'Far from it.'
'Any friends?'
'Not known for it. They're a close family. Something wrong with the sister, I think. Invalid, simple-minded, something. And they say he walks the lanes every evening. Not that he's got a dog or anything. There was a campaign against the family a few years back.'
'I saw it in the day-book. Any reason for that?'
'Who can tell? There was some… ill feeling when the Vicar was first given the living. People saying they didn't want a black man in the pulpit telling them what sinners they were, that sort of thing. But this was donkey's years ago. I'm chapel myself. We're more welcoming, in my opinion.'
'This fellow – the son – does he look like a horse-ripper to you?'
Parsons chewed his lips before replying. 'Inspector, let me put it this way. After you've served around here as long as I have, you'll find that no one looks like anything. Or, for that matter, not like anything. Do you follow?'
George
The postman shows George the official marking on the envelope: POSTAGE DEFICIENT. The letter has come from Walsall; his name and office address are written in a clear and decent hand, so George decides to liberate the item. It costs him twopence, twice the overlooked postage. He is pleased when he recognizes the contents: an order form for Railway Law. But there is no cheque or postal order accompanying it. The sender has asked for three hundred copies, and filled in his name as Beelzebub.
Three days later, the letters begin again. The same sort of letters; libellous, blasphemous, lunatic. They come to his office, which he feels as an insolent intrusion: this is where he is safe, and respected, where life is orderly. Instinctively he throws the first one away; then puts the rest in a bottom drawer to keep as evidence. George is no longer the anxious adolescent of the earlier persecutions; he is a person of substance now, a solicitor of four years' standing. He is well capable of ignoring such things if he chooses, or of dealing with them appropriately. And the Birmingham police are doubtless more efficient and modern than the Staffordshire Constabulary.
One evening, just after 6.10, George has returned his season ticket to his pocket and is placing his umbrella over his forearm when he becomes aware of a figure falling into step beside him.
'Keeping well, are we, young sir?'
It is Upton, fatter and more red-faced than all those years ago, and probably more stupid too. George does not break stride.
'Good evening,' he replies briskly.
'Enjoying life, are we? Sleeping well?'
At one time George might have felt alarmed, or stopped to await Upton 's point. But he is no longer like that.
'Not sleepwalking, anyway, I hope.' George consciously increases his pace, so that the Sergeant is now obliged to puff and pant to keep up. 'Only, you see, we've flooded the district with specials. Flooded it. So even for a so-li-ci-tor to sleepwalk, oh yes, that would be a bad idea.' Without pausing in his step, George casts a scornful glance in the direction of the empty, blustering fool. 'Oh yes, a so-li-ci-tor. I hope you're finding it useful, young sir. Forewarned is forearmed as they say, unless it be the other way round.'
George does not tell his parents about the incident. There is a more immediate concern: the afternoon post has brought a letter from Cannock in familiar handwriting. It is addressed to George and signed 'A Lover of Justice':
I do not know you, but have sometimes seen you on the railway, and do not expect I would like you much if I did know you, as I do not like natives. But I think everyone ought to have fair treatment, and that is why I write to you, because I do not think you have anything to do with the horrid crimes that everyone talks about. The people all said it must be you, because they do not think you are a right sort, and you would like to do them. So the police got watching you, but they could not see anything, and now they are watching someone else… If another horse is murdered they will say it is you, so go away for your holiday, and be away when the next case happens. The police say it will come at the end of the month like the last one. Go away before that.
George is quite calm. 'Libel,' he says. 'Indeed, prima facie I would judge it a criminal libel.'
'It's starting again,' says his mother, and he can tell she is on the edge of tears. 'It's all starting again. They'll never go away until they have us out.'
' Charlotte,' says Shapurji firmly, 'there is no question of that. We shall never leave the Vicarage until we go to rest with Uncle Compson. If it is the Lord's will that we suffer on our journey there, it is not for us to question the Lord.'
Nowadays, there are moments when George finds himself close to questioning the Lord. For instance: why should his mother, who is virtue incarnate and who succours the poor and sickly of the parish, have to suffer in this way? And if, as his father maintains, the Lord is responsible for everything, then the Lord is responsible for the Staffordshire Constabulary and its notorious incompetence. But George cannot say this; increasingly, there are things he cannot even hint.
He is also beginning to realize that he understands the world a little better than his parents. He may be only twenty-seven, but the working life of a Birmingham solicitor offers insights into human nature which may be unavailable to a country Vicar. So when his father suggests complaining once more to the Chief Constable, George disagrees. Anson was against them on the previous occasion; the man to address is the Inspector charged with the investigation.
'I shall write to him,' says Shapurji.
'No, Father, I think that is my task. And I shall go to see him by myself. If we both went, he might feel it as a delegation.'
The Vicar is taken aback, but pleased. He likes these assertions of manliness in his son, and lets him have his way.
George writes to request an interview – preferably not at the Vicarage but at a police station of the Inspector's choice. This strikes Campbell as a little strange. He nominates Hednesford, and asks Sergeant Parsons to attend.
'Thank you for seeing me, Inspector. I am grateful for your time. I have three items on my agenda. But first, I would like you to accept this.'
Campbell is a ginger-haired, camel-headed, long-backed man of about forty, who seems even taller sitting down than standing up. He reaches across the table and examines his present: a copy of Railway Law for the 'Man in the Train'. He flicks slowly through a few pages.
'The two hundred and thirty-eighth copy,' says George. It comes out sounding vainer than he means.
'Very kind of you, sir, but I'm afraid police regulations forbid the accepting of gifts from the general public.' Campbell slides the book back across the desk.
'Oh it's hardly a bribe, Inspector,' says George lightly. 'Can you not regard it as… an addition to the library?'
'The library. Do we have a library, Sergeant?'
'Well, we could always start one, sir.'
'Then in that case, Mr Edalji, count me grateful.'
George half-wonders if they are making fun of him.
'It is pronounced Aydlji. Not Ee-dal-ji.'
'Aydlji.' The Inspector makes a rough stab, and pulls a face. 'If you don't mind, I'll settle for calling you Sir.'
George clears his throat. 'The first item on the agenda is this.' He produces the letter from 'A Lover of Justice'. 'There have been five others addressed to my place of business.'
Campbell reads it, passes it to the Sergeant, takes it back, reads it again. He wonders if this is a letter of denunciation or support. Or the former disguised as the latter. If it is a denunciation, why would anyone bring it to the police? If it is support, then why bring it unless you have already been accused? Campbell finds George's motive almost as interesting as the letter itself.
'Any idea who it's from?'
'It's unsigned.'
'I can see that, sir. May I ask if you intend to take the fellow's advice? Go away for your holiday?'