Arthur & George

out from New Street, he is leaving that particular story behind.
    On the morning of February 13th, Greenway and Stentson are in skittish mood, though George never discovers why. They have just posted a Valentine addressed to Miss Dora Charlesworth, Great Wyrley, Staffordshire. This sets off considerable puzzlement in the postman, and even more in Harry Charlesworth, who has always longed for a sister.
    George sits on the train, his newspaper unfolded across his knee. His briefcase is on the higher, and wider, of the two string racks above his head; his bowler on the lower, narrower one, which is reserved for hats, umbrellas, sticks and small parcels. He thinks about the journey everyone has to make in life. Father’s, for instance, began in distant Bombay, at the far end of one of the bubbling bloodlines of Empire. There he was brought up, and was converted to Christianity. There he wrote a grammar of the Gujerati language which funded his passage to England. He studied at St Augustine’s College, Canterbury, was ordained a priest by Bishop Macarness, and then served as a curate in Liverpool before finding his parish at Wyrley. That is a great journey by any reckoning; and his own, George thinks, will doubtless not be so extensive. Perhaps it will more closely resemble Mother’s: from Scotland, where she was born, to Shropshire, where her father was Vicar of Ketley for thirty-nine years, and then to nearby Staffordshire, where her husband, if God spares him, may prove equally long-serving. Will Birmingham turn out to be George’s final destination, or just a staging post? He cannot as yet tell.
    George is beginning to think of himself less as a villager with a season ticket and more as a prospective citizen of Birmingham. As a sign of this new status, he decides to grow a moustache. It takes far longer than he imagines, allowing Greenway and Stentson to ask repeatedly if he would like them to club together and buy him a bottle of hair tonic. When the growth finally covers the full breadth of his upper lip, they begin calling him a Manchoo.
    When they tire of this joke, they find another.
    ‘I say, Stentson, do you know who George reminds me of?’
    ‘Give a chap a clue.’
    ‘Well, where did he go to school?’
    ‘George, where did you go to school?’
    ‘You know very well, Stentson.’
    ‘Tell me all the same, George.’
    George lifts his head from the Land Transfer Act 1897 and its consequences for wills of realty. ‘Rugeley.’
    ‘Think about it, Stentson.’
    ‘Rugeley. Now I’m getting there. Hang on – could it be William Palmer –’
    ‘The Rugeley Poisoner! Exactly.’
    ‘Where did he go to school, George?’
    ‘You know very well, you fellows.’
    ‘Did they give everyone poisoning lessons there? Or just the clever boys?’
    Palmer had killed his wife and brother after insuring them heavily; then a bookmaker to whom he was in debt. There may have been other victims, but the police contented themselves with exhuming only the next-of-kin. The evidence was enough to ensure the Poisoner a public execution in Stafford before a crowd of fifty thousand.
    ‘Did he have a moustache like George’s?’
    ‘Just like George’s.’
    ‘You don’t know anything about him, Greenway.’
    ‘I know he went to your school. Was he on the Honours Board? Famous alumnus and all that?’
    George pretends to put his thumbs in his ears.
    ‘Actually, the thing about the Poisoner, Stentson, is that he was devilish clever. The prosecution was completely unable to establish what kind of poison he’d used.’
    ‘Devilish clever. Do you think he was an Oriental gentleman, this Palmer?’
    ‘Might have been from Bechuana Land. You can’t always tell from someone’s name, can you, George?’
    ‘And did you hear that afterwards Rugeley sent a deputation to Lord Palmerston in Downing Street? They wanted to change the name of their town because of the disgrace the Poisoner had brought upon it. The PM thought about their request for a moment and replied, “What name do you propose – Palmerstown?”’
    There is a silence. ‘I don’t follow you.’
    ‘No, not Palmerston. Palmers-town.’
    ‘Ah! Now that’s very amusing, Greenway.’
    ‘Even our Manchoo friend is laughing. Underneath his moustache.’
    For once, George has had enough. ‘Roll up your sleeve, Greenway.’
    Greenway smirks. ‘What for? Are you going to give me a Chinese burn?’
    ‘Roll up your sleeve.’
    George then does the same, and