Verdict of Twelve

by Raymond Postgate

  “I’ll box your ears if you talk to me like that,” shrilled his aunt. But she did not do so. She was afraid that if she struck Philip the Rodds would report her to Mr. Henderson, and she was by no means sure of her legal position.

  For the Rodds, though servants by position and always correct in manner, were at least as well established in the house as she was. Under Sir Henry’s will she could not dismiss them; and nothing gave her reason to believe that they were her friends.

  Rodd was sixty-two, a taciturn, quick-moving dark man, who attended to the garden, the boots, the coals and so on as in Sir Henry’s day. Mrs. Rodd was fifty-seven, grey, fat, and pleasant-featured, with a big hairy wart on her chin. They were to all appearances the typical “old retainers”, devoted to the memory of the Old Master, affectionate to the Young Master, and resenting the vulgar intruder. A lawyer was later to paint that picture utterly convincingly to a jury.

  But does the Old Retainer ever really exist? Most people who talk of him have never heard servants talk among themselves, or have any idea of what goes on when the green baize door closes and talk is really free in the servants’ hall. The word “devotion”, so common in romantic novels, is very rarely applicable to the sentiments there expressed: the “Family” would be surprised to learn with what coolness its interests are regarded. The Rodds, at least, regarded themselves merely as two persons, reasonably well-rewarded, who had performed very well a skilled task, one of whose conditions was a demeanour of respect and loyalty. Affection entered into it very little. Sir Henry they had become used to with the years. Rodd had considered him rather a testy old fool; Mrs. Rodd had considered him no more than she considered the black and white cat, whose death a week before had affected her emotionally on the whole rather more. Like the cat, he had always been about the house and she missed him, though his ways were definitely less endearing.

  Philip they liked because they had no reason to dislike him, and ordinarily kind-hearted people will like a child unless it annoys them or causes a great deal of work. Mrs. van Beer they disliked because they considered she was really their own class and was putting on airs.

  But all these emotions were really of small importance. They hardly deserve writing down at such length. In the heart of the Rodds, if you could have looked there, you would have found as chief interest the accumulation of enough money to retire to a cottage of their own. They had a bit put away, and they had more than once discussed asking for Sir Henry’s £500 and leaving. But the job was an easy one, and they were saving money all the time; on each occasion they decided to hold on.

  Mrs. Rodd did her work efficiently as in Sir Henry’s day. Rodd took advantage of Mrs. van Beer’s ignorance of gardening to do less and less. The ivy along the garden wall and the south side of the house was never clipped. The vegetable garden grew less productive. Though the lawn was rolled and mown, the flowerbeds were filled more and more with nasturtiums, michaelmas daisies and other flowers that take little of a gardener’s time.

  His life was in one particular way more comfortable than in Sir Henry’s day, also because of Mrs. van Beer’s ignorance. Sir Henry had kept a very good cellar, and on her second night in the house Mrs. van Beer had ordered Rodd to bring up a bottle of red wine. He brought up a sound Mouton d’Armailhacq, 1929.

  “Peuh!” said Mrs. van Beer when she tasted it. “It’s sour. Did Sir Henry drink this?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Rosalie left most of the bottle, and the next night tried a different one, with the same result. Port was her taste, and she had never accustomed herself to French wines. A sauternes or a sweet graves might have led her gently on, but Sir Henry had nothing like them in his cellar. Eventually she consulted Rodd, in whose head a plan was forming.

  “Is all Sir Henry’s wine thin and nasty like this?” she said.

  “I’m afraid so, madam,” he said. “Sir Henry was very conservative, and never would realize you can keep things too long.” He looked at the rows of bottles—there were over fifty dozen—and shook his head sadly. “It’s all gone, I’m afraid, madam. No use except maybe for cooking. Turned to vinegar, it has.”

  “Oh, no, surely,” said Rosalie, remembering not to say “Ow now”.

  “Well, madam, there’s the port and the brown sherry. Now I should think those would be very good still.”

  A bottle of each was brought out. Sir Henry had kept them only for guests, and they were merely of medium quality. But their taste smoothed out Rosalie’s frown.

  “Now that’s what I call really nice,” she said. “We’ll keep this. And you’d better throw all that stuff away.”

  “Yes, madam. If I might make a suggestion, madam.”

  “Yes, Rodd.” Rosalie was gracious: port’s first effect is graciousness, and its second bad temper.

  “We can get the grocer to allow a penny each on the bottles. He’d pick up a dozen every fortnight or so when he hasn’t got much on the cart. I’ll speak to him, if you like.”

  “Very good,” she said, and thought no more about it, except to note with pleasure that nearly every fortnight a credit of 1s. for empties appeared on the grocer’s book.

  Meanwhile Rodd extended and completed his education in wine. Almost any evening an observer rude enough to stare in at the windows could have noticed the mistress of the house sitting in the big dining-room gobbling her dinner and rather shamefacedly drinking indifferent port in large gulps. In the kitchen, the gardener and his wife, slowly and thoughtfully, would be eating a dinner in no way inferior, prefacing it with a glass of very unusually good dry Amontillado, and accompanying it with a bottle of—say—Steinberger 1929 for which any wine merchant would have offered them ten shillings on the label alone. Rodd drank two-thirds of a bottle every night, Mrs. Rodd the remaining third. Their digestions were noticeably, audibly even, better than their employer’s. Rodd thought it wisest not to use the best glass, but took all wines in a claret glass; he educated his wife into smelling the bouquet of the wine, and serving it at the right temperature.

  The fourth member of the household, Ada, had no part in this ceremonial, for she left each day at six. Her full name was Edith Ada Corney, and she bicycled over every morning from the nearby town of Wrackhampton, arriving at seven-thirty o’clock. She was an ugly girl of eighteen, daughter of a farm-labourer. She did all the rough work which Mrs. Rodd told her to do, spoke when she was spoken to, but not otherwise, and ate a very great deal of food at lunch—so much as to astonish Mrs. Rodd, who was herself a countrywoman. She had no noticeable fault except a tendency to eat any pieces of cooked meat, cold potatoes, or fruit which were incautiously left out in the kitchen. As with the majority of underfed and ill-housed country working girls, her face was pale and her teeth bad. She perspired very freely in the hot weather, and if she had any opinion concerning her employers she did not express it. She got 15s. a week and her gargantuan lunch, which was good pay for the district.

  4

  Two days later Mrs. van Beer had her plan ready.

  In the morning, she rang up Dr. Parkes and asked him if he could manage to call about 12.30 and if he would be so kind as to stay to lunch. Dr. Parkes found himself free to do so, and an excellent lunch was provided.

  The doctor sat down to it a little puzzled. He had been asked to examine Philip before lunch and had been unable to find anything wrong. He had indeed begun to say so, as diplomatically as he could, when Mrs. van Beer’s attitude showed that this was a most unpopular diagnosis. Even so all he could do was to sigh and say, “Still a very nervous condition, I’m afraid. I think we must go on with that tonic. I shall vary its composition slightly. Perhaps you could send your man round for a fresh bottle this evening?” He could not think that he had been sent for merely for this; but when he inquired after Mrs. van Beer’s health she quite unusually declared herself to be feeling thoroughly well.

  Conversation at lunch was on trivial
topics, until with the arrival of coffee, Rosalie said, “Now you can run and play in the garden, Philip.”

  She turned to the doctor and said with a rather tigerish smile, “I think we deserve a glass of port, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “Well, well: I won’t say no.” Dr. Parkes contrived to fill his voice with archness.

  She poured them each out a brimming glass. She put her lips down to hers and drew up the wine into her mouth with a loud suck. She did not believe in waste, as she was accustomed to say.

  “I’ve been wondering,” she said, “about Philip.”

  Dr. Parkes indicated attention.

  “It seems to me so funny,” she went on, “that in spite of all that you do for him—and I’ve every confidence in you, Doctor—he still doesn’t get stronger. I’m wondering if there is any other reason.” She hesitated and then leant across the table and said in a low penetrating voice, “Have you ever thought of animals?”

  “Animals, dear lady?”

  “Yes. Animals. The horridest diseases are carried by pets. Look at parrots, nasty things. People dying of that disease.”

  “Does Philip keep any pets then? Mice or rats? I didn’t know.”

  “He kept some mice till recently which I had to have destroyed. They smelt very bad; I was sure it could not be good for him. And now he’s got a very vicious rabbit, which he nurses and fondles all the time. He kisses its fur and I don’t know what he doesn’t breathe in. Of course, its hutch is very nasty. You know what animals are. It seems to me all very insanitary. Don’t you think that perhaps there might be an explanation in that, Doctor?”

  Dr. Parkes folded up his napkin and looked judicial. “I think I ought to have a look at Brer Rabbit,” he said, and began to rise, with a side glance at the decanter. Rosalie intercepted it.

  “I think we deserve a teeny-weeny bit more,” she said, pouring out three-quarters of a glass each. For a couple of minutes they were silent, except for an involuntary noise from Rosalie. “Pardon,” she said. “The heat of the day.” Then they rose, and flushed and heavy walked out into the midday sun.

  Philip was looking at the rabbit. He was down on his knees before the hutch and such an expression of adoration was on his face that you might have thought he was praying.

  “Philip dear,” his aunt flashed a toothpaste smile at him, “show Dr. Parkes your rabbit.”

  Philip looked at her suspiciously. There was nothing which she said to him that he did not think over twice, in order to find the trap in it. But he was proud of his rabbit and willing enough to show it off. He wrapped his arms round it and brought it to the doctor.

  Dr. Parkes patted it. He saw a glossy-coated buck, mild-eyed and healthy, who appeared to be enjoying life. The buck suddenly stopped twitching its nose and laid its ears back. It also had seen something, but what it made of the doctor no one knows. It was probably only, as the lawyers used to say when opposing bail, in meditatione fugae, occupied in meditation of escape.

  However, Dr. Parkes did not offer to take the rabbit, to Mrs. van Beer’s disappointment.

  “What’s his name?” he said.

  “Sredni Vashtar,” said Philip, loudly and clearly.

  “Eh? What? Well, well,” said the doctor, a little startled. “And is this where his lordship lives? Let me have a look.”

  He bent down and looked at the hutch. It was not very clean, but it would have been a gross exaggeration to call it insanitary. And the rabbit was obviously in excellent health.

  “I should say,” he told Mrs. van Beer after they had left the boy, “that you need not be anxious about that animal. It appears to be in good condition. The hutch should be cleaned thoroughly as a precaution. But I doubt if it would carry any infection.”

  It was clear from her expression that Mrs. van Beer did not in the least want to cease being anxious.

  “Well, of course you know best, Dr. Parkes,” she said in a whining voice, “but I do feel surprised you should say that. He fondles that animal—pushes his face and mouth into its fur, all stinking with you know. I’m sure it must be harmful.”

  “Dear me, dear me; a very bad habit,” said Dr. Parkes, trying to retrieve his mistake. “Philip!”

  The boy sidled nearer.

  “You must be very careful with that rabbit. Animals aren’t clean, you know, my boy. You might catch something from it. Don’t cuddle it. Don’t ever put your face in its fur, or kiss it, or anything like that. Don’t hold it any more than you must. Now remember. This is important. If you don’t pay attention to what I say we might have to take the rabbit away.”

  Philip’s face was distorted with a snarl of fear and hate. He bared his yellowish teeth like a dog, and then ran away without speaking. He saw all too clearly what was being plotted.

  But Rosalie beamed. The necessary words had been said. She was certain that Philip would fondle the animal again. And then it would be “doctor’s orders” to get rid of it.

  5

  Mrs. van Beer did not have to wait many days. The doctor had been to lunch on Tuesday, and on Friday she had her chance. It was her habit to dress her nephew in a yellowish Norfolk suit, with knickerbockers over his knee, such as nice little boys had worn when she was young. She went to great pains to get it, for even in rural Devon these are rare. She did not know how much he disliked it, and if she had it is not likely that it would have made any difference. It made the child very conspicuous: she could be sure of seeing him from her bedroom window wherever he might be in the garden. She spent a great deal of her time up in her bedroom watching over him (or spying, as you choose to phrase it). On Friday morning she saw him stealthily abstract the rabbit from its hutch and run with it in his arms down to the foot of the garden, where he was partly hidden by a rhododendron bush.

  She came downstairs and went out into the garden, stepping as quietly as she could. She tiptoed towards the rhododendron and peeped through. She saw Philip clasping the rabbit closely to his chest, rubbing his nose into its fur, and reciting something in a slow singsong monotone. He was sitting on his heels and swinging slowly to and fro in rhythm with his hymn.

  She watched him a moment and then burst through on him like a charging rhinoceros.

  “Philip!” she shouted. “How dare you disregard the doctor’s orders? He said if you did that again the rabbit would have to be killed. It’s most unhealthy. Put it back in the cage at once. I’ll see what’s to be done about you later.”

  “It’s not true,” he cried shrilly. “He never said it. I’m doing nothing wrong.”

  “Put it back in the cage,” she repeated.

  Sullenly he dawdled back and put it in the hutch.

  At lunch, he could not eat his food. Perhaps he was sick with apprehension; anyway, Mrs. van Beer drew a convenient moral. “You see, Philip, the doctor was right. He said that messing that nasty beast about made you ill.”

  “He didn’t. He didn’t. Auntie, please don’t do anything to my rabbit.”

  Auntie said nothing.

  After lunch she sent Philip up to lie down, to recover, as she said. She gave him twenty minutes and then went out as quietly as she could to the hutch. She was clumsy, or frightened: the rabbit nearly escaped, and there was an audible scuffle. He bit her again, and tore her wrist with a fierce kick from his back leg. But at last she captured him and took him into the kitchen, which was cleaned up and empty except for Ada, Mrs. Rodd being in the housekeeper’s room, dozing after lunch.

  “You can leave us, Ada,” said Mrs. van Beer, using the plural presumably for self and rabbit.

  “Ow,” said Ada, and did so.

  Mrs. van Beer dashed to the gas oven, thrust the rabbit inside, slammed its door and turned on the jets full, not lighting them.

  She stood still for a moment, quivering all over with a peculiar excitement. At that moment, Philip, all of whose suspicions had been aroused
, ran down the stairs and opened the kitchen door.

  “Auntie, what are you doing? Auntie, where’s my rabbit?”

  “Be quiet,” she said angrily, “it’s for your own good.” She gave him a strong push in the chest and sent him reeling back into the passage. She shut the door and leant against it.

  The rabbit was kicking and fighting in the oven. Perhaps it realized what was happening, for it gave that high scream of terror which rabbits only give under the fear of death. Philip beat sobbing on the kitchen door. Mrs. van Beer still stood against it, breathing very fast and clenching and unclenching her fists. Her excitement was increasing and her face was red.

  The rabbit was now ceasing to struggle.

  Philip’s cries woke up the housekeeper. Mrs. Rodd ran up anxiously.

  “Goodness me, boy, what is the matter?”

  “My rabbit,” wept Philip, even in this extremity having wit enough not to mention his aunt. “He’s in there and I think he’s dying.”

  “Gracious!” said Mrs. Rodd, and turning the door-handle pushed firmly forward. Mrs. van Beer was not in the least prepared for a firm adult shove and gave way.

  “I beg your pardon, mum,” said Mrs. Rodd as she walked in. “Heavens!” she added. “We’ll all be blown up.”

  The room was reeking with gas. Mrs. Rodd rushed to the oven and turned it off. Philip opened the door: the rabbit was limp and its eyes were glazed.

  “It had to be,” said Mrs. van Beer a little uneasily.

  Philip held the body of his pet for a moment in his arms. His face twisted, he looked as if he were going to burst into tears. Instead, he laid it down on the floor and stood up. On the kitchen table was a short tapering knife. He jumped forward and flung it with great force in his aunt’s face, where it made a light cut on her left cheek.

  “You beastly old woman,” he screamed. “Swine! Swine! Swine!”