Verdict of Twelve

by Raymond Postgate

  Mr. Parham Groves, senior, by using to the utmost his old connections with the City, got him the only steady employment of his life. It was as a clerk in a firm of outside brokers, doing a small business but a perfectly honest one. He was there for just over a year; the firm did not survive the 1931 slump. Since then he had lived as best he could, with frequent help from his parents. He could play tennis well; he never read a book; he typed and did office work fairly well; he was quarrelsome because he was unhappy; he was not intelligent, though he was unmalicious and willing to work if he could only have been directed. That he was slowly rotting was none of his fault.

  Nowadays he was selling Campbell’s Universal Encyclopedia, twelve volumes, on the instalment system. It was ten years out of date, though it was not a bad publication in itself. Moreover, it had a good name: earlier, Victorian editions, written and edited mostly by Scotsmen who had been under the influence of Darwin and one or two actually taught by Huxley, had justly secured it a household reputation. The British public is faithful to the point of imbecility: it continued to buy Campbell’s because Grandfather had admired it when he was young.

  But the market had been saturated, and Mr. Parham Groves had been among the first sent out to try a new technique. The owners of Campbell’s had brought out a new publication, Campbell’s Annual, which consisted of short articles of a popular kind, on the advance of science, literature and art during the year, completed by a Diary of Great events, and a large selection of news photographs. This they priced at 30s.: it was not doing well.

  Mr. Parham Groves was given a list of addresses, with a note against each name of the victim’s occupation and telephone number. Then he began the campaign according to instructions. His first prospect was a Mr. Prittwell, whom he rang on the telephone:

  “May I speak to Mr. Prittwell?”

  ***

  “Mr. Prittwell?”

  ***

  “You won’t know my name; it’s Groves. Parham Groves. But I’m the bearer of good news—at least, I think you’ll think it is, ha, ha! The directors of Campbell’s Universal Encyclopedia have decided to present you with a copy of our latest edition, specially bound.”

  ***

  “Oh, no, no; nothing like that. It’s a presentation copy, made to a few selected persons only. May I call round to-morrow and explain it?”

  ***

  “Four o’clock to-morrow? Thank you.”

  Mr. Groves arrived exactly on time, with the air of a well-to-do person about to confer a favour. He found Mr. Prittwell a middle-aged worried man in charge of a typing agency.

  “We’ve decided, Mr. Prittwell,” he said with a brilliant smile, “on a wholly new kind of publicity. Campbell’s is known to everybody, of course; but that is not enough. It can only have the sale it deserves if a few people in key positions who really need it, and can use it properly, are seen using it. If people, like yourself, who influence others, find it their standby. What is the good of it to us—to anybody—to the world-famous scholars who have given it of their very best, if it lies idly collecting dust upon the shelves? We have decided, therefore, to give a number of copies to persons in key positions. I admit to you frankly that it is a publicity device. It’s fortunate for those persons who have been chosen as recipients, but of course we hope it will do us a bit of good, too. We make no conditions but that the book should be used.”

  Mr. Prittwell made an indeterminate answer. He was flattered, eager for a free copy, but still suspicious.

  “I hope you won’t mind me asking you—quite confidentially, of course,” said Mr. Groves, man to man, “for a brief account of what you do, and the kind of people you meet. Just to satisfy my directors.”

  Mr. Prittwell now was sure that the offer was a serious one. He outlined his business, enlarged it, and exaggerated the contacts which it brought him. Mr. Parham Groves watched him admiringly, and said at the end:

  “Well! I can see clearly why the directors picked upon you as one of the favoured few. Very natural, and very proper. I think we may call that settled.

  “There’s only one further point. As I said, we want to be sure the books are used. And kept up to date. I presume you know Campbell’s Annual, our remarkable new enterprise?”

  “Well—er—I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Prittwell, apologizing.

  “I haven’t a copy here.” (Curiously enough, Mr. Parham Groves never had a copy, either of that or of the big Encyclopedia). “But I have binding specimens.” He unfolded a curious sort of cardboard concertina, on which were stuck the backs of Annuals of various dates.

  “We just want to make sure that you take this invaluable supplement regularly, to help the Encyclopedia, which is a free gift, up to date. You would give us an order for the next ten issues, which would be delivered to you in due course, post paid.”

  Mr. Prittwell had begun to hesitate.

  “But I don’t think,” he said, “I want to commit myself to payments so far ahead. Ten years! Fancy paying all that time.”

  “Oh, naturally not,” said Mr. Parham Groves. “You would pay us in advance.”

  “How much?” A slightly different tone had come into Mr. Prittwell’s voice.

  “Merely thirty shillings each issue. A magnificent book. Written by the same world-famous scholars, and by our unequalled staff…” Mr. Groves talked hard and quick; but Mr. Prittwell had begun to calculate.

  “Ten thirty shillingses,” he said. “That’s fifteen pounds. And I can get a good clean copy of your Encyclopedia anywhere for ten.”

  He suddenly found wrath in his mouth. This popinjay—that was the word, popinjay—had slouched into his office, cross-examined him about his business, and fooled him into believing in a gift scheme. Him, a business man! He rose to his full inconsiderable height and interrupted Mr. Parham Groves.

  “Get out!” he shouted.

  Mr. Groves left the room, slowly, and with an expression of contempt.

  His life was a steady repetition of such scenes. One time in seven he would plant a set. Then he would get his commission. He had a token salary of 15s. otherwise.

  Now, when he had just got started, he was called up for a jury service. Damned nonsense. Still, it would be a rest, and it would be something to talk about at the tennis club. He took the oath mechanically.

  “Henry Wilson.”

  Henry Wilson bounced forward, pleasant and cheerful, and as brisk as the clerk. The press was always on the spot, even an organ as small as the Primrose Hill Argus. Man and boy, he’d been on that paper thirty years, and it hadn’t changed. It was a steadier and more permanent feature of the British press, to his mind, than plenty of papers that put on airs in Fleet Street. He had looked at some numbers of the 1890s—why, bar the advertisements, they might have been edited by him. The same solid grey slabs of text, about the council meetings, the performances of the Amateur Dramatic Societies, the police court cases, the street improvements, the editor’s jottings, the correspondence. Of course, to-day, there were some changes. The theatre notices were replaced by cinema notes, provided by the local managers and scarcely changed. There was a woman’s page, run by “Lass of Primrose Hill”, and consisting mostly of regurgitated hints from old cookery and housekeeping books. The political meetings were rather different and he didn’t report sermons any more.

  He had two reporters and a sub-editor under him, with some extra help sometimes on Thursday, which was press day. A lot of copy came in free: schools were only too anxious to report their own prize-givings and dramatic societies their performances. Political meetings had to be covered: as much as possible he did this himself. He would give Labour just a little less prominence than Conservatives: Liberals were almost extinct. “Pressmen have no politics,” he always told inquirers. “Like Caesar’s wife, you know.” In his editor’s jottings he mildly favoured the Conservative councillors and gently criticized the Socialists, and
always ended with a placatory phrase ascribing good will to every one.

  He was forty-six, and unmarried, lived with his married sister and was devoted to her six children. They called him Uncle Harry and were boisterously fond of him: he was inclined to excite them too much and make them nuisances. He liked company; he belonged to the Buffaloes, the Druids, and the Oddfellows; on Friday nights, he took rather too much beer. He was the last juror and quite unconsciously smacked his lips as he finished the oath.

  7

  From the jury-box, they all looked first and most consistently at one spot. Even Mr. Popesgrove, the most meticulous about his behaviour, saw no reason why he should not gaze steadily at the figure in the dock. They saw a middle-aged woman, dressed in black, with a white collar. The women noticed that her nails were not coloured, but had nail polish on them. The hands were rather fattish and had not done housework for many years; they fidgeted continually. The dock prevented any clear view of her clothing: it seemed decent without being distinctive. The face was that of a middle-aged woman, not heavily powdered and with only a touch of lipstick. The hair was fair and long. Mrs. Morris looked at it and wondered idly if its colour was natural. Probably not, she considered. No one else troubled about it.

  The face? Nose rather too beaky, heavy lines from it to a down-drawn mouth. Eyes red and tired; and she would not look at the jury. Her glance roamed to and fro about the court. Indeed, you could deduce nothing about her from her expression, except that she was frightened. Mr. Stannard had hoped that he might be able to judge the accused, whoever he or she might be, on his or her looks and manner. As he judged customers in his bar, and as he would once have judged a horse; and mind you, he could remember how to judge a horse. That would have helped him, for he very much doubted if he could follow evidence. But this woman’s face and stance told him nothing.

  Nor were the rest of the figures in court more informative to the eye as the jurors looked round. All men in wigs and gowns at first sight look like puppets. The room seemed full of marionettes. The judge looked like a shrivelled and malicious doll made from leather. Sir Isambard Burns, the chief counsel for the defence, had a thin long body and a crowlike face. Into one eye he continually fitted and removed an eyeglass: he looked like a Christmas toy performing a tedious trick. Counsel who was now rising for the Crown looked like a wax doll: his shiny pink face under his wig looked as unreal as if it had been painted.

  Mr. Stannard had gobbled his breakfast, and he was suffering badly from nerves. Before counsel could speak his fate overcame him, and he was publicly shamed, as he had been sure would occur somehow. A vast hiccup caught him unawares, and a sound like twirp thundered through the court. He turned scarlet, and devoted his attention to repressing his diaphragm.

  Mr. Bertram Proudie, about to begin his speech for the prosecution, looked at this white-haired and red-faced juror with open disapproval. After a minute’s hesitation he began a set oration. He conveyed to the jurors that they were about to try a case of the gravest possible nature. No other charge compared in seriousness with the one which was about to be set before them. For this was a charge of murder.

  The court had already begun to settle back into an atmosphere of resigned tedium. One of Proudie’s usual long-winded introductions was on the way. Only Mr. Stannard seemed ill at ease. His face grew purple and sweat-beads stood out on it; he was struggling with his diaphragm. But it would not do; if you have the hiccups, the hiccups will win, resist how you may. Right in the middle of a forty-word sentence it came, louder than ever: Twirp!

  Mr. Proudie flushed, but went on with his discourse, going from the general to the particular so far as to note that the accused was a married woman, a widow, by name Rosalie Van Beer, but apart from that still keeping to the consideration of general principles. Mr. Stannard, his nerve wholly shattered, bent his head down and appeared to be rustling papers between his legs, presumably overcome with shame.

  He had, however, an unsuspected plan. As those who suffer from this nervous trouble know, there is but one ready method of stopping it, and that is to breathe in carbon dioxide, which paralyses the diaphragm. Carbon dioxide is not readily available, but it is the main content of the breath which you breathe out. Mr. Stannard was about to take advantage of this information. He had just remembered that his lunch was in his attaché case, and that it was contained in a large brown paper bag. He was extracting this bag, and when he had done so straightened himself up relievedly. Then, with innocent gravity and good faith, as he would have done at home, and as he had always been taught to do, he concealed his face in the bag and breathed heavily in and out.

  Mr. Proudie stopped dead. The court stared appalled. The judge, who probably feared that Mr. Stannard was demented and was about to blow out the bag and burst it with a loud pop, was the first to speak. “Will the fourth juror,” he said sharply, “be kind enough to explain his conduct?” The fourth juror, highly discomposed, removed the bag and opened his mouth to obey; but once again was caught. Twirp! he said involuntarily; and then added, despairing of explaining, “Will your lordship excuse me a minute?”

  “We will await your return,” said the judge coldly.

  Cold water, and the use of his chosen remedy in the corridor, restored Mr. Stannard. When he returned to the jury box, shaken and humble, Mr. Proudie resumed. But the juror’s eccentric behaviour had completely destroyed his exordium. The court benefited by Mr. Stannard’s affliction, for Mr. Proudie now went straight to his story, and told it, as he could when he chose, lucidly and without rhetoric.

  These were the events which he now began to summarize…

  Part II

  The Case

  1

  “Sredni Vashtar?” said Mrs. Rosalie van Beer, looking suspiciously at her eleven-year-old nephew Philip. “Sredni Vashtar? What made you give the rabbit a name like that?”

  The child looked back at her cunningly and not too pleasantly.

  “It oughtn’t to be a rabbit,” was all he would say.

  Mrs. van Beer scowled at him. She thought of telling him again that what she hated above all in a child was secretiveness and evasion. Any boy who had nothing to conceal would always be honest and direct. Frank confession of a fault would generally bring forgiveness (she usually went on, never suspecting Philip’s unspoken but unvarying comment that he had been caught once that way). But evasiveness was an impertinence and made things worse. However, this time she decided to say nothing. She wasn’t sure of her ground; she merely resented the odd name as she resented anything that she did not understand. She hardly ever read a book; her reading was almost confined to the Daily Minor, the Sunday Pictorial, and one other Sunday paper.

  She gave up the problem for the moment and stood in the French window looking at her nephew playing on the lawn with a brindled buck rabbit whom till now she had believed to be named King Zog. She had no love for it anyway; it had bitten her sharply the day before when she was teasing it (“playing with it,” she said) in its hutch. She wondered whether it would not be best to forbid the keeping of pets altogether. She would consult Dr. Parkes on his next visit. Very many diseases could be carried by animals: parrots killed people by a special illness of their own and rats brought plague. Quite likely Philip’s health demanded it. Mrs. van Beer began to feel more cheerful. A prohibition, for Philip’s own good, generally had that effect on her, though she had never realized it and would have been immensely indignant if any one had said so.

  She reflected, as she watched her nephew, that all her thought and unremitting kindness seemed to have had little effect. She did not expect gratitude. Oh, no, she never expected any reward. She knew too well what human nature was. (Her mind rattled along like an empty goods train: the phrases that she was using would be worked off upon the sympathetic Dr. Parkes.) But it was surprising that Philip should be such a poor specimen of a boy. So skinny and yellow, short-sighted, weak, and querulous. Always com
plaining, not eating his food, and with those stupid little fits of rage. Not a nice companion for children of his own age even.

  Mrs. van Beer did not reflect that her own rules prevented his going out except on very rare occasions (“he gets so excited”) and that the few times that he had had visitors she had stayed with the children and regulated the games herself.

  “Don’t let that rabbit escape,” she said to him, and turned from the garden into the house. She found Mrs. Rodd the housekeeper dusting the dining-room table, and though servants must be kept in their place she felt an overpowering desire to speak of her problem to someone.

  “Do you know,” she said, “what Philip calls that rabbit of his now?”

  “Nome.”

  “He calls it Shred—no, Sredni Vashtar. Have you any idea what he can mean by it?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, ’m.”

  Mrs. van Beer looked at her disappointedly and then went out of the room. Mrs. Rodd said something unfriendly under her breath, but whether it was directed against Philip or her employer was not discoverable. Probably it was not against the boy, for when she went to the French window herself she spoke to him quite friendly.