SIR ARTHUR VAUDREY, in his light-grey summer suit, and wearing on his grey head the white hat which he so boldly affected1, went walking briskly up the road by the river from his own house to the little group of houses that were almost like outhouses to his own, entered that little hamlet, and then vanished completely as if he had been carried away by the fairies.
The disappearance2 seemed the more absolute and abrupt3 because of the familiarity of the scene and the extreme simplicity4 of the conditions of the problem. The hamlet could not be called a village; indeed, it was little more than a small and strangely-isolated street. It stood in the middle of wide and open fields and plains, a mere5 string of the four or five shops absolutely needed by the neighbours; that is, by a few farmers and the family at the great house. There was a butcher's at the corner, at which, it appeared, Sir Arthur had last been seen. He was seen by two young men staying at his house; Evan Smith, who was acting6 as his secretary, and John Dalmon, who was generally supposed to be engaged to his ward7. There was next to the butcher's a small shop combining a large number of functions, such as is found in villages, in which a little old woman sold sweets, walking-sticks, golf-balls, gum, balls of string and a very faded sort of stationery8. Beyond this was the tobacconist, to which the two young men were betaking themselves when they last caught a glimpse of their host standing9 in front of the butcher's shop; and beyond that was a dingy10 little dressmaker's, kept by two ladies. A pale and shiny shop, offering to the passer-by great goblets11 of very wan12, green lemonade, completed the block of buildings; for the only real and Christian13 inn in the neighbourhood stood by itself some way, down the main road. Between the inn and the hamlet was a cross-roads, at which stood a policeman and a uniformed official of a motoring club; and both agreed that Sir Arthur had never passed that point on the road.
It had been at an early hour of a very brilliant summer day that the old gentleman had gone gaily14 striding up the road, swinging his walking-stick and flapping his yellow gloves. He was a good deal of a dandy, but one of a vigorous and virile15 sort, especially for his age. His bodily strength and activity were still very remarkable16, and his curly hair might have been a yellow so pale as to look white instead of a white that was a faded yellow. His clean-shaven face was handsome, with a high-bridged nose like the Duke of Wellington's; but the most outstanding features were his eyes. They were not merely metaphorically17 outstanding; something prominent and almost bulging18 about them was perhaps the only disproportion in his features; but his lips were sensitive and set a little tightly, as if by an act of will. He was the squire19 of all that country and the owner of the little hamlet. In that sort of place everybody not only knows everybody else, but generally knows where anybody is at any given moment. The normal course would have been for Sir Arthur to walk to the village, to say whatever he wanted to say to the butcher or anybody else, and then walk back to his house again, all in the course of about half an hour: as the two young men did when they had bought their cigarettes. But they saw nobody on the road returning; indeed, there was nobody in sight except the one other guest at the house, a certain Dr. Abbott, who was sitting with his broad back to them on the river bank, very patiently fishing.
When all the three guests returned to breakfast, they seemed to think little or nothing of the continued absence of the squire; but when the day wore on and he missed one meal after another, they naturally began to be puzzled, and Sybil Rye, the lady of the household, began to be seriously alarmed. Expeditions of discovery were dispatched to the village again and again without finding any trace; and eventually, when darkness fell, the house was full of a definite fear. Sybil had sent for Father Brown, who was a friend of hers and had helped her out of a difficulty in the past; and under the pressure of the apparent peril20 he had consented to remain at the house and see it through.
Thus it happened that when the new day's dawn broke without news, Father Brown was early afoot and on the look out for anything; his black, stumpy figure could be seen pacing the garden path where the garden was embanked along the river, as he scanned the landscape up and down with his short-sighted and rather misty21 gaze.
He realized that another figure was moving even more restlessly along the embankment, and saluted22 Evan Smith, the secretary, by name.
Evan Smith was a tall, fair-haired young man, looking rather harassed23, as was perhaps natural in that hour of distraction24. But something of the sort hung about him at all times. Perhaps it was more marked because he had the sort of athletic25 reach and poise26 and the sort of leonine yellow hair and moustache which accompany (always in fiction and sometimes in fact) a frank and cheerful demeanour of "English youth." As in his case they accompanied deep and cavernous eyes and a rather haggard look, the contrast with the conventional tall figure and fair hair of romance may have had a touch of something sinister27. But Father Brown smiled at him amiably28 enough and then said more seriously:
"This is a trying business."
"It's a very trying business for Miss Rye," answered the young man gloomily; "and I don't see why I should disguise what's the worst part of it for me, even if she is engaged to Dalmon. Shocked, I suppose?"
Father Brown did not look very much shocked, but his face was often rather expressionless; he merely said, mildly:
"Naturally, we all sympathize with her anxiety. I suppose you haven't any news or views in the matter?"
"I haven't any news exactly." answered Smith; "no news from outside at least. As for views...." And he relapsed into moody29 silence.
"I should be very glad to hear your views," said the little priest pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind my saying that you seem to have something on your mind."
The young man stirred rather than started and looked at the priest steadily30, with a frown that threw his hollow eyes into dense31 shadow.
"Well, you're right enough," he said at last. "I suppose I shall have to tell somebody. And you seem a safe sort of person to tell."
"Do you know what has happened to Sir Arthur?" asked Father Brown calmly, as if it were the most casual matter in the world.
"Yes," said the secretary harshly, "I think I know what has happened to Sir Arthur."
"A beautiful morning," said a bland32 voice in his ear; "a beautiful morning for a rather melancholy33 meeting."
This time the secretary jumped as if he had been shot, as the large shadow of Dr. Abbott fell across his path in the already strong sunshine. Dr. Abbott was still in his dressing-gown; a sumptuous34 oriental dressing-gown covered with coloured flowers and dragons, looking rather like one of the most brilliant flower beds that were growing under the glowing sun. He also wore large, flat slippers35, which was doubtless why he had come so close to the others without being heard. He would normally have seemed the last person for such a light and airy approach, for he was a very big, broad and heavy man, with a powerful benevolent36 face very much sunburnt, in a frame of old-fashioned grey whiskers and chin beard, which hung about him luxuriantly, like the long, grey curls of his venerable head. His long slits37 of eyes were rather sleepy and, indeed, he was an elderly gentleman to be up so early; but he had a look at once robust38 and weather-beaten, as of an old farmer or sea captain who had once been out in all weathers. He was the only old comrade and contemporary of the squire in the company that met at the house.
"It seems truly extraordinary," he said, shaking his head. "Those little houses are like dolls' houses, always open front and back, and there's hardly room to hide anybody, even if they wanted to hide him. And I'm sure they don't. Dalmon and I cross-examined them all yesterday; they're mostly little old women that couldn't hurt a fly. The men are nearly all away harvesting, except the butcher; and Arthur was seen coining out of the butcher's. And nothing could have happened along that stretch by the river, for I was fishing there all day."
Then he looked at Smith and the look in his long eyes seemed for the moment not only sleepy, but a little sly.
"I think you and Dalmon can testify," he said, "that you saw me sitting there through your whole journey there and back."
"Yes," said Evan Smith shortly, and seemed rather impatient at the long interruption.
"The only thing I can think of," went on Dr. Abbott slowly; and then the interruption was itself interrupted. A figure at once light and sturdy strode very rapidly across the green lawn between the gay flowerbeds, and John Dalmon appeared among them, holding a paper in his hand. He was neatly39 dressed and rather swarthy, with a very fine square Napoleonic face and very sad eyes; eyes so sad that they looked almost dead. He seemed to be still young, but his black hair had gone prematurely40 grey about the temples.
"I've just had this telegram from the police," he said "I wired to them last night and they say they're sending down a man at once. Do you know, Dr. Abbott, of anybody else we ought to send for? Relations, I mean, and that sort of thing."
"There is his nephew, Vernon Vaudrey, of course," said the old man. "If you will come with me, I think I can give you his address and—and tell you something rather special about him."
Dr. Abbott and Dalmon moved away in the direction of the house and, when they had gone a certain distance, Father Brown said simply, as if there had been no interruption:
"You were saying?"
"You're a cool hand," said the secretary. "I suppose it comes of hearing confessions42. I feel rather as if I were going to make a confession41. Some people would feel a bit jolted43 out of the mood of confidence by that queer old elephant creeping up like a snake. But I suppose I'd better stick to it, though it really isn't my confession, but somebody else's." He stopped a moment, frowning and pulling his moustache; then he said, abruptly44:
"I believe Sir Arthur has bolted, and I believe I know why."
There was a silence and then he exploded again.
"I'm in a damnable position, and most people would say I was doing a damnable thing. I am now going to appear in the character of a sneak45 and a skunk46 and I believe I am doing my duty."
"You must be the judge," said Father Brown gravely. "What is the matter with your duty?"
"I'm in the perfectly47 foul48 position of telling tales against a rival, and a successful rival, too," said the young man bitterly; "and I don't know what else in the world I can do. You were asking what was the explanation of Vaudrey's disappearance. I am absolutely convinced that Dalmon is the explanation."
"You mean," said the priest, with composure, "that Dalmon has killed Sir Arthur?"
"No!" exploded Smith, with startling violence. "No, a hundred times! He hasn't done that, whatever else he's done. He isn't a murderer, whatever else he is. He has the best of all alibis49; the evidence of a man who hates him. I'm not likely to perjure50 myself for love of Dalmon; and I could swear in any court he did nothing to the old man yesterday. Dalmon and I were together all day, or all that part of the day, and he did nothing in the village except buy cigarettes, and nothing here except smoke them and read in the library. No; I believe he is a criminal, but he did not kill Vaudrey. I might even say more; because he is a criminal he did not kill Vaudrey."
"Yes," said the other patiently, "and what does that mean?"
"It means," replied the secretary, "that he is a criminal committing another crime: and his crime depends on keeping Vaudrey alive."
"Oh, I see," said Father Brown.
"I know Sybil Rye pretty well, and her character is a great part of this story. It is a very fine character in both senses: that is, it is of a noble quality and only too delicate a texture51. She is one of those people who are terribly conscientious52, without any of that armour53 of habit and hard common sense that many conscientious people get. She is almost insanely sensitive and at the same time quite unselfish. Her history is curious: she was left literally54 penniless like a foundling and Sir Arthur took her into his house and treated her with consideration, which puzzled many; for, without being hard on the old man, it was not much in his line. But, when she was about seventeen, the explanation came to her with a shock; for her guardian55 asked her to marry him. Now I come to the curious part of the story. Somehow or other, Sybil had heard from somebody (I rather suspect from old Abbott) that Sir Arthur Vaudrey, in his wilder youth, had committed some crime or, at least, done some great wrong to somebody, which had got him into serious trouble. I don't know what it was. But it was a sort of nightmare to the girl at her crude sentimental56 age, and made him seem like a monster, at least too much so for the close relation of marriage. What she did was incredibly typical of her. With helpless terror and with heroic courage she told him the truth with her own trembling lips. She admitted that her repulsion might be morbid57; she confessed it like a secret madness. To her relief and surprise he took it quietly and courteously58, and apparently59 said no more on the subject; and her sense of his generosity60 was greatly increased by the next stage of the story. There came into her lonely life the influence of an equally lonely man. He was camping-out like a sort of hermit61 on one of the islands in the river; and I suppose the mystery made him attractive, though I admit he is attractive enough; a gentleman, and quite witty62, though very melancholy—which, I suppose, increased the romance. It was this man, Dalmon, of course; and to this day I'm not sure how far she really accepted him; but it got as far as his getting permission to see her guardian. I can fancy her awaiting that interview in an agony of terror and wondering how the old beau would take the appearance of a rival. But here, again, she found she had apparently done him an injustice63. He received the younger man with hearty64 hospitality and seemed to be delighted with the prospects65 of the young couple. He and Dalmon went shooting and fishing together and were the best of friends, when one day she had another shock. Dalmon let slip in conversation some chance phrase that the old man 'had not changed much in thirty years,' and the truth about the odd intimacy66 burst upon her. All that introduction and hospitality had been a masquerade; the men had obviously known each other before. That was why the younger man had come down rather covertly67 to that district. That was why the elder man was lending himself so readily to promote the match. I wonder what you are thinking?"
"I know what you are thinking," said Father Brown, with a smile, "and it seems entirely68 logical. Here we have Vaudrey, with some ugly story in his past; a mysterious stranger come to haunt him, and getting whatever he wants out of him. In plain words, you think Dalmon is a blackmailer70."
"I do," said the other; "and a rotten thing to think, too."
Father Brown reflected for a moment and then said: "I think I should like to go up to the house now and have a talk to Dr. Abbott."
When he came out of the house again an hour or two afterwards, he may have been talking to Dr. Abbott, but he emerged in company with Sybil Rye, a pale girl with reddish hair and a profile delicate and almost tremulous; at the sight other, one could instantly understand all the secretary's story of her shuddering72 candour. It recalled Godiva and certain tales of virgin73 martyrs74; only the shy can be so shameless for conscience's sake. Smith came forward to meet them, and for a moment they stood talking on the lawn. The day which had been brilliant from daybreak was now glowing and even glaring; but Father Brown carried his black bundle of an umbrella as well as wearing his black umbrella of a hat; and seemed, in a general way, buttoned up to breast the storm. But perhaps it was only an unconscious effect of attitude; and perhaps the storm was not a material storm.
"What I hate about it all," Sybil was saying in a low voice, "is the talk that's beginning already; suspicions against everybody. John and Evan can answer for each other, I suppose; but Dr. Abbott has had an awful scene with the butcher, who thinks he is accused and is throwing accusations75 about in consequence."
Evan Smith looked very uncomfortable; then blurted76 out: "Look here, Sybil, I can't say much, but we don't believe there's any need for all that. It's all very beastly, but we don't think there's been—any violence."
"Have you got a theory, then?" said the girl, looking instantly at the priest.
"I have heard a theory," he replied, "which seems to me very convincing."
He stood looking rather dreamily towards the river; and Smith and Sybil began to talk to each other swiftly, in lowered tones. The priest drifted along the river bank, ruminating77, and plunged78 into a plantation79 of thin trees on an almost overhanging bank. The strong sun beat on the thin veil of little dancing leaves like small green flames, and all the birds were singing as if the tree had a hundred tongues. A minute or two later, Evan Smith heard his own name called cautiously and yet clearly from the green depths of the thicket80. He stepped rapidly in that direction and met Father Brown returning. The priest said to him, in a very low voice:
"Don't let the lady come down here. Can't you get rid of her? Ask her to telephone or something; and then come back here again."
Evan Smith turned with a rather desperate appearance of carelessness and approached the girl; but she was not the sort of person whom it is hard to make busy with small jobs for others. In a very short time she had vanished into the house and Smith turned to find that Father Brown had once more vanished into the thicket. Just beyond the clump81 of trees was a sort of small chasm82 where the turf had subsided83 to the level of the sand by the river. Father Brown was standing on the brink84 of this cleft85, looking down; but, either by accident or design, he was holding his hat in his hand, in spite of the strong sun pouring on his head.
"You had better see this yourself," he said, heavily, "as a matter of evidence. But I warn you to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?" asked the other.
"Only for the most horrible thing I ever saw in my life," said Father Brown.
Even Smith stepped to the brink of the bank of turf and with difficulty repressed a cry rather like a scream.
Sir Arthur Vaudrey was glaring and grinning up at him; the face was turned up so that he could have put his foot on it; the head was thrown back, with its wig86 of whitish yellow hair towards him, so that he saw the face upside down. This made it seem all the more like a part of a nightmare; as if a man were walking about with his head stuck on the wrong way. What was he doing? Was it possible that Vaudrey was really creeping about, hiding in the cracks of field and bank, and peering out at them in this unnatural87 posture88? The rest of the figure seemed hunched89 and almost crooked90, as if it had been crippled or deformed91 but on looking more closely, this seemed only the foreshortening of limbs fallen in a heap. Was he mad? Was he? The more Smith looked at him the stiffer the posture seemed.
"You can't see it from here properly," said Father Brown, "but his throat is cut."
Smith shuddered93 suddenly. "I can well believe it's the most horrible thing you've seen," he said. "I think it's seeing the face upside down. I've seen that face at breakfast, or dinner, every day for ten years; and it always looked quite pleasant and polite. You turn it upside down and it looks like the face of a fiend."
"The face really is smiling," said Father Brown, soberly; "which is perhaps not the least part of the riddle94. Not many men smile while their throats are being cut, even if they do it themselves. That smile, combined with those gooseberry eyes of his that always seemed standing out of his head, is enough, no doubt, to explain the expression. But it's true, things look different upside down. Artists often turn their drawings upside down to test their correctness. Sometimes, when it's difficult to turn the object itself upside down (as in the case of the Matterhorn, let us say), they have been known to stand on their heads, or at least look between their legs."
The priest, who was talking thus flippantly to steady the other man's nerves, concluded by saying, in a more serious tone: "I quite understand how it must have upset you. Unfortunately, it also upset something else."
"What do you mean?"
"It has upset the whole of our very complete theory," replied the other; and he began clambering down the bank on to the little strip of sand by the river.
"Perhaps he did it himself," said Smith abruptly. "After all, that's the most obvious sort of escape, and fits in with our theory very well. He wanted a quiet place and he came here and cut his throat."
"He didn't come here at all," said Father Brown. "At least, not alive, and not by land. He wasn't killed here; there's not enough blood. This sun has dried his hair and clothes pretty well by now; but there are the traces of two trickles95 of water in the sand. Just about here the tide comes up from the sea and makes an eddy96 that washed the body into the creek97 and left it when the tide retired98. But the body must first have been washed down the river, presumably from the village, for the river runs just behind the row of little houses and shops. Poor Vaudrey died up in the hamlet, somehow; after all, I don't think he committed suicide; but the trouble is who would, or could, have killed him up in that potty little place?"
He began to draw rough designs with the point of his stumpy umbrella on the strip of sand.
"Let's see; how does the row of shops run? First, the butcher's; well, of course, a butcher would be an ideal performer with a large carving99 knife. But you saw Vaudrey come out, and it isn't very probable that he stood in the outer shop while the butcher said: 'Good morning. Allow me to cut your throat! Thank you. And the next article, please?' Sir Arthur doesn't strike me as the sort of man who'd have stood there with a pleasant smile while this happened. He was a very strong and vigorous man, with rather a violent temper. And who else, except the butcher, could have stood up to him? The next shop is kept by an old woman. Then comes the tobacconist, who is certainly a man, but I am told quite a small and timid one. Then there is the dressmaker's, run by two maiden100 ladies, and then a refreshment101 shop run by a man who happens to be in hospital and who has left his wife in charge. There are two or three village lads, assistants and errand boys, but they were away on a special job. The refreshment shop ends the street; there is nothing beyond that but the inn, with the policeman between."
He made a punch with the ferrule of his umbrella to represent the policeman, and remained moodily102 staring up the river. Then he made a slight movement with his hand and, stepping quickly across, stooped over the corpse103.
"Ah," he said, straightening himself and letting out a great breath. "The tobacconist! Why in the world didn't I remember that about the tobacconist?"
"What is the matter with you?" demanded Smith in some exasperation104; for Father Brown was rolling his eyes and muttering, and he had uttered the word "tobacconist" as if it were a terrible word of doom105.
"Did you notice," said the priest, after a pause, "something rather curious about his face?"
"I said his face," said the cleric quietly. "Besides, don't you notice he has hurt his hand and there's a small bandage round it?"
"Oh, that has nothing to do with it," said Evan hastily. "That happened before and was quite an accident. He cut his hand with a broken ink-bottle while we were working together."
"It has something to do with it, for all that," replied Father Brown.
There was a long silence, and the priest walked moodily along the sand, trailing his umbrella and sometimes muttering the word "tobacconist," till the very word chilled his friend with fear. Then he suddenly lifted the umbrella and pointed106 to a boathouse among the rushes.
"Is that the family boat?" he asked. "I wish you'd just scull me up the river; I want to look at those houses from the back. There's no time to lose. They may find the body; but we must risk that."
Smith was already pulling the little boat upstream towards the hamlet before Father Brown spoke107 again. Then he said:
"By the way, I found out from old Abbott what was the real story about poor Vaudrey's misdemeanour. It was a rather curious story about an Egyptian official who had insulted him by saying that a good Moslem108 would avoid swine and Englishmen, but preferred swine; or some such tactful remark. Whatever happened at the time, the quarrel was apparently renewed some years after, when the official visited England; and Vaudrey, in his violent passion, dragged the man to a pig-sty on the farm attached to the country house and threw him in, breaking his arm and leg and leaving him there till next morning. There was rather a row about it, of course, but many people thought Vaudrey had acted in a pardonable passion of patriotism109. Anyhow, it seems not quite the thing that would have kept a man silent under deadly blackmail69 for decades."
"Then you don't think it had anything to do with the story we are considering?" asked the secretary, thoughtfully.
"I think it had a thundering lot to do with the story I am considering now," said Father Brown.
They were now floating past the low wall and the steep strips of back garden running down from the back doors to the river. Father Brown counted them carefully, pointing with his umbrella, and when he came to the third he said again:
"Tobacconist! Is the tobacconist by any chance.... But I think I'll act on my guess till I know. Only, I'll tell you what it was I thought odd about Sir Arthur's face."
"He was a great dandy," said Father Brown, "and the face was only half-shaved.... Could you stop here a moment? We could tie up the boat to that post."
A minute or two afterwards they had clambered over the little wall and were mounting the steep cobbled paths of the little garden, with its rectangular beds of vegetables and flowers.
"You see, the tobacconist does grow potatoes," said Father Brown. "Associations with Sir Walter Raleigh, no doubt. Plenty of potatoes and plenty of potato sacks. These little country people have not lost all the habits of peasants; they still run two or three jobs at once. But country tobacconists very often do one odd job extra, that I never thought of till I saw Vaudrey's chin. Nine times out of ten you call the shop the tobacconist's, but it is also the barber's. He'd cut his hand and couldn't shave himself; so he came up here. Does that suggest anything else to you?"
"It suggests a good deal," replied Smith; "but I expect it will suggest a good deal more to you."
"Does it suggest, for instance," observed Father Brown, "the only conditions in which a vigorous and rather violent gentleman might be smiling pleasantly when his throat was cut?"
The next moment they had passed through a dark passage or two at the back of the house, and came into the back room of the shop, dimly lit by filtered light from beyond and a dingy and cracked looking-glass. It seemed, somehow, like the green twilight111 of a tank; but there was light enough to see the rough apparatus112 of a barber's shop and the pale and even panic-sticken face of a barber.
Father Brown's eye roamed round the room, which seemed to have been just recently cleaned and tidied, till his gaze found something in a dusty corner just behind the door. It was a hat hanging on a hat-peg. It was a white hat, and one very well known to all that village. And yet, conspicuous113 as it had always seemed in the street, it seemed only an example of the sort of little thing a certain sort of man often entirely forgets, when he has most carefully washed floors or destroyed stained rags.
"Sir Arthur Vaudrey was shaved here yesterday morning, I think," said Father Brown in a level voice.
To the barber, a small, bald-headed, spectacled man whose name was Wicks, the sudden appearance of these two figures out of his own back premises114 was like the appearance of two ghosts risen out of a grave under the floor. But it was at once apparent that he had more to frighten him than any fancy of superstition115. He shrank, we might almost say that he shrivelled, into a corner of the dark room; and everything about him seemed to dwindle116, except his great goblin spectacles.
"Tell me one thing," continued the priest, quietly. "You had a reason for hating the squire?"
"I know you had," he said. "You hated him; and that's how I know you didn't kill him. Will you tell us what happened, or shall I?"
There was a silence filled with the faint ticking of a clock in the back kitchen; and then Father Brown went on.
"What happened was this. When Mr. Dalmon stepped inside your outer shop, he asked for some cigarettes that were in the window. You stepped outside for a moment, as shopmen often do, to make sure of what he meant; and in that moment of time he perceived in the inner room the razor you had just laid down, and the yellow-white head of Sir Arthur in the barber's chair; probably both glimmering118 in the light of that little window beyond. It took but an instant for him to pick up the razor and cut the throat and come back to the counter. The victim would not even be alarmed at the razor and the hand. He died smiling at his own thoughts. And what thoughts! Nor, I think, was Dalmon alarmed. He had done it so quickly and quietly that Mr. Smith here could have sworn in court that the two were together all the time. But there was somebody who was alarmed, very legitimately119, and that was you. You had quarrelled with your landlord about arrears120 of rent and so on; you came back into your own shop and found your enemy murdered in your own chair, with your own razor. It was not altogether unnatural that you despaired of clearing yourself, and preferred to clear up the mess; to clean the floor and throw the corpse into the river at night, in a potato sack rather loosely tied. It was rather lucky that there were fixed121 hours after which your barber's shop was shut; so you had plenty of time. You seem to have remembered everything but the hat.... Oh, don't be frightened; I shall forget everything, including the hat."
And he passed placidly122 through the outer shop into the street beyond, followed by the wondering Smith, and leaving behind the barber stunned123 and staring.
"You see," said Father Brown to his companion, "it was one of those cases where a motive124 really is too weak to convict a man and yet strong enough to acquit125 him. A little nervous fellow like that would be the last man really to kill a big strong man for a tiff92 about money. But he would be the first man to fear that he would be accused of having done it.... Ah, there was a thundering difference in the motive of the man who did do it." And he relapsed into reflection, staring and almost glaring at vacancy126.
"It is simply awful," groaned127 Evan Smith. "I was abusing Dalmon as a blackmailer and a blackguard an hour or two ago, and yet it breaks me all up to hear he really did this, after all."
The priest still seemed to be in a sort of trance, like a man staring down into an abyss. At last his lips moved and he murmured, more as if it were a prayer than an oath: "Merciful God, what a horrible revenge!"
His friend questioned him, but he continued as if talking to himself.
"What a horrible tale of hatred128! What a vengeance129 for one mortal worm to take on another! Shall we ever get to the bottom of this bottomless human heart, where such abominable130 imaginations can abide131? God save us all from pride; but I cannot yet make any picture in my mind of hate and vengeance like that."
"Yes," said Smith; "and I can't quite picture why he should kill Vaudrey at all. If Dalmon was a blackmailer, it would seem more natural for Vaudrey to kill him. As you say, the throat-cutting was a horrid132 business, but——"
"Oh, that!" he corrected hastily. "I wasn't thinking about that. I didn't mean the murder in the barber's shop, when—when I said a horrible tale of vengeance. I was thinking of a much more horrible tale than that; though, of course, that was horrible enough, in its way. But that was much more comprehensible; almost anybody might have done it. In fact, it was very nearly an act of self-defence."
"What?" exclaimed the secretary incredulously. "A man creeps up behind another man and cuts his throat, while he is smiling pleasantly at the ceiling in a barber's chair, and you say it was self-defence!"
"I do not say it was justifiable134 self-defence," replied the other. "I only say that many a man would have been driven to it, to defend himself against an appalling135 calamity—which was also an appalling crime. It was that other crime that I was thinking about. To begin with, about that question you asked just now; why should the blackmailer be the murderer? Well, there are a good many conventional confusions and errors on a point like that." He paused, as if collecting his thoughts after his recent trance of horror, and went on in ordinary tones.
"You observe that two men, an older and a younger, go about together and agree on a matrimonial project; but the origin of their intimacy is old and concealed136. One is rich and the other poor; and you guess at blackmail. You are quite right, at least to that extent. Where you are quite wrong is in guessing which is which. You assume that the poor man was blackmailing137 the rich man. As a matter offset138, the rich man was blackmailing the poor man."
"But that seems nonsense," objected the secretary.
"It is much worse than nonsense; but it is not at all uncommon," replied the other. "Half modern politics consists of rich men blackmailing people. Your notion that it's nonsense rests on two illusions which are both nonsensical. One is, that rich men never want to be richer; the other is, that a man can only be blackmailed139 for money. It's the last that is in question here. Sir Arthur Vaudrey was acting not for avarice140, but for vengeance. And he planned the most hideous141 vengeance I ever heard of."
"But why should he plan vengeance on John Dalmon?" inquired Smith.
"It wasn't on John Dalmon that he planned vengeance," replied the priest, gravely.
There was a silence; and he resumed, almost as if changing the subject. "When we found the body, you remember, we saw the face upside down; and you said it looked like the face of a fiend. Has it occurred to you that the murderer also saw the face upside down, coming behind the barber's chair?"
"But that's all morbid extravagance," remonstrated142 his companion. "I was quite used to the face when it was the right way up."
"Perhaps you have never seen it the right way up," said Father Brown. "I told you that artists turn a picture the wrong way up when they want to see it the right way up. Perhaps, over all those breakfasts and tea-tables, you had got used to the face of a fiend."
"What on earth are you driving at?" demanded Smith, impatiently.
"I speak in parables," replied the other in a rather sombre tone "Of course. Sir Arthur was not actually a fiend; he was a man with a character which he had made out of a temperament143 that might also have been turned to good. But those goggling144, suspicious eyes; that tight, yet quivering mouth, might have told you something if you had not been so used to them. You know, there are physical bodies on which a wound will not heal. Sir Arthur had a mind of that sort. It was as if it lacked a skin; he had a feverish145 vigilance of vanity; those strained eyes were open with an insomnia146 of egoism. Sensibility need not be selfishness. Sybil Rye, for instance, has the same thin skin and manages to be a sort of saint. But Vaudrey had turned it all to poisonous pride; a pride that was not even secure and self-satisfied. Every scratch on the surface of his soul festered. And that is the meaning of that old story about throwing the man into the pig-sty. If he'd thrown him then and there, after being called a pig, it might have been a pardonable burst of passion. But there was no pig-sty; and that is just the point. Vaudrey remembered the silly insult for years and years, till he could get the Oriental into the improbable neighbourhood of a pig-sty; and then he took, what he considered the only appropriate and artistic147 revenge.... Oh, my God! he liked his revenges to be appropriate and artistic."
"No," said Father Brown; "of the other story." He controlled the shudder in his voice, and went on.
"Remembering that story of a fantastic and yet patient plot to make the vengeance fit the crime, consider the other story before us. Had anybody else, to your knowledge, ever insulted Vaudrey, or offered him what he thought a mortal insult? Yes; a woman insulted him."
A sort of vague horror began to dawn in Evan's eyes; he was listening intently.
"A girl, little more than a child, refused to marry him, because he had once been a sort of criminal; had, indeed, been in prison for a short time for the outrage149 on the Egyptian. And that madman said, in the hell of his heart: 'She shall marry a murderer.'"
They took the road towards the great house and went along by the river for some time in silence, before he resumed: "Vaudrey was in a position to blackmail Dalmon, who had committed a murder long ago; probably he knew of several crimes among the wild comrades of his youth. Probably it was a wild crime with some redeeming150 features; for the wildest murders are never the worst. And Dalmon looks to me like a man who knows remorse151, even for killing152 Vaudrey. But he was in Vaudrey's power and, between them, they entrapped153 the girl very cleverly into an engagement; letting the lover try his luck first, for instance, and the other only encouraging magnificently. But Dalmon himself did not know, nobody but the Devil himself did know, what was really in that old man's mind.
"Then, a few days ago, Dalmon made a dreadful discovery. He had obeyed, not altogether unwillingly154; he had been a tool; and he suddenly found how the tool was to be broken and thrown away. He came upon certain notes of Vaudrey's in the library which, disguised as they were, told of preparations for giving information to the police. He understood the whole plot and stood stunned as I did when I first understood it. The moment the bride and bridegroom were married, the bridegroom would be arrested and hanged. The fastidious lady, who objected to a husband who had been in prison, should have no husband except a husband on the gallows155. That is what Sir Arthur Vaudrey considered an artistic rounding off of the story."
Evan Smith, deadly pale, was silent; and, far away, down the perspective of the road, they saw the large figure and wide hat of Dr. Abbott advancing towards them; even in the outline there was a certain agitation156. But they were still shaken with their own private apocalypse.
"As you say, hate is a hateful thing," said Evan at last; "and, do you know, one thing gives me a sort of relief. All my hatred of poor Dalmon is gone out of me—now I know how he was twice a murderer."
It was in silence that they covered the rest of the distance and met the big doctor coming towards them, with his large gloved hands thrown out in a sort of despairing gesture and his grey beard tossing in the wind.
"There is dreadful news," he said. "Arthur's body has been found. He seems to have died in his garden."
"Dear me," said Father Brown, rather mechanically. "How dreadful!"
"And there is more," cried the doctor breathlessly. "John Dalmon went off to see Vernon Vaudrey, the nephew; but Vernon Vaudrey hasn't heard of him and Dalmon seems to have disappeared entirely."
"Dear me," said Father Brown. "How strange!"
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1
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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12
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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13
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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14
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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15
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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16
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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17
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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21
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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26
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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28
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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29
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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30
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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32
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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34
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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35
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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36
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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37
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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38
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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40
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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41
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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42
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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43
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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45
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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46
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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49
alibis
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| 某人在别处的证据( alibi的名词复数 )； 不在犯罪现场的证人； 借口； 托辞 | |
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50
perjure
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| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
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51
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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52
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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53
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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54
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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55
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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56
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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57
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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58
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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59
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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60
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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61
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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62
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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63
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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64
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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65
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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66
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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67
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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71
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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72
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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73
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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74
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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75
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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76
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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78
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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79
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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80
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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81
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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82
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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83
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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84
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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85
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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86
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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87
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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88
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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89
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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90
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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91
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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92
tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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93
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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94
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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95
trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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96
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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97
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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98
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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99
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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100
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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101
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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102
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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103
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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104
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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105
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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109
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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110
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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112
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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113
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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114
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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115
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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116
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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117
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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118
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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119
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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120
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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121
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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122
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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123
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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124
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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125
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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126
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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127
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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128
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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129
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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130
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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131
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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132
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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133
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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134
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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135
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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136
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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137
blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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138
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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139
blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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140
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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141
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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142
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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143
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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144
goggling
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| v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的现在分词 ) | |
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145
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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146
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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147
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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148
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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149
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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150
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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151
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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152
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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153
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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155
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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156
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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