George is beginning to wonder where the exchange might lead when he sees, over Mr Wood's shoulder, Lady Conan Doyle bearing down on them.

'Woodie,' she says, and it seems to George that a strange look comes over his companion. But before he can assess it, the secretary has somehow disappeared.

'Mr Edalji,' Lady Conan Doyle pronounces his name with just the right stress, and rests a gloved hand on his forearm. 'I am so pleased you could come.'

George is taken aback: it is not as if he has been obliged to turn down many other engagements to be here.

'I wish you every happiness,' he replies. He looks at her dress. He has never seen anything like it before. None of the Staffordshire villagers his father has married has ever worn a dress remotely like this. He thinks he ought to praise it, but does not know how to do so. But it does not matter, because she is speaking to him again.

'Mr Edalji, I would like to thank you.'

Again, he is taken aback. Have they opened their wedding presents already? Surely not. But what else could she be referring to?

'Well, I wasn't sure what you might require-'

'No,' she says, 'I do not mean that, whatever it might be.' She smiles at him. Her eyes are a sort of grey-green, he thinks, her hair golden. Is he staring at her? 'I mean, it is partly thanks to you that this happy day has occurred when it has and how it has.'

Now George is completely baffled. Further, he is staring, he knows he is.

'I expect we shall be interrupted at any moment, and in any case I was not intending to explain. You may never know what I mean. But I am grateful to you in a way you cannot guess. And so it is quite right that you are here.'

George is still pondering these words as a swirl of noise takes the new Lady Conan Doyle away. I am grateful to you in a way you cannot guess. A few moments later, Sir Arthur shakes his hand, tells him he meant every word of his speech, claps him on the shoulder, and moves on to his next guest. The bride disappears and then reappears in different clothes. A final toast is drunk, glasses are drained, cheers are raised, the couple depart. There is nothing left for George to do except bid farewell to his temporary friends.

The next morning he bought The Times and the Daily Telegraph. One paper listed his name between those of Mr Frank Bullen and Mr Hornung, the other had him between Mr Bullen and Mr Hunter. He discovered that the white flowers he had been unable to identify were called lilium Harrisii. Also that Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle had afterwards left for Paris, en route to Dresden and Venice. 'The bride,' he read, 'travelled in a dress of ivory white cloth, trimmed with white Soutache braid, and having a bodice and sleeves of lace, with cloth over-sleeves. At the back the coat was caught into the waist with gold embroidered buttons. In front, folds of the cloth fell softly at either side of a lace chemisette. The dresses were by Maison Dupree, Lee, B.M.'

He scarcely understood a word of this. It was as mysterious to him as the words the dress's wearer had uttered the day before.

He wondered if he would ever marry himself. In the past, when idly imagining the possibility, the scene would always taken place at St Mark's, his father officiating, his mother gazing at him proudly. He had never been able to picture his bride's face, but that had never bothered him. Since his ordeal, however, the location no longer struck him as plausible, and this seemed to undermine the likelihood of the whole event. He wondered if Maud would ever marry. And Horace? He knew little of his brother's present life. Horace had declined to attend the trial, and had never visited him in gaol. He managed an inappropriate postcard from time to time. Horace had not been home in several years. Perhaps he was married already.

George wondered if he would ever see Sir Arthur and the new Lady Conan Doyle again. He would spend the next months and years attempting to regain in London the sort of life he had once begun to have in Birmingham; while they would go off to whatever existence world-famous authors and their young brides enjoyed. He was not sure how things would go between them if a common cause was lacking. Perhaps this was being over-sensitive on his part, or over-timid. But he tried to imagine visiting them in Sussex, or dining with Sir Arthur at his London club, or receiving them in whatever modest accommodation he might be able to afford. No, that was another implausible scene from a life he would not have. In all probability they would never meet again. Still, for three-quarters of a year their paths had crossed, and if yesterday had marked the end of that crossing point, perhaps George did not mind so very much. Indeed, part of him preferred it that way.

FOUR Endings

George

On the Tuesday, Maud passed her Daily Herald silently across the breakfast table. Sir Arthur had died at 9.15 the previous morning at Windlesham, his home in Sussex. DIES PRAISING HIS WIFE announced the headline; and then 'YOU ARE WONDERFUL!' SAYS SHERLOCK HOLMES' CREATOR and then NO MOURNING. George read how there was 'no gloom' in the house at Crowborough; the blinds had deliberately not been drawn; and only Mary, Sir Arthur's daughter by his first marriage, was 'showing grief.

Mr Denis Conan Doyle talked freely to the Herald's Special Correspondent, 'not in a hushed voice, but normally, glad and proud to talk about him. "He was the most wonderful husband and father that ever lived," he said, "and one of the greatest men. He was greater than most people knew, because he was so modest."' Two paragraphs of proper filial praise followed. But the next paragraph made George embarrassed; he almost wanted to hide the paper from Maud. Should a son speak like this about his parents – especially to a newspaper? 'He and my mother were lovers to the end. When she heard him coming she would jump up like a girl and pat her hair and run to meet him. There had never been greater lovers than these two.' Apart from the impropriety, George disapproved of the boasting – the more so as it followed close upon the assertion of Sir Arthur's own modesty. He, surely, would never have made such claims for himself. The son continued: 'If it had not been for our knowledge that we have not lost him, I am certain that my mother would have been dead within an hour.'

Denis's younger brother Adrian corroborated their father's continuing presence in their lives. 'I know perfectly well that I am going to have conversations with him. My father fully believed that when he passed over he would continue to keep in touch with us. All his family believe so, too. There is no question that my father will often speak to us, just as he did before he passed over.' Not that it would be entirely straightforward: 'We shall always know when he is speaking, but one has to be careful, because there are practical jokers on the other side as there are here. It is quite possible that they may attempt to impersonate him. But there are tests which my mother knows, such as little mannerisms of speech which cannot be impersonated.'

George was confused. The instant sadness he felt at the news – as if, somehow, he had lost a third parent – was deemed to be impermissible: NO MOURNING. Sir Arthur had died happily; his family – with one exception – was resisting grief. The blinds were not drawn; there was no gloom. Who was he, then, to pronounce himself bereft? He wondered whether to express this quandary to Maud, who would be able to think more clearly about such matters; but judged it might seem egotistical. The dead man's own modesty perhaps compelled a modesty of grief among those who had known him.

Sir Arthur had been seventy-one. The obituaries were substantial and affectionate. George followed the news all week, and discovered to his slight discomfort that Maud's Herald gave him rather more information than his own Telegraph. There was to be a GARDEN FUNERAL which was JUST A FAMILY FAREWELL. George wondered if he would be invited; he hoped that those who had celebrated Sir Arthur's marriage might also be allowed to bear witness to his… he was going to say death, but the word was not in use at Crowborough. His passing over; his promotion, as some termed it. No, this was an inappropriate expectation – he was not in any sense a member of the family. Having settled the matter in his mind, George felt slightly piqued to discover from the next day's paper that a crowd of three hundred would attend the funeral.