Arthur made his rendezvous with Wood at the Imperial Family Hotel in Temple Street. He was less likely to be recognized here than at the Grand, where he might normally stop. They had to minimize the chance of some teasing headline on the society page of the Gazette or the Post: WHAT IS SHERLOCK HOLMES UP TO IN BIRMINGHAM?
Their first foray out to Great Wyrley was planned for late the following afternoon. Profiting from the December dusk, they would make their way to the Vicarage as anonymously as possible, and return to Birmingham as soon as their business was done. Arthur was keen to visit a theatrical costumier and equip himself with a false beard for the expedition; but Wood was discouraging. He thought this would draw more rather than less attention to them; indeed, any visit to a costumier would guarantee unwelcome paragraphs in the local press. A turned-up collar and a muffler, together with a raised newspaper in the train, would be enough to get them unscathed to Wyrley; then they would just stroll along to the Vicarage by the badly lit lane as if -
'As if we are what?' asked Arthur.
'Do we need to pretend?' Wood did not understand why his employer was so insistent upon disguise; first material, then psychological. In his view it was an Englishman's inalienable right to tell others, especially those of a nosy inclination, to mind their own business.
'Certainly. We need it for ourselves. We must think of ourselves as… hmmm… I have it – emissaries from the Church Commissioners, come to respond to the Vicar's report on the fabric of St Mark's.'
'It is a relatively new and sturdily built church,' replied Wood. Then he caught his employer's glance. 'Well, if you insist, Sir Arthur.'
At New Street, late the next afternoon, they chose a carriage which would deposit them, at Wyrley amp; Churchbridge, as far from the station building as possible. By this stratagem they planned to escape the intrusive gaze of other alighting passengers. But in the event, no one else got off the train, and as a consequence the ecclesiastical imposters received extra scrutiny from the stationmaster. Pulling his muffler defensively up around his moustache, Arthur felt almost larky. You do not know me, he thought, but I know you: Albert Ernest Merriman, the son of Samuel. What an adventure!
He followed Wood along a darkened lane; at one point they skirted a public house, but the sole sign of activity was a man lolling on the front step, studiously chewing his cap. After eight or nine minutes, with only an occasional gas lamp to trouble them, they came upon the dull bulk of St Mark's with its high, double-pitched roof. Wood led his employer along its southern wall, so close that Arthur could note the greyish stone streaked with purply-red. As they passed the porch, two buildings came into view some thirty yards beyond the west end of the church: to the right, a schoolroom of dark brick, with a faint diamond pattern picked out in lighter brick; to the left, the more substantial Vicarage. A few moments later, Arthur found himself looking down at the broad doorstep where, fifteen years previously, the key to Walsall School had been laid. As he raised the knocker and calculated how gently he should make it fall, he imagined the more thunderous arrival of Inspector Campbell with his band of specials, and the turmoil it had brought to that quiet household.
The Vicar, his wife and daughter were waiting for them. Sir Arthur could immediately recognize the source of George's simple good manners, and also of his self-containment. The family was glad of his arrival, but not effusive; conscious of his fame, yet not overawed. He was relieved for once to find himself in the presence of three people, none of whom, he was prepared to wager, had ever read a single one of his books.
The Vicar was paler-skinned than his son, with a flat-topped head balding at the front, and a strong, bulldoggy aspect to him. He shared the same mouth with George, but to Arthur's eye looked both more handsome and more Occidental.
Two thick files were produced. Arthur took out an item at random: a letter folded from a single sheet, making four closely written pages.
'My dear Shapurji,' he read, 'I have great pleasure in informing you that it is now our intention to review the persecution of the Vicar!!! (shame of Great Wyrley).' It was a competent hand, he thought, rather than a neat one. '… a certain lunatic asylum not a hundred miles distant from your thrice cursed home… and that you will be forcibly removed in case you give way to any strong expressions of opinion.' No spelling mistakes either, so far. 'I shall send a double number of the most hellish postcards in your name and Charlotte's at the earliest opportunity.' Charlotte was presumably the Vicar's wife. 'Revenge on you and Brookes…' That name was familiar from his researches. '… have sent a letter in his name to the Courier that he will not be responsible for his wife's debts… I repeat that there will be no need for the lunacy act to take you in charge as these persons are sure to have you arrested.' And then, in four descending lines, a mocking farewelclass="underline"
Wishing you a Merry Christmas and New Year,
I am ever
Yours Satan
God Satan
'Poisonous,' said Sir Arthur.
'Which one is that?'
'One from Satan.'
'Yes,' said the Vicar. 'A prolific correspondent.'
Arthur inspected a few more items. It was one thing to hear about anonymous letters, even to read extracts from them in the Press. Then they sounded like childish pranks. But to hold one in your hand, and to be sitting with its recipients, was, he realized, quite different. That first one was filthy stuff, with its caddish reference to the Vicar's wife by her Christian name. The work of a lunatic, perhaps; though a lunatic with a clear, well-formed hand, able lucidly to express his twisted hatreds and mad plans. Arthur was not surprised that the Edaljis had taken to locking their doors at night.
'Merry Christmas,' Arthur read out, still half in disbelief. 'And you have no suspicion who might have written any of these noxious effusions?'
'Suspicion? None.'
'That servant you were obliged to dismiss?'
'She left the district. She is long gone.'
'Her family?'
'Her family are decent folk. Sir Arthur, as you may imagine, we have given this much thought from the beginning. But I have no suspicions. I do not listen to gossip and rumour, and if I did, what help would that be? Gossip and rumour were the cause of my son's imprisonment. I would scarcely wish done to another what has been done to him.'
'Unless he were the culprit.'
'Indeed.'
'And this Brookes. He is the grocer and ironmonger?'
'Yes. He too received poison letters for a while. He was more phlegmatic about it. Or more idle. At any rate, unwilling to go to the police. There had been some incident on the railway involving his son and another boy – I no longer remember the details. Brookes was never going to make common cause with us. There is little respect for the police in the district, I have to tell you. It is an irony that of all the local inhabitants we were the family that was most inclined to trust the police.'
'Except for the Chief Constable.'
'His attitude was… unhelpful.'
'Mr Aydlji' – Arthur made a specific effort with the pronunciation – 'I plan to find out why. I intend to go back to the very beginnings of the case. Tell me, apart from the direct persecutions, have you suffered any other hostility since you came here?'
The Vicar looked questioningly at his wife. 'The Election,' she replied.