That is what he had told himself – told himself and others so often that he had ended up believing it. Had he always been fooling himself? For this was the very room where, a few weeks before her death, Touie had told their daughter that her father would marry again. When Mary reported the conversation, he had tried to make light of the matter – a foolish decision, he now realized. He should have taken the opportunity to praise Touie, and also to prepare the ground; instead he had been panicked into jocularity and asked something like, 'Did she have any particular candidate in mind?' To which Mary had said, 'Father!' And there was no doubting the disapproval with which that word had been pronounced.
He continued looking out of the bedroom window, down past the neglected tennis ground to the valley which once, in a moment of whimsy, he had found reminiscent of a German folk tale. Now it looked no more than the part of Surrey that it was. He could hardly reopen the conversation with Mary. But one thing was certain: if Touie knew, then he was destroyed. If Touie knew and Mary knew, then he was doubly destroyed. If Touie knew, then Hornung was right. If Touie knew, then the Mam was wrong. If Touie knew, then he had played the grossest hypocrite with Connie and shamefully manipulated old Mrs Hawkins. If Touie knew, then his whole concept of honourable behaviour was a sham. On the wold above Masongill, he had said to the Mam that honour and dishonour lay so close to one another that it was hard to tell them apart, and the Mam had replied that this was what made honour so important. What if he had been paddling in dishonour the whole time, fooling himself yet nobody else? What if the world took him for a common adulterer – and even though he was not, he might as well have been? What if Hornung had been right and there was no difference between guilt and innocence?
He sat heavily on the bed and thought of those illicit journeys to Yorkshire: how he and Jean would arrive by different trains, and leave by different ones, so that they could pretend to innocence. Ingleton was two hundred and fifty miles from Hindhead; there they were safe. But he had confused safety with honour. Over the years, it must have become perfectly plain to everyone. What were English villages but vortices of gossip? However Jean might be chaperoned, however clearly he and Jean never stayed under the same roof, here was the famous Arthur Conan Doyle, who married in the parish church, striding over wold and fell with another woman at his side.
And then there was Waller. All that time, in his blithe smugness, he had never asked himself what Waller made of it all. The Mam had approved his course of action, and this had been sufficient. It did not matter what Waller thought. And Waller, being a smooth and easy fellow, had never been crude. He had behaved as if he entirely believed whatever story was put in front of him. The Leckies being old friends of the Doyles; the Mam having always been fond of the Leckie girl. Waller had never said more nor less than common courtesy and common prudence enjoined. He did not try to put Arthur off his golf swing with some comment about Jean Leckie being a handsome young woman. But Waller would have seen the subterfuge immediately. Perhaps – God forbid – he had discussed it with the Mam behind Arthur's back. No, he could not bear to think as much. But in any case, Waller would have seen, Waller would have known. And – which was the hardest part, Arthur now realized – Waller would have been able to look at him with immense self-satisfaction. While they shot partridge together and went out ferreting, he would have been remembering that schoolboy back from Austria, who had viewed him as a cuckoo in the nest, who stood there galumphingly ignorant yet full of violent speculation and violent embarrassment. And then the years had passed, and Arthur began coming to Masongill for a few stolen hours alone with Jean. And now Waller was able silently, without the slightest murmur – which made it all the worse, of course, and all the more superior – Waller was able to take his moral revenge. You dared to look at me and disapprove? You dared to think you understood life? You dared impugn your mother's honour? And now you come here and use your mother and myself and the whole village as camouflage for a rendezvous? You take your mother's pony cart and drive past St Oswald's with your inamorata at your side. You think the village does not notice? You imagine your best man an amnesiac? You tell yourself – and others – that your behaviour is honourable?
No, he must stop. He knew this spiral too well already, he knew its descending temptations, and exactly where it led: to lethargy, despair and self-contempt. No, he must stick to known facts. The Mam had approved his actions. So had everyone except Hornung. Waller had said nothing. Touie had merely warned Mary not to be shocked if he remarried – the words of a loving and considerate wife and mother. Touie had said nothing more and therefore known nothing more. Mary knew nothing. Neither the living nor the dead would benefit from him torturing himself. And life must go on. Touie knew that and Touie had not resented it. Life must go on.
Dr Butter agreed to meet him in London; but other correspondents were less encouraging. George had never done business of any kind in Walsall. Mr Mitchell, the Headmaster of Walsall School, informed him that no pupil by the name of Speck had been on their roll in the last twenty years: further, that his predecessor Mr Aldis had served with distinction for sixteen years, and the notion that he was either denounced or dismissed was plain nonsense. The Home Secretary, Mr Herbert Gladstone, presented his compliments and respects to Sir Arthur, and after several paragraphs of flummery and twaddle regretfully declined any further review of the already much-reviewed Edalji case. The final letter was on the writing paper of the Staffordshire County Police. 'Dear Sir,' it began, 'I shall be much interested to note what Sherlock Holmes has to say about a case in real life…' But jocularity did not signal cooperativeness: Captain Anson was not inclined to assist Sir Arthur in any respect. There was no precedent for turning over police records to a member of the public, however distinguished he might be; no precedent either for permitting such a member to interview officers of the force under the Captain's command. Indeed, since Sir Arthur's evident intention was to discredit the Staffordshire Constabulary, its Chief Constable could not see that cooperation with the enemy was strategically or tactically advisable.
Arthur preferred the combative bluntness of the former artillery officer to the mealy-mouthedness of the politician. It might be possible to win Anson round; though his use of military metaphor made Arthur wonder if rather than civilly answering his opponents shot for shot – his expert against their expert – he should not lay down an artillery barrage and blast their position to smithereens. Yes, why not? If they had one handwriting expert, he would produce several in return: not just Dr Lindsay Johnson but perhaps Mr Gobert and Mr Douglas Blackburn as well. And in case anyone doubted Mr Kenneth Scott of Manchester Square, he would send George to several more eye specialists. Yelverton had favoured attrition, which had produced satisfactory results until the final stalemate; now Arthur would switch to maximum force and an advance on all fronts.
He met Dr Butter at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. This time he was not late as he turned in from Northumberland Avenue; nor did he linger surreptitiously to observe the police surgeon. In any case, he could have deduced the man's character in advance from his evidence: it was measured, cautious, and not given to wild or frivolous speculation. At the trial he had never claimed more than his observations could support: this had been advantageous to the defence over the bloodstains, disadvantageous over the hairs. It had been Butter's evidence, even more than that of the charlatan Gurrin, which had condemned George to Lewes and Portland.