It’s all nonsense, he told himself, it’s just a joke. In the morning I shall feel quite different and empty both the bottles down the drain; but in the meanwhile it would be safer to take precautions.

Having written on a stick-on label, in the largest capital letters, ‘PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH’ he affixed it to the sherry bottle, which he placed in a prominent position on his drink-table so that neither by day nor night could its warning notice be ignored.

He went to bed but not to sleep, for his nervous constitution being unaccustomed to the idea of such a violent emotion as vengeance, avenged itself on him with an attack of acute indigestion, so acute that he wondered if he might not in some moment of misadventure—perhaps when he was decanting the cyanide into the sherry-bottle—have touched the fatal fluid with his finger and ‘despatched his finger travelling to his nob,’ as Meredith once said—meaning, he touched his head. And from his head it was only a matter of inches to his mouth, and then—

Two or three times during the night he got up and went downstairs into his sitting-room, where he kept the drinks, just to make sure that the bottle was in place, that no mouse, for instance, had nibbled at its cork, for since his butterfly collecting days Vivian had become almost a Buddhist in his dislike of taking life. No, it was untouched and apparently unfingered, though it had begun to assert its presence as if it were the only object in the room. At length, after a dangerously large dose of barbiturates, he went to sleep.

Next morning he woke with the usual sense of presentiment and inability to face the day. As a rule this wore off when he was up and about; but today it lingered. He must offer some explanation of this bottle to his daily help.

‘Ethel,’ he said, ‘have there been any more rats here just lately?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she answered promptly, ‘there was quite a big one in the kitchen and it scared me stiff. These old houses, they breed rats. Ever since I’ve been with you, sir, these rats have been about, and in my opinion they breed here, down in the basement, where we never go, for it’s a darksome place and not nice to go into. If I wasn’t that attached to you, sir, I should have given in my notice long ago, for if there’s anything I hate, it’s rats. And most people feel as I do.’

‘I don’t like them myself,’ said Vivian, looking nervously round the room. ‘They give you the creeps, don’t they? And they are so artful, almost like burglars.’

‘Yes, sir, and as I’ve often said before, you ought to put down some poison for them. I know it isn’t a nice thing to do, but they aren’t nice, either. In my flat, which is a modern flat, not like this old place, which may be picturesque but isn’t healthy, we don’t have rats. If we did, I doubt if any of the tenants who value cleanliness would stay.’

Vivian saw an opening here.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, Ethel, I’ve been thinking over what you said and I had an idea. I’ve had some poison in my medicine cupboard for many years.’ He explained why. ‘Now I’ve put some of it in this bottle of sherry’—he held the bottle up for her to see—’because I believe rats are very partial to sherry.’

‘I’ve never heard that, sir, but they’ll eat or drink anything that a human being wouldn’t touch.’

Again he held the bottle up for her inspection.

‘I’ve labelled it “Please don’t touch.” Rats wouldn’t understand that’—he gave a little laugh—‘but sometimes when we’re both out of the house people do come in, window-cleaners, electricians, and suchlike—Mr. Stanforth, a few doors away, has the keys, and I trust him absolutely. You know him, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, sir, he’s an old friend. It was through him I came to you.’

‘I’m grateful to him for that, and for many other kindnesses. But what I wanted to say was someone might come into the house with the best of intentions, and seeing this bottle they might be tempted—one shouldn’t put temptation into people’s way—to have a swig. So I labelled it, “Please don’t touch”.’

‘I’m not sure if that would stop them, sir.’

Vivian saw the point of this.

‘There are other bottles’—he waved to four or five—‘that they could dip into. Meanwhile, shall we lay a trap for the rats? And if so, where?’

‘In the kitchen, I think. That’s where they like to come to pick up what they can—not that I ever leave any food lying about. But they have a nose for whatever isn’t meant for them.’

‘A saucer, do you think? Anything as long as it doesn’t poison you or me.’

‘I know exactly what, sir. That little Chinese bowl, it won’t spill over, however hard they try.’

‘Well, take the bottle, Ethel, and we’ll see what happens. But be very careful. Hold your breath while you’re putting the stuff in.’

She smiled at his scrupulosity, and presently returned with the bottle, its contents diminished by an eighth.

Vivian couldn’t cook for himself, except a breakfast egg which Ethel generally cooked for him. For his main meals he went out to his club, to which he invited friends, if he had not been lucky enough to be invited by them. Otherwise he lunched or dined alone, in solitary state.

Sometimes, however, he went into the kitchen in case there was some tit-bit that Ethel had bought for him which didn’t need cooking. He rather enjoyed these exploratory visits to the fridge. But today—the day of the rat-hunt—having been asked out to dinner, he lunched at his club and didn’t go into the kitchen.

The next morning, after a better night than the last, he was greeted by Ethel with a radiant face.

‘Do you know what’s happened, sir?’

Vivian was mystified.

‘No.’

‘Would you like to see?’

Vivian, having no idea what he was going to see, said ‘Yes, of course.’

After a short interval the door opened and Ethel appeared, with glowing face, holding by its tail an enormous rat, cat-like in size.

‘I found it this morning, sir, close by the bowl. It must have been thirsty, because the bowl was half empty, but it couldn’t get any further because the poison had done its work. It didn’t suffer at all, so you needn’t think about that. I’m going to show it to the man what collects the garbage and ask him if he’s ever seen such a big one. But I think we ought to put some more sherry in the bowl, in case another comes along.’

The next morning another rodent sherry-addict did come along, and suffered the same fate as its predecessor; it wasn’t quite so large, but suspended by its tail it made a considerable impression on Vivian, reclining on his bed.

For two or three days there were no more rodent casualties, and then appeared another larger than the other two.

‘They’re the talk of the whole mews,’ Ethel said. ‘Everyone here has rats in one way or another, and they all want to know how you get rid of them. I told them you had a secret, but I wouldn’t tell them what it was, sir, even if I knew, without your permission. It’s something he puts into a bottle, I said. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Stanforth himself came round and asked you—he’s that plagued by rats. I didn’t say you would be prepared to tell him, sir, because it’s a trade secret, as you might say, and you’re no professional rat-catcher. But he was most insistent.’

Mr. Stanforth had a flat in one of the mews houses, and was a very useful and valued member of the little street, because most of his neighbours entrusted their door-keys to him, so that if they lost them, as sometimes happened, he was prepared to let them in, at any hour, or if a tradesman called with goods to deliver, or the postman with a parcel when there was no one at home to receive it, Mr. Stanforth took charge and in due course restored the errant object to its owner.

Having been there twenty years he was known to nearly all the residents, most of whom availed themselves of his services, for which he charged no fee but received enough in tips handsomely to augment his pension.