Arthur & George

with me.’
    ‘
I
know that, Mr Edalji.’ The solicitor rested his chin on his fist.
    ‘But?’
    ‘But I always find it useful in these moments to imagine what the prosecution might say in the circumstances.’
    ‘And what might they possibly say?’
    ‘Well, on the night of August 17th, as I remember, when the defendant was walking from the bootmaker, he went as far as Mr Green’s farm.’
    ‘Yes, I did.’
    ‘Mr Green is the defendant’s neighbour.’
    ‘That is true.’
    ‘So what could be of greater benefit to the defendant in his present circumstances than for a horse to be mutilated even closer to the Vicarage than in any other previous incident?’
    Litchfield Meek watched George work this out.
    ‘You mean that after getting myself arrested by writing anonymous letters denouncing myself for crimes I did not commit , I then incite someone else to commit another crime in order to exculpate me?’
    ‘That’s about the long and the short of it, Mr Edalji.’
    ‘It’s utterly ridiculous. And I don’t even know Green.’
    ‘I’m just telling you how the prosecution might choose to see it. If they had the mind.’
    ‘Which they doubtless will. But the police must at least hunt the criminal, mustn’t they? The newspapers hint quite openly that this throws doubt on the prosecution case. If they found the man, and he confessed to the string of crimes, then that would be my freedom?’
    ‘If that were to happen, Mr Edalji, then yes, I would agree.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘And there’s another development. Does the name Darby mean anything to you? Captain Darby?’
    ‘Darby. Darby. I don’t think so. Inspector Campbell asked me about someone called the Captain. Perhaps this is him. Why?’
    ‘More letters have been sent. To all and sundry it appears. One even to the Home Secretary. All signed “Darby, Captain of the Wyrley Gang”. Saying how the maimings are going to continue.’ Mr Meek saw the look in George’s eye. ‘But no, Mr Edalji, this only means that the prosecution must accept you almost certainly didn’t write them.’
    ‘You seem determined to discourage me this morning, Mr Meek.’
    ‘That is not my intention. But you must accept we are going to trial. And with that in mind we have secured the services of Mr Vachell.’
    ‘Oh, that’s excellent news.’
    ‘He will not, I think, let us down. And Mr Gaudy will be at his side.’
    ‘And for the prosecution?’
    ‘Mr Disturnal, I’m afraid. And Mr Harrison.’
    ‘Is Disturnal bad for us?’
    ‘To be honest with you, I would have preferred another.’
    ‘Mr Meek, now it is my turn to put heart into you. A barrister, however competent, cannot make bricks without straw.’
    Litchfield Meek gave George a worldly smile. ‘In my years in the courts, Mr Edalji, I’ve seen bricks made from all sorts of materials. Some you didn’t even know existed. Lack of straw will be no hardship to Mr Disturnal.’
    Despite this approaching threat, George spent the remaining weeks at Stafford Gaol in a tranquil state of mind. He was treated respectfully and there was an order to his days. He received newspapers and mail; he prepared for the trial with Mr Meek; he awaited developments in the Green case; and he was allowed books. His father had brought him a Bible, his mother a one-volume Shakespeare and a one-volume Tennyson. He read the latter two; then, out of idleness, some shilling shockers which a warder passed on to him. The fellow also lent him a tattered cheap edition of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. George judged it excellent.
    He opened the newspaper each morning with less apprehension, given that his own name had temporarily vanished from its pages. Instead, he learned with interest that there were new Cabinet appointments in London; that Dr Elgar’s latest oratorio had been performed at the Birmingham musical festival; that Buffalo Bill was on a tour of England.
    A week before the trial, George met Mr Vachell, a cheerful and corpulent barrister with twenty years’ service on the Midland Circuit.
    ‘How do you judge my case, Mr Vachell?’
    ‘I judge it well, Mr Edalji, very well. That is to say, I consider the prosecution scandalous and largely devoid of merit. Of course I shall not say so. I shall merely concentrate on what seem to me to be the strong points of your case.’
    ‘And what, to you, do they seem to be?’
    ‘I would put it like this, Mr Edalji.’ The barrister gave him a smile which was almost a grin. ‘There