“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?”
Anson laughed, rather too openly. “That I’m afraid, is a question from detective fiction. It is what your readers beg, and what you so winningly provide. Tell us what really happened.
“Most crimes, Doyle—almost all crimes, in fact—occur without witnesses. The burglar waits for the house to be empty. The murderer waits until his victim is alone. The man who slashes the horse waits for the cover of night. If there is a witness, it is often an accomplice, another criminal. You catch a criminal, he lies. Always. You separate two accomplices, they tell separate lies. You get one to turn King’s evidence, he tells a new sort of lie. The entire resources of the Staffordshire Constabulary could be assigned to a case, and we would never end up knowing what really happened, as you put it. I am not making some philosophical argument, I am being practical. What we know, what we end up knowing, is—enough to secure a conviction. Forgive me for lecturing you about the real world.”
Doyle wondered if he would ever cease being punished for having invented Sherlock Holmes. Corrected, advised, lectured, patronized—when would it ever stop? Still, he must press on. He must keep his temper whatever the provocation.
“But leaving all that aside, Anson. And admitting—as I fear we must admit—that by the end of the evening we may not have shifted one another’s position by one jot or one tittle. What I am asking is this. You believe that a respectable young solicitor, having shown no previous sign of a violent nature, suddenly goes out one night and attacks a pit pony in a most wicked and violent fashion. I ask you simply, Why?”
Anson groaned inwardly. Motive. The criminal mind. Here we go again. He rose and refilled their glasses.
“You are the one with the paid imagination, Doyle.”
“Yet I believe him innocent. And am unable to make the leap that you have made. You are not in the witness box. We are two English gentlemen sitting over fine brandy and, if I may say so, even finer cigars, in a handsome house in the middle of this splendid county. Whatever you say will remain within these four walls, I give you my word on that. I merely ask: according to you, Why?”
“Very well. Let us start with known facts. The case of Elizabeth Foster, the maid-of-all-work. Where you allege it all began. Naturally, we looked at the case but there simply wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute.”
Doyle looked at the Chief Constable blankly. “I don’t understand. There was a prosecution. She pleaded guilty.”
“There was a private prosecution—by the Vicar. And the girl was bullied by lawyers into pleading guilty. Not the sort of gesture to endear you to your parishioners.”
“So the police failed to support the family even then?”
“Doyle, we prosecute when the evidence is there. As we prosecuted when the solicitor himself was victim of an assault. Ah, I see he didn’t tell you that.”
“He does not seek pity.”
“That’s by the by.” Anson picked a paper from his file. “November 1900. Assault by two Wyrley youths. Pushed him through a hedge in Landywood, and one of them also damaged his umbrella. Both pleaded guilty. Fined with costs. Cannock magistrates. You didn’t know he’d been there before?”
“May I see that?”
“Afraid not. Police records.”
“Then at least give me the names of those convicted.” When Anson hesitated, he added, “I can always get my bloodhounds on to the matter.”
Anson, to Doyle’s surprise, gave a kind of humorous bark. “So you’re a bloodhound man too? Oh, very well, they were called Walker and Gladwin.” He saw that they meant nothing to Doyle. “Anyway, we might presume that this was not an isolated occurrence. He was probably assaulted before or after, more mildly perhaps. Doubtless insulted too. The young men of Staffordshire are far from saints.”
“It may surprise you to know that George Edalji specifically rejects race prejudice as the basis of his misfortune.”
“So much the better. Then we may happily leave it on one side.”
“Though of course,” added Doyle, “I do not agree with his analysis.”
“Well, that is your prerogative,” replied Anson complacently.
“And why is this assault relevant?”
“Because, Doyle, you cannot understand the ending until you know the beginning.” Anson was now starting to enjoy himself. His blows were hitting home, one by one. “George Edalji had good reason to hate the district of Wyrley. Or thought he did.”
“So he took revenge by killing livestock? Where’s the connection?”
“I see you are from the city, Doyle. A cow, a horse, a sheep, a pig is more than livestock. It is livelihood. Call it—an economic target.”
“Can you demonstrate a link between either of George’s assailants in Landywood and any of the livestock subsequently mutilated?”
“No, I can’t. But you should not expect criminals to follow logic.”
“Not even intelligent ones?”
“Even less so, in my experience. Anyway, we have a young man who is his parents’ pet, still stuck at home when his younger brother has flown the coop. A young man with a grudge against the district, to which he feels superior. He finds himself in catastrophic debt. The moneylenders are threatening him with the bankruptcy court, professional ruin is staring him in the face. Everything he has ever worked for in his life is about to disappear . . .”
“And so?”
“So . . . perhaps he ran mad like your friend Mr. Wilde.”
“Wilde was corrupted by his success, in my view. One may hardly compare the effect of nightly applause in the West End with the critical reception to a treatise on railway law.”
“You said Wilde’s case was a pathological development. Why not Edalji’s too? I believe the solicitor was at his wits’ end for months. The strain must have been considerable, even unbearable. You yourself called his begging letter ‘desperate.’ Some pathological development might occur, some tendency to evil in the blood might inevitably emerge.”
“Half his blood is Scottish.”
“Indeed.”
“And the other half is Parsee. The most highly educated and commercially successful of Indian sects.”
“I do not doubt it. They are not called the Jews of Bombay for nothing. And equally I do not doubt that it is the mixing of the blood that is partly the cause of all this.”
“My own blood is mixed Scottish and Irish,” said Doyle. “Does this make me cut cattle?”
“You make my argument for me. What Englishman—what Scotsman—what half Scotsman—would take a blade to a horse, a cow, a sheep?”
“You forget the miner Farrington, who did just that while George was in prison. But I ask you in return: what Indian would do the same? Do they not venerate cattle as gods there?”
“Indeed. But when the blood is mixed, that is where the trouble starts. An irreconcilable division is set up. Why does human society everywhere abhor the half-caste? Because his soul is torn between the impulse to civilization and the pull of barbarism.”
“And is it the Scottish or the Parsee blood you hold responsible for barbarism?”
“You are facetious, Doyle. You yourself believe in blood. You believe in race. You told me over dinner how your mother had proudly traced her ancestry back five centuries. Forgive me if I misquote you, but I recall that many of the great ones of the earth have roosted in your family tree.”
“You do not misquote me. Are you saying that George Edalji slit the bellies of horses because that’s what his ancestors did five centuries ago in Persia or wherever they were then?”
“I have no idea whether barbaric or ritual practices were involved. Perhaps so. It may well be that Edalji himself did not know what impelled him to act as he did. An urge from centuries back, brought to the surface by this sudden and deplorable miscegenation.”
“You truly believe that this is what happened?”
“Something
like it, yes.”
“Then what about Horace?”
“Horace?”
“Horace Edalji. Born of the same mixture of bloods. Currently a respected employee of His Majesty’s Government. In the tax inspectorate. You are not suggesting Horace was part of the gang?”
“I am not.”
“Why not? He has as good credentials.”
“Again, you are being facetious. Horace Edalji lives in Manchester, for a start. Besides, I am merely proposing that a mixing of the blood produces a tendency, a susceptibility under certain extreme circumstances to revert to barbarism. To be sure, many half-castes live perfectly respectable lives.”
“Unless something triggers them . . .”
“As the full moon may trigger lunacy in some gypsies and Irish.”
“It has never had that effect on me.”
“Low-born Irish, my dear Doyle. Nothing personal intended.”
“So what is the difference between George and Horace? Why, in your belief, has one resorted to barbarism and the other not—or not as yet?”
“Do you have a brother, Doyle?”
“I do indeed. A younger one. Innes. He’s a career officer.”
“Why has he not written detective stories?”
“I am not tonight’s theorist.”
“Because circumstances, even between brothers, vary.”
“Again, why not Horace?”
“The evidence has been staring you in the face, Doyle. It was all brought out in court, by the family itself. I’m surprised you overlooked it.”
It was a pity, Doyle thought, that he had not booked into the White Lion Hotel over the road. He might have the need to kick some furniture before the evening was finished.
“Cases like this, which seem baffling as well as repugnant to the outsider often turn, in my experience, on matters which are not discussed in court, for obvious reasons. Matters which are normally confined to the smoking room. But you are, as you have indicated with your tales of Mr. Oscar Wilde, a man of the world. You have a medical training too, as I recall. And you have travelled in support of our army in the South African War, I believe.”