Anson joined in Doyle's laughter, though less than full-heartedly. The shallow cynicisms of a metropolitan sodomite were not to his taste. 'Be that as it may,' he said, 'the Devil certainly found Wilde himself easy prey.'

'I must add,' Doyle went on, 'that never in Wilde's conversation did I observe one trace of coarseness of thought, nor could I at that time associate him with such an idea.'

'In other words, a professional gentleman.'

Doyle ignored the gibe. 'I met him again, some years later, in a London street, you know, and he appeared to me to have gone quite mad. He asked if I had gone to see a play of his. I told him regrettably not. "Oh, you must go," he said to me with the gravest of expressions. "It is wonderful! It is genius!" Nothing could have been farther from his previous gentlemanly instincts. I thought at the time, and I still think, that the monstrous development which ruined him was pathological, and that a hospital rather than a police court was the place for its consideration.'

'Your liberalism would empty the gaols,' remarked Anson drily.

'You mistake me, sir. I have twice engaged in the vile business of electioneering, but I am not a party man. I pride myself on being an unofficial Englishman.'

The phrase – which struck Anson as self-satisfied – wafted between them like a skein of cigar smoke. He decided it was time to make a push.

'That young man whose case you have so honourably taken up, Sir Arthur – he is not, I should warn you, entirely what you think. There were various matters which did not come out in court…'

'No doubt for the very good reason that they were forbidden by the rules of evidence. Or else were allegations so flimsy that they would have been destroyed by the defence.'

'Between ourselves, Doyle, there were rumours…'

'There are always rumours.'

'Rumours of gambling debts, rumours of the misuse of clients' funds. You might ask your young friend if, in the months leading up to the case, he was in any serious trouble.'

'I have no intention of doing any such thing.'

Anson rose slowly, walked to his desk, took a key from one drawer, unlocked another, and extracted a folder.

'I show you this in strictest confidence. It is addressed to Sir Benjamin Stone. It was doubtless one of many.'

The letter was dated 29th December 1902. At the top left were printed George Edalji's professional and telegrammic addresses; at the top right, 'Great Wyrley, Walsall'. It did not require testimony from that rogue Gurrin to convince Doyle that the handwriting was George's.

Dear Sir, I am reduced from a fairly comfortable position to absolute poverty, primarily through having had to pay a large sum of money (nearly £220) for a friend for whom I was surety. I borrowed from three moneylenders in the hope of righting myself, but their exorbitant interest only made matters worse, amp; two of them have now presented a bankruptcy petition against me, but are willing to withdraw if I can raise £115 at once. I have no such friends to whom I can appeal, amp; as bankruptcy would ruin me and prevent me practising for a long time during which I should lose all my clients, I am, as a last resource, appealing to a few strangers.

My friends can only find me £30, I have about £21 myself, amp; shall be most thankful for any aid, no matter how small as it will all help me to meet my heavy liability.

Apologizing for troubling you and trusting you may assist me as far as you can.

I am,

Yours respectfully,

G.E. Edalji

Anson watched Doyle as he read the letter. No need to point out that it was written five weeks before the first maiming. The ball was in his court now. Doyle flicked the letter over and reread some of its phrases. Eventually he said,

'You doubtless investigated?'

'Certainly not. This is not a police matter. Begging on the public highway is an offence, but begging among the professional classes is no concern of ours.'

'I see no reference here to gambling debts or misuse of clients' funds.'

'Which would hardly have been the way to Sir Benjamin Stone's heart. Try reading between the lines.'

'I decline to. This seems to me the desperate appeal of an honourable young man let down by his generosity to a friend. The Parsees are known for their charity.'

'Ah, so suddenly he's a Parsee?'

'What do you mean?'

'You cannot have him a professional Englishman one moment and a Parsee the next, just as it suits you. Is it prudent for an honourable young man to pledge such a large sum, and to put himself in the hands of three separate moneylenders? How many solicitors have you known do this? Read between the lines, Doyle. Ask your friend about it.'

'I have no intention of asking him about it. And clearly, he did not go bankrupt.'

'Indeed. I suspect the mother helped out.'

'Or perhaps there were others in Birmingham who showed him the same confidence he had shown the friend for whom he stood surety.'

Anson found Doyle as stubborn as he was naive. 'I applaud your… romantic streak, Sir Arthur. It does you credit. But forgive me if I find it unrealistic. As I do your campaign. Your fellow has been released from prison. He is a free man. What is the point of seeking to whip up popular opinion? You want the Home Office to look at the case again? The Home Office has looked at it countless times. You want a committee? What makes you sure it will give you what you want?'

'We shall get a committee. We shall get a free pardon. We shall get compensation. And furthermore we shall establish the identity of the true criminal in whose place George Edalji has suffered.'

'Oh, that too?' Anson was now becoming seriously irritated. It could so easily have been a pleasant evening: two men of the world, each approaching fifty, one the son of an earl and the other a knight of the realm, both of them, as it happened, Deputy Lieutenants of their respective counties. They had far more in common than was setting them apart… and instead it was turning rancorous.

'Doyle, let me make two points to you, if I may. You clearly imagine that there was some continuous line of persecution stretching back years – the letters, the hoaxes, the mutilations, the additional threats. You further think the police blame all of it on your friend. Whereas you blame all of it on criminals known or unknown, but the same criminals. Where is the logic in either approach? We only charged Edalji with two offences, and the second charge was in any case not proceeded with. I expect he is innocent of numerous matters. A criminal spree such as this rarely has single authorship. He might be the ringleader, he might be a mere follower. He might have seen the effect of an anonymous letter and decided to try it for himself. Might have seen the effect of a hoax and decided to play hoaxer. Heard of a gang cutting animals, and decided to join it.

'My second point is this. In my time I've seen people who were probably guilty found innocent, and people who were probably innocent found guilty. Don't look so surprised. I've known examples of wrongful accusation and wrongful conviction. But in such cases the victim is rarely as straightforward as his defenders would like. For instance, let me make a suggestion. You came across George Edalji for the first time in a hotel foyer. You were late for the meeting, I understand. You saw him in a particular posture, from which you deduced his innocence. Let me put this to you. George Edalji was there before you. He was expecting you. He knew you would observe him. He arranged himself accordingly.'

Doyle did not reply to this, just stuck out his chin and pulled on his cigar. Anson was finding him a damned stubborn fellow, this Scotsman or Irishman or whatever he claimed to be.