Arthur & George

Not all of the time, thought Arthur. There was something missing in his understanding of the case, something to do with that police visit.

'Sir Arthur.' It was Mrs Edalji, slender, white-haired, quiet-voiced. 'May I say two things to you? First, how pleasant it is to hear a Scottish voice again in these parts. Do I detect Edinburgh on your tongue?'

'You do indeed, Ma'am.'

'And the second thing concerns my son. You have met George.'

'I was much impressed by him. I can think of many who would not have remained so strong in mind and body after three years in Lewes and Portland. He is a credit to you.'

Mrs Edalji smiled briefly at the compliment. 'What George wants more than anything is to be allowed to return to his work as a solicitor. That is all he has ever wanted. It is perhaps worse for him now than when he was in prison. Then things were clearer. Now he is in a state of limbo. The Incorporated Law Society cannot readmit him until the taint is washed from his name.'

There was nothing which galvanized Arthur more than being appealed to by a gentle, elderly, female Scottish voice.

'Rest assured, Ma'am, I am planning to make a tremendous noise. I am going to stir things up. There will be a few people sleeping less soundly in their beds by the time I have finished with them.'

But this did not seem to be the promise Mrs Edalji required. 'I expect so, Sir Arthur, and we thank you for it. What I am saying is rather different. George is, as you have observed, a boy – a young man, rather – of some resilience. To be honest, his resilience has surprised both of us. We imagined him frailer. He is determined to overthrow this injustice. But that is all he wants. He does not wish for the limelight. He does not want to become an advocate for any particular cause. He is not a representative of anything. He wishes to return to work. He wishes for an ordinary life.'

'He wishes to get married,' put in the daughter, who until this moment had been quite silent.

'Maud!' The Vicar was more surprised than rebuking. 'How can he? Since when? Charlotte – did you know anything of this?'

'Father, don't be alarmed. I mean, he wants to be married in general.'

'Married in general,' repeated the Vicar. He looked at his distinguished guest. 'Do you think that is possible, Sir Arthur?'

'I myself,' replied Arthur with a chuckle, 'have only ever been married in particular. It is the system I understand, and the one I would recommend.'

'In that case,' – and here the Vicar smiled for the first time – 'we must forbid George from getting married in general.'

Back at the Imperial Family Hotel, Arthur and his secretary took a late supper and retired to an unoccupied smoking room. Arthur fired up his pipe and watched Wood ignite some low brand of cigarette.

'A fine family,' said Sir Arthur. 'Modest, impressive.'

'Indeed.'

Arthur had a sudden apprehension, set off by Mrs Edalji's words. What if their arrival on the scene provoked fresh persecutions? After all, Satan – indeed, God Satan – was still out there sharpening both his pen and his curved instrument with concave sides. God Satan: how peculiarly repellent were the perversions of an institutional religion once it began its irreversible decline. The sooner the whole edifice was swept away the better.

'Woodie, let me use you as a sounding board, if I may.' He did not wait for an answer; nor did his secretary think one was expected. 'There are three aspects of this case which I at present fail to understand. They are blanks waiting to be filled. And the first of them is why Anson took against George Edalji. You've seen the letters he wrote to the Vicar. Threatening a schoolboy with penal servitude.'

'Indeed.'

'He is a person of distinction. I researched him. The second son of the Second Earl of Lichfield. Late Royal Artillery. Chief Constable since 1888. Why should such a man write such a letter?'

Wood merely cleared his throat.

'Well?'

'I am not an investigator, Sir Arthur. I have heard you say that in the detective business you must eliminate the impossible and what is left, however improbable, must be the truth.'

'Not my own formulation, alas. But one I endorse.'

'So that is why I would not make an investigator. If someone asks me a question, I just look for the obvious answer.'

'And what would be your obvious answer in the case of Captain Anson and George Edalji?'

'That he dislikes people who are coloured.'

'Now that is indeed very obvious, Alfred. So obvious it cannot be the case. Whatever his faults, Anson is an English gentleman and a Chief Constable.'

'I told you I was not an investigator.'

'Let us not abandon hope so quickly. We'll see what you can do with my second blank. Which is this. Leaving aside that early episode with the maidservant, the persecution of the Edaljis takes place in two separate outbursts. The first runs from 1892 to the very beginning of 1896. It is intense and increasing. All of a sudden it stops. Nothing happens for seven years. Then it starts up again, and the first horse is ripped. February 1903. Why the gap, that's what I can't understand, why the gap? Investigator Wood, what is your view?'

The secretary did not enjoy this game very much; it seemed to be constructed so that he could only lose. 'Perhaps because whoever was responsible wasn't there.'

'Where?'

'In Wyrley.'

'Where was he?'

'He'd gone away.'

'Where to?'

'I don't know, Sir Arthur. Perhaps he was in prison. Perhaps he'd gone to Birmingham. Perhaps he'd run away to sea.'

'I rather doubt it. Again, it's too obvious. People in the district would have noticed. There'd have been talk.'

'The Edaljis said they didn't listen to talk.'

'Hmm. Let's see if Harry Charlesworth does. Now, the third area I don't understand is the matter of the hairs on the clothing. If we could eliminate the obvious on this one-'

'Thank you, Sir Arthur.'

'Oh, for Heaven's sake, Woodie, don't take offence. You're much too useful to take offence.'

Wood reflected that he had always had a deal of sympathy for the character of Dr Watson. 'What is the problem, sir?'

'The problem is this. The police examined George's clothing at the Vicarage and said there were hairs on it. The Vicar, his wife and his daughter examined the clothing and said there were no hairs on it. The police surgeon, Dr Butter – and police surgeons in my experience are the most scrupulous fellows – gave evidence that he found twenty-nine hairs "similar in length, colour and structure" to those of the mutilated pony. So there is a clear conflict. Were the Edaljis perjuring themselves to protect George? That would appear to be what the jury believed. George's explanation was that he might have leaned against a gate into a field in which cows were paddocked. I'm not surprised the jury didn't believe him. It sounds like a statement you are panicked into, not a description of something that happened. Besides, it still leaves the family as perjurers. If the hairs were on his clothing, they'd have seen them, wouldn't they?'

Wood took his time over this. Ever since entering Sir Arthur's employ, he had been acquiring new functions. Secretary, amanuensis, signature-forger, motoring assistant, golf partner, billiards opponent; now sounding board and stater of the obvious. Also, one who must be prepared for ridicule. Well, so be it. 'If the hairs weren't on his coat when the Edaljis examined it…'

'Yes…'

'And if they weren't there beforehand because George didn't lean on any gate…'

'Yes…'

'Then they must have got there afterwards.'

'After what?'

'After the clothing left the Vicarage.'

'You mean Dr Butter put them there?'

'No. I don't know. But if you want the obvious answer, it's that they got there afterwards. Somehow. And if so, then only the police are lying. Or some of the police.'