“When the ripper was boasting of how nobody could catch him. He wrote, ‘I am as sharp as sharp can be.’ ”
“ ‘As Sharp as Sharp can be,’ ” repeated Wood.
“Exactly.”
“But who was the foul-mouthed boy?”
“I don’t know.” Arthur was rather downcast that this particular intuition had not been confirmed. “Perhaps a neighbour’s boy. Or perhaps one of the Sharps invented him.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We continue.”
“But I thought we’d—you’d—solved it. Royden Sharp is the ripper. Royden Sharp and Wallie Sharp together wrote the letters.”
“I agree, Woodie. Now tell me why it was Royden Sharp.”
Wood answered, counting off his fingers as he did so. “Because he showed the horse lancet to Mrs. Greatorex. Because the wounds the animals suffered, cutting the skin and muscle but not penetrating the gut, could only have been inflicted by such an unusual instrument. Because he had worked as a butcher and also on a cattle ship, and therefore knew about handling animals and cutting them up. Because he could have stolen the lancet from the ship. Because the pattern of the letters and the slashings matches the pattern of his presence and absence from Wyrley. Because there are clear hints in the letters about his movements and activities. Because he has a record of mischief. Because he is affected by the new moon.”
“Excellent, Woodie, excellent. A full case, well presented, and dependent on inference and circumstantial evidence.”
“Oh,” said the secretary, disappointed. “Have I missed something?”
“No, nothing. Royden Sharp is our man, there’s not the slightest doubt about it in my mind. But we need more concrete proof. In particular, we need the horse lancet. We need to secure it. Sharp knows we’re in the district, and if he’s any sense it will already have been thrown into the deepest lake he knows.”
“And if it hasn’t?”
“If it hasn’t, then you and Harry Charlesworth are going to stumble across it and secure it.”
“Stumble?”
“Stumble.”
“And secure it?”
“Indeed.”
“Have you any suggestions about our modus operandi?”
“Frankly, I think it would be better if I didn’t know too much. But I imagine that it is still the custom in these parts of the country for people to leave their doors unlocked. And if it turns out to be a matter of negotiation, then I would suggest that the sum involved appear in the accounts for Undershaw in whichever column you choose to put it.”
Wood was rather irritated by this high-mindedness. “Sharp is hardly likely to hand it over if we knock on his door and say, Excuse us, may we please buy the lancet you ripped the animals with, so that we can show it to the police?”
“No, I agree,” said Arthur with a chuckle. “That would never do. You will need to be more imaginative, the two of you. A little more subtlety. Or, for that matter, a little more directness. One of you might distract him, perhaps in a public house, while the other . . . She did mention a cupboard in the kitchen, did she not? But really, I must leave it to you.”
“You will stand bail for me if required?”
“I will even give you a character witness.”
Wood shook his head slowly. “I still can’t get over it. This time last night we knew almost nothing. Or rather, we had a few suspicions. Now we know everything. All in a day. Wynn, Greatorex, Mrs. Greatorex—and that’s it. We may not be able to prove it, but we know it. And all in a day.”
“It’s not meant to happen like this,” said Arthur. “I should know. I’ve written it enough times. It’s not meant to happen by following simple steps. It’s meant to seem utterly insoluble right up until the end. And then you unravel the knot with one glorious piece of deduction, something entirely logical yet quite astounding, and then you feel a great sense of triumph.”
“Which you don’t?”
“Now? No, I feel almost disappointed. Indeed, I do feel disappointed.”
“Well,” said Wood, “you must permit a simpler soul a sense of triumph.”
“Willingly.”
Later, when Arthur had smoked his final pipe and turned in, he lay in bed reflecting on this. He had set himself a challenge, and today he had overcome it; yet he felt no exultation. Pride, perhaps, and that certain warmth when you take a rest from labour, but not happiness, let alone triumph.
He remembered the day he had married Touie. He had loved her, of course, and in that early stage doted on her entirely and could not wait for the marriage’s consummation. But when they wed, at Thornton-in-Lonsdale with that fellow Waller at his elbow, he had felt a sense of . . . how could he put it without being disrespectful to her memory? He was happy only insofar as she had looked happy. That was the truth. Of course, later, as little as a day or two later, he began to experience the happiness he had hoped for. But at the moment itself, much less than he had anticipated.
Perhaps this was why, at every turn in his life, he had always sought a new challenge. A new cause, a new campaign—because he was only capable of brief joy at the success of the previous one. At moments like this, he envied Woodie’s simplicity; he envied those capable of resting on their laurels. But this had never been his way.
And so, what remained to be done now? The lancet must be secured. A specimen of Royden Sharp’s handwriting must be obtained—perhaps from Mr. and Mrs. Greatorex. He must see if Walker and Gladwin had any further relevance. There was the matter of the woman and child who were attacked. Royden Sharp’s scholastic career at Walsall must be investigated. He must try to match Wallie Sharp’s movements more specifically to places from which letters had been posted. He must show the horse lancet, once secured, to veterinary surgeons who had attended the injured animals, and ask for their professional evaluation. He must ask George what, if anything, he remembered of the Sharps.
He must write to the Mam. He must write to Jean.
Now that his head was full of tasks, he descended into untroubled sleep.
Back at Undershaw, Arthur felt as he did when nearing the end of a book: most of it was in place, the main thrill of creation was past, now it was just a matter of work, of making the thing as watertight as possible. Over the next days the results of his instructions, queries and proddings began to arrive. The first came in the form of a waxed brown-paper parcel tied with string, like a purchase from Brookes’s ironmongery. But he knew what it was before he opened it; he knew from Wood’s face.
He unwrapped the parcel, and slowly opened the horse lancet out to its full length. It was a vicious instrument, made the more so by the contrast between the bluntness of the straight section and the honed edge on the lethal curve—which was indeed as sharp as sharp could be.
“Bestial,” said Arthur. “May I ask—”
But his secretary cut off the enquiry with a shake of the head. Sir Arthur couldn’t have it both ways, first not knowing and then choosing to know.
George Edalji wrote to say that he had no memory of the Sharp brothers, either at school or subsequently; nor could he think of a reason why they might bear any animus against himself or his father.
More satisfactory was a letter from Mr. Mitchell detailing Royden Sharp’s scholastic record:
Xmas, 1890. Lower 1. Order, 23rd out of 23.
Very backward and weak. French and Latin not attempted.
Easter, 1891. Lower 1. Order, 20th out of 20.
Dull, homework neglected, begins to improve in Drawing.
Midsummer, 1891. Lower 1. Order, 18th out of 18.
Beginning to progress, caned for misbehaviour in class, tobacco chewing, prevarication, and nicknaming.
Xmas, 1891. Lower 1. Order, 16th out of 16.
Unsatisfactory, often untruthful. Always complaining or being complained of.
Detected cheating, and frequently absent without leave. Drawing improved.
Easter, 1892. Form 1. Order, 8th out of 8.
Idle
and mischievous, caned daily, wrote to father, falsified school-fellows’ marks, and lied deliberately about it. Caned 20 times this term.
Midsummer, 1892. Played truant, forged letters and initials, removed by his father.
There we are, thought Arthur: forging, cheating, lying, nicknaming, general mischief. And further, note the date of the expulsion or removal, whichever you prefer: Midsummer 1892. That was when the campaign had begun, against the Edaljis, against Brookes and against Walsall School. Arthur felt his irritation rising—that he could find such things out by a normal process of logical inquiry, whereas those dunderheads . . . He would like to set the Staffordshire Constabulary up against a wall, from the Chief Constable and Superintendent Barrett through Inspector Campbell and Sergeants Parsons and Upton down to the humblest novice in the force, and ask them a simple question. In December 1892 a large key belonging to Walsall School was stolen from the premises and transported to Great Wyrley. Who might be the more plausible suspect: a boy who a few months previously had been ignominiously removed from the school after a career there of stupidity and malice; or the studious and academically promising son of a Vicar, who had never attended Walsall School, never visited its premises, and bore no more grudge against the establishment than did the Man in the Moon? Answer me that, Chief Constable, Superintendent, Inspector, Sergeant and PC Cooper. Answer me that, you twelve good men and true at the Court of Quarter Sessions.
Harry Charlesworth sent an account of an incident which had taken place in Great Wyrley in the late autumn or early winter of 1903. Mrs. Jarius Handley was coming from Wyrley Station one evening, having gone there to buy some papers for sale. She was accompanied by her young daughter. They were accosted in the road by two men. One of them caught the girl by the throat, and held something in his hand which gleamed. Both mother and child screamed, whereupon the man ran away, crying to his comrade who had gone on, “All right, Jack, I am coming.” The girl declared that her mother had been stopped once before by the same man. He was described as having a round face, no moustache, about 5ft 8ins in height, a dark suit, a shiny peaked cap. This description fitted that of Royden Sharp, who at the time wore a sailor-like costume, which he had subsequently abandoned. It was further suggested that “Jack” was Jack Hart, a dissolute butcher and known companion of Sharp’s. The police had been informed, but there was no arrest made in the case.
Harry added in a post-scriptum that Fred Wynn had been in touch with him again and that in exchange for a pint of stout recalled something which had previously escaped him. When he and Brookes and Speck had all attended Walsall School, one thing generally known about Royden Sharp was that he could not be left in a railway carriage without turning up the cushion and slitting it on the underside with a knife, so as to let the horsehair out. Then he would laugh wildly and turn the cushion back again.
On Friday March 1st, after a six-week delay intended perhaps to show that the Home Secretary was not responding to pressure from any one known source, a Committee of Inquiry was announced. Its purpose was to consider various matters in the Edalji Case which had given rise to public disquiet. The Home Office wished to emphasize, however, that the Committee’s deliberations in no wise amounted to a re-trial of the case. Witnesses would not be called, nor would Mr. Edalji’s presence be required. The Committee would examine such materials as were in the possession of the Home Office and adjudicate on certain procedural matters. Sir Arthur Wilson KCIE, the Right Hon. John Lloyd Wharton, Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the County of Durham, and Sir Albert de Rutzen, the Chief Magistrate in London, would report to Mr. Gladstone as speedily as possible.
Arthur decided that these gentlemen should not be left to jaw at one another complacently about “certain procedural matters.” To his reworked Telegraph articles—which would themselves prove George’s innocence—he would append a private memorandum setting out the case against Royden Sharp. He would describe his investigation, summarize his evidence, and list those from whom further testimony might be obtained: specifically the butcher Jack Hart of Bridgetown, and Harry Green, now of South Africa. Also Mrs. Royden Sharp, who could confirm the effect of the new moon upon her husband.
He would send George a copy of the memorandum, inviting his comments. He would also keep Anson on the hop. Every so often, as he remembered that long wrangle over brandy and cigars, an unstoppable growl would rise in his throat. Their exchange had been noisy but largely futile—like that of two Scandinavian elks locking antlers in the forest. Even so, he had been shocked by the complacency and prejudice of a man who ought to have known better. And then, at the last, for Anson to try scaring him with stories of ghosts. How very little the Chief Constable knew his man. In his study, Arthur took out the horse lancet, opened it up and drew round the blade’s outline on a sheet of tracing paper. He would send the drawing—marked “life size”—to the Chief Constable, asking for his views.
“Well, you have your Committee,” said Wood, as they pulled their cues from the rack that evening.
“I would rather say that they have their Committee.”
“By which you indicate that you are less than satisfied?”
“I have some hope that even these gentlemen cannot fail to acknowledge what is staring them in the face.”
“But?”
“But—you know who Albert de Rutzen is?”
“The Chief Magistrate of London, my newspaper informs me.”
“He is that, he is that. He is also the cousin of Captain Anson.”
George & Arthur
George had read the Telegraph articles several times before writing to thank Sir Arthur; and he read them once again before their second meeting at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. It was most disconcerting to see oneself described not by some provincial penny-a-liner but by the most famous writer of the day. It made him feel like several overlapping people at the same time: a victim seeking redress; a solicitor facing the highest tribunal in the country; and a character in a novel.
Here was Sir Arthur explaining why he, George, could not possibly have been involved with the supposed band of Wyrley ruffians: “In the first place, he is a total abstainer, which in itself hardly seems to commend him to such a gang. He does not smoke. He is very shy and nervous. He is a most distinguished student.” This was all true, and yet untrue; flattering, yet unflattering; believable, yet unbelievable. He was not a most distinguished student; merely a good, hard-working one. He had received second-class honours, not first, the bronze medal, not silver or gold, from the Birmingham Law Society. He was certainly a capable solicitor, more so than Greenway or Stentson were likely to become, but he would never be eminent. Equally, he was not, by his own estimation, very shy. And if he had been judged nervous on the basis of that previous meeting at the hotel, then there were mitigating circumstances. He had been sitting in the foyer reading his newspaper, beginning to worry if he were mistaken about the time or even the day, when he had become aware of a large, overcoated figure standing a few yards away and scrutinizing him intently. How would anyone else react to being stared at by a great novelist? George thought this estimation of him as shy and nervous had probably been confirmed, if not propagated, by his parents. He did not know how it was in other families, but at the Vicarage the parental view of children had not evolved at the same speed as the children themselves. George was not just thinking of himself; his parents did not seem to take account of Maud’s development, of how she was becoming stronger and more capable. And now that he came to reflect upon it further, he didn’t believe he had been so nervous with Sir Arthur. On an occasion far more likely to provoke nerves he faced the crowded court with perfect composure—wasn’t that what the Birmingham Daily Post had written?
He did not smoke. This was true. He judged it a pointless, unpleasant and costly habit. But also one unconnected with criminal behaviour. Sherlock Holmes famously smoked a pipe—and Sir Arthur, he understood, did likewise—but this did not make either of them candidates for membership of a gang.
It was also true that he was a total abstainer: the consequence of his upbringing, not of some principled act of renunciation. But he acknowledged that any juryman, or any committee, might interpret the fact in more than one way. Abstention could be taken as proof either of moderation or extremity. It might be a sign of a fellow able to control his human urges; or equally of someone who resisted vice in order to concentrate his mind on other, more essential things—someone a touch inhuman, even fanatical.
He in no way minimized the value and quality of Sir Arthur’s work. The articles described with rare skill a chain of circumstances which seem so extraordinary that they are far beyond the invention of the writer of fiction. George had read and reread with pride and gratitude such declarations as Until each and all of these questions is settled a dark stain will remain upon the administrative annals of this country. Sir Arthur had promised to make a noise, and the noise he had made had echoed far beyond Staffordshire, far beyond London, far beyond England itself. Without Sir Arthur shaking the trees, as he had put it, the Home Office would almost certainly not have appointed a Committee; though how the Committee itself would respond to the noise and the tree-shaking was another matter. It seemed to George that Sir Arthur had gone very hard on the Home Office’s handling of Mr. Yelverton’s memorial, when he wrote that he cannot imagine anything more absurd and unjust in an Oriental despotism. To denounce someone as despotic might not be the best way to persuade them to be less despotic in the future. And then there was the Statement of the Case against Royden Sharp . . .
“George! I’m so sorry. We were detained.”
He is standing there, and not alone. There is a handsome young woman beside him; she looks dashing and self-confident in a shade of green George could not possibly name. The sort of colour women knew about. She is smiling a little and extending her hand.
“This is Miss Jean Leckie. We were . . . shopping.” He sounds uneasy.
“No, Arthur, you were talking.” Her tone is affable yet firm.