“Exactly. And you have described in your . . . analysis how when you met young Edalji for the first time—in the lobby of a hotel, I believe—you observed him for a while, and even before meeting him were convinced of his innocence?”
“Indeed. For the reasons clearly stated.”
“For the reasons clearly
felt,
I would prefer to say. Everything you have written proceeds from that feeling. Once you became convinced of the wretched youth’s innocence, everything fell into place.”
“Whereas once you became convinced of the youth’s guilt, everything fell into place.”
“My conclusion was not based upon some intuition in the lobby of a hotel, but upon the consequences of police observations and reports over a number of years.”
“You made the boy a target from the beginning. You wrote threatening him with penal servitude.”
“I tried to warn both the boy and his father of the consequences of persisting in the criminal path on which he had manifestly set out. I am not wrong, I think, to take the view that police work is not just punitive but also prophylactic.”
Doyle nodded at a phrase which had, he suspected, been prepared especially for him. “You forget that before meeting George I had read his excellent articles in
The Umpire.
”
“I have yet to meet anyone detained at His Majesty’s pleasure who did not have a persuasive explanation of why he was not guilty.”
“In your view George Edalji sent letters denouncing himself?”
“Among a great variety of other letters. Yes.”
“In your view he was the ringleader of a gang who dismembered beasts?”
“Who can tell? Gang is a newspaper word. I have no doubt there were others involved. I also have no doubt that the solicitor was the cleverest of them.”
“In your view, his father, a minister of the Church of England, perjured himself to give his son an alibi?”
“Doyle, a personal question, if I may. Do you have a son?”
“I do. He is fourteen.”
“And if he fell into trouble, you would help him.”
“Yes. But if he committed a crime, I would not perjure myself.”
“But you would still help and protect him, short of that.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps, with your imagination, you can picture someone else doing more.”
“I cannot picture a priest of the Church of England placing his hand on the Bible and knowingly committing perjury.”
“Then try to imagine this instead. Imagine a Parsee father putting loyalty to his Parsee family above loyalty to a land not his own, even if it has given him shelter and encouragement. He wants to save his son’s skin, Doyle. Skin.”
“And in your view the mother and sister also perjured themselves?”
“Doyle, you keep saying
in my view.
‘My view,’ as you call it, is the view not just of myself, but of the Staffordshire Constabulary, prosecuting counsel, a properly sworn English jury, and the justices of the Quarter Sessions. I attended every day of the trial, and I can assure you of one thing, which will be painful to you but which you cannot avoid. The jury did not believe the evidence of the Edalji family—certainly not of the father and daughter. The mother’s evidence was perhaps less important. That is not something lightly done. An English jury sitting round a table considering its verdict is a solemn business. They weigh evidence. They examine character. They do not sit there waiting for a sign from above like . . . table-turners at a seance.”
Doyle looked across sharply. Was this a random phrase, or a knowing attempt to unsettle him? Well, it would take more than that.
“We are talking, Anson, not of some butcher’s boy, but of a professional Englishman, a solicitor in his late twenties, already known as the author of a book on railway law.”
“Then the greater his misdemeanour. If you imagine the criminal courts entertain only the criminal classes, you are more naive than I took you for. Even authors sometimes stand in the dock, as you must be aware. And the sentence doubtless reflected the gravity of a case in which one sworn to uphold and interpret the law so grievously flouted it.”
“Seven years’ penal servitude. Even Wilde only received two.”
“That is why sentencing is for the court, rather than for you or me. I might not have given Edalji less, though I would certainly have given Wilde more. He was thoroughly guilty—and of perjury too.”
“I dined with him once,” said Doyle. Antagonism was now rising like mist from the River Sow, and all his instincts told him to pull back a little. “It would have been in ’89, I think. A golden evening for me. I had expected a monologuist and an egotist, but I found him a gentleman of perfect manners. There were four of us, and though he towered over the other three, he never let it show. Your monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman at heart. With Wilde it was give and take, and he had the art of seeming interested in everything that we might say. He had even read my
Micah Clarke.
“I recall that we were discussing how the good fortune of friends may sometimes make us strangely discontented. Wilde told us the story of the Devil in the Libyan Desert. Do you know that one? No? Well, the Devil was about his business, going the rounds of his empire, when he came across a number of small fiends tormenting a holy hermit. They were employing temptations and provocations of a routine nature, which the sainted man was resisting without much difficulty. ‘That is not how it is done,’ said their Master. ‘I will show you. Watch carefully.’ Whereupon the Devil approached the holy hermit from behind, and in a honeyed tone whispered in his ear, ‘Your brother has just been appointed Bishop of Alexandria.’ And immediately a scowl of furious jealousy crossed the hermit’s face. ‘
That,
’ said the Devil, ‘is how it is best done.’ ”
Anson joined in Doyle’s laughter, though less than full-heartedly. The shallow cynicisms of a metropolitan sodomite were not to his taste. “Be that as it may,” he said, “the Devil certainly found Wilde himself easy prey.”
“I must add,” Doyle went on, “that never in Wilde’s conversation did I observe one trace of coarseness of thought, nor could I at that time associate him with such an idea.”
“In other words, a professional gentleman.”
Doyle ignored the gibe. “I met him again, some years later, in a London street, you know, and he appeared to me to have gone quite mad. He asked if I had gone to see a play of his. I told him regrettably not. ‘Oh, you must go,’ he said to me with the gravest of expressions. ‘It is wonderful! It is genius!’ Nothing could have been farther from his previous gentlemanly instincts. I thought at the time, and I still think, that the monstrous development which ruined him was pathological, and that a hospital rather than a police court was the place for its consideration.”
“Your liberalism would empty the gaols,” remarked Anson drily.
“You mistake me, sir. I have twice engaged in the vile business of electioneering, but I am not a party man. I pride myself on being an unofficial Englishman.”
The phrase—which struck Anson as self-satisfied—wafted between them like a skein of cigar smoke. He decided it was time to make a push.
“That young man whose case you have so honourably taken up, Sir Arthur—he is not, I should warn you, entirely what you think. There were various matters which did not come out in court . . .”
“No doubt for the very good reason that they were forbidden by the rules of evidence. Or else were allegations so flimsy that they would have been destroyed by the defence.”
“Between ourselves, Doyle, there were rumours . . .”
“There are always rumours.”
“Rumours of gambling debts, rumours of the misuse of clients’ funds. You might ask your young friend if, in the months leading up to the case, he was in any serious trouble.”
“I have no intention of doing any such thing.”
Anson rose slowly, walked to his desk, took a key from one drawer, unlocked another, and extracted a folder.
“I show you this in strictest confidence. It is addressed to Sir Benjamin Stone. It was doubtless one of many.”
The letter was dated 29th December 1902. At the top left were printed George Edalji’s professional and telegrammic addresses; at the top right, “Great Wyrley, Walsall.” It did not require testimony from that rogue Gurrin to convince Doyle that the handwriting was George’s.
Dear Sir, I am reduced from a fairly comfortable position to absolute poverty, primarily through having had to pay a large sum of money (nearly £220) for a friend for whom I was surety. I borrowed from three moneylenders in the hope of righting myself, but their exorbitant interest only made matters worse, & two of them have now
presented a bankruptcy petition
against me, but are willing to withdraw if I can raise £115 at once. I have no such friends to whom I can appeal, & as bankruptcy would ruin me and prevent me practising for a long time during which I should lose all my clients, I am, as a last resource, appealing to a few strangers.
My friends can only find me £30, I have about £21 myself, & shall be most thankful for
any aid
, no matter how small as it will all help me to meet my heavy liability.
Apologizing for troubling you and trusting you may assist me as far as you can.
I am,
Yours respectfully,
G. E. Edalji
Anson watched Doyle as he read the letter. No need to point out that it was written five weeks before the first maiming. The ball was in his court now. Doyle flicked the letter over and reread some of its phrases. Eventually he said,
“You doubtless investigated?”
“Certainly not. This is not a police matter. Begging on the public highway is an offence, but begging among the professional classes is no concern of ours.”
“I see no reference here to gambling debts or misuse of clients’ funds.”
“Which would hardly have been the way to Sir Benjamin Stone’s heart. Try reading between the lines.”
“I decline to. This seems to me the desperate appeal of an honourable young man let down by his generosity to a friend. The Parsees are known for their charity.”
“Ah, so suddenly he’s a Parsee?”
“What do you mean?”
“You cannot have him a professional Englishman one moment and a Parsee the next, just as it suits you. Is it prudent for an honourable young man to pledge such a large sum, and to put himself in the hands of three separate moneylenders? How many solicitors have you known do this? Read between the lines, Doyle. Ask your friend about it.”
“I have no intention of asking him about it. And clearly, he did not go bankrupt.”
“Indeed. I suspect the mother helped out.”
“Or perhaps there were others in Birmingham who showed him the same confidence he had shown the friend for whom he stood surety.”
Anson found Doyle as stubborn as he was naive. “I applaud your . . . romantic streak, Sir Arthur. It does you credit. But forgive me if I find it unrealistic. As I do your campaign. Your fellow has been released from prison. He is a free man. What is the point of seeking to whip up popular opinion? You want the Home Office to look at the case again? The Home Office has looked at it countless times. You want a committee? What makes you sure it will give you what you want?”
“We shall get a committee. We shall get a free pardon. We shall get compensation. And furthermore we shall establish the identity of the true criminal in whose place George Edalji has suffered.”
“Oh, that too?” Anson was now becoming seriously irritated. It could so easily have been a pleasant evening: two men of the world, each approaching fifty, one the son of an earl and the other a knight of the realm, both of them, as it happened, Deputy Lieutenants of their respective counties. They had far more in common than was setting them apart . . . and instead it was turning rancorous.
“Doyle, let me make two points to you, if I may. You clearly imagine that there was some continuous line of persecution stretching back years—the letters, the hoaxes, the mutilations, the additional threats. You further think the police blame all of it on your friend. Whereas you blame all of it on criminals known or unknown, but the same criminals. Where is the logic in either approach? We only charged Edalji with two offences, and the second charge was in any case not proceeded with. I expect he is innocent of numerous matters. A criminal spree such as this rarely has single authorship. He might be the ringleader, he might be a mere follower. He might have seen the effect of an anonymous letter and decided to try it for himself. Might have seen the effect of a hoax and decided to play hoaxer. Heard of a gang cutting animals, and decided to join it.
“My second point is this. In my time I’ve seen people who were probably guilty found innocent, and people who were probably innocent found guilty. Don’t look so surprised. I’ve known examples of wrongful accusation and wrongful conviction. But in such cases the victim is rarely as straightforward as his defenders would like. For instance, let me make a suggestion. You came across George Edalji for the first time in a hotel foyer. You were late for the meeting, I understand. You saw him in a particular posture, from which you deduced his innocence. Let me put this to you. George Edalji was there before you. He was expecting you. He knew you would observe him. He arranged himself accordingly.”
Doyle did not reply to this, just stuck out his chin and pulled on his cigar. Anson was finding him a damned stubborn fellow, this Scotsman or Irishman or whatever he claimed to be.
“You want him to be completely innocent, don’t you? Not just innocent, but completely innocent? In my experience, Doyle, no one is completely innocent. They may be found not guilty, but that’s different from being innocent. Almost no one’s completely innocent.”
“How about Jesus Christ?”
Oh, for God’s sake, thought Anson. And I’m not Pontius Pilate either. “Well, from a purely legal point of view,” he said in a mild, after-dinner manner, “you could argue that Our Lord helped bring the prosecution upon Himself.”
Now it was Doyle who felt they were straying from the matter in hand.
“Then let me ask you this. What, in your opinion, really happened?”