George feels he is hallucinating. He feels as if the world has gone mad. He is back at Portland having a dry bath. They have ordered him stripped to his shirt, they have made him lift his legs and open his mouth. They have pulled up his tongue and – what's this, D462? What's this you've been hiding under your tongue? I do believe it's a crowbar. Don't you think this is a crowbar the prisoner has hidden under his tongue, officer? We'd better report this to the Governor. You're in serious trouble, D462, I'd better warn you. And you with all your talk about being the last prisoner in the gaol who might want to escape. You with your sainted airs and your library books. We've got your number, George Edalji, and it's D462.

He stops again. Arthur continues. The second defect of the prosecution's case lay in whether or not Edalji was meant to have acted alone; they changed their mind as the evidence suited them. Well, at least the officially appointed dunderheads couldn't miss that. The key question of eyesight. much stress has been laid on this in some of the communications addressed to the Home Office. Yes indeed: stress laid by the leading men of Harley Street and Manchester Square. We have carefully considered the report of the eminent expert who examined Edalji in prison and the opinion of oculists that have been laid before us; and the materials now collected appear to us entirely insufficient to establish the alleged impossibility.

'Imbeciles! entirely insufficient. Dunderheads and imbeciles!'

Jean keeps her head lowered. This was, she remembers, the very starting point of Arthur's campaign: the reason he did not just think George Edalji was innocent, he knew it. How disrespectful can they be, to treat Arthur's work and judgement so lightly!

But he is reading on, rushing ahead as if to forget this point. 'In our opinion, the conviction was unsatisfactory and… we cannot agree with the verdict of the jury. Ha!'

'That means you've won, Arthur. They have cleared his name.'

'Ha!' Arthur does not even acknowledge the interjection. 'Now listen to this. Our view of the case means that it would not have been warranted for the Home Office previously to interfere. Hypocrites. Liars. Wholesale purveyors of whitewash.'

'What does that mean, Arthur?'

'It means, my dearest Jean, that no one has done anything wrong. It means that the great British solution to everything has been applied. Something terrible has happened, but nobody has done anything wrong. It ought to be retrospectively enshrined in the Bill of Rights. Nothing shall be anybody's fault, and especially not ours.'

'But they admit the verdict was wrong.'

'They said that George was innocent, but the fact that he has enjoyed three years of penal servitude is nobody's fault. Time after time the defects were pointed out to the Home Office and time after time the Home Office declined to reconsider. Nobody did anything wrong. Hurrah, hurrah.'

'Arthur, calm down a little, please. Take a little brandy and soda or something. You may even smoke your pipe if you wish.'

'Never in front of a lady.'

'Well, I would happily make an exception. But do calm down a little. And then we shall see how they justify such a statement.'

But George gets there first. suggestions… prerogative of mercy… grant of a free pardon… On the one hand, we think the conviction ought not to have taken place, for the reasons we have stated… total ruin of his professional position and prospects… police supervisions… difficult if not impossible for him to recover anything like the position he has lost. George stops at this moment, and takes a drink of water. He knows that On the one hand is always followed by On the other hand, and is not sure he is able to face what that hand might be.

'On the other hand,' roars Arthur. 'My God, the Home Office will find as many hands as that Indian god, what's his name-'

'Shiva, dear.'

'Shiva, when they want to find a reason why nothing is their fault. On the other hand, being unable to disagree with what we take to be the finding of the jury, that Edalji was the writer of the letters of 1903, we cannot but see that, assuming him to be an innocent man, he has to some extent brought his troubles upon himself. No, no, no no, NO.'

'Arthur, please. People will think we are having an argument.'

'I'm sorry. It's just that… aaah, Appendix One, yes, yes, petitions, reasons why the Home Office never does anything. Appendix Two, let's see how the Solomon of the Home Office thanks the Committee. careful and exhaustive report. Exhaustive! Four whole pages, with not a single mention of Anson or Royden Sharp! Blether… brought his troubles upon himself… blether blether… accept the conclusions… however… exceptional case… I'll say so… permanent disqualifications… Oh, I see, what they're most afraid of is the legal profession, all of which knows this is the greatest miscarriage of justice since, since… yes, so if they allow him to be reinstated… blether, blether… fullest and most anxious considerations… free pardon.'

'Free pardon,' repeats Jean, looking up. So victory is theirs.

'Free pardon,' reads George, aware that there is one sentence of the Report left to come.

'Free pardon,' repeats Arthur. He and George read the last sentence together. 'But I have also come to the conclusion that the case is not one in which any grant of compensation can be made.'

George lays down the Report and puts his head in his hands. Arthur, in a tone of sardonic funereality, reads its final words, 'I am, yours very truly, H.J. Gladstone.'

'Arthur dear, you were rather rushing things towards the end.' She has never seen him in such a mood before; she finds it alarming. She would not like such feelings ever turned against her.

'They should erect new signs at the Home Office. Instead of Entrance and Exit, they should read On the One Hand and On the Other Hand.'

'Arthur, could you try to be a little less obscure and just tell me what this means, exactly.'

'It means, it means, my darling Jean, that this Home Office, this Government, this country, this England of ours has discovered a new legal concept. In the old days, you were either innocent or guilty. If you were not innocent, you were guilty, and if you were not guilty, you were innocent. A simple enough system, tried and tested down many centuries, grasped by judges, juries and the populace at large. As from today, we have a new concept in English law – guilty and innocent. George Edalji is a pioneer in this regard. The only man to be granted a free pardon for a crime he never committed, and yet to be told at the same time that it was quite right he served three years' penal servitude.'

'So it's a compromise?'

'Compromise! No, it's a hypocrisy. It's what this country does best. The bureaucrats and the politicians have spent centuries perfecting it. It's called a Government Report. It's called Blether, it's called-'

'Arthur, light your pipe.'

'Never. I once caught a fellow smoking in front of a lady. I took the pipe from his mouth, snapped it in two and threw the pieces at his feet.'

'But Mr Edalji will be able to return to his work as a solicitor.'

'He will. And every potential client of his who can read a newspaper will think they are consulting a man mad enough to write anonymous letters denouncing himself for a heinous crime which even the Home Secretary and the cousin of the blessed Anson admit he had absolutely nothing to do with.'

'But perhaps it will be forgotten. You said that they were burying bad news by producing it over Whitsun. So perhaps people will only remember that Mr Edalji was granted a free pardon.'

'Not if I have anything to do with it.'