“Mr. Meek, you did warn us about Disturnal. We knew to expect something. And at least we shall be able to have a go at Green this afternoon.”
The solicitor shook his head grimly. “Not a chance of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s their witness. If they don’t put him up, we can’t cross-examine him. And we can’t take the risk of calling him blind as we don’t know what he might say. It could be devastating. Yet they produce him in court so it looks as if they’re being open with everyone. It’s clever. It’s typical Disturnal. I should have thought of it, but I didn’t know anything about this confession. It’s bad.”
George felt it only his duty to cheer his solicitor up. “I can see it’s frustrating, Mr. Meek, but is there any real harm? Green said—and the police said—it had nothing to do with any other outrage.”
“That’s just the point. It’s not what they say—it’s how it looks. Why should a man disembowel a horse—his own horse—for no apparent reason? Answer: to help out a friend and neighbour charged with a similar offence.”
“But he’s not my friend. I doubt I would even recognize him.”
“Yes, I know. And when we take the considered risk of putting you in the box, you will tell Mr. Vachell that. But it’s bound to look as if you’re denying an allegation that hasn’t in fact been made. It’s clever. Mr. Vachell will assail the Inspector this afternoon, but I don’t think we should be optimistic.”
“Mr. Meek, I could not help noticing that in Campbell’s evidence he said that the clothing of mine he found—the coat I hadn’t worn for weeks—was wet. He said wet twice. At Cannock he merely called it damp.”
Meek gave a soft smile. “It’s a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Edalji. It’s the sort of thing we notice but tend not to mention to the client in case it dispirits him. The police will be making a few more adjustments of the kind, I don’t doubt.”
That afternoon Mr. Vachell got little of value from the Inspector, who knew his way round a witness box. During their first encounter at Hednesford police station, Campbell had struck George as rather slow-minded and vaguely impertinent. At Newhall Street and at Cannock, he had been more alert and openly hostile, if not always coherent of thought. Now his manner was measured and sombre, while his height and his uniform seemed to impart logic as well as authority. George reflected that if his story was subtly changing around him, then so too were some of the characters.
Mr. Vachell had more success with PC Cooper, who described, as he had done at the magistrates’ court, his matching of George’s boot-heel to the prints in the mud.
“Constable Cooper,” Mr. Vachell began, “may I enquire who gave you the instruction to proceed as you did?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir. I think it was the Inspector, but it might have been Sergeant Parsons.”
“And where precisely were you told to look?”
“Anywhere on the route the culprit might have taken between the field and the Vicarage.”
“Assuming the culprit came from the Vicarage? And was returning there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere, sir.” Cooper looked no more than about twenty to George’s eye: a red-eared, awkward boy trying to imitate the confidence of his superiors.
“And did you assume the culprit, as you refer to him, took the most direct route?”
“Yes, I suppose I did, sir. It’s what they usually do when leaving the scene of the crime.”
“I see, Constable. So you did not look anywhere other than on a direct route?”
“No, sir.”
“And how long did your search last?”
“An hour or more, I would estimate.”
“And at what time did it take place?”
“I suppose I started looking at nine thirty, more or less.”
“And the pony was discovered at six thirty, approximately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Three hours previously. In the course of which time anyone could have walked across that route. Miners on the way to the Colliery, sightseers brought by news of the outrage. Policemen, indeed.”
“That’s possible, sir.”
“And who accompanied you, Constable?”
“I was on my own.”
“I see. And you found a few heelmarks which in your opinion matched the boot you held in your hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then you went back and reported your discovery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then what happened?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
George was pleased to observe a slight change in Cooper’s tone; as if he knew he were being led somewhere but could not yet make out the destination.
“I mean, Constable, what happened after you reported what you had found?”
“I was put to searching the grounds of the Vicarage, sir.”
“I see. But at some point, Constable, you went back and showed someone of higher rank the marks you had discovered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when would that be?”
“In the middle of the afternoon.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. By which you mean, three o’clock, four o’clock?”
“Around then, sir.”
“I see.” Mr. Vachell frowned and gave himself rather theatrically to reflection, in George’s view. “Six hours later, in other words.”
“Yes, sir.”
“During which time the area was guarded and cordoned off to prevent further trampling?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly. Does that mean yes or no, Officer?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, I understand that it is often normal procedure in such cases to take a plaster of Paris cast of the heelmarks in question. Can you tell me whether this was done?”
“No, sir, it wasn’t.”
“I understand that another technique would be to photograph such marks. Was that done?”
“No, sir.”
“I understand that another technique is to dig up the relevant piece of turf and bring it for forensic analysis. Was that done?”
“No, sir. The ground was too soft.”
“How long have you been a police constable, Mr. Cooper?”
“Fifteen months.”
“Fifteen months. Thank you very much.”
George felt like cheering. He looked across at Mr. Vachell, as he had done before, but failed to catch his eye. Perhaps this was court etiquette; or perhaps Mr. Vachell was just thinking about the next witness.
The rest of the afternoon seemed to go well. A number of the anonymous letters were read out, and it was clear to George that nobody in his right mind could possibly imagine he might have written them. The one he had given Campbell, for instance, from the “Lover of Justice”: “George Edalji—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.” How on earth could he have written that? It was followed by an even more grotesque attribution of authorship. A letter was read out describing the behaviour of the so-called “Wyrley Gang,” which might have come from the cheapest novel: “They all take a fearful oath of secrecy, and repeat it after the Captain, and each says, ‘May I be struck dead if I ever split.’ ” George thought he could rely on the jury to work out that this was not how solicitors expressed themselves.
Mr. Hodson, the general dealer, gave evidence that he had seen George on his way to Mr. Hands of Bridgetown, and that the solicitor was wearing his old house-coat. But then Mr. Hands himself, who had been with George for half an hour or so, asserted that his client had not been wearing the said coat. Two other witnesses reported seeing him, but were unable to remember his garments.
“I feel they’re shifting their ground,” said Mr. Meek after the court had risen for the day. “I sense they’re up to something.”
“What kind of something?” asked George.
“At Cannock their case was that you went to the field during your walk before dinner. That was why they called so many witnesses who had seen you out and about. That canoodling couple, do you remember? They haven’t been put up this time, and they’re not the only ones. The other thing is that at the committal the only date mentioned was the 17th. Now the indictment reads the 17th
or
the 18th. So they’re hedging their bets. I sense they’re moving to the night-time option. They might have something we don’t know about.”
“Mr. Meek, it doesn’t matter which they go for, or why they go for it. If they want the evening, they haven’t a single witness who saw me anywhere near the field. And if they want the night, they have my father’s evidence to contend with.”
Mr. Meek ignored his client and continued thinking aloud. “Of course, they don’t have to go for one or the other. They can merely suggest possibilities to the jury. But they put more stress on the bootmarks this time. And the bootmarks only come into play if they go for the second option, because of the rain in the night. And if your house-coat has moved from damp to wet, that also confirms my supposition.”
“So much the better,” said George. “There was nothing left of Constable Cooper after Mr. Vachell had finished with him this afternoon. And if Mr. Disturnal wants to continue with that line, he will have to claim that a clergyman of the Church of England is not telling the truth.”
“Mr. Edalji, if I may . . . You must not see it all as so clear-cut.”
“But it is clear-cut.”
“Would you say that your father is robust? From a mental point of view, I mean?”
“He’s the robustest man I know. Why do you ask?”
“I suspect he will need to be.”
“You will be surprised how robust Hindoos can turn out to be.”
“And your mother? And your sister?”
The morning of the second day began with the testimony of Joseph Markew, innkeeper and former police constable. He described being sent by Inspector Campbell to Great Wyrley & Churchbridge railway station, and how the prisoner had declined his request to take a later train.
“Did he tell you,” asked Mr. Disturnal, “what business was so important that it required him to ignore the urgent request of a police inspector?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you repeat your request?”
“I did, sir. I suggested that he might take a day’s holiday for once. But he refused to change his mind.”
“I see. And Mr. Markew, did something happen at this point?”
“Yes, sir. A man on the platform came up and said he’d heard another horse had been ripped that night.”
“And when the man said this, where were you looking?”
“I was looking the prisoner full in the face.”
“And would you describe his reaction to the court.”
“Yes, sir. He smiled.”
“He smiled. He smiled at the news that another horse had been ripped. Are you sure of that, Mr. Markew?”
“Oh yes, sir. Perfectly sure. He smiled.”
George thought: but that isn’t true. I know it isn’t true. Mr. Vachell must prove it isn’t true.
Mr. Vachell knew better than to attack the statement directly. He concentrated instead on the identity of the man who had allegedly come up to Markew and George. Where had he come from, what kind of man was he, where did he go to? (And, by implication, why was he not in court?) Mr. Vachell managed to express, by hints and pauses and finally by direct statement, considerable astonishment that a publican and former policeman, with the widest acquaintance across the district, should be unable to identify the useful yet mysterious stranger who might be able to corroborate his fanciful and tendentious claim. But this was as far as the defence could get with Markew.
Mr. Disturnal then had Sergeant Parsons repeat the prisoner’s remarks about expecting his arrest, and his alleged statement at the Birmingham lock-up about making Mr. Loxton sit up before he had done. No one attempted to explain who the said Loxton might be. Another member of the Wyrley gang? A policeman George was also threatening to shoot? The name was left hanging, for the jury to make of it what they might. A Constable Meredith, whose face and name George did not recall, cited something harmless George had said to him about bail, but managed to make it sound incriminating. Then William Greatorex, the healthy young English boy with the pleasing manner, repeated his story of George looking out of the carriage window and showing unaccountable interest in Mr. Blewitt’s dead horses.
Mr. Lewis, the veterinary surgeon, described the condition of the Colliery pony, the manner in which it was dropping blood, the length and nature of the wound, and the regrettable necessity to shoot the animal. He was asked by Mr. Disturnal what conclusions he might be able to draw as to the time the mutilation had taken place. Mr. Lewis declared that in his professional opinion the injury had been inflicted within six hours of his examining the pony. In other words, not earlier than two thirty in the morning of the 18th.
This felt to George like the first good news of the day. The argument about which clothes he had been wearing on his visit to the bootmaker’s was now quite irrelevant. The prosecution had just closed off one of its own avenues. They had boxed themselves in.
But if so, it did not show in Mr. Disturnal’s demeanour. His whole attitude implied that some initial ambiguity in the case had now been cleared up thanks to diligent work by police and prosecution. We no longer allege that at some point in a twelve-hour period . . . we are now able to allege that it was very close to two thirty in the morning when . . . And somehow Mr. Disturnal made this growing precision imply an equally increasing confidence that the prisoner in the dock was there for the reasons stated in the indictment.
The last part of the day was given up to Thomas Henry Gurrin, who agreed to the description of himself as an orthographical expert with nineteen years’ experience in the identification of feigned and anonymous handwriting. He confirmed that he had frequently been engaged by the Home Office, and that his most recent professional appearance had been as a witness in the Meat Farm murder trial. George did not know what he expected an orthographical expert to look like; perhaps dry and scholarly, with a voice like a scratchy pen. Mr. Gurrin, with his ruddy face and muttonchop whiskers, could have been the brother of Mr. Greensill, the butcher in Wyrley.
Regardless of physiognomy, Mr. Gurrin then took over the court. Specimens of George’s handwriting were produced in enlarged photographic form. Specimens of the anonymous letters were also produced in enlarged photographic form. Original documents were described and passed across to members of the jury, who took what seemed to George an interminable time examining them, constantly breaking off to stare lengthily at the prisoner. Certain characteristic loops and hooks and crossings were indicated by Mr. Gurrin with a wooden pointer; and somehow description moved to inference, then to theoretical probability and then to absolute certainty. It was, finally, Mr. Gurrin’s considered professional and expert opinion that the prisoner was as responsible for the anonymous letters as he was for those manifestly in his own hand over his own signature.