The Empty Case

(The town museum in Whitby. Upstairs, one glass case with nothing in it.)

Osvaldo: Sorry, is this one being cleaned?

Perpetua: No, that’s the empty one. It’s meant to be empty. It’s our one crime.

Osvaldo: Meant to be?

Perpetua: Somebody stole what was in it in 1998. A silver cup and two bits of Roman jewellery.

Osvaldo: And nobody got them back?

Perpetua: No evidence at all. Likely a local thief, the officer said. One glove on the stairs, and it belonged to the window cleaner.

Osvaldo: So why keep an empty case?

Perpetua: We never decided to. Nobody moved it, and people started asking.

Osvaldo: Asking about an empty box.

Perpetua: A reporter came, then a lot of people. We put the card back in, with the date and a copy of the police report.

Osvaldo: Did you try putting something else in?

Perpetua: Twice. A Victorian tea set, then some coins from a farm. Nobody stopped.

Osvaldo: Nobody at all?

Perpetua: In 1997 perhaps eleven people looked at that cup all year. Last year four hundred came up to look at nothing.

Osvaldo: Can I take a photo?

Perpetua: Everybody photographs the empty one. Nobody ever photographed the cup.