Arthur & George

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