Arthur and George (47 page)

The waiving of copyright helped spread the story not just to the Midlands, but across the world. Arthur’s cuttings agency was overburdened, and he grew used to the repeated headline, which taught him the same verb in many different languages:
SHERLOCK HOLMES INVESTIGATES
. Expressions of support—and occasional dissent—arrived by every post. Fantastical solutions to the case were proposed: for instance, that the persecution of the Edaljis had been conducted by other Parsees as punishment for Shapurji’s apostasy. And of course there was another letter in a handwriting which had now become very familiar:

I know from a detective of Scotland Yard that if you write to Gladstone and say you find Edalji is guilty after all they will make you a lord next year. Is it not better to be a lord than to run the risk of losing kidneys and liver. Think of all the ghoolish murders that are committed why then should you escape?

Arthur noted the spelling mistake, judged that he had got his man on the run, and flipped the page:

The proof of what I tell you is in the writing he put in the papers when they loosed him out of prison where he ought to have been kept along with his dad and all the black and yellow-faced Jews. Nobody could copy his writing like that, you blind fool.

Such crude provocation merely confirmed the need to push forward on all fronts. There must be no slackening of effort. Mr. Mitchell wrote to confirm that Milton had indeed been on the syllabus at Walsall School during the period that interested Sir Arthur; though begged to add that the great poet had been taught in the schools of Staffordshire for as long as the oldest master could recall, and indeed was still being taught. Harry Charlesworth reported that he had traced Fred Wynn, once the schoolfellow of the Brookes boy, now a house painter of Cheslyn Bay, and would ask him about Speck. Three days later a telegram with an agreed formula arrived:
INVITED DINNER HEDNESFORD TUESDAY CHARLESWORTH STOP
.

Harry Charlesworth met Sir Arthur and Mr. Wood at Hednesford station and walked them to the Rising Sun public house. In the saloon bar they were introduced to a lanky young man with a celluloid collar and frayed cuffs. There were some whitish stains on one sleeve of his jacket, which Arthur thought unlikely to be either horse’s saliva or even bread and milk.

“Tell them what you told me,” said Harry.

Wynn looked at the strangers slowly and tapped his glass. Arthur sent Wood off for the necessary encouragement to their informant’s voice box.

“I was at school with Speck,” he began. “He was always at the bottom of the class. Always in trouble. Set a rick on fire one summer. Liked to chew tobacco. One evening I was on the train with Brookes when Speck came running into the same compartment, straight to the end of the carriage and stuck his head through the window smashing it to bits. Just started laughing at what he’d done. Then we all moved to another carriage.

“A couple of days later some railway police arrived and said we are to be charged with breaking the window. We both said Speck did it, so he had to pay for it, and they caught him cutting the straps of the window as well, and he had to pay for that too. Then Brookes’s Pa started getting letters saying Brookes and me had been spitting on an old lady at Walsall Station. He was always in mischief, Speck. Then the school had him taken away. I don’t recall he was exactly expelled, but as good as.”

“And what became of him?” asked Arthur.

“A year or two later I heard he’d been sent to sea.”

“To sea? You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

“Well, that’s what they said. Anyway, he disappeared.”

“When would this have been?”

“As I say, a year or two later. He probably fired the rick in about ’92, I’d say.”

“So he would have gone to sea at the end of ’95, beginning of ’96?”

“That I couldn’t say.”

“Roughly?”

“I couldn’t say nearer than I’ve said already.”

“Do you remember which port he departed from?”

Wynn shook his head.

“Or when he returned? If he did return?”

Wynn shook his head again. “Charlesworth said you’d be interested.” He tapped his glass once more. This time Arthur ignored the gesture.

“I am interested, Mr. Wynn, but you’ll forgive me if I say there’s a problem with your story.”

“Is there just?”

“You went to Walsall School?”

“Yes.”

“And so did Brookes?”

“Yes.”

“And so did Speck?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Mitchell, the current Headmaster, assures me that there has been no boy of that name at the school in the past twenty years?”

“Oh, I see,” said Wynn. “Speck was just what we called him. He was a little fellow, like a speck. That’s probably why. No, his real name was Sharp.”

“Sharp?”

“Royden Sharp.”

Arthur picked up Mr. Wynn’s glass and handed it to his secretary. Anything with that, Mr. Wynn? A chaser of whisky, perhaps?”

“Now that would be very noble of you, Sir Arthur. Very noble. And I was wondering if in return I might request a favour of you.” He reached down to a small haversack, and Arthur left the Rising Sun with half a dozen narrative sketches of local life—“I thought of calling them ‘Vignettes’ “—on whose literary merit he had promised to adjudicate.

“Royden Sharp. Now that’s a new name in the case. How would we set about tracing him? Any ideas, Harry?”

“Oh yes,” said Harry. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of Wynn in case he drank the house dry. I can give you a lead on him. He used to be the ward of Mr. Greatorex.”

“Greatorex!”

“There were two Sharp brothers, Wallie and Royden. One of them was at school with George and me, though I can’t remember which at this distance. But Mr. Greatorex can tell you about them.”

They took the train two stops back up the line to Wyrley & Churchbridge, then walked to Littleworth Farm. Mr. and Mrs. Greatorex were a comfortable, easy couple in late middle age, hospitable and direct. For once, Arthur felt, it would not be a matter of beer and bootscrapers, of calculating whether the correct price of information was two shillings and threepence or two shillings and fourpence.

“Wallie and Royden Sharp were the sons of my tenant farmer Peter Sharp,” Mr. Greatorex began. “They were rather wild boys. No, that’s perhaps unfair. Royden was a wild boy. I remember his father once had to pay for a rick he set on fire. Wallie was more strange than wild.

“Royden was expelled from school—from Walsall. Both boys went there. Royden was idle and destructive, I gathered, though I never had the full story. Peter sent him next to Wisbech School, but that didn’t take any better. So he had him apprenticed to a butcher, by the name of Meldon I think, in Cannock. Then, towards the end of ’93, I became involved. The boys’ father was dying, and he asked me if I would become Royden’s trustee. It was the least I could do, and naturally I made what promises I could to Peter. I did my best, but Royden was simply uncontrollable. Nothing but trouble. Thieving, smashing things, lying constantly . . . wouldn’t stick at any job. In the end I said he had two choices. Either I would stop his allowance and report him to the police, or he could go to sea.”

“We are aware of which alternative he chose.”

“So I got him a passage as an apprentice on the
General Roberts,
belonging to Lewis Davies & Co.”

“This would be when?”

“At the end of 1895. The very end. I think she sailed on the 30th of December.”

“And from which port, Mr. Greatorex?” Arthur knew the answer already, but still leaned forward in anticipation.

“Liverpool.”

“And how long did he stay with the
General Roberts
?”

“Well, for once he stuck at something. He finished his apprenticeship about four years later, and got a third mate’s certificate. Then he came home.”

“Does that take us to 1903?”

“No, no. Earlier; ’01, I’m sure. But he was only home briefly. Then he got a billet on a cattle boat between Liverpool and America. He served ten months on it. And after that he came home permanently. That would have been in ’03.”

“A cattle ship, indeed. And where is he now?”

“In the same house his father had. But he’s much changed. He’s married, for a start.”

“Did you ever suspect him or his brothers of writing the letters in your son’s name?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There were no grounds. And I would have judged him too idle, and perhaps not imaginative enough.”

“And—let me guess—did they have a younger brother—perhaps a rather foul-mouthed boy, I would guess?”

“No, no. There were just the two of them.”

“Or a young companion of that kind, who was often with them?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I see. And did Royden Sharp resent your trusteeship?”

“Frequently, yes. He didn’t understand why I refused to hand over all the money his father had left him. Not that there was much. A fact which made me all the more determined not to let him squander it.”

“The other boy—Wallie—he was the elder?”

“Yes, he’d be about thirty now.”

“So that’s the one you were at school with, Harry?” Charlesworth nodded. “You said he was strange. In what way?”

“Strange. Not quite of this world. I can’t be more precise.”

“Any signs of religious mania?”

“Not that I was aware of. He was clever, Wallie. Brainy.”

“Did he study Milton at Walsall School?”

“Not that I was aware of.”

“And after school?”

“He was apprenticed to an electrical engineer for a while.”

“Which would permit him to travel to the neighbouring towns?”

Mr. Greatorex looked puzzled by the question. “Certainly. Like many another man.”

“And . . . do the brothers still live together?”

“No, Wallie left the country a year or two back.”

“Where did he go?”

“South Africa.”

Arthur turned to his secretary. “Why is everyone going to South Africa all of a sudden? Would you have an address for him there, Mr. Greatorex?”

“I might have done. Except that we heard he died. Recently. November last.”

“Ah. A pity. And the house where they lived together, where Royden still lives . . .”

“I can take you there.”

“No, not yet. My question is . . . is it isolated?”

“Fairly. Like many another house.”

“So that you could enter or leave without neighbours observing you?”

“Oh yes.”

“And it is easy of access to the country?”

“Indeed. It backs on to open fields. But so do many houses.”

“Sir Arthur.” It was the first time Mrs. Greatorex had spoken. As he turned to her, he noticed that her colour had risen, and she was more agitated that when they arrived. “You suspect him, don’t you? Or both of them?”

“The evidence is accumulating, to say the least, ma’am.”

Arthur prepared himself for some loyal protestation from Mrs. Greatorex, a refusal to countenance his suspicions and slanders.

“Then I had better tell you what I know. About three and a half years ago—it was in July, I remember, the July before they arrested George Edalji—I was passing the Sharps’ house one afternoon and called in. Wallie was out but Royden was there. We started talking about the maimings—that’s what everyone was talking about at the time. After a while Royden went over to a cupboard in the kitchen and showed me . . . an instrument. Held it in front of me. He said, ‘This is what they kill the cattle with.’ It made me feel sick just to look at it, so I told him to put it away. I said, ‘You don’t want them to think you are the man, do you?’ And then he put it back in the cupboard.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked her husband.

“I thought there were enough rumours flying around without wanting to add to them. And I just wanted to forget the whole incident.”

Arthur contained his reaction and asked neutrally, “You didn’t think of telling the police?”

“No. After I got over the shock I went for a walk and thought about it. And I decided Royden was just boasting. Pretending to know something. He would hardly show me the thing if he’d done it himself, would he? And then he’s a lad I’ve known all my life. He’d been a bit wild, as my husband explained, but since he came back from sea he settled down. He’d got himself engaged and was planning to be married. Well, he is married now. But he was known to the police and I thought that if I went and told them, they’d just make out a case against him whatever the evidence was.”

Yes, thought Arthur; and because of your silence, they went and made a case out against George instead.

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” said Mr. Greatorex.

“Because—because you were always harder on the boy than me. And I knew you’d jump to conclusions.”

“Conclusions which would probably have been quite correct,” he replied with a certain tartness.

Arthur pushed on. They could have their marital disagreement later. “Mrs. Greatorex, what sort of an . . . instrument was it?”

“The blade was about so long.” She gestured: a foot or so, then. “And it folded into a casing, like a giant pocket knife. It’s not a farm instrument. But it was the blade that was the frightening thing. It had a curve in it.”

“You mean, like a scimitar? Or a sickle?”

“No, no, the blade itself was straight, and its edge wasn’t sharp at all. But towards the end there was a part that curved outwards, which looked extremely sharp.”

“Could you draw it for us?”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Greatorex pulled out a kitchen drawer, and on a piece of lined paper made a confident freehand outline: