Campbell was a capable officer, as Anson had said; he was dutiful and level-headed. He did not have preconceptions about a criminal type; nor was he given to over-hasty theorizing or self-indulgent intuition. Even so: the field in which the outrage had occurred lay directly between the Colliery and Wyrley. If you drew a straight line from the field to the village, the first house you would come to was the Vicarage. Common logic, as well as the Chief Constable, argued for a visit.
'Anyone here watching the Vicarage last night?' Constable Judd identified himself, and talked rather too much about the devilish weather and the rain getting in his eyes, which may have meant that he had spent half the night sheltering under a tree. Campbell did not imagine policemen to be free of human failings. But in any case, Judd had seen no one come and no one go; the lights had been turned out at half past ten, as they invariably were. Still, it had been a wild old night of it, Inspector…
Campbell looked at the time: 7.15. He sent Markew, who knew the solicitor, to detain him at the station. He told Cooper and Judd to wait for the surgeon and keep away gawpers, then led Parsons and the remaining specials by the most direct route to the Vicarage. There were a couple of hedges to squeeze through, and the railway to cross by a subterranean passage, but they managed it without difficulty in under fifteen minutes. Well before eight o'clock Campbell had posted a constable at each corner of the house while he and Parsons made the knocker thunder. It was not just the twenty wenches; there was also the threat to shoot Robinson in the head with somebody's gun.
The maid showed the two policemen into the kitchen, where the Vicar's wife and daughter were finishing breakfast. To Parsons' eye the mother looked scared and the half-caste daughter sickly.
'I should like to speak to your son George.' The Vicar's wife was thin and slightly built; most of her hair had gone white. She spoke quietly, with a pronounced Scottish accent. 'He has already left for his office. He takes the seven thirty-nine. He is a solicitor in Birmingham.'
'I am aware of that, Madam. Then I must ask you to show me his clothing. All his clothing, without exception.'
'Maud, go and fetch your father.'
Parsons asked with a mere turn of the head whether he should follow the girl, but Campbell indicated not. A minute or so later the Vicar appeared: a short, powerful, light-skinned fellow with none of the oddities of his son. White-haired, but good-looking in a Hindoo sort of a way, Campbell thought.
The Inspector repeated his request.
'I must ask you what the subject of your inquiry is, and whether you have a search warrant.'
'A pit pony has been found…' Campbell hesitated briefly, given the presence of women, '… in a field nearby… someone has injured it.'
'And you suspect my son George of the deed.'
The mother put an arm around her daughter.
'Let us say that it would be very helpful to exclude him from the investigation if possible.' That old lie, Campbell thought, almost ashamed of bringing it out again.
'But you do not have a search warrant?'
'Not with me at the moment, sir.'
'Very well. Charlotte, show him George's clothes.'
'Thank you. And you will not object, I take it, if I ask my constables to search the house and the immediate grounds.'
'Not if it helps exclude my son from your investigation.'
So far, so good, thought Campbell. In the slums of Birmingham, he'd have had the father going for him with a poker, the mother bawling, and the daughter trying to scratch his eyes out. Though in some ways that was easier, being almost an admission of guilt.
Campbell told his men to look out for any knives or razors, agricultural or horticultural implements that might have been used in the attack, then went upstairs with Parsons. The lawyer's clothing was laid out on a bed, including, as had been requested, shirts and underlinen. It appeared clean, and dry to the touch.
'This is all his clothing?'
The mother paused before answering. 'Yes,' she said. And then, after a few seconds, 'Apart from what he has on.'
Well of course, thought Parsons, I didn't believe he went to work naked. What a queer statement. 'I need to see his knife,' he said casually.
'His knife?' She looked at him wonderingly. 'You mean, the knife he eats with?'
'No, his knife. Every young man has a knife.'
'My son is a solicitor,' said the Vicar rather sharply. 'He works in an office. He does not sit around whittling sticks.'
'I do not know how many times I have been told that your son is a solicitor. I am well aware of that. As I am of the fact that every young man has a knife.'
After some whispering, the daughter went away and returned with a short, stubby item which she handed over defiantly. 'This is his botany spud,' she said.
Campbell saw at a glance that the item could not possibly have inflicted the sort of damage he had recently witnessed. Nevertheless, he pretended to considerable interest, taking the spud over to the window and turning it in the light.
'We've found these, sir.' A constable was holding out a case containing four razors. One of them seemed to be wet. Another had red stains on the back.
'Those are my razors,' said the Vicar quickly.
'One of them is wet.'
'No doubt because I shaved myself with it barely an hour ago.'
'And your son – what does he shave with?'
There was a pause. 'One of these.'
'Ah. So they are not, strictly speaking, your razors, sir?'
'On the contrary. This has always been my set of razors. I have owned them for twenty years or more, and when it became time for my son to shave, I allowed him to use one.'
'Which he still does?'
'Yes.'
'You do not trust him with razors of his own?'
'He does not need razors of his own.'
'Now why should he not be allowed razors of his own?' Campbell aired it as a half-question, waiting to see if anyone chose to pick it up. No, he thought not. There was something slightly queer about the family, not that he could put his finger on it. They weren't being uncooperative; but at the same time he felt them less than straightforward.
'He was out last night, your son.'
'Yes.'
'How long for?'
'I'm not really sure. An hour, perhaps more. Charlotte?'
Again, the wife seemed to take an unconscionable time considering a simple question. 'One and a half, one and three-quarters,' she finally whispered.
Time enough and plenty to get to the field and back, as Campbell had just proved. 'And when would this be?'
'Between about eight and nine thirty,' answered the Vicar, even though Parsons' question had been addressed to his wife. 'He went to the bootmaker.'
'No, I meant after that.'
'After that, no.'
'But I asked if he went out in the night and you said that he did.'
'No, Inspector, you asked if he went out last night, not in the night.'
Campbell nodded. He was no fool, this clergyman. 'Well, I should like to see his boots.'
'His boots?'
'Yes, the boots he went out in. And show me which trousers he was wearing.'
These were dry, but now that Campbell looked at them again, he saw black mud around the bottoms. The boots, when produced, were also encrusted with mud, and were still damp.
'I found this too, sir,' said the Sergeant who brought the boots. 'Feels damp to me.' He handed over a blue serge coat.
'Where did you find this?' The Inspector passed his hand over the coat. 'Yes, it's damp.'
'Hanging by the back door just above the boots.'
'Let me feel that,' said the Vicar. He ran a hand down a sleeve and said, 'It's dry.'
'It's damp,' repeated Campbell, thinking, And what's more, I'm a policeman. 'So who does this belong to?'
'To George.'
'To George? I asked you to show me all his clothing. Without exception.'
'We did' – the mother this time. 'All this is what I think of as his clothing. That's just an old house-coat he never wears.'