Arthur & George

No, he could not bear to think as much. But in any case, Waller would have seen, Waller would have known. And – which was the hardest part, Arthur now realized – Waller would have been able to look at him with immense self-satisfaction. While they shot partridge together and went out ferreting, he would have been remembering that schoolboy back from Austria, who had viewed him as a cuckoo in the nest, who stood there galumphingly ignorant yet full of violent speculation and violent embarrassment. And then the years had passed, and Arthur began coming to Masongill for a few stolen hours alone with Jean. And now Waller was able silently, without the slightest murmur – which made it all the worse, of course, and all the more superior – Waller was able to take his moral revenge. You dared to look at me and disapprove? You dared to think you understood life? You dared impugn your mother’s honour? And now you come here and use your mother and myself and the whole village as camouflage for a rendezvous? You take your mother’s pony cart and drive past St Oswald’s with your inamorata at your side. You think the village does not notice? You imagine your best man an amnesiac? You tell yourself – and others – that your behaviour is honourable?
    No, he must stop. He knew this spiral too well already, he knew its descending temptations, and exactly where it led: to lethargy, despair and self-contempt. No, he must stick to known facts. The Mam had approved his actions. So had everyone except Hornung. Waller had said nothing. Touie had merely warned Mary not to be shocked if he remarried – the words of a loving and considerate wife and mother. Touie had said nothing more and therefore known nothing more. Mary knew nothing. Neither the living nor the dead would benefit from him torturing himself. And life must go on. Touie knew that and Touie had not resented it. Life must go on.
    Dr Butter agreed to meet him in London; but other correspondents were less encouraging. George had never done business of any kind in Walsall. Mr Mitchell, the Headmaster of Walsall School, informed him that no pupil by the name of Speck had been on their roll in the last twenty years: further, that his predecessor Mr Aldis had served with distinction for sixteen years, and the notion that he was either denounced or dismissed was plain nonsense. The Home Secretary, Mr Herbert Gladstone, presented his compliments and respects to Sir Arthur, and after several paragraphs of flummery and twaddle regretfully declined any further review of the already much-reviewed Edalji case. The final letter was on the writing paper of the Staffordshire County Police. ‘Dear Sir,’ it began, ‘I shall be much interested to note what Sherlock Holmes has to say about a case in real life …’ But jocularity did not signal cooperativeness: Captain Anson was not inclined to assist Sir Arthur in any respect. There was no precedent for turning over police records to a member of the public, however distinguished he might be; no precedent either for permitting such a member to interview officers of the force under the Captain’s command. Indeed, since Sir Arthur’s evident intention was to discredit the Staffordshire Constabulary, its Chief Constable could not see that cooperation with the enemy was strategically or tactically advisable.
    Arthur preferred the combative bluntness of the former artillery officer to the mealy-mouthedness of the politician. It might be possible to win Anson round; though his use of military metaphor made Arthur wonder if rather than civilly answering his opponents shot for shot – his expert against their expert – he should not lay down an artillery barrage and blast their position to smithereens. Yes, why not? If they had one handwriting expert, he would produce several in return: not just Dr Lindsay Johnson but perhaps Mr Gobert and Mr Douglas Blackburn as well. And in case anyone doubted Mr Kenneth Scott of Manchester Square, he would send George to several more eye specialists. Yelverton had favoured attrition, which had produced satisfactory results until the final stalemate; now Arthur would switch to maximum force and an advance on all fronts.
    He met Dr Butter at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. This time he was not late as he turned in from Northumberland Avenue; nor did he linger surreptitiously to observe the police surgeon. In any case, he could have deduced the man’s character in advance from his evidence: it was