Arthur & George

fatter and more red-faced than all those years ago, and probably more stupid too. George does not break stride.
    ‘Good evening,’ he replies briskly.
    ‘Enjoying life, are we? Sleeping well?’
    At one time George might have felt alarmed, or stopped to await Upton’s point. But he is no longer like that.
    ‘Not sleepwalking, anyway, I hope.’ George consciously increases his pace, so that the Sergeant is now obliged to puff and pant to keep up. ‘Only, you see, we’ve flooded the district with specials. Flooded it. So even for a so-li-ci-tor to sleepwalk, oh yes, that would be a bad idea.’ Without pausing in his step, George casts a scornful glance in the direction of the empty, blustering fool. ‘Oh yes, a so-li-ci-tor. I hope you’re finding it useful, young sir. Forewarned is forearmed as they say, unless it be the other way round.’
    George does not tell his parents about the incident. There is a more immediate concern: the afternoon post has brought a letter from Cannock in familiar handwriting. It is addressed to George and signed ‘A Lover of Justice’:
    I do not know you, but have sometimes seen you on the railway, and do not expect I would like you much if I did know you, as I do not like natives. But I think everyone ought to have fair treatment, and that is why I write to you, because I do not think you have anything to do with the horrid crimes that everyone talks about. The people all said it must be you, because they do not think you are a right sort, and you would like to do them. So the police got watching you, but they could not see anything, and now they are watching someone else … If another horse is murdered they will say it is you, so go away for your holiday, and be away when the next case happens. The police say it will come at the end of the month like the last one. Go away before that.
    George is quite calm. ‘Libel,’ he says. ‘Indeed, prima facie I would judge it a criminal libel.’
    ‘It’s starting again,’ says his mother, and he can tell she is on the edge of tears. ‘It’s all starting again. They’ll never go away until they have us out.’
    ‘Charlotte,’ says Shapurji firmly, ‘there is no question of that. We shall never leave the Vicarage until we go to rest with Uncle Compson. If it is the Lord’s will that we suffer on our journey there, it is not for us to question the Lord.’
    Nowadays, there are moments when George finds himself close to questioning the Lord. For instance: why should his mother, who is virtue incarnate and who succours the poor and sickly of the parish, have to suffer in this way? And if, as his father maintains, the Lord is responsible for everything, then the Lord is responsible for the Staffordshire Constabulary and its notorious incompetence. But George cannot say this; increasingly, there are things he cannot even hint.
    He is also beginning to realize that he understands the world a little better than his parents. He may be only twenty-seven, but the working life of a Birmingham solicitor offers insights into human nature which may be unavailable to a country Vicar. So when his father suggests complaining once more to the Chief Constable, George disagrees. Anson was against them on the previous occasion; the man to address is the Inspector charged with the investigation.
    ‘I shall write to him,’ says Shapurji.
    ‘No, Father, I think that is my task. And I shall go to see him by myself. If we both went, he might feel it as a delegation.’
    The Vicar is taken aback, but pleased. He likes these assertions of manliness in his son, and lets him have his way.
    George writes to request an interview – preferably not at the Vicarage but at a police station of the Inspector’s choice. This strikes Campbell as a little strange. He nominates Hednesford, and asks Sergeant Parsons to attend.
    ‘Thank you for seeing me, Inspector. I am grateful for your time. I have three items on my agenda. But first, I would like you to accept this.’
    Campbell is a ginger-haired, camel-headed, long-backed man of about forty, who seems even taller sitting down than standing up. He reaches across the table and examines his present: a copy of
Railway Law for the ‘Man in the Train
’. He flicks slowly through a few pages.
    ‘The two hundred and thirty-eighth copy,’ says George. It comes out sounding vainer than he means.
    ‘Very kind of you, sir, but I’m afraid police regulations forbid the accepting of gifts from the general