Arthur & George

concealment,’ he says with a wink. Together they look out at the throng.
    ‘A happy day,’ George observes.
    ‘And the end of a very long road,’ replies Mr Wood.
    George does not know what to make of this remark, so contents himself with a nod of agreement. ‘Have you worked for Sir Arthur for many years?’
    ‘Southsea, Norwood, Hindhead. Next stop Timbuctoo I shouldn’t wonder.’
    ‘Really?’ says George. ‘Is that the honeymoon destination?’
    Mr Wood frowns at this, as if unable to follow the question. He takes another pull at his champagne glass. ‘I understand you’re keen to get married in general. Sir Arthur thinks you should get married in per-tick-er-ler.’ He pronounces this last word with a staccato effect which for some reason amuses him. ‘Or is that stating the obvious?’
    George feels alarmed by this turn in the conversation, and also somewhat embarrassed. Mr Wood is sliding his forefinger up and down the side of his nose. ‘Your sister’s the nark,’ he adds. ‘Couldn’t stand up to a pair of part-time consulting detectives.’
    ‘Maud?’
    ‘That’s her name. Nice young lady. Quiet, nothing wrong with that. Not that I intend to marry myself, either in general, or in per-tick-er-ler.’ He smiles to himself. George decides that Mr Wood is being agreeable rather than malicious. However, he suspects the fellow might be a little inebriated. ‘Bit of a palaver, if you ask me. And then there’s the expense.’ Mr Wood waves his glass at the band, the flowers, the waiters. One of the latter takes his gesture as a command and refills his glass.
    George is beginning to wonder where the exchange might lead when he sees, over Mr Wood’s shoulder, Lady Conan Doyle bearing down on them.
    ‘Woodie,’ she says, and it seems to George that a strange look comes over his companion. But before he can assess it, the secretary has somehow disappeared.
    ‘Mr Edalji,’ Lady Conan Doyle pronounces his name with just the right stress, and rests a gloved hand on his forearm. ‘I am so pleased you could come.’
    George is taken aback: it is not as if he has been obliged to turn down many other engagements to be here.
    ‘I wish you every happiness,’ he replies. He looks at her dress. He has never seen anything like it before. None of the Staffordshire villagers his father has married has ever worn a dress remotely like this. He thinks he ought to praise it, but does not know how to do so. But it does not matter, because she is speaking to him again.
    ‘Mr Edalji, I would like to thank you.’
    Again, he is taken aback. Have they opened their wedding presents already? Surely not. But what else could she be referring to?
    ‘Well, I wasn’t sure what you might require –’
    ‘No,’ she says, ‘I do not mean that, whatever it might be.’ She smiles at him. Her eyes are a sort of grey-green, he thinks, her hair golden. Is he staring at her? ‘I mean, it is partly thanks to you that this happy day has occurred when it has and how it has.’
    Now George is completely baffled. Further, he is staring, he knows he is.
    ‘I expect we shall be interrupted at any moment, and in any case I was not intending to explain. You may never know what I mean. But I am grateful to you in a way you cannot guess. And so it is quite right that you are here.’
    George is still pondering these words as a swirl of noise takes the new Lady Conan Doyle away.
I am grateful to you in a way you cannot guess
. A few moments later, Sir Arthur shakes his hand, tells him he meant every word of his speech, claps him on the shoulder, and moves on to his next guest. The bride disappears and then reappears in different clothes. A final toast is drunk, glasses are drained, cheers are raised, the couple depart. There is nothing left for George to do except bid farewell to his temporary friends.
    The next morning he bought
The Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
. One paper listed his name between those of Mr Frank Bullen and Mr Hornung, the other had him between Mr Bullen and Mr Hunter. He discovered that the white flowers he had been unable to identify were called
lilium Harrisii
. Also that Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle had afterwards left for Paris, en route to Dresden and Venice. ‘The bride,’ he read, ‘travelled in a dress of ivory white cloth, trimmed with white Soutache braid, and having a bodice and sleeves of lace, with cloth over-sleeves. At the back the coat was caught into the waist with gold embroidered