The Father Brown Megapack

by G. K. Datlow

  “And what was his notion?” asked Wain. “I think it wants watching whatever it is.”

  “Well,” replied the priest, slowly, “he wanted us to think the murders were miracles because…well, because he knew they weren’t.”

  “Ah,” said Wain, with a sort of hiss, “I was waiting for that. In plain words, he is the criminal.”

  “In plain words, he is the criminal who didn’t commit the crime,” answered Father Brown calmly.

  “Is that your conception of plain words?” inquired Blake politely.

  “You’ll be saying I’m the mystagogue now,” said Father Brown somewhat abashed, but with a broad smile, “but it was really quite accidental. Drage didn’t commit the crime—I mean this crime. His only crime was blackmailing somebody, and he hung about here to do it; but he wasn’t likely to want the secret to be public property or the whole business to be cut short by death. We can talk about him afterwards. Just at the moment, I only want him cleared out of the way.”

  “Out of the way of what?” asked the other.

  “Out of the way of the truth,” replied the priest, looking at him tranquilly, with level eyelids.

  “Do you mean,” faltered the other, “that you know the truth?”

  “I rather think so,” said Father Brown modestly.

  There was an abrupt silence, after which Crake cried out suddenly and irrelevantly in a rasping voice:

  “Why, where is that secretary fellow? Wilton! He ought to be here.”

  “I am in communication with Mr Wilton,” said Father Brown gravely; “in fact, I asked him to ring me up here in a few minutes from now. I may say that we’ve worked the thing out together, in a manner of speaking.”

  “If you’re working together, I suppose it’s all right,” grumbled Crake. “I know he was always a sort of bloodhound on the trail of his vanishing crook, so perhaps it was well to hunt in couples with him. But if you know the truth about this, where the devil did you get it from?”

  “I got it from you,” answered the priest, quietly, and continued to gaze mildly at the glaring veteran. “I mean I made the first guess from a hint in a story of yours about an Indian who threw a knife and hit a man on the top of a fortress.”

  “You’ve said that several times,” said Wain, with a puzzled air; “but I can’t see any inference, except that this murderer threw an arrow and hit a man on the top of a house very like a fortress. But of course the arrow wasn’t thrown but shot, and would go much further. Certainly it went uncommonly far; but I don’t see how it brings us any farther.”

  “I’m afraid you missed the point of the story,” said Father Brown. “It isn’t that if one thing can go far another can go farther. It is that the wrong use of a tool can cut both ways. The men on Crake’s fort thought of a knife as a thing for a hand-to-hand fight and forgot that it could be a missile like a javelin. Some other people I know thought of a thing as a missile like a javelin and forgot that, after all, it could be used hand-to-hand as a spear. In short, the moral of the story is that since a dagger can be turned into an arrow, so can an arrow be turned into a dagger.”

  They were all looking at him now; but he continued in the same casual and unconscious tone: “Naturally we wondered and worried a good deal about who shot that arrow through the window and whether it came from far away, and so on. But the truth is that nobody shot the arrow at all. It never came in at the window at all.”

  “Then how did it come there?” asked the swarthy lawyer, with a rather lowering face.

  “Somebody brought it with him, I suppose,” said Father Brown; “it wouldn’t be hard to carry or conceal. Somebody had it in his hand as he stood with Merton in Merton’s own room. Somebody thrust it into Merton’s throat like a poignard, and then had the highly intelligent idea of placing the whole thing at such a place and angle that we all assumed in a flash that it had flown in at the window like a bird.”

  “Somebody,” said old Crake, in a voice as heavy as stone.

  The telephone bell rang with a strident and horrible clamour of insistence. It was in the adjoining room, and Father Brown had darted there before anybody else could move.

  “What the devil is it all about?” cried Peter Wain, who seemed all shaken and distracted.

  “He said he expected to be rung up by Wilton, the secretary,” replied his uncle in the same dead voice.

  “I suppose it is Wilton?” observed the lawyer, like one speaking to fill up a silence. But nobody answered the question until Father Brown reappeared suddenly and silently in the room, bringing the answer.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, when he had resumed his seat, “it was you who asked me to look into the truth about this puzzle; and having found the truth, I must tell it, without any pretence of softening the shock. I’m afraid anybody who pokes his nose into things like this can’t afford to be a respecter of persons.”

  “I suppose,” said Crake, breaking the silence that followed, “that means that some of us are accused, or suspected.”

  “All of us are suspected,” answered Father Brown. “I may be suspected myself, for I found the body.”

  “Of course we’re suspected,” snapped Wain. “Father Brown kindly explained to me how I could have besieged the tower in a flying-machine.”

  “No,” replied the priest, with a smile; “you described to me how you could have done it. That was just the interesting part of it.”

  “He seemed to think it likely,” growled Crake, “that I killed him myself with a Red Indian arrow.”

  “I thought it most unlikely,” said Father Brown, making rather a wry face. “I’m sorry if I did wrong, but I couldn’t think of any other way of testing the matter. I can hardly think of anything more improbable than the notion that Captain Wain went careering in a huge machine past the window, at the very moment of the murder, and nobody noticed it; unless, perhaps, it were the notion that a respectable old gentleman should play at Red Indians with a bow and arrow behind the bushes, to kill somebody he could have killed in twenty much simpler ways. But I had to find out if they had had anything to do with it; and so I had to accuse them in order to prove their innocence.”

  “And how have you proved their innocence?” asked Blake the lawyer, leaning forward eagerly.

  “Only by the agitation they showed when they were accused,” answered the other.

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “If you will permit me to say so,” remarked Father Brown, composedly enough, “I did undoubtedly think it my duty to suspect them and everybody else. I did suspect Mr Crake and I did suspect Captain Wain, in the sense that I considered the possibility or probability of their guilt. I told them I had formed conclusions about it; and I will now tell them what those conclusions were. I was sure they were innocent, because of the manner and the moment in which they passed from unconsciousness to indignation. So long as they never thought they were accused, they went on giving me materials to support the accusation. They practically explained to me how they might have committed the crime. Then they suddenly realized with a shock and a shout of rage that they were accused; they realized it long after they might well have expected to be accused, but long before I had accused them. Now no guilty person could possibly do that. He might be snappy and suspicious from the first; or he might simulate unconsciousness and innocence up to the end. But he wouldn’t begin by making things worse for himself and then give a great jump and begin furiously denying the notion he had himself helped to suggest. That could only come by his having really failed to realize what he was suggesting. The self-consciousness of a murderer would always be at least morbidly vivid enough to prevent him first forgetting his relation with the thing and then remembering to deny it. So I ruled you both out and others for other reasons I needn’t discuss now. For instance, there was the secretary—

  “But I’m not talking about that just now. Look here, I’ve just heard from Wilton on the phone, and he’s given me permission to tell you some rather serious news. Now I suppo
se you all know by this time who Wilton was, and what he was after.”

  “I know he was after Daniel Doom and wouldn’t be happy till he got him,” answered Peter Wain; “and I’ve heard the story that he’s the son of old Horder, and that’s why he’s the avenger of blood. Anyhow, he’s certainly looking for the man called Doom.”

  “Well,” said Father Brown, “he has found him.”

  Peter Wain sprang to his feet in excitement.

  “The murderer!” he cried. “Is the murderer in the lock-up already?”

  “No,” said Father Brown, gravely; “I said the news was serious, and it’s more serious than that. I’m afraid poor Wilton has taken a terrible responsibility. I’m afraid he’s going to put a terrible responsibility on us. He hunted the criminal down, and just when he had him cornered at last—well, he has taken the law into his own hands.”

  “You mean that Daniel Doom—” began the lawyer.

  “I mean that Daniel Doom is dead,” said the priest. “There was some sort of wild struggle, and Wilton killed him.”

  “Serve him right,” growled Mr Hickory Crake.

  “Can’t blame Wilton for downing a crook like that, especially considering the feud,” assented Wain; “it was like stepping on a viper.”

  “I don’t agree with you,” said Father Brown. “I suppose we all talk romantic stuff at random in defence of lynching and lawlessness; but I have a suspicion that if we lose our laws and liberties we shall regret it. Besides, it seems to me illogical to say there is something to be said for Wilton committing murder, without even inquiring whether there was anything to be said for Doom committing it. I rather doubt whether Doom was merely a vulgar assassin; he may have been a sort of outlaw with a mania about the cup, demanding it with threats and only killing after a struggle; both victims were thrown down just outside their houses. The objection to Wilton’s way of doing it is that we shall never hear Doom’s side of the case.”

  “Oh, I’ve no patience with all this sentimental whitewashing of worthless, murderous blackguards,” cried Wain, heatedly. “If Wilton croaked the criminal he did a jolly good day’s work, and there’s an end of it.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” said his uncle, nodding vigorously.

  Father Brown’s face had a yet heavier gravity as he looked slowly round the semicircle of faces. “Is that really what you all think?” he asked. Even as he did so he realized that he was an Englishman and an exile. He realized that he was among foreigners, even if he was among friends. Around that ring of foreigners ran a restless fire that was not native to his own breed; the fiercer spirit of the western nation that can rebel and lynch, and above all, combine. He knew that they had already combined.

  “Well,” said Father Brown, with a sigh, “I am to understand, then, that you do definitely condone this unfortunate man’s crime, or act of private justice, or whatever you call it. In that case it will not hurt him if I tell you a little more about it.”

  He rose suddenly to his feet; and though they saw no meaning in his movement, it seemed in some way to change or chill the very air in the room.

  “Wilton killed Doom in a rather curious way,” he began.

  “How did Wilton kill him?” asked Crake, abruptly.

  “With an arrow,” said Father Brown.

  Twilight was gathering in the long room, and daylight dwindling to a gleam from the great window in the inner room, where the great millionaire had died. Almost automatically the eyes of the group turned slowly towards it, but as yet there was no sound. Then the voice of Crake came cracked and high and senile in a sort of crowing gabble.

  “What you mean? What you mean? Brander Merton killed by an arrow. This crook killed by an arrow—”

  “By the same arrow,” said the priest, “and at the same moment.”

  Again there was a sort of strangled and yet swollen and bursting silence, and young Wain began: “You mean—”

  “I mean that your friend Merton was Daniel Doom,” said Father Brown firmly; “and the only Daniel Doom you’ll ever find. Your friend Merton was always crazy after that Coptic Cup that he used to worship like an idol every day; and in his wild youth he had really killed two men to get it, though I still think the deaths may have been in a sense accidents of the robbery. Anyhow, he had it; and that man Drage knew the story and was blackmailing him. But Wilton was after him for a very different purpose; I fancy he only discovered the truth when he’d got into this house. But anyhow, it was in this house, and in that room, that this hunt ended, and he slew the slayer of his father.”

  For a long time nobody answered. Then old Crake could be heard drumming with his fingers on the table and muttering:

  “Brander must have been mad. He must have been mad.”

  “But, good Lord!” burst out Peter Wain; “what are we to do? What are we to say? Oh, it’s all quite different! What about the papers and the big business people? Brander Merton is a thing like the President or the Pope of Rome.”

  “I certainly think it is rather different,” began Barnard Blake, the lawyer, in a low voice. “The difference involves a whole—”

  Father Brown struck the table so that the glasses on it rang; and they could almost fancy a ghostly echo from the mysterious chalice that still stood in the room beyond.

  “No!” he cried, in a voice like a pistol-shot. “There shall be no difference. I gave you your chance of pitying the poor devil when you thought he was a common criminal. You wouldn’t listen then; you were all for private vengeance then. You were all for letting him be butchered like a wild beast without a hearing or a public trial, and said he had only got his deserts. Very well then, if Daniel Doom has got his deserts, Brander Merton has got his deserts. If that was good enough for Doom, by all that is holy it is good enough for Merton. Take your wild justice or our dull legality; but in the name of Almighty God, let there be an equal lawlessness or an equal law.”

  Nobody answered except the lawyer, and he answered with something like a snarl: “What will the police say if we tell them we mean to condone a crime?”

  “What will they say if I tell them you did condone it?” replied Father Brown. “Your respect for the law comes rather late, Mr Barnard Blake.”

  After a pause he resumed in a milder tone: “I, for one, am ready to tell the truth if the proper authorities ask me; and the rest of you can do as you like. But as a fact, it will make very little difference. Wilton only rang me up to tell me that I was now free to lay his confession before you; for when you heard it, he would be beyond pursuit.”

  He walked slowly into the inner room and stood there by the little table beside which the millionaire had died. The Coptic Cup still stood in the same place, and he remained there for a space staring at its cluster of all the colours of the rainbow, and beyond it into a blue abyss of sky.

  The Oracle of the Dog

  “Yes,” said Father Brown, “I always like a dog, so long as he isn’t spelt backwards.”

  Those who are quick in talking are not always quick in listening. Sometimes even their brilliancy produces a sort of stupidity. Father Brown’s friend and companion was a young man with a stream of ideas and stories, an enthusiastic young man named Fiennes, with eager blue eyes and blond hair that seemed to be brushed back, not merely with a hair-brush but with the wind of the world as he rushed through it. But he stopped in the torrent of his talk in a momentary bewilderment before he saw the priest’s very simple meaning.

  “You mean that people make too much of them?” he said. “Well, I don’t know. They’re marvellous creatures. Sometimes I think they know a lot more than we do.”

  Father Brown said nothing, but continued to stroke the head of the big retriever in a half-abstracted but apparently soothing fashion.

  “Why,” said Fiennes, warming again to his monologue, “there was a dog in the case I’ve come to see you about: what they call the ‘Invisible Murder Case’, you know. It’s a strange story, but from my point of view the dog is about the strangest thing in it
. Of course, there’s the mystery of the crime itself, and how old Druce can have been killed by somebody else when he was all alone in the summer-house—”

  The hand stroking the dog stopped for a moment in its rhythmic movement, and Father Brown said calmly: “Oh, it was a summer-house, was it?”

  “I thought you’d read all about it in the papers,” answered Fiennes. “Stop a minute; I believe I’ve got a cutting that will give you all the particulars.” He produced a strip of newspaper from his pocket and handed it to the priest, who began to read it, holding it close to his blinking eyes with one hand while the other continued its half-conscious caresses of the dog. It looked like the parable of a man not letting his right hand know what his left hand did.

  * * * *

  Many mystery stories, about men murdered behind locked doors and windows, and murderers escaping without means of entrance and exit, have come true in the course of the extraordinary events at Cranston on the coast of Yorkshire, where Colonel Druce was found stabbed from behind by a dagger that has entirely disappeared from the scene, and apparently even from the neighbourhood.

  The summer-house in which he died was indeed accessible at one entrance, the ordinary doorway which looked down the central walk of the garden towards the house. But, by a combination of events almost to be called a coincidence, it appears that both the path and the entrance were watched during the crucial time, and there is a chain of witnesses who confirm each other. The summer-house stands at the extreme end of the garden, where there is no exit or entrance of any kind. The central garden path is a lane between two ranks of tall delphiniums, planted so close that any stray step off the path would leave its traces; and both path and plants run right up to the very mouth of the summer-house, so that no straying from that straight path could fail to be observed, and no other mode of entrance can be imagined.