Verdict of Twelve

by Raymond Postgate

  Verdict of Twelve

  Raymond Postgate

  With an Introduction

  by Martin Edwards

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Originally published in 1940 by Collins

  Copyright © 2017 Estate of Raymond Postgate

  Introduction copyright © 2017 Martin Edwards

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library

  First E-book Edition 2017

  ISBN: 9781464207914 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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  Contents

  Verdict of Twelve

  Copyright

  Contents

  Introduction

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Jury

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Part II

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Part III

  The Court

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Part IV

  Postscript

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Introduction

  Verdict of Twelve is so often cited as a classic of crime fiction that it is hard to believe that it is has languished out of sight for decades. This British Library Crime Classics edition puts an end to the years of bewildering neglect, and offers a new generation of readers the chance to find out why so many leading commentators have admired this novel for so long.

  Raymond Chandler praised this “ironic study” of the workings of a jury in his famous essay “The Simple Art of Murder”, while the eminent critic Julian Symons included the book in his list of the one hundred “best” crime novels. I first came across Verdict of Twelve as a schoolboy, when it appeared in an excellent series of reprinted “Classics of Detection and Adventure” selected and introduced by Michael Gilbert. His enthusiasm for the book was infectious—he went so far as to suggest that it was the “single, shining exception” to the general proposition that detective novels written by dabblers in the genre, including such distinguished authors as E.C. Bentley and A.A. Milne, had failed to stand the test of time.

  Like Gilbert, I have been a solicitor as well as a crime novelist, and I share his admiration for the skill with which Raymond Postgate handles his innovative account of a murder trial. Gilbert acknowledged that Postgate’s lawyers (unlike the jurors) are only caricatures, and that it was debatable whether the case would have been brought to trial, but felt that the account of “the machinery of the law in action” was splendid. Re-reading Gilbert’s introduction more than thirty years after I first enjoyed it, I now realize that it contains a number of tiny factual errors; but these do not matter, so persuasive is his advocacy on behalf of the book. In the same way, we can allow Postgate some latitude in his presentation of the case, because his story is so compelling.

  The story is crammed, as Gilbert said, with shrewd touches, many of which are to be found in his fascinating pen-portraits of the jurors. Postgate presents us with a mystery with a difference; to quote Gilbert: “I am by no means convinced that a reader would be any worse off if he did read the last page of the book first. It could be argued that what he lost on the swings of suspense, he gained on the roundabouts of psychological understanding.” Having read the book four times, I entirely agree.

  Julian Symons said that Verdict of Twelve was the best book written under the influence of Francis Iles (the pen name under which Anthony Berkeley published two ambitious novels about criminal psychology, Malice Aforethought and Before the Fact). The ironic and cynical flavour of the Iles books inspired talented writers such as Anthony Rolls (the pen name of C.E. Vulliamy), Bruce Hamilton, and Richard Hull.

  Interestingly, Hull’s Excellent Intentions anticipates Verdict of Twelve to an extent in providing an insight into shifting attitudes in the confines of the jury room. And as if to prove that there is nothing new under the sun, an even earlier book, The Jury Disagree, by George Goodchild and C.E. Bechofer Roberts (1934) offers another intriguing variation on this concept. Each of the three books is distinctive and worth reading on its own merits.

  The epigraph to Verdict of Twelve comes from Karl Marx, a clue to where Raymond Postgate’s political sympathies lay. Postgate (1896–1971), the son of a professor, came from a wealthy family, and studied at St. John’s College, Oxford, but he rebelled against his father’s conservatism. After becoming a pacifist, he served a brief prison sentence for refusing to be conscripted; in 1920, he joined the Communist Party of Great Britain, although he deserted it two years later in favour of the Labour Party. His wife Daisy was the daughter of George Lansbury, who led Labour from 1932–5. Postgate became a successful journalist, and was editor of the socialist weekly Tribune at the time this book was published. His political awareness is reflected in the sharp insight into the ugliness of anti-Semitism evident in his presentation of Alice Morris’s bleak story, even if modern writers might make similar points using different language.

  Raymond’s sister Margaret married the left-wing economist G.D.H. Cole. She and her husband wrote a long series of detective novels together that won many admirers during the Golden Age of Murder between the wars, and the couple became members of the Detection Club, which Anthony Berkeley founded in 1930. Margaret occasionally reviewed detective fiction, but none of the Coles’ books match the flair of Verdict of Twelve. Raymond and his brother-in-law held similar political beliefs, and they co-authored The Common People (1938), a social history of Britain from the mid-eighteenth century.

  As a crime writer, Postgate was, essentially, a one-hit wonder. His two later mysteries, Somebody at the Door and The Ledger is Kept were interesting, but made so little impact that Michael Gilbert was not even aware of them. In the 1950s, Postgate abandoned the genre for good. He was a gourmand, and his campaign for better catering in the UK led to his founding the Good Food Club (his original name for it was the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Food). In 1951, he compiled the first edition of The Good Food Guide, now a national institution, and he proceeded to supervise the Guide “as President and Editor” until almost the end of his life. Perhaps he could fairly be described as a caviar socialist.

  Postgate’s son, Oliver, became a highly successful creator and writer of children’s television programmes, such as Ivor the Engine, Clangers, and Bagpuss. Professor Yaffle in Bagpuss bears a distinct resemblance to Oliver’s gifted but humourless uncle, G.D.H. Cole—and so, in some respects, does Dr. Percival Holmes, in Verdi
ct of Twelve. Whether any of the other jurors in the novel were inspired by real life, I do not know. What is beyond doubt is that Postgate brings them to life with brilliant economy. The characterization of the people in the story, as well as the teasing mystery, and the dark cynicism about human behaviour and the nature of justice, make this a crime novel to cherish.

  —Martin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  Author’s Note

  Toxicologists will note an error in the middle of Part II. This is intentional, for obvious reasons. Apart from this, I am advised by expert friends that the information given is correct.

  Epigraph

  I swear by almighty God that I will well and truly try and true deliverance make between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar whom I shall have in charge and a true verdict give according to the evidence.

  —Jurors’ oath in a trial for murder

  It is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but on the contrary their social existence determines their consciousness.

  —K. Marx

  Part I

  The Jury

  Jury

  1 Miss V. M. Atkins.

  2 Mr. A. G. Popesgrove.

  3 Dr. Percival Holmes and Mr. J. A. Stannard.

  4 Mr. Edward Bryan.

  5 Mrs. Morris.

  6 Mr. E. D. George, Mr. F. A. H. Allen, Mr. D. Elliston

  Smith, Mr. Ivor W. Drake, Mr. G. Parham Groves and

  Mr. H. Wilson.

  7 The Case is Opened.

  1

  The Clerk of Assize had to have some way of relieving the tedium of administering the same oath year after year. His habit was to stand for nearly a minute inspecting the jury and weighing it up; then he would administer the oath rather slowly, watching each juror and trying to estimate how well he would do his work. He flattered himself he could always spot the fool or the fanatic who would hold out in a minority of one and prevent a decision.

  To-day he paused as usual and looked at the row of respectable persons awaiting his instructions. Two women, one rather handsome man, two rather elderly men—nothing out of the ordinary. A very commonplace jury, he reflected. But there, for that very reason it was probably likely to do all the better. No surprises, and no strange persons on the jury meant no surprises and no freakishness when the verdict came.

  He cleared his throat and turned to the first, a severe looking, very plain middle-aged woman in black, wearing glasses. “Victoria Mary Atkins,” he said, “repeat after me…”

  ***

  “Oxford and Cambridge are two delightful towns, dominated by the Universities and retaining much of their medieval character.” This is a lie, as you would know if you had lived in Coronation Street, Cambridge, as Victoria Mary Atkins did. The life of the university has, and had when she was born, nothing, nothing whatever, to do with the life of the town—not of such streets as Coronation Street, anyway. And there was nothing medieval about that unbroken line of yellow-brick little houses, flush on the street, and each one identical with the other. Except insofar as wretchedness, darkness and dirt are medieval.

  Victoria was the fifth of nine children; her father died when she was eleven. He was an unskilled labourer, and no loss to any one. His wages, when in work, had averaged 21s. a week and he drank. He beat his children, and his wife, with a strap, but Victoria did not hold that against him. Being beaten was after all a natural thing to happen to any child. With a bit of sneaking and slyness you could often enough get bigger children into trouble and see your grudges avenged; an occasional sore behind yourself was a small price to pay. No; it was not the beatings which Victoria held against her father. It was the continual hunger which made her grow pinched and rickety, the shame of existing for months on relief, the worse shame of dressing in rags, and an earlier violence that she could not remember, which had resulted in one of her legs being slightly shorter than another.

  Even so, father was a less dangerous enemy than mother. Father was at least away at work sometimes, and sometimes harmlessly drunk or even jolly. Mother was never away for more than a few minutes from the two rooms which were home, and was never anything but sour. Father was not “noticing”; Mother was, and what’s more would twist your arm till you screamed if you sulked and wouldn’t answer.

  Two years after her father’s death Victoria slapped her mother’s face, scratched her cheek, and tripped her over the coal scuttle. She had realized that at thirteen she was probably as strong as her mother, and certainty quicker witted. While her mother was picking herself up from the scuttle, she didn’t run away; fists clenched, breathing very fast and a little frightened she stood her ground. When her mother, instead of attacking her began to scream “You wicked, wicked girl!” she knew that she had won. Henceforward she was free. One of her two elder brothers might perhaps belt her now and again, but that would be all. She could run about the streets like a dog if she chose.

  But beyond petty thieving, from which she had never been discouraged, there was not much harm that an ugly little girl could come to in Cambridge in 1911. She was dirty, dressed in patches, with twisted front teeth, a limp, and a hideous slum accent. She was known to have a nasty temper. Naturally she found few companions. The freedom of the streets after a year had become a bore, and she was not really distressed (though she complained on principle) when it was suddenly ended.

  Mother collapsed on the stairs one Monday morning. The ambulance fetched her away and her family was told she would never come back; in fact, she died in the infirmary.

  The Guardians had resented their statutory obligation to feed and care for this shiftless and overlarge family; they had evaded doing it properly as long as they could; now they could not avoid it any more. But at least they made every effort they could to put the burden elsewhere. They cajoled and bullied Aunt Ethel, a square-shaped woman of nearly forty who kept a shop in Cherry Hinton, to come down to the house with their representative, a bright and experienced woman of middle age. The two found the family, or what was left of it, under the reluctant care of a neighbour, Mrs. Elizabeth Saunders.

  “And glad I am to see you,” said Mrs. Saunders. “Not one minute longer will I stay with such a dirty and disagreeable lot of children. There are very few would be so Christian as to look after them as I have done, with no obligations whatever. And now you have come, I’ll leave you with them and nothing more will I do.”

  Surprised at this vehemence, the Guardians’ lady began to say she was sure every one was very grateful, and much appreciated all that Mrs. Saunders—but she realized she was speaking to a departing back and gave it up.

  “Now, my dears,” she said briskly, “your Aunt Ethel has very kindly come in from Cherry Hinton, and we must all get together and have a nice comfy talk and settle what to do while your poor Mummy is ill. I thought there would be some older children here,” she added inquiringly. “Are you Violet?” she said to the one who appeared to be the eldest.

  The girl addressed dribbled and made a kind of mooing noise.

  “That’s Lily,” said Aunt Ethel. “Lacking. Always was. Ought to be in a ’sylum. Violet’s in service in Cottenham and it’s not her day off. She gets 5s. 6d. a week and lucky to get it. You won’t get any help from her.”

  “Oh, I see. Dear me. Well, there’s Edward—no, of course, he went away three years ago. But where’s Robert?”

  Victoria piped up, delighted to offer bad news. “You won’t find ’im. ’E went to ve stition vis morning; saw ’im. Soon as ’e ’eard Ma was gorn ’e said ’e was off. Not going to be responsible for us lot, ’e said, not —— likely.” There was a participle before the last word which is even now not widely used by young women, and the Guardians’ lady and Aunt Ethel glared.

  Victoria stared back: it took more than a glare to discompose her. In that moment Aunt Ethel took a resolution:
she would not let that foul-mouthed child into her house. The Guardians’ lady was talking to her, but she did not listen. She broke into her suggestions without ceremony.

  “You’ll have to take poor Lily where she belongs. You know quite well what your obligations are, miss. As for these poor orphans, I’ll take these three into my home and look after them and be glad.” She pointed to the three younger children—two boys and the baby May. “Victoria can’t come. There’s no room for her, and she’s too old. She’s a bad girl and a bad influence already.”

  Nothing would shift her from this decision, and in the end the Guardians’ lady took Victoria with her, to be put in a Home.

  Now a Home for Girls, even before the war, even in the provinces, was not always one of the hellholes which realistic writers will describe for you. The West Fen Home did the best that could be done for Victoria, and if it did no better it was because she came to it too late. It fed her properly for the first time in her life, gave her glasses which were approximately what her eyes needed, and provided a built-up boot for her left leg. It clothed her drably, but sufficiently and warmly. It taught her to speak correctly and modified her abominable accent. Since she had benefited scarcely at all from her interrupted attendances at the Board school it taught her properly reading, writing and arithmetic, and to read the Bible.

  More than that, she was taught thoroughly the art of being a domestic servant. She could wash, clean rooms, make beds, blacklead grates, sew and do plain cooking with unsurpassed thoroughness. If drilling could make one, she was the perfect maid; moreover, she was respectful. The staff would have been kind to her as well as strict if she had responded to kindness; as she did not, it was satisfied by her covering up with an impassive and silent manner her undiminished bad temper and spite. It would have been very surprised to know her real opinion both of itself and of the rare adults from outside whom she met.

  In 1915, it sent her out from the Home into a good position with the wife of a don. She kept her place for six months and left, with an excellent reference, to go into munitions. She moved to London and saved all that she could; by the end of the war, when the factory closed down, she had just over £200. She was parsimonious, had few friends, and dressed always in black: she was not attractive, but after the war mistresses could not be too particular. Servants were too rare. A girl with such excellent references and so universally competent about the house was a treasure; and at least there would be no trouble with “followers”. All the same Victoria did not keep her situations long. One she left under a strong suspicion of stealing, though when her mistress threatened not to give her a reference she enforced one with well informed and vitriolic threats. One she left after a fierce quarrel with the cook, and in another she poured boiling water over the arm and hand of the parlourmaid. In 1923, she lost all her money, which she had invested in cotton shares: she visited the office of the defaulting company and opened the face of the unhappy reception-clerk from mouth to eye with a blow from the ferrule of her umbrella. The magistrate reprimanded her severely but did not sentence her as it was her first offence and she had undoubtedly a real grievance. She was out of work for several weeks afterwards.