The Father Brown Megapack

by G. K. Datlow

  “Simon Magus did it,” replied Aylmer, “and it was one of the commonest predictions of the Dark Ages that Antichrist would be able to fly. Anyhow, there was the flying dagger on the document; and whether or no it could fly, it could certainly strike.”

  “Did you notice what sort of paper it was on?” asked Father Brown. “Common paper?”

  The sphinx-like face broke abruptly into a harsh laugh.

  “You can see what they’re like,” said Aylmer grimly, “for I got one myself this morning.”

  He was leaning back in his chair now, with his long legs thrust out from under the green dressing-gown, which was a little short for him, and his bearded chin pillowed on his chest. Without moving otherwise, he thrust his hand deep in the dressing-gown pocket and held out a fluttering scrap of paper at the end of a rigid arm. His whole attitude was suggestive of a sort of paralysis, that was both rigidity and collapse. But the next remark of the priest had a curious effect of rousing him.

  Father Brown was blinking in his short-sighted way at the paper presented to him. It was a singular sort of paper, rough without being common, as from an artist’s sketch-book; and on it was drawn boldly in red ink a dagger decorated with wings like the rod of Hermes, with the written words, “Death comes the day after this, as it came to your brothers.”

  Father Brown tossed the paper on the floor and sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “You mustn’t let that sort of stuff stupefy you,” he said sharply. “These devils always try to make us helpless by making us hopeless.”

  Rather to his surprise, an awakening wave went over the prostrate figure, which sprang from its chair as if startled out of a dream.

  “You’re right, you’re right!” cried Aylmer with a rather uncanny animation; “and the devils shall find that I’m not so hopeless after all, nor so helpless either. Perhaps I have more hope and better help than you fancy.”

  He stood with his hands in his pockets, frowning down at the priest, who had a momentary doubt, during that strained silence, about whether the man’s long peril had not touched his brain. But when he spoke it was quite soberly.

  “I believe my unfortunate brothers failed because they used the wrong weapons. Philip carried a revolver, and that was how his death came to be called suicide. Stephen had police protection, but he also had a sense of what made him ridiculous; and he could not allow a policeman to climb up a ladder after him to a scaffolding where he stood only a moment. They were both scoffers, reacting into scepticism from the strange mysticism of my father’s last days. But I always knew there was more in my father than they understood. It is true that by studying magic he fell at last under the blight of black magic; the black magic of this scoundrel Strake. But my brothers were wrong about the antidote. The antidote to black magic is not brute materialism or worldly wisdom. The antidote to black magic is white magic.”

  “It rather depends,” said Father Brown, “what you mean by white magic.”

  “I mean silver magic,” said the other, in a low voice, like one speaking of a secret revelation. Then after a silence he said: “Do you know what I mean by silver magic? Excuse me a moment.”

  He turned and opened the central door with the red glass and went into a passage beyond it. The house had less depth than Brown had supposed; instead of the door opening into interior rooms, the corridor it revealed ended in another door on the garden. The door of one room was on one side of the passage; doubtless, the priest told himself, the proprietor’s bedroom whence he had rushed out in his dressing-gown. There was nothing else on that side but an ordinary hat-stand with the ordinary dingy cluster of old hats and overcoats; but on the other side was something more interesting: a very dark old oak sideboard laid out with some old silver, and overhung by a trophy or ornament of old weapons. It was by that that Arnold Aylmer halted, looking up at a long antiquated pistol with a bell-shaped mouth.

  The door at the end of the passage was barely open, and through the crack came a streak of white daylight. The priest had very quick instincts about natural things, and something in the unusual brilliancy of that white line told him what had happened outside. It was indeed what he had prophesied when he was approaching the house. He ran past his rather startled host and opened the door, to face something that was at once a blank and a blaze. What he had seen shining through the crack was not only the most negative whiteness of daylight but the positive whiteness of snow. All round, the sweeping fall of the country was covered with that shining pallor that seems at once hoary and innocent.

  “Here is white magic anyhow,” said Father Brown in his cheerful voice. Then, as he turned back into the hall, he murmured, “And silver magic too, I suppose,” for the white lustre touched the silver with splendour and lit up the old steel here and there in the darkling armoury. The shaggy head of the brooding Aylmer seemed to have a halo of silver fire, as he turned with his face in shadow and the outlandish pistol in his hand.

  “Do you know why I chose this sort of old blunderbuss?” he asked. “Because I can load it with this sort of bullet.”

  He had picked up a small apostle spoon from the sideboard and by sheer violence broke off the small figure at the top. “Let us go back into the other room,” he added.

  “Did you ever read about the death of Dundee?” he asked when they had reseated themselves. He had recovered from his momentary annoyance at the priest’s restlessness. “Graham of Claverhouse, you know, who persecuted the Covenanters and had a black horse that could ride straight up a precipice. Don’t you know he could only be shot with a silver bullet, because he had sold himself to the Devil? That’s one comfort about you; at least you know enough to believe in the Devil.”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Father Brown, “I believe in the Devil. What I don’t believe in is the Dundee. I mean the Dundee of Covenanting legends, with his nightmare of a horse. John Graham was simply a seventeenth-century professional soldier, rather better than most. If he dragooned them it was because he was a dragoon, but not a dragon. Now my experience is that it’s not that sort of swaggering blade who sells himself to the Devil. The devil-worshippers I’ve known were quite different. Not to mention names, which might cause a social flutter, I’ll take a man in Dundee’s own day. Have you ever heard of Dalrymple of Stair?”

  “No,” replied the other gruffly.

  “You’ve heard of what he did,” said Father Brown, “and it was worse than anything Dundee ever did; yet he escapes the infamy by oblivion. He was the man who made the Massacre of Glencoe. He was a very learned man and lucid lawyer, a statesman with very serious and enlarged ideas of statesmanship, a quiet man with a very refined and intellectual face. That’s the sort of man who sells himself to the Devil.”

  Aylmer half started from his chair with an enthusiasm of eager assent.

  “By God! you are right,” he cried. “A refined intellectual face! That is the face of John Strake.”

  Then he raised himself and stood looking at the priest with a curious concentration. “If you will wait here a little while,” he said, “I will show you something.”

  He went back through the central door, closing it after him; going, the priest presumed, to the old sideboard or possibly to his bedroom. Father Brown remained seated, gazing abstractedly at the carpet, where a faint red glimmer shone from the glass in the doorway. Once it seemed to brighten like a ruby and then darkened again, as if the sun of that stormy day had passed from cloud to cloud. Nothing moved except the aquatic creatures which floated to and fro in the dim green bowl. Father Brown was thinking hard.

  A minute or two afterwards he got up and slipped quietly to the alcove of the telephone, where he rang up his friend Dr Boyne, at the official headquarters. “I wanted to tell you about Aylmer and his affairs,” he said quietly. “It’s a queer story, but I rather think there’s something in it. If I were you I’d send some men up here straight away; four or five men, I think, and surround the house. If anything does happen there’ll probably be something startling in
the way of an escape.”

  Then he went back and sat down again, staring at the dark carpet, which again glowed blood-red with the light from the glass door. Something in the filtered light set his mind drifting on certain borderlands of thought, with the first white daybreak before the coming of colour, and all that mystery which is alternately veiled and revealed in the symbol of windows and of doors.

  An inhuman howl in a human voice came from beyond the closed doors, almost simultaneously with the noise of firing. Before the echoes of the shot had died away the door was violently flung open and his host staggered into the room, the dressing-gown half torn from his shoulder and the long pistol smoking in his hand. He seemed to be shaking in every limb, yet he was shaken in part with an unnatural laughter.

  “Glory be to the White Magic!” he cried. “Glory be to the silver bullet! The hell-hound had hunted once too often, and my brothers are avenged at last.”

  He sank into a chair and the pistol slid from his hand and fell on the floor. Father Brown darted past him, slipped through the glass door and went down the passage. As he did so he put his hand on the handle of the bedroom door, as if half intending to enter; then he stooped a moment, as if examining something—and then he ran to the outer door and opened it.

  On the field of snow, which had been so blank a little while before, lay one black object. At the first glance it looked a little like an enormous bat. A second glance showed that it was, after all, a human figure; fallen on its face, the whole head covered by a broad black hat having something of a Latin-American look; while the appearance of black wings came from the two flaps or loose sleeves of a very vast black cloak spread out, perhaps by accident, to their utmost length on either side. Both the hands were hidden, though Father Brown thought he could detect the position of one of them, and saw close to it, under the edge of the cloak, the glimmer of some metallic weapon. The main effect, however, was curiously like that of the simple extravagances of heraldry; like a black eagle displayed on a white ground. But by walking round it and peering under the hat the priest got a glimpse of the face, which was indeed what his host had called refined and intellectual; even sceptical and austere: the face of John Strake.

  “Well, I’m jiggered,” muttered Father Brown. “It really does look like some vast vampire that has swooped down like a bird.”

  “How else could he have come?” came a voice from the doorway, and Father Brown looked up to see Aylmer once more standing there.

  “Couldn’t he have walked?” replied Father Brown evasively.

  Aylmer stretched out his arm and swept the white landscape with a gesture.

  “Look at the snow,” he said in a deep voice that had a sort of roll and thrill in it. “Is not the snow unspotted—pure as the white magic you yourself called it? Is there a speck on it for miles, save that one foul black blot that has fallen there? There are no footprints, but a few of yours and mine; there are none approaching the house from anywhere.”

  Then he looked at the little priest for a moment with a concentrated and curious expression, and said: “I will tell you something else. That cloak he flies with is too long to walk with. He was not a very tall man, and it would trail behind him like a royal train. Stretch it out over his body, if you like, and see.”

  “What happened to you both?” asked Father Brown abruptly.

  “It was too swift to describe,” answered Aylmer. “I had looked out of the door and was turning back when there came a kind of rushing of wind all around me, as if I were being buffeted by a wheel revolving in mid-air. I spun round somehow and fired blindly; and then I saw nothing but what you see now. But I am morally certain that you wouldn’t see it if I had not had a silver shot in my gun. It would have been a different body lying there in the snow.”

  “By the way,” remarked Father Brown, “shall we leave it lying there in the snow? Or would you like it taken into your room—I suppose that’s your bedroom in the passage?”

  “No, no,” replied Aylmer hastily, “we must leave it here till the police have seen it. Besides, I’ve had as much of such things as I can stand for the moment. Whatever else happens, I’m going to have a drink. After that, they can hang me if they like.”

  Inside the central apartment, between the palm plant and the bowl of fishes, Aylmer tumbled into a chair. He had nearly knocked the bowl over as he lurched into the room, but he had managed to find the decanter of brandy after plunging his hand rather blindly into several cupboards and corners. He did not at any time look like a methodical person, but at this moment his distraction must have been extreme. He drank with a long gulp and began to talk rather feverishly, as if to fill up a silence.

  “I see you are still doubtful,” he said, “though you have seen the thing with your own eyes. Believe me, there was something more behind the quarrel between the spirit of Strake and the spirit of the house of Aylmer. Besides, you have no business to be an unbeliever. You ought to stand for all the things these stupid people call superstitions. Come now, don’t you think there’s a lot in those old wives’ tales about luck and charms and so on, silver bullets included? What do you say about them as a Catholic?”

  “I say I’m an agnostic,” replied Father Brown, smiling.

  “Nonsense,” said Aylmer impatiently. “It’s your business to believe things.”

  “Well, I do believe some things, of course,” conceded Father Brown; “and therefore, of course, I don’t believe other things.”

  Aylmer was leaning forward, and looking at him with a strange intensity that was almost like that of a mesmerist.

  “You do believe it,” he said. “You do believe everything. We all believe everything, even when we deny everything. The denyers believe. The unbelievers believe. Don’t you feel in your heart that these contradictions do not really contradict: that there is a cosmos that contains them all? The soul goes round upon a wheel of stars and all things return; perhaps Strake and I have striven in many shapes, beast against beast and bird against bird, and perhaps we shall strive for ever. But since we seek and need each other, even that eternal hatred is an eternal love. Good and evil go round in a wheel that is one thing and not many. Do you not realize in your heart, do you not believe behind all your beliefs, that there is but one reality and we are its shadows; and that all things are but aspects of one thing: a centre where men melt into Man and Man into God?”

  “No,” said Father Brown.

  Outside, twilight had begun to fall, in that phase of such a snow-laden evening when the land looks brighter than the sky. In the porch of the main entrance, visible through a half-curtained window, Father Brown could dimly see a bulky figure standing. He glanced casually at the french windows through which he had originally entered, and saw they were darkened with two equally motionless figures. The inner door with the coloured glass stood slightly ajar; and he could see in the short corridor beyond, the ends of two long shadows, exaggerated and distorted by the level light of evening, but still like grey caricatures of the figures of men. Dr Boyne had already obeyed the telephone message. The house was surrounded.

  “What is the good of saying no?” insisted his host, still with the same hypnotic stare. “You have seen part of that eternal drama with your own eyes. You have seen the threat of John Strake to slay Arnold Aylmer by black magic. You have seen Arnold Aylmer slay John Strake by white magic. You see Arnold Aylmer alive and talking to you now. And yet you don’t believe it.”

  “No, I do not believe it,” said Father Brown, and rose from his chair like one terminating a visit.

  “Why not?” asked the other.

  The priest only lifted his voice a little, but it sounded in every corner of the room like a bell. “Because you are not Arnold Aylmer,” he said. “I know who you are. Your name is John Strake; and you have murdered the last of the brothers, who is lying outside in the snow.”

  A ring of white showed round the iris of the other man’s eyes; he seemed to be making, with bursting eyeballs, a last effort to mesmerize a
nd master his companion. Then he made a sudden movement sideways; and even as he did so the door behind him opened and a big detective in plain clothes put one hand quietly on his shoulder. The other hand hung down, but it held a revolver. The man looked wildly round, and saw plain-clothes men in all corners of the quiet room.

  That evening Father Brown had another and longer conversation with Dr Boyne about the tragedy of the Aylmer family. By that time there was no longer any doubt of the central fact of the case, for John Strake had confessed his identity and even confessed his crimes; only it would be truer to say that he boasted of his victories. Compared to the fact that he had rounded off his life’s work with the last Aylmer lying dead, everything else, including existence itself, seemed to be indifferent to him.

  “The man is a sort of monomaniac,” said Father Brown. “He is not interested in any other matter; not even in any other murder. I owe him something for that; for I had to comfort myself with the reflection a good many times this afternoon. As has doubtless occurred to you, instead of weaving all that wild but ingenious romance about winged vampires and silver bullets, he might have put an ordinary leaden bullet into me, and walked out of the house. I assure you it occurred quite frequently to me.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t,” observed Boyne. “I don’t understand it; but I don’t understand anything yet. How on earth did you discover it, and what in the world did you discover?”

  “Oh, you provided me with very valuable information,” replied Father Brown modestly, “especially the one piece of information that really counted. I mean the statement that Strake was a very inventive and imaginative liar, with great presence of mind in producing his lies. This afternoon he needed it; but he rose to the occasion. Perhaps his only mistake was in choosing a preternatural story; he had the notion that because I am a clergyman I should believe anything. Many people have little notions of that kind.”

  “But I can’t make head or tail of it,” said the doctor. “You must really begin at the beginning.”