Arthur & George

by Julian Barnes

  “Except for the Chief Constable.”

  “His attitude was . . . unhelpful.”

  “Mr. Aydlji”—Arthur made a specific effort with the pronunciation—“I plan to find out why. I intend to go back to the very beginnings of the case. Tell me, apart from the direct persecutions, have you suffered any other hostility since you came here?”

  The Vicar looked questioningly at his wife. “The Election,” she replied.

  “Yes, that is true. I have, on more than one occasion, lent the schoolroom for political meetings. There was a problem for Liberals in obtaining halls. I am a Liberal myself . . . There were complaints from some of the more conservative parishioners.

  “More than complaints?”

  “One or two ceased coming to St. Mark’s, it is true.”

  “And you continued lending the hall?”

  “Certainly. But I do not want to exaggerate. I am talking of protests, strongly worded but civil. I am not talking of threats.”

  Sir Arthur admired the Vicar’s precision; also his lack of self-pity. He had noted the same qualities in George. “Was Captain Anson involved?”

  “Anson? No, it was much more local that that. He only became involved later. I have included his letters for you to see.”

  Arthur then took the family through the events of August to October 1903, alert for any inconsistency, overlooked detail, or conflict of evidence. “In retrospect, it’s a pity you did not send Inspector Campbell and his men away until they had equipped themselves with a search warrant, and prepared yourself for their return with the presence of a solicitor.”

  “But that would have been the behaviour of guilty people. We had nothing to hide. We knew George to be innocent. The sooner the police searched, the sooner they would be able to redirect their investigations more profitably. Inspector Campbell and his men were, in any case, quite correct in their behaviour.”

  Not all of the time, thought Arthur. There was something missing in his understanding of the case, something to do with that police visit.

  “Sir Arthur.” It was Mrs. Edalji, slender, white-haired, quiet-voiced. “May I say two things to you? First, how pleasant it is to hear a Scottish voice again in these parts. Do I detect Edinburgh on your tongue?”

  “You do indeed, Ma’am.”

  “And the second thing concerns my son. You have met George.”

  “I was much impressed by him. I can think of many who would not have remained so strong in mind and body after three years in Lewes and Portland. He is a credit to you.”

  Mrs. Edalji smiled briefly at the compliment. “What George wants more than anything is to be allowed to return to his work as a solicitor. That is all he has ever wanted. It is perhaps worse for him now than when he was in prison. Then things were clearer. Now he is in a state of limbo. The Incorporated Law Society cannot readmit him until the taint is washed from his name.”

  There was nothing which galvanized Arthur more than being appealed to by a gentle, elderly, female Scottish voice.

  “Rest assured, Ma’am, I am planning to make a tremendous noise. I am going to stir things up. There will be a few people sleeping less soundly in their beds by the time I have finished with them.”

  But this did not seem to be the promise Mrs. Edalji required. “I expect so, Sir Arthur, and we thank you for it. What I am saying is rather different. George is, as you have observed, a boy—a young man, rather—of some resilience. To be honest, his resilience has surprised both of us. We imagined him frailer. He is determined to overthrow this injustice. But that is all he wants. He does not wish for the limelight. He does not want to become an advocate for any particular cause. He is not a representative of anything. He wishes to return to work. He wishes for an ordinary life.”

  “He wishes to get married,” put in the daughter, who until this moment had been quite silent.

  “Maud!” The Vicar was more surprised than rebuking. “How can he? Since when? Charlotte—did you know anything of this?”

  “Father, don’t be alarmed. I mean, he wants to be married in general.”

  “Married in general,” repeated the Vicar. He looked at his distinguished guest. “Do you think that is possible, Sir Arthur?”

  “I myself,” replied Arthur with a chuckle, “have only ever been married in particular. It is the system I understand, and the one I would recommend.”

  “In that case”—and here the Vicar smiled for the first time—“we must forbid George from getting married in general.”

  Back at the Imperial Family Hotel, Arthur and his secretary took a late supper and retired to an unoccupied smoking room. Arthur fired up his pipe and watched Wood ignite some low brand of cigarette.

  “A fine family,” said Sir Arthur. “Modest, impressive.”

  “Indeed.”

  Arthur had a sudden apprehension, set off by Mrs. Edalji’s words. What if their arrival on the scene provoked fresh persecutions? After all, Satan—indeed, God Satan—was still out there sharpening both his pen and his curved instrument with concave sides. God Satan: how peculiarly repellent were the perversions of an institutional religion once it began its irreversible decline. The sooner the whole edifice was swept away the better.

  “Woodie, let me use you as a sounding board, if I may.” He did not wait for an answer; nor did his secretary think one was expected. “There are three aspects of this case which I at present fail to understand. They are blanks waiting to be filled. And the first of them is why Anson took against George Edalji. You’ve seen the letters he wrote to the Vicar. Threatening a schoolboy with penal servitude.”

  “Indeed.”

  “He is a person of distinction. I researched him. The second son of the Second Earl of Lichfield. Late Royal Artillery. Chief Constable since 1888. Why should such a man write such a letter?”

  Wood merely cleared his throat.

  “Well?”

  “I am not an investigator, Sir Arthur. I have heard you say that in the detective business you must eliminate the impossible and what is left, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  “Not my own formulation, alas. But one I endorse.”

  “So that is why I would not make an investigator. If someone asks me a question, I just look for the obvious answer.”

  “And what would be your obvious answer in the case of Captain Anson and George Edalji?”

  “That he dislikes people who are coloured.”

  “Now that is indeed very obvious, Alfred. So obvious it cannot be the case. Whatever his faults, Anson is an English gentleman and a Chief Constable.”

  “I told you I was not an investigator.”

  “Let us not abandon hope so quickly. We’ll see what you can do with my second blank. Which is this. Leaving aside that early episode with the maidservant, the persecution of the Edaljis takes place in two separate outbursts. The first runs from 1892 to the very beginning of 1896. It is intense and increasing. All of a sudden it stops. Nothing happens for seven years. Then it starts up again, and the first horse is ripped. February 1903. Why the gap, that’s what I can’t understand, why the gap? Investigator Wood, what is your view?”

  The secretary did not enjoy this game very much; it seemed to be constructed so that he could only lose. “Perhaps because whoever was responsible wasn’t there.”

  “Where?”

  “In Wyrley.”

  “Where was he?”

  “He’d gone away.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know, Sir Arthur. Perhaps he was in prison. Perhaps he’d gone to Birmingham. Perhaps he’d run away to sea.”

  “I rather doubt it. Again, it’s too obvious. People in the district would have noticed. There’d have been talk.”

  “The Edaljis said they didn’t listen to talk.”

  “Hmm. Let’s see if Harry Charlesworth does. Now, the third area I don’t understand is the matter of the hairs on the clothing. If we could eliminate the obvious on this one—”

  “Thank you, Si
r Arthur.”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Woodie, don’t take offence. You’re much too useful to take offence.”

  Wood reflected that he had always had a deal of sympathy for the character of Dr. Watson. “What is the problem, sir?”

  “The problem is this. The police examined George’s clothing at the Vicarage and said there were hairs on it. The Vicar, his wife and his daughter examined the clothing and said there were no hairs on it. The police surgeon, Dr. Butter—and police surgeons in my experience are the most scrupulous fellows—gave evidence that he found twenty-nine hairs ‘similar in length, colour and structure’ to those of the mutilated pony. So there is a clear conflict. Were the Edaljis perjuring themselves to protect George? That would appear to be what the jury believed. George’s explanation was that he might have leaned against a gate into a field in which cows were paddocked. I’m not surprised the jury didn’t believe him. It sounds like a statement you are panicked into, not a description of something that happened. Besides, it still leaves the family as perjurers. If the hairs were on his clothing, they’d have seen them, wouldn’t they?”

  Wood took his time over this. Ever since entering Sir Arthur’s employ, he had been acquiring new functions. Secretary, amanuensis, signature-forger, motoring assistant, golf partner, billiards opponent; now sounding board and stater of the obvious. Also, one who must be prepared for ridicule. Well, so be it. “If the hairs weren’t on his coat when the Edaljis examined it . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “And if they weren’t there beforehand because George didn’t lean on any gate . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Then they must have got there afterwards.”

  “After what?”

  “After the clothing left the Vicarage.”

  “You mean Dr. Butter put them there?”

  “No. I don’t know. But if you want the obvious answer, it’s that they got there afterwards. Somehow. And if so, then only the police are lying. Or some of the police.”

  “A not impossible occurrence. You know, Alfred, you’re not necessarily wrong, I’ll say that for you.”

  A compliment, Wood reflected, that Dr. Watson might have been proud to receive.

  The next day they returned to Wyrley with less pretence of concealment, and called on Harry Charlesworth in his milking parlour. They squelched through the consequences of a herd of cows to a small office attached to the back of the farmhouse. There were three rickety chairs, a small desk, a muddy raffia mat, and a calendar for the previous month at an angle on the wall. Harry was a blond, open-faced young man who seemed to welcome this interruption to his work.

  “So you’ve come about George?”

  Arthur looked crossly at Wood, who shook his head in denial.

  “How did you know?”

  “You went to the Vicarage last night.”

  “Did we?”

  “Well, at any rate two strangers were seen going to the Vicarage after dark, one of them a tall gentleman pulling his muffler up to hide his moustache, and the other a shorter one in a bowler hat.”

  “Oh dear,” said Arthur. Perhaps he should have gone to the theatrical costumier after all.

  “And now the same two gentlemen, if disguising themselves less obviously, have come to see me on business I was told was confidential but was soon to be revealed.” Harry Charlesworth was enjoying himself greatly. He was also happy to reminisce.

  “Yes, we were at school together, when we were littl’uns. George was always very quiet. Never got into trouble, not like the rest of us. Clever too. Cleverer than me, and I was clever back then. Not that you’d know it now. Staring up the backside of a cow all day does rub away at your intelligence, you know.”

  Arthur ignored this diversion into vulgar autobiography. “But did George have any enemies? Was he disliked—on account of his colour, for instance?”

  Harry thought about this for a while. “Not as far as I can recall. But you know what it is with boys—they have likes and dislikes different from grown-ups. And different from month to month. If George was disliked, it was more for being clever. Or because his father was the Vicar and disapproved of the sort of things boys got up to. Or because he was shortsighted. The master put him up the front so he could see the blackboard. Maybe that looked like favouritism. More of a reason to dislike him than being coloured.”

  Harry’s analysis of the Wyrley Outrages was not complex. The case against George was daft. The police were daft. And the notion that there was a mysterious Gang flitting around after nightfall under the orders of some mysterious Captain was daftest of all.

  “Harry, we shall need to interview Trooper Green. Given that he’s the only person hereabouts who actually admits to ripping a horse.”

  “Fancy a long trip, do you?”

  “Where to?”

  “South Africa. Ah, you didn’t know. Harry Green got himself a ticket to South Africa just a couple of weeks after the trial was over. It wasn’t a return ticket either.”

  “Interesting. Any idea who paid for it?”

  “Well, not Harry Green, that’s for certain. Someone interested in keeping him out of harm’s way.”

  “The police?”

  “Possible. Not that they were too thrilled with him by the time he left. He went back on his confession. Said he’d never done the ripping, and the police had bullied the confession out of him.”

  “Did he, by Jove? What do you make of that, Woodie?”

  Wood dutifully stated the obvious. “Well, I’d say he was lying either the first time or the second. Or,” he added with a touch of mischief, “possibly both.”

  “Harry, can you find out if Mr. Green has an address for his son in South Africa?”

  “I can certainly try.”

  “And another thing. Was there talk in Wyrley about who might have done it, given that George didn’t?”

  “There’s always talk. It’s the same price as rain. All I’d say is, it’s got to be someone who knows how to handle animals. You can’t just go up to a horse or a sheep or a cow and say, Hold still my lovely while I rip your guts out. I’d like to see George Edalji go into the parlour and try and milk one of my cows . . .” Harry lost himself briefly in the amusement of this notion. “He’d be kicked to death or fall in the shit before he’d got his stool under her.”

  Arthur leaned forward. “Harry, would you be prepared to help us clear your friend and old schoolfellow’s name?”

  Harry Charlesworth noted the lowered voice and cajoling tone, but was suspicious of it. “He was never exactly my friend.” Then his face brightened. “Of course, I’d have to take time off from the dairy . . .”

  Arthur had initially ascribed a more chivalrous nature to Harry Charlesworth, but decided not to be disappointed. Once a retainer and fee structure had been agreed, Harry, in his new capacity as assistant consulting detective, showed them the route George was supposed to have taken that drenching August night three and a half years previously. They set off across the field behind the Vicarage, climbed a fence, forced their way through a hedge, crossed the railway by a subterranean passage, climbed another fence, crossed another field, braved a clinging, thorny hedge, crossed another paddock, and found themselves on the edge of the Colliery field. Three-quarters of a mile at a rough guess.

  Wood took out his pocket watch. “Eighteen and a half minutes.”

  “And we are fit men,” commented Arthur, still plucking thorns from his overcoat and wiping mud from his shoes. “And it is daylight, and it is not raining, and we have excellent eyesight.”

  Back at the dairy, after money had changed hands, Arthur asked about the general pattern of crime in the neighbourhood. It sounded routine: theft of livestock, public drunkenness, firing of hayricks. Had there been any violent incidents apart from the attacks on farmstock? Harry half-remembered something from around the time George was sentenced. An attack on a mother and her little girl. Two fellows with a knife. Caused a bit of a stir, but never went to cou
rt. Yes, he would be happy to look into the matter.

  They shook hands, and Harry walked them to the ironmonger’s, which also served as the grocery, the drapery and the Post Office.

  William Brookes was a small, rotund man, with bushy white whiskers counterbalancing his bald cranium; he wore a green apron stained by the years. He was neither overtly welcoming nor overtly suspicious. He was about to take them into a back room when Sir Arthur, nudging his secretary, announced that he was in great need of a bootscraper. He took an intense interest in the choice on offer, and when purchase and wrapping were complete, acted as if the rest of their visit was just a happy afterthought.

  In the storeroom, Brookes spent so long digging around in drawers and muttering to himself that Sir Arthur wondered if he might have to buy a zinc bath and a couple of mops to expedite matters. But the ironmonger eventually located a small packet of heavily creased letters bound with twine. Arthur immediately recognized the paper on which they were written; the same cheap notebook had served for the letters to the Vicarage.

  Brookes recalled, as best he could, the failed attempt at blackmail all those years ago. His boy Frederick and another boy were meant to have spat upon some old woman at Walsall Station, and he had been instructed to send money to the Post Office there if he wanted to avoid his son being prosecuted.

  “You did nothing about it?”

  “Course not. Look at the letters for yourself. Look at the handwriting. It was just a prank.”

  “You never thought of paying?”

  “No.”

  “Did you think of going to the police?”

  Brookes gave a scornful puff of the cheeks. “Not for a moment. Less than a tenth of a moment. I ignored it, and it went away. Now the Vicar, he was all of a pother. Went around complaining, writing to the Chief Constable and all that, and where did it get him? Just made it all worse, didn’t it? For him and his lad. Not that I’m blaming him for what happened, you understand. Just that he’s never understood this sort of village. He’s a bit too . . . cut and dried for it, if you know what I mean.”