the wisdom of father brown-第27章
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l make trouble。
Of course I don't believe in the old legend about James I； and as for you； you don't believe in anything； not even in journalism。 The legend； you'll probably remember； was about the blackest business in English historythe poisoning of Overbury by that witch's cat Frances Howard； and the quite mysterious terror which forced the King to pardon the murderers。 There was a lot of alleged witchcraft mixed up with it； and the story goes that a man…servant listening at the keyhole heard the truth in a talk between the King and Carr； and the bodily ear with which he heard grew large and monstrous as by magic； so awful was the secret。 And though he had to be loaded with lands and gold and made an ancestor of dukes； the elf…shaped ear is still recurrent in the family。 Well； you don't believe in black magic； and if you did； you couldn't use it for copy。 If a miracle happened in your office； you'd have to hush it up； now so many bishops are agnostics。 But that is not the point The point is that there really is something queer about Exmoor and his family； something quite natural； I dare say； but quite abnormal。 And the Ear is in it somehow； I fancy； either a symbol or a delusion or disease or something。 Another tradition says that Cavaliers just after James I began to wear their hair long only to cover the ear of the first Lord Exmoor。 This also is no doubt fanciful。
The reason I point it out to you is this： It seems to me that we make a mistake in attacking aristocracy entirely for its champagne and diamonds。 Most men rather admire the nobs for having a good time； but I think we surrender too much when we admit that aristocracy has made even the aristocrats happy。 I suggest a series of articles pointing out how dreary； how inhuman； how downright diabolist； is the very smell and atmosphere of some of these great houses。 There are plenty of instances； but you couldn't begin with a better one than the Ear of the Eyres。 By the end of the week I think I can get you the truth about it。Yours ever； FRANCIS FINN。
Mr Nutt reflected a moment； staring at his left boot； then he called out in a strong； loud and entirely lifeless voice； in which every syllable sounded alike： 〃Miss Barlow； take down a letter to Mr Finn； please。〃
DEAR FINN；I think it would do； copy should reach us second post Saturday。Yours； E。 NUTT。
This elaborate epistle he articulated as if it were all one word； and Miss Barlow rattled it down as if it were all one word。 Then he took up another strip of proof and a blue pencil； and altered the word 〃supernatural〃 to the word 〃marvellous〃； and the expression 〃shoot down〃 to the expression 〃repress〃。
In such happy； healthful activities did Mr Nutt disport himself； until the ensuing Saturday found him at the same desk； dictating to the same typist； and using the same blue pencil on the first instalment of Mr Finn's revelations。 The opening was a sound piece of slashing invective about the evil secrets of princes； and despair in the high places of the earth。 Though written violently； it was in excellent English； but the editor； as usual； had given to somebody else the task of breaking it up into sub…headings； which were of a spicier sort； as 〃Peeress and Poisons〃； and 〃The Eerie Ear〃； 〃The Eyres in their Eyrie〃； and so on through a hundred happy changes。 Then followed the legend of the Ear； amplified from Finn's first letter； and then the substance of his later discoveries； as follows：
I know it is the practice of journalists to put the end of the story at the beginning and call it a headline。 I know that journalism largely consists in saying 〃Lord Jones Dead〃 to people who never knew that Lord Jones was alive。 Your present correspondent thinks that this； like many other journalistic customs； is bad journalism； and that the Daily Reformer has to set a better example in such things。 He proposes to tell his story as it occurred； step by step。 He will use the real names of the parties； who in most cases are ready to confirm his testimony。 As for the headlines； the sensational proclamationsthey will come at the end。
I was walking along a public path that threads through a private Devonshire orchard and seems to point towards Devonshire cider； when I came suddenly upon just such a place as the path suggested。 It was a long； low inn； consisting really of a cottage and two barns； thatched all over with the thatch that looks like brown and grey hair grown before history。 But outside the door was a sign which called it the Blue Dragon； and under the sign was one of those long rustic tables that used to stand outside most of the free English inns； before teetotallers and brewers between them destroyed freedom。 And at this table sat three gentlemen； who might have lived a hundred years ago。
Now that I know them all better； there is no difficulty about disentangling the impressions； but just then they looked like three very solid ghosts。 The dominant figure； both because he was bigger in all three dimensions； and because he sat centrally in the length of the table； facing me； was a tall； fat man dressed completely in black； with a rubicund； even apoplectic visage； but a rather bald and rather bothered brow。 Looking at him again； more strictly； I could not exactly say what it was that gave me the sense of antiquity； except the antique cut of his white clerical necktie and the barred wrinkles across his brow。
It was even less easy to fix the impression in the case of the man at the right end of the table； who； to say truth； was as commonplace a person as could be seen anywhere； with a round； brown…haired head and a round snub nose； but also clad in clerical black； of a stricter cut。 It was only when I saw his broad curved hat lying on the table beside him that I realized why I connected him with anything ancient。 He was a Roman Catholic priest。
Perhaps the third man； at the other end of the table； had really more to do with it than the rest； though he was both slighter in physical presence and more inconsiderate in his dress。 His lank limbs were clad； I might also say clutched； in very tight grey sleeves and pantaloons； he had a long； sallow； aquiline face which seemed somehow all the more saturnine because his lantern jaws were imprisoned in his collar and neck…cloth more in the style of the old stock； and his hair （which ought to have been dark brown） was of an odd dim； russet colour which； in conjunction with his yellow face； looked rather purple than red。 The unobtrusive yet unusual colour was all the more notable because his hair was almost unnaturally healthy and curling； and he wore it full。 But； after all analysis； I incline to think that what gave me my first old…fashioned impression was simply a set of tall； old…fashioned wine…glasses； one or two lemons and two churchwarden pipes。 And also； perhaps； the old…world errand on which I had come。
Being a hardened reporter； and it being apparently a public inn； I did not need to summon much of my impudence to sit down at the long table and order some cider。 The big man in black seemed very learned； especially about local antiquities； the small man in black； though he talked much less； surprised me with a yet wider culture。 So we got on very well together； but the third man； the old gentleman in the tight pantaloons； seemed rather distant and haughty； until I slid into the subject of the Duke of Exmoor and his ancestry。
I thought the subject seemed to embarrass the other two a little； but it broke the spell of the third man's silence most successfully。 Speaking with restraint and with the accent of a highly educated gentleman； and puffing at intervals at his long churchwarden pipe； he proceeded to tell me some of the most horrible stories I have ever heard in my life： how one of the Eyres in the former ages had hanged his own father； and another had his wife scourged at the cart tail through the village； and another had set fire to a church full of children； and so on。
Some of the tales； indeed； are not fit for public print； such as the story of the Scarlet Nuns； the abominable story of the Spotted Dog； or the thing that was done in the quarry
