'The mistake is entirely mine. I thought you meant nine o'clock in the morning.'
Now it is the surgeon's turn to look surprised. 'Sir Arthur, the police are, in my experience, both competent and industrious. Also honest. But they are not miracle-workers.'
Sir Arthur agreed, and the two men parted on friendly terms. But afterwards he found himself thinking exactly that: the police are miracle-workers. They are able to make twenty-nine horse hairs pass from one sealed package to another merely by the power of thought. Perhaps he should write them up for the Society of Psychical Research.
Yes, he might compare them to apport mediums, who were supposedly able to dematerialize objects and then rematerialize them, making showers of ancient coins fall upon the séance table, not to mention small Assyrian tablets and semi-precious stones. This was one branch of spiritism about which Arthur remained deeply sceptical; indeed, the most amateur detective was usually able to trace the ancient coins to the nearest numismatist's. As for the fellows who dealt in snakes and tortoises and live birds: Arthur thought they belonged more in the circus or the conjuror's booth. Or the Staffordshire Constabulary.
He was getting skittish. But that was just exhilaration. Twelve hours – therein lay his answer. The police had the evidence in their possession for twelve hours before delivering it to Dr Butter. Where had it been, who had charge of it, how had it been handled? Was there casual contamination, or a particular act done with the specific intention of incriminating George Edalji? Almost certainly, they would never find out, not without a deathbed confession – and Arthur had always been dubious of deathbed confessions.
His exhilaration mounted further when Dr Lindsay Johnson's report arrived at Undershaw. It was backed by two notebooks full of Johnson's detailed graphological analysis. The top man in Europe judged that none of the letters submitted to him, whether penned by malevolent schemer, religious maniac or degenerate boy, had any significant consonance with genuine documents written by George Edalji. In certain examples there was a kind of specious resemblance; but this was no more than you would expect from a forger who admitted trying to counterfeit another's handwriting. You would expect him capable of achieving occasionally a plausible facsimile; yet there were always giveaway signs to prove that George had – literally – no hand in it.
The first part of Arthur's list was now more than half ticked off: Yelverton – Hairs – Letters – Eyesight. Then there was Green - still work to do on him – and Anson. He would beard the Chief Constable directly. 'I shall be much interested to note what Sherlock Holmes has to say about a case in real life…' had been Anson's sarcastic response. Well, then, Arthur would take him at his word; he would write up his findings so far, send them off to Anson, and invite his comments.
As he sat down at his desk to begin his draft, he felt, for the first time since Touie's death, a sense of the properness of things. After the depression and guilt and lethargy, after the challenge and the call to action, he was where he belonged: a man at a desk with a pen in his hand, eager to tell a story and to make people see things differently; while out there, up in London, waiting for him – although not for too much longer – was the woman who, from now on, would be his first reader and the first witness of his life. He felt charged with energy; the material teemed in his head; and his purpose was clear. He began with a sentence he had been working on in trains and hotels and taxicabs, something both dramatic and declaratory:
The first sight which I ever had of Mr. George Edalji was enough in itself both to convince me of the extreme improbability of his being guilty of the crime for which he was condemned, and to suggest some at least of the reasons which had led to his being suspected.
And from there the narrative sped out of him, like a great unrolling chain, its links as hard-forged as he could make them. In two days he wrote fifteen thousand words. There might still be things to add, when the additional reports came in from oculists and handwriting experts. He also dealt lightly with what he took to be Anson's role in the affair: no point expecting a useful response from a fellow if you went hard at him before you had even met him. Then Wood typed up the report, and a copy was sent by registered post to the Chief Constable.
Two days later a reply arrived from Green Hall, Stafford, inviting Sir Arthur to dine with Captain and Mrs Anson on any day of the following week. He would, naturally, be welcome to stay overnight. There was no comment at all on Arthur's report, only a whimsical postscript: 'You may bring Mr Sherlock Holmes with you if you wish. Mrs Anson would be delighted to meet him. Let me know if he too requires accommodation.'
Sir Arthur handed the letter to his secretary. 'Keeping his powder dry by the looks of it.'
Wood nodded in agreement, and knew not to comment on the P.S.
'I suppose, Woodie, you don't fancy coming as Holmes?'
'I shall accompany you if you wish, Sir Arthur, but you know my thoughts on dressing up.' He also felt that, having already been cast as Watson, playing Holmes as well would be beyond his dramatic elasticity. 'I may be more use to you practising my billiards.'
'Quite right, Alfred. You hold the fort. And don't neglect your double-baulks. I'll see what Anson's made of.'
While Arthur is planning his trip to Staffordshire, Jean is thinking further ahead. It is time to address her transition from waiting girl to non-waiting wife. It is now the month of January. Touie died the previous July; clearly, Arthur cannot marry within the twelvemonth. They have not yet talked about a date, but an autumn wedding is not an impossible thought. Fifteen months – few could be shocked by such an interval. The sentimental prefer a spring wedding; but the autumn suits a second marriage, in Jean's opinion. And then a Continental honeymoon. Italy, of course, and, well, she has always felt a yen for Constantinople.
A wedding means bridesmaids, but this has long been settled: Leslie Rose and Lily Loder-Symonds are marked for the task. But a wedding also means a church, and a church means religion. The Mam brought Arthur up a Catholic, but both have since deserted the faith: the Mam for Anglicanism, Arthur for Sunday golf. Arthur has even become covert about his middle name, Ignatius. There is little chance then, that she, a Catholic from the cradle, will marry as one. This may distress her parents, especially her mother; but if that is the price, Jean will pay it.
Might there be a further price? If she is going to be at Arthur's side in all things, then she must face what up till now she has run from. On the few occasions that Arthur has mentioned his interest in psychical matters, she has turned away. Inwardly, she has shuddered at the vulgarity and stupidity of that world: at silly old men pretending to go into trances, at old crones in frightful wigs gazing into crystal balls, at people holding hands in the darkness and making one another jump. And it has nothing to do with religion, which means morality. And the notion that this… mumbo-jumbo appeals to her beloved Arthur is both upsetting and barely credible. How can someone like Arthur, whose reasoning power is second to none, allow himself to associate with such people?
It is true that her great friend Lily Loder-Symonds is an enthusiast for table-turning, but Jean regards this as a whimsicality. She discourages talk of séances, even though Lily assures her they are full of respectable people. Perhaps she should talk the matter through with Lily first, as a way of conquering her distaste. No, that would be pusillanimous. She is marrying Arthur, after all, not Lily.
So when he arrives on his way north, she sits him down, listens dutifully to news of the investigation, and then says, to his evident surprise, 'I should very much like to meet this young man of yours.'