George nods slowly to himself as he takes in the argument. Sir Arthur is impressed by the young man. He seems to have a calm and deliberate mind. From his Scottish mother or his clergyman father? Or a benign mixing of the two?
“Sir Arthur, may I ask if you are a Christian?”
Now it is Arthur’s turn to be startled. He does not wish to offend this son of the manse, so he replies with his own question. “Why do you ask?”
“I was brought up, as you know, in the Vicarage. I love and respect my parents, and naturally, when I was young, I shared their beliefs. How could I not? I would never have made a priest myself, but I accepted the teachings of the Bible as the best guide to living a true and honourable life.” He looks at Sir Arthur to see how he is responding; soft eyes and an inclination of the head encourage him. “I still do think them the best guide. As I think the laws of England are the best guide for how society in general may live a true and honourable life together. But then my . . . my ordeal began. At first I viewed it all as an unfortunate example of maladministration of the law. The police made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the magistrates. The magistrates made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the Quarter Sessions. The Quarter Sessions made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the Home Office. It will, I hope, still be corrected by the Home Office. It is a matter of great pain and, to say the least, inconvenience, that this has happened, but the process of the law will, in the end, deliver justice. That is what I believed, and what I still believe.
“However, it has been more complicated than I at first realized. I have lived my life within the law—that is to say, taking the law as my guide, while Christianity has been the moral support behind that. For my father, however—” and here George pauses, not, Arthur suspects, because he does not know what he is about to say, but because of its emotional weight—“my father lives his life wholly within the Christian religion. As you would expect. So for him my ordeal must be comprehensible in those terms. For him there is—there must be—a religious justification for my suffering. He thinks it is God’s purpose to strengthen my own faith and to act as an example for others. It is an embarrassment for me to say the word, but he imagines me a martyr.
“My father is elderly now, and becoming frail. Nor would I wish to contradict him. At Lewes and Portland I naturally attended chapel. I still go to church every Sunday. But I cannot claim that my faith has been strengthened by my imprisonment, nor”—he gives a cautious, wry smile—“nor would my father be able to claim that congregations at St. Mark’s and neighbouring churches have increased in the last three years.”
Sir Arthur contemplates the odd formality of these opening remarks—as if they have been practised, even over-practised. No, that is too harsh. What else would a man do during three years of prison except turn his life—his messy, inchoate, half-understood life—into something resembling a witness statement?
“Your father, I imagine, would say that martyrs do not choose their lot, and may not even have an understanding of the matter.”
“Perhaps. But what I have just said is actually less than the truth. My incarceration did not strengthen my faith. Quite the contrary. It has, I think, destroyed it. My suffering has been quite purposeless, either for me or as any kind of example to others. Yet when I told my father that you had agreed to see me, his reaction was that it was all part of God’s evident purpose in the world. Which is why, Sir Arthur, I asked if you were a Christian.”
“Whether I am or not would not affect your father’s argument. God surely chooses any instrument to hand, whether Christian or heathen.”
“True. But you do not have to be soft with me.”
“No. And you will not find me a man to palter, Mr. Edalji. For myself, I cannot see how your time in Lewes and Portland, and the loss of your profession and your place in society, can possibly serve God’s purpose.”
“My father, you must understand, believes that this new century will bring in a more harmonious commingling of the races than in the past—that this is God’s purpose, and I am intended to serve as some kind of messenger. Or victim. Or both.”
“Without in any way criticizing your father,” says Arthur carefully, “I would have thought that if such had been God’s intention, it would have been better served by making sure you had a gloriously successful career as a solicitor, and thus set an example to others for the commingling of the races.”
“You think as I do,” replies George. Arthur likes this answer. Others would have said, “I agree with you.” But George has said it without vanity. It is simply that Arthur’s words have confirmed what he has already thought.
“However, I agree with your father that this new century is likely to bring extraordinary developments in man’s spiritual nature. Indeed, I believe that by the time the third millennium begins, the established churches will have withered, and all the wars and disharmonies their separate existences have brought into the world will also have disappeared.” George is about to protest that this is not what his father means at all; but Sir Arthur is forging on. “Man is on the verge of elaborating the truths of psychical law as he has for centuries been elaborating the truths of physical law. When these truths come to be accepted, our whole way of living—and dying—will have to be rethought from first principles. We shall believe in more, not less. We shall understand more deeply the processes of life. We shall realize that death is not a door closed in our face, but a door left ajar. And by the time that new millennium begins, I believe we shall have a greater capacity for happiness and fellow-feeling than ever before in mankind’s frequently miserable existence.” Sir Arthur suddenly catches himself, an orator on a damn soapbox. “I apologize. It is a hobby horse. No, it is a great deal more than that. But you did ask.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
“There is. I have allowed us to stray far from the matter in hand. To business again. May I ask if there is anyone you suspect of the crime?”
“Which one?”
“All of them. The persecutions. The forged letters. The rippings—not just of the Colliery pony, but all the others.”
“To be perfectly honest, Sir Arthur, for the last three years I and those who have supported me have been more concerned with proving my innocence than anyone else’s guilt.”
“Understandably. But a connection inevitably exists. So is there anyone you might suspect?”
“No. No one. Everything was done anonymously. And I cannot imagine who would take pleasure in mutilating animals.”
“You had enemies in Great Wyrley?”
“Evidently. But unseen ones. I had few acquaintances there, whether friend or foe. We did not go out into local society.”
“Why not?”
“I have only recently begun to understand why not. At the time, as a child, I assumed it to be normal. The truth is, my parents had very little money, and what they had, they spent on their children’s education. I did not miss going to other boys’ houses. I was a happy child, I think.”
“Yes.” This seems less than the full answer. “But, I presume, given your father’s origins—”
“Sir Arthur, I should like to make one thing quite clear. I do not believe that race prejudice has anything to do with my case.”
“I have to say that you surprise me.”
“My father believes that I would not have suffered as I did if I had been, for instance, the son of Captain Anson. That is certainly true. But in my view the matter is a red herring. Go to Wyrley and ask the villagers if you do not believe me. At all events, if any prejudice exists, it is confined to a very small section of the community. There has been an occasional slight, but what man does not suffer that, in some form or another?”
“I understand your desire not to play the martyr—”
“No, it is not that, Sir Arthur.” George stops, and looks momentarily embarrassed. “Is that what I should be calling you, by the way?”
“You may call me that. Or Doyle if you prefer.”
>
“I think I prefer Sir Arthur. As you may imagine, I have thought a great deal about this matter. I was brought up as an Englishman. I went to school, I studied the law, I did my articles, I became a solicitor. Did anyone try to hold me back from this progress? On the contrary. My schoolmasters encouraged me, the partners at Sangster, Vickery & Speight took notice of me, my father’s congregation uttered words of praise when I qualified. No clients refused my advice at Newhall Street on the grounds of my origin.”
“No, but—”
“Let me continue. There have been, as I said, occasional slights. There were teasings and jokes. I am not so naive as to be unaware that some people look at me differently. But I am a lawyer, Sir Arthur. What evidence do I have that anyone has acted against me because of race prejudice? Sergeant Upton used to try and frighten me, but no doubt he frightened other boys as well. Captain Anson clearly took a dislike to me, without ever having met me. What concerned me more about the police was their lack of competence. For example, they themselves, despite covering the district with special constables, never discovered a single mutilated animal. These events were always reported to them by the farmers, or by men going to work. I was not the only person to conclude that the police were afraid of the so-called Gang, even if they were quite unable to prove its existence.
“So if you are proposing that my ordeal has been caused by race prejudice, then I must ask you for your evidence. I do not recall Mr. Disturnal ever alluding to the subject. Or Sir Reginald Hardy. Did the jury find me guilty because of my skin? That is too easy an answer. And I might add that during my years in prison I was fairly treated by the staff and the other inmates.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” replied Sir Arthur. “Perhaps you should try occasionally not to think like a lawyer. The fact that no evidence of a phenomenon can be adduced does not mean that it does not exist.”
“Agreed.”
“So, when the persecutions began against your family, did you believe—do you believe—you were random victims?”
“Probably not. But others were victims too.”
“Only of the letter writing. None suffered as you did.”
“True. But it would be quite unsound to deduce from this the purpose and motive of those involved. Perhaps my father—who can be severe in person—rebuked some farm boy for stealing apples, or blaspheming.”
“You think something like that to be the start of it?”
“I have no idea. But I will not, I am afraid, stop thinking like a lawyer. It is what I am. And as a lawyer I require evidence.”
“Perhaps others can see what you cannot.”
“No doubt. But it is also a question of what is useful. It is not useful to me as a general principle of life to assume that those with whom I have dealings have a secret dislike of me. And at the present juncture, it is no use imagining that if only the Home Secretary were to become convinced that race prejudice lies at the heart of the case, then I shall have my pardon and the compensation to which you allude. Or perhaps, Sir Arthur, you believe Mr. Gladstone himself to be afflicted with that prejudice?”
“I have absolutely no . . . evidence of that. Indeed, I very much doubt it.”
“Then please let us drop the subject.”
“Very well.” Arthur is impressed by such firmness—indeed, stubbornness. “I should like to meet your parents. Also your sister. Discreetly, however. My instinct is always to go directly at things, but there are times when tactics and even bluff are necessary. As Lionel Amery likes to say, if you fight with a rhinoceros, you don’t want to tie a horn to your nose.” George is baffled by this analogy, but Arthur does not notice. “I doubt it would help our cause if I were to be seen tramping the district with you or a member of your family. I need a contact, an acquaintance in the village. Perhaps you can suggest one.”
“Harry Charlesworth,” replies George automatically, just as if facing Great-Aunt Stoneham, or Greenway and Stentson. “Well, we sat next to one another at school. I pretended he was my friend. We were the two clever boys. My father used to rebuke me for not being friendlier with the farm boys, but frankly there was little contact possible. Harry Charlesworth has taken over the running of his father’s dairy. He has an honest reputation.”
“You say you had little society with the village?”
“And they little with me. In truth, Sir Arthur, I always intended, after qualifying, to live in Birmingham. I found Wyrley—between ourselves—a dull and backward place. At first I continued living at home, fearing to break the news to my parents, ignoring the village except for necessities. Having boots repaired, for example. And then gradually I found myself, not exactly trapped, but living so much within my family that it was becoming harder and harder to even think of leaving. And I am very attached to my sister Maud. So that was my position until . . . all that you know was done to me. After I was released from prison, it was naturally impossible for me to return to Staffordshire. So now I am in London. I have lodgings in Mecklenburgh Square, with Miss Goode. My mother was with me in the first weeks after my release. But Father needs her at home. She comes down when she can be spared to see how I am faring. My life—” George pauses for a moment, “my life, as you can see, is in abeyance.”
Arthur notes again how cautious and exact George is, whether describing large matters or small, emotions or facts. His man is a first-class witness. It is not his fault if he is unable to see what others can.
“Mr. Edalji—”
“George, please.” Sir Arthur’s pronunciation has been slipping back to Ee-dal-jee, and his new patron must be spared embarrassment.
“You and I, George, you and I, we are . . . unofficial Englishmen.”
George is taken aback by this remark. He regards Sir Arthur as a very official Englishman indeed: his name, his manner, his fame, his air of being absolutely at ease in this grand London hotel, even down to the time he kept George waiting. If Sir Arthur had not appeared to be part of official England, George would probably not have written to him in the first place. But it seems impolite to question a man’s categorization of himself.
Instead, he reflects upon his own status. How is he less than a full Englishman? He is one by birth, by citizenship, by education, by religion, by profession. Does Sir Arthur mean that when they took away his freedom and struck him off the Rolls, they also struck him off the roll of Englishmen? If so, he has no other land. He cannot go back two generations. He can hardly return to India, a place he has never visited and has little desire to.
“Sir Arthur, when my . . . troubles began, my father would sometimes take me into his study and instruct me about the achievements of famous Parsees. How this one became a successful businessman, that one a Member of Parliament. Once—though I have not the slightest interest in sports—he told me about a Parsee cricket team which had come from Bombay and made a tour of England. Apparently they were the first team from India to visit these shores.”
“It was 1886, I believe. Played about thirty, won only a single match, I’m afraid. Forgive me—in my idle hours I am a student of Wisden. They returned a couple of years later, with better results, I seem to remember.”
“You see, Sir Arthur, you are more knowledgeable than I am. And I am unable to pretend to be something I am not. My father brought me up an Englishman, and he cannot, when things become difficult, attempt to console me with matters he has never previously stressed.”
“Your father came from . . . ?”
“Bombay. He was converted by missionaries. They were Scottish, in fact. As my mother is.”
“I understand your father,” says Sir Arthur. It is a phrase, George realizes, that he has never in his life heard before. “The truths of one’s race and the truths of one’s religion do not always lie in the same valley. Sometimes it is necessary to cross a high ridge in winter snow to find the greater truth.”
George ponders this remark as if it is part of a sworn affidavit. “But then your heart is divided and you are cut off from your p
eople?”
“No—then it is your duty to tell your people about the valley over the ridge. You look back down to the village whence you have come, and you observe that they have dipped the flags in salute, because they imagine that getting to the ridge itself is the triumph. But it is not. And so you raise your ski stick to them and point. Down there, you indicate, down there is the truth, down there in the next valley. Follow me over the ridge.”
George came to the Grand Hotel anticipating a concentrated examination of the evidence in his case. The conversation has taken several unexpected turns. Now he is feeling somewhat lost. Arthur senses a certain dismay in his new young friend. He feels responsible; he has meant to be encouraging. Enough reflection, then; it is time for action. Also, for anger.
“George, those who have supported you so far—Mr. Yelverton and all the rest—have done sterling work. They have been utterly diligent and correct. If the British state were a rational institution, you would even now be back at your desk in Newhall Street. But it is not. So my plan is not to repeat the work of Mr. Yelverton, to express the same reasonable doubts and make the same reasonable requests. I am going to do something different. I am going to make a great deal of noise. The English—the official English—do not like noise. They think it vulgar; it embarrasses them. But if calm reason has not worked, I shall give them noisy reason. I shall not use the back stairs but the front steps. I shall bang a big drum. I intend to shake more than a few trees, George, and we shall see what rotten fruit falls down.”
Sir Arthur stands to say goodbye. Now he towers over the little law clerk. Yet he has not done this in their conversation. George is surprised that such a famous man can listen as well as fulminate, be gentle as well as forceful. Despite this last declaration, however, he feels the need for some basic verification.