'When I was a small boy, I was much pained by the poverty to which my mother was reduced. I sensed that it was against the grain of her nature. That memory is part of what has always driven me on.'
'Charming,' repeated Mrs Anson, meaning it rather less this time. Noble blood, hard times, restored fortunes. She was happy enough to believe such themes in a library novel, but when confronted by a living version was inclined to find them implausible and sentimental. She wondered how long the family's ascendancy would last this time round. What did they say about quick money? One generation to make it, one to enjoy it, one to lose it.
But Sir Arthur, if more than a touch vainglorious about his ancestry, was a diligent table-companion. He showed abundant appetite, even if he ate without the slightest comment on what was put in front of him. Mrs Anson could not decide whether he believed it vulgar to applaud food, or whether he simply lacked taste buds. Also unmentioned at table were the Edalji case, the state of criminal justice, the administration of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, and the exploits of Sherlock Holmes. But they managed to steer a course, like three scullers without a cox, Sir Arthur pulling vigorously on one side, and the Ansons dipping their blades sufficiently on the other to keep the boat straight.
The anchovy eggs were despatched, and Blanche Anson could sense male restiveness farther down the table. They were eager for the curtained study, the poked fire, the lit cigar, the glass of brandy, and the opportunity, in as civilized a way as possible, to tear great lumps out of one another. She could scent, above the odours of the table, something primitive and brutal in the air. She rose, and bade the combatants goodnight.
The gentlemen passed into Captain Anson's study, where a fire was in full spate. Doyle took in the glisten of fresh coal in the brass bucket, the polished spines of bound periodicals, a sparkling three-bottle tantalus, the lacquered belly of a bloated fish in a glass case. Everything gleamed: even that pair of antlers from a non-native species – a Scandinavian elk of some kind, he assumed – had attracted the housemaid's attention.
He eased a cigar from the offered box and rolled it between his fingers. Anson passed him a penknife and a box of cigar matches.
'I deprecate the use of the cigar-cutter,' he announced. 'I shall always prefer the nice conduct of the knife.'
Doyle nodded, and bent to his task, then flicked the cut stub into the fire.
'I understand that the advancement of science has now brought us the invention of an electric cigar-lighter?'
'If so, it has not reached Hindhead,' replied Doyle. He declined any billing as the metropolis come to patronize the provinces. But he identified a need in his host to assert mastery in his own study. Well, if so, he would help him.
'The elk,' he proposed, 'is perhaps from Southern Canada?'
'Sweden,' replied the Chief Constable almost too quickly. 'Not a mistake your detective would have made.'
Ah, so we shall have that one first, shall we? Doyle watched Anson light his own cigar. In the match's flare the Stafford knot of his tiepin briefly gleamed.
'Blanche reads your books,' said the Chief Constable, nodding a little, as if this settled the matter. 'She is also very partial to Mrs Braddon.'
Doyle felt a sudden pain, the literary equivalent of gout. And there was a further stab as Anson continued, 'I am more for Stanley Weyman myself.'
'Capital,' Doyle answered. 'Capital.' By which he meant, It is capital that you prefer him as far as I am concerned.
'You see, Doyle – I'm sure you don't mind if I speak frankly? – I may not be what you would call a literary fellow, but as Chief Constable I inevitably take a more professional view of matters than I imagine most of your readers do. That the police officers you introduce into your tales are inadequate to their task is something which is, I quite understand, necessary to the logic of your inventions. How else would your scientific detective shine if not surrounded by boobies?'
It was not worth arguing the toss. 'Boobies' hardly described Lestrade and Gregson and Hopkins and… oh, it wasn't-
'No, I fully understand your reasons, Doyle. But in the real world…'
At this point Doyle more or less stopped listening. In any case, his mind had snagged on the phrase 'the real world'. How easily everyone understood what was real and what was not. The world in which a benighted young solicitor was sentenced to penal servitude in Portland… the world in which Holmes unravelled another mystery beyond the powers of Lestrade and his colleagues… or the world beyond, the world behind the closed door, through which Touie had effortlessly slipped. Some people believed in only one of these worlds, some in two, a few in all three. Why did people imagine that progress consisted of believing in less, rather than believing in more, in opening yourself to more of the universe?
'… which is why, my good fellow, I shall not, without orders from the Home Office, be issuing my inspectors with cocaine syringes and my sergeants and constables with violins.'
Doyle inclined his head, as if acknowledging a palpable hit. But that was enough play-acting and guestliness.
'To the case at hand. You have read my analysis.'
'I have read your… story,' replied Anson. 'A deplorable business, it has to be said. A series of mistakes. It could all have been nipped in the bud so much earlier.'
Anson's candour surprised Doyle. 'I'm glad to hear you say that. Which mistakes did you have in mind?'
'The family's. That's where it all went wrong. The wife's family. What took it into their heads? Whatever took it into their heads? Doyle, really: your niece insists upon marrying a Parsee – can't be persuaded out of it – and what do you do? You give the fellow a living… here. In Great Wyrley. You might as well appoint a Fenian to be Chief Constable of Staffordshire and have done with it.'
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' replied Doyle. 'No doubt his patron sought to demonstrate the universality of the Anglican Church. The Vicar is, in my judgement, both an amiable and a devoted man, who has served the parish to the best of his ability. But the introduction of a coloured clergyman into such a rude and unrefined parish was bound to cause a regrettable situation. It is certainly an experiment that should not be repeated.'
Anson looked across at his guest with sudden respect – even allowing for that gibe about 'rude and unrefined'. There was more common ground here than he had expected. He ought to have known that Sir Arthur was unlikely to prove an out-and-out radical.
'And then to introduce three half-caste children into the neighbourhood.'
'George, Horace and Maud.'
'Three half-caste children,' repeated Anson.
'George, Horace and Maud,' repeated Doyle.
'George, Horace and Maud Ee-dal-jee.'
'You have read my analysis?'
'I have read your… analysis' – Anson decided to concede the word this time – 'and I admire, Sir Arthur, both your tenacity and your passion. I promise to keep your amateur speculations to myself. To broadcast them would do your reputation no good.'
'I think you must allow me to be the judge of that.'
'As you wish, as you wish. Blanche was reading to me the other day. An interview you gave in the Strand some years ago, about your methods. I trust you were not grossly misrepresented?'
'I have no memory of being so. But I am not in the habit of reading through in a spirit of verification.'
'You described how, when you wrote your tales, that it was always the conclusion which first preoccupied you.'
'Beginning with an ending. You cannot know which path to travel unless you first know the destination.'
'Exactly. And you have described in your… analysis how when you met young Edalji for the first time – in the lobby of an hotel, I believe – you observed him for a while, and even before meeting him were convinced of his innocence?'
'Indeed, for the reasons clearly stated.'