Arthur & George

'John Harry Green, who is the son of the farmer on whose land the outrage took place, and who is a Yeomanry trooper of the age of nineteen, has admitted committing the action against his own horse. He has signed a confession to this effect.'

'He admitted full and sole responsibility?'

'He did.'

'And you questioned him about any possible connection between this outrage and previous ones in the district?'

'Yes, we did. Extensively, sir.'

'And what did he state?'

'That this was an isolated occurrence.'

'And did your investigations confirm that the outrage at Green's farm had absolutely nothing to do with any other outrage in the vicinity?'

'They did.'

'No connection at all?'

'No connection at all, sir.'

'And is John Harry Green in court today?'

'Yes, he is, sir.'

George, like everyone else in the crowded court, started looking around for a nineteen-year-old trooper who admitted mutilating his own horse without apparently supplying the police with any good reason for having done so. But at that moment, Sir Reginald Hardy decided that it was time for his luncheon.

Mr Meek's first duties were with Mr Vachell; only then did he come to the room where George was held during adjournments. His demeanour was lugubrious.

'Mr Meek, you did warn us about Disturnal. We knew to expect something. And at least we shall be able to have a go at Green this afternoon.'

The solicitor shook his head grimly. 'Not a chance of it.'

'Why not?'

'Because he's their witness. If they don't put him up, we can't cross-examine him. And we can't take the risk of calling him blind as we don't know what he might say. It could be devastating. Yet they produce him in court so it looks as if they're being open with everyone. It's clever. It's typical Disturnal. I should have thought of it, but I didn't know anything about this confession. It's bad.'

George felt it only his duty to cheer his solicitor up. 'I can see it's frustrating, Mr Meek, but is there any real harm? Green said – and the police said – it had nothing to do with any other outrage.'

'That's just the point. It's not what they say – it's how it looks. Why should a man disembowel a horse – his own horse – for no apparent reason? Answer: to help out a friend and neighbour charged with a similar offence.'

'But he's not my friend. I doubt I would even recognize him.'

'Yes, I know. And when we take the considerable risk of putting you in the box, you will tell Mr Vachell that. But it's bound to look as if you're denying an allegation that hasn't in fact been made. It's clever. Mr Vachell will assail the Inspector this afternoon, but I don't think we should be optimistic.'

'Mr Meek, I could not help noticing that in Campbell's evidence he said that the clothing of mine he found – the coat I hadn't worn for weeks – was wet. He said wet twice. At Cannock he merely called it damp.'

Meek gave a soft smile. 'It's a pleasure to work with you, Mr Edalji. It's the sort of thing we notice but tend not to mention to the client in case it dispirits him. The police will be making a few more adjustments of the kind, I don't doubt.'

That afternoon Mr Vachell got little of value from the Inspector, who knew his way round a witness box. During their first encounter at Hednesford police station, Campbell had struck George as rather slow-minded and vaguely impertinent. At Newhall Street and at Cannock, he had been more alert and openly hostile, if not always coherent of thought. Now his manner was measured and sombre, while his height and his uniform seemed to impart logic as well as authority. George reflected that if his story was subtly changing around him, then so too were some of the characters.

Mr Vachell had more success with PC Cooper, who described, as he had done at the magistrates' court, his matching of George's boot-heel to the prints in the mud.

'Constable Cooper,' Mr Vachell began, 'may I enquire who gave you the instruction to proceed as you did?'

'I'm not quite sure, sir. I think it was the Inspector, but it might have been Sergeant Parsons.'

'And where precisely were you told to look?'

'Anywhere on the route the culprit might have taken between the field and the Vicarage.'

'Assuming the culprit came from the Vicarage? And was returning there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Anywhere?'

'Anywhere, sir.' Cooper looked no more than about twenty to George's eye: a red-eared, awkward boy trying to imitate the confidence of his superiors.

'And did you assume the culprit, as you refer to him, took the most direct route?'

'Yes, I suppose I did, sir. It's what they usually do when leaving the scene of the crime.'

'I see, Constable. So you did not look anywhere other than on a direct route?'

'No, sir.'

'And how long did your search last?'

'An hour or more, I would estimate.'

'And at what time did it take place?'

'I suppose I started looking at nine thirty, more or less.'

'And the pony was discovered at six thirty, approximately?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Three hours previously. In the course of which time anyone could have walked across that route. Miners on the way to the Colliery, sightseers brought by news of the outrage. Policemen, indeed.'

'That's possible, sir.'

'And who accompanied you, Constable?'

'I was on my own.'

'I see. And you found a few heelmarks which in your opinion matched the boot you held in your hand.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And then you went back and reported your discovery?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And then what happened?'

'What do you mean, sir?'

George was pleased to observe a slight change in Cooper's tone; as if he knew he were being led somewhere but could not yet make out the destination.

'I mean, Constable, what happened after you reported what you had found?'

'I was put to searching the grounds of the Vicarage, sir.'

'I see. But at some point, Constable, you went back and showed someone of higher rank the marks you had discovered.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And when would that be?'

'In the middle of the afternoon.'

'In the middle of the afternoon. By which you mean, three o'clock, four o'clock?'

'Around then, sir.'

'I see.' Mr Vachell frowned and gave himself rather theatrically to reflection, in George's view. 'Six hours later, in other words.'

'Yes, sir.'

'During which time the area was guarded and cordoned off to prevent further trampling?'

'Not exactly.'

'Not exactly. Does that mean yes or no, Officer?'

'No, sir.'

'Now, I understand that it is often normal procedure in such cases to take a plaster of Paris cast of the heelmarks in question. Can you tell me whether this was done?'

'No, sir, it wasn't.'

'I understand that another technique would be to photograph such marks. Was that done?'

'No, sir.'

'I understand that another technique is to dig up the relevant piece of turf and bring it for forensic analysis. Was that done?'

'No, sir. The ground was too soft.'

'How long have you been a police constable, Mr Cooper?'

'Fifteen months.'

'Fifteen months. Thank you very much.'

George felt like cheering. He looked across at Mr Vachell, as he had done before, but failed to catch his eye. Perhaps this was court etiquette; or perhaps Mr Vachell was just thinking about the next witness.

The rest of the afternoon seemed to go well. A number of the anonymous letters were read out, and it was clear to George that nobody in his right mind could possibly imagine he might have written them. The one he had given Campbell, for instance, from the 'Lover of Justice': 'George Edalji – 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.' How on earth could he have written that? It was followed by an even more grotesque attribution of authorship. A letter was read out describing the behaviour of the so-called 'Wyrley Gang', which might have come from the cheapest noveclass="underline" 'They all take a fearful oath of secrecy, and repeat it after the Captain, and each says, "May I be struck dead if I ever split."' George thought he could rely on the jury to work out that this was not how solicitors expressed themselves.