Arthur & George

hours, till your men have gone … Mr Edalji, him they said was locked up, is going to Brum on Sunday night to see the Captain, near Northfield, about how it’s to be carried on with so many detectives about, and I believe they are going to do some cows in the daytime instead of at night … I think they are going to kill beasts nearer here soon, and I know Cross Keys Farm and West Cannock Farm are the first two on the list … You bloated blackguard, I will shoot you with your father’s gun through your thick head if you come in my way or go sneaking to any of my pals.
    ‘That’s bad, sir. That’s very bad. This’d better not get out. There’ll be panic in every village. Twenty wenches … People are worried enough for their livestock as it is.’
    ‘You have children, Campbell?’
    ‘A boy. And a little girl.’
    ‘Yes. The only good thing in this letter is the threat to shoot Sergeant Robinson.’
    ‘That’s a good thing, sir?’
    ‘Oh, maybe not for Sergeant Robinson himself. But it means our man has overstepped himself. Threatening to murder a police officer. Put that on the indictment and we’ll be able to get penal servitude for life.’
    If we can find the letter writer, thought Campbell. ‘Northfield, Hednesford, Walsall – he’s trying to send us in all directions.’
    ‘No doubt. Inspector, let me summarize, if you have no objection, and you tell me if you disagree with my thinking.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Now, you are a capable officer – no, don’t disagree already.’ Anson gave the slightest smile he had in his repertoire. ‘You are a very capable officer. But this investigation is now three and a half months old, including three weeks with twenty specials under your command. No one has been charged, no one arrested, no one even seriously taken aside and looked over. And the mutilations have continued. Agreed?’
    ‘Agreed, sir.’
    ‘Local cooperation, which I am aware you compare unfavourably with what you experienced in the great city of Birmingham, has been better than usual. There is, for once, a wider interest than normal in aiding the Constabulary. But the best suspicions we have obtained so far have come in anonymous denunciations. This mysterious “Captain”, for example, who lives so inconveniently on the other side of Birmingham. Should we be tempted by him? I think not. What possible interest might some Captain miles away have in mutilating animals belonging to people he has never met? Though it would be poor detective work not to take a visit to Northfield.’
    ‘Agreed.’
    ‘So we are looking for local people, as we have always assumed. Or a local person. I favour the notion of more than one. Three or four, perhaps. It makes more sense. I would imagine one letter writer, one postboy to travel to different towns, one person skilled at handling animals, and one planner to guide them all. A gang, in other words. Whose members have no love for the police. Indeed, take pleasure in trying to mislead us. Who like to boast.
    ‘They name names to confuse us. Of course. But even so, one name comes up again and again. Edalji. Edalji who is going to meet the Captain. Edalji who they said was locked up. Edalji the lawyer is in the gang. I have always had my suspicions, but so far have felt it proper to keep them to myself. I told you to look up the files. There was a campaign of letter-writing before, mainly against the father. Pranks, hoaxes, petty theft. We nearly got him at the time. Eventually I gave the Vicar a pretty heavy warning that we knew who was behind it, and not long afterwards it stopped. QED, you might say, though regrettably not enough to convict. Still, if he didn’t own up, at least I put a stop to it. For – what? – seven, eight years.
    ‘Now it’s started again, and in the same place. And Edalji’s name keeps coming up. That first Greatorex letter mentions three names, but the only one of them the lad himself knows is Edalji. Therefore, Edalji knows Greatorex. And he did the same the first time round – included himself in the denunciations. Only this time he’s older, and not satisfied with catching blackbirds and wringing their necks. This time he’s after bigger things, literally. Cows, horses. And not being much of a physical specimen himself, he recruits others to help him do the work. And now he’s raising the stakes, and threatens us with twenty wenches. Twenty wenches, Campbell.’
    ‘Indeed, sir. You will allow me to put one or two