Arthur & George

which my mother was reduced. I sensed that it was against the grain of her nature. That memory is part of what has always driven me on.’
    ‘Charming,’ repeated Mrs Anson, meaning it rather less this time. Noble blood, hard times, restored fortunes. She was happy enough to believe such themes in a library novel, but when confronted by a living version was inclined to find them implausible and sentimental. She wondered how long the family’s ascendancy would last this time round. What did they say about quick money? One generation to make it, one to enjoy it, one to lose it.

But Sir Arthur, if more than a touch vainglorious about his ancestry, was a diligent table-companion. He showed abundant appetite, even if he ate without the slightest comment on what was put in front of him. Mrs Anson could not decide whether he believed it vulgar to applaud food, or whether he simply lacked taste buds. Also unmentioned at table were the Edalji case, the state of criminal justice, the administration of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, and the exploits of Sherlock Holmes. But they managed to steer a course, like three scullers without a cox, Sir Arthur pulling vigorously on one side, and the Ansons dipping their blades sufficiently on the other to keep the boat straight.
    The anchovy eggs were despatched, and Blanche Anson could sense male restiveness farther down the table. They were eager for the curtained study, the poked fire, the lit cigar, the glass of brandy, and the opportunity, in as civilized a way as possible, to tear great lumps out of one another. She could scent, above the odours of the table, something primitive and brutal in the air. She rose, and bade the combatants goodnight.
    The gentlemen passed into Captain Anson’s study, where a fire was in full spate. Doyle took in the glisten of fresh coal in the brass bucket, the polished spines of bound periodicals, a sparkling three-bottle tantalus, the lacquered belly of a bloated fish in a glass case. Everything gleamed: even that pair of antlers from a non-native species – a Scandinavian elk of some kind, he assumed – had attracted the housemaid’s attention.
    He eased a cigar from the offered box and rolled it between his fingers. Anson passed him a penknife and a box of cigar matches.
    ‘I deprecate the use of the cigar-cutter,’ he announced. ‘I shall always prefer the nice conduct of the knife.’
    Doyle nodded, and bent to his task, then flicked the cut stub into the fire.
    ‘I understand that the advancement of science has now brought us the invention of an electric cigar-lighter?’
    ‘If so, it has not reached Hindhead,’ replied Doyle. He declined any billing as the metropolis come to patronize the provinces. But he identified a need in his host to assert mastery in his own study. Well, if so, he would help him.
    ‘The elk,’ he proposed, ‘is perhaps from Southern Canada?’
    ‘Sweden,’ replied the Chief Constable almost too quickly. ‘Not a mistake your detective would have made.’
    Ah, so we shall have that one first, shall we? Doyle watched Anson light his own cigar. In the match’s flare the Stafford knot of his tiepin briefly gleamed.
    ‘Blanche reads your books,’ said the Chief Constable, nodding a little, as if this settled the matter. ‘She is also very partial to Mrs Braddon.’
    Doyle felt a sudden pain, the literary equivalent of gout. And there was a further stab as Anson continued, ‘I am more for Stanley Weyman myself.’
    ‘Capital,’ Doyle answered. ‘Capital.’ By which he meant, It is capital that you prefer him as far as I am concerned.
    ‘You see, Doyle – I’m sure you don’t mind if I speak frankly? – I may not be what you would call a literary fellow, but as Chief Constable I inevitably take a more professional view of matters than I imagine most of your readers do. That the police officers you introduce into your tales are inadequate to their task is something which is, I quite understand, necessary to the logic of your inventions. How else would your scientific detective shine if not surrounded by boobies?’
    It was not worth arguing the toss. ‘Boobies’ hardly described Lestrade and Gregson and Hopkins and … oh, it wasn’t –
    ‘No, I fully understand your reasons, Doyle. But in the real world …’
    At this point Doyle more or less stopped listening. In any case, his mind had snagged on the phrase ‘the real world’. How easily everyone understood what was real and what was not.