by Michael Sims
“Come up here, Mr. Bohun,” he called. “The air will do you good.”
Bohun followed him, and came out on a kind of stone gallery or balcony outside the building, from which one could see the illimitable plain in which their small hill stood, wooded away to the purple horizon and dotted with villages and farms. Clear and square, but quite small beneath them, was the blacksmith’s yard, where the inspector still stood taking notes and the corpse still lay like a smashed fly.
“Might be the map of the world, mightn’t it?” said Father Brown.
“Yes,” said Bohun very gravely, and nodded his head.
Immediately beneath and about them the lines of the Gothic building plunged outwards into the void with a sickening swiftness akin to suicide. There is that element of Titan energy in the architecture of the Middle Ages that, from whatever aspect it be seen, it always seems to be rushing away, like the strong back of some maddened horse. This church was hewn out of ancient and silent stone, bearded with old fungoids and stained with the nests of birds. And yet, when they saw it from below, it sprang like a fountain at the stars; and when they saw it, as now, from above, it poured like a cataract into a voiceless pit. For these two men on the tower were left alone with the most terrible aspect of Gothic; the monstrous foreshortening and disproportion, the dizzy perspectives, the glimpses of great things small and small things great; a topsy-turvydom of stone in the mid-air. Details of stone, enormous by their proximity, were relieved against a pattern of fields and farms, pygmy in their distance. A carved bird or beast at a corner seemed like some vast walking or flying dragon wasting the pastures and villages below. The whole atmosphere was dizzy and dangerous, as if men were upheld in air amid the gyrating wings of colossal genii; and the whole of that old church, as tall and rich as a cathedral, seemed to sit upon the sunlit country like a cloudburst.
“I think there is something rather dangerous about standing on these high places even to pray,” said Father Brown. “Heights were made to be looked at, not to be looked from.”
“Do you mean that one may fall over?” asked Wilfred.
“I mean that one’s soul may fall if one’s body doesn’t,” said the other priest.
“I scarcely understand you,” remarked Bohun indistinctly.
“Look at that blacksmith, for instance,” went on Father Brown calmly; “a good man, but not a Christian—hard, imperious, unforgiving. Well, his Scotch religion was made up by men who prayed on hills and high crags, and learnt to look down on the world more than to look up at heaven. Humility is the mother of giants. One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak.”
“But he—he didn’t do it,” said Bohun tremulously.
“No,” said the other in an odd voice; “we know he didn’t do it.”
After a moment he resumed, looking tranquilly out over the plain with his pale grey eyes. “I knew a man,” he said, “who began by worshipping with others before the altar, but who grew fond of high and lonely places to pray from, corners or niches in the belfry or the spire. And once in one of those dizzy places, where the whole world seemed to turn under him like a wheel, his brain turned also, and he fancied he was God. So that, though he was a good man, he committed a great crime.”
Wilfred’s face was turned away, but his bony hands turned blue and white as they tightened on the parapet of stone.
“He thought it was given to him to judge the world and strike down the sinner. He would never have had such a thought if he had been kneeling with other men upon a floor. But he saw all men walking about like insects. He saw one especially strutting just below him, insolent and evident by a bright green hat—a poisonous insect.”
Rooks cawed round the corners of the belfry; but there was no other sound till Father Brown went on.
“This also tempted him, that he had in his hand one of the most awful engines of nature; I mean gravitation, that mad and quickening rush by which all earth’s creatures fly back to her heart when released. See, the inspector is strutting just below us in the smithy. If I were to toss a pebble over this parapet it would be something like a bullet by the time it struck him. If I were to drop a hammer—even a small hammer—”
Wilfred Bohun threw one leg over the parapet, and Father Brown had him in a minute by the collar.
“Not by that door,” he said quite gently; “that door leads to hell.”
Bohun staggered back against the wall, and stared at him with frightful eyes.
“How do you know all this?” he cried. “Are you a devil?”
“I am a man,” answered Father Brown gravely; “and therefore have all devils in my heart. Listen to me,” he said after a short pause. “I know what you did—at least, I can guess the great part of it. When you left your brother you were racked with no unrighteous rage, to the extent even that you snatched up a small hammer, half inclined to kill him with his foulness on his mouth. Recoiling, you thrust it under your buttoned coat instead, and rushed into the church. You pray wildly in many places, under the angel window, upon the platform above, and a higher platform still, from which you could see the Colonel’s Eastern hat like the back of a green beetle crawling about. Then something snapped in your soul, and you let God’s thunderbolt fall.”
Wilfred put a weak hand to his head, and asked in a low voice: “How did you know that his hat looked like a green beetle?”
“Oh, that,” said the other with the shadow of a smile, “that was common sense. But hear me further. I say I know all this; but no one else shall know it. The next step is for you; I shall take no more steps; I will seal this with the seal of confession. If you ask me why, there are many reasons, and only one that concerns you. I leave things to you because you have not yet gone very far wrong, as assassins go. You did not help to fix the crime on the smith when it was easy; or on his wife, when that was easy. You tried to fix it on the imbecile because you knew that he could not suffer. That was one of the gleams that it is my business to find in assassins. And now come down into the village, and go your own way as free as the wind; for I have said my last word.”
They went down the winding stairs in utter silence, and came out into the sunlight by the smithy. Wilfred Bohun carefully unlatched the wooden gate of the yard, and going up to the inspector, said: “I wish to give myself up; I have killed my brother.”
Melville Davisson Post
(1869–1930)
In 1911, the same year that G. K. Chesterton introduced Father Brown, Melville Davisson Post published his first story about a Bible-toting Virginia mountain man called Uncle Abner. Although not a clergyman, Abner was no less preoccupied with sin and retribution than Chesterton’s priest. In most ways, however, these two amateur crime fighters could not be more different. Father Brown is short and modest and serene, Uncle Abner a giant who walks through the world with the courage of an Old Testament prophet. What they have in common is that the creator of each possessed a vivid, straightforward literary style and larger moral preoccupations than many crime writers.
Most fans of the genre are familiar with Father Brown, but Uncle Abner has acquired an antique patina he does not deserve. In the late twentieth century, John F. Suter resurrected Abner for a series of pastiches, as Barry Perowne did with Raffles and Robert Goldsborough with Nero Wolfe, which may help renew attention to the original tales. Post invents clever clues—in one story, for example, Abner notices that a note allegedly written by a deaf man contains a phonetic misspelling—yet these adventures are notable mostly for their style and atmosphere. There are flashes of dark humor, but mostly Post writes with a primary-colored voice equal to the thundering pronouncements and apocalyptic vision of Abner. This antebellum vigilante can be a troublemaker. The narrator, Abner’s nephew, mentions that once his uncle beat up a group of men who mocked his fireside Bible reading in a tavern. (When detective-story fan William Faulkner created his recurring character Gavin Stevens, his own small-town Southern detective and the hero of the series of stories in Knight’s Gam
bit, he often used Stevens’s nephew as narrator.)
Post’s turn toward religious themes seems to have followed the death of his son in 1906 and to have intensified after the death of his wife in 1919. In earlier stories Post was certainly no moral crusader. He began his crime-fiction career in 1896, with The Strange Schemes of Randolph Mason. In an original twist, Mason is an unscrupulous attorney who works within legal loopholes to help criminals evade justice. “Crime is a technical word,” Mason explains. “It is the law’s term for certain acts which it is pleased to define and punish with a penalty. What the law permits is right, else it would prohibit it.” Uncle Abner would have railed at such sophistry. A year later, jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes distinguished law from morality: “If you want to know the law and nothing else, you must look at it as a bad man, who cares only for the material consequences which such knowledge will enable him to predict, not as a good one, who finds his reasons for conduct, whether inside the law or outside of it, in the vaguer sanctions of conscience.” Crime fiction scholar Francis M. Nevins has linked such attitudes to prevailing notions of social Darwinism at the time.
Post also created Sir Henry Marquis, the head of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department; no deskbound administrator, he travels around the world solving crimes. But Post is remembered mostly for Uncle Abner. The Saturday Evening Post published the following story, the memorable debut of Abner, in its June 3, 1911, issue, as “The Broken Stirrup-Leather.” Seventeen other Abner stories appeared before, in 1918, they were gathered in the collection Uncle Abner, Mastery of Mysteries—“second only to Poe’s tales,” wrote Ellery Queen, “among all the books of detective short stories written by American authors.” In this powerful collection, the story appeared as the third adventure in the book, under the title “The Angel of the Lord.” (A decade later, Post wrote four more stories about Abner.) Post sets an old-fashioned religious tone before the book opens. “To my father,” reads the book’s dedication page, “whose unfailing faith in an ultimate justice behind the moving of events has been to the writer a wonder and an inspiration.” Yet the stories aren’t didactic or pious, but lively, adventurous, suspenseful, and filled with thoughtful investigation.
Although Post was considered a master of the detective-story formula, his stories weren’t predictable. In this one, we have only one suspect—in fact, only one other character besides Abner and the narrator—so Abner reveals his earlier detective work only after he confronts the villain. In this story as in others, Abner doesn’t hestitate to serve as judge and jury. Part of the suspense in this story derives from Abner’s confrontation with the villain. His calm way of speaking to murderers is one of his many unnerving traits.
The Angel of the Lord
I always thought my father took a long chance, but somebody had to take it and certainly I was the one least likely to be suspected. It was a wild country. There were no banks. We had to pay for the cattle, and somebody had to carry the money. My father and my uncle were always being watched. My father was right, I think.
“Abner,” he said, “I’m going to send Martin. No one will ever suppose that we would trust this money to a child.”
My uncle drummed on the table and rapped his heels on the floor. He was a bachelor, stern and silent. But he could talk … and when he did, he began at the beginning and you heard him through; and what he said—well, he stood behind it.
“To stop Martin,” my father went on, “would be only to lose the money; but to stop you would be to get somebody killed.”
I knew what my father meant. He meant that no one would undertake to rob Abner until after he had shot him to death.
I ought to say a word about my Uncle Abner. He was one of those austere, deeply religious men who were the product of the Reformation. He always carried a Bible in his pocket and he read it where he pleased. Once the crowd at Roy’s Tavern tried to make sport of him when he got his book out by the fire; but they never tried it again. When the fight was over Abner paid Roy eigh teen silver dollars for the broken chairs and the table—and he was the only man in the tavern who could ride a horse. Abner belonged to the church militant and his God was a war lord.
So that is how they came to send me. The money was in greenbacks in packages. They wrapped it up in newspaper and put it into a pair of saddle-bags, and I set out. I was about nine years old. No, it was not as bad as you think. I could ride a horse all day when I was nine years old—most any kind of a horse. I was tough as whit’-leather, and I knew the country I was going into. You must not picture a little boy rolling a hoop in the park.
It was an afternoon in early autumn. The clay roads froze in the night; they thawed out in the day and they were a bit sticky. I was to stop at Roy’s Tavern, south of the river, and go on in the morning. Now and then I passed some cattle driver, but no one overtook me on the road until almost sundown; then I heard a horse behind me and a man came up. I knew him. He was a cattleman named Dix. He had once been a shipper, but he had come in for a good deal of bad luck. His partner, Alkire, had absconded with a big sum of money due the grazers. This had ruined Dix; he had given up his land, which wasn’t very much, to the grazers. After that he had gone over the mountain to his people, got together a pretty big sum of money and bought a large tract of grazing land. Foreign claimants had sued him in the courts on some old title and he had lost the whole tract and the money that he had paid for it. He had married a remote cousin of ours and he had always lived on her lands, adjoining those of my Uncle Abner.
Dix seemed surprised to see me on the road.
“So it’s you, Martin,” he said; “I thought Abner would be going into the upcountry.”
One gets to be a pretty cunning youngster, even at this age, and I told no one what I was about.
“Father wants the cattle over the river to run a month,” I returned easily, “and I’m going up there to give his orders to the grazers.”
He looked me over, then he rapped the saddlebags with his knuckles. “You carry a good deal of baggage, my lad.”
I laughed. “Horse feed,” I said. “You know my father! A horse must be fed at dinner time, but a man can go till he gets it.”
One was always glad of any company on the road, and we fell into an idle talk. Dix said he was going out into the Ten Mile country; and I have always thought that was, in fact, his intention. The road turned south about a mile our side of the tavern. I never liked Dix; he was of an apologetic manner, with a cunning, irresolute face.
A little later a man passed us at a gallop. He was a drover named Marks, who lived beyond my Uncle Abner, and he was riding hard to get in before night. He hailed us, but he did not stop; we got a shower of mud and Dix cursed him. I have never seen a more evil face. I suppose it was because Dix usually had a grin about his mouth, and when that sort of face gets twisted there’s nothing like it.
After that he was silent. He rode with his head down and his fingers plucking at his jaw, like a man in some perplexity. At the crossroads he stopped and sat for some time in the saddle, looking before him. I left him there, but at the bridge he overtook me. He said he had concluded to get some supper and go on after that.
Roy’s Tavern consisted of a single big room, with a loft above it for sleeping quarters. A narrow covered way connected this room with the house in which Roy and his family lived. We used to hang our saddles on wooden pegs in this covered way. I have seen that wall so hung with saddles that you could not find a place for another stirrup. But tonight Dix and I were alone in the tavern. He looked cunningly at me when I took the saddle-bags with me into the big room and when I went with them up the ladder into the loft. But he said nothing—in fact, he had scarcely spoken. It was cold; the road had begun to freeze when we got in. Roy had lighted a big fire. I left Dix before it. I did not take off my clothes, because Roy’s beds were mattresses of wheat straw covered with heifer skins—good enough for summer but pretty cold on such a night, even with the heavy, hand-woven coverlet in big white and black
checks.
I put the saddle-bags under my head and lay down. I went at once to sleep, but I suddenly awaked. I thought there was a candle in the loft, but it was a gleam of light from the fire below, shining through a crack in the floor. I lay and watched it, the coverlet pulled up to my chin. Then I began to wonder why the fire burned so brightly. Dix ought to be on his way some time and it was a custom for the last man to rake out the fire. There was not a sound. The light streamed steadily through the crack.
Presently it occurred to me that Dix had forgotten the fire and that I ought to go down and rake it out. Roy always warned us about the fire when he went to bed. I got up, wrapped the great coverlet around me, went over to the gleam of light and looked down through the crack in the floor. I had to lie out at full length to get my eye against the board. The hickory logs had turned to great embers and glowed like a furnace of red coals.
Before this fire stood Dix. He was holding out his hands and turning himself about as though he were cold to the marrow; but with all that chill upon him, when the man’s face came into the light I saw it covered with a sprinkling of sweat.
I shall carry the memory of that face. The grin was there at the mouth, but it was pulled about; the eyelids were drawn in; the teeth were clamped together. I have seen a dog poisoned with strychnine look like that.
