It
was natural that Sherlock Holmes and Father Brown should eventually meet. Either had of course heard of the
exemplary casework of the other, and regarded it with respect, if not perhaps
with total comprehension, their habitual modus of approach to problems of what
the newspapers call crimes, being so disparate or even occasionally at variance. And Brown
having once replied to the great sleuth’s standing invitation to drop by
for a visit, should chance or industry ever take him up to London, that he would
be pleased to do so, it was only natural that, when fate eventually did so send
him (not upon any detectival matter, but merely to attend a clerical conference
at Westminster), he should telegram the time of his expected arrival, and prove
as good as his word.
What
was much less natural, on the plain secular face of it, though in the end it
seemed to have been fated (and this by a Fate, that tempers the wind, to the
full-wooled lamb as well as the
shorn), was that, during what had been intended to be a largely social visit,
with exchange of anecdotes over refreshments (English stout for the priest, and
some sort of white powder for the host) and sharing of professional
particulars, a sudden inruption of
circumstances should have ordained
that the two of them should collaborate on a delicate and highly enigmatic
case, involving life and death -- indeed, tied up with something more serious
than either of these.
They
were both relaxing comfortably in their respective chairs, and Holmes was about
to entertain his clerical visitor (who seemed not to be inclined, unprompted,
to make show of any little adventures of his own) with the remarkable Case of
the Speckled Penguin (withheld from Watson’s published record, as being too choice
for vulgar consumption) when there came a knock upon the oak, faint at first,
then firmer, then quickly overloud. With a glance of annoyance, Holmes rose and
strode over, and flung open the door.
There upon the threshold stood a young man of perhaps six-and-twenty
winters, of something above medium height, not badly made, and of muscular
build. His attire was sober,
even plain, his head uncovered. Yet after a moment’s hesitation, he
drew himself up to his full stature, and made his entrance, casting only the
most cursory glances on either side.
Holmes waved him on, with a controlled approximation of courtesy, despite
his pique at the interruption, to the rather stiff and elegant formal seat that
was reserved for visitors; but this visitor just shook his head.
“I
shall avail myself of the comfortable chair, if you don’t mind,” he said, on a
tone that implied: and even if you
do. Then, suiting deed to the
word, he settled himself upon the very chair that Holmes himself had just now been
occupying. And then, glancing
about for a hassock and finding none, with no further words but a Cheshire
smile, planted his polished boots upon the little display table of Chinese
curios, knocking two or three of them aside in the process. And finally, taking his time, and
without taking his gaze off Holmes’ now astonished face, slowly and deliberately lit a cigarette.
Holmes
knew better than to display any temper, or even to allow any emotion within
himself, to distract him from the task at hand; but concentrated all of his considerable energies into observation of the keenest sort,
reading clues off, one upon the other, from the most insignificant
details: the way a physician (such
as his friend and amanuensis Doctor Watson, presently out of town) may, from
the most minute murmurs and smudges, deduce the presence of a fatal illness. Meanwhile, from the antique clock
on the mantelpiece, the seconds, in their measured way, ticked by.
Holmes,
saying nothing, giving nothing away, waited for the stranger to find his own
moment to speak. At length he did.
“I
come to you about the matter of the kidnapping of young lord Euston.”
Though
accustomed to illustrious cases, Holmes was inwardly surprised that this
unprepossessing specimen of an English lout should be in any way connected to
this one.
“I
have heard of it, of course,” replied Holmes coolly, “although it has not yet
appeared in the papers. The only
son and heir to the dukedom, snatched while on an outing with his careless, or
possibly complicit nurse.”
The
stranger nodded meaningfully. “She
has since been sent away.”
“A
curly blond boy, dressed in the suit of Her Majesty’s navy, about six years of
age --“
“Not
quite; still five.”
“And
so, what -- you come on behalf of the duke? You are engaging my services on his authority?” Rather an insolent emissary, if
so, but no doubt some of the innate aristocratic arrogance of his ducal
Grace had rubbed off on his
subordinate.
“In
a sense I do,” the other returned, with a smirk. “I do, in the sense that I wish him well -- wish him well in the sense, that I desire him to see
his young son again, alive and unharmed.
I am empowered, on my own
authority, to oversee the transfer of funds -- no, not to yourself, as your
finder’s fee, should you succeed in locating the lad (which you shall not, for
reasons to be explained): but to
an account that I control, in a place to be named: as a ransom.”
In
the face of Holmes’ uncharacteristic speechlessness, the astonishing stranger’s
glance passed from the imposing aquiline visage of the great London detective,
to the round, blinking face of the little priest. At sight of the latter, he startled, and his look
became less certain, and lingered longer upon this to all appearances
insignificant object, than one might have expected. Holmes he had been mocking; but he did not now mock the priest.
Wrenching
his attention back to the Baker Street shamus, though with a bit less bravado
than before, he resumed.
“You
may wonder, that I make so bold, as baldly to present myself, unaccompanied and
unarmed, at the lion’s very den.”
“I
do wonder.”
“The
gr-reat lion of detection.”
Holmes
mastered himself.
“And
yet I feel myself to be in as complete security, as were I -- as were I
--“ Here he groped for a word.
“In
the right; which you are not,”
supplied the priest.
The
visitor hurriedly continued. “I
feel so because -- to make the thing explicit -- should you fail to follow my
elaborate instructions to the letter, the Duke will never again see his son. --
Or not,” he added, with a curiously nervous glance at the priest, “not for a
very long while, anyhow.” Then,
again glaring at the frigid Holmes:
“And should you yourself prove so foolish (as all the world knows you
not to be) as to attempt to have me arrested, or to pursue this case on your
own, not only do you not get the boy back, but you personally would be morally
responsible for the loss, and for any harm that might come to the lad at the
hands of my accomplices who are holding him, and would be, further, societally
answerable to the wrath and long arm of the Duke. Moreover, at some future time of their own choosing, my
bloodthirsty accomplices in the field
might swoop down when you least anticipate, and exact a further,
physical retribution, beyond any that the Duke might impose.”
At
this point, the priest, who unaccountably
seemed to have been enjoying this narrative, put in:
“And
these accomplices of yours, in the field as you say, -- are they quite as
ruthless as you are?”
The
young man appeared perplexed at the intervention, and seemed actually to shrink
in his chair; but then puffed out
his chest. “More so!”
At
this, the little priest actually grinned.
“Like pirates!”
Surprise,
and then an answering expression of pleasure. “Like the very worst!” And, grinning back, he bared his teeth.
Father
Brown clapped his little round hands, and fell silent, having nothing to add.
At
the impudent challenge from his visitor, Holmes’ jaw had tightened, but the
insult only steeled him in his resolve.
“And
how do I know, thou worse than worthless, that you have the least involvement
or knowledge of this affair, which would appear to be far above your miserable attainments
and low station? Perhaps you
merely overheard a leak from police headquarters, where I have no doubt you
have often been a visitor, though not in any adjuvant capacity, the same as I
did early this morning from the
good Lestrade. Perchance you
are a vulgar little guttersnipe, having no connection to the case, attempting
to extract by guile what you would
by no means have had the simple manly courage to obtain by bolder action.”
But
here Holmes was mistaken, for that action had indeed been taken, and there was
no fraud. As authentication,
the visitor silently tended, with the air of a bridge-player laying down
trumps, two items: a
photograph; and a small cloth cap
which (so the stranger asserted) belonged to the small boy’s bear. Holmes impatiently waved the puny
article aside (“It could be anything,” he muttered to himself), but stared at
the photo: It showed the
unmistakable likeness of their visitor, in the company of little lord Euston
himself.
At
this point, unaccountably, and for reasons best known to himself, the little
priest put in: “Why just the
cap, and not the bear itself?”
The
stranger seemed taken aback, and stammered an indecipherable reply; but the priest seemed satisfied, and
did not oblige the young man to continue.
With
that, the extortionist turned his attention back to Holmes, handing him a slip
with bank instructions, and a large though not actually overly large figure
written across the top, payable in pounds sterling. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, rising, and bowing
slightly with mock, or perhaps actual politeness, “I’ll be off, for I am in need of some refreshment. Once my financial agents notify me of
the successful transfer, you’ll get back the boy.” With that, he bid them good day, and Holmes showed him
to the door.
~
So
soon as they were alone, Holmes, who had been curt and subdued throughout the
interview, came suddenly to a feverish life. Bending down, he scraped from the Persian carpet a bit of
dirt that had flaked off from their visitor’s boots upon entry; and carefully assembled the
cigarette-ash. Each sample
successively, he crumbled between his fingers, and sniffed.
“It
is as I thought,” he said.
“Clay of a sort found only around the Levonshire coal-pits -- quite
possibly that is where they are holding the boy. The cigarettes
-- simple Woodbines, of the sort available to any laborer: but scented with a hint of London
porter, with which he had no doubt been steeling his courage before coming to
us. Further-- although this detail may have escaped
your vigilance, Brown -- his dialect betrays his origin among the the hamlets
of the Levonshire hills; the burr
is unmistakable.”
(Oddly, this latter fact had not indeed eluded the observation of the
little priest, who, though quite insensible to the attractions of dirt and
cigarettes, did pay close attention to what men said, and to how they said it,
and had on occasion attended to the rustic flock of that unprosperous province,
patiently hearing them out, for all their uncouth burr.) More
than a little tickled at his own brilliance, Holmes twirled to his
inspection a minute nit which had
adhered to their visitor’s costume and then come off against the fabric of the
chair, swiftly identifying it as belonging to the insect Archiformia levonensis, native to Levonshire.
It must be conceded that the short detective had signally failed
to be instructed by the spectacle of his more celebrated colleague in full
forensic pursuit; for, instead of producing (Watson-like) a memorandum book,
and assiduously noting down every detail of the Holmian analysis and technique,
for the admiration of future generations, or even listening very closely to
what was said, Brown apparently
reverted to his inner six-year-old, which was never far from the surface (and
which indeed showed plainly at all
times in the shape of his blinking
moonface), as though oblivious to the pageant of deduction playing itself out
before his eyes, fell to examining
the little cap, turning it this way and that, eventually placing it upon his
own round head, where it perched uncertainly. And there he sat, blissful yet thoughtful, as though
it were his Thinking Cap.
Though
not a vain man, Holmes -- well, to be sure, he was a very vain man, crackling
with insight and wit and the pride of it, but at all events, not vain about the
sort of things that minor men are vain over -- his dress, his looks, the expense
of his trinkets; and though in no
measure could he ever be considered as intellectually insecure, for he believed
himself -- quite accurately, indeed anything less would have been false modesty
(a vice of which Holmes was pleasingly and completely free) -- to be quite
simply the most brilliant man in all the British Isles (not excluding Scotland
and Wales; Ireland of course might be safely left quite out of account in this regard),
with no near rival whose advancing pre-eminence he need fear, least of all this
modest and simple, perhaps even simple-minded little priest: still and despite all that, Holmes did
here experience a twinge or tic of something like resentment, as his splendor
of ratiocination had been on full display, yet scarce remarked by the little
provincial. (It pains us to
relate, that perhaps just for an instant, the mean thought did enter the great
detective’s head, that perhaps that just went to show why, despite undeniable
though difficult-to-characterize gifts, Brown was no more, at the end of the
day, and on cold early-rising country mornings, than an obscure provincial priest.)
“So-o,
you have examined the hat,” remarked Holmes with a touch of acid. (“The cap,” said Brown to himself.) “Goo-ood. And have you reached any conclusions?”
Brown
blinked, and then remembering where the item lay, gently removed it from his
head. He beheld it anew with a kind of reverence.
“It
is homemade,” he said. “Probably
by the boy’s own mother.”
Holmes
snorted. “One can see at a glance
that the material is one of simple English wool, such as any shopgirl might
have access to. Neither silk, nor
velvet, nor any lacework or damask.
And from this you conclude that it is the product of industry at the
dukedom, a fit offering for the young heir himself?”
“No,”
said Brown, as mildly as can be.
“From this I conclude that it was made by a mother.”
He
shook the item gently, at which point a small and crumpled paper-napkin, of the
sort that accompanies a drink or a dish of savouries rather than a full meal, fluttered down from where it had
been wadded in the crown. It had
stuck there, possibly owing to a trace of some reddish-brownish sticky substance. Holmes regarded it sharply, but
it was not blood.
At
that point, Holmes largely lost
interest; some sort of spot of
foodstuff, such as one might expect on a napkin, nothing more. The object otherwise apparently
yielded no clues, for it was imprinted with no writing evidencing its
provenience, whether from Levonshire or elsewhere, only the commonplace,
workmanlike design of a British lion together with that fanciful beast
(actually believed-in by the medieval peasantry) known as the “unicorn”, the
two of them solemnly engaged in something even more fanciful, a sort of dance.
“Hmm,”
mused Holmes. “Not much of a
clue. That could come from
anywhere in England. If
there were time, I might have the organic residue chemographically analyzed, to
ascertain whether it may contain any trace of contact with Gorsica herbalensis (which grows only in East Levonshire) or Herbaria
furzonaria (largely confined to the west of that region -- consult my
monograph on the subject). “
Brown,
meanwhile, had thoughtfully licked the tip of his finger. “It’s chocolate,” he announced,
brightening; and then, as though
whetted, he dipped it again in the sample, and repeated the assay. “Rather good chocolate, too, and
quite fresh.”
Holmes
could not repress a shudder of impatience at this imbecility. “Well, enjoy your repast,” he said; and then, as though partly repenting of his curtness to an
inoffensive invited guest, by way of reconciliation tendered the photograph, and sollicited his colleague’s
professional assessment. Brown
stared at it a bit, then shuddered.
“He looks frightened,” he said.
Surprised
at the remark, Holmes snatched back the photo, and studied it briefly. “Not unduly, I should say, considering
that his life was and remains in danger. In fact, if anything, he seems to regard it as
something of a lark, like the countryside outing itself; too young, perhaps, and too sheltered,
to understand it as anything but another adventure.”
“I
didn’t mean the small boy,” said Brown.
“I meant the other one.”
Holmes
could make nothing of the remark, but moved on to better business. From inside his jacket, he flourished-forth
a piece of paper of a more substantial and official sort than paper napkins
from some pub. “For myself, I
concern myself with a much more revealing clue, one which even you, with your
inveterate predilection for shadowy and spiritual concerns, to the exclusion of
hard facts, will confess, possesses …”
Here
he paused; and Brown placidly
completed, “… certain features of interest.”
“While
escorting our amiable visitor to the door,” Holmes went on drolly, “I took the
liberty of extracting, from his greatcoat pocket, this document; which, as you can observe --“ (here Holmes held it forth to the
near-sighted priest) “is a train schedule, upon which the name of a certain
provincial station is circled in pencil:
one located no otherwhere than in … Levonshire! Whither I am off, incontinently, before
it shall be too late!”
And
on this note of triumph, he gathered his pistol, stuck on his deerstalker, then
strode purposefully out the door.
~
Like
his colleague Freud, Holmes was minutely observant in his way, and able to
winkle out clues from cigar-ash as readily as the great alienist could read an
entire psyche in a wisp of dream or slip of the tongue; still he was not truly what can be
called a menschenkenner. (Freud, on the testimony of his intimates, suffered from the same defect.) For one thing, he lacked all
commonality of interest with his beer-and-skittles-relishing,
wench-bottom-pinching fellow men:
going further in this regard,
even than the intensely cerebral Viennese physician, who at least had
entered into ordinary matrimony.
Brown, by contrast, enjoyed a game of skittles as well as anything or
anyone, though he had seldom had time for this in later years; and though his clerical collar had of
necessity kept him from the wenches (Holmes abstaining likewise, though for
different reasons), still he looked very kindly upon the youthful exuberance,
with its occasional indiscretions, which, please Providence, might lead on to
marriage.
Alone
now, as he so often was after his exertions, Father Brown sat awhile in silence
in the great man’s room.
He did not move to examine the many strange and curious objets d’art, crowding the mantelpiece
and strewn strategically about the room, with which a more inquisitive visitor,
or one more versed in the rarified pleasures of virtù, would have
eagerly occupied himself; but
rather sat contemplating the mystery -- the real one -- not the mystery of the
lad’s location, for that was evident enough, but that of the young man, who had
committed a rash and criminal act,
and who would sin so far as to separate the poor bear from its cap, yet
not so far as to separate the boy from his bear. Tired now, with a more than human weariness, Father Brown
shut his eyes, and for a time appeared to nap. Yet then, opening them completely refreshed, he said
aloud: “You know, I am feeling peckish. I think I shall have some more of that chocolate.”
~
Some
hours passed; and there passed as
well, events, and confessions, words uttered in confidence, which we have no
authority to relate. Big Ben
in the distance was tolling the onset of evening, when a dusty and defeated
Holmes trudged in at the
door. “Not a trail -- not a
trace! And the villain will by now
be over the border. I may
have to turn the whole thing over to Lestrade. How he will laugh at me!”
He
glanced irritably towards the chair in which he had left his guest, but,
finding him not there, looked further about, and then, in astonishment, and
something like consternation, beheld him at the other end of the room, seated at a little round table, which had been set with saucers each bearing a
chocolate, and three fresh little napkins with the heraldic dancing
beasts. This modest feast Brown
was enjoying in the company of little lord Euston, and (making a third) the
bear (who so far had not touched his plate; quite possibly the young master
must finish it for him).
Noticing
his host’s return, and breaking off the animated festivities which he had been
enjoying with his two commensals, Brown welcomed the new arrival, generously
offering him part of his own chocolate-bar. Then, realizing that some explanation was in order, he
added: “Oh, I spoke to the man,
and he told me where he had hidden the boy. Just in the back room, actually, where he was being
entertained by the barmaid.”
“And
where,” uttered Holmes, with difficulty maintaining his composure, “was that?”
Here
Father Brown lowered his eyes in some confusion. “The pub just round the corner, in the next street
over. The, er, ‘Unicorn and Lion’; I noticed it as I was walking to your
lodgings.”
Here
Holmes had the unaccustomed weakness, or perhaps it was decency, actually to
color slightly.
“Well,
good, that will count in his favor at his sentencing.”
Father
Brown shrugged.
“But
-- Surely you called a policeman!
Don’t tell me you let him get away. Great Scott, man, did he escape?”
Father
Brown returned gravely: “He
had a very narrow escape indeed.”
“But
-- But why did he do it in the first place, only to then go and blow the whole
game? And his
dangerous accomplices are still at large!
Tell me everything he said, man, it may contain vital clues as to their
whereabouts.”
Father
Brown seemed unconcerned. “Oh, I
shouldn’t worry about any ‘accomplices’.
What matters is that two souls for now are safe, that had been in
peril. As for the details of
his Confession, that is under Seal.”
It
took Holmes a moment to react. “Two? Was there -- a second hostage?” He looked uncertainly about the room, but encountered only
that most unlikely kidnapee or object of ransom, the bear. Between each of these, his
attention flitted, until, admitting defeat, it came to rest -- like the very
meerschaum in its stand --upon the mantelpiece, chocked with all varieties of
Oriental knick-knacks, which no longer, just at present, had power to exert any
sort of charm, then rose to the
glass in self-reflection. And then
he became very quiet.
“Perhaps
indeed three,” said Father Brown.
 |
| The key that cracked the case |
Holmes
sighed, regaining his wry good humor.
“Well, the fellow’s off with his own skin, for now at any rate --“
“For
now, at any rate,” agreed Father Brown.
“The road ahead is full of peril, both for him and more especially for
the duke-to-be.”
“--
and though he managed to avoid capture, still at least he is no shilling the
richer for all his efforts and elaborate schemes.”
“Actually,
two shillings the poorer, “said Brown.
“You see, he paid for the
chocolates.”
~
Noch seltsamer --
Sherlock Holmes begegnet Sigmund Freud:
Lesen Sie
das kostenfrei.
~
~
For additional fine detective fiction, try this site:
~
This little exercise is in the spirit of Maurice Leblanc’s Arsène
Lupin contre Herlock Sholmès (1906 f.)
 |
|
“Euh… C’est élémentaire, mon cher …”
|
For an alternate rapprochement, try this:
~
The essence of that narrative, is the yin-yang
complementarity between the brain and the heart -- the mind and the soul. And the reason that Father Brown was able to penetrate to the
heart of this case, where it eluded the brilliant insights of Holmes, is that
he was able to detect that saving grace -- that pinpoint of light -- in the
heart of darkness of this particular sinner. Such was the immortal portrait we had, of the Bishop
and Jean Valjean; and such is the import
of
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