There is a touch on his right shoulder. He drops the binoculars. The woman shakes her head and says gently, 'You cannot see him that way.'
She is not rebuking him, merely explaining how things are.
'You will only see him with the eyes of faith.'
The eyes of faith. The eyes Sir Arthur brought with him when they met at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. He had believed in George; should George now believe in Sir Arthur? His champion's words: I do not think, I do not believe, I know. Sir Arthur carried with him an enviable, comforting sense of certainty. He knew things. What does he, George, know? Does he finally know anything? What is the sum of knowledge he has acquired in his fifty-four years? Mostly, he has gone through his life learning and waiting to be told. The authority of others has always been important to him; does he have any authority of his own? At fifty-four, he thinks a lot of things, he believes a few, but what can he really claim to know?
The cries of witness to Sir Arthur's presence have now died down, perhaps because there has been no answering acknowledgement from the stage. What was Lady Conan Doyle's message at the start of the service? That our earthly eyes cannot see beyond the earth's vibration; that only those with the God-given extra sight, called clairvoyance, would be able to see the dear form in our midst. It would have been a miracle indeed if Sir Arthur had managed to endow with clairvoyant powers the various people still on their feet in different parts of the hall.
And now Mrs Roberts speaks again.
'I have a message for you, dear, from Arthur.'
Again, Lady Conan Doyle does not turn her head.
Mrs Roberts, in a slow waft of black satin, moves to her left, towards the Doyle family and the empty seat. When she reaches Lady Conan Doyle, she stands to one side of her and a little behind, facing towards the part of the hall where George sits. Despite the distance, her words carry easily.
'Sir Arthur told me that one of you went to the hut, this morning.' She waits, and when the widow does not answer, prompts her. 'Is that correct?'
'Why yes,' replies Lady Conan Doyle. 'I did.'
Mrs Roberts nods, and goes on, 'The message is: tell Mary-'
At which moment another tremendous blast comes from the pipe organ. Mrs Roberts leans closer and carries on speaking under the protection of the noise. Lady Conan Doyle nods from time to time. Then she looks across to the large, formally clad son on her left, as if enquiring of him. He in turn looks to Mrs Roberts, who now addresses them both. Then the other son gets up and joins the group. The organ peals on relentlessly.
George does not know if this drowning of the message is in consideration of the family's privacy or a piece of stage management. He does not know whether he has seen truth or lies, or a mixture of both. He does not know if the clear, surprising, un-English fervour of those around him this evening is proof of charlatanry or belief. And if belief, whether true or false.
Mrs Roberts has finished communicating her message, and turns towards Mr Craze. The organ thunders on, yet with nothing to drown out. The Doyle family look around at one another. Where is the service to go from here? The hymns have all been sung, the tributes paid. The daring experiment has been performed, Sir Arthur has come amongst them, his message has been delivered.
The organ continues. Now it seems to be modulating into the rhythms which play out a congregation after a wedding or funeraclass="underline" insistent and indefatigable, propelling them back into the daily, grimy, unmagical, sublunary world. The Doyle family leave the platform, followed by the officers of the Marylebone Spiritualist Association, the speakers and Mrs Roberts. People stand up, women reach under their seats for handbags, men in evening dress remember top hats, then there is shuffling and murmuring, the greeting of friends and acquaintances, and a calm, unhurried queue in every aisle. Those around George gather their belongings, rise, nod and grant him their full and certain smiles. George returns them a smile which is no equal of theirs, and does not rise. When most of his section is empty, he reaches down again and presses the binoculars to his spectacles. He focuses once more on the platform, the hydrangeas, the line of empty chairs, and the one specific empty chair with its cardboard placard, the space where Sir Arthur has, just possibly, been. He gazes through his succession of lenses, out into the air and beyond.
What does he see?
What did he see?
What will he see?
Author's note
Arthur continued to appear at séances around the world for the next few years; though his family only authenticated his manifestation at one of Mrs Osborne Leonard's private sittings in 1937, where he warned that 'the most tremendous changes' were about to occur in England. Jean, who became a fervent spiritualist after the death of her brother at the Battle of Mons, kept the faith until her death in 1940. The Mam left Masongill in 1917; the parishioners of Thornton-in-Lonsdale presented her with 'a large watch with a luminous dial in a leather case'. Though she finally came south, she never joined her son's household, and died at her West Grinstead cottage in 1920, while Arthur was preaching spiritualism in Australia. Bryan Waller survived Arthur by two years.
Willie Hornung died at St-Jean-de-Luz in March 1921; four months later, he came through at a Doyle family séance, apologized for his previous doubts about spiritualism and pronounced himself 'no longer handicapped by my horrid old asthma'. Connie died of cancer in 1924. The Rt. Hon. George Augustus Anson served as Chief Constable of Staffordshire for forty-one years, retiring finally in 1929; he was knighted in the Coronation Honours List of 1937, and died at Bath in 1947. His wife Blanche died as a result of enemy action in 1941. Charlotte Edalji returned to Shropshire after Shapurji's death; she died at Atcham near Shrewsbury in 1924, at the age of eighty-one, and chose to be buried there rather than beside her husband.
George Edalji survived them all. He continued to live and practise at 79 Borough High Street until 1941; then had an office in Argyle Square from 1942 until 1953. He died at 9 Brocket Close, Welwyn Garden City, on 17th June 1953; the cause of death was given as coronary thrombosis. Maud was still living with him, and registered the death. She returned for a last visit to Great Wyrley in 1962, when she gave photographs of her father and brother to the church. Today they hang in the vestry of St Mark's.
Four years after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's death, Enoch Knowles, a fifty-seven-year-old labourer, pleaded guilty at Staffordshire Crown Court to the writing of menacing and obscene letters over a thirty-year period. Knowles admitted that his career began in 1903, when he joined in the campaign of persecution by sending letters signed 'G.H. Darby, Captain of the Wyrley Gang'. After Knowles's conviction, George Edalji wrote an article for the Daily Express. In this last public statement on the case, dated 7th November 1934, George makes no reference to the Sharp brothers, nor to race prejudice as a motive. He concludes:
The great mystery, however, remained unsolved. All kinds of theories were advanced. One is that the outrages were the work of a lunatic seized from time to time with blood lust. Another was that they were done with the idea of bringing the parish and police into disrepute, or possibly the work of some dismissed policeman. One curious theory was suggested to me. A man belonging to Staffordshire told me the outrages were committed, not by a human being, but by one or more boars. He suggested that these animals were sent out at night after being given some kind of dope which made them ferocious. He said he had seen one of these boars. The boar theory seemed to me then – as it does now – too fantastic to be taken seriously.