George is quite calm. 'Libel,' he says. 'Indeed, prima facie I would judge it a criminal libel.'

'It's starting again,' says his mother, and he can tell she is on the edge of tears. 'It's all starting again. They'll never go away until they have us out.'

' Charlotte,' says Shapurji firmly, 'there is no question of that. We shall never leave the Vicarage until we go to rest with Uncle Compson. If it is the Lord's will that we suffer on our journey there, it is not for us to question the Lord.'

Nowadays, there are moments when George finds himself close to questioning the Lord. For instance: why should his mother, who is virtue incarnate and who succours the poor and sickly of the parish, have to suffer in this way? And if, as his father maintains, the Lord is responsible for everything, then the Lord is responsible for the Staffordshire Constabulary and its notorious incompetence. But George cannot say this; increasingly, there are things he cannot even hint.

He is also beginning to realize that he understands the world a little better than his parents. He may be only twenty-seven, but the working life of a Birmingham solicitor offers insights into human nature which may be unavailable to a country Vicar. So when his father suggests complaining once more to the Chief Constable, George disagrees. Anson was against them on the previous occasion; the man to address is the Inspector charged with the investigation.

'I shall write to him,' says Shapurji.

'No, Father, I think that is my task. And I shall go to see him by myself. If we both went, he might feel it as a delegation.'

The Vicar is taken aback, but pleased. He likes these assertions of manliness in his son, and lets him have his way.

George writes to request an interview – preferably not at the Vicarage but at a police station of the Inspector's choice. This strikes Campbell as a little strange. He nominates Hednesford, and asks Sergeant Parsons to attend.

'Thank you for seeing me, Inspector. I am grateful for your time. I have three items on my agenda. But first, I would like you to accept this.'

Campbell is a ginger-haired, camel-headed, long-backed man of about forty, who seems even taller sitting down than standing up. He reaches across the table and examines his present: a copy of Railway Law for the 'Man in the Train'. He flicks slowly through a few pages.

'The two hundred and thirty-eighth copy,' says George. It comes out sounding vainer than he means.

'Very kind of you, sir, but I'm afraid police regulations forbid the accepting of gifts from the general public.' Campbell slides the book back across the desk.

'Oh it's hardly a bribe, Inspector,' says George lightly. 'Can you not regard it as… an addition to the library?'

'The library. Do we have a library, Sergeant?'

'Well, we could always start one, sir.'

'Then in that case, Mr Edalji, count me grateful.'

George half-wonders if they are making fun of him.

'It is pronounced Aydlji. Not Ee-dal-ji.'

'Aydlji.' The Inspector makes a rough stab, and pulls a face. 'If you don't mind, I'll settle for calling you Sir.'

George clears his throat. 'The first item on the agenda is this.' He produces the letter from 'A Lover of Justice'. 'There have been five others addressed to my place of business.'

Campbell reads it, passes it to the Sergeant, takes it back, reads it again. He wonders if this is a letter of denunciation or support. Or the former disguised as the latter. If it is a denunciation, why would anyone bring it to the police? If it is support, then why bring it unless you have already been accused? Campbell finds George's motive almost as interesting as the letter itself.

'Any idea who it's from?'

'It's unsigned.'

'I can see that, sir. May I ask if you intend to take the fellow's advice? Go away for your holiday?'

'Really, Inspector, that seems to be getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. Do you not regard this letter as a criminal libel?'

'I don't know sir, to be honest. It's lawyers like yourself that decide what's the law and what isn't. From a police point of view, I would say someone was having a lark at your expense.'

'A lark? Do you not think that if this letter were broadcast, with the allegation he pretends to be denying, that I would not be in danger from local farm-hands and miners?'

'I don't know, sir. All I can say is, I can't remember an anonymous letter giving rise to an assault in this district since I've been here. Can you, Parsons?' The Sergeant shakes his head. 'Now what do you make of this phrase, towards the middle… they do not think you are a right sort?'

'What do you make of it yourself?'

'Well, you see, it's not anything that's ever been said to me.'

'Very well, Inspector, what I "make" of it is that it is almost certainly a reference to the fact that my father is of Parsee origin.'

'Yes, I suppose it could refer to that.' Campbell bends his ginger head over the letter again, as if scrutinizing it for further meaning. He is trying to make his mind up about this man and his grievance; whether he is a straightforward complainant, or something more complicated.

'Could? Could? What else might it mean?'

'Well, it might mean that you don't fit in.'

'You mean, I do not play in the Great Wyrley cricket team?'

'Do you not, sir?'

George can feel his exasperation rising. 'Nor for that matter do I patronize public houses.'

'Do you not, sir?'

'Nor for that matter do I smoke tobacco.'

'Do you not, sir? Well, we'll have to wait and ask the letter writer what he meant by it. If and when we catch him. You said there was something else?'

The second item on George's agenda is to register a complaint against Sergeant Upton, both for his manner and his insinuations. Except that, when repeated back by the Inspector, they somehow cease to be insinuations. Campbell turns them into the plodding remarks of a not very bright member of the Constabulary to a rather pompous and oversensitive complainant.

George is now in some disarray. He came expecting gratitude for the book, shock at the letter, interest in his predicament. The Inspector has been correct, yet slow; his studied politeness strikes George as a kind of rudeness. Well, he must press on to his third item nevertheless.

'I have a suggestion. For your enquiry.' George pauses, as he planned to, in order to command their full attention. 'Bloodhounds.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Bloodhounds. They have, as I am sure you are aware, an excellent sense of smell. Were you to acquire a pair of trained bloodhounds, they would surely lead you from the scene of the next mutilation directly to the criminal. They can follow a scent with uncanny precision, and in this district there are no large streams or rivers into which the criminal might wade to confuse them.'

The Staffordshire Constabulary appears unused to practical suggestions from members of the public.

'Bloodhounds,' Campbell repeats. 'Indeed, a pair of them. It sounds like something out of a shilling shocker. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"' Then Parsons starts chuckling, and Campbell does not order him to be silent.

It has all gone horribly wrong, especially this last part, which George has thought up on his own account, and not even discussed with Father. He is downcast. As he leaves the station, the two policemen stand on the step watching him go. He hears the Sergeant observe, in a voice that carries, 'Maybe we could keep the bloodhounds in the library.'

The words seem to accompany him all the way back to the Vicarage, where he gives his parents an abbreviated account of the meeting. He decides that if the police decline his suggestions, he will help them even so. He places an advertisement in the Lichfield Mercury and other newspapers describing the renewed campaign of letters, and offering a reward of £25 to be paid in the event of criminal conviction. He remembers that his father's advertisement all those years ago merely had an inflammatory effect; but he hopes that this time the offer of money will produce results. He states that he is a solicitor-at-law.