking something up? They say that Yoga is very good for the soul.

Grant: Very funny.

Marta: Or I could bring you some wool and knitting needles. You could make yourself some bed socks.

Grant: Your compassion is overwhelming.

Marta: Do you like crosswords? I could bring you a book of those.

Grant: God forbid.

Marta: How about some academic investigating, then? Solving an unsolved problem?

Grant: Crime you mean? Bit of a busman's holiday, isn't it? Besides, I know all the case-histories by heart and there is nothing more that can be done about any of them. Certainly not by someone who is flat on his back.

Marta: I don’t mean your Scotland Yard files. I mean something more, what's the word, classic. Something that's puzzled the world for ages.

Grant: Like what?

Marta: I don't know, how about the casket letters?

Grant: God, no. Not Mary, Queen of Scots. I know she's beloved by all you actresses, but I could never be interested in such a silly woman.

Marta: Silly?

Grant: Very silly.

Marta: Oh, Alan, how could you? She was a martyr.

Grant: A martyr to what?

Marta: Her religion.

Grant: The only thing she was a martyr to was rheumatism. She married Darnley without the Pope's dispensation and Bothwell by Protestant rites.

Marta: You will be telling me next that she wasn’t even kept prisoner.

Grant: Do you imagine her in a little room at the top of a castle with bars at the window, seeing no one except for the guard who brings her meals? She had a personal household of sixty attendants, all paid for by Elizabeth, who she repaid her by conspiring with European monarchs to try to claim the throne.

Marta: How do you know so much about her?

Grant: I had to do an essay on her at school.

Marta: You didn’t like her, I take it.

Grant: I didn’t like what I found out about her.

Marta: Not Mary, Queen of Scots, then. How about The Man in the Iron Mask?

Grant: I can't even remember who that was. In any case, I couldn't be interested in anyone who was so coy he hid his face behind some tin plate.

Marta: Oh yes. I suppose faces are important in your line of work. Oh! I think I have just the thing!

Marta takes an envelope out of her bag and hands it to Grant.

Grant: (Taking several sheets of paper out of the envelope.) What’s this?

Marta: Faces! Dozens of them. Our esteemed director had these printed so that we could study them to help us “get into character”.

Grant: How very systematic. Who is this?

Marta: Lucrezia Borgia. Doesn’t she look just like a duck?

Grant: Now that you mention it! And who is this Elizabethan gent?

Marta: The name is underneath, Dear.

Grant: Oh, yes. Ah, the Earl of Leicester. Elizabeth's Robin. I don't think I've ever seen his face before.

Marta: Darling, I must fly, or I will be late. How are you, by the way?

Grant: Getting better, apparently.

Marta: Oh, good.

Grant: But I don’t see it myself. Until next time, then.

Marta: Take care.

Marta exits passing Ingham on the way in.

Ingham: What a mess. What are all these pictures?

Grant: Faces, Bedbug. Dozens of glorious faces, each with a tale to tell.

Ingham: (Taking his pulse.) Your pulse is racing. The effect of a visit from Miss Hallard, no doubt. (Sticking a thermometer in his mouth and picking up one of the sheets.) Ooh she’s pretty.

Grant: (Speech effected by having a thermometer in his mouth.) The Grand Duchess Anastasia.

Ingham: (Taking out the thermometer.) Temperatures normal. Anyway. Are you comfortable?

Grant: When is the leg coming down?

Ingham: When Mr. Macfarlane says so. You like faces then?

Grant: They are something of a passion of mine; you can tell so much from a face.

Ingham: You are not trying to tell me that you can spot a criminal just from the way they look?

Grant: No, nothing like that. Crimes are as varied as human nature.

Ingham: Quite. But there are things that can sharpen a face. I’ve seen that myself.

Grant: Such as?

Ingham: Suffering, for one. Someone who is in pain for long enough, whether physical or mental, it will leave its mark, believe me.

Grant: You're right of course.

Ingham: I mean look at this face (Picking up a sheet of paper.) Just look at his eyes! There is a man who has suffered. Or he is constipated.

Grant: You're obsessed with constipation, Bedbug. Pass it here.

Ingham: (Passing the photo.) Nurse Ingham. Here.

Grant: Now there's a face for you. What exactly was the artist trying to capture, I wonder? Let’s see, about thirty-five, clean shaven. Fifteenth century, I'd say. Obviously, a nobleman of some sort. A prince maybe? Someone who is used to great responsibility. I see what you mean about suffering. Looks like someone who was chronically ill as a child. He's got that special look that childhood suffering leaves behind. But there is something gentle about him.

Ingham: Well? Who is it?

Grant: It doesn’t say.

Ingham: (Picking up another sheet.) Well, here is a name without a picture so it must belong with that. Oh! Richard III. From the portrait in the National Portrait Gallery. Artist unknown.

Grant: Good heavens. Richard III. The monster of childhood history lessons. Do you think that is what the artist was trying to capture in those eyes? A haunted look. What a portrait this is. It makes the Mona Lisa look like a seaside postcard. What a face! Eyes peering into the middle distance make him look withdrawn; absent minded.

Ingham: Well, it’s nice that you’ve found something to interest you at last, perhaps you will be in a better mood when I see you tomorrow.

Grant: Is it that time already?

Ingham: It most certainly is. I'm just getting off duty and nurse Darrell's right behind me with your tray. See you tomorrow. (She exits.)

Grant: Thanks, Bedbug. Ingham: (Off.) Nurse Ingham! Nurse Darrell enters with a tray.

Grant: Ah, Nurse Darrell. How I’ve missed you.

Darrell: Go on with you. You haven’t given me a moment’s thought all day. Who’s that you are mooning over? That actress friend of yours?

Grant: No, Nurse Darrell. This is someone who's been dead for hundreds of years. And I’m not mooning. I’m just intrigued. Do you happen to have any history books in your nurse quarters that I could borrow?

Darrell: I do as it happens. I kept all my books from school. I love history. Richard the Lionheart is my favourite.

Grant: Not that brute!

Darrell: Do you want to borrow my books or not?

Grant: I shan’t say another word. When do you get off duty?

Darrell: When I finish my trays, but you don’t expect me to come traipsing all the way back here with them do you? I’ll bring it tomorrow.

Grant: Oh, come on, Nurse Darrell, it will give me something to do this evening. Not even for some chocolate?

Darrell: Hmm. I will think about it. But you are supposed to be resting, not staying up all night reading history books.

Grant: I might as well be looking up history as looking up at the cracks in the ceiling.

Blackout.