Arthur & George

discrepancy of evidence, and, even had hairs existed, there were alternative explanations for their presence. Then there were the anonymous letters denouncing George Edalji, which the prosecution maintained had been written by the defendant himself, a ludicrous suggestion quite out of keeping with both logic and the criminal mind; as for Mr Gurrin’s testimony, it was no more than a matter of opinion, from which the jury was entitled, and indeed expected, to dissociate itself.
    Mr Vachell then dealt with the various innuendos made against his client. His refusal to accept bail had been made out of reasonable, not to say admirable, sentiments: the filial desire to lighten the burden on his frail and elderly parents. Then there was the murky business of John Harry Green to consider. The prosecution had sought to tarnish George Edalji by association; yet not the slightest link had been established between the defendant and Mr Green, whose absence from the witness box spoke volumes. In this, as in other regards, the prosecution case amounted to no more than a thing of shreds and patches, of hints and innuendos and insinuations, none of which connected to one another. ‘What have we left,’ counsel for the defence asked in peroration, ‘what have we left after four days here in this courtroom, except the crumbling, crumpled and shattered theories of the police?’
    George was pleased as Mr Vachell regained his seat. It had been clear, well-argued, with no false emotional appeals of the kind some advocates went in for; and it had been most professional – that is to say, George had noted the places where Mr Vachell took more liberties of phrasing and inference than might have been allowed in Court A under Lord Hatherton.
    Mr Disturnal was in no hurry; he stood and waited, as if for the effect of Mr Vachell’s closing words to dissipate. Then he began to take those shreds and patches alluded to by his adversary, and patiently sewed them back together again, making a cloak to hang round George’s shoulders. He asked the jury to consider first the behaviour of the prisoner, and reflect upon whether or not it was that of an innocent man. The refusal to wait for Inspector Campbell and the smile at the railway station; the lack of surprise at his arrest; the question about Blewitt’s dead horses; the threat to the mysterious Loxton; the refusal of bail and the confident prediction that the Great Wyrley gang would strike again and effect his liberation. Was this the behaviour of an innocent man, Mr Disturnal asked as he reconnected each of these links for the jury’s mind.
    The bloodstains; the handwriting; and then the clothing yet again. The prisoner’s clothes were wet, his house-coat and boots in particular. The police had stated this, and sworn this. Every policeman who had examined his house-coat had testified that it was wet. If so, and if the police were not completely mistaken – and how could or should they be? – then there was only one possible explanation. George Edalji had, as the prosecution maintained, stealthily crept out of the Vicarage into the stormy night of the 17th to the 18th of August.
    But even so, despite the overwhelming evidence of the prisoner’s deep involvement in the crime, whether alone or with others, there was, Mr Disturnal admitted, one question that needed to be answered. What had been his motive? It was a question the jury had every right to raise. And Mr Disturnal was there to help with the reply.
    ‘If you are to ask yourselves, as others in the courtroom have done over these past days, But what is the prisoner’s motive? Why should an outwardly respectable young man commit such a heinous act? Various explanations might offer themselves to the mind of the reasonable observer. Might the prisoner have been acting out of specific spite and malice? It is possible, though perhaps unlikely, given that far too many victims have been involved in the Great Wyrley Outrages and the campaign of anonymous libel that accompanied it. Could he have acted out of insanity? You might judge so, when faced with the unspeakable barbarity of his actions. And yet this too falls short of an explanation, for the crime was too well planned, and too cleverly executed, for it to have been carried out by someone who was insane. No: we must, I would suggest, look for the motivation in a brain that was not diseased, but rather formed differently from that of ordinary men and women. The motive was not