Arthur and George (49 page)

Arthur decided that these gentlemen should not be left to jaw at one another complacently about “certain procedural matters.” To his reworked
Telegraph
articles—which would themselves prove George’s innocence—he would append a private memorandum setting out the case against Royden Sharp. He would describe his investigation, summarize his evidence, and list those from whom further testimony might be obtained: specifically the butcher Jack Hart of Bridgetown, and Harry Green, now of South Africa. Also Mrs. Royden Sharp, who could confirm the effect of the new moon upon her husband.

He would send George a copy of the memorandum, inviting his comments. He would also keep Anson on the hop. Every so often, as he remembered that long wrangle over brandy and cigars, an unstoppable growl would rise in his throat. Their exchange had been noisy but largely futile—like that of two Scandinavian elks locking antlers in the forest. Even so, he had been shocked by the complacency and prejudice of a man who ought to have known better. And then, at the last, for Anson to try scaring him with stories of ghosts. How very little the Chief Constable knew his man. In his study, Arthur took out the horse lancet, opened it up and drew round the blade’s outline on a sheet of tracing paper. He would send the drawing—marked “life size”—to the Chief Constable, asking for his views.

“Well, you have your Committee,” said Wood, as they pulled their cues from the rack that evening.

“I would rather say that
they
have
their
Committee.”

“By which you indicate that you are less than satisfied?”

“I have some hope that even these gentlemen cannot fail to acknowledge what is staring them in the face.”

“But?”

“But—you know who Albert de Rutzen is?”

“The Chief Magistrate of London, my newspaper informs me.”

“He is that, he is that. He is also the cousin of Captain Anson.”

George
&
Arthur

George had read the
Telegraph
articles several times before writing to thank Sir Arthur; and he read them once again before their second meeting at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. It was most disconcerting to see oneself described not by some provincial penny-a-liner but by the most famous writer of the day. It made him feel like several overlapping people at the same time: a victim seeking redress; a solicitor facing the highest tribunal in the country; and a character in a novel.

Here was Sir Arthur explaining why he, George, could not possibly have been involved with the supposed band of Wyrley ruffians: “In the first place, he is a total abstainer, which in itself hardly seems to commend him to such a gang. He does not smoke. He is very shy and nervous. He is a most distinguished student.” This was all true, and yet untrue; flattering, yet unflattering; believable, yet unbelievable. He was not a
most
distinguished student; merely a good, hard-working one. He had received second-class honours, not first, the bronze medal, not silver or gold, from the Birmingham Law Society. He was certainly a capable solicitor, more so than Greenway or Stentson were likely to become, but he would never be eminent. Equally, he was not, by his own estimation,
very
shy. And if he had been judged nervous on the basis of that previous meeting at the hotel, then there were mitigating circumstances. He had been sitting in the foyer reading his newspaper, beginning to worry if he were mistaken about the time or even the day, when he had become aware of a large, overcoated figure standing a few yards away and scrutinizing him intently. How would anyone else react to being stared at by a great novelist? George thought this estimation of him as shy and nervous had probably been confirmed, if not propagated, by his parents. He did not know how it was in other families, but at the Vicarage the parental view of children had not evolved at the same speed as the children themselves. George was not just thinking of himself; his parents did not seem to take account of Maud’s development, of how she was becoming stronger and more capable. And now that he came to reflect upon it further, he didn’t believe he
had
been so nervous with Sir Arthur. On an occasion far more likely to provoke nerves
he faced the crowded court with perfect composure
—wasn’t that what the Birmingham
Daily Post
had written?

He did not smoke. This was true. He judged it a pointless, unpleasant and costly habit. But also one unconnected with criminal behaviour. Sherlock Holmes famously smoked a pipe—and Sir Arthur, he understood, did likewise—but this did not make either of them candidates for membership of a gang. It was also true that he was a total abstainer: the consequence of his upbringing, not of some principled act of renunciation. But he acknowledged that any juryman, or any committee, might interpret the fact in more than one way. Abstention could be taken as proof either of moderation or extremity. It might be a sign of a fellow able to control his human urges; or equally of someone who resisted vice in order to concentrate his mind on other, more essential things—someone a touch inhuman, even fanatical.

He in no way minimized the value and quality of Sir Arthur’s work. The articles described with rare skill
a chain of circumstances which seem so extraordinary that they are far beyond the invention of the writer of fiction.
George had read and reread with pride and gratitude such declarations as
Until each and all of these questions is settled a dark stain will remain upon the administrative annals of this country.
Sir Arthur had promised to make a noise, and the noise he had made had echoed far beyond Staffordshire, far beyond London, far beyond England itself. Without Sir Arthur shaking the trees, as he had put it, the Home Office would almost certainly not have appointed a Committee; though how the Committee itself would respond to the noise and the tree-shaking was another matter. It seemed to George that Sir Arthur had gone very hard on the Home Office’s handling of Mr. Yelverton’s memorial, when he wrote that he
cannot imagine anything more absurd and unjust in an Oriental despotism.
To denounce someone as despotic might not be the best way to persuade them to be less despotic in the future. And then there was the Statement of the Case against Royden Sharp . . .

“George! I’m so sorry. We were detained.”

He is standing there, and not alone. There is a handsome young woman beside him; she looks dashing and self-confident in a shade of green George could not possibly name. The sort of colour women knew about. She is smiling a little and extending her hand.

“This is Miss Jean Leckie. We were . . . shopping.” He sounds uneasy.

“No, Arthur, you were talking.” Her tone is affable yet firm.

“Well, I was talking to a shopkeeper. He had done service in South Africa, and it was only civil to ask him—”

“That is still talking, not shopping.”

George is bewildered by this exchange.

“As you can see, George, we are preparing for marriage.”

“I am very happy to meet you,” says Miss Jean Leckie, smiling more widely, so that George notices she has rather large front teeth. “And now I must go.” She shakes her head teasingly at Arthur and skips away.

“Marriage,” says Arthur as he sinks into a chair in the writing room. The word barely amounts to a question. Even so, George answers—and with a strange precision.

“It is a condition that I aspire to.”

“Well, it can be a puzzling condition, I warn you. Bliss, of course. But damned puzzling bliss more often than not.”

George nods. He does not agree, while admitting he has little evidence to go on. Certainly he would not describe his parents’ marriage as damned puzzling bliss. None of those three words could in any way be reasonably applied to life at the Vicarage.

“To business, anyway.”

They discuss the
Telegraph
articles, the response they have elicited, the Gladstone Committee, its terms of reference and membership. Arthur wonders if he personally should expose Sir Albert de Rutzen’s cousinage, or drop a hint to a newspaper editor at his club, or simply leave the whole matter alone. He looks across at George, expecting an instant opinion. But George does not have an instant opinion. This may be because he is
very shy and nervous;
or because he is a solicitor; or because he finds it difficult to switch from being Sir Arthur’s cause to Sir Arthur’s tactical adviser.

“I think Mr. Yelverton is perhaps the person to consult on that.”

“But I am consulting
you,
” replies Arthur, as if George is shilly-shallying.

George’s opinion, as far as he can call it one when it feels no more than an instinct, is that the first option would be too provoking, the third too passive, and so on the whole he might be inclined to advise the middle course. Unless, of course . . . and as he is starting to reconsider, he is aware of Sir Arthur’s impatience. This does, admittedly, make him a little nervous.

“I will make one prediction, George. They will not be straightforward about the Committee’s report.”

George wonders if Arthur still requires his view of the previous matter. He assumes not. “But they must publish it.”

“Oh, they must, and they will. But I know how governments operate, especially when they have been embarrassed or shamed. They will hide it away somehow. They will bury it if they can.”

“How could they do that?”

“Well, for a start they could publish it on a Friday afternoon, when people have left for the weekend. Or during the recess. There are all sorts of tricks.”

“But if it is a good report, it will reflect well upon them.”

“It can’t be a good report,” says Arthur firmly. “Not from their point of view. If they confirm your innocence, as they must, it means that the Home Office has for the past three years knowingly obstructed justice despite all the information laid before it. And in the extremely unlikely—I would say impossible—case of them finding you still guilty—which is the only other option—there will be such an almighty stink that careers will be at stake.”

“Yes, I see.”

They have now been talking for half an hour or so, and Arthur is puzzled that George has made no reference at all to his Statement of the Case against Royden Sharp. No, more than puzzled; irritated, on the way to being insulted. It half crosses his mind to ask George about that begging letter he was shown at Green Hall. But no, that would be playing Anson’s game for him. Perhaps George just assumes it is up to the host to set the agenda. That must be it.

“So,” he says. “Royden Sharp.”

“Yes,” replies George. “I never knew him, as I said when I wrote to you. It must have been his brother I was at school with when I was little. Though I have no memory of him either.”

Arthur nods. Come on, man, is what he thinks. I have not just exonerated you, I have produced the criminal bound hand and foot for arrest and trial. Is this not, at the very least, news to you? Against all his temperament, he waits.

“I am surprised,” George finally says. “Why should he wish to harm me?”

Arthur does not reply. He has already offered his replies. He thinks it is time George did some work on his own behalf.

“I am aware that you consider race prejudice to be a factor in the case, Sir Arthur. But as I have already said, I cannot agree. Sharp and I do not know one another. To dislike someone you have to know them. And then you find the reason for disliking them. And then, perhaps, if you cannot find a satisfactory reason, you blame your dislike on some oddity of theirs, such as the colour of their skin. But as I say, Sharp does not know me. I have been trying to think of some action of mine that he might have taken as a slight or an injury. Perhaps he is related to someone to whom I gave professional advice . . .” Arthur does not comment; he thinks that you can only point out the obvious so many times. “And I do not understand why he should wish to maim cattle and horses in this way. Or why anyone should. Do you, Sir Arthur?”

“As I said in my Statement,” replies Arthur, who is getting more dissatisfied by the minute, “I suspect that he was strangely affected by the new moon.”

“Possibly,” replies George. “Though not all the cases took place at the same point on the lunar cycle.”

“That is correct. But most did.”

“Yes.”

“So might you not reasonably conclude that those extraneous mutilations were performed in order deliberately to mislead investigators?”

“Yes, you might.”

“Mr. Edalji, I do not appear to have convinced you.”

“Forgive me, Sir Arthur, it is not that I am, or wish to seem, in any way, less than immensely grateful to you. It is, perhaps, that I am a solicitor.”

“True.” Maybe he is being too hard on the fellow. But it is strange: as if he has brought him a bag of gold from the farthest ends of the earth, and received the reply, But frankly, I would have preferred silver.

“The instrument,” says George. “The horse lancet.”

“Yes?”

“May I ask how you know what it looks like?”

“Indeed. By two methods. First, I asked Mrs. Greatorex to draw it for me. Whereupon Mr. Wood recognized it as a horse lancet. And secondly—” Arthur leaves a pause for effect, “I have it in my possession.”

“You have it?”

Arthur nods. “I could show you it if you like.” George looks alarmed. “Not here. Don’t worry, I haven’t brought it with me. It’s at Undershaw.”

“May I ask how you obtained it?”

Arthur rubs a finger up the side of his nose. Then he relents. “Wood and Harry Charlesworth stumbled upon it.”

“Stumbled?”

“It was clear that the weapon had to be secured before Sharp could dispose of it. He knew I was in the district and on his trail. He even started sending me the sort of letters he used to send you. Threatening me with the removal of vital organs. If he had two cerebral hemispheres to rub together, he’d have buried the instrument where no one would find it for a hundred years. So I instructed Wood and Harry to stumble across it.”

“I see.” George feels as he does when a client begins confidentially telling him things no client should ever tell a solicitor, not even his own—especially not his own. “And have you interviewed Sharp?”