The Father Brown Megapack

by G. K. Datlow

“What in the world were you doing for two hours in somebody’s else’s front garden?” insisted the barrister; “You were doing something, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a secret?” asked Sir Arthur, with adamantine jocularity.

  “It’s a secret from you,” answered the poet.

  It was upon this suggestion of a secret that Sir Arthur seized in developing his line of accusation. With a boldness which some thought unscrupulous, he turned the very mystery of the motive, which was the strongest part of his opponent’s case, into an argument for his own. He gave it as the first fragmentary hint of some far-flung and elaborate conspiracy, in which a patriot had perished like one caught in the coils of an octopus.

  “Yes,” he cried in a vibrating voice, “my learned friend is perfectly right! We do not know the exact reason why this honourable public servant was murdered. We shall not know the reason why the next public servant is murdered. If my learned friend himself falls a victim to his eminence, and the hatred which the hellish powers of destruction feel for the guardians of law, he will be murdered, and he will not know the reason. Half the decent people in this court will be butchered in their beds, and we shall not know the reason. And we shall never know the reason and never arrest the massacre, until it has depopulated our country, so long as the defence is permitted to stop all proceedings with this stale tag about ‘motive,’ when every other fact in the case, every glaring incongruity, every gaping silence, tells us that we stand in the presence of Cain.”

  “I never knew Sir Arthur so excited,” said Bagshaw to his group of companions afterwards. “Some people are saying he went beyond the usual limit and that the prosecutor in a murder case oughtn’t to be so vindictive. But I must say there was something downright creepy about that little goblin with the yellow hair, that seemed to play up to the impression. I was vaguely recalling, all the time, something that De Quincey says about Mr. Williams, that ghastly criminal who slaughtered two whole families almost in silence. I think he says that Williams had hair of a vivid unnatural yellow; and that he thought it had been dyed by a trick learned in India, where they dye horses green or blue. Then there was his queer, stony silence, like a troglodyte’s; I’ll never deny that it all worked me up until I felt there was a sort of monster in the dock. If that was only Sir Arthur’s eloquence, then he certainly took a heavy responsibility in putting so much passion into it.”

  “He was a friend of poor Gwynne’s, as a matter of fact,” said Underhill, more gently; “a man I know saw them hobnobbing together after a great legal dinner lately. I dare say that’s why he feels so strongly in this case. I suppose it’s doubtful whether a man ought to act in such a case on mere personal feeling.”

  “He wouldn’t,” said Bagshaw. “I bet Sir Arthur Travers wouldn’t act only on feeling, however strongly he felt. He’s got a very stiff sense of his own professional position. He’s one of those men who are ambitious even when they’ve satisfied their ambition. I know nobody who’d take more trouble to keep his position in the world. No; you’ve got hold of the wrong moral to his rather thundering sermon. If he lets himself go like that, it’s because he thinks he can get a conviction, anyhow, and wants to put himself at the head of some political movement against the conspiracy he talks about. He must have some very good reason for wanting to convict Orm and some very good reason for thinking he can do it. That means that the facts will support him. His confidence doesn’t look well for the prisoner.” He became conscious of an insignificant figure in the group.

  “Well, Father Brown,” he said with a smile; “what do you think of our judicial procedure?”

  “Well,” replied the priest rather absently, “I think the thing that struck me most was how different men look in their wigs. You talk about the prosecuting barrister being so tremendous. But I happened to see him take his wig off for a minute, and he really looks quite a different man. He’s quite bald, for one thing.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t prevent his being tremendous,” answered Bagshaw. “You don’t propose to found the defence on the fact that the prosecuting counsel is bald, do you?”

  “Not exactly,” said Father Brown good-humouredly. “To tell the truth, I was thinking how little some kinds of people know about other kinds of people. Suppose I went among some remote people who had never even heard of England. Suppose I told them that there is a man in my country who won’t ask a question of life and death, until he has put an erection made of horse-hair on the top of his head, with little tails behind, and grey corkscrew curls at the side, like an Early Victorian old woman. They would think he must be rather eccentric; but he isn’t at all eccentric, he’s only conventional. They would think so, because they don’t know anything about English barristers; because they don’t know what a barrister is. Well, that barrister doesn’t know what a poet is. He doesn’t understand that a poet’s eccentricities wouldn’t seem eccentric to other poets. He thinks it odd that Orm should walk about in a beautiful garden for two hours, with nothing to do. God bless my soul! a poet would think nothing of walking about in the same backyard for ten hours if he had a poem to do. Orm’s own counsel was quite as stupid. It never occurred to him to ask Orm the obvious question.”

  “What question do you mean?” asked the other.

  “Why, what poem he was making up, of course,” said Father Brown rather impatiently. “What line he was stuck at, what epithet he was looking for, what climax he was trying to work up to. If there were any educated people in court, who know what literature is, they would have known well enough whether he had had anything genuine to do. You’d have asked a manufacturer about the conditions of his factory; but nobody seems to consider the conditions under which poetry is manufactured. It’s done by doing nothing.”

  “That’s all very well,” replied the detective; “but why did he hide? Why did he climb up that crooked little stairway and stop there; it led nowhere.”

  “Why, because it led nowhere, of course,” cried Father Brown explosively. “Anybody who clapped eyes on that blind alley ending in mid-air might have known an artist would want to go there, just as a child would.”

  He stood blinking for a moment, and then said apologetically: “I beg your pardon; but it seems odd that none of them understand these things. And then there was another thing. Don’t you know that everything has, for an artist, one aspect or angle that is exactly right? A tree, a cow, and a cloud, in a certain relation only, mean something; as three letters, in one order only, mean a word. Well, the view of that illuminated garden from that unfinished bridge was the right view of it. It was as unique as the fourth dimension. It was a sort of fairy foreshortening; it was like looking down at heaven and seeing all the stars growing on trees and that luminous pond like a moon fallen flat on the fields in some happy nursery tale. He could have looked at it for ever. If you told him the path led nowhere, he would tell you it had led him to the country at the end of the world. But do you expect him to tell you that in the witness-box? What would you say to him if he did? You talk about a man having a jury of his peers. Why don’t you have a jury of poets?”

  “You talk as if you were a poet yourself,” said Bagshaw.

  “Thank your stars I’m not,” said Father Brown. “Thank your lucky stars a priest has to be more charitable than a poet. Lord have mercy on us, if you knew what a crushing, what a cruel contempt he feels for the lot of you, you’d feel as if you were under Niagara.”

  “You may know more about the artistic temperament than I do,” said Bagshaw after a pause; “but, after all, the answer is simple. You can only show that he might have done what he did, without committing the crime. But it’s equally true that he might have committed the crime. And who else could have committed it?”

  “Have you thought about the servant, Green?” asked Father Brown, reflectively. “He told a rather queer story.”

  “Ah,” cried Bagshaw quickly, “you think Green did it, after all.”

  “I’m quite sure he didn’t,�
� replied the other. “I only asked if you’d thought about his queer story. He only went out for some trifle, a drink or an assignation or what not. But he went out by the garden door and came back over the garden wall. In other words, he left the door open, but he came back to find it shut. Why? Because Somebody Else had already passed out that way.”

  “The murderer,” muttered the detective doubtfully. “Do you know who he was?”

  “I know what he looked like,” answered Father Brown quietly. “That’s the only thing I do know. I can almost see him as he came in at the front door, in the gleam of the hall lamp; his figure, his clothes, even his face!”

  “What’s all this?”

  “He looked like Sir Humphrey Gwynne,” said the priest.

  “What the devil do you mean?” demanded Bagshaw. “Gwynne was lying dead with his head in the pond.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Father Brown.

  After a moment he went on: “Let’s go back to that theory of yours, which was a very good one, though I don’t quite agree with it. You suppose the murderer came in at the front door, met the Judge in the front hall, struggling with him and breaking the mirror; that the judge then retreated into the garden, where he was finally shot. Somehow, it doesn’t sound natural to me. Granted he retreated down the hall, there are two exits at the end, one into the garden and one into the house. Surely, he would be more likely to retreat into the house? His gun was there; his telephone was there; his servant, so far as he knew, was there. Even the nearest neighbours were in that direction. Why should he stop to open the garden door and go out alone on the deserted side of the house?”

  “But we know he did go out of the house,” replied his companion, puzzled. “We know he went out of the house, because he was found in the garden.”

  “He never went out of the house, because he never was in the house,” said Father Brown. “Not that evening, I mean. He was sitting in that bungalow. I read that lesson in the dark, at the beginning, in red and golden stars across the garden. They were worked from the hut; they wouldn’t have been burning at all if he hadn’t been in the hut. He was trying to run across to the house and the telephone, when the murderer shot him beside the pond.”

  “But what about the pot and the palm and the broken mirror?” cried Bagshaw. “Why, it was you who found them! It was you yourself who said there must have been a struggle in the hall.”

  The priest blinked rather painfully. “Did I?” he muttered. “Surely, I didn’t say that. I never thought that. What I think I said, was that something had happened in the hall. And something did happen; but it wasn’t a struggle.”

  “Then what broke the mirror?” asked Bagshaw shortly.

  “A bullet broke the mirror,” answered Father Brown gravely; “a bullet fired by the criminal. The big fragments of falling glass were quite enough to knock over the pot and the palm.”

  “Well, what else could he have been firing at except Gwynne?” asked the detective.

  “It’s rather a fine metaphysical point,” answered his clerical companion almost dreamily. “In one sense, of course, he was firing at Gwynne. But Gwynne wasn’t there to be fired at. The criminal was alone in the hall.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then went on quietly. “Imagine the looking-glass at the end of the passage, before it was broken, and the tall palm arching over it. In the half-light, reflecting these monochrome walls, it would look like the end of the passage. A man reflected in it would look like a man coming from inside the house. It would look like the master of the house—if only the reflection were a little like him.”

  “Stop a minute,” cried Bagshaw. “I believe I begin—”

  “You begin to see,” said Father Brown. “You begin to see why all the suspects in this case must be innocent. Not one of them could possibly have mistaken his own reflection for old Gwynne. Orm would have known at once that his bush of yellow hair was not a bald head. Flood would have seen his own red head, and Green his own red waistcoat. Besides, they’re all short and shabby; none of them could have thought his own image was a tall, thin, old gentleman in evening-dress. We want another, equally tall and thin, to match him. That’s what I meant by saying that I knew what the murderer looked like.”

  “And what do you argue from that?” asked Bagshaw, looking at him steadily.

  The priest uttered a sort of sharp, crisp laugh, oddly different from his ordinary mild manner of speech.

  “I am going to argue,” he said, “the very thing that you said was so ludicrous and impossible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to base the defence,” said Father Brown, “on the fact that the prosecuting counsel has a bald head.”

  “Oh, my God!” said the detective quietly, and got to his feet, staring.

  Father Brown had resumed his monologue in an unruffled manner.

  “You’ve been following the movements of a good many people in this business; you policemen were prodigiously interested in the movements of the poet, and the servant, and the Irishman. The man whose movements seem to have been rather forgotten is the dead man himself. His servant was quite honestly astonished at finding his master had returned. His master had gone to a great dinner of all the leaders of the legal profession, but had left it abruptly and come home. He was not ill, for he summoned no assistance; he had almost certainly quarrelled with some leader of the legal profession. It’s among the leaders of that profession that we should have looked first for his enemy. He returned, and shut himself up in the bungalow, where he kept all his private documents about treasonable practices. But the leader of the legal profession, who knew there was something against him in those documents, was thoughtful enough to follow his accuser home; he also being in evening-dress, but with a pistol in his pocket. That is all; and nobody could ever have guessed it except for the mirror.”

  He seemed to be gazing into vacancy for a moment, and then added:

  “A queer thing is a mirror; a picture frame that holds hundreds of different pictures, all vivid and all vanished for ever. Yet, there was something specially strange about the glass that hung at the end of that grey corridor under that green palm. It is as if it was a magic glass and had a different fate from others, as if its picture could somehow survive it, hanging in the air of that twilight house like a spectre; or at least like an abstract diagram, the skeleton of an argument. We could, at least, conjure out of the void the thing that Sir Arthur Travers saw. And by the way, there was one very true thing that you said about him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Bagshaw with grim good-nature. “what was it?”

  “You said,” observed the priest, “that Sir Arthur must have some good reason for wanting to get Orm hanged.”

  A week later the priest met the police detective once more, and learned that the authorities had already been moving on the new lines of inquiry when they were interrupted by a sensational event.

  “Sir Arthur Travers,” began Father Brown.

  “Sir Arthur Travers is dead,” said Bagshaw, briefly.

  “Ah!” said the other, with a little catch in his voice; “you mean that he—”

  “Yes,” said Bagshaw, “he shot at the same man again, but not in a mirror.”

  The Man With Two Beards

  This tale was told by Father Brown to Professor Crake, the celebrated criminologist, after dinner at a club, where the two were introduced to each other as sharing a harmless hobby of murder and robbery. But, as Father Brown’s version rather minimized his own part in the matter, it is here re-told in a more impartial style. It arose out of a playful passage of arms, in which the professor was very scientific and the priest rather sceptical.

  “My good sir,” said the professor in remonstrance, “don’t you believe that criminology is a science?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Father Brown. “Do you believe that hagiology is a science?”

  “What’s that?” asked the specialist sharply.

  “No; it’s not the s
tudy of hags, and has nothing to do with burning witches,” said the priest, smiling. “It’s the study of holy things, saints and so on. You see, the Dark Ages tried to make a science about good people. But our own humane and enlightened age is only interested in a science about bad ones. Yet I think our general experience is that every conceivable sort of man has been a saint. And I suspect you will find, too, that every conceivable sort of man has been a murderer.”

  “Well, we believe murderers can be pretty well classified,” observed Crake. “The list sounds rather long and dull; but I think it’s exhaustive. First, all killing can be divided into rational and irrational, and we’ll take the last first, because they are much fewer. There is such a thing as homicidal mania, or love of butchery in the abstract. There is such a thing as irrational antipathy, though it’s very seldom homicidal. Then we come to the true motives: of these, some are less rational in the sense of being merely romantic and retrospective. Acts of pure revenge are acts of hopeless revenge. Thus a lover will sometimes kill a rival he could never supplant, or a rebel assassinate a tyrant after the conquest is complete. But, more often, even these acts have a rational explanation. They are hopeful murders. They fall into the larger section of the second division, of what we may call prudential crimes. These, again, fall chiefly under two descriptions. A man kills either in order to obtain what the other man possesses, either by theft or inheritance, or to stop the other man from acting in some way: as in the case of killing a blackmailer or a political opponent; or, in the case of a rather more passive obstacle, a husband or wife whose continued functioning, as such, interferes with other things. We believe that classification is pretty thoroughly thought out and, properly applied, covers the whole ground—But I’m afraid that it perhaps sounds rather dull; I hope I’m not boring you.”

  “Not at all,” said Father Brown. “If I seemed a little absent-minded I must apologize; the truth is, I was thinking of a man I once knew. He was a murderer; but I can’t see where he fits into your museum of murderers. He was not mad, nor did he like killing. He did not hate the man he killed; he hardly knew him, and certainly had nothing to avenge on him. The other man did not possess anything that he could possibly want. The other man was not behaving in any way which the murderer wanted to stop. The murdered man was not in a position to hurt, or hinder, or even affect the murderer in any way. There was no woman in the case. There were no politics in the case. This man killed a fellow-creature who was practically a stranger, and that for a very strange reason; which is possibly unique in human history.”