“Perhaps. If your description of events is the true one. But as before you offer only two possible explanations—that of the prosecution, and your own. There is a wide expanse between them. For instance, there might have been some longer hairs on the clothing, but they were noticed by the culprit and removed. That would not be surprising, would it? Or they might have blown away in the wind. Or again, there might have been a gang . . .”
Arthur then moved, very cautiously, towards the “obvious” solution proposed by Wood.
“You work at Cannock, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“The piece of skin was not cut by you?”
“No, by Mr. Lewis who attended the animal.”
“And it was delivered to you at Cannock?”
“Yes.”
“And the clothing was also delivered?”
“Yes.”
“Before or afterwards?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did the clothing arrive before the skin, or the skin before the clothing?”
“Oh, I see. No, they arrived together.”
“At the same time?”
“Yes.”
“By the same police officer?”
“Yes.”
“In the same parcel?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the police officer?”
“I have no idea. I see so many. Besides, they all look young to me nowadays, so they all look the same.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“Sir Arthur, this was over three years ago. There is not the slightest reason why I should remember a word he said. He would merely have told me that the parcel came from Inspector Campbell. He might have said what was in it. He might have said the items were for examination, but I hardly needed to be told that, did I?”
“And during the time these items were in your possession, they were kept scrupulously apart, the skin and the clothing? I do not intend to sound like counsel.”
“You do a very good likeness, if I may say so. And naturally I see where you are heading. There was no possibility of contamination in my laboratory, I can assure you.”
“I was not for a moment suggesting it, Dr. Butter. I was heading in a different direction. Can you describe to me the parcel you received?”
“Sir Arthur, I can see exactly where you are heading. I have not stood cross-examination by defence counsel for these last twenty years without recognizing such an approach, or without having to answer for the procedures of the police. You were hoping I might say that the skin and the clothing were all rolled up together in some old piece of sacking into which the police had incompetently stuffed them. In which case you impugn my integrity as well as theirs.”
There was a steeliness now overlaying Dr. Butter’s civility. This was a witness you would always prefer to have on your side.
“I would not do such a thing,” said Arthur mollifyingly.
“You just have, Sir Arthur. You implied that I might have ignored the possibility of contamination. The items were separately wrapped and sealed, and no amount of shaking them around could have made the hairs escape from one package into the other.”
“I am obliged to you, Dr. Butter, for eliminating this possibility.” And thus leaving it down to a choice of two: police incompetence before the items were packed separately, or police malice while this was happening. Well, he had pressed Butter far enough. Except . . . “May I ask one more question? It is purely factual.”
“Of course. Forgive my irritation.”
“It is understandable. I was behaving too much like a defence counsel, as you observed.”
“It was not so much that. It is this. I have worked with the Staffordshire Constabulary for twenty years and more. Twenty years of going to court and having to answer sly questions based on assumptions I know to be false. Twenty years of seeing a jury’s ignorance being played to. Twenty years of presenting evidence which is as clear and unambiguous as I can make it, which is based on rigorous scientific analysis, and then being treated, if not as a fraud, then as someone who is merely giving an opinion, that opinion being no more valuable than the next man’s. Except that the next man does not have a microscope and if he did would not be competent to focus it. I state what I have observed—what I know—and find myself being told disdainfully that this is merely what I happen to think.”
“I entirely sympathize,” said Sir Arthur.
“I wonder. In any case, your question.”
“At what time of day did you receive the police parcel?”
“What time? About nine o’clock.”
Arthur was amazed by such despatch. The pony had been discovered at about 6:20, Campbell was still in the field at the time George was leaving home to catch the 7:39, he arrived at the Vicarage with Parsons and his band of specials some time before eight. Then they had to search the place, argue with the Edaljis . . .
“I’m sorry, Dr. Butter, without sounding like counsel again, surely it was later than that?”
“Later? Certainly not. I know what time the parcel arrived. I remember complaining. They insisted on putting the parcel into my hands that day. I told them I could not possibly stay till after nine. I had my watch out when it arrived. Nine o’clock.”
“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 seance 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 seances, 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.”
“Would you, my darling? He is a very decent fellow, horribly traduced. I am sure he would be honoured and delighted.”
“He is a Parsee, I think you said?”
“Well, not exactly. His father—”
“What do Parsees believe, Arthur? Are they Hindoos?”
“No, they are Zoroastrians.” Arthur enjoys requests like this. The fundamental mystery of women can, he thinks, be encompassed and held at bay as long as he is allowed to explain things to them. He describes, with settled confidence, the historical origins of the Parsees, their characteristic appearance, their headgear, their liberal attitude to women, their tradition of being born on the ground floor of the house. He passes over the ceremony of purification, since this involves ablution with cow urine; but is expatiating upon the central position of astrology in Parsee life, and heading towards the towers of silence and the posthumous attention of vultures, when Jean raises her hand to stop him. She realizes that this is not the way to do things. The history of Zoroastrianism is not helping make the smooth transition she has somehow hoped for. Also, it feels dishonest, against her view of herself.