Arthur & George

Captain, so I guess they’ll get off light.
    Campbell reread the letter.
I caught each under the belly, but they didn’t spurt much blood, and one ran away, but the other fell
. This all sounded knowledgeable; but any number of people could have examined the dead animals. After the last two cases, the police had to mount guard and turn away sightseers until the surgeon had done his work. Still,
ten minutes to three
… there was a strange precision about it.
    ‘Do we know this Greatorex?’
    ‘I take him to be the son of Mr Greatorex of Littleworth Farm.’
    ‘Any dealings? Any reason for him to write to Sergeant Robinson at Hednesford?’
    ‘None at all.’
    ‘And what do you make of this moon business?’
    Sergeant Parsons was a stocky, black-haired fellow with a tendency to move his lips while thinking. ‘That’s what some people have been saying. The new moon, pagan rites and such like. I wouldn’t know. But I do know there was no animal killed on April 11th. Not within a week of that date, if I’m not mistaken.’
    ‘You’re not.’ Parsons was much more to the Inspector’s taste than someone like Upton. He was the next generation on, and better trained; not quick, but thoughtful.
    William Greatorex proved to be a fourteen-year-old schoolboy whose handwriting in no way matched the letter. He had never heard of Lee or Shipton, but admitted knowing Edalji, who was sometimes on the same train in the mornings. He had never been to the police station at Hednesford, and did not know the name of the Sergeant who kept it.
    Parsons and five special constables searched Littleworth Farm and its outbuildings, but found nothing preternaturally sharp, or spotted with blood, or recently wiped clean. As they left, Campbell asked the Sergeant what he knew about George Edalji.
    ‘Well, sir, he’s Indian, isn’t he? Half Indian, that is. Little fellow. A bit odd-looking. Lawyer, lives at home, goes up to Birmingham every day. Doesn’t exactly involve himself in village life, if you understand me.’
    ‘So not known to go round in a gang?’
    ‘Far from it.’
    ‘Any friends?’
    ‘Not known for it. They’re a close family. Something wrong with the sister, I think. Invalid, simple-minded, something. And they say he walks the lanes every evening. Not that he’s got a dog or anything. There was a campaign against the family a few years back.’
    ‘I saw it in the day-book. Any reason for that?’
    ‘Who can tell? There was some … ill feeling when the Vicar was first given the living. People saying they didn’t want a black man in the pulpit telling them what sinners they were, that sort of thing. But this was donkey’s years ago. I’m chapel myself. We’re more welcoming, in my opinion.’
    ‘This fellow – the son – does he look like a horse-ripper to you?’
    Parsons chewed his lips before replying. ‘Inspector, let me put it this way. After you’ve served around here as long as I have, you’ll find that no one looks like anything. Or, for that matter, not like anything. Do you follow?’

George
    The postman shows George the official marking on the envelope: POSTAGE DEFICIENT. The letter has come from Walsall; his name and office address are written in a clear and decent hand, so George decides to liberate the item. It costs him twopence, twice the overlooked postage. He is pleased when he recognizes the contents: an order form for
Railway Law
. But there is no cheque or postal order accompanying it. The sender has asked for three hundred copies, and filled in his name as Beelzebub.
    Three days later, the letters begin again. The same sort of letters; libellous, blasphemous, lunatic. They come to his office, which he feels as an insolent intrusion: this is where he is safe, and respected, where life is orderly. Instinctively he throws the first one away; then puts the rest in a bottom drawer to keep as evidence. George is no longer the anxious adolescent of the earlier persecutions; he is a person of substance now, a solicitor of four years’ standing. He is well capable of ignoring such things if he chooses, or of dealing with them appropriately. And the Birmingham police are doubtless more efficient and modern than the Staffordshire Constabulary.
    One evening, just after 6.10, George has returned his season ticket to his pocket and is placing his umbrella over his forearm when he becomes aware of a figure falling into step beside him.
    ‘Keeping well, are we, young sir?’
    It is Upton,