“Oh, yes, very clever.”
Mr. Disturnal made an oleaginous pretence of deep concern for the distress Mrs. Edalji must feel at finding herself and her son in their current circumstances.
This was not a question, but George’s mother automatically took it as such, and began to praise her son. “He was always a studious boy. He gained many prizes at school. He studied at Mason College in Birmingham, and was a Law Society medallist. His book on railway law was very well received by many newspapers and law journals. It is published, you know, as one of the Wilson’s Legal Handy Books.”
Mr. Disturnal encouraged this effusion of maternal pride. He asked if there was anything else she would like to say.
“I would.” Mrs. Edalji looked across at her son in the dock. “He has always been kind and dutiful to us, and from a child he was always kind to any dumb creature. It would have been impossible for him to maim or injure anything, even if we had not known he was not out of the house.”
You would almost have thought Mr. Disturnal was himself a son of hers from the way he thanked her; a son, that is, who was deeply indulgent towards the blind good-heartedness and naivety of his old white-headed mother.
Maud was called next, to give her account of the state of George’s clothing. Her voice was steady, and her evidence lucid; even so, George felt petrified as Mr. Disturnal rose, nodding to himself.
“Your evidence, Miss Edalji, is exactly the same, down to the smallest detail, as that of your parents.”
Maud looked evenly back at him, waiting to see if this was a question, or the precursor to some deadly assault. Whereupon Mr. Disturnal, with a sigh, sat down again.
Later, at the deal table in the basement of Shire Hall, George felt exhausted and dispirited. “Mr. Meek, I fear my parents were not good witnesses.”
“I would not say that, Mr. Edalji. It is rather the case that the best people are not necessarily the best witnesses. The more scrupulous they are, the more honest, the more they dwell on each word of the question and doubt themselves out of modesty, then the more they can be played with by counsel like Mr. Disturnal. This is not the first time it has happened, I can assure you. How can I put it? It’s a question of belief. What we believe, why we believe it. From a purely legal point of view, the best witnesses are those whom the jury believes most.”
“In fact, they were bad witnesses.” All through the trial it had been not George’s hope but his certainty that his father’s evidence would bring him instant vindication. The prosecuting counsel’s attack would break against the rock of his father’s integrity, and Mr. Disturnal would come away like a miscreant parishioner rebuked for idle slander. But the attack had never come, or rather not in the form that George had anticipated; and his father had failed him, had failed to reveal himself as an Olympian deity whose sworn word was irrebuttable. Instead, he had shown himself pedantic, prickly and at times confused. George had wanted to explain to the court that if as a boy he had committed the slightest misdemeanour, his father would have marched him to the police station and demanded exemplary punishment: the higher the duty, the greater the sin. But instead the opposite impression had emerged: that his parents were indulgent fools who could easily be duped. “They were bad witnesses,” he repeated dismally.
“They spoke the truth,” replied Mr. Meek. “And we should not have expected them to do otherwise, or in a fashion that was not their own. We should trust the jury to be able to see that. Mr. Vachell is confident for tomorrow; so must we be.”
And by the next morning, as George was taken from Stafford Gaol to Shire Hall for the last time, as he prepared to hear his story laid out in its final and ever-diverging form, he felt in good heart again. It was Friday 23rd October. By tomorrow he would be back at the Vicarage. On Sunday he would worship again beneath the upturned keel of St. Mark’s. And on Monday the 7:39 would take him back to Newhall Street, to his desk, his work, his books. He would celebrate his freedom by beginning a subscription to Halsbury’s Laws of England.
As he emerged from the narrow staircase into the dock, the courtroom seemed even more crowded than on previous days. The excitement was both palpable and, to George, alarming: it did not feel like the grave anticipation of justice, more like a vulgar theatrical expectation. Mr. Vachell looked across and smiled at him, the first time he had made such a gesture openly. George did not know whether to return the greeting in the same fashion, but settled for a slight inclination of the head. He looked across at the jury, twelve good Staffordshire men and true, who from the start had struck him as being of decent and sober mien. He noted the presence of Captain Anson and Inspector Campbell, his twin accusers. Though not his real accusers—they were perhaps out on Cannock Chase, gloating at what they had done, and even now sharpening what in Mr. Lewis’s view was a curved weapon with concave sides.
At Sir Reginald Hardy’s invitation, Mr. Vachell began his final address. He asked members of the jury to put aside the sensational aspects of the case—the newspaper headlines, the public hysteria, the rumours and allegations—and concentrate their minds on the simple facts. There was not the slightest evidence to show that George Edalji had left the Vicarage—a building closely watched by the Staffordshire Constabulary for days previously—on the night of the 17th to 18th of August. There was not the slightest evidence to connect him to the crime with which he was charged: the minuscule bloodstains found could have come from any source, and were quite incompatible with the violent damage wreaked upon the Colliery pony; as for the hairs supposedly found upon his clothing, there was a complete discrepancy of evidence, and, even had hairs existed, there were alternative explanations for their presence. Then there were the anonymous letters denouncing George Edalji, which the prosecution maintained had been written by the defendant himself, a ludicrous suggestion quite out of keeping with both logic and the criminal mind; as for Mr. Gurrin’s testimony, it was no more than a matter of opinion, from which the jury was entitled, and indeed expected, to dissociate itself.
Mr. Vachell then dealt with the various innuendos made against his client. His refusal to accept bail had been made out of reasonable, not to say admirable, sentiments: the filial desire to lighten the burden on his frail and elderly parents. Then there was the murky business of John Harry Green to consider. The prosecution had sought to tarnish George Edalji by association; yet not the slightest link had been established between the defendant and Mr. Green, whose absence from the witness box spoke volumes. In this, as in other regards, the prosecution case amounted to no more than a thing of shreds and patches, of hints and innuendos and insinuations, none of which connected to one another. “What have we left,” counsel for the defence asked in peroration, “what have we left after four days here in this courtroom, except the crumbling, crumpled and shattered theories of the police?”
George was pleased as Mr. Vachell regained his seat. It had been clear, well-argued, with no false emotional appeals of the kind some advocates went in for; and it had been most professional—that is to say, George had noted the places where Mr. Vachell took more liberties of phrasing and inference than might have been allowed in Court A under Lord Hatherton.
Mr. Disturnal was in no hurry; he stood and waited, as if for the effect of Mr. Vachell’s closing words to dissipate. Then he began to take those shreds and patches alluded to by his adversary, and patiently sewed them back together again, making a cloak to hang round George’s shoulders. He asked the jury to consider first the behaviour of the prisoner, and reflect upon whether or not it was that of an innocent man. The refusal to wait for Inspector Campbell and the smile at the railway station; the lack of surprise at his arrest; the question about Blewitt’s dead horses; the threat to the mysterious Loxton; the refusal of bail and the confident prediction that the Great Wyrley gang would strike again and effect his liberation. Was this the behaviour of an innocent man, Mr. Disturnal asked as he reconnected each of these links for the jury’s mind.
The bloodstains; the handwriting; and th
en the clothing yet again. The prisoner’s clothes were wet, his house-coat and boots in particular. The police had stated this, and sworn this. Every policeman who had examined his house-coat had testified that it was wet. If so, and if the police were not completely mistaken—and how could or should they be?—then there was only one possible explanation. George Edalji had, as the prosecution maintained, stealthily crept out of the Vicarage into the stormy night of the 17th to the 18th of August.
But even so, despite the overwhelming evidence of the prisoner’s deep involvement in the crime, whether alone or with others, there was, Mr. Disturnal admitted, one question that needed to be answered. What had been his motive? It was a question the jury had every right to raise. And Mr. Disturnal was there to help with the reply.
“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 explanation 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 prosecutor 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 abou
t 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.
He imagined all these people looking at him—and now they were joined by Mr. Hands the bootmaker. Mr. Hands would think that George, after having himself expertly fitted for a new pair of boots, had gone calmly home, eaten his supper, deceitfully retired to bed, then crept out, struck across the fields and mutilated a pony. And when George imagined all these witnesses and accusers he felt such a wash of sorrow for himself, and for what had been done to his life, that he wanted to be allowed to stay in this subterranean dimness for ever. But before he could even hold himself at this level of misery, he was swept away again, because of course all these Wyrley folk would not be looking at him in this accusatory way—at least, not for many years. No, they would be looking at his parents: at Father in the pulpit, at Mother as she made her parish rounds; they would be looking at Maud when she entered a shop, at Horace when he came home from Manchester—if he ever came home again, given his brother’s downfall. Everyone would look, and point, and say: their son, their brother did the Wyrley Outrages. And he had inflicted this public and continuing humiliation upon his family, who were everything to him. They knew him innocent, but this only doubled his sense of guilt towards them.