Verdict of Twelve

by Raymond Postgate

  “That particular state of mind,” replied Dr. Taylor, openly cross, “is what you would call ambivalent.” (Mr. Proudie’s pink podgy hands waved away any acquaintance with such a word.) “Masochistic phenomena transpose themselves into sadistic with a minimum of difficulty. So far from such a transference being a difficulty to my explanation, it is of the essence of it. I am sorry if I did not make myself clear.”

  “You did not. May I ask you to put in one sentence—clearly if you can—what you think Philip’s state of mind was?”

  “Certainly. He was a concealed sado-masochist,” said Dr. Taylor, with the air of one firing off a Big Bertha.

  After him came Mr. Henderson, dry and not worried by any cross-examination from Mr. Proudie. He identified the blue book. It was a volume of short stories by H. H. Munro, who wrote under the name of “Saki”. He had found it in the house, on a low shelf well within the reach of a boy of eleven. It had obviously been read. It contained a story entitled Sredni Vashtar.

  Sir Ikey then took the book in his hands. He did not intend to leave the reading of this story to the clerk of the court. He was going to use his organ voice for the first time in this case. Mr. Ramsay MacDonald had become prime minister for little more than possessing a voice hardly any better than his. Could he not by the same means secure the acquittal of one unimportant woman? “This book,” he said to the jury “will be placed in your hands, but before that I wish, with the permission of the court, to read aloud to you the brief story from which Philip Arkwright took the name of his pet.”

  He cleared his throat and began:

  “‘SREDNI VASHTAR.

  “‘Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years…’”

  H. H. Munro’s story is one of the most cruel written by that politely cruel author. It is about a sickly boy who had an aunt whom he detested, and who interfered with him continually for his own good. As Sir Ikey read it, it seemed an exact reproduction, in the eyes of an embittered child, of Philip’s relation to Mrs. van Beer. The analogy was sharpened by the fact that Mrs. De Ropp, the aunt in the story, had a name whose sound recalled that of Mrs. van Beer’s: Sir Ikey’s voice hesitated over it and drew out the similarity. Munro’s story was admirably suited to his object. It was itself written in recollection of a childish hatred not unlike Philip’s: the author in his youth had been under the charge of an aunt named Augusta, who had bullied and oppressed him, and years afterwards he had revenged himself in drawing her portrait and assigning to her the fate that he may often have prayed for her.

  Conradin in his story had two pets—one a Houdan hen, whatever that may be, one a large polecat-ferret. “One day,” Saki wrote, “out of heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and, from that moment, it grew into a god and a religion.” The name he invented for it was Sredni Vashtar. His aunt had the Houdan hen destroyed, and from that time on Conradin prayed a prayer to Sredni Vashtar. He did not say in his prayer what he wanted, for a god knows all and need not be told. But one day his aunt suspected he was keeping things in the greenhouse, and said she would have them cleared away, whatever they were. Conradin watched her from the window, hoping for a miracle but believing that shortly she would have the ferret brought out by the gardener and taken away. But time went on: she did not come out. And in the end “out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat”.

  The story ended with Conradin comfortably making himself a piece of buttered toast while the maids twitter outside the nursery door, wondering who will get up courage enough to tell him that his beloved aunt is dead.

  “Sredni Vashtar,” said Sir Ikey, fixing with his eye Dr. Holmes who looked, and for the minute was, completely convinced by this reading. “Sredni Vashtar. That is not a name that can be invented twice by accident. When we find that the book in which this strange name occurs was within reach of the child’s hand, we do not need to ask for any further explanation. We have put clearly before us precisely what he thought of his aunt, precisely what fate he intended for her. He thought of his rabbit as a sort of god. She killed it; she was to suffer the fate that the woman in the story suffered. There is no other explanation of this peculiar name. No other explanation at all: I can safely defy the prosecution to produce one.”

  6

  Mr. Stannard, on the jury, had hoped that Rosalie would give evidence, and that he could make up his mind by watching her, but he was to be disappointed. Not until the last moment had Sir Ikey made up his mind to keep her out of the witness box, but on the day itself he had been definite. He had gone to great pains to groom her for the ordeal. He had given her precise orders on the clothes that she was to wear, even the amount of lipstick she was to put on, and had gone over her evidence with her again and again. He was well aware, too, of the prejudice a jury has against a defendant who doesn’t give evidence. However explicitly the judge tells them that in a murder case it is the defendant’s absolute right and that they are to draw no deductions from it, however carefully prosecuting counsel refrains from mentioning it, still the jurors say, “Ah, the prisoner had something to conceal. Else why not stand up honestly and tell the truth?” But he had reluctantly decided it was not safe. Let her loose, and she would do all she could to hang herself. Even in the prison room with him she seemed to him unstable: out in court and harried by a clever counsel she would lose her control entirely. He could see her shrilling her spite against the Rodds, and alternately spraying false sentiment over the dead child and letting it be seen how much she disliked him in fact. He had told Mr. Henderson brutally that she had “too little sense and was incapable of being honest”. Mr. Henderson had translated that to his client in the words: “Sir Isambard has decided the strain would be too great for you.”

  Nevertheless, Sir Ikey thought it wiser to make an effort to present a pleasing picture of his client to the jury. Some evidence other than the prosecution’s had better be obtained. Proudie’s witnesses alone would leave too disagreeable an impression. It had not been very easy: Rosalie had not been liked in the neighbourhood, and anyway both enemies and friends had to admit that they knew very little of her way of life. Ultimately, only the vicar could be found. Originally, when Rosalie had come to the district, he had been reasonably assiduous: his wife had called on her, and she had been invited to tea at the vicarage. But gradually, because her vulgarity and her whining irritated him, he had begun to drop her; he was uncomfortably aware that the fact that she did not subscribe largely to church funds had something to do with this. For this he blamed himself; and he blamed himself even more that the tragedy had occurred at all. Wherever the chief guilt lay, some guilt at least lay with him; for there had obviously been great spiritual illness in that house, and he, the spiritual healer and adviser by right and duty, had known nothing of it. Illogically, therefore, but naturally, he atoned for his neglect and unworthy thoughts about Mrs. van Beer by overpraising her now. The testimonial he gave to her as a Christian woman and devoted guardian was based on very little real evidence.

  Mr. Proudie was sufficiently well informed not to let it pass. He examined the vicar fairly closely about his relations with Mrs. van Beer, and showed that she had had less and less contact with him of recent months, and that she had even given up attending church regularly. He had undone most of the effect of the vicar’s compunction, when there was a sudden interruption.

  Edward Bryan, the fanatic on the jury, had been waiting and silently praying for guidance. Hour after hour had passed, only adding to his darkness, and at last he had realized that illumination would not come to him by dispensation and without any action of his own. It was Providence’s intention that he should find the sign for himself; he must strain his mind and discover what it was he must do. The vicar’s appearance, and the Anglican drone of his voic
e, were the first things which connected at all with the world in which he lived. This man, though using an intonation that he disliked, and probably affected by Popishness, was nevertheless by profession a man of God. Bryan’s dull eyes lightened for a minute: here perhaps he might find what he wanted to know.

  “I wish to ask this witness some questions,” he said in a loud and arrogant voice. He did not mean to be either loud or arrogant; the harsh noise was the result of nervousness. It had not been easy to raise courage enough to intervene.

  “Certainly,” said the judge, not wholly pleased.

  “What is the name of your church?” asked Bryan.

  “St. Michael and All Angels.”

  Bryan frowned: the title was too fancy.

  “What sort of service do you give in it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean: is it High church, Low church, or what?”

  “I fail to see…well, anyway, I suppose you would call it rather High.”

  Bryan’s face darkened. This seemed like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The man probably called himself a priest. A purveyor of corrupt religion was worse than an atheist. He must press on.

  “Why did Mrs. van Beer cease to frequent your church?”

  The vicar, who had resented both Bryan’s expression and tone, snapped back, “Really, I cannot say. I don’t see the point of this.”

  “Will you answer my question, please?” repeated Bryan.

  The judge was impatient at what seemed to him random questioning. “I think,” he intervened, “that this matter has been fairly well probed—”

  A pale reflection of the rages that once alarmed his family flickered through Bryan’s mind. Was he to be prevented by sinful and blind men from carrying to the end the inquiry which had been laid on him? He turned to the judge and with no diminution of his voice said:

  “I must insist upon asking my questions. It is my duty to find out to my own satisfaction what was the spiritual condition of that household. I am to take my part in deciding whether this unhappy woman shall be sent to meet her Maker, and do you think I will be turned from my duty by a mere strip of mortality?”

  The court caught its breath. Mr. Justice Stringfellow had never been called a strip of mortality to his face in his life. He let a few seconds pass in silence, and then with restraint said:

  “You may ask questions dealing with the spiritual condition of the household, in your phrase, if you so desire. But you may not repeat questions which the witness has already said he cannot answer.”

  “Very well,” said Bryan, and hesitated. Then he said to the vicar:

  “When Mrs. van Beer ceased attending your church, she replaced the services by prayers in her home?”

  “Yes,” said the vicar, still wishing to make amends for his past failure of duty, “oh, yes. I am sure she did.”

  It was not till late that evening that he wondered what evidence he had for that statement, and reluctantly decided that he was not sure that he had any at all.

  Bryan sat back and fell into thought over what he had learnt. Had he perhaps been allowed a glimmer at last? Could it be that this woman was one who was trying to follow the light? Had she gone regularly to church, and been slowly revolted by Popish practices? Had she then retired to her house, and in a pious and godly way, turned to Bible reading and spontaneous prayer? If so, it was nothing to her discredit that she was in the dock. For it would be her fate, as the fate of all the elect, to be despitefully used in this world. Was this the explanation? The evidence which he had heard and earnestly but ineffectively tried to retain fell from his mind never to return: he concentrated his thoughts on this one point alone.

  Counsel for defence delivered his final speech. Counsel for the prosecution did the same. The judge summed up, at great length but clearly. Bryan heard nothing of any of them: he was waiting patiently but confidently for the answer to come to his single question. After the order, “You will consider your verdict,” had been pronounced, he sat still and did not move till prodded roughly by his neighbour.

  7

  Mr. Popesgrove headed the procession of jurors down a narrow corridor to the jury-room, as was his right as foreman. Behind him came the two women, Mrs. Morris and Miss Atkins; the nine remaining jurors followed in an untidy group. His face had a preoccupied expression. He had put the judge’s summing up for the moment out of his head and was considering what should be his own action in the next few minutes. As foreman, his duty was to lead the jury and to make sure that justice was done. If his experience as a man of the world was any guide, it was probable that the first few minutes would be the most important. A turn might be given to the discussion then which would hang or spare a human being. Mr. Popesgrove closed his mouth in a worried line. What ought he to do? Decide swiftly himself what was true and guide the jury towards the same conclusion? He put the thought aside. The essential principle of British justice was that both sides should be heard and their evidence weighed in full by every member of the jury. It would be a failure in his duty if he even made up his own mind before all the evidence which they had heard had been dissected and commented on by the jury as a whole. The question was still unanswered as he turned into the room and took his seat at the head of the table.

  It was answered for him by a juror from whom he had expected nothing but trouble. Edward Bryan’s brooding look lifted for a moment from his grey long face and he spoke before any one else could say a word. His tone was less truculent than it had been in court, and more assured. “We have to decide to-day whether we are to project an immortal soul into eternity,” he said. “I earnestly propose to you, before any one of us speaks or makes up his mind, that we should seek guidance, individually and in silent prayer.”

  Popesgrove at once approved.

  “I think that what Mr.—er?—thank you, Mr. Bryan suggests is profoundly wise advice. Not all of us may wish actually to pray, but I am certain every one would be the better for considering in silence what he or she thinks of what we have just heard. With your permission, therefore, I will ask us all to be silent for five minutes by the clock, and to consider carefully what our verdict should be. After that, I shall ask individual jurors for their opinion.”

  A grumble of assent followed, and the room became absolutely silent except for the heavy tick of a large kitchenlike clock over the door. Bryan looked at Popesgrove with momentary hesitation. He would have preferred the interval to be specifically and admittedly for prayer. However, he had in essentials had his own way; he put both hands before his face, and prayed silently, making his mind as blank and receptive as he could. He was certain, now, that he would receive guidance and knowledge shortly. A slight tingling was running over his body, and the beginnings of an elation of spirit filled him. He knew these for symptoms: they made it sure that the light would shine upon him. He wished the space of time had been longer than five minutes. Light might come very slowly: however, he could but withdraw himself as far as possible from his surroundings. In a few seconds he had done so; with his hands before his face he was wholly alone, in darkness, waiting.

  Most of the rest of the jury were unable to clear their minds during that brief interval. Popesgrove turned his thoughts chiefly to his own duties, which would be to suppress prejudice and to keep the distinction between what was and what wasn’t evidence clearly before the jurors. Henry Wilson, the editor of a local paper, had tried to assist himself by working out how he would have written the story up if he had been reporting it. He had invented some good crossheads, but he found the device was in the end no good to him. He could tell what was important and what wasn’t. He could visualize the makeup of the paper, and even the little patches of black type. But the STOP PRESS with Jury’s Verdict in it remained wholly blank. Every one was making some effort at least to assemble his thoughts, with the one exception of Edward George, the trade union secretary. His telephone call at lu
nch had shown an even worse state of affairs than he had feared. Trollope and Colls had been struck, and the chairman had gone down to the job personally and delivered a violent speech. The National Federation of Building Trade Operatives had been on the telephone three times asking for him, and had left a message pointing out that the strike was a violation of a recent agreement with the employers which had been secured with considerable difficulty. The chairman had found the message, had rung up Mr. Richard Coppock, the Federation Secretary, and told him to go to hell. While George was sitting in the jury-room his union might well be being committed to a fight not only against a big London firm but against all its fellow-unions too. He had tried to follow the evidence conscientiously, but had been too worried to do so, and now he decided he really did not know one way or the other. Whatever the majority seemed to think he would agree to: that way it’d be soonest over and he could get away.

  Dr. Holmes found himself in a condition of uncomfortable suspense. Out of the whole case but two documents had appeared, and documents were the only things which he knew that he could judge. One was the cutting from the East Essex Monitor, and one was Saki’s story Sredni Vashtar. They pointed in exactly opposite directions. How should he decide which was authentic? Inopportunely, there came into his mind his favourite quotation from A. E. Housman, a passage in the Preface to his edition of Manilius:

  “An editor of no judgment, perpetually confronted with a couple of MSS. to choose from, cannot but feel in every fibre of his being that he is a donkey between two bundles of hay. What shall he do now? Leave criticism to critics, you may say, and betake himself to any honest trade for which he is less unfit. But he prefers a more flattering solution: he confusedly imagines that if one bundle of hay is removed he will cease to be a donkey.”