Anson noted the ritual display of self-satisfaction, but pressed ahead. 'And what condition do you associate with exophthalmus?'
'It sometimes occurs as a consequence of whooping cough. And, of course, as a side-effect of strangulation.'
'Exophthalmus is commonly associated with an unhealthy degree of sexual desire.'
'Balderdash!'
'No doubt, Sir Arthur, your Devonshire Place patients were altogether too refined.'
'It's absurd.' Had they descended into folk traditions and old wives' tales? This from a Chief Constable?
'It is not, of course, an observation that would be put up in evidence. But it is generally reported among those who deal with a certain class of criminal.'
'It's still balderdash.'
'As you wish. Further, we need to consider the curious sleeping arrangements at the Vicarage.'
'Which are absolute proof of the young man's innocence.'
'We have agreed we shall not change each other's minds one jot or one tittle tonight. But even so, let us consider those sleeping arrangements. The boy is – what? ten? – when his little sister falls ill. From that moment, mother and daughter sleep in the same room, while father and elder son also share a common dormitory. Lucky Horace has a room of his own.'
'Are you suggesting – are you suggesting that something dastardly happened in that room?' Where on earth was Anson heading? Was he completely off his head?
'No, Doyle. The opposite. I am absolutely certain that nothing whatever happened in that room. Nothing except sleep and prayers. Nothing happened. Nothing. The dog did not bark, if you will excuse me.'
'Then…?'
'As I said, all the evidence is in front of you. From the age of ten, a boy sleeps in the same locked room as his father. Through the age of puberty and into early manhood, night after night after night. His brother leaves home – and what happens? Does he inherit his brother's bedroom? No, this extraordinary arrangement continues. He is a solitary boy, and then a solitary young man, with a grotesque appearance. He is never seen in the company of the opposite sex. Yet he has, we may presume, normal urges and appetites. And if, despite your scepticism, we believe the evidence of his exophthalmus, he was prey to urges and appetites stronger than customary. We are men, Doyle, who understand this side of things. We are familiar with the perils of adolescence and young manhood. How the choice often lies between carnal self-indulgence which leads to moral and physical enfeeblement, even to criminal behaviour, and a healthy diversion from base urges into manly sporting activities. Edalji, by his circumstances, was happily prevented from taking the former path, and chose not to divert himself with the latter. And while I admit that boxing would hardly have been his forte, there were, for instance, gymnastics, and physical culture, and the new American science of bodybuilding.'
'Are you suggesting that on the night of the outrage there was… some sexual purpose or manifestation?'
'Not directly, no. But you are asking me what I believe happened and why. Let us admit, for the moment, much of what you claim about the young man. He was a good student, a son who honoured his parents, who prayed in his father's church, who did not smoke or drink, who worked hard at his practice. And yet you in return must accept the likelihood of another side to him. How could there not be, given the peculiarity of his breeding, his intense isolation and confinement, his excessive urges? By day he is a diligent member of society. And then by night, every so often, he yields to something barbaric, something buried deep within his dark soul, something even he probably does not understand.'
'It's pure speculation,' said Doyle, though there was something about his voice – something quieter and less confident – that struck Anson.
'You instructed me to speculate. You will admit that I have seen more examples of criminal behaviour and criminal purpose than you. I speculate on that basis. You have insisted on the fact that Edalji is of the professional class. How often, you implicitly asked, did the professional classes commit crimes? More often than you would believe, was my answer. However, I would return the question to you in a different form, Sir Arthur. How often do you find happily married men, whose happiness naturally involves regular sexual fulfilment, committing crimes of a violent and perverted nature? Do we believe that Jack the Ripper was a happily married man?
'No, we do not. I would go further. I would suggest that if a normal healthy man is continually deprived of sexual fulfilment, for whatever reason and under whatever circumstances, it may – I only say may, I put it no stronger – it may begin to affect the cast of his mind. I think this is what happened with Edalji. He felt himself in a terrible cage surrounded by iron bars. When would he ever escape? When would he ever achieve any kind of sexual fulfilment? In my view, a continuous period of sexual frustration, year after year after year, can start to turn a man's mind, Doyle. He can end up worshipping strange gods, and performing strange rites.'
There was no reply from his famous guest. Indeed, Doyle seemed quite puce in the face. Perhaps it was the effect of the brandy. Perhaps for all his worldly airs the man was a prude. Or perhaps – and this seemed the most likely – he saw the overwhelming force of the argument ranged against him. In any case, his eyes were trained on the ashtray as he crushed out the perfectly smokeable length of a very decent cigar. Anson waited, but his guest had now transferred his gaze to the fire, unwilling or unable to reply. Well, that seemed to be the end of that. Time to move to more practical matters.
'I trust you sleep soundly tonight, Doyle. But be warned that some believe Green Hall to be haunted.'
'Really,' came the reply. But Anson could tell Doyle's mind was far away.
'There is supposedly a headless horseman. Also the crunching of coach wheels in the gravel of the drive, and yet no coach. Also the ringing of mysterious bells, and yet no bells have ever been found. Tommyrot, of course, sheer tommyrot.' Anson found himself feeling positively blithe. 'But I doubt you are susceptible to phantoms and zombies and poltergeists.'
'The spirits of the dead do not trouble me,' said Doyle in a flat, tired voice. 'Indeed, I welcome them.'
'Breakfast is at eight, if that suits you.'
As Doyle retired in what Anson took to be defeat, the Chief Constable swept the cigar butts into the fire and watched them briefly flare. When he got to bed, Blanche was still awake, rereading Mrs Braddon. In the side dressing room her husband tossed his jacket across the clothes horse and shouted through to her, 'Sherlock Holmes baffled! Scotland Yard solves mystery!'
'George, don't bellow so.'
Captain Anson came tiptoeing through in his braided dressing gown with a vast grin on his face. 'I do not care if the Great Detective is crouching with his ear to the keyhole. I have taught him a thing or two about the real world tonight.'
Blanche Anson had rarely seen her husband so lightheaded, and decided to confiscate the key to the tantalus for the rest of the week.
Arthur
Arthur's rage had been building since the moment the door of Green Hall closed behind him. The first leg of his journey back to Hindhead did little to alleviate it. The Walsall, Cannock amp; Rugeley line of the London amp; North Western Railway amounted to a constant series of provocations: from Stafford, where George was condemned, through Rugeley where he went to school, Hednesford where he supposedly threatened to shoot Sergeant Robinson in the head, Cannock where those fools of magistrates committed him, Wyrley amp; Churchbridge where it all began, then past fields grazed by what could be Blewitt's livestock, via Walsall where the source of the conspiracy must surely be found, to Birmingham where George had been arrested. Each station on the line had its message, and it was the same message, written by Anson: I and my kind own the land around here, and the people, and the justice.