Mr Disturnal was in no hurry; he stood and waited, as if for the effect of Mr Vachell's closing words to dissipate. Then he began to take those shreds and patches alluded to by his adversary, and patiently sewed them back together again, making a cloak to hang round George's shoulders. He asked the jury to consider first the behaviour of the prisoner, and reflect upon whether or not it was that of an innocent man. The refusal to wait for Inspector Campbell and the smile at the railway station; the lack of surprise at his arrest; the question about Blewitt's dead horses; the threat to the mysterious Loxton; the refusal of bail and the confident prediction that the Great Wyrley gang would strike again and effect his liberation. Was this the behaviour of an innocent man, Mr Disturnal asked as he reconnected each of these links for the jury's mind.
The bloodstains; the handwriting; and then the clothing yet again. The prisoner's clothes were wet, his house-coat and boots in particular. The police had stated this, and sworn this. Every policeman who had examined his house-coat had testified that it was wet. If so, and if the police were not completely mistaken – and how could or should they be? – then there was only one possible explanation. George Edalji had, as the prosecution maintained, stealthily crept out of the Vicarage into the stormy night of the 17th to the 18th of August.
But even so, despite the overwhelming evidence of the prisoner's deep involvement in the crime, whether alone or with others, there was, Mr Disturnal admitted, one question that needed to be answered. What had been his motive? It was a question the jury had every right to raise. And Mr Disturnal was there to help with the reply.
'If you are to ask yourselves, as others in the courtroom have done over these past days, But what is the prisoner's motive? Why should an outwardly respectable young man commit such a heinous act? Various explanations might offer themselves to the mind of the reasonable observer. Might the prisoner have been acting out of specific spite and malice? It is possible, though perhaps unlikely, given that far too many victims have been involved in the Great Wyrley Outrages and the campaign of anonymous libel that accompanied it. Could he have acted out of insanity? You might judge so, when faced with the unspeakable barbarity of his actions. And yet this too falls short of an explanation, for the crime was too well planned, and too cleverly executed, for it to have been carried out by someone who was insane. No: we must, I would suggest, look for the motivation in a brain that was not diseased, but rather formed differently from that of ordinary men and women. The motive was not financial gain, or revenge against an individual, but rather a desire for notoriety, a desire for anonymous self-importance, a desire to cheat the police at every turn, a desire to laugh in the face of society, a desire to prove oneself superior. Like you, members of the jury, I have at different moments of the trial, convinced as I am and as you will be of the prisoner's guilt, I have found myself asking, but why, but why? And this is what I would say to that question. It really does seem to point to a person who did these outrages from some diabolical cunning in the corner of his brain.'
George, who had been listening with his head slightly bowed, so as to concentrate on Mr Disturnal's words, realized that the address had come to a close. He looked up, and found the prosector staring dramatically across at him as if, only now, he was finally seeing the prisoner in the full light of truth. The jury, thus authorized by Mr Disturnal, was also openly scrutinizing him; as was Sir Reginald Hardy; as was the whole courtroom, with the exception of his family. Perhaps PC Dubbs and the other constable standing behind him in the dock were even now examining the jacket of his suit for bloodstains.
The Chairman began his summing-up at a quarter to one, referring to the Outrages as 'a blot on the name of the county'. George listened, but was constantly aware that he was being assessed by twelve good men and true for manifestations of diabolical cunning. There was nothing he could do about it, except try to look as stolid as possible. That was how he must appear in the last few minutes before his fate was decided. Be stolid, he told himself, be stolid.
At two o'clock, Sir Reginald sent the jury away and George was taken down to the basement. PC Dubbs stood guard, as he had done for the previous four days, with the slightly embarrassed air of one who knew George was hardly the escaping type. He had treated his prisoner with respect, and never once manhandled him. Given that there was now no chance of his words being misinterpreted, George engaged him in conversation.
'Constable, in your experience, is it a good thing or a bad thing if the jury takes a long time making up its mind?'
Dubbs thought about this for a while. 'In my experience, sir, I'd say it could be either a good thing or a bad thing. One or the other. It depends really.'
'I see,' said George. He did not usually say 'I see', and recognized he must have caught the mannerism from the barristers. 'And in your experience, what if the jury makes its mind up speedily?'
'Ah, now that, sir, that could be either a good thing or a bad thing. It depends on circumstances really.'
George allowed himself a smile, and Dubbs or anyone else could make of it what they would. It seemed to him that if the jury returned quickly, that must – given the gravity of the case and the need for all twelve to agree – be good for him. And a slow return would not be bad either, because the longer they considered the matter, the more its essentials would rise to the surface and the furious distractions of Mr Disturnal would be seen for what they were.
Constable Dubbs seemed as surprised as George when the call came after only forty minutes. They made their last journey together along the dim passages and up the stairs into the dock. At a quarter to three the clerk of the court put to the foreman words long familiar to George.
'Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you find the prisoner, George Ernest Thompson Edalji, guilty or not guilty on the charge of maiming a horse, the property of the Great Wyrley Colliery Company?'
'Guilty, sir.'
No, that's wrong, George thought. He looked at the foreman, a white-haired, schoolmasterly fellow with a light Staffordshire accent. You just said the wrong words. Unsay them. You meant to say, Not guilty. That is the correct answer to the question. All this rushed through George's mind, until he realized that the foreman was still on his feet and about to speak. Yes, of course, he was going to correct his mistake.
'The jury, on reaching its verdict, has a recommendation to mercy.'
'On what grounds?' asked Sir Reginald Hardy, peering across at the foreman.
'His position.'
'His personal position?'
'Yes.'
The Chairman and the two other justices retired to consider sentence. George could scarcely look at his family. His mother was pressing a handkerchief to her face; his father staring dully ahead. Maud, whom he had expected to be wailing, surprised him. She had turned her whole body in his direction and was gazing up towards him, gravely, lovingly. He felt that if he could retain that look in his memory, then the worst things might possibly be bearable.
But before he could think further, George was being addressed by the Chairman, who had taken barely a few minutes to make his decision.
'George Edalji, the verdict of the jury is a right one. They have recommended you to mercy in consideration of the position you hold. We have to determine what punishment to award. We have to take into consideration your personal position, and what any punishment means to you. On the other hand, we have to consider the state of the county of Stafford, and of the Great Wyrley district, and the disgrace inflicted on the neighbourhood by this condition of things. Your sentence is one of penal servitude for seven years.'