When Maggie Smith's teacup goes handle-less, everyone's a suspect.
By Elaine Carroll & Sam Reich
INT. SITTING ROOM - DAY
BUTLER enters with a KETTLE in one hand and TRAY in the
other. MAGGIE SMITH sits in a chair with a teacup and
More tea, m'lady?
One can never have enough tea,
unless one is drowning.
(filling up her cup)
Let me know and I'll send a buoy.
For now, a biscotti will suffice.
Butler turns to leave.
And a handle.
Yes. Like a proper mustache, my
teacup seems to be quite
I beg pardon, m'lady. I don't know
how that happened.
Then I'll tell you. I grabbed hold
of it, and it snapped. Right.
Really? How, I wonder.
Well, if my bones are any
indication, then what breaks once
breaks twice more easily.
You mean to say...
It was broke already. And crudely
glued, like Ikean furniture.
("say no more")
I will launch an investigation at
That won't be necessary. I cracked
"You" cracked the cup?
No, the case. I cracked the case
of the cracked cup, and criminal I
cannot confess to be.
Pray tell: whodunnit?
We launch into Sherlock-style inserts as Maggie talks
There's a brown stain peaking out
from the back of your tie,
indicating a spill that you cleaned
up in a hurry, otherwise you would
have used a washcloth; the skin on
the back of your left hand is red,
indicating a burn from hot water;
there's no one here apart from me
and I didn't do it; and finally -
inexperienced as you are with
superglue - you must have got more
on your hands than you did the cup,
which is why you've refreshed my
tea seven times in the last hour:
you've glued yourself to the
A beat. Then, butler raises his hands. The kettle and tray
defy gravity, proving that he's accidentally glued himself
Very well. But first, a song.
A little dignity, please.
"A little teacup," please.
I'm a little teacup, short and
Maggie sways back and forth, entertained.