Arthur & George

Secretary, amanuensis, signature-forger, motoring assistant, golf partner, billiards opponent; now sounding board and stater of the obvious. Also, one who must be prepared for ridicule. Well, so be it. ‘If the hairs weren’t on his coat when the Edaljis examined it …’
    ‘Yes …’
    ‘And if they weren’t there beforehand because George didn’t lean on any gate …’
    ‘Yes …’
    ‘Then they must have got there afterwards.’
    ‘After what?’
    ‘After the clothing left the Vicarage.’
    ‘You mean Dr Butter put them there?’
    ‘No. I don’t know. But if you want the obvious answer, it’s that they got there afterwards. Somehow. And if so, then only the police are lying. Or some of the police.’
    ‘A not impossible occurrence. You know, Alfred, you’re not necessarily wrong, I’ll say that for you.’
    A compliment, Wood reflected, that Dr Watson might have been proud to receive.
    The next day they returned to Wyrley with less pretence of concealment, and called on Harry Charlesworth in his milking parlour. They squelched through the consequences of a herd of cows to a small office attached to the back of the farmhouse. There were three rickety chairs, a small desk, a muddy raffia mat, and a calendar for the previous month at an angle on the wall. Harry was a blond, open-faced young man who seemed to welcome this interruption to his work.
    ‘So you’ve come about George?’
    Arthur looked crossly at Wood, who shook his head in denial.
    ‘How did you know?’
    ‘You went to the Vicarage last night.’
    ‘Did we?’
    ‘Well, at any rate two strangers were seen going to the Vicarage after dark, one of them a tall gentleman pulling his muffler up to hide his moustache, and the other a shorter one in a bowler hat.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Arthur. Perhaps he should have gone to the theatrical costumier after all.
    ‘And now the same two gentlemen, if disguising themselves less obviously, have come to see me on business I was told was confidential but was soon to be revealed.’ Harry Charlesworth was enjoying himself greatly. He was also happy to reminisce.
    ‘Yes, we were at school together, when we were littl’uns. George was always very quiet. Never got into trouble, not like the rest of us. Clever too. Cleverer than me, and I was clever back then. Not that you’d know it now. Staring up the backside of a cow all day does rub away at your intelligence, you know.’
    Arthur ignored this diversion into vulgar autobiography. ‘But did George have any enemies? Was he disliked – on account of his colour, for instance?’
    Harry thought about this for a while. ‘Not as far as I can recall. But you know what it is with boys – they have likes and dislikes different from grown-ups. And different from month to month. If George was disliked, it was more for being clever. Or because his father was the Vicar and disapproved of the sort of things boys got up to. Or because he was short-sighted. The master put him up the front so he could see the blackboard. Maybe that looked like favouritism. More of a reason to dislike him than being coloured.’
    Harry’s analysis of the Wyrley Outrages was not complex. The case against George was daft. The police were daft. And the notion that there was a mysterious Gang flitting around after nightfall under the orders of some mysterious Captain was daftest of all.
    ‘Harry, we shall need to interview Trooper Green. Given that he’s the only person hereabouts who actually admits to ripping a horse.’
    ‘Fancy a long trip, do you?’
    ‘Where to?’
    ‘South Africa. Ah, you didn’t know. Harry Green got himself a ticket to South Africa just a couple of weeks after the trial was over. It wasn’t a return ticket either.’
    ‘Interesting. Any idea who paid for it?’
    ‘Well, not Harry Green, that’s for certain. Someone interested in keeping him out of harm’s way.’
    ‘The police?’
    ‘Possible. Not that they were too thrilled with him by the time he left. He went back on his confession. Said he’d never done the ripping, and the police had bullied the confession out of him.’
    ‘Did he, by Jove? What do you make of that, Woodie?’
    Wood dutifully stated the obvious. ‘Well, I’d say he was lying either the first time or the second. Or,’ he added with a touch of mischief, ‘possibly both.’
    ‘Harry, can you find out if Mr Green has an address for his son in South Africa?’
    ‘I can certainly try.’
    ‘And another thing. Was