Thus able to claim he had been trained in two countries, he took rooms in Devonshire Place, was elected a member of the Ophthalmological Society, and waited for patients. He also hoped for work passed on by the big men in the profession, who were often too busy to calculate refractions for themselves. Some regarded it as mere donkey-labour; but Arthur considered himself competent in this field, and counted on overflow work drifting his way.

Devonshire Place consisted of a waiting room and a consulting room. Yet after a few weeks he began to joke that both were waiting rooms, and that he, Arthur, was the one doing the waiting. Idleness being repugnant, he sat at his desk and wrote. He was now well-apprenticed in the literary game, and turned his mind to one of its current bedevilments: magazine fiction. Arthur loved a problem, and the problem went like this. Magazines published two kinds of stories: either lengthy serializations which ensnared the reader week by week and month by month; or single, free-standing tales. The trouble with the tales was that they often didn't give you enough to bite on. The trouble with the serializations was that if you happened to miss a single issue, you lost the plot. Applying his practical brain to the problem, Arthur envisaged combining the virtues of the two forms: a series of stories, each complete in itself, yet filled with running characters to reignite the reader's sympathy or disapproval. He needed therefore the kind of protagonist who could be relied upon to have regular and diverse adventures. Clearly, most professions need not apply. As he turned the matter over in Devonshire Place, he began to wonder if he hadn't already invented the appropriate candidate. A couple of his less successful novels had featured a consulting detective closely modelled on Joseph Bell of the Edinburgh Infirmary: intense observation followed by rigorous deduction was the key to criminal as well as to medical diagnosis. Arthur had initially called his detective Sheridan Hope. But the name felt unsatisfactory, and in the writing Sheridan Hope had changed first into Sherringford Holmes and then – inevitably as it seemed thereafter – into Sherlock Holmes.

George

The letters and hoaxes continue; Shapurji's plea to the malefactor to examine his conscience seems to have acted as further provocation. Newspapers announce that the Vicarage is now a boarding house offering rock-bottom terms; that it has become a slaughterhouse; that it will despatch free samples of ladies' corsetry on request. George has apparently set up as an oculist; he also offers free legal advice and is qualified to arrange tickets and accommodation for travellers to India and the Far East. Enough coal is delivered to stoke a battleship; encyclopaedias arrive, along with live geese.

It is impossible to continue for ever in the same state of nerves; and after a while the household almost turns its persecution into a routine. The Vicarage grounds are patrolled at first light; goods are refused at the gate or returned; explanations are given to disappointed customers for esoteric services. Charlotte even becomes adept at appeasing clergymen summoned from distant counties by urgent pleas for assistance.

George has left Mason College and is now articled to a firm of Birmingham solicitors. Each morning, as he takes the train, he feels guilty for abandoning his family; yet the evenings bring no relief, merely another form of anxiety. His father has also chosen to respond to the crisis in what seems to George a peculiar fashion: by giving him short lectures on how the Parsees have always been much favoured by the British. George thus learns that the very first Indian traveller to Britain was a Parsee; that the first Indian to study Christian theology at a British university was a Parsee; so was the first Indian student at Oxford, and later the first woman student; so was the first Indian man presented at Court, and, later, the first Indian woman. The first Indian to enter the Indian Civil Service was a Parsee. Shapurji tells George about surgeons and lawyers trained in Britain; about Parsee charity during the Irish famine and later towards suffering millworkers in Lancashire. He even tells George about the first Indian cricket team to tour England – Parsees every one of them. But George is quite without interest in cricket, and finds his father's stratagem more desperate than helpful. When the family is required to toast the election of a second Parsee Member of Parliament, Muncherji Bhownagree in the constituency of North-East Bethnal Green, George finds a shameful sarcasm rising within him. Why not write to the new MP and suggest he help prevent the arrival of coal, encyclopaedias and live geese?

Shapurji is more concerned about the letters than the deliveries. Increasingly, they seem to be the work of a religious maniac. They are signed by God, Beelzebub, the Devil; the writer claims to be eternally lost in Hell, or earnestly desiring that destination. When this mania begins to show violent intent, the Vicar fears for his family. 'I swear by God that I will murder George Edalji soon.' 'May the Lord strike me dead if mayhem and bloodshed do not ensue.' 'I will descend into Hell showering curses upon you all and will meet you there in God's time.' 'You are nearing the end of your time on this Earth and I am God's chosen instrument for the task.'

After more than two years of persecution, Shapurji decides to approach the Chief Constable again. He writes an account of events, encloses samples of the correspondence, points out respectfully that a clear intention to murder is now being expressed, and asks for the police to protect an innocent family thus threatened. Captain Anson's reply ignores the request. Instead he writes:

I do not say that I know the name of the offender, though I have my particular suspicions. I prefer to keep these suspicions to myself until I am able to prove them, and I trust to be able to obtain a dose of penal servitude for the offender; as although great care has apparently been exercised to avoid, as far as possible, anything which would constitute any serious offence in law, the person who writes the letters has overreached himself in two or three instances, in such manner as to render him liable to the most serious punishment. I have no doubt that the offender will be detected.

Shapurji hands his son the letter and asks his opinion. 'On the one hand,' says George, 'the Chief Constable maintains that the hoaxer is skilfully using his knowledge of the law to avoid committing any actual offence. On the other hand, he seems to think that clear offences liable to result in penal servitude have already been committed. In which case the hoaxer is not such a clever fellow after all.' He pauses and looks at his father. 'He means me, of course. He believes I took the key and he now believes that I wrote the letters. He knows I am studying law – the reference is clear. I think, to be honest, Father, the Chief Constable might be more of a threat to me than the hoaxer.'

Shapurji is not so sure. One threatens penal servitude and the other threatens death. He finds it hard to keep bitterness against the Chief Constable out of his thoughts. He still has not shown George the vilest of the letters. Could Anson really believe that George wrote them? If so, he would like to be told in what way it is an offence to write an anonymous letter to yourself threatening to murder yourself. He worries night and day about his first-born son. He sleeps badly, and often finds himself out of bed, urgently and unnecessarily checking that the door is locked.

In December of 1895 an advertisement appears in a Blackpool newspaper offering the entire contents of the Vicarage for sale by public auction. There will be no reserve price on any item as the Vicar and his wife are eager to dispose of everything prior to their imminent departure for Bombay.