Campbell pretended to himself that they were not sitting beneath the glassy eye and severed head of the elk or moose. “Yes, sir.”
“So we are looking for some maniac with a knife.”
“Probably not a knife, sir. I spoke to the veterinary surgeon who attended the later mutilations—Mr. Holmes’ horse was treated as an isolated incident at the time—and he was puzzled as to the instrument used. It must have been very sharp, but on the other hand it cut into the skin and the first layer of muscle and no further.”
“So why not a knife?”
“Because a knife—a butcher’s knife, say—would have gone deeper. At some point, anyway. A knife would have opened up the guts. None of the animals was actually killed in the attacks. Not at the time. They either bled to death or were in such a state when found that they had to be put down.”
“So if not a knife?”
“Something that cuts easily but shallowly. Like a razor. But with more strength than a razor. It could be a tool from the leather trade. Or a farm instrument of some kind. I would assume the man was accustomed to handling animals.”
“Man or men. A vile individual, or a gang of vile individuals. And a vile crime. Have you come across it before?”
“Not in Birmingham, sir.”
“No, indeed.” Anson gave a wan smile and fell briefly silent. Campbell allowed himself to think about the police horses in the Stafford stables: how alert and responsive they were, how warm and smelly and almost furry in their hairiness; how they twitched their ears and put their heads down at you; how they blew through their noses in a way that reminded him of a boiling kettle. What species of human could wish such an animal harm?
“Superintendant Barrett remembers a case some years ago of a wretch who fell into debt and killed his own horse for the insurance. But a murderous spree like this . . . it seems so foreign. In Ireland, of course, the midnight houghing of the landlord’s cattle is practically part of the social calendar. But then, little would ever surprise me of a Fenian.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It must be brought to a swift end. These outrages are blackening the reputation of the entire county.”
“Yes, the newspapers—”
“I do not give a fig about the newspapers, Campbell. I care about the honour of Staffordshire. I do not want it deemed the haunt of savages.”
“No, sir.” But the Inspector thought the Chief Constable must be aware of certain recent editorials, none of them complimentary, and some of them personal.
“I would suggest you look into the history of crime in Great Wyrley and its environs in the last years. There have been some . . . peculiar goings-on. And I suggest you work with those who know the area best. There’s a very sound Sergeant, can’t remember his name. Large, red-faced fellow . . .”
“Upton, sir?”
“Upton, that’s it. He’s a man who keeps his ear close to the ground.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And I am also drafting in twenty special constables. They can report to Sergeant Parsons.”
“Twenty!”
“Twenty, and damn the expense. It’ll come out of my own pocket if necessary. I want a constable under every hedge and behind every bush until this man is caught.”
Campbell was not concerned about the expense. He wondered how you disguised the presence of twenty special constables in an area where the least rumour travelled quicker than the telegraph. Twenty specials, most of them unfamiliar with the territory, against a local man who might just choose to stay at home and laugh at them. And in any case, how many animals could twenty constables protect? Forty, sixty, eighty? And how many animals were there in the district? Hundreds, probably thousands.
“Any further questions?”
“No, sir. Except . . . if I may ask a non-professional question?”
“Go ahead.”
“The porch outside. With the pillars. Do they have a name? The style, I mean?”
Anson looked as if this was the most extraordinary question a serving officer had ever asked. “Pillars? I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. It’s the sort of thing my wife would know.”
In the next days, Campbell reviewed the history of crime in Great Wyrley and its immediate purlieus. He found it much as he would have expected. A certain amount of theft, mostly of livestock; various cases of assault; some vagrancy and public drunkenness; one attempted suicide; a girl sentenced for writing abuse on farm buildings; five cases of arson; threatening letters and unsolicited goods received at Wyrley Vicarage; one indecent assault and two indecent behaviours. There had been no previous attacks on animals in the last ten years, as far as he could discover.
Nor could Sergeant Upton, who had policed the district for twice that time, recall any. But the question did remind him of a farmer, now passed on to a better world—unless, sir, it turned out to be a worse one—who was suspected of loving his goose too much, if you catch my meaning. Campbell cut off this parish-pump tittle-tattle; he had quickly marked Upton as someone left over from the time when Constabularies were happy to recruit almost anyone except the obviously halt, lame and half-witted. You might consult Upton about local rumours and grudges, but would hardly trust his hand upon a Bible.
“So, you worked it out then, sir?” the Sergeant wheezed at him.
“Is there something specific you have to tell me, Upton?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But takes one to know one. Set one to catch one. I’m sure you’ll get there in the end, Inspector. What with you being an Inspector from Birmingham. Oh yes, you’ll get there in the end.”
Upton struck him as a mixture of sly ingratiation and vague obstructiveness. Some of the farm-hands were exactly the same. Campbell felt more at ease with Birmingham thieves, who at least lied to you directly.
On the morning of June 27th, the Inspector was called to the Quinton Colliery, where two of the company’s valuable horses had been ripped during the night. One had bled to death, and the other, a mare which had suffered additional mutilation, was in the process of being destroyed. The veterinary surgeon confirmed that the same instrument—or, at least, one with precisely the same effects—had been used as before.
Two days later, Sergeant Parsons brought Campbell a letter addressed to “The Sergeant, Police Station, Hednesford, Staffordshire.” It had been posted from Walsall, and was signed by one William Greatorex.
I have got a dare-devil face and can run well, and when they formed that gang at Wyrley they got me to join. I knew all about horses and beasts and how to catch them best. They said they would do me if I funked it, so I did, and caught them both lying down at ten minutes to three, and they roused up; and then I caught each under the belly, but they didn’t spurt much blood, and one ran away, but the other fell. Now I’ll tell you who are in the gang, but you can’t prove it without me. There is one named Shipton from Wyrley, and a porter they call Lee, and he’s had to stay away, and there’s Edalji the lawyer. Now I haven’t told you who is at the back of them all, and I shan’t unless you promise to do nothing at me. It is not true we always do it when the moon is young, and the one Edalji killed on April 11 was full moon. I’ve never been locked up yet, and I don’t think any of the others have, except the Captain, so I guess they’ll get off light.
Campbell reread the letter.
I caught each under the belly, but they didn’t spurt much blood, and one ran away, but the other fell.
This all sounded knowledgeable; but any number of people could have examined the dead animals. After the last two cases, the police had to mount guard and turn away sightseers until the surgeon had done his work. Still,
ten minutes to three
. . . there was a strange precision about it.
“Do we know this Greatorex?”
“I take him to be the son of Mr. Greatorex of Littleworth Farm.”
“Any dealings? Any reason for him to write to Sergeant Robinson at Hednesford?”
“None at all.”
“And what do you make of this moon business?”
Sergeant Parsons was a stocky, black-haired fellow with a tendency to move his lips while thinking. “That’s what some people have been saying. The new moon, pagan rites and such like. I wouldn’t know. But I do know there was no animal killed on April 11th. Not within a week of that date, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.” Parsons was much more to the Inspector’s taste than someone like Upton. He was the next generation on, and better trained; not quick, but thoughtful.
William Greatorex proved to be a fourteen-year-old schoolboy whose handwriting in no way matched the letter. He had never heard of Lee or Shipton, but admitted knowing Edalji, who was sometimes on the same train in the mornings. He had never been to the police station at Hednesford, and did not know the name of the Sergeant who kept it.
Parsons and five special constables searched Littleworth Farm and its outbuildings, but found nothing preternaturally sharp, or spotted with blood, or recently wiped clean. As they left, Campbell asked the Sergeant what he knew about George Edalji.
“Well, sir, he’s Indian, isn’t he? Half Indian, that is. Little fellow. A bit odd-looking. Lawyer, lives at home, goes up to Birmingham every day. Doesn’t exactly involve himself in village life, if you understand me.”
“So not known to go round in a gang?”
“Far from it.”
“Any friends?”
“Not known for it. They’re a close family. Something wrong with the sister, I think. Invalid, simple-minded, something. And they say he walks the lanes every evening. Not that he’s got a dog or anything. There was a campaign against the family a few years back.”
“I saw it in the day-book. Any reason for that?”
“Who can tell? There was some . . . ill feeling when the Vicar was first given the living. People saying they didn’t want a black man in the pulpit telling them what sinners they were, that sort of thing. But this was donkey’s years ago. I’m chapel myself. We’re more welcoming, in my opinion.”
“This fellow—the son—does he look like a horse-ripper to you?”
Parsons chewed his lips before replying. “Inspector, let me put it this way. After you’ve served around here as long as I have, you’ll find that no one looks like anything. Or, for that matter, not like anything. Do you follow?”
George
The postman shows George the official marking on the envelope:
POSTAGE DEFICIENT
. The letter has come from Walsall; his name and office address are written in a clear and decent hand, so George decides to liberate the item. It costs him twopence, twice the overlooked postage. He is pleased when he recognizes the contents: an order form for
Railway Law.
But there is no cheque or postal order accompanying it. The sender has asked for 300 copies, and filled in his name as Beelzebub.
Three days later, the letters begin again. The same sort of letters; libellous, blasphemous, lunatic. They come to his office, which he feels as an insolent intrusion: this is where he is safe, and respected, where life is orderly. Instinctively he throws the first one away; then puts the rest in a bottom drawer to keep as evidence. George is no longer the anxious adolescent of the earlier persecutions; he is a person of substance now, a solicitor of four years’ standing. He is well capable of ignoring such things if he chooses, or of dealing with them appropriately. And the Birmingham police are doubtless more efficient and modern than the Staffordshire Constabulary.
One evening, just after 6:10, George has returned his season ticket to his pocket and is placing his umbrella over his forearm when he becomes aware of a figure falling into step beside him.
“Keeping well, are we, young sir?”
It is Upton, fatter and more red-faced than all those years ago, and probably more stupid too. George does not break stride.
“Good evening,” he replies briskly.
“Enjoying life, are we? Sleeping well?”
At one time George might have felt alarmed, or stopped to await Upton’s point. But he is no longer like that.
“Not sleepwalking, anyway, I hope.” George consciously increases his pace, so that the Sergeant is now obliged to puff and pant to keep up. “Only, you see, we’ve flooded the district with specials. Flooded it. So even for a so-li-ci-tor to sleepwalk, oh yes, that would be a bad idea.” Without pausing in his step, George casts a scornful glance in the direction of the empty, blustering fool. “Oh yes, a so-li-ci-tor. I hope you’re finding it useful, young sir. Forewarned is forearmed as they say, unless it be the other way round.”
George does not tell his parents about the incident. There is a more immediate concern: the afternoon post has brought a letter from Cannock in familiar handwriting. It is addressed to George and signed “A Lover of Justice”:
I do not know you, but have sometimes seen you on the railway, and do not expect I would like you much if I did know you, as I do not like natives. But I think everyone ought to have fair treatment, and that is why I write to you, because I do not think you have anything to do with the horrid crimes that everyone talks about. The people all said it must be you, because they do not think you are a right sort, and you would like to do them. So the police got watching you, but they could not see anything, and now they are watching someone else . . . If another horse is murdered they will say it is you, so go away for your holiday, and be away when the next case happens. The police say it will come at the end of the month like the last one. Go away before that.
George is quite calm. “Libel,” he says. “Indeed, prima facie I would judge it a criminal libel.”
“It’s starting again,” says his mother, and he can tell she is on the edge of tears. “It’s all starting again. They’ll never go away until they have us out.”
“Charlotte,” says Shapurji firmly, “There is no question of that. We shall never leave the Vicarage until we go to rest with Uncle Compson. If it is the Lord’s will that we suffer on our journey there, it is not for us to question the Lord.”
Nowadays, there are moments when George finds himself close to questioning the Lord. For instance: why should his mother, who is virtue incarnate and who succours the poor and sickly of the parish, have to suffer in this way? And if, as his father maintains, the Lord is responsible for everything, then the Lord is responsible for the Staffordshire Constabulary and its notorious incompetence. But George cannot say this; increasingly, there are things he cannot even hint.