'Oh, that's excellent news.'
'He will not, I think, let us down. And Mr Gaudy will be at his side.'
'And for the prosecution?'
'Mr Disturnal, I'm afraid. And Mr Harrison.'
'Is Disturnal bad for us?'
'To be honest with you, I would have preferred another.'
'Mr Meek, now it is my turn to put heart into you. A barrister, however competent, cannot make bricks without straw.'
Litchfield Meek gave George a worldly smile. 'In my years in the courts, Mr Edalji, I've seen bricks made from all sorts of materials. Some you didn't even know existed. Lack of straw will be no hardship to Mr Disturnal.'
Despite this approaching threat, George spent the remaining weeks at Stafford Gaol in a tranquil state of mind. He was treated respectfully and there was an order to his days. He received newspapers and mail; he prepared for the trial with Mr Meek; he awaited developments in the Green case; and he was allowed books. His father had brought him a Bible, his mother a one-volume Shakespeare and a one-volume Tennyson. He read the latter two; then, out of idleness, some shilling shockers which a warder passed on to him. The fellow also lent him a tattered cheap edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles. George judged it excellent.
He opened the newspaper each morning with less apprehension, given that his own name had temporarily vanished from its pages. Instead, he learned with interest that there were new Cabinet appointments in London; that Dr Elgar's latest oratorio had been performed at the Birmingham musical festival; that Buffalo Bill was on a tour of England.
A week before the trial, George met Mr Vachell, a cheerful and corpulent barrister with twenty years' service on the Midland Circuit.
'How do you judge my case, Mr Vachell?'
'I judge it well, Mr Edalji, very well. That is to say, I consider the prosecution scandalous and largely devoid of merit. Of course I shall not say so. I shall merely concentrate on what seem to me to be the strong points of your case.'
'And what, to you, do they seem to be?'
'I would put it like this, Mr Edalji.' The barrister gave him a smile which was almost a grin. 'There is no evidence that you committed this crime. There is no motive for you committing this crime. And there was no opportunity for you to commit this crime. I shall wrap it up a little for the judge and jury. But that will be the essence of my case.'
'It is perhaps a pity,' put in Mr Meek, 'that we are in Court B.' His tone punctured George's temporary elation.
'Why is that a pity?'
'Court A is run by Lord Hatherton. Who at least has legal training.'
'You mean I am to be judged by someone who doesn't know the law?'
Mr Vachell intervened. 'Don't alarm him, Mr Meek. I've been before both courts in my time. Who do we get in Court B?'
'Sir Reginald Hardy.'
Mr Vachell's expression did not flicker. 'Perfectly all right. In some ways I consider it an advantage not to be governed by some stickler who aspires to the High Court. You can get away with a little more. Not pulled up so often for meretricious demonstrations of procedural knowledge. On the whole, an advantage to the defence, I'd say.'
George sensed that Mr Meek did not agree; but he was impressed by Mr Vachell, whether the barrister was being altogether sincere or not.
'Gentlemen, I do have one request.' Mr Meek and Mr Vachell briefly caught one another's eye. 'It is about my name. It is Aydlji. Aydlji. Mr Meek pronounces it more or less correctly, but I should have mentioned the matter earlier to you, Mr Vachell. The police, it seems to me, have always gone out of their way to ignore any correction I have offered them. Might I suggest that Mr Vachell makes an announcement at the beginning of the case as to how to pronounce my name. To tell that court that it is not Ee-dal-jee but Aydlji.'
The barrister gave the solicitor an instructing nod, and Mr Meek replied.
'George, how can I best put this? Of course it's your name, and of course Mr Vachell and I shall endeavour to pronounce it correctly. When we are here with you. But in court… in court… I think the argument would be: when in Rome. We would get off on the wrong foot with Sir Reginald Hardy if we made such an announcement. We are unlikely to succeed in giving pronunciation lessons to the police. And as for Mr Disturnal, I suspect he would greatly enjoy the confusion.'
George looked at the two men. 'I am not sure I follow you.'
'What I'm saying, George, is that we should acknowledge the court's right to decide a prisoner's name. It's not written down anywhere, but that's more or less the fact of the matter. What you call mispronouncing, I would call… making you more English.'
George took a breath. 'And less Oriental?'
'Less Oriental, yes, George.'
'Then I would ask you both kindly to mispronounce my name on all occasions, so that I may get used to it.'
The trial was set to begin on October 20th. On the 19th, four young boys playing near the Sidmouth plantation in Richmond Park came upon a body in an advanced state of decomposition. It proved to be that of Miss Sophie Frances Hickman, the lady doctor from the Royal Free Hospital. Like George, she had been in her late twenties. And, he reflected, she was only one column away.
On the morning of October 20th, 1903, George was brought from Stafford Gaol to Shire Hall. He was taken to the basement and shown the holding cell where prisoners were usually placed. As a privilege, he would be allowed to occupy a large, low-ceilinged room with a deal table and a fireplace; here, under the eye of Constable Dubbs, he would be able to confer with Mr Meek. He sat at the table for twenty minutes while Dubbs, a muscular officer with a chin-strap beard and a gloomy air, firmly avoided his eye. Then, at a signal, George was led through dim, winding passages and past inadequate gas lamps to a door giving on to the foot of a narrow staircase. Dubbs gave him a gentle shove, and he climbed up towards light and noise. As he emerged into the view of Court B, noise became silence. George stood self-consciously in the dock, an actor propelled unwillingly on stage through a trapdoor.
Then, before the Assistant Chairman Sir Reginald Hardy, two flanking magistrates, Captain Anson, the properly sworn members of an English jury, representatives of the Press, representatives of the public, and three members of his family, the indictment was read. George Ernest Thompson Edalji was charged with wounding a horse, the property of the Great Wyrley Colliery Company, on the 17th or 18th September; also with sending a letter, on or about 11th July, to Sergeant Robinson at Cannock, threatening to kill him.
Mr Disturnal was a tall, sleek figure, with a swift manner to him. After a brief opening speech, he called Inspector Campbell, and the whole story began again: the discovery of the mutilated pony, the search of the Vicarage, the bloodstained clothing, the hairs on the coat, the anonymous letters, the prisoner's arrest and subsequent statements. It was just a story, George knew, something made up from scraps and coincidences and hypotheses; he knew too that he was innocent; but something about the repetition of the story by an authority in wig and gown made it take on extra plausibility.
George thought Campbell's evidence was finished, when Mr Disturnal produced his first surprise.
'Inspector Campbell, before we conclude, there is a matter of great public anxiety, about which you are, I think, able to enlighten us. On September 21st, I understand, a horse was found maimed at the farm of a Mr Green.'
'That is correct, sir.'
'Mr Green's farm is very close to the Vicarage of Great Wyrley?'
'It is.'
'And the police have conducted an investigation into this outrage?'
'Indeed. As a matter of urgency and priority.'
'And has this investigation been successful?'
'Yes it has, sir.'
Mr Disturnal hardly needed the elaborate pause he now threw in; the whole courtroom was waiting like an open-mouthed child.
'And will you tell the court the result of your investigation?'