“You have been practising a long time in these parts, Dr. Parkes?”
“Forty-five years.”
“And you have many patients?”
“I don’t see—I mean, it depends on what you call ‘many’.”
“Shall I put it this way: is your practice increasing or diminishing?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t say.” Dr. Parkes was a little indignant. “I suppose it is about the same.”
“Indeed. An unusual ignorance for a man whose livelihood depends on the number of his clients. However, there is no doubt in your mind but that you had attended Philip Arkwright ever since he arrived here?”
“Certainly I had.”
“And had a thorough knowledge of his condition of health?”
“I have said so.”
“Yet you allowed thirty-six hours to pass when he was suffering from poisoning without applying any effective remedies. How was it you did not realize that his condition was abnormal?”
“You have heard other doctors say that the condition is a rare one and difficult to recognize.”
“Other doctors who had not been attending the boy, and who would not have noticed anything unusual in his appearance. I am asking how you, who knew him exceptionally well, failed to notice his behaviour was abnormal?”
Dr. Parkes shrugged his shoulders and did not answer.
“Very well, we will leave that. Turn your mind back to the first day on which Philip’s disease developed. On going back to your surgery did you consider the case any further?”
“Certainly I did. I always go over my cases every evening when I return. There always may be something…”
“Quite. Now did you then consider the question of poisoning? Did it enter your mind at all then?”
Dr. Parkes looked as if he had seen a snake. Sir Ikey had, in fact, no especial end in asking that question; he was merely feeling his way. But suddenly, Dr. Parkes had seen himself fumbling about among his books in his surgery and taking one down—one that dealt with poisons. He remembered looking at it. He saw the first headings under A. Antimony—Aconitine—Arsenic. Had he gone on reading? Had he been interrupted? Had he forgotten? And which day was it he had done that anyway?
“We are waiting, Dr. Parkes.”
“I—I,” he stuttered. “I’m not sure.”
“Not sure! Not sure!” Sir Ikey registered horror. “Haven’t you searched your memory? Don’t you regard this as important?”
“Of course I have. But I can’t be certain.”
“The next day your patient died of poisoning. Didn’t you go over the whole case in your mind at once, Dr. Parkes? Didn’t it occur to you to wonder where you had made your mistake? Didn’t you even then ask yourself when you first suspected poisoning?”
“Yes. I must have done.”
“I see. You must have done. But now you have forgotten. I hope you are not often so forgetful. It is a bad thing for a doctor to be.” Sir Ikey sneered: he had a good sneer. “Still you did think of poisoning some time; that is something. Let us consider the next day. You saw Philip in the morning. I think you said about 9.15?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Of course I am.”
“Ah, yes. That was written in your book. And you came back with Dr. Herrington at 12.15?”
“I believe so.”
“Three hours! Three hours, with the child vomiting blood, and his heart obviously weakening. What on earth were you doing? Why were you not by his bedside?”
“I had great difficulty in making contact with Dr. Herrington. He was out on his rounds.”
“Well? Could you not leave telephone messages for him, to bring him to you urgently? How could you leave the unhappy boy to two utterly unskilled women? What did you do in fact?”
Dr. Parkes remained dumb. What had he done? He was already a little confused in his memory. He thought he had driven round looking for Herrington. All he was certain of was that he had decided the case was beyond his powers: that he could be of no use till a younger man came. And that he would not say.
Sir Ikey glared at him.
“In plain language, Doctor, if you had dealt with this case properly the child would be alive to-day. Is not that so?”
“It is wholly untrue.”
“Oh. And why, pray?”
“The condition was incurable.”
“Incurable! How are you able to say such a thing? I thought you had told the court you knew very little about the effects of hederin.”
“I mean—I—”
“You mean, I think, that you do not know of any remedy. How long ago did you qualify, Dr. Parkes?”
“Really!” Dr. Parkes flushed.
“I think, Sir Isambard—” said the judge; and did not finish his remark. Sir Ikey bowed: he bowed very straight and stiff, from far down and as if he had a hinge in his hips. “As your lordship pleases,” he said. “I have no further questions,” he added.
Mr. Proudie re-examined, and again brought out the point that hederin poisoning was rare and difficult to recognize. But Sir Ikey had made his point. “Doctor a fool,” wrote Dr. Holmes on his writing-pad, and expressed the opinion of most of his fellow-jurors. Even Mr. Stannard sighed and shook his head.
2
The next witness who left her mark on the jury was Mrs. Rodd. Dressed in deep black, with her squat figure and homely face, she favourably impressed the jurors even before her evidence began. Here, they all felt, was a sound, respectable cook; an honest, kindly woman on whom they could rely. Even her wart with its tuft of hair seemed to add to her reliability. She spoke in a firm but respectful voice, the voice of a servant who knew her place, and whose place was one worth having. Mr. Proudie, not always aware of histrionic possibilities, nevertheless built up her character as the loyal old retainer as thoroughly as Sir Ikey himself could have done.
“I think you were cook to the late Sir Henry Arkwright?” he said in a rather hushed voice, as if reluctant to recall to Mrs. Rodd what must have been one of the great deprivations of her life.
“Yes, sir; I was.” Mrs. Rodd spoke gently and nodded—no, better, bowed her head.
“And for how many years did you occupy this post?”
It was a good beginning, and Mrs. Rodd was intelligent enough to play up. When she went on to describe Philip’s relations with his aunt, and the affair of the rabbit, Mr. Proudie had but little to do. The story itself moved the jury enough. Dr. Holmes alone resisted it as sentimental. Mrs. Morris, the Jewish widow, to her extreme astonishment found her eyes swimming. She had never cried since Les died. She could not cry, that she knew. And yet there were tears in her eyes and one trickling down the side of her nose and itching. The poor, poor little boy, sitting on his heels and crooning to his rabbit because he had no other friend. And those stupid clothes! Mrs. Rodd had described the Norfolk suit, not without some malice; but Mrs. Morris was the only juror on whom the description had its effect. To make the poor child deliberately a guy! Mrs. Morris cast an angry look at Rosalie, but she held her face down and her expression could not be seen.
Mrs. Rodd was describing in detail the killing of the rabbit in the gas oven. It lost nothing in brutality when she told it. As she described Philip’s hysteria over its death, Mrs. Morris again felt discomfort. Poor lonely child, she thought. I’ve never had a child. I could have looked after him. I’d have understood. That woman took away from him the only thing he loved and killed it. I know what that means. It’s not absurd, it’s a real comparison. A child can love very desperately: it can feel very deeply for a time. It just doesn’t last so long, that’s all. That boy might quite well have loved his rabbit, allowing for difference in age and all that, like I loved ——. Stop that. Listen to what the defence lawyer is saying.
Sir Ikey, oddly enough, did not seem to be trying
to undo Mr. Proudie’s work. If anything, he was underlining Philip’s affection for the rabbit. But he brought out one point which was the only one to date that seemed to help his client. What caused Mrs. van Beer to kill the rabbit? Mrs. Rodd rather reluctantly admitted that she understood it to be the doctor’s orders. No, she hadn’t heard him say so herself.
“Perhaps we can have Dr. Parkes recalled to prove that point?” Sir Ikey addressed his inquiry half to the judge and half to Mr. Proudie.
The judge looked at Mr. Proudie. “Certainly,” said the latter. “We will be very glad to oblige my learned friend.”
“I have a couple more questions to ask this witness,” said Sir Ikey. “Perhaps I may finish with her first?”
The judge nodded.
“Do you remember the name of this rabbit, Mrs. Rodd?”
“Yes, sir. He used to call it King Zog, but he’d just changed its name to something else. A funny name.”
“Try and think. Can you remember it?”
“It was something like Shredny Vashti—Vashti like the queen in the Bible, you know; that’s how I remembered it.”
“Something like Shredny Vashti. Now I don’t want to put the words in your mouth, Mrs. Rodd, but tell me this: was it Sredni Vashtar?”
“Yes, sir. That was it. That was exactly what it was.”
“Thank you. That is all.”
Dr. Parkes, recalled, faced Sir Ikey with visible uneasiness. But this time the vulture did not swoop. Sir Ikey spoke gently.
“You remember this affair of the rabbit, Dr. Parkes?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Did you in fact order the destruction of the animal?”
“Well, no. No, I do not think I could say that exactly. Perhaps I should explain in greater detail. If I might.”
“Please do.”
“The boy’s health was far from good, and I was worried because he never managed to pick up his strength as he should. I considered a number of possible influencing causes. In particular, his aunt directed my attention to his habit of keeping animals in a rather dirty condition, and fondling them. I thought this rather insanitary—”
“I am sorry to interrupt you, but I would like to ask you here: was his aunt’s solicitousness for his health usual? Or was this an exceptional intervention of hers?”
“Not at all exceptional. She was very concerned about Philip’s health. She always was. Not a doubt on that question. She paid the greatest possible attention to it.”
“Thank you.” Sir Ikey’s thanks appeared quite genuine. He turned to the jury, dropped his monocle and with his eyebrows invited them to notice the doctor’s words. “Pray proceed. I apologize for interrupting.”
“I warned Philip that if he continued to nurse this animal and to run the risk of infection from it, it might have to be taken from him. My intention was not to order its destruction. I saw no definite evidences of disease, and I did not intend anything so drastic. Looking back, however, I see that perhaps my words might have been misinterpreted. I think it quite possible that Mrs. van Beer might have understood me to…to have given a more explicit order than I had meant to do.”
“I understand. One other question. Do you happen to know the rabbit’s name?”
“Its name?”
“Yes. There is an object in this question, I assure you.”
“I am pretty certain that Philip gave it the name which you mentioned in this court a little while ago.”
“Sredni Vashtar?”
“Yes.”
Sir Ikey screwed his monocle into his eye and offered the witness to Mr. Proudie. Mr. Proudie shook his head, deciding to let ill alone. Dr. Parkes stood down, and Sir Ikey smiled with the expression of a pin-table enthusiast who has won a packet of cigarettes.
Mrs. Morris, on the jury, looked contemptuous. That woman solicitous for the child’s health indeed. Any one could see the doctor was a fool. It would need someone cleverer than him to cover that woman’s wickedness up. She killed an innocent animal to torture a little boy. She may have pretended she was doing it for his own good. That only made it worse. Hypocrite.
Dr. Holmes, on the other hand, thought it showed good sense. Children he didn’t like, and pet animals he liked less. To get rid of a pet animal that probably smelt seemed to him a thoroughly sensible action. So far as he was concerned the story of the rabbit was by now wholly to the accused’s credit.
None of the other jurors showed by their faces what their opinions on it were, if any.
Despite the descriptions in detective novels, court cases are rarely dramatic. For one five-minute scene, there are hours of dull and formal proceedings. Even in murder trials this is true and R. v. van Beer was no exception. The jury grew tired as the day went on. It received the news that the court was rising for lunch with obvious gratitude. They were taken to lunch under the escort of a bailiff and at the expense of the under sheriffs of the city. Mr. George, the trade union official, protested vehemently. The men at Trollope and Colls might well have walked out that morning; and the chairman in that case would certainly have gone round and pledged the union’s full support. He had absolutely reckoned on going to his office in the lunch-hour and putting things straight. Ultimately, he had to content himself with a long telephone call, from which he returned with a long face. Mr. Stannard thought unhappily that Gwen and Fred would find the lunch-hour rush too much for them, but he was not allowed to go back to his pub.
Conversation at lunch was limited and formal, for Mr. Popesgrove killed the most promising subject as soon as it was broached. Mr. Allen, the young Socialist, asked his neighbour in a loud voice what he thought of the case. Mr. Popesgrove intervened very civilly but firmly. “I say,” he said. “You know, I don’t want to interfere, but do you think that’s quite wise? Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t discuss it at all until we’d heard the other side? It’s so likely that in conversation we shall begin to take sides, and there we are making up our minds on only part of the evidence. Honestly, I do think we’d better talk about something else.”
Mr. Allen was surprised and abashed. “Sorry,” he said.
3
The first witness they heard on their return was the newsagent near the Red Lion in Wrackhampton. By now he had veered to the opinion that Rosalie van Beer had ordered the East Essex Monitor in person. No, he was not sure. He thought it likely but couldn’t be positive. Yes, it was true that his wife had held a different idea, but when they looked up their other bills about the same date it had refreshed their memory.
“Wretched witness,” muttered Dr. Holmes. “Can’t make up his mind and goes on chattering.”
Sir Ikey let him go fairly quickly. Nor did he spend much time on Sergeant Knowles’s account of the discovery of the cutting. He cross-examined Ted Gillingham when he appeared about his own share in it, but largely out of malice, with questions such as these:
“Tell me what is your usual procedure in going into someone else’s rooms, Mr. Gillingham?”
“Do you habitually go through the books to see if there are any documents in them?”
“Is there anything else you do—do you open drawers? Take letters out of their envelopes, for example?”
Gillingham protested, and was in the end protected by the judge. Sir Ikey again bowed from the hinge in his back, and accepted the rebuke quite placidly.
“Well, we will take it then, Mr. Gillingham, that you did not snoop around—I think that is the usual word—snoop around to any great extent. You went almost at once to this book, and there you found that cutting?”
“Yes.”
“Had you often been in that room before?”
“Fairly often, I should say.”
“You knew your way about all right?”
“Why, yes.”
“Had you been there alone before?”
“I suppose so.�
�
“You had been there alone before. And you went straight to that particular book in a not inconsiderable library; and you found this peculiar cutting. Very curious! Mr. Gillingham”—Sir Isambard’s voice became very clear and loud—“had you ever seen that cutting before?”
“No, certainly not! What do you mean?” replied Gillingham, scarlet with embarrassment and surprise, and looking thoroughly guilty.
“Never mind what I mean,” said Sir Ikey, who indeed did not mean anything in particular, but hoped only to start some irrelevant doubt in the mind of a stupid juror. “You are here to answer questions, not to ask them.”
Mr. Proudie re-examined, and drew out the fact that by no means could the tutor have any interest in the conviction of Mrs. van Beer or in the death of Philip Arkwright. But the harm was not wholly undone. The jury, as a whole, had an irritating doubt whether everything was quite normal about Gillingham’s discovery of the newspaper cutting. Even Dr. Holmes reminded himself that in judging a document one must consider not only its text but its provenance. Mr. Stannard began to say aloud that there was something fishy about that business, when he remembered that jurors did not chatter during a case. Miss Atkins reflected that those that hide can find. In no one’s mind was there any defined opinion, but at the back of every one’s thoughts there was implanted a slight uneasiness. In other words, Sir Ikey had done what he wished to do.
Sir Henry’s will was put in evidence. There was no dispute about its terms, or its meaning. It was a signpost pointing towards Rosalie, who inherited a fortune. But it pointed also towards the Rodds, who got £4,000 altogether. A fortune for them, too. Mr. Popesgrove, forgetting his own precepts about making up one’s mind on only part of the evidence, wrote on his note-pad: “Accident appears ruled out. Therefore murder. Will indicates only three possible murderers: two servants, Mrs. V. B. Mrs. V. B. has greater motive. Essential evidence now required—opportunity, means. Newspaper cutting only proves premeditation of some person, not of who.” He crossed out “who” and replaced it by “whom”.
Ada Corney’s evidence, which followed, provided him with the evidence he was asking for. Mrs. van Beer had been in the dining-room in the interval between the laying of the table and the commencement of lunch. The salad had been washed thoroughly beforehand by the cook, and when it came out after dinner she, Ada, noticed that it was gritty. She gave her evidence in a slow and sullen way, her mouth with its bad teeth hanging slightly open between sentences. She looked unhealthy—her face was pasty, and an inflamed spot on the side of her chin had burst and was discharging—and she looked stupid, but she knew what she had to say and Sir Ikey could not shift her from it.
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