The Father Brown Megapack

by G. K. Datlow

  “I understand you only found him about half an hour ago,” said Flambeau. “Was there anybody about here just before that? I mean anybody in his bedroom, or that part of the house, or this part of the garden—say for an hour beforehand?”

  “No,” said the doctor with precision. “That is the very tragic accident. My sister-in-law was in the pantry, which is a sort of out-house on the other side; this man Dunn was in the kitchen garden, which is also in that direction; and I myself was poking about among the books, in a room just behind the one you found me in. There are two female servants, but one had gone to the post and the other was in the attic.”

  “And were any of these people,” asked Flambeau, very quietly, “I say any of these people, at all on bad terms with the poor old gentleman?”

  “He was the object of almost universal affection,” replied the doctor solemnly. “If there were any misunderstandings, they were mild and of a sort common in modern times. The old man was attached to the old religious habits; and perhaps his daughter and son-in-law had rather wider views. All that can have had nothing to do with a ghastly and fantastic assassination like this.”

  “It depends on how wide the modern views were,” said Father Brown, “or how narrow.”

  At this moment they heard Mrs Flood hallooing across the garden as she came, and calling her brother-in-law to her with a certain impatience. He hurried towards her and was soon out of earshot; but as he went he waved his hand apologetically and then pointed with a long finger to the ground.

  “You will find the footprints very intriguing,” he said; with the same strange air, as of a funereal showman.

  The two amateur detectives looked across at each other. “I find several other things intriguing,” said Flambeau.

  “Oh, yes,” said the priest, staring rather foolishly at the grass.

  “I was wondering,” said Flambeau, “why they should hang a man by the neck till he was dead, and then take the trouble to stick him with a sword.”

  “And I was wondering,” said Father Brown, “why they should kill a man with a sword thrust through his heart, and then take the trouble to hang him by the neck.”

  “Oh, you are simply being contrary,” protested his friend. “I can see at a glance that they didn’t stab him alive. The body would have bled more and the wound wouldn’t have closed like that.”

  “And I could see at a glance,” said Father Brown, peering up very awkwardly, with his short stature and short sight, “that they didn’t hang him alive. If you’ll look at the knot in the noose, you will see it’s tied so clumsily that a twist of rope holds it away from the neck, so that it couldn’t throttle a man at all. He was dead before they put the rope on him; and he was dead before they put the sword in him. And how was he really killed?”

  “I think,” remarked the other, “that we’d better go back to the house and have a look at his bedroom—and other things.”

  “So we will,” said Father Brown. “But among other things perhaps we had better have a look at these footprints. Better begin at the other end, I think, by his window. Well, there are no footprints on the paved path, as there might be; but then again there mightn’t be. Well, here is the lawn just under his bedroom window. And here are his footprints plain enough.”

  He blinked ominously at the footprints; and then began carefully retracing his path towards the tree, every now and then ducking in an undignified manner to look at something on the ground. Eventually he returned to Flambeau and said in a chatty manner:

  “Well, do you know the story that is written there very plainly? Though it’s not exactly a plain story.”

  “I wouldn’t be content to call it plain,” said Flambeau. “I should call it quite ugly—”

  “Well,” said Father Brown, “the story that is stamped quite plainly on the earth, with exact moulds of the old man’s slippers, is this. The aged paralytic leapt from the window and ran down the beds parallel to the path, quite eager for all the fun of being strangled and stabbed; so eager that he hopped on one leg out of sheer lightheartedness; and even occasionally turned cartwheels—”

  “Stop!” cried Flambeau, angrily. “What the hell is all this hellish pantomime?”

  Father Brown merely raised his eyebrows and gestured mildly towards the hieroglyphs in the dust. “About half the way there’s only the mark of one slipper; and in some places the mark of a hand planted all by itself.”

  “Couldn’t he have limped and then fallen?” asked Flambeau.

  Father Brown shook his head. “At least he’d have tried to use his hands and feet, or knees and elbows, in getting up. There are no other marks there of any kind. Of course the flagged path is quite near, and there are no marks on that; though there might be on the soil between the cracks; it’s a crazy pavement.”

  “By God, it’s a crazy pavement; and a crazy garden; and a crazy story!” And Flambeau looked gloomily across the gloomy and storm-stricken garden, across which the crooked patchwork paths did indeed give a queer aptness to the quaint old English adjective.

  “And now,” said Father Brown, “let us go up and look at his room.” They went in by a door not far from the bedroom window; and the priest paused a moment to look at an ordinary garden broomstick, for sweeping up leaves, that was leaning against the wall. “Do you see that?”

  “It’s a broomstick,” said Flambeau, with solid irony.

  “It’s a blunder,” said Father Brown; “the first blunder that I’ve seen in this curious plot.”

  They mounted the stairs and entered the old man’s bedroom; and a glance at it made fairly clear the main facts, both about the foundation and disunion of the family. Father Brown had felt from the first that he was in what was, or had been, a Catholic household; but was, at least partly, inhabited by lapsed or very loose Catholics. The pictures and images in the grandfather’s room made it clear that what positive piety remained had been practically confined to him; and that his kindred had, for some reason or other, gone Pagan. But he agreed that this was a hopelessly inadequate explanation even of an ordinary murder; let alone such a very extraordinary murder as this. “Hang it all,” he muttered, “the murder is really the least extra-ordinary part of it.” And even as he used the chance phrase, a slow light began to dawn upon his face.

  Flambeau had seated himself on a chair by the little table which stood beside the dead man’s bed. He was frowning thoughtfully at three or four white pills or pellets that lay in a small tray beside a bottle of water.

  “The murderer or murderess,” said Flambeau, “had some incomprehensible reason or other for wanting us to think the dead man was strangled or stabbed or both. He was not strangled or stabbed or anything of the kind. Why did they want to suggest it? The most logical explanation is that he died in some particular way which would, in itself, suggest a connection with some particular person. Suppose, for instance, he was poisoned. And suppose somebody is involved who would naturally look more like a poisoner than anybody else.”

  “After all,” said Father Brown softly, “our friend in the blue spectacles is a doctor.”

  “I’m going to examine these pills pretty carefully,” went on Flambeau. “I don’t want to lose them, though. They look as if they were soluble in water.”

  “It may take you some time to do anything scientific with them,” said the priest, “and the police doctor may be here before that. So I should certainly advise you not to lose them. That is, if you are going to wait for the police doctor.”

  “I am going to stay here till I have solved this problem,” said Flambeau.

  “Then you will stay here for ever,” said Father Brown, looking calmly out of the window. “I don’t think I shall stay in this room, anyhow.”

  “Do you mean that I shan’t solve the problem?” asked his friend. “Why shouldn’t I solve the problem?”

  “Because it isn’t soluble in water. No, nor in blood,” said the priest; and he went down the dark stairs into the darkening garden. There he saw again what
he had already seen from the window.

  The heat and weight and obscurity of the thunderous sky seemed to be pressing yet more closely on the landscape; the clouds had conquered the sun which, above, in a narrowing clearance, stood up paler than the moon. There was a thrill of thunder in the air, but now no more stirring of wind or breeze; and even the colours of the garden seemed only like richer shades of darkness. But one colour still glowed with a certain dusky vividness; and that was the red hair of the woman of that house, who was standing with a sort of rigidity, staring, with her hands thrust up into her hair. That scene of eclipse, with something deeper in his own doubts about its significance, brought to the surface the memory of haunting and mystical lines; and he found himself murmuring: “A secret spot, as savage and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover.” His muttering became more agitated. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…that’s what it is; that’s terribly like what it is; woman wailing for her demon lover.”

  He was hesitant and almost shaky as he approached the woman; but he spoke with his common composure. He was gazing at her very steadily, as he told her earnestly that she must not be morbid because of the mere accidental accessories of the tragedy, with all their mad ugliness. “The pictures in your grandfather’s room were truer to him than that ugly picture that we saw,” he said gravely. “Something tells me he was a good man; and it does not matter what his murderers did with his body.”

  “Oh, I am sick of his holy pictures and statues!” she said, turning her head away. “Why don’t they defend themselves, if they are what you say they are? But rioters can knock off the Blessed Virgin’s head and nothing happens to them. Oh, what’s the good? You can’t blame us, you daren’t blame us, if we’ve found out that Man is stronger than God.”

  “Surely,” said Father Brown very gently, “it is not generous to make even God’s patience with us a point against Him.”

  “God may be patient and Man impatient,” she answered, “and suppose we like the impatience better. You call it sacrilege; but you can’t stop it.”

  Father Brown gave a curious little jump. “Sacrilege!” he said; and suddenly turned back to the doorway with a new brisk air of decision. At the same moment Flambeau appeared in the doorway, pale with excitement, with a screw of paper in his hands. Father Brown had already opened his mouth to speak, but his impetuous friend spoke before him.

  “I’m on the track at last!” cried Flambeau. “These pills look the same, but they’re really different. And do you know that, at the very moment I spotted them, that one-eyed brute of a gardener thrust his white face into the room; and he was carrying a horse-pistol. I knocked it out of his hand and threw him down the stairs, but I begin to understand everything. If I stay here another hour or two, I shall finish my job.”

  “Then you will not finish it,” said the priest, with a ring in his voice very rare in him indeed. “We shall not stay here another hour. We shall not stay here another minute. We must leave this place at once!”

  “What!” cried the astounded Flambeau. “Just when we are getting near the truth! Why, you can tell that we’re getting near the truth because they are afraid of us.”

  Father Brown looked at him with a stony and inscrutable face, and said: “They are not afraid of us when we are here. They will only be afraid of us when we are not here.”

  They had both become conscious that the rather fidgety figure of Dr Flood was hovering in the lurid haze; now it precipitated itself forward with the wildest gestures.

  “Stop! Listen!” cried the agitated doctor. “I have discovered the truth!”

  “Then you can explain it to your own police,” said Father Brown, briefly. “They ought to be coming soon. But we must be going.”

  The doctor seemed thrown into a whirlpool of emotions, eventually rising to the surface again with a despairing cry. He spread out his arms like a cross, barring their way.

  “Be it so!” he cried. “I will not deceive you now, by saying I have discovered the truth. I will only confess the truth.”

  “Then you can confess it to your own priest,” said Father Brown, and strode towards the garden gate, followed by his staring friend. Before he reached the gate, another figure had rushed athwart him like the wind; and Dunn the gardener was shouting at him some unintelligible derision at detectives who were running away from their job. Then the priest ducked just in time to dodge a blow from the horse-pistol, wielded like a club. But Dunn was just not in time to dodge a blow from the fist of Flambeau, which was like the club of Hercules. The two left Mr Dunn spread flat behind them on the path, and, passing out of the gate, went out and got into their car in silence. Flambeau only asked one brief question and Father Brown only answered: “Casterbury.”

  At last, after a long silence, the priest observed: “I could almost believe the storm belonged only to that garden, and came out of a storm in the soul.”

  “My friend,” said Flambeau. “I have known you a long time, and when you show certain signs of certainty, I follow your lead. But I hope you are not going to tell me that you took me away from that fascinating job, because you did not like the atmosphere.”

  “Well, it was certainly a terrible atmosphere,” replied Father Brown, calmly. “Dreadful and passionate and oppressive. And the most dreadful thing about it was this—that there was no hate in it at all.”

  “Somebody,” suggested Flambeau, “seems to have had a slight dislike of grandpapa.”

  “Nobody had any dislike of anybody,” said Father Brown with a groan. “That was the dreadful thing in that darkness. It was love.”

  “Curious way of expressing love—to strangle somebody and stick him with a sword,” observed the other.

  “It was love,” repeated the priest, “and it filled the house with terror.”

  “Don’t tell me,” protested Flambeau, “that that beautiful woman is in love with that spider in spectacles.”

  “No,” said Father Brown and groaned again. “She is in love with her husband. It is ghastly.”

  “It is a state of things that I have often heard you recommend,” replied Flambeau. “You cannot call that lawless love.”

  “Not lawless in that sense,” answered Father Brown; then he turned sharply on his elbow and spoke with a new warmth: “Do you think I don’t know that the love of a man and a woman was the first command of God and is glorious for ever? Are you one of those idiots who think we don’t admire love and marriage? Do I need to be told of the Garden of Eden or the wine of Cana? It is just because the strength in the thing was the strength of God, that it rages with that awful energy even when it breaks loose from God. When the Garden becomes a jungle, but still a glorious jungle; when the second fermentation turns the wine of Cana into the vinegar of Calvary. Do you think I don’t know all that?”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Flambeau, “but I don’t yet know much about my problem of the murder.”

  “The murder cannot be solved,” said Father Brown.

  “And why not?” demanded his friend.

  “Because there is no murder to solve,” said Father Brown.

  Flambeau was silent with sheer surprise; and it was his friend who resumed in a quiet tone:

  “I’ll tell you a curious thing. I talked with that woman when she was wild with grief; but she never said anything about the murder. She never mentioned murder, or even alluded to murder. What she did mention repeatedly was sacrilege.” Then, with another jerk of verbal disconnection, he added: “Have you ever heard of Tiger Tyrone?”

  “Haven’t I!” cried Flambeau. “Why, that’s the very man who’s supposed to be after the reliquary, and whom I’ve been commissioned specially to circumvent. He’s the most violent and daring gangster who ever visited this country; Irish, of course, but the sort that goes quite crazily anti-clerical. Perhaps he’s dabbled in a little diabolism in these secret societies; anyhow, he has a macabre taste for playing all sorts of wild tricks that look wicke
der than they are. Otherwise he’s not the wickedest; he seldom kills, and never for cruelty; but he loves doing anything to shock people, especially his own people; robbing churches or digging up skeletons or what not.”

  “Yes,” said Father Brown, “it all fits in. I ought to have seen it all long before.”

  “I don’t see how we could have seen anything, after only an hour’s investigation,” said the detective defensively.

  “I ought to have seen it before there was anything to investigate,” said the priest. “I ought to have known it before you arrived this morning.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “It only shows how wrong voices sound on the telephone,” said Father Brown reflectively. “I heard all three stages of the thing this morning; and I thought they were trifles. First, a woman rang me up and asked me to go to that inn as soon as possible. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dying. Then she rang up to say that I needn’t go, after all. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dead. He had died quite peaceably in his bed; probably heart failure from sheer old age. And then she rang up a third time and said I was to go, after all. What did that mean? Ah, that is rather more interesting!”

  He went on after a moment’s pause: “Tiger Tyrone, whose wife worships him, took hold of one of his mad ideas, and yet it was a crafty idea, too. He had just heard that you were tracking him down, that you knew him and his methods and were coming to save the reliquary; he may have heard that I have sometimes been of some assistance. He wanted to stop us on the road; and his trick for doing it was to stage a murder. It was a pretty horrible thing to do; but it wasn’t a murder. Probably he bullied his wife with an air of brutal common sense, saying he could only escape penal servitude by using a dead body that couldn’t suffer anything from such use. Anyhow, his wife would do anything for him; but she felt all the unnatural hideousness of that hanging masquerade; and that’s why she talked about sacrilege. She was thinking of the desecration of the relic; but also of the desecration of the death-bed. The brother’s one of those shoddy ‘scientific’ rebels who tinker with dud bombs; an idealist run to seed. But he’s devoted to Tiger; and so is the gardener. Perhaps it’s a point in his favour that so many people seem devoted to him.