Arthur & George

sent Markew, who knew the solicitor, to detain him at the station. He told Cooper and Judd to wait for the surgeon and keep away gawpers, then led Parsons and the remaining specials by the most direct route to the Vicarage. There were a couple of hedges to squeeze through, and the railway to cross by a subterranean passage, but they managed it without difficulty in under fifteen minutes. Well before eight o’clock Campbell had posted a constable at each corner of the house while he and Parsons made the knocker thunder. It was not just the twenty wenches; there was also the threat to shoot Robinson in the head with somebody’s gun.
    The maid showed the two policemen into the kitchen, where the Vicar’s wife and daughter were finishing breakfast. To Parsons’ eye the mother looked scared and the half-caste daughter sickly.
    ‘I should like to speak to your son George.’
    The Vicar’s wife was thin and slightly built; most of her hair had gone white. She spoke quietly, with a pronounced Scottish accent. ‘He has already left for his office. He takes the seven thirty-nine. He is a solicitor in Birmingham.’
    ‘I am aware of that, Madam. Then I must ask you to show me his clothing. All his clothing, without exception.’
    ‘Maud, go and fetch your father.’
    Parsons asked with a mere turn of the head whether he should follow the girl, but Campbell indicated not. A minute or so later the Vicar appeared: a short, powerful, light-skinned fellow with none of the oddities of his son. White-haired, but good-looking in a Hindoo sort of a way, Campbell thought.
    The Inspector repeated his request.
    ‘I must ask you what the subject of your inquiry is, and whether you have a search warrant.’
    ‘A pit pony has been found …’ Campbell hesitated briefly, given the presence of women, ‘… in a field nearby … someone has injured it.’
    ‘And you suspect my son George of the deed.’
    The mother put an arm around her daughter.
    ‘Let us say that it would be very helpful to exclude him from the investigation if possible.’ That old lie, Campbell thought, almost ashamed of bringing it out again.
    ‘But you do not have a search warrant?’
    ‘Not with me at the moment, sir.’
    ‘Very well. Charlotte, show him George’s clothes.’
    ‘Thank you. And you will not object, I take it, if I ask my constables to search the house and the immediate grounds.’
    ‘Not if it helps exclude my son from your investigation.’
    So far, so good, thought Campbell. In the slums of Birmingham, he’d have had the father going for him with a poker, the mother bawling, and the daughter trying to scratch his eyes out. Though in some ways that was easier, being almost an admission of guilt.
    Campbell told his men to look out for any knives or razors, agricultural or horticultural implements that might have been used in the attack, then went upstairs with Parsons. The lawyer’s clothing was laid out on a bed, including, as had been requested, shirts and underlinen. It appeared clean, and dry to the touch.
    ‘This is all his clothing?’
    The mother paused before answering. ‘Yes,’ she said. And then, after a few seconds, ‘Apart from what he has on.’
    Well of course, thought Parsons, I didn’t believe he went to work naked. What a queer statement. ‘I need to see his knife,’ he said casually.
    ‘His knife?’ She looked at him wonderingly. ‘You mean, the knife he eats with?’
    ‘No, his knife. Every young man has a knife.’
    ‘My son is a solicitor,’ said the Vicar rather sharply. ‘He works in an office. He does not sit around whittling sticks.’
    ‘I do not know how many times I have been told that your son is a solicitor. I am well aware of that. As I am of the fact that every young man has a knife.’
    After some whispering, the daughter went away and returned with a short, stubby item which she handed over defiantly. ‘This is his botany spud,’ she said.
    Campbell saw at a glance that the item could not possibly have inflicted the sort of damage he had recently witnessed. Nevertheless, he pretended to considerable interest, taking the spud over to the window and turning it in the light.
    ‘We’ve found these, sir.’ A constable was holding out a case containing four razors. One of them seemed to be wet. Another had red stains on the back.
    ‘Those are my razors,’ said the Vicar quickly.
    ‘One of them is wet.’
    ‘No doubt because I shaved myself with it barely an hour ago.’
    ‘And your