Wood merely cleared his throat.

'Well?'

'I am not an investigator, Sir Arthur. I have heard you say that in the detective business you must eliminate the impossible and what is left, however improbable, must be the truth.'

'Not my own formulation, alas. But one I endorse.'

'So that is why I would not make an investigator. If someone asks me a question, I just look for the obvious answer.'

'And what would be your obvious answer in the case of Captain Anson and George Edalji?'

'That he dislikes people who are coloured.'

'Now that is indeed very obvious, Alfred. So obvious it cannot be the case. Whatever his faults, Anson is an English gentleman and a Chief Constable.'

'I told you I was not an investigator.'

'Let us not abandon hope so quickly. We'll see what you can do with my second blank. Which is this. Leaving aside that early episode with the maidservant, the persecution of the Edaljis takes place in two separate outbursts. The first runs from 1892 to the very beginning of 1896. It is intense and increasing. All of a sudden it stops. Nothing happens for seven years. Then it starts up again, and the first horse is ripped. February 1903. Why the gap, that's what I can't understand, why the gap? Investigator Wood, what is your view?'

The secretary did not enjoy this game very much; it seemed to be constructed so that he could only lose. 'Perhaps because whoever was responsible wasn't there.'

'Where?'

'In Wyrley.'

'Where was he?'

'He'd gone away.'

'Where to?'

'I don't know, Sir Arthur. Perhaps he was in prison. Perhaps he'd gone to Birmingham. Perhaps he'd run away to sea.'

'I rather doubt it. Again, it's too obvious. People in the district would have noticed. There'd have been talk.'

'The Edaljis said they didn't listen to talk.'

'Hmm. Let's see if Harry Charlesworth does. Now, the third area I don't understand is the matter of the hairs on the clothing. If we could eliminate the obvious on this one-'

'Thank you, Sir Arthur.'

'Oh, for Heaven's sake, Woodie, don't take offence. You're much too useful to take offence.'

Wood reflected that he had always had a deal of sympathy for the character of Dr Watson. 'What is the problem, sir?'

'The problem is this. The police examined George's clothing at the Vicarage and said there were hairs on it. The Vicar, his wife and his daughter examined the clothing and said there were no hairs on it. The police surgeon, Dr Butter – and police surgeons in my experience are the most scrupulous fellows – gave evidence that he found twenty-nine hairs "similar in length, colour and structure" to those of the mutilated pony. So there is a clear conflict. Were the Edaljis perjuring themselves to protect George? That would appear to be what the jury believed. George's explanation was that he might have leaned against a gate into a field in which cows were paddocked. I'm not surprised the jury didn't believe him. It sounds like a statement you are panicked into, not a description of something that happened. Besides, it still leaves the family as perjurers. If the hairs were on his clothing, they'd have seen them, wouldn't they?'

Wood took his time over this. Ever since entering Sir Arthur's employ, he had been acquiring new functions. Secretary, amanuensis, signature-forger, motoring assistant, golf partner, billiards opponent; now sounding board and stater of the obvious. Also, one who must be prepared for ridicule. Well, so be it. 'If the hairs weren't on his coat when the Edaljis examined it…'

'Yes…'

'And if they weren't there beforehand because George didn't lean on any gate…'

'Yes…'

'Then they must have got there afterwards.'

'After what?'

'After the clothing left the Vicarage.'

'You mean Dr Butter put them there?'

'No. I don't know. But if you want the obvious answer, it's that they got there afterwards. Somehow. And if so, then only the police are lying. Or some of the police.'

'A not impossible occurrence. You know, Alfred, you're not necessarily wrong, I'll say that for you.'

A compliment, Wood reflected, that Dr Watson might have been proud to receive.

The next day they returned to Wyrley with less pretence of concealment, and called on Harry Charlesworth in his milking parlour. They squelched through the consequences of a herd of cows to a small office attached to the back of the farmhouse. There were three rickety chairs, a small desk, a muddy raffia mat, and a calendar for the previous month at an angle on the wall. Harry was a blond, open-faced young man who seemed to welcome this interruption to his work.

'So you've come about George?'

Arthur looked crossly at Wood, who shook his head in denial.

'How did you know?'

'You went to the Vicarage last night.'

'Did we?'

'Well, at any rate two strangers were seen going to the Vicarage after dark, one of them a tall gentleman pulling his muffler up to hide his moustache, and the other a shorter one in a bowler hat.'

'Oh dear,' said Arthur. Perhaps he should have gone to the theatrical costumier after all.

'And now the same two gentlemen, if disguising themselves less obviously, have come to see me on business I was told was confidential but was soon to be revealed.' Harry Charlesworth was enjoying himself greatly. He was also happy to reminisce.

'Yes, we were at school together, when we were littl'uns. George was always very quiet. Never got into trouble, not like the rest of us. Clever too. Cleverer than me, and I was clever back then. Not that you'd know it now. Staring up the backside of a cow all day does rub away at your intelligence, you know.'

Arthur ignored this diversion into vulgar autobiography. 'But did George have any enemies? Was he disliked – on account of his colour, for instance?'

Harry thought about this for a while. 'Not as far as I can recall. But you know what it is with boys – they have likes and dislikes different from grown-ups. And different from month to month. If George was disliked, it was more for being clever. Or because his father was the Vicar and disapproved of the sort of things boys got up to. Or because he was short-sighted. The master put him up the front so he could see the blackboard. Maybe that looked like favouritism. More of a reason to dislike him than being coloured.'

Harry's analysis of the Wyrley Outrages was not complex. The case against George was daft. The police were daft. And the notion that there was a mysterious Gang flitting around after nightfall under the orders of some mysterious Captain was daftest of all.

'Harry, we shall need to interview Trooper Green. Given that he's the only person hereabouts who actually admits to ripping a horse.'

'Fancy a long trip, do you?'

'Where to?'

'South Africa. Ah, you didn't know. Harry Green got himself a ticket to South Africa just a couple of weeks after the trial was over. It wasn't a return ticket either.'

'Interesting. Any idea who paid for it?'

'Well, not Harry Green, that's for certain. Someone interested in keeping him out of harm's way.'

'The police?'

'Possible. Not that they were too thrilled with him by the time he left. He went back on his confession. Said he'd never done the ripping, and the police had bullied the confession out of him.'

'Did he, by Jove? What do you make of that, Woodie?'

Wood dutifully stated the obvious. 'Well, I'd say he was lying either the first time or the second. Or,' he added with a touch of mischief, 'possibly both.'

'Harry, can you find out if Mr Green has an address for his son in South Africa?'

'I can certainly try.'

'And another thing. Was there talk in Wyrley about who might have done it, given that George didn't?'

'There's always talk. It's the same price as rain. All I'd say is, it's got to be someone who knows how to handle animals. You can't just go up to a horse or a sheep or a cow and say, Hold still my lovely while I rip your guts out. I'd like to see George Edalji go into the parlour and try and milk one of my cows…' Harry lost himself briefly in the amusement of this notion. 'He'd be kicked to death or fall in the shit before he'd got his stool under her.'