by G. K. Datlow
As he stood in unusual perplexity in the middle of the village street, between the inn and the church, he felt a mild shock of surprise at seeing a recently familiar but rather unexpected figure advancing up the street. Mr Boon, the journalist, looking very haggard in the sunshine, which showed up his shabby raiment like that of a scarecrow, had his dark and deep-set eyes (rather close together on either side of the long drooping nose) fixed on the priest. The latter looked twice before he realized that the heavy dark moustache hid something like a grin or at least a grim smile.
“I thought you were going away,” said Father Brown a little sharply. “I thought you left by that train two hours ago.”
“Well, you see I didn’t,” said Boon.
“Why have you come back?” asked the priest almost sternly.
“This is not the sort of little rural paradise for a journalist to leave in a hurry,” replied the other. “Things happen too fast here to make it worth while to go back to a dull place like London. Besides, they can’t keep me out of the affair—I mean this second affair. It was I that found the body, or at any rate the clothes. Quite suspicious conduct on my part, wasn’t it? Perhaps you think I wanted to dress up in his clothes. Shouldn’t I make a lovely parson?”
And the lean and long-nosed mountebank suddenly made an extravagant gesture in the middle of the market-place, stretching out his arms and spreading out his dark-gloved hands in a sort of burlesque benediction and saying: “Oh, my dear brethren and sisters, for I would embrace you all.…”
“What on earth are you talking about?” cried Father Brown, and rapped the stones slightly with his stumpy umbrella, for he was a little less patient than usual.
“Oh, you’ll find out all about it if you ask that picnic party of yours at the inn,” replied Boon scornfully. “That man Tarrant seems to suspect me merely because I found the clothes; though he only came up a minute too late to find them himself. But there are all sorts of mysteries in this business. The little man with the big moustaches may have more in him than meets the eye. For that matter I don’t see why you shouldn’t have killed the poor fellow yourself.”
Father Brown did not seem in the least annoyed at the suggestion, but he seemed exceedingly bothered and bewildered by the remark. “Do you mean,” he asked with simplicity, “that it was I who tried to kill Professor Smaill?”
“Not at all,” said the other, waving his hand with the air of one making a handsome concession. “Plenty of dead people for you to choose among. Not limited to Professor Smaill. Why, didn’t you know somebody else had turned up, a good deal deader than Professor Smaill? And I don’t see why you shouldn’t have done him in, in a quiet way. Religious differences, you know…lamentable disunion of Christendom.… I suppose you’ve always wanted to get the English parishes back.”
“I’m going back to the inn,” said the priest quietly; “you say the people there know what you mean, and perhaps they may be able to say it.”
In truth, just afterwards his private perplexities suffered a momentary dispersal at the news of a new calamity. The moment he entered the little parlour where the rest of the company were collected, something in their pale faces told him they were shaken by something yet more recent than the accident at the tomb. Even as he entered, Leonard Smyth was saying: “Where is all this going to end?”
“It will never end, I tell you,” repeated Lady Diana, gazing into vacancy with glassy eyes; “it will never end till we all end. One after another the curse will take us; perhaps slowly, as the poor vicar said; but it will take us all as it has taken him.”
“What in the world has happened now?” asked Father Brown.
There was a silence, and then Tarrant said in a voice that sounded a little hollow: “Mr Walters, the Vicar, has committed suicide. I suppose it was the shock unhinged him. But I fear there can be no doubt about it. We’ve just found his black hat and clothes on a rock jutting out from the shore. He seems to have jumped into the sea. I thought he looked as if it had knocked him half-witted, and perhaps we ought to have looked after him; but there was so much to look after.”
“You could have done nothing,” said the lady. “Don’t you see the thing is dealing doom in a sort of dreadful order? The Professor touched the cross, and he went first; the Vicar had opened the tomb, and he went second; we only entered the chapel, and we—”
“Hold on,” said Father Brown, in a sharp voice he very seldom used; “this has got to stop.”
He still wore a heavy though unconscious frown, but in his eyes was no longer the cloud of mystification, but a light of almost terrible understanding. “What a fool I am!” he muttered. “I ought to have seen it long ago. The tale of the curse ought to have told me.”
“Do you mean to say,” demanded Tarrant, “that we can really be killed now by something that happened in the thirteenth century?”
Father Brown shook his head and answered with quiet emphasis: “I won’t discuss whether we can be killed by something that happened in the thirteenth century; but I’m jolly certain that we can’t be killed by something that never happened in the thirteenth century, something that never happened at all.”
“Well,” said Tarrant, “it’s refreshing to find a priest so sceptical of the supernatural as all that.”
“Not at all,” replied the priest calmly; “it’s not the supernatural part I doubt. It’s the natural part. I’m exactly in the position of the man who said, ‘I can believe the impossible, but not the improbable.’”
“That’s what you call a paradox, isn’t it?” asked the other.
“It’s what I call common sense, properly understood,” replied Father Brown. “It really is more natural to believe a preternatural story, that deals with things we don’t understand, than a natural story that contradicts things we do understand. Tell me that the great Mr Gladstone, in his last hours, was haunted by the ghost of Parnell, and I will be agnostic about it. But tell me that Mr Gladstone, when first presented to Queen Victoria, wore his hat in her drawing-room and slapped her on the back and offered her a cigar, and I am not agnostic at all. That is not impossible; it’s only incredible. But I’m much more certain it didn’t happen than that Parnell’s ghost didn’t appear; because it violates the laws of the world I do understand. So it is with that tale of the curse. It isn’t the legend that I disbelieve—it’s the history.”
Lady Diana had recovered a little from her trance of Cassandra, and her perennial curiosity about new things began to peer once more out of her bright and prominent eyes.
“What a curious man you are!” she said. “Why should you disbelieve the history?”
“I disbelieve the history because it isn’t history,” answered Father Brown. “To anybody who happens to know a little about the Middle Ages, the whole story was about as probable as Gladstone offering Queen Victoria a cigar. But does anybody know anything about the Middle Ages? Do you know what a Guild was? Have you ever heard of salvo managio suo? Do you know what sort of people were Servi Regis?”
“No, of course I don’t,” said the lady, rather crossly. “What a lot of Latin words!”
“No, of course,” said Father Brown. “If it had been Tutankhamen and a set of dried-up Africans preserved, Heaven knows why, at the other end of the world; if it had been Babylonia or China; if it had been some race as remote and mysterious as the Man in the Moon, your newspapers would have told you all about it, down to the last discovery of a tooth-brush or a collar-stud. But the men who built your own parish churches, and gave the names to your own towns and trades, and the very roads you walk on—it has never occurred to you to know anything about them. I don’t claim to know a lot myself; but I know enough to see that story is stuff and nonsense from beginning to end. It was illegal for a money-lender to distrain on a man’s shop and tools. It’s exceedingly unlikely that the Guild would not have saved a man from such utter ruin, especially if he were ruined by a Jew. Those people had vices and tragedies of their own; they sometimes tortured and burned peop
le. But that idea of a man, without God or hope in the world, crawling away to die because nobody cared whether he lived—that isn’t a medieval idea. That’s a product of our economic science and progress. The Jew wouldn’t have been a vassal of the feudal lord. The Jews normally had a special position as servants of the King. Above all, the Jew couldn’t possibly have been burned for his religion.”
“The paradoxes are multiplying,” observed Tarrant; “but surely, you won’t deny that Jews were persecuted in the Middle Ages?”
“It would be nearer the truth,” said Father Brown, “to say they were the only people who weren’t persecuted in the Middle Ages. If you want to satirize medievalism, you could make a good case by saying that some poor Christian might be burned alive for making a mistake about the Homoousion, while a rich Jew might walk down the street openly sneering at Christ and the Mother of God. Well, that’s what the story is like. It was never a story of the Middle Ages; it was never even a legend about the Middle Ages. It was made up by somebody whose notions came from novels and newspapers, and probably made up on the spur of the moment.”
The others seemed a little dazed by the historical digression, and seemed to wonder vaguely why the priest emphasized it and made it so important a part of the puzzle. But Tarrant, whose trade it was to pick the practical detail out of many tangles of digression, had suddenly become alert. His bearded chin was thrust forward farther than ever, but his sullen eyes were wide awake. “Ah,” he said; “made up on the spur of the moment!”
“Perhaps that is an exaggeration,” admitted Father Brown calmly. “I should rather say made up more casually and carelessly than the rest of an uncommonly careful plot. But the plotter did not think the details of medieval history would matter much to anybody. And his calculation in a general way was pretty nearly right, like most of his other calculations.”
“Whose calculations? Who was right?” demanded the lady with a sudden passion of impatience. “Who is this person you are talking about? Haven’t we gone through enough, without your making our flesh creep with your he’s and him’s?”
“I am talking about the murderer,” said Father Brown.
“What murderer?” she asked sharply. “Do you mean that the poor Professor was murdered?”
“Well,” said the staring Tarrant gruffly into his beard, “we can’t say ‘murdered’, for we don’t know he’s killed.”
“The murderer killed somebody else, who was not Professor Smaill,” said the priest gravely.
“Why, whom else could he kill?” asked the other.
“He killed the Reverend John Walters, the Vicar of Dulham,” replied Father Brown with precision. “He only wanted to kill those two, because they both had got hold of relics of one rare pattern. The murderer was a sort of monomaniac on the point.”
“It all sounds very strange,” muttered Tarrant. “Of course we can’t swear that the Vicar’s really dead either. We haven’t seen his body.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said Father Brown.
There was a silence as sudden as the stroke of a gong; a silence in which that sub-conscious guesswork that was so active and accurate in the woman moved her almost to a shriek.
“That is exactly what you have seen,” went on the priest. “You have seen his body. You haven’t seen him—the real living man; but you have seen his body all right. You have stared at it hard by the light of four great candles; and it was not tossing suicidally in the sea but lying in state like a Prince of the Church in a shrine built before the Crusade.”
“In plain words,” said Tarrant, “you actually ask us to believe that the embalmed body was really the corpse of a murdered man.”
Father Brown was silent for a moment; then he said almost with an air of irrelevance: “The first thing I noticed about it was the cross; or rather the string suspending the cross. Naturally, for most of you, it was only a string of beads and nothing else in particular; but, naturally also, it was rather more in my line than yours. You remember it lay close up to the chin, with only a few beads showing, as if the whole necklet were quite short. But the beads that showed were arranged in a special way, first one and then three, and so on; in fact, I knew at a glance that it was a rosary, an ordinary rosary with a cross at the end of it. But a rosary has at least five decades and additional beads as well; and I naturally wondered where all the rest of it was. It would go much more than once round the old man’s neck. I couldn’t understand it at the time; and it was only afterwards I guessed where the extra length had gone to. It was coiled round and round the foot of the wooden prop that was fixed in the corner of the coffin, holding up the lid. So that when poor Smaill merely plucked at the cross it jerked the prop out of its place and the lid fell on his skull like a club of stone.”
“By George!” said Tarrant; “I’m beginning to think there’s something in what you say. This is a queer story if it’s true.”
“When I realized that,” went on Father Brown, “I could manage more or less to guess the rest. Remember, first of all, that there never was any responsible archaeological authority for anything more than investigation. Poor old Walters was an honest antiquary, who was engaged in opening the tomb to find out if there was any truth in the legend about embalmed bodies. The rest was all rumour, of the sort that often anticipates or exaggerates such finds. As a fact, he found the body had not been embalmed, but had fallen into dust long ago. Only while he was working there by the light of his lonely candle in that sunken chapel, the candlelight threw another shadow that was not his own.”
“Ah!” cried Lady Diana with a catch in her breath; “and I know what you mean now. You mean to tell us we have met the murderer, talked and joked with the murderer, let him tell us a romantic tale, and let him depart untouched.”
“Leaving his clerical disguise on a rock,” assented Brown. “It is all dreadfully simple. This man got ahead of the Professor in the race to the churchyard and chapel, possibly while the Professor was talking to that lugubrious journalist. He came on the old clergyman beside the empty coffin and killed him. Then he dressed himself in the black clothes from the corpse, wrapped it in an old cope which had been among the real finds of the exploration, and put it in the coffin, arranging the rosary and the wooden support as I have described. Then, having thus set the trap for his second enemy, he went up into the daylight and greeted us all with the most amiable politeness of a country clergyman.”
“He ran a considerable risk,” objected Tarrant, “of somebody knowing Walters by sight.”
“I admit he was half-mad,” agreed Father Brown; “and I think you will admit that the risk was worth taking, for he has got off, after all.”
“I’ll admit he was very lucky,” growled Tarrant. “And who the devil was he?”
“As you say, he was very lucky,” answered Father Brown, “and not least in that respect. For that is the one thing we may never know.” He frowned at the table for a moment and then went on: “This fellow has been hovering round and threatening for years, but the one thing he was careful of was to keep the secret of who he was; and he has kept it still. But if poor Smaill recovers, as I think he will, it is pretty safe to say that you will hear more of it.”
“Why, what will Professor Smaill do, do you think?” asked Lady Diana.
“I should think the first thing he would do,” said Tarrant, “would be to put the detectives on like dogs after this murdering devil. I should like to have a go at him myself.”
“Well,” said Father Brown, smiling suddenly after his long fit of frowning perplexity, “I think I know the very first thing he ought to do.”
“And what is that?” asked Lady Diana with graceful eagerness.
“He ought to apologize to all of you,” said Father Brown.
It was not upon this point, however, that Father Brown found himself talking to Professor Smaill as he sat by the bedside during the slow convalescence of that eminent archaeologist. Nor, indeed, was it chiefly Father Brown who did the talking; for though the Prof
essor was limited to small doses of the stimulant of conversation, he concentrated most of it upon these interviews with his clerical friend. Father Brown had a talent for being silent in an encouraging way and Smaill was encouraged by it to talk about many strange things not always easy to talk about; such as the morbid phases of recovery and the monstrous dreams that often accompany delirium. It is often rather an unbalancing business to recover slowly from a bad knock on the head; and when the head is as interesting a head as that of Professor Smaill even its disturbances and distortions are apt to be original and curious. His dreams were like bold and big designs rather out of drawing, as they can be seen in the strong but stiff archaic arts that he had studied; they were full of strange saints with square and triangular haloes, of golden out-standing crowns and glories round dark and flattened faces, of eagles out of the east and the high headdresses of bearded men with their hair bound like women. Only, as he told his friend, there was one much simpler and less entangled type, that continually recurred to his imaginative memory. Again and again all these Byzantine patterns would fade away like the fading gold on which they were traced as upon fire; and nothing remained but the dark bare wall of rock on which the shining shape of the fish was traced as with a finger dipped in the phosphorescence of fishes. For that was the sign which he once looked up and saw, in the moment when he first heard round the corner of the dark passage the voice of his enemy.