the innocence of father brown-第52章

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country；　half　the　inns　and　parks　and　streets　are　named　after　him　and　his　story。〃　　　　　〃I　thought　we　had　done　with　the　leper；〃　cried　Flambeau；　and　spat　on　the　road。　　　　　〃You　will　never　have　done　with　him　in　England；〃　said　the　priest；　looking　down；　〃while　brass　is　strong　and　stone　abides。　His　marble　statues　will　erect　the　souls　of　proud；　innocent　boys　for　centuries；　his　village　tomb　will　smell　of　loyalty　as　of　lilies。　Millions　who　never　knew　him　shall　love　him　like　a　fatherthis　man　whom　the　last　few　that　knew　him　dealt　with　like　dung。　　He　shall　be　a　saint；　and　the　truth　shall　never　be　told　of　him；　because　I　have　made　up　my　mind　at　last。　　There　is　so　much　good　and　evil　in　breaking　secrets；　that　I　put　my　conduct　to　a　test。　　All　these　newspapers　will　perish；　the　anti…Brazil　boom　is　already　over；　Olivier　is　already　honoured　everywhere。　　But　I　told　myself　that　if　anywhere；　by　name；　in　metal　or　marble　that　will　endure　like　the　pyramids；　Colonel　Clancy；　or　Captain　Keith；　or　President　Olivier；　or　any　innocent　man　was　wrongly　blamed；　then　I　would　speak。　　If　it　were　only　that　St。　Clare　was　wrongly　praised；　I　would　be　silent。　And　I　will。〃　　　　　They　plunged　into　the　red…curtained　tavern；　which　was　not　only　cosy；　but　even　luxurious　inside。　　On　a　table　stood　a　silver　model　of　the　tomb　of　St。　Clare；　the　silver　head　bowed；　the　silver　sword　broken。　　On　the　walls　were　coloured　photographs　of　the　same　scene；　and　of　the　system　of　wagonettes　that　took　tourists　to　see　it。　They　sat　down　on　the　comfortable　padded　benches。　　　　　〃Come；　it's　cold；〃　cried　Father　Brown；　〃let's　have　some　wine　or　beer。〃　　　　　〃Or　brandy；〃　said　Flambeau。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　Three　Tools　of　Death

Both　by　calling　and　conviction　Father　Brown　knew　better　than　most　of　us；　that　every　man　is　dignified　when　he　is　dead。　　But　even　he　felt　a　pang　of　incongruity　when　he　was　knocked　up　at　daybreak　and　told　that　Sir　Aaron　Armstrong　had　been　murdered。　　There　was　something　absurd　and　unseemly　about　secret　violence　in　connection　with　so　entirely　entertaining　and　popular　a　figure。　　For　Sir　Aaron　Armstrong　was　entertaining　to　the　point　of　being　comic；　and　popular　in　such　a　manner　as　to　be　almost　legendary。　　It　was　like　hearing　that　Sunny　Jim　had　hanged　himself；　or　that　Mr。　Pickwick　had　died　in　Hanwell。　　For　though　Sir　Aaron　was　a　philanthropist；　and　thus　dealt　with　the　darker　side　of　our　society；　he　prided　himself　on　dealing　with　it　in　the　brightest　possible　style。　　His　political　and　social　speeches　were　cataracts　of　anecdotes　and　〃loud　laughter〃；　his　bodily　health　was　of　a　bursting　sort；　his　ethics　were　all　optimism；　and　he　dealt　with　the　Drink　problem　（his　favourite　topic）　with　that　immortal　or　even　monotonous　gaiety　which　is　so　often　a　mark　of　the　prosperous　total　abstainer。　　　　　The　established　story　of　his　conversion　was　familiar　on　the　more　puritanic　platforms　and　pulpits；　how　he　had　been；　when　only　a　boy；　drawn　away　from　Scotch　theology　to　Scotch　whisky；　and　how　he　had　risen　out　of　both　and　become　（as　he　modestly　put　it）　what　he　was。　　Yet　his　wide　white　beard；　cherubic　face；　and　sparkling　spectacles；　at　the　numberless　dinners　and　congresses　where　they　appeared；　made　it　hard　to　believe；　somehow；　that　he　had　ever　been　anything　so　morbid　as　either　a　dram…drinker　or　a　Calvinist。　　He　was；　one　felt；　the　most　seriously　merry　of　all　the　sons　of　men。　　　　　He　had　lived　on　the　rural　skirt　of　Hampstead　in　a　handsome　house；　high　but　not　broad；　a　modern　and　prosaic　tower。　　The　narrowest　of　its　narrow　sides　overhung　the　steep　green　bank　of　a　railway；　and　was　shaken　by　passing　trains。　　Sir　Aaron　Armstrong；　as　he　boisterously　explained；　had　no　nerves。　　But　if　the　train　had　often　given　a　shock　to　the　house；　that　morning　the　tables　were　turned；　and　it　was　the　house　that　gave　a　shock　to　the　train。　　　　　The　engine　slowed　down　and　stopped　just　beyond　that　point　where　an　angle　of　the　house　impinged　upon　the　sharp　slope　of　turf。　The　arrest　of　most　mechanical　things　must　be　slow；　but　the　living　cause　of　this　had　been　very　rapid。　　A　man　clad　completely　in　black；　even　（it　was　remembered）　to　the　dreadful　detail　of　black　gloves；　appeared　on　the　ridge　above　the　engine；　and　waved　his　black　hands　like　some　sable　windmill。　　This　in　itself　would　hardly　have　stopped　even　a　lingering　train。　　But　there　came　out　of　him　a　cry　which　was　talked　of　afterwards　as　something　utterly　unnatural　and　new。　　It　was　one　of　those　shouts　that　are　horridly　distinct　even　when　we　cannot　hear　what　is　shouted。　　The　word　in　this　case　was　〃Murder！〃　　　　　But　the　engine…driver　swears　he　would　have　pulled　up　just　the　same　if　he　had　heard　only　the　dreadful　and　definite　accent　and　not　the　word。　　　　　The　train　once　arrested；　the　most　superficial　stare　could　take　in　many　features　of　the　tragedy。　　The　man　in　black　on　the　green　bank　was　Sir　Aaron　Armstrong's　man…servant　Magnus。　　The　baronet　in　his　optimism　had　often　laughed　at　the　black　gloves　of　this　dismal　attendant；　but　no　one　was　likely　to　laugh　at　him　just　now。　　　　　So　soon　as　an　inquirer　or　two　had　stepped　off　the　line　and　across　the　smoky　hedge；　they　saw；　rolled　down　almost　to　the　bottom　of　the　bank；　the　body　of　an　old　man　in　a　yellow　dressing…gown　with　a　very　vivid　scarlet　lining。　　A　scrap　of　rope　seemed　caught　about　his　leg；　entangled　presumably　in　a　struggle。　　There　was　a　smear　or　so　of　blood；　though　very　little；　but　the　body　was　bent　or　broken　into　a　posture　impossible　to　any　living　thing。　　It　was　Sir　Aaron　Armstrong。　　A　few　more　bewildered　moments　brought　out　a　big　fair…bearded　man；　whom　some　travellers　could　salute　as　the　dead　man's　secretary；　Patrick　Royce；　once　well　known　in　Bohemian　society　and　even　famous　in　the　Bohemian　arts。　　In　a　manner　more　vague；　but　even　more　convincing；　he　echoed　the　agony　of　the　servant。　　By　the　time　the　third　figure　of　that　household；　Alice　Armstrong；　daughter　of　the　dead　man；　had　come　already　tottering　and　waving　into　the　garden；　the　engine…driver　had　put　a　stop　to　his　stoppage。　　The　whistle　had　blown　and　the　train　had　panted　on　to　get　help　from　the　next　station。　　　　　Father　Brown　had　been　thus　rapidly　summoned　at　the　request　of　Patrick　Royce；　the　big　ex…Bohemian　secretary。　　Royce　was　an　Irishman　by　birth；　and　that　casual　kind　of　Catholic　that　never　remembers　his　religion　until　he　is　really　in　a　hole。　　But　Royce's　request　might　have　been　less　promptly　complied　with　if　one　of　the　official　detectives　had　not　been　a　friend　and　admirer　of　the　unofficial　Flambeau；　and　it　was　impossible　to　be　a　friend　of　Flambeau　without　hearing　numberless　stories　about　Father　Brown。　Hence；　while　the　young　detective　（whose　name　was　Merton）　led　the　little　priest　across　the　fields　to　the　railway；　their　talk　was　more　confidential　than　could　be　expected　between　two　total　strangers。　　　　　〃As　far　as　I　can　see；〃　said　Mr。　Merton　candidly；　〃there　is　no　sense　to　be　made　of　it　at　all。　　There　is　nobody　one　can　suspect。　Magnus　is　a　solemn　old　fool；　far　too　much　of　a　fool　to　be　an　assassin。　　Royce　has　been　the　baronet's　best　friend　for　years；　and　his　daughter　undoubtedly　adored　him。　　Besides；　it's　all　too　absurd。　Who　would　kill　such　a　cheery　old　chap　as　Armstrong？　　Who　could　dip　his　hands　in　the　gore　of　an　after…dinner　speaker？　　It　would　be　like　killing　Father　Christmas。〃　　　　　〃Yes；　it　was　a　cheery　house；〃　assented　Father　Brown。　　〃It　was　a　cheery　house　while　he　was　alive。　　Do　you　think　it　will　be　cheery　now　he　is　dead？〃　　　　　Merton　started　a　little　and　regarded　his　companion　with　an　enlivened　eye。　　〃Now　he　is　dead？〃　he　repeated。　　　　　〃Yes；〃　continued　the　priest　stolidly；　〃he　was　cheerful。　　But　did　he　communicate　his　cheerfulness？　　Frankly；　was　anyone　else　in　the　house　cheerful　but　he？〃　　　　　A　window　in　Merton's　mind　let　in　that　strange　light　of　surprise　in　which　we　see　for　the　first　time　things　we　have　known　all　along。　He　had　often　been　to　the　Armstrongs'；　on　little　police　jobs　of　the　philanthropist；　and；　now　he　came　to　think　of　it；　it　was　in　itself　a　depressing　house。　　The　rooms　were　very　high　and　very　cold；　the　decoration　mean　and　provincial；　the　draughty　corridors　were　lit　by　electricity　that　was　bleaker　than　moonlight。　　And　though　the　old　man's　scarlet　face　and　silver　beard　had　blazed　like　a　bonfire　in　each　room　or　passage　in　turn；　it　did　not　leave　any　warmth　behind　it。　　Doubtless　this　spectral　discomfort　i