'If you are to ask yourselves, as others in the courtroom have done over these past days, But what is the prisoner's motive? Why should an outwardly respectable young man commit such a heinous act? Various explanations might offer themselves to the mind of the reasonable observer. Might the prisoner have been acting out of specific spite and malice? It is possible, though perhaps unlikely, given that far too many victims have been involved in the Great Wyrley Outrages and the campaign of anonymous libel that accompanied it. Could he have acted out of insanity? You might judge so, when faced with the unspeakable barbarity of his actions. And yet this too falls short of an explanation, for the crime was too well planned, and too cleverly executed, for it to have been carried out by someone who was insane. No: we must, I would suggest, look for the motivation in a brain that was not diseased, but rather formed differently from that of ordinary men and women. The motive was not financial gain, or revenge against an individual, but rather a desire for notoriety, a desire for anonymous self-importance, a desire to cheat the police at every turn, a desire to laugh in the face of society, a desire to prove oneself superior. Like you, members of the jury, I have at different moments of the trial, convinced as I am and as you will be of the prisoner's guilt, I have found myself asking, but why, but why? And this is what I would say to that question. It really does seem to point to a person who did these outrages from some diabolical cunning in the corner of his brain.'

George, who had been listening with his head slightly bowed, so as to concentrate on Mr Disturnal's words, realized that the address had come to a close. He looked up, and found the prosector staring dramatically across at him as if, only now, he was finally seeing the prisoner in the full light of truth. The jury, thus authorized by Mr Disturnal, was also openly scrutinizing him; as was Sir Reginald Hardy; as was the whole courtroom, with the exception of his family. Perhaps PC Dubbs and the other constable standing behind him in the dock were even now examining the jacket of his suit for bloodstains.

The Chairman began his summing-up at a quarter to one, referring to the Outrages as 'a blot on the name of the county'. George listened, but was constantly aware that he was being assessed by twelve good men and true for manifestations of diabolical cunning. There was nothing he could do about it, except try to look as stolid as possible. That was how he must appear in the last few minutes before his fate was decided. Be stolid, he told himself, be stolid.

At two o'clock, Sir Reginald sent the jury away and George was taken down to the basement. PC Dubbs stood guard, as he had done for the previous four days, with the slightly embarrassed air of one who knew George was hardly the escaping type. He had treated his prisoner with respect, and never once manhandled him. Given that there was now no chance of his words being misinterpreted, George engaged him in conversation.

'Constable, in your experience, is it a good thing or a bad thing if the jury takes a long time making up its mind?'

Dubbs thought about this for a while. 'In my experience, sir, I'd say it could be either a good thing or a bad thing. One or the other. It depends really.'

'I see,' said George. He did not usually say 'I see', and recognized he must have caught the mannerism from the barristers. 'And in your experience, what if the jury makes its mind up speedily?'

'Ah, now that, sir, that could be either a good thing or a bad thing. It depends on circumstances really.'

George allowed himself a smile, and Dubbs or anyone else could make of it what they would. It seemed to him that if the jury returned quickly, that must – given the gravity of the case and the need for all twelve to agree – be good for him. And a slow return would not be bad either, because the longer they considered the matter, the more its essentials would rise to the surface and the furious distractions of Mr Disturnal would be seen for what they were.

Constable Dubbs seemed as surprised as George when the call came after only forty minutes. They made their last journey together along the dim passages and up the stairs into the dock. At a quarter to three the clerk of the court put to the foreman words long familiar to George.

'Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you find the prisoner, George Ernest Thompson Edalji, guilty or not guilty on the charge of maiming a horse, the property of the Great Wyrley Colliery Company?'

'Guilty, sir.'

No, that's wrong, George thought. He looked at the foreman, a white-haired, schoolmasterly fellow with a light Staffordshire accent. You just said the wrong words. Unsay them. You meant to say, Not guilty. That is the correct answer to the question. All this rushed through George's mind, until he realized that the foreman was still on his feet and about to speak. Yes, of course, he was going to correct his mistake.

'The jury, on reaching its verdict, has a recommendation to mercy.'

'On what grounds?' asked Sir Reginald Hardy, peering across at the foreman.

'His position.'

'His personal position?'

'Yes.'

The Chairman and the two other justices retired to consider sentence. George could scarcely look at his family. His mother was pressing a handkerchief to her face; his father staring dully ahead. Maud, whom he had expected to be wailing, surprised him. She had turned her whole body in his direction and was gazing up towards him, gravely, lovingly. He felt that if he could retain that look in his memory, then the worst things might possibly be bearable.

But before he could think further, George was being addressed by the Chairman, who had taken barely a few minutes to make his decision.

'George Edalji, the verdict of the jury is a right one. They have recommended you to mercy in consideration of the position you hold. We have to determine what punishment to award. We have to take into consideration your personal position, and what any punishment means to you. On the other hand, we have to consider the state of the county of Stafford, and of the Great Wyrley district, and the disgrace inflicted on the neighbourhood by this condition of things. Your sentence is one of penal servitude for seven years.'

A kind of under-murmur went through the court, a throaty yet inexpressive noise. George thought: no, seven years, I cannot survive seven years, even Maud's look cannot sustain me that long. Mr Vachell must explain, he must say something in protest.

Instead, it was Mr Disturnal who rose. Now that a conviction had been achieved, it was time for magnanimity. The charge of sending a threatening letter to Sergeant Robinson would not be proceeded with.

'Take him down' – and Constable Dubbs's hand was on his arm, and before he had time for one last exchange of glances with his family, one last look around the light of the courtroom where he had so confidently expected justice to be delivered, he was thrust down through the trapdoor, down into the flickering gaslight of the crepuscular basement. Dubbs explained politely that, given the verdict, he was now required to put the prisoner in the holding cell while awaiting transport to the gaol. George sat there inertly, his mind still in the courtroom, slowly going over the events of the last four days: evidence supplied, answers given in cross-examination, legal tactics. He had no complaints about his solicitor's diligence or his barrister's effectiveness. As for the prosecution: Mr Disturnal had put his case cleverly and antagonistically, but this had been expected; and yes, Mr Meek had been correct about the fellow's skill at making bricks despite the unavailability of straw.

And then his capacity for calm professional analysis ran out. He felt immensely tired and yet also over-excited. His sequential thoughts lost their steady pace; they lurched, they plunged ahead, they followed emotional gravity. It was suddenly borne in upon him that until minutes ago only a few people – mostly policemen, and perhaps some foolishly ignorant members of the public, the sort who would beat on the doors of a passing cab – had actually assumed him guilty. But now – and shame broke over him at the realization – now almost everyone would think him so. Those who read the newspapers, his fellow solicitors in Birmingham, passengers on the morning train to whom he had distributed flyers for Railway Law. Next he started picturing specific individuals who would think him guilty: like Mr Merriman the stationmaster, and Mr Bostock the schoolteacher, and Mr Greensill the butcher who from now on would always remind him of Gurrin the handwriting expert, the man who judged him capable of writing blasphemy and filth. And not just Gurrin – Mr Merriman and Mr Bostock and Mr Greensill would believe that as well as slitting the bellies of animals George was also the author of blasphemy and filth. So would the maid at the Vicarage, and the churchwarden, and so would Harry Charlesworth, whose friendship he had invented. Even Harry's sister Dora – had she existed – would have been revolted by him.