'Well, you have your Committee,' said Wood, as they pulled their cues from the rack that evening.
'I would rather say that they have their Committee.'
'By which you indicate that you are less than satisfied?'
'I have some hope that even these gentlemen cannot fail to acknowledge what is staring them in the face.'
'But?'
'But – you know who Albert de Rutzen is?'
'The Chief Magistrate of London, my newspaper informs me.'
'He is that, he is that. He is also the cousin of Captain Anson.'
George amp; Arthur
George had read the Telegraph articles several times before writing to thank Sir Arthur; and he read them once again before their second meeting at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. It was most disconcerting to see oneself described not by some provincial penny-a-liner but by the most famous writer of the day. It made him feel like several overlapping people at the same time: a victim seeking redress; a solicitor facing the highest tribunal in the country; and a character in a novel.
Here was Sir Arthur explaining why he, George, could not possibly have been involved with the supposed band of Wyrley ruffians: 'In the first place, he is a total abstainer, which in itself hardly seems to commend him to such a gang. He does not smoke. He is very shy and nervous. He is a most distinguished student.' This was all true, and yet untrue; flattering, yet unflattering; believable, yet unbelievable. He was not a most distinguished student; merely a good, hardworking one. He had received second-class honours, not first, the bronze medal, not silver or gold, from the Birmingham Law Society. He was certainly a capable solicitor, more so than Greenway or Stentson were likely to become, but he would never be eminent. Equally, he was not, by his own estimation, very shy. And if he had been judged nervous on the basis of that previous meeting at the hotel, then there were mitigating circumstances. He had been sitting in the foyer reading his newspaper, beginning to worry if he were mistaken about the time or even the day, when he had become aware of a large, overcoated figure standing a few yards away and scrutinizing him intently. How would anyone else react to being stared at by a great novelist? George thought this estimation of him as shy and nervous had probably been confirmed, if not propagated, by his parents. He did not know how it was in other families, but at the Vicarage the parental view of children had not evolved at the same speed as the children themselves. George was not just thinking of himself; his parents did not seem to take account of Maud's development, of how she was becoming stronger and more capable. And now that he came to reflect upon it further, he didn't believe he had been so nervous with Sir Arthur. On an occasion far more likely to provoke nerves he faced the crowded court with perfect composure - wasn't that what the Birmingham Daily Post had written?
He did not smoke. This was true. He judged it a pointless, unpleasant and costly habit. But also one unconnected with criminal behaviour. Sherlock Holmes famously smoked a pipe – and Sir Arthur, he understood, did likewise – but this did not make either of them candidates for membership of a gang. It was also true that he was a total abstainer: the consequence of his upbringing, not of some principled act of renunciation. But he acknowledged that any juryman, or any committee, might interpret the fact in more than one way. Abstention could be taken as proof either of moderation or extremity. It might be a sign of a fellow able to control his human urges; or equally of someone who resisted vice in order to concentrate his mind on other, more essential things – someone a touch inhuman, even fanatical.
He in no way minimized the value and quality of Sir Arthur's work. The articles described with rare skill a chain of circumstances which seem so extraordinary that they are far beyond the invention of the writer of fiction. George had read and reread with pride and gratitude such declarations as Until each and all of these questions is settled a dark stain will remain upon the administrative annals of this country. Sir Arthur had promised to make a noise, and the noise he had made had echoed far beyond Staffordshire, far beyond London, far beyond England itself. Without Sir Arthur shaking the trees, as he had put it, the Home Office would almost certainly not have appointed a Committee; though how the Committee itself would respond to the noise and the tree-shaking was another matter. It seemed to George that Sir Arthur had gone very hard on the Home Office's handling of Mr Yelverton's memorial, when he wrote that he cannot imagine anything more absurd and unjust in an Oriental despotism. To denounce someone as despotic might not be the best way to persuade them to be less despotic in the future. And then there was the Statement of the Case against Royden Sharp…
'George! I'm so sorry. We were detained.'
He is standing there, and not alone. There is a handsome young woman beside him; she looks dashing and self-confident in a shade of green George could not possibly name. The sort of colour women knew about. She is smiling a little and extending her hand.
'This is Miss Jean Leckie. We were… shopping.' He sounds uneasy.
'No, Arthur, you were talking.' Her tone is affable yet firm.
'Well, I was talking to a shopkeeper. He had done service in South Africa, and it was only civil to ask him-'
'That is still talking, not shopping.'
George is bewildered by this exchange.
'As you can see, George, we are preparing for marriage.'
'I am very happy to meet you,' says Miss Jean Leckie, smiling more widely, so that George notices she has rather large front teeth. 'And now I must go.' She shakes her head teasingly at Arthur and skips away.
'Marriage,' says Arthur as he sinks into a chair in the writing room. The word barely amounts to a question. Even so, George answers – and with a strange precision.
'It is a condition that I aspire to.'
'Well, it can be a puzzling condition, I warn you. Bliss, of course. But damned puzzling bliss more often than not.'
George nods. He does not agree, while admitting he has little evidence to go on. Certainly he would not describe his parents' marriage as damned puzzling bliss. None of those three words could in any way be reasonably applied to life at the Vicarage.
'To business, anyway.'
They discuss the Telegraph articles, the response they have elicited, the Gladstone Committee, its terms of reference and membership. Arthur wonders if he personally should expose Sir Albert de Rutzen's cousinage, or drop a hint to a newspaper editor at his club, or simply leave the whole matter alone. He looks across at George, expecting an instant opinion. But George does not have an instant opinion. This may be because he is very shy and nervous; or because he is a solicitor; or because he finds it difficult to switch from being Sir Arthur's cause to Sir Arthur's tactical adviser.
'I think Mr Yelverton is perhaps the person to consult on that.'
'But I am consulting you,' replies Arthur, as if George is shilly-shallying.
George's opinion, as far as he can call it one when it feels no more than an instinct, is that the first option would be too provoking, the third too passive, and so on the whole he might be inclined to advise the middle course. Unless, of course… and as he is starting to reconsider, he is aware of Sir Arthur's impatience. This does, admittedly, make him a little nervous.