Mr Hodson, the general dealer, gave evidence that he had seen George on his way to Mr Hands of Bridgetown, and that the solicitor was wearing his old house-coat. But then Mr Hands himself, who had been with George for half an hour or so, asserted that his client had not been wearing the said coat. Two other witnesses reported seeing him, but were unable to remember his garments.
'I feel they're shifting their ground,' said Mr Meek after the court had risen for the day. 'I sense they're up to something.'
'What kind of something?' asked George.
'At Cannock their case was that you went to the field during your walk before dinner. That was why they called so many witnesses who had seen you out and about. That canoodling couple, do you remember? They haven't been put up this time, and they're not the only ones. The other thing is that at the committal the only date mentioned was the 17th. Now the indictment reads the 17th or the 18th. So they're hedging their bets. I sense they're moving to the nighttime option. They might have something we don't know about.'
'Mr Meek, it doesn't matter which they go for, or why they go for it. If they want the evening, they haven't a single witness who saw me anywhere near the field. And if they want the night, they have my father's evidence to contend with.'
Mr Meek ignored his client and continued thinking aloud. 'Of course, they don't have to go for one or the other. They can merely suggest possibilities to the jury. But they put more stress on the bootmarks this time. And the bootmarks only come into play if they go for the second option, because of the rain in the night. And if your house-coat has moved from damp to wet, that also confirms my supposition.'
'So much the better,' said George. 'There was nothing left of Constable Cooper after Mr Vachell had finished with him this afternoon. And if Mr Disturnal wants to continue with that line, he will have to claim that a clergyman of the Church of England is not telling the truth.'
'Mr Edalji, if I may… You must not see it all as so clear-cut.'
'But it is clear-cut.'
'Would you say that your father is robust? From a mental point of view, I mean?'
'He's the robustest man I know. Why do you ask?'
'I suspect he will need to be.'
'You will be surprised how robust Hindoos can turn out to be.'
'And your mother? And your sister?'
The morning of the second day began with the testimony of Joseph Markew, innkeeper and former police constable. He described being sent by Inspector Campbell to Great Wyrley amp; Churchbridge railway station, and how the prisoner had declined his request to take a later train.
'Did he tell you,' asked Mr Disturnal, 'what business was so important that it required him to ignore the urgent request of a police inspector?'
'No, sir.'
'Did you repeat your request?'
'I did, sir. I suggested that he might take a day's holiday for once. But he refused to change his mind.'
'I see. And Mr Markew, did something happen at this point?'
'Yes, sir. A man on the platform came up and said he'd heard another horse had been ripped that night.'
'And when the man said this, where were you looking?'
'I was looking the prisoner full in the face.'
'And would you describe his reaction to the court.'
'Yes, sir. He smiled.'
'He smiled. He smiled at the news that another horse had been ripped. Are you sure of that, Mr Markew?'
'Oh yes, sir. Perfectly sure. He smiled.'
George thought: but that isn't true. I know it isn't true. Mr Vachell must prove it isn't true.
Mr Vachell knew better than to attack the statement directly. He concentrated instead on the identity of the man who had allegedly come up to Markew and George. Where had he come from, what kind of man was he, where did he go to? (And, by implication, why was he not in court?) Mr Vachell managed to express, by hints and pauses and finally by direct statement, considerable astonishment that a publican and former policeman, with the widest acquaintance across the district, should be unable to identify the useful yet mysterious stranger who might be able to corroborate his fanciful and tendentious claim. But this was as far as the defence could get with Markew.
Mr Disturnal then had Sergeant Parsons repeat the prisoner's remarks about expecting his arrest, and his alleged statement at the Birmingham lock-up about making Mr Loxton sit up before he had done. No one attempted to explain who the said Loxton might be. Another member of the Wyrley gang? A policeman George was also threatening to shoot? The name was left hanging, for the jury to make of it what they might. A Constable Meredith, whose face and name George did not recall, cited something harmless George had said to him about bail, but managed to make it sound incriminating. Then William Greatorex, the healthy young English boy with the pleasing manner, repeated his story of George looking out of the carriage window and showing unaccountable interest in Mr Blewitt's dead horses.
Mr Lewis, the veterinary surgeon, described the condition of the Colliery pony, the manner in which it was dropping blood, the length and nature of the wound, and the regrettable necessity to shoot the animal. He was asked by Mr Disturnal what conclusions he might be able to draw as to the time the mutilation had taken place. Mr Lewis declared that in his professional opinion the injury had been inflicted within six hours of his examining the pony. In other words, not earlier than two thirty in the morning of the 18th.
This felt to George like the first good news of the day. The argument about which clothes he had been wearing on his visit to the bootmaker's was now quite irrelevant. The prosecution had just closed off one of its own avenues. They had boxed themselves in.
But if so, it did not show in Mr Disturnal's demeanour. His whole attitude implied that some initial ambiguity in the case had now been cleared up thanks to diligent work by police and prosecution. We no longer allege that at some point in a twelve-hour period… we are now able to allege that it was very close to two thirty in the morning when… And somehow Mr Disturnal made this growing precision imply an equally increasing confidence that the prisoner in the dock was there for the reasons stated in the indictment.
The last part of the day was given up to Thomas Henry Gurrin, who agreed to the description of himself as an orthographical expert with nineteen years' experience in the identification of feigned and anonymous handwriting. He confirmed that he had frequently been engaged by the Home Office, and that his most recent professional appearance had been as a witness in the Meat Farm murder trial. George did not know what he expected an orthographical expert to look like; perhaps dry and scholarly, with a voice like a scratchy pen. Mr Gurrin, with his ruddy face and mutton-chop whiskers, could have been the brother of Mr Greensill, the butcher in Wyrley.
Regardless of physiognomy, Mr Gurrin then took over the court. Specimens of George's handwriting were produced in enlarged photographic form. Specimens of the anonymous letters were also produced in enlarged photographic form. Original documents were described and passed across to members of the jury, who took what seemed to George an interminable time examining them, constantly breaking off to stare lengthily at the prisoner. Certain characteristic loops and hooks and crossings were indicated by Mr Gurrin with a wooden pointer; and somehow description moved to inference, then to theoretical probability and then to absolute certainty. It was, finally, Mr Gurrin's considered professional and expert opinion that the prisoner was as responsible for the anonymous letters as he was for those manifestly in his own hand over his own signature.