Arthur and George (48 page)

“This is blunt, along here, and here as well, where it’s straight. And there, where it curves, it’s horribly sharp.”

Arthur looked at the others. Mr. Greatorex and Harry shook their heads. Alfred Wood turned the drawing round so that it faced him and said, “Two to one it’s a horse lancet. Of the larger sort. I expect he stole it from the cattle ship.”

“You see,” said Mrs. Greaterex, “Your friend is jumping to conclusions immediately. Just as the police would have done.”

This time Arthur could not hold back. “Whereas instead they jumped to conclusions about George Edalji.” Mrs. Greatorex’s high colour returned at this remark. “And forgive my asking, ma’am, but did you not think of telling the police about the instrument later—at the time they charged George?”

“I thought about it, yes.”

“But did nothing.”

“Sir Arthur,” replied Mrs. Greatorex, “I do not recall your presence in the district at the time of the maimings. There was widespread hysteria. Rumours about this person and that person. Rumours about a Great Wyrley Gang. Rumours that they were going to move on from animals to young women. Talk about pagan sacrifices. It was all to do with the new moon, some said. Indeed, now I recall, Royden’s wife once told me he reacted strangely to the new moon.”

“That’s true,” said her husband ruminatively. “I noticed it too. He used to laugh like a maniac when the moon was new. I thought at first he was just putting it on, but I caught him doing it when no one was about.”

“But don’t you see—” Arthur began.

Mrs. Greatorex cut him off. “Laughing is not a crime. Even laughing like a maniac.”

“But didn’t you think . . . ?”

“Sir Arthur, I have no great regard for the intelligence or the efficiency of the Staffordshire Constabulary. I think that is one thing we might be agreed upon. And if you are concerned about your young friend’s wrongful imprisonment, then I was concerned about the same thing happening to Royden Sharp. It might not have ended with your friend escaping gaol, but rather with both of them behind bars for belonging to the same gang, whether it existed or not.”

Arthur decided to accept the rebuke. “And what about the weapon? Did you tell him to destroy it?”

“Certainly not. We haven’t mentioned it from that day to this.”

“Then may I ask you, Mrs. Greatorex, to continue in that silence for a few days more? And a final question. Do the names Walker or Gladwin mean anything to you—in connection with the Sharps?”

The couple shook their heads.

“Harry?”

“I think I remember Gladwin. Worked for a drayman. Haven’t seen him in years, though.”

Harry was told to await instructions, while Arthur and his secretary returned to Birmingham for the night. More convenient accommodation at Cannock had been proposed; but Arthur liked to be confident of a decent glass of burgundy at the end of a hard day’s work. Over dinner at the Imperial Family Hotel, he suddenly remembered a phrase from one of the letters. He threw his knife and fork down with a clatter.

“When the ripper was boasting of how nobody could catch him. He wrote, ‘I am as sharp as sharp can be.’ ”

“ ‘As Sharp as Sharp can be,’ ” repeated Wood.

“Exactly.”

“But who was the foul-mouthed boy?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur was rather downcast that this particular intuition had not been confirmed. “Perhaps a neighbour’s boy. Or perhaps one of the Sharps invented him.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We continue.”

“But I thought we’d—you’d—solved it. Royden Sharp is the ripper. Royden Sharp and Wallie Sharp together wrote the letters.”

“I agree, Woodie. Now tell me why it was Royden Sharp.”

Wood answered, counting off his fingers as he did so. “Because he showed the horse lancet to Mrs. Greatorex. Because the wounds the animals suffered, cutting the skin and muscle but not penetrating the gut, could only have been inflicted by such an unusual instrument. Because he had worked as a butcher and also on a cattle ship, and therefore knew about handling animals and cutting them up. Because he could have stolen the lancet from the ship. Because the pattern of the letters and the slashings matches the pattern of his presence and absence from Wyrley. Because there are clear hints in the letters about his movements and activities. Because he has a record of mischief. Because he is affected by the new moon.”

“Excellent, Woodie, excellent. A full case, well presented, and dependent on inference and circumstantial evidence.”

“Oh,” said the secretary, disappointed. “Have I missed something?”

“No, nothing. Royden Sharp is our man, there’s not the slightest doubt about it in my mind. But we need more concrete proof. In particular, we need the horse lancet. We need to secure it. Sharp knows we’re in the district, and if he’s any sense it will already have been thrown into the deepest lake he knows.”

“And if it hasn’t?”

“If it hasn’t, then you and Harry Charlesworth are going to stumble across it and secure it.”

“Stumble?”

“Stumble.”

“And secure it?”

“Indeed.”

“Have you any suggestions about our modus operandi?”

“Frankly, I think it would be better if I didn’t know too much. But I imagine that it is still the custom in these parts of the country for people to leave their doors unlocked. And if it turns out to be a matter of negotiation, then I would suggest that the sum involved appear in the accounts for Undershaw in whichever column you choose to put it.”

Wood was rather irritated by this high-mindedness. “Sharp is hardly likely to hand it over if we knock on his door and say, Excuse us, may we please buy the lancet you ripped the animals with, so that we can show it to the police?”

“No, I agree,” said Arthur with a chuckle. “That would never do. You will need to be more imaginative, the two of you. A little more subtlety. Or, for that matter, a little more directness. One of you might distract him, perhaps in a public house, while the other . . . She did mention a cupboard in the kitchen, did she not? But really, I must leave it to you.”

“You will stand bail for me if required?”

“I will even give you a character witness.”

Wood shook his head slowly. “I still can’t get over it. This time last night we knew almost nothing. Or rather, we had a few suspicions. Now we know everything. All in a day. Wynn, Greatorex, Mrs. Greatorex—and that’s it. We may not be able to prove it, but we know it. And all in a day.”

“It’s not meant to happen like this,” said Arthur. “I should know. I’ve written it enough times. It’s not meant to happen by following simple steps. It’s meant to seem utterly insoluble right up until the end. And then you unravel the knot with one glorious piece of deduction, something entirely logical yet quite astounding, and then you feel a great sense of triumph.”

“Which you don’t?”

“Now? No, I feel almost disappointed. Indeed, I do feel disappointed.”

“Well,” said Wood, “you must permit a simpler soul a sense of triumph.”

“Willingly.”

Later, when Arthur had smoked his final pipe and turned in, he lay in bed reflecting on this. He had set himself a challenge, and today he had overcome it; yet he felt no exultation. Pride, perhaps, and that certain warmth when you take a rest from labour, but not happiness, let alone triumph.

He remembered the day he had married Touie. He had loved her, of course, and in that early stage doted on her entirely and could not wait for the marriage’s consummation. But when they wed, at Thornton-in-Lonsdale with that fellow Waller at his elbow, he had felt a sense of . . . how could he put it without being disrespectful to her memory? He was happy only insofar as she had looked happy. That was the truth. Of course, later, as little as a day or two later, he began to experience the happiness he had hoped for. But at the moment itself, much less than he had anticipated.

Perhaps this was why, at every turn in his life, he had always sought a new challenge. A new cause, a new campaign—because he was only capable of brief joy at the success of the previous one. At moments like this, he envied Woodie’s simplicity; he envied those capable of resting on their laurels. But this had never been his way.

And so, what remained to be done now? The lancet must be secured. A specimen of Royden Sharp’s handwriting must be obtained—perhaps from Mr. and Mrs. Greatorex. He must see if Walker and Gladwin had any further relevance. There was the matter of the woman and child who were attacked. Royden Sharp’s scholastic career at Walsall must be investigated. He must try to match Wallie Sharp’s movements more specifically to places from which letters had been posted. He must show the horse lancet, once secured, to veterinary surgeons who had attended the injured animals, and ask for their professional evaluation. He must ask George what, if anything, he remembered of the Sharps.

He must write to the Mam. He must write to Jean.

Now that his head was full of tasks, he descended into untroubled sleep.

Back at Undershaw, Arthur felt as he did when nearing the end of a book: most of it was in place, the main thrill of creation was past, now it was just a matter of work, of making the thing as watertight as possible. Over the next days the results of his instructions, queries and proddings began to arrive. The first came in the form of a waxed brown-paper parcel tied with string, like a purchase from Brookes’s ironmongery. But he knew what it was before he opened it; he knew from Wood’s face.

He unwrapped the parcel, and slowly opened the horse lancet out to its full length. It was a vicious instrument, made the more so by the contrast between the bluntness of the straight section and the honed edge on the lethal curve—which was indeed as sharp as sharp could be.

“Bestial,” said Arthur. “May I ask—”

But his secretary cut off the enquiry with a shake of the head. Sir Arthur couldn’t have it both ways, first not knowing and then choosing to know.

George Edalji wrote to say that he had no memory of the Sharp brothers, either at school or subsequently; nor could he think of a reason why they might bear any animus against himself or his father.

More satisfactory was a letter from Mr. Mitchell detailing Royden Sharp’s scholastic record:

There we are, thought Arthur: forging, cheating, lying, nicknaming, general mischief. And further, note the date of the expulsion or removal, whichever you prefer: Midsummer 1892. That was when the campaign had begun, against the Edaljis, against Brookes and against Walsall School. Arthur felt his irritation rising—that he could find such things out by a normal process of logical inquiry, whereas those dunderheads . . . He would like to set the Staffordshire Constabulary up against a wall, from the Chief Constable and Superintendent Barrett through Inspector Campbell and Sergeants Parsons and Upton down to the humblest novice in the force, and ask them a simple question. In December 1892 a large key belonging to Walsall School was stolen from the premises and transported to Great Wyrley. Who might be the more plausible suspect: a boy who a few months previously had been ignominiously removed from the school after a career there of stupidity and malice; or the studious and academically promising son of a Vicar, who had never attended Walsall School, never visited its premises, and bore no more grudge against the establishment than did the Man in the Moon? Answer me that, Chief Constable, Superintendent, Inspector, Sergeant and PC Cooper. Answer me that, you twelve good men and true at the Court of Quarter Sessions.

Harry Charlesworth sent an account of an incident which had taken place in Great Wyrley in the late autumn or early winter of 1903. Mrs. Jarius Handley was coming from Wyrley Station one evening, having gone there to buy some papers for sale. She was accompanied by her young daughter. They were accosted in the road by two men. One of them caught the girl by the throat, and held something in his hand which gleamed. Both mother and child screamed, whereupon the man ran away, crying to his comrade who had gone on, “All right, Jack, I am coming.” The girl declared that her mother had been stopped once before by the same man. He was described as having a round face, no moustache, about 5ft 8ins in height, a dark suit, a shiny peaked cap. This description fitted that of Royden Sharp, who at the time wore a sailor-like costume, which he had subsequently abandoned. It was further suggested that “Jack” was Jack Hart, a dissolute butcher and known companion of Sharp’s. The police had been informed, but there was no arrest made in the case.

Harry added in a post-scriptum that Fred Wynn had been in touch with him again and that in exchange for a pint of stout recalled something which had previously escaped him. When he and Brookes and Speck had all attended Walsall School, one thing generally known about Royden Sharp was that he could not be left in a railway carriage without turning up the cushion and slitting it on the underside with a knife, so as to let the horsehair out. Then he would laugh wildly and turn the cushion back again.

On Friday March 1st, after a six-week delay intended perhaps to show that the Home Secretary was not responding to pressure from any one known source, a Committee of Inquiry was announced. Its purpose was to consider various matters in the Edalji Case which had given rise to public disquiet. The Home Office wished to emphasize, however, that the Committee’s deliberations in no wise amounted to a re-trial of the case. Witnesses would not be called, nor would Mr. Edalji’s presence be required. The Committee would examine such materials as were in the possession of the Home Office and adjudicate on certain procedural matters. Sir Arthur Wilson KCIE, the Right Hon. John Lloyd Wharton, Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the County of Durham, and Sir Albert de Rutzen, the Chief Magistrate in London, would report to Mr. Gladstone as speedily as possible.