Arthur notes again how cautious and exact George is, whether describing large matters or small, emotions or facts. His man is a first-class witness. It is not his fault if he is unable to see what others can. 'Mr Edalji-'
'George, please.' Sir Arthur's pronunciation has been slipping back to Ee-dal-jee, and his new patron must be spared embarrassment.
'You and I, George, you and I, we are… unofficial Englishmen.'
George is taken aback by this remark. He regards Sir Arthur as a very official Englishman indeed: his name, his manner, his fame, his air of being absolutely at ease in this grand London hotel, even down to the time he kept George waiting. If Sir Arthur had not appeared to be part of official England, George would probably not have written to him in the first place. But it seems impolite to question a man's categorization of himself.
Instead, he reflects upon his own status. How is he less than a full Englishman? He is one by birth, by citizenship, by education, by religion, by profession. Does Sir Arthur mean that when they took away his freedom and struck him off the Rolls, they also struck him off the roll of Englishmen? If so, he has no other land. He cannot go back two generations. He can hardly return to India, a place he has never visited and has little desire to.
'Sir Arthur, when my… troubles began, my father would sometimes take me into his study and instruct me about the achievements of famous Parsees. How this one became a successful businessman, that one a Member of Parliament. Once – though I have not the slightest interest in sports – he told me about a Parsee cricket team which had come from Bombay and made a tour of England. Apparently they were the first team from India to visit these shores.'
'1886, I believe. Played about thirty, won only a single match, I'm afraid. Forgive me – in my idle hours I am a student of Wisden. They returned a couple of years later, with better results, I seem to remember.'
'You see, Sir Arthur, you are more knowledgeable than I am. And I am unable to pretend to be something I am not. My father brought me up an Englishman, and he cannot, when things become difficult, attempt to console me with matters he has never previously stressed.'
'Your father came from…?'
'Bombay. He was converted by missionaries. They were Scottish, in fact. As my mother is.'
'I understand your father,' says Sir Arthur. It is a phrase, George realizes, that he has never in his life heard before. 'The truths of one's race and the truths of one's religion do not always lie in the same valley. Sometimes it is necessary to cross a high ridge in winter snow to find the greater truth.'
George ponders this remark as if it is part of a sworn affidavit. 'But then your heart is divided and you are cut off from your people?'
'No – then it is your duty to tell your people about the valley over the ridge. You look back down to the village whence you have come, and you observe that they have dipped the flags in salute, because they imagine that getting to the ridge itself is the triumph. But it is not. And so you raise your ski stick to them and point. Down there, you indicate, down there is the truth, down there in the next valley. Follow me over the ridge.'
George came to the Grand Hotel anticipating a concentrated examination of the evidence in his case. The conversation has taken several unexpected turns. Now he is feeling somewhat lost. Arthur senses a certain dismay in his new young friend. He feels responsible; he has meant to be encouraging. Enough reflection, then; it is time for action. Also, for anger.
'George, those who have supported you so far – Mr Yelverton and all the rest – have done sterling work. They have been utterly diligent and correct. If the British state were a rational institution, you would even now be back at your desk in Newhall Street. But it is not. So my plan is not to repeat the work of Mr Yelverton, to express the same reasonable doubts and make the same reasonable requests. I am going to do something different. I am going to make a great deal of noise. The English – the official English – do not like noise. They think it vulgar; it embarrasses them. But if calm reason has not worked, I shall give them noisy reason. I shall not use the back stairs but the front steps. I shall bang a big drum. I intend to shake more than a few trees, George, and we shall see what rotten fruit falls down.'
Sir Arthur stands to say goodbye. Now he towers over the little law clerk. Yet he has not done this in their conversation. George is surprised that such a famous man can listen as well as fulminate, be gentle as well as forceful. Despite this last declaration, however, he feels the need for some basic verification.
'Sir Arthur, may I ask… to put it simply… you think me innocent?'
Arthur looks down with a clear, steady gaze. 'George, I have read your newspaper articles, and now I have met you in person. So my reply is, No, I do not think you are innocent. No, I do not believe you are innocent. I know you are innocent.' Then he extends a large, athletic hand, toughened by numerous sports of which George is entirely ignorant.
Arthur
As soon as Wood had familiarized himself with the dossier, he was sent ahead in a scouting capacity. He was to survey the area, assess the temper of the locals, drink moderately in the public houses, and make contact with Harry Charlesworth. He was not, however, to play the detective, and was to stay away from the Vicarage. Arthur had not yet decided his plan of campaign, but knew that the best way to cut off sources of information would be to set up public stall and announce that he and Woodie had come to prove the innocence of George Edalji. And, by implication, the guilt of some other local resident. He did not want to alarm the interests of untruth.
In the library at Undershaw, he bent himself to research. He established that the parish of Great Wyrley contained a number of well-built residences and farmhouses; that its soil was light loam, with a subsoil of clay and gravel; that its chief crops were wheat, barley, turnips and mangolds. The station, a quarter of a mile to the north-west, was on the Walsall, Cannock amp; Rugeley branch of the London amp; North Western Railway. The Vicarage, with a net yearly value of £265, including residence, had been held since 1876 by the Reverend Shapurji Edalji of St Augustine's College, Canterbury. The Working Men's Institute, nearby at Landywood, seated 250 for lectures or concerts, and was well supplied with daily and weekly newspapers. The Public Elementary School, built in 1882, had Samuel John Mason as its master. The Post Office was held by William Henry Brookes, who was also grocer, draper and ironmonger; the Station by Albert Ernest Merriman, who had evidently inherited the stationmaster's cap from his father, Samuel Merriman. There were three beer retailers in the village: Henry Badger, Mrs Ann Corbett and Thomas Yates. The butcher was Bernard Greensill. The manager of the Great Wyrley Colliery Company was William Browell and its secretary John Boult. William Wynn was the plumber, decorator, gas-fitter and general dealer. So normal, all of it sounded; so ordered, so English.
He decided, with regret, not to drive: the arrival of a twelve-horse-power, chain-driven, one-ton Wolseley in the lanes of Staffordshire would not exactly render him inconspicuous. A pity, since it was to Birmingham that he had gone, only two years previously, to collect the machine. A journey with a lighter purpose, that had been. He remembered wearing his peaked yachting cap, which had recently become the badge of fashion for the motorist. A fact perhaps not widely recognized among the local citizenry, for as he was pacing the platform of New Street waiting for the Wolseley salesman, a peremptory young woman had accosted him, demanding to know how the trains were running to Walsall.
He left the motor in the stables and took the Waterloo train from Haslemere. He would break his journey in London and see Jean for only the fourth time as a widower and free man. He had written and told her to expect him that afternoon; he had closed with the tenderest of farewells; yet as the train pulled out of Haslemere he found himself wishing, more than anything, that he was in his Wolseley, yachting cap crammed down over his ears, goggles tight against his eyes, roaring up through the heart of England towards Staffordshire. He could not understand this reaction, which made him feel both guilty and irritated. He knew that he loved Jean, that he would marry her, and make her the second Lady Doyle; yet he was not looking forward to seeing her in the way he would wish. If only human beings were as simple as machinery.