The Secret of Father Brown Read online

  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.'

  Chapter III. 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 study 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.'

  And so, in his own more conversational fashion, he told the story. The story may well begin in a sufficiently respectable setting, at the breakfast table of a worthy though wealthy suburban family named Bankes, where the normal discussion of the newspaper had, for once, been silenced by the discussion about a mystery nearer home. Such people are sometimes accused of gossip about their neighbours, but they are in that matter almost inhumanly innocent. Rustic villagers tell tales about their neighbours, true and false; but the curious culture of the modern suburb will believe anything it is told in the papers about the wickedness of the Pope, or the martyrdom of the King of the Cannibal Islands, and, in the excitement of these topics, never knows what is happening next door. In this case, however, the two forms of interest actually coincided in a coincidence of thrilling intensity. Their own suburb had actually been mentioned in their favourite newspaper. It seemed to them like a new proof of their own existence when they saw the name in print. It was almost as if they had been unconscious and invisible before; and now they were as real as the King of the Cannibal Islands.

  It was stated in the paper that a once famous criminal, known as Michael Moonshine, and many other names that were presumably not his own, had recently been released after a long term of imprisonment for his numerous burglaries; that his whereabouts was being kept quiet, but that he was believed to have settled down in the suburb in question, which we will call for convenience Chisham. A resume of some of his famous and daring exploits and escapes was given in the same issue. For it is a character of that kind of press, intended for that kind of public, that it assumes that its reader have no memories. While the peasant will remember an outlaw like Robin Hood or Rob Roy for centuries, the clerk will hardly remember the name of the criminal about whom he argued in trams and tubes two years before. Yet, Michael Moonshine had really shown some of the heroic rascality of Rob Roy or Robin Hood. He was worthy to be turned into legend and not merely into news. He was far too capable a burglar to be a murderer. But his terrific strength and the ease with which he knocked policemen over like ninepins, stunned people, and bound and gagged them, gave something almost like a final touch of fear or mystery to the fact that he never killed them. People almost felt that he would have been more human if he had.

  Mr. Simon Bankes, the father of the family, was at once better read and more old-fashioned than the rest. He was a sturdy man, with a short grey beard and a brow barred with wrinkles. He had a turn for anecdotes and reminiscence, and he distinctly remembered the days when Londoners had lain awake listening for Mike Moonshine as they did for Spring-heeled Jack. Then there was his wife, a thin, dark lady. There was a sort of acid elegance about her, for her family had much more money than her husband’s, if rather less education; and she even possessed a very valuable emerald necklace upstairs, that gave her a right to prominence in a discussion about thieves. There was his daughter, Opal, who was also thin and dark and supposed to be psychic – at any rate, by herself; for she had little domestic encouragement. Spirits of an ardently astral turn will be well advised not to materialize as members of a large family. There was her brother John, a burly youth, particularly boisterous in his indifference to her spiritual development; and otherwise distinguishable only by his interest in motor-cars. He seemed to be always in the act of selling one car and buying another; and by some process, hard for t
he economic theorist to follow, it was always possible to buy a much better article by selling the one that was damaged or discredited. There was his brother Philip, a young man with dark curly hair, distinguished by his attention to dress; which is doubtless part of the duty of a stockbroker’s clerk, but, as the stockbroker was prone to hint, hardly the whole of it. Finally, there was present at this family scene his friend, Daniel Devine, who was also dark and exquisitely dressed, but bearded in a fashion that was somewhat foreign, and therefore, for many, slightly menacing.

  It was Devine who had introduced the topic of the newspaper paragraph, tactfully insinuating so effective an instrument of distraction at what looked like the beginning of a small family quarrel; for the psychic lady had begun the description of a vision she had had of pale faces floating in empty night outside her window, and John Bankes was trying to roar down this revelation of a higher state with more than his usual heartiness.

  But the newspaper reference to their new and possibly alarming neighbour soon put both controversialists out of court.

  'How frightful,' cried Mrs. Bankes. 'He must be quite a new-comer; but who can he possibly be?'

  'I don’t know any particularly new-comers,' said her husband, 'except Sir Leopold Pulman, at Beechwood House.'

  'My dear,' said the lady, 'how absurd you are – Sir Leopold!' Then, after a pause, she added: 'If anybody suggested his secretary now – that man with the whiskers; I’ve always said, ever since he got the place Philip ought to have had – '

  'Nothing doing,' said Philip languidly, making his sole contribution to the conversation. 'Not good enough.'

  'The only one I know,' observed Devine, 'is that man called Carver, who is stopping at Smith’s Farm. He lives a very quiet life, but he’s quite interesting to talk to. I think John has had some business with him.'

  'Knows a bit about cars,' conceded the monomaniac John. 'He’ll know a bit more when he’s been in my new car.'

  Devine smiled slightly; everybody had been threatened with the hospitality of John’s new car. Then he added reflectively:

  'That’s a little what I feel about him. He knows a lot about motoring and travelling, and the active ways of the world, and yet he always stays at home pottering about round old Smith’s beehives. Says he’s only interested in bee culture, and that’s why he’s staying with Smith. It seems a very quiet hobby for a man of his sort. However, I’ve no doubt John’s car will shake him up a bit.'

  As Devine walked away from the house that evening his dark face wore an expression of concentrated thought. His thoughts would, perhaps, have been worthy of our attention, even at this stage; but it is enough to say that their practical upshot was a resolution to pay an immediate visit to Mr. Carver at the house of Mr. Smith. As he was making his way thither he encountered Barnard, the secretary at Beechwood House, conspicuous by his lanky figure and the large side whiskers which Mrs. Bankes counted among her private wrongs. Their acquaintance was slight, and their conversation brief and casual; but Devine seemed to find in it food for further cogitation.

  'Look here,' he said abruptly, 'excuse my asking, but is it true that Lady Pulman has some very famous jewellery up at the House? I’m not a professional thief, but I’ve just heard there’s one hanging about.'

  'I’ll get her to give an eye to them,' answered the secretary. 'To tell the truth, I’ve ventured to warn her about them already myself. I hope she has attended to it.'

  As they spoke, there came the hideous cry of a motor-horn just behind, and John Bankes came to a stop beside them, radiant at his own steering-wheel. When he heard of Devine’s destination he claimed it as his own, though his tone suggested rather an abstract relish for offering people a ride. The ride was consumed in continuous praises of the car, now mostly in the matter of its adaptability to weather.

  'Shuts up as tight as a box,' he said, 'and opens as easy – as easy as opening your mouth.'

  Devine’s mouth, at the moment, did not seem so easy to open, and they arrived at Smith’s farm to the sound of a soliloquy. Passing the outer gate, Devine found the man he was looking for without going into the house. The man was walking about in the garden, with his hands in his pockets, wearing a large, limp straw hat; a man with a long face and a large chin. The wide brim cut off the upper part of his face with a shadow that looked a little like a mask. In the background was a row of sunny beehives, along which an elderly man, presumably Mr. Smith, was moving accompanied by a short, commonplace-looking companion in black clerical costume.

  'I say,' burst in the irrepressible John, before Devine could offer any polite greeting, 'I’ve brought her round to give you a little run. You see if she isn’t better than a "Thunderbolt."'

  Mr Carver’s mouth set into a smile that may have been meant to be gracious, but looked rather grim. 'I’m afraid I shall be too busy for pleasure this evening,' he said.

  “How doth the little busy bee,” observed Devine, equally enigmatically. “Your bees must be very busy if they keep you at it all night. I was wondering if – ”

  “Well,” demanded Carver, with a certain cool defiance.

  “Well, they say we should make hay while the sun shines,” said Devine. “Perhaps you make honey while the moon shines.”

  There came a flash from the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat, as the whites of the man’s eyes shifted and shone.

  “Perhaps there is a good deal of moonshine in the business,” he said: “but I warn you my bees do not only make honey. They sting.”

  “Are you coming along in the car?” insisted the staring John. But Carver, though he threw off the momentary air of sinister significance with which he had been answering Devine, was still positive in his polite refusal.

  “I can’t possibly go,” he said. “Got a lot of writing to do. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give some of my friends a run, if you want a companion. This is my friend, Mr. Smith, Father Brown – ”

  “Of course,” cried Bankes; “let ’em all come.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Father Brown. “I’m afraid I shall have to decline; I’ve got to go on to Benediction in a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Smith is your man, then,” said Carver, with something almost like impatience. “I’m sure Smith is longing for a motor ride.”

  Smith, who wore a broad grin, bore no appearance of longing for anything. He was an active little old man with a very honest wig; one of those wigs that look no more natural than a hat. Its tinge of yellow was out of keeping with his colourless complexion. He shook his head and answered with amiable obstinacy:

  “I remember I went over this road ten years ago – in one of those contraptions. Came over in it from my sister’s place at Holmgate, and never been over that road in a car since. It was rough going I can tell you,”

  “Ten years ago!” scoffed John Bankes. “Two thousand years ago you went in an ox wagon. Do you think cars haven’t changed in ten years – and roads, too, for that matter? In my little bus you don’t know the wheels are going round. You think you’re just flying.”

  “I’m sure Smith wants to go flying,” urged Carver. “It’s the dream of his life. Come, Smith, go over to Holmgate and see your sister. You know you ought to go and see your sister. Go over and stay the night if you like.”

  “Well, I generally walk over, so I generally do stay the night,” said old Smith. “No need to trouble the gentleman to-day, particularly.”

  “But think what fun it will be for your sister to see you arrive in a car!” cried Carver. “You really ought to go. Don’t be so selfish.”

  “That’s it,” assented Bankes, with buoyant benevolence. “Don’t you be selfish. It won’t hurt you. You aren’t afraid of it, are you?”

  “Well,” said Mr. Smith, blinking thoughtfully, “I don’t want to be selfish, and I don’t think I’m afraid – I’ll come with you if you put it that way.”

  The pair drove off, amid waving salutations that seemed somehow to give the little group the appearance of a cheering crowd.
Yet Devine and the priest only joined in out of courtesy, and they both felt it was the dominating gesture of their host that gave it its final air of farewell. The detail gave them a curious sense of the pervasive force of his personality.

  The moment the car was out of sight he turned to them with a sort of boisterous apology and said: “Well!”

  He said it with that curious heartiness which is the reverse of hospitality. That extreme geniality is the same as a dismissal.

  “I must be going,” said Devine. “We must not interrupt the busy bee. I’m afraid I know very little about bees; sometimes I can hardly tell a bee from a wasp.”

  “I’ve kept wasps, too,” answered the mysterious Mr. Carver. When his guests were a few yards down the street, Devine said rather impulsively to his companion: “Rather an odd scene that, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” replied Father Brown. “And what do you think about it?”

  Devine looked at the little man in black, and something in the gaze of his great, grey eyes seemed to renew his impulse.

  “I think,” he said, “that Carver was very anxious to have the house to himself tonight. I don’t know whether you had any such suspicions?”

  “I may have my suspicions,” replied the priest, “but I’m not sure whether they’re the same as yours.”

  That evening, when the last dusk was turning into dark in the gardens round the family mansion, Opal Bankes was moving through some of the dim and empty rooms with even more than her usual abstraction; and anyone who had looked at her closely would have noted that her pale face had more than its usual pallor. Despite its bourgeois luxury, the house as a whole had a rather unique shade of melancholy. It was the sort of immediate sadness that belongs to things that are old rather than ancient. It was full of faded fashions, rather than historic customs; of the order and ornament that is just recent enough to be recognized as dead. Here and there, Early Victorian coloured glass tinted the twilight; the high ceilings made the long rooms look narrow; and at the end of the long room down which she was walking was one of those round windows, to be found in the buildings of its period. As she came to about the middle of the room, she stopped, and then suddenly swayed a little, as if some invisible hand had struck her on the face.