George

George spent the six weeks between the committal proceedings and the Quarter Sessions in the hospital wing of Stafford Gaol. He was not discontented; he thought it the correct decision to refuse bail. He could hardly have carried on his business with such charges hanging over him; and while he missed his family, he judged it best for all of them that he stayed in safe custody. That report of crowds besieging the Vicarage had alarmed him; and he remembered fists pounding on the cab doors as he was driven to court in Cannock. He would not be able to count himself safe if such hotheads sought him out among the lanes of Great Wyrley.

But there was another reason why he preferred to be in prison. Everyone knew where he was; every moment of the day he was spied upon and accounted for. So if a further outrage occurred, the whole pattern of events would be shown to have nothing to do with him. And were the first charge against him found untenable, then the second one – the ludicrous proposition that he had threatened to murder a man he had never met – would also have to be withdrawn. It was strange to find himself, a solicitor-at-law, actually hoping for another animal to be maimed; but a further crime seemed to him the speediest way to freedom.

Still, even if the case came to trial, there could be no doubt over the outcome. He had regained both his composure and his optimism; he did not have to play-act either with Mr Meek or with his parents. He could already imagine the headlines. GREAT WYRLEY MAN CLEARED. SHAMEFUL PROSECUTION OF LOCAL SOLICITOR. POLICE WITNESSES DECLARED INCOMPETENT. Perhaps even CHIEF CONSTABLE RESIGNS.

Mr Meek had more or less convinced him that it mattered little how the newspapers depicted him. It seemed to matter even less on September 21st, when a horse at the farm belonging to Mr Green was found ripped and disembowelled. George greeted the news with a kind of cautious exultation. He could hear keys turning in locks, could smell the early-morning air, and his mother's powder when he embraced her.

'Now this proves I am innocent, Mr Meek.'

'Not exactly, Mr Edalji. I don't think we can go quite that far.'

'But here I am in prison…'

'Which only goes to prove, in the court's view, that you are and must be entirely innocent of mutilating Mr Green's horse.'

'No, it proves there was a pattern to events, before and after the Colliery pony, which has now been shown to have absolutely nothing to do with me.'

'I know that, Mr Edalji.' The solicitor rested his chin on his fist.

'But?'

'But I always find it useful in these moments to imagine what the prosecution might say in the circumstances.'

'And what might they possibly say?'

'Well, on the night of August 17th, as I remember, when the defendant was walking from the bootmaker, he went as far as Mr Green's farm.'

'Yes, I did.'

'Mr Green is the defendant's neighbour.'

'That is true.'

'So what could be of greater benefit to the defendant in his present circumstances than for a horse to be mutilated even closer to the Vicarage than in any other previous incident?'

Litchfield Meek watched George work this out.

'You mean that after getting myself arrested by writing anonymous letters denouncing myself for crimes I did not commit, I then incite someone else to commit another crime in order to exculpate me?'

'That's about the long and the short of it, Mr Edalji.'

'It's utterly ridiculous. And I don't even know Green.'

'I'm just telling you how the prosecution might choose to see it. If they had the mind.'

'Which they doubtless will. But the police must at least hunt the criminal, mustn't they? The newspapers hint quite openly that this throws doubt on the prosecution case. If they found the man, and he confessed to the string of crimes, then that would be my freedom?'

'If that were to happen, Mr Edalji, then yes, I would agree.'

'I see.'

'And there's another development. Does the name Darby mean anything to you? Captain Darby?'

'Darby. Darby. I don't think so. Inspector Campbell asked me about someone called the Captain. Perhaps this is him. Why?'

'More letters have been sent. To all and sundry it appears. One even to the Home Secretary. All signed "Darby, Captain of the Wyrley Gang". Saying how the maimings are going to continue.' Mr Meek saw the look in George's eye. 'But no, Mr Edalji, this only means that the prosecution must accept you almost certainly didn't write them.'

'You seem determined to discourage me this morning, Mr Meek.'

'That is not my intention. But you must accept we are going to trial. And with that in mind we have secured the services of Mr Vachell.'

'Oh, that's excellent news.'

'He will not, I think, let us down. And Mr Gaudy will be at his side.'

'And for the prosecution?'

'Mr Disturnal, I'm afraid. And Mr Harrison.'

'Is Disturnal bad for us?'

'To be honest with you, I would have preferred another.'

'Mr Meek, now it is my turn to put heart into you. A barrister, however competent, cannot make bricks without straw.'

Litchfield Meek gave George a worldly smile. 'In my years in the courts, Mr Edalji, I've seen bricks made from all sorts of materials. Some you didn't even know existed. Lack of straw will be no hardship to Mr Disturnal.'

Despite this approaching threat, George spent the remaining weeks at Stafford Gaol in a tranquil state of mind. He was treated respectfully and there was an order to his days. He received newspapers and mail; he prepared for the trial with Mr Meek; he awaited developments in the Green case; and he was allowed books. His father had brought him a Bible, his mother a one-volume Shakespeare and a one-volume Tennyson. He read the latter two; then, out of idleness, some shilling shockers which a warder passed on to him. The fellow also lent him a tattered cheap edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles. George judged it excellent.

He opened the newspaper each morning with less apprehension, given that his own name had temporarily vanished from its pages. Instead, he learned with interest that there were new Cabinet appointments in London; that Dr Elgar's latest oratorio had been performed at the Birmingham musical festival; that Buffalo Bill was on a tour of England.

A week before the trial, George met Mr Vachell, a cheerful and corpulent barrister with twenty years' service on the Midland Circuit.

'How do you judge my case, Mr Vachell?'

'I judge it well, Mr Edalji, very well. That is to say, I consider the prosecution scandalous and largely devoid of merit. Of course I shall not say so. I shall merely concentrate on what seem to me to be the strong points of your case.'

'And what, to you, do they seem to be?'

'I would put it like this, Mr Edalji.' The barrister gave him a smile which was almost a grin. 'There is no evidence that you committed this crime. There is no motive for you committing this crime. And there was no opportunity for you to commit this crime. I shall wrap it up a little for the judge and jury. But that will be the essence of my case.'

'It is perhaps a pity,' put in Mr Meek, 'that we are in Court B.' His tone punctured George's temporary elation.

'Why is that a pity?'

'Court A is run by Lord Hatherton. Who at least has legal training.'

'You mean I am to be judged by someone who doesn't know the law?'

Mr Vachell intervened. 'Don't alarm him, Mr Meek. I've been before both courts in my time. Who do we get in Court B?'

'Sir Reginald Hardy.'

Mr Vachell's expression did not flicker. 'Perfectly all right. In some ways I consider it an advantage not to be governed by some stickler who aspires to the High Court. You can get away with a little more. Not pulled up so often for meretricious demonstrations of procedural knowledge. On the whole, an advantage to the defence, I'd say.'