Arthur & George

than a few such eccentricities to dent George’s utter respect for Sir Arthur. He had it as a young man of thirty, newly released from prison; and he had it still as a fifty-four-year-old solicitor, his moustache and hair now quite grey. The only reason he was able to sit here at his desk on a Friday morning was because of Sir Arthur’s high principles, and his willingness to convert them into action. George’s life had been returned to him. He had a full set of law books, a satisfactory practice, a choice of hats, and a splendid – some might even say gaudy – fob chain strung across a waistcoat that each year felt a little tighter. He was a householder, and a man who had his opinions about matters of the day. He did not have a wife, it was true; nor did he have long lunches with colleagues who cried ‘Good old George!’ as he reached for the bill. Instead, he had a curious kind of fame, or half-fame, or, as the years had passed, quarter-fame. He had wanted to be known as a lawyer, and he had ended up being known as a miscarriage of justice. His case had led to the setting-up of the Court of Criminal Appeal, whose decisions over the last two decades had elaborated the common law of crime to an extent widely recognized as revolutionary. George was proud of his association – however unintentional it had been – with this event. But who was aware of it? A few people would respond to his name by shaking his hand warmly, treating him as a man who once, long ago, had been famously wronged; others looked at him with the eyes of farm boys or special constables in country lanes; but most nowadays had never heard of him.
    At times he resented this, and felt ashamed of his resentment. He knew that in all his years of suffering, there had been nothing he longed for more than anonymity. The Chaplain at Lewes had asked him what he missed, and he had replied that he missed his life. Now he had it back; he had work, enough money, people to nod to in the street. But he was occasionally nudged by the thought that he deserved more; that his ordeal should have led to more reward. From villain to martyr to nobody very much – was this not unfair? His supporters had assured him that his case was as significant as that of Dreyfus, that it revealed as much about England as the Frenchman’s did about France, and just as there had been Dreyfusards and anti-Dreyfusards so there were those for and against Edalji. They further insisted that in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle he had as great a defender, and a better writer, than the Frenchman Émile Zola, whose books were reportedly vulgar and who had run away to England when threatened in his turn with gaol. Imagine Sir Arthur scuttling off to Paris to evade the whim of some politician or prosecutor. He would have stayed and fought and made a great noise and shaken the bars of his cell until the prison collapsed.
    And yet, for all this, the name of Dreyfus had constantly increased in fame, and was known around the globe, while that of Edalji was scarcely recognized in Wolverhampton. This was partly his own doing – or lack of doing. After his release he was frequently asked to address meetings, to write newspaper articles, and give interviews. He invariably declined. He did not wish to be a spokesman, or the representative of a cause; he did not have the temperament for the public platform; and having once recounted his sufferings for
The Umpire
, he felt it immodest to do so again whenever invited. He had considered preparing a revised edition of his book on railway law, yet felt that this too might be exploiting his notoriety.
    But more than this, he suspected that his obscurity was something to do with England itself. France, as he understood it, was a country of extremes, of violent opinion, violent principles and long memories. England was a quieter place, just as principled, but less keen on making a fuss about its principles; a place where the common law was trusted more than government statute; where people got on with their own business and did not seek to interfere with that of others; where great public eruptions took place from time to time, eruptions of feeling which might even tip over into violence and injustice, but which soon faded in the memory, and were rarely built into the history of the country. This has happened, now let us forget about it and carry on as before: such was the English way. Something was wrong, something was broken, but now it has been repaired, so let