Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 2/7
Oct. 27th, 2018 06:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azombiewritesTitle: A Passing of Guilt
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Author's Note: Set during season 3.
Chapter Word Count: 5,386
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
A Passing of Guilt
Chapter Two
Inspector Sullivan’s appearance went unnoticed, the reception desk void of a secretary, no one to greet him, to offer assistance and point him in the right direction. Removing his hat, he snapped his right wrist, an arterial spray of rainwater falling from its brim across the wooden floorboards. The silence was overwhelming, the soft patter of rain on the roof the only sound. Sullivan frowned, the people of Cotswold were keeping their distance from Doctor Hartford, the rumours believed. Couldn’t say he was disappointed.
He made his way through the waiting room, past the empty chairs, stopping at the reception desk. Set in the middle of the desk was a large notebook, a fountain pen, a small jar of ink and an ink blotter. On the side of the desk, a black telephone, silent. A small bell with a hand printed sign . . . ‘ring if unattended’. Ignoring the bell, Sullivan opened the notebook. On the first page, in large letters, was the word, ‘Appointments’. Flicking through the pages, he saw only emptiness, the pages blank. No notations, no appointments for Elizabeth Atwood or anyone else. Had Atwood been lying? Nothing here to suggest his wife had been a patient of Hartford. Possible it was a new appointment book, the old one filed away.
Closed the book. Stepped around the desk, his intention to search . . . there were no drawers, nothing to investigate. Time to move on. Sullivan made his way to the closest door, hesitated. Placed his ear against the door, straining to hear any indication that someone was home. More silence. Glanced back at the open front door, an invitation . . . someone had to be here. He opened the door, stepped through, gaze looking to his right, then left. Something pulled him to the right, Sullivan following his instincts.
Doctor Hartford’s consulting rooms were immaculate, sterile . . . empty. The rooms lacked humanity, a touch of care, of attendance. Everything untouched, of no use to a doctor without patients. At the end of the hall, another open door, Sullivan expecting to find a repeat of the other rooms, instead he found an office, Doctor Hartford sitting behind a desk, his head down, an open magazine in front of him. A moment of surprise and confusion; he’d expected to find Father Brown already in attendance but the priest wasn’t present. Emotions turning to one of gratitude, Sullivan stepped into the room. Waited, his gaze, his mind taking notice of everything.
The elaborate design of the oak desk was too much, the style too expensive. It set the man apart, giving an impression he was more interested in the payment of bills rather than the care of his patients. In front of the desk, two simple chairs, their design clashing with the larger piece of furniture. A large window behind the desk and the man, the view too nice to ignore but for some unknown reason, Hartford had his back to it, his patients getting the benefit of the view; maybe that was the point. A row of filing cabinets sat along the left side of the room. Nothing else of interest, Sullivan turned his gaze back to Hartford.
It took too long for Hartford to notice him, Sullivan shifting his stance. A brush of material, his coat creating a sound loud enough to gain the Doctor’s attention.
Doctor Hartford looked up in surprise . . . smiled. Eager anticipation. “I won’t say no to a walk-in patient.”
Sullivan looked forward to the man’s disappointment. “Inspector Sullivan. I’m here to talk to you about Mrs. Atwood.”
Hartford leaned back, his shoulders slumping, his expression revealing too much, so sad, so disappointed. Sullivan felt a tinge of regret; the emotion only lasting a moment, replaced with a feeling of satisfaction. Hartford closed the magazine, the cover telling Sullivan the man wasn’t trying to improve his knowledge of medicine.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about Mrs. Atwood. Patient confidentiality.”
“Did your lawyer teach you that, Mr. Hartford?”
“It’s Doctor Hartford.”
His slip intentional, Sullivan nodded. “As you’re well aware . . . Doctor, Mrs. Atwood is dead. I suggest you cooperate--”
“There’s nothing to say, Inspector.”
“Mr. Atwood said you were his wife’s doctor,” said Sullivan. “Is that true?”
“Yes. She was a very ill woman.”
“I would like to see her medical file.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“You do have records of your consultations with Mrs. Atwood?”
“Yes, but I can’t allow you to see them.”
“Because of patient confidentiality?”
“Yes.”
“I’m treating Mrs. Atwood’s death as suspicious,” said Sullivan as he moved closer to one of the empty chairs. “I trust that you wouldn’t want to be a part of an investigation into a patient’s death for a second time . . . Doctor.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Inspector.”
Sullivan stayed silent, staring at the man sitting in front of him, trying to see the man from the past, to compare this person with the man accused of allowing a child to die. Nothing proven, the malpractice suit failing to succeed, to bring justice to the child’s family. All circumstantial but Sullivan, taking part in the original investigation still held a copy of the final report. Able to read between the lines, he knew what had occurred, frustrated and angry they hadn’t been able to prove incompetence. Began to have doubts about Albert Atwood. Had Hartford made the same mistakes? Had he been so elusive in the care of his patient that it resulted in Mrs. Atwood’s death?
Two avenues of inquiry.
Hartford hadn’t changed too much, his hair beginning to grey, a loss of weight, a few extra lines on his face. His eyes were clear . . . too clear . . . no feelings of guilt or remorse; obvious Hartford was able to sleep at nights. Maybe he could change that . . .
“You don’t remember me. Do you, Doctor Hartford?” said Sullivan.
Hartford frowned, a closer look. Shook his head. “Should I?”
“Sally Emerson. I was one of the officers investigating her death. We met on several occasions during our investigation.”
Hartford’s shocked expression a telling sign. “Called you in from the city, did they?”
“No, I’m stationed here in Kembleford. A bit of bad luck on your part, I would say.”
Hartford stared back at Sullivan.
“Now, do I really need to obtain a court order, Doctor Hartford? I’m sure the last thing you need is a horde of uniformed officers traipsing through your consulting rooms,” said Sullivan, smiling. “Bad for business. Not that you have any patients . . . ”
A rapid change of emotion, his eyes glazing over with anger . . . with hatred. “Yes, I remember you now. So, you finally managed to get out from under your old man’s domineering influence . . . or should I say his fists.”
A verbal punch thrown, the words creating a pinch of pain, his chest tight. Memories flooded his thoughts, taking control for a brief, painful moment. How he managed to keep his expression neutral he didn’t know. Remaining in control of his emotions, Sullivan stared back, gaze balanced . . .
“You’ve been in Cotswold for two months now. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice me in passing? I noticed you. Did you know I was here when you made the decision to take up practice in Kembleford? No, of course not. You wouldn’t be so stupid to move to Cotswold if you knew the man in charge of Kembleford police was a detective inspector still intent on gaining justice for Sally Emerson.”
Hartford stood up, an abrupt movement. He moved away from the desk toward the filing cabinets. Keeping his back to Sullivan, anger controlling his movements, Hartford snapped open the drawer marked ‘A-D’. He pulled out a single file thick with paper, the only file in the drawer and returned to his desk. Dropping down into his chair, he tossed the file onto the desk, its contents escaping.
“This is continual harassment! I’m going to call my lawyer.”
“It’s an investigation,” said Sullivan. “And by all means, Doctor, call your lawyer. You might need him.”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“That was your reasoning the last time a patient in your care died under suspicious circumstances. However, we both know what really happened to young Sally. It was . . . disturbing that we couldn’t prove anything against you.”
“You couldn’t prove anything because I wasn’t responsible for what happened to her.”
Sullivan hummed, the sound voicing his disagreement. Sat down in one of the chairs facing Hartford and dropped his hat onto the desk. Reaching forward, he gathered the contents of the file together, an organised approach and pulled it closer to his side of the desk. Opened the file. A quick glance, turning the pages over . . . a picture quickly painted.
Looking up, Sullivan said, “Heart disease?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure of that?”
“I am a doctor.”
“Not a very good one,” said Sullivan as he continued to look through the file. The notes specific, detailed. “You couldn’t determine a cause of death. Why is that?”
Hartford looked away, his gaze intentionally held somewhere else for a few tense moments before looking back. “I’m not a coroner . . . Inspector.”
“It says here, you’ve been treating Mrs. Atwood for heart disease since you arrived in Cotswold and yet you didn’t determine her cause of death to be heart failure. Did you suspect something else? Foul play perhaps?”
“I told you--”
“Yes,” said Sullivan, looking up at Hartford, “you’re not a coroner. Mr. Atwood said his wife’s death was expected. Expected by you or Mr. Atwood?”
Hartford placed his hands on his desk, fingers gripped in a tight embrace, the knuckles turning white. “Her heart was bound to give up sooner or later.”
“So, heart failure?”
“It’s possible.”
Sullivan stared at Hartford, looking for a reaction. “Not to worry . . . Doctor, our coroner will determine a cause of death.”
“You’re doing a post mortem?”
“Yes, I’m investigating her death.”
“Why?”
“Her death is suspicious.”
“Why is it suspicious?”
“Is Mr. Atwood paying you to falsify the cause of death?”
A subtle reaction, Hartford flinching. “What? No, of course he isn’t. Besides, as you keep mentioning, I didn’t give a cause of death.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Atwood?”
Lowered his head. In guilt or shame, Sullivan wasn’t sure. “I saw her the night before last. About seven.”
Surprised by the honest answer, Sullivan took a moment to respond. “What was her condition?”
“Actually, she was fine . . . well, as fine as she could be considering her chronic condition.”
“Then why were you there?”
“Said she hadn’t been able to sleep.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, only that she couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you examine her?”
“I did,” said Hartford, looking back up at Sullivan. “Physically she was fine. She--”
Sullivan held up a hand to stop him. “Before you go on, doctor, please remember the post mortem will reveal if she sustained any injuries before her death.”
“I do remember, Inspector. When I examined her before and after her death there were no injuries.”
“Did you prescribe anything to help her sleep?”
“I gave her an injection of morphine.”
“Morphine?” said Sullivan. “The same drugged that killed Sally Emerson. Strange you continue to use that particular drug.”
“It was all I had.”
A change of direction, circling back to a previous question. “Did you tell Mr. Atwood you would falsify the cause of death if he paid you a sum of money?”
“No.”
“Are you blackmailing Mr. Atwood? Demanding money to keep her cause of death quiet?” said Sullivan nodding down at the file sitting patiently on his lap.
“No.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“I learnt my lesson.”
“I find that very hard to believe, doctor.”
.
.
.
Sullivan stepped out into the rain, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Took a moment . . . he needed a moment. Heart still pounding, his chest still pinching with pain. It had been a shock, so unaware Hartford had known about his relationship with his father. Had it been a lie when Hartford had said he didn’t remember him. The man had thrown him off balance . . .
The rain stung his face as he allowed it to wash away his memories. It was a lifetime ago, no need to dwell . . . to remember. It was over. He couldn’t forget. Never would. Lowered his head. Released a long, slow breath, a sigh of frustration, of regret. He should have done more, hindsight a nasty thing. Shook his head, drops of water thrown in separate directions. It was over. He was building a life here, starting fresh. Kembleford not his first choice, transferred to a location he didn’t request but he refused to relent, he had to make an effort, create something that would make him feel proud. Something that would make it all worthwhile.
Walk away.
Tucking Elizabeth Atwood’s file under his coat, Sullivan walked away. The church presbytery wasn’t far, the walk an opportunity to clear his head . . . thunder cracked in the distance, Sullivan flinching with surprise. His movements now sluggish, he stopped, leaned back against the low stone wall surrounding Hartford’s consulting rooms. The previous moment taken not enough to calm his anger, not enough time to allow the memories to dissipate. His limbs felt weak with anger, with disappointment . . . with guilt. Found it hard to breathe.
Time passed, a slow movement, Sullivan’s gaze wandering, searching for something to occupy his thoughts, to distract. Knew Mrs. McCarthy would be the perfect remedy but he wasn’t quite ready to face Father Brown. There was an enigma, so certain he would have found Brown discussing the case with Hartford, asking questions, deducing . . . meddling. Curious, Sullivan wanted to ask the Father why he wasn’t involving himself in the investigation but Sullivan knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Felt a twinge of understanding, of knowledge . . . the explanation still out of his reach. Left it alone.
Looked to his right, the church tall in the distance. Now or never. He needed to confirm the rumours. Needed to know if Mrs. Atwood was as bad as her husband claimed she was; still not a good reason, an excuse to kill your wife. He had to know if Atwood was as nervous as others alleged. Either way, he would need to be careful, even an anxious man could be volatile. Atwood had shown anger the previous evening, shown he was capable, ready to snap, to release his anger after a Kembleford detective inspector voiced a subtle accusation.
Two men, both large in stature, moved toward him, their collars turned up against the rain, hats pulled low over their faces. Sullivan looked away, too engrossed in his own thoughts to take much notice. No choice when they stopped in front of him, too close, his gaze lifting . . .
They had the look of hard men, a broken nose, scaring; the side effects of more than one physical altercation. Realisation dawning; that’s what this was, a prelude to a fight. Their bodies twitching, keen for a confrontation, their weight shifting, balance confident. He didn’t understand the why.
“Are you that copper bloke?”
Frowned. Had he been wrong in his assumption, the two men not looking for a fight but something else? Another anonymous tip? A couple of locals who wanted to give information? No. He could already tell this was all wrong. They were making a confirmation. They wanted to make sure they had the right man. He could deny his identity, didn’t think it would make a difference. Stood up, not enough room to prepare his defence.
A flash of movement, too quick to follow. A heavy blow to the side of his face, his head thrown to the side, felt the skin over his left cheek tear, blood escaping, the pain sharp, a gasp of surprise released. The sound of sheets of paper fluttering, falling, his grip on Mrs. Atwood’s file lost . . .
A hand around his throat, forcing him back, his spine pressing painfully against the wall. The embrace strong, long fingers digging deep into his flesh. Knew there would be bruising. The man leaned in toward Sullivan, his hold increasing. His breath taken from him, Sullivan reacted. He struck out, right fist slamming into the chest of the man standing directly in front of him; experience told him a punch to the heart would drop any man.
It did. The man let go, stumbled back, right hand clutching at his chest, his features full of pain and fear.
Sullivan turned his attention to the second man . . . too late. Another strike to the side of his face, more strength used, Sullivan collapsing beneath the weight of the blow, body hitting the ground with a painful grunt. Darkness sought the edges of his vision . . . words drifting into his subconscious.
“Stay out of it! Liz Atwood got what she deserved.”
A warning given.
Words confirming his suspicions of foul play.
A darkness approaching . . .
.
.
.
“Inspector Sullivan?”
A gentle prod against his shoulder, more forceful when he didn’t make an immediate response. Time taken to access his condition; he felt numb, detached, mind elsewhere. His head ached, an intrusive encirclement of pain spreading out from his left cheek. His limbs felt heavy, weak . . . a bad taste in his mouth. Memory faulty, he wasn’t confident in what had happened. An image of shadows, of movement . . . grimaced, a sharp bite of pain through the left side of his face.
Another nudge, a hint of violence used. “Inspector!”
Flicked his eyes open in annoyance. A familiar face in front him, Sullivan pulling away in surprise. The sudden movement not a very good idea, his center of gravity tilting, a sickening angle. Sullivan stilled his movements, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. An injury obtained, he would have to be more careful, move with much more consideration . . .
“Be careful, Inspector,” said Hartford, reaching toward Sullivan, hands open, ready to take control. “You must have fallen. Hit your head on the wall. Nasty looking injury you have there.”
Too many words, not enough time to make sense of them, one particular word catching and keeping his attention; fallen. He couldn’t have fallen, he was sure of that, not clumsy by nature, sure-footed. Opened his eyes. Hartford was still too close, Sullivan uncomfortable with the close proximity. “Step back please, doctor.”
With reluctance, Hartford nodded in acceptance, did as requested, moving back, creating room.
Palms against the ground, elbows locking, Sullivan pushed himself into an upright position with the care his body required. A successful result. The vertigo easing, the feeling unwilling to linger, Sullivan grateful. An accompanying lack of nausea told him his injury wasn’t serious. Leaned back against the wall and tried to remember what had occurred in the last few minutes, certain he hadn’t lain on the ground any longer, his clothes not yet drenched from the rain. It all came back in a sudden rush. Warned off the Atwood case; not the first time something like this had happened.
His own fault, questioning Hartford on his own had been a mistake, not wanting another officer there with him; he didn’t want anyone else to know of his knowledge of the doctor’s past. Grimaced at the thought, pain stinging his left cheek. He lifted a hand, damp fingers probing the injury . . . about to snatch his hand away, the pain too sharp when fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hand down.
“Don’t touch it, Inspector. Your hands are dirty. You don’t want an infection.”
Blood on the tips of his pale fingers. Closed his eyes, his head falling back, a painful thump against the wall. Very inconsiderate. Rain fell onto his face, rinsing the blood from his skin. Snapped his eyes open when Hartford set his hat back on his head, unsteady hands pulling it down tight. Recognised Hartford’s aggressive actions.
“You don’t want it getting wet either.”
Sullivan stared back at Hartford, an accusation already forming, words catching in the back of his throat when he realised Hartford couldn’t be responsible. Hartford wasn’t the driving force behind the warning, the confrontation occurring only minutes after he’d left the man’s office, not enough time for Hartford to make contact, to employ someone willing to commit a physical assault against a police officer.
Albert Atwood. Too much of a coward to do it himself, relying on others, paying others to deliver his warning. No proof but he could remember the faces of the two men. If he saw them again, an arrest made, lawful revenge taken. A small voice in the back of his mind, knew if he did see them again, it would be under the same circumstances. Once he reached the presbytery, he would make a phone call, stupidity on his part if he continued alone, Goodfellow a reliable source of protection, two against two better odds.
“Come back inside,” said Hartford, reaching forward once more. “I can take care of that.”
Wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, Hartford didn’t exactly come with glowing recommendations. Wasn’t sure if the man would go out of his way to cause more injury; if stitches were required . . . “I was heading to the presbytery. I can take care of it there.”
“Nonsense,” said Hartford, smiling, the expression genuine, full of natural humour. “I don’t think Mrs. McCarthy would be too happy to have you bleeding all over Father Brown’s rooms.”
Of course, Hartford was right, each side of the solution as bad as the other: an incompetent doctor or Mrs. McCarthy. Sullivan wasn’t sure if Mrs. McCarthy would take control, insisting on cleaning his injury for him or if she would simply refuse him entry, telling him to come back when he’d cleaned himself up. Thought of the gossip, Mrs. McCarthy spreading a story, the narration distorted, rumours growing in exaggeration; the last thing he wanted.
Nodding in agreement, hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sullivan allowed Hartford to help him up, his balance taking a moment longer to catch up. Waited to see if his legs could sustain his weight, his headache. Injury failing to take him back down, his limbs steady, Sullivan began to make his way back to Hartford’s consulting rooms, the doctor taking the lead . . . remembered Elizabeth Atwood’s file. Paused, turning to look back, gaze searching the ground. The file was gone, taken.
Looking back at Hartford, Sullivan said, “Did you take Elizabeth Atwood’s file?”
“No,” said Hartford, pausing to look back over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn downward, a confused expression. “You took it. Don’t you remember? Maybe you hit your head harder than I first--”
“I didn’t hit my head.”
“I’m sorry?”
Repeated his statement. “I didn’t hit my head.”
Hartford made his way back to Sullivan. Leaning in he tried to look into Sullivan’s eyes. Frowned. “You did fall over . . . didn’t you?”
“No,” said Sullivan, stepping away from the intense scrutiny.
“Someone did this to you?”
Kept his thoughts to himself.
“Are you suggesting I’m responsible for this?”
“Not you, doctor,” said Sullivan. “Albert Atwood. I’ve been warned off.”
Hartford shook his head. “Albert wouldn’t do something like that. He doesn’t have the courage.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“You’re confused, Inspector. You’ve hit your head.”
Sullivan looked back over his shoulder, toward the church, the presbytery. Maybe he should . . .
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” said Hartford, moving back, taking Sullivan’s right elbow and pulling him forward. “You need a decent examination, make sure you haven’t suffered a concussion.”
He didn’t have a concussion, too familiar with the symptoms of a head injury. Felt the need to repeat himself, to reassure the doctor that he was fine. He wasn’t confused. His memory was still intact, only taking a short time to return. He didn’t feel sick, dizzy . . . he just . . . Pulled his arm from Hartford’s grip. “I don’t have a concussion. I didn’t hit my head.”
“You don’t have to hit your head, Inspector. A single punch can be just as devastating as a blow to the head.”
Returned his gaze to the church . . .
“I know you don’t trust me, Inspector, but that cut needs to be taken care of. If you’re not willing to allow me to do it, you need to take yourself to someone you can trust. Another doctor. The hospital. Get yourself seen--”
“No,” said Sullivan, coming to a decision. “No. It’s fine.”
“Inspector, I don’t--”
Sullivan held up his hand. “I don’t trust you, but where can you go wrong with a cut.”
That smile again. “Inspector, I do believe you’re worried my care will result in your untimely death.”
He couldn’t let that go. “You’re right, doctor, I am worried.”
“No need to be, Inspector,” said Hartford, still smiling. “From what I can see, you don’t need stitches. I’ll just clean it and cover it up. As you said, I can’t go wrong with a task as simple as that.”
Once back inside Hartford’s consulting rooms, Sullivan removed his hat, its brim wet through. He felt cold, an unfamiliar chill climbing the length of his spine. Put it down to the weather. No reason yet to be concerned. He’d had worse. Part of the job, not everyone willing to accept accusations, the threat of arrest. Hardened criminals, devoid of fear, ready to fight back, always ready to inflict pain and injury on a detective inspector. Everyone so much more relaxed in the country, even the criminals . . .
“There’s a bathroom there,” said Hartford, pointing to a closed door. “Why don’t you clean yourself up while I get my bag? I’ll be in my office when you’re done.”
Sullivan watched as Hartford moved away, toward one of the consulting rooms. When the man disappeared into the room, Sullivan turned away, stepped up to the closed door. Reached out to open it, his hand, his fingers trembling, the chill spreading into his limbs. Felt a trickle of rainwater roll down his back, his body shivering at the touch. Opened the door and stepped into a large open bathroom. Caught sight of himself in the large mirror set above an even larger sink.
Moving closer to the sink, the mirror, Sullivan angled his head to the side for a better view. It didn’t look as bad as it felt. Already bruising, the cut was small, Hartford correct, no need for stitches. He reached upward, toward the injury, fingers still shaking. Closed his fist, an angry breath released. Closed his eyes in understanding. His body was reacting to the assault, a delayed reaction. A natural response, no need to feel concerned, knowing it would pass. It always did.
Dropping his hat onto the sink, Sullivan opened his eyes, leaned forward and rested his weight on his arms, hands gripping the edge of the sink. Lowered his head, closed his eyes once more. A sudden weakness in his knees, a need to sit down but he knew if he did relax, sit down, he would find it too difficult to get back up. Somewhere else, he would listen to his body’s needs. Not here though, not with Hartford so close. Felt a sudden urge to rush to the presbytery, hopeful Mrs. McCarthy would sit him down in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot tea in one hand and a strawberry scone in the other. Felt the need to allow someone else to take care of him for a change.
No. He was a grown man. A detective inspector. Quite capable of taking care of his own needs. Opened his eyes, stood up straight. Another quick glance at the cut on the side of his face, suddenly looking forward to another run-in with the two men responsible. No intention of causing them physical harm but it would be very satisfying to place them in handcuffs.
Another look at his reflection, gaze travelling downward. Reached up and pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck for a better view. The bruising vivid, red; would be hard to hide when the colours of bruising were in full bloom. Swallowed, feeling a twinge of pain he hadn’t recognised earlier. Knew the pain would only get worse.
Turned on the tap, hot water splashing into the sink. Using his handkerchief, Sullivan cleaned his face as best as he could. The injury had already stopped bleeding, the cut not deep enough. When finished he held the handkerchief under the tap before pressing it against the back of his neck. A sudden explosion of heat, a welcomed relief, the intense chill conceding defeat. Aware he was only delaying the inevitable, best to get it over with; still not sure, he wanted a debauched doctor to take care of a minor injury. Confused as to why he had allowed the man to convince him otherwise. Something wasn’t right, too easy for Hartford to persuade him to follow him back into his consulting rooms, now certain Hartford was manipulating a detective inspector’s situation, his injury . . .
Stared back at his reflection. “You’ve no one but yourself to blame if something goes amiss.”
Lowered his gaze. The injury too small, the bruising spreading, a circular shape of deepening reds and purples. Decided he had no need of a doctor, especially a doctor of Hartford’s calibre, the man’s lack of competence more of a hindrance than helpful. He would make his excuses, show himself out, continue with the investigation.
Wrung out the handkerchief in the sink and placed it back into a coat pocket. Snatched his hat off the sink, turned away from his reflection and walked out of the bathroom. A hurried tone, a rushed conversation, Hartford’s voice stopping Sullivan. A moment to determine the direction of the man’s voice. Hartford wasn’t in his office, his location the reception room.
Sullivan moved slowly, his steps quiet. Stopped outside the closed doorway, Hartford wanting privacy. Leaning close, his right ear brushing against the door, Sullivan listened, slightly uncomfortable at the intrusion. The words muted, unrecognisable. Ready to give up and step away . . .
A raised tone. “He’s fine. If you wanted to deter him from the investigation you did a poor job of it.”
A flush of anger, Sullivan resisting the urge to rush into the room, to confront Hartford. Question him as to the identity of the person on the other end of the conversation. Held his breath, calmed his anger. Listened for any admission, of further intent.
“No. Threats won’t work. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s obstinate. If you want him to back off . . . He’s not stupid. He won’t go anywhere alone, not now . . . If you think that’s best . . . No, I--” An abrupt end to the conversation.
Nothing said to implicate Atwood. A moment to think. Did he want Hartford to know he’d overheard part of the conversation? Enough information given to conclude there would be more altercations, more threats, Atwood not yet willing to give up. It would be a mistake, Hartford relaying Sullivan’s gained knowledge back to Atwood. As a result, Atwood would take a step back; detach his involvement from the situation. Left alone, Atwood would become over confident, reveal his part in the physical assault of a detective inspector . . . a chance he would reveal his part in his wife’s death, Sullivan now certain Elizabeth Atwood was murdered.
Moved away from the door. Enough distance created, Sullivan walked back, his steps deliberate, loud. The reception door snapped open, Hartford revealing himself, his expression full of surprise. Words stumbled out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I had to make a phone call. Cancel an appointment. If you’re ready--”
“No need, doctor,” said Sullivan, his lies more confident. “I had the vague recollection I was supposed to be at the presbytery for a reason. I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Goodfellow. I fear I’m running late.”
Hartford frowned, about to say something. Stopped in time. Reconsidered. Not ready to argue, to convince Sullivan to stay, a change of mind, Hartford said, “Of course, Inspector. If you have any concerns about your injury please come back.”
“I’ll see myself out, doctor,” said Sullivan, pushing past Hartford and moving into the reception room. The thought of having his back to Hartford . . . resisted the urge to turn around, to walk backward. Shoulders tense, Sullivan kept moving, his pace steady, calm. Reached the safety of the open door to the outside. A lack of hesitation, he walked out into the rain, set his direction toward the presbytery.
A release of breath.
A feeling of relief . . .
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Author's Note: Set during season 3.
Chapter Word Count: 5,386
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
Chapter Two
Inspector Sullivan’s appearance went unnoticed, the reception desk void of a secretary, no one to greet him, to offer assistance and point him in the right direction. Removing his hat, he snapped his right wrist, an arterial spray of rainwater falling from its brim across the wooden floorboards. The silence was overwhelming, the soft patter of rain on the roof the only sound. Sullivan frowned, the people of Cotswold were keeping their distance from Doctor Hartford, the rumours believed. Couldn’t say he was disappointed.
He made his way through the waiting room, past the empty chairs, stopping at the reception desk. Set in the middle of the desk was a large notebook, a fountain pen, a small jar of ink and an ink blotter. On the side of the desk, a black telephone, silent. A small bell with a hand printed sign . . . ‘ring if unattended’. Ignoring the bell, Sullivan opened the notebook. On the first page, in large letters, was the word, ‘Appointments’. Flicking through the pages, he saw only emptiness, the pages blank. No notations, no appointments for Elizabeth Atwood or anyone else. Had Atwood been lying? Nothing here to suggest his wife had been a patient of Hartford. Possible it was a new appointment book, the old one filed away.
Closed the book. Stepped around the desk, his intention to search . . . there were no drawers, nothing to investigate. Time to move on. Sullivan made his way to the closest door, hesitated. Placed his ear against the door, straining to hear any indication that someone was home. More silence. Glanced back at the open front door, an invitation . . . someone had to be here. He opened the door, stepped through, gaze looking to his right, then left. Something pulled him to the right, Sullivan following his instincts.
Doctor Hartford’s consulting rooms were immaculate, sterile . . . empty. The rooms lacked humanity, a touch of care, of attendance. Everything untouched, of no use to a doctor without patients. At the end of the hall, another open door, Sullivan expecting to find a repeat of the other rooms, instead he found an office, Doctor Hartford sitting behind a desk, his head down, an open magazine in front of him. A moment of surprise and confusion; he’d expected to find Father Brown already in attendance but the priest wasn’t present. Emotions turning to one of gratitude, Sullivan stepped into the room. Waited, his gaze, his mind taking notice of everything.
The elaborate design of the oak desk was too much, the style too expensive. It set the man apart, giving an impression he was more interested in the payment of bills rather than the care of his patients. In front of the desk, two simple chairs, their design clashing with the larger piece of furniture. A large window behind the desk and the man, the view too nice to ignore but for some unknown reason, Hartford had his back to it, his patients getting the benefit of the view; maybe that was the point. A row of filing cabinets sat along the left side of the room. Nothing else of interest, Sullivan turned his gaze back to Hartford.
It took too long for Hartford to notice him, Sullivan shifting his stance. A brush of material, his coat creating a sound loud enough to gain the Doctor’s attention.
Doctor Hartford looked up in surprise . . . smiled. Eager anticipation. “I won’t say no to a walk-in patient.”
Sullivan looked forward to the man’s disappointment. “Inspector Sullivan. I’m here to talk to you about Mrs. Atwood.”
Hartford leaned back, his shoulders slumping, his expression revealing too much, so sad, so disappointed. Sullivan felt a tinge of regret; the emotion only lasting a moment, replaced with a feeling of satisfaction. Hartford closed the magazine, the cover telling Sullivan the man wasn’t trying to improve his knowledge of medicine.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about Mrs. Atwood. Patient confidentiality.”
“Did your lawyer teach you that, Mr. Hartford?”
“It’s Doctor Hartford.”
His slip intentional, Sullivan nodded. “As you’re well aware . . . Doctor, Mrs. Atwood is dead. I suggest you cooperate--”
“There’s nothing to say, Inspector.”
“Mr. Atwood said you were his wife’s doctor,” said Sullivan. “Is that true?”
“Yes. She was a very ill woman.”
“I would like to see her medical file.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“You do have records of your consultations with Mrs. Atwood?”
“Yes, but I can’t allow you to see them.”
“Because of patient confidentiality?”
“Yes.”
“I’m treating Mrs. Atwood’s death as suspicious,” said Sullivan as he moved closer to one of the empty chairs. “I trust that you wouldn’t want to be a part of an investigation into a patient’s death for a second time . . . Doctor.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Inspector.”
Sullivan stayed silent, staring at the man sitting in front of him, trying to see the man from the past, to compare this person with the man accused of allowing a child to die. Nothing proven, the malpractice suit failing to succeed, to bring justice to the child’s family. All circumstantial but Sullivan, taking part in the original investigation still held a copy of the final report. Able to read between the lines, he knew what had occurred, frustrated and angry they hadn’t been able to prove incompetence. Began to have doubts about Albert Atwood. Had Hartford made the same mistakes? Had he been so elusive in the care of his patient that it resulted in Mrs. Atwood’s death?
Two avenues of inquiry.
Hartford hadn’t changed too much, his hair beginning to grey, a loss of weight, a few extra lines on his face. His eyes were clear . . . too clear . . . no feelings of guilt or remorse; obvious Hartford was able to sleep at nights. Maybe he could change that . . .
“You don’t remember me. Do you, Doctor Hartford?” said Sullivan.
Hartford frowned, a closer look. Shook his head. “Should I?”
“Sally Emerson. I was one of the officers investigating her death. We met on several occasions during our investigation.”
Hartford’s shocked expression a telling sign. “Called you in from the city, did they?”
“No, I’m stationed here in Kembleford. A bit of bad luck on your part, I would say.”
Hartford stared back at Sullivan.
“Now, do I really need to obtain a court order, Doctor Hartford? I’m sure the last thing you need is a horde of uniformed officers traipsing through your consulting rooms,” said Sullivan, smiling. “Bad for business. Not that you have any patients . . . ”
A rapid change of emotion, his eyes glazing over with anger . . . with hatred. “Yes, I remember you now. So, you finally managed to get out from under your old man’s domineering influence . . . or should I say his fists.”
A verbal punch thrown, the words creating a pinch of pain, his chest tight. Memories flooded his thoughts, taking control for a brief, painful moment. How he managed to keep his expression neutral he didn’t know. Remaining in control of his emotions, Sullivan stared back, gaze balanced . . .
“You’ve been in Cotswold for two months now. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice me in passing? I noticed you. Did you know I was here when you made the decision to take up practice in Kembleford? No, of course not. You wouldn’t be so stupid to move to Cotswold if you knew the man in charge of Kembleford police was a detective inspector still intent on gaining justice for Sally Emerson.”
Hartford stood up, an abrupt movement. He moved away from the desk toward the filing cabinets. Keeping his back to Sullivan, anger controlling his movements, Hartford snapped open the drawer marked ‘A-D’. He pulled out a single file thick with paper, the only file in the drawer and returned to his desk. Dropping down into his chair, he tossed the file onto the desk, its contents escaping.
“This is continual harassment! I’m going to call my lawyer.”
“It’s an investigation,” said Sullivan. “And by all means, Doctor, call your lawyer. You might need him.”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“That was your reasoning the last time a patient in your care died under suspicious circumstances. However, we both know what really happened to young Sally. It was . . . disturbing that we couldn’t prove anything against you.”
“You couldn’t prove anything because I wasn’t responsible for what happened to her.”
Sullivan hummed, the sound voicing his disagreement. Sat down in one of the chairs facing Hartford and dropped his hat onto the desk. Reaching forward, he gathered the contents of the file together, an organised approach and pulled it closer to his side of the desk. Opened the file. A quick glance, turning the pages over . . . a picture quickly painted.
Looking up, Sullivan said, “Heart disease?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure of that?”
“I am a doctor.”
“Not a very good one,” said Sullivan as he continued to look through the file. The notes specific, detailed. “You couldn’t determine a cause of death. Why is that?”
Hartford looked away, his gaze intentionally held somewhere else for a few tense moments before looking back. “I’m not a coroner . . . Inspector.”
“It says here, you’ve been treating Mrs. Atwood for heart disease since you arrived in Cotswold and yet you didn’t determine her cause of death to be heart failure. Did you suspect something else? Foul play perhaps?”
“I told you--”
“Yes,” said Sullivan, looking up at Hartford, “you’re not a coroner. Mr. Atwood said his wife’s death was expected. Expected by you or Mr. Atwood?”
Hartford placed his hands on his desk, fingers gripped in a tight embrace, the knuckles turning white. “Her heart was bound to give up sooner or later.”
“So, heart failure?”
“It’s possible.”
Sullivan stared at Hartford, looking for a reaction. “Not to worry . . . Doctor, our coroner will determine a cause of death.”
“You’re doing a post mortem?”
“Yes, I’m investigating her death.”
“Why?”
“Her death is suspicious.”
“Why is it suspicious?”
“Is Mr. Atwood paying you to falsify the cause of death?”
A subtle reaction, Hartford flinching. “What? No, of course he isn’t. Besides, as you keep mentioning, I didn’t give a cause of death.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Atwood?”
Lowered his head. In guilt or shame, Sullivan wasn’t sure. “I saw her the night before last. About seven.”
Surprised by the honest answer, Sullivan took a moment to respond. “What was her condition?”
“Actually, she was fine . . . well, as fine as she could be considering her chronic condition.”
“Then why were you there?”
“Said she hadn’t been able to sleep.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, only that she couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you examine her?”
“I did,” said Hartford, looking back up at Sullivan. “Physically she was fine. She--”
Sullivan held up a hand to stop him. “Before you go on, doctor, please remember the post mortem will reveal if she sustained any injuries before her death.”
“I do remember, Inspector. When I examined her before and after her death there were no injuries.”
“Did you prescribe anything to help her sleep?”
“I gave her an injection of morphine.”
“Morphine?” said Sullivan. “The same drugged that killed Sally Emerson. Strange you continue to use that particular drug.”
“It was all I had.”
A change of direction, circling back to a previous question. “Did you tell Mr. Atwood you would falsify the cause of death if he paid you a sum of money?”
“No.”
“Are you blackmailing Mr. Atwood? Demanding money to keep her cause of death quiet?” said Sullivan nodding down at the file sitting patiently on his lap.
“No.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“I learnt my lesson.”
“I find that very hard to believe, doctor.”
.
.
.
Sullivan stepped out into the rain, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Took a moment . . . he needed a moment. Heart still pounding, his chest still pinching with pain. It had been a shock, so unaware Hartford had known about his relationship with his father. Had it been a lie when Hartford had said he didn’t remember him. The man had thrown him off balance . . .
The rain stung his face as he allowed it to wash away his memories. It was a lifetime ago, no need to dwell . . . to remember. It was over. He couldn’t forget. Never would. Lowered his head. Released a long, slow breath, a sigh of frustration, of regret. He should have done more, hindsight a nasty thing. Shook his head, drops of water thrown in separate directions. It was over. He was building a life here, starting fresh. Kembleford not his first choice, transferred to a location he didn’t request but he refused to relent, he had to make an effort, create something that would make him feel proud. Something that would make it all worthwhile.
Walk away.
Tucking Elizabeth Atwood’s file under his coat, Sullivan walked away. The church presbytery wasn’t far, the walk an opportunity to clear his head . . . thunder cracked in the distance, Sullivan flinching with surprise. His movements now sluggish, he stopped, leaned back against the low stone wall surrounding Hartford’s consulting rooms. The previous moment taken not enough to calm his anger, not enough time to allow the memories to dissipate. His limbs felt weak with anger, with disappointment . . . with guilt. Found it hard to breathe.
Time passed, a slow movement, Sullivan’s gaze wandering, searching for something to occupy his thoughts, to distract. Knew Mrs. McCarthy would be the perfect remedy but he wasn’t quite ready to face Father Brown. There was an enigma, so certain he would have found Brown discussing the case with Hartford, asking questions, deducing . . . meddling. Curious, Sullivan wanted to ask the Father why he wasn’t involving himself in the investigation but Sullivan knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Felt a twinge of understanding, of knowledge . . . the explanation still out of his reach. Left it alone.
Looked to his right, the church tall in the distance. Now or never. He needed to confirm the rumours. Needed to know if Mrs. Atwood was as bad as her husband claimed she was; still not a good reason, an excuse to kill your wife. He had to know if Atwood was as nervous as others alleged. Either way, he would need to be careful, even an anxious man could be volatile. Atwood had shown anger the previous evening, shown he was capable, ready to snap, to release his anger after a Kembleford detective inspector voiced a subtle accusation.
Two men, both large in stature, moved toward him, their collars turned up against the rain, hats pulled low over their faces. Sullivan looked away, too engrossed in his own thoughts to take much notice. No choice when they stopped in front of him, too close, his gaze lifting . . .
They had the look of hard men, a broken nose, scaring; the side effects of more than one physical altercation. Realisation dawning; that’s what this was, a prelude to a fight. Their bodies twitching, keen for a confrontation, their weight shifting, balance confident. He didn’t understand the why.
“Are you that copper bloke?”
Frowned. Had he been wrong in his assumption, the two men not looking for a fight but something else? Another anonymous tip? A couple of locals who wanted to give information? No. He could already tell this was all wrong. They were making a confirmation. They wanted to make sure they had the right man. He could deny his identity, didn’t think it would make a difference. Stood up, not enough room to prepare his defence.
A flash of movement, too quick to follow. A heavy blow to the side of his face, his head thrown to the side, felt the skin over his left cheek tear, blood escaping, the pain sharp, a gasp of surprise released. The sound of sheets of paper fluttering, falling, his grip on Mrs. Atwood’s file lost . . .
A hand around his throat, forcing him back, his spine pressing painfully against the wall. The embrace strong, long fingers digging deep into his flesh. Knew there would be bruising. The man leaned in toward Sullivan, his hold increasing. His breath taken from him, Sullivan reacted. He struck out, right fist slamming into the chest of the man standing directly in front of him; experience told him a punch to the heart would drop any man.
It did. The man let go, stumbled back, right hand clutching at his chest, his features full of pain and fear.
Sullivan turned his attention to the second man . . . too late. Another strike to the side of his face, more strength used, Sullivan collapsing beneath the weight of the blow, body hitting the ground with a painful grunt. Darkness sought the edges of his vision . . . words drifting into his subconscious.
“Stay out of it! Liz Atwood got what she deserved.”
A warning given.
Words confirming his suspicions of foul play.
A darkness approaching . . .
.
.
.
“Inspector Sullivan?”
A gentle prod against his shoulder, more forceful when he didn’t make an immediate response. Time taken to access his condition; he felt numb, detached, mind elsewhere. His head ached, an intrusive encirclement of pain spreading out from his left cheek. His limbs felt heavy, weak . . . a bad taste in his mouth. Memory faulty, he wasn’t confident in what had happened. An image of shadows, of movement . . . grimaced, a sharp bite of pain through the left side of his face.
Another nudge, a hint of violence used. “Inspector!”
Flicked his eyes open in annoyance. A familiar face in front him, Sullivan pulling away in surprise. The sudden movement not a very good idea, his center of gravity tilting, a sickening angle. Sullivan stilled his movements, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. An injury obtained, he would have to be more careful, move with much more consideration . . .
“Be careful, Inspector,” said Hartford, reaching toward Sullivan, hands open, ready to take control. “You must have fallen. Hit your head on the wall. Nasty looking injury you have there.”
Too many words, not enough time to make sense of them, one particular word catching and keeping his attention; fallen. He couldn’t have fallen, he was sure of that, not clumsy by nature, sure-footed. Opened his eyes. Hartford was still too close, Sullivan uncomfortable with the close proximity. “Step back please, doctor.”
With reluctance, Hartford nodded in acceptance, did as requested, moving back, creating room.
Palms against the ground, elbows locking, Sullivan pushed himself into an upright position with the care his body required. A successful result. The vertigo easing, the feeling unwilling to linger, Sullivan grateful. An accompanying lack of nausea told him his injury wasn’t serious. Leaned back against the wall and tried to remember what had occurred in the last few minutes, certain he hadn’t lain on the ground any longer, his clothes not yet drenched from the rain. It all came back in a sudden rush. Warned off the Atwood case; not the first time something like this had happened.
His own fault, questioning Hartford on his own had been a mistake, not wanting another officer there with him; he didn’t want anyone else to know of his knowledge of the doctor’s past. Grimaced at the thought, pain stinging his left cheek. He lifted a hand, damp fingers probing the injury . . . about to snatch his hand away, the pain too sharp when fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hand down.
“Don’t touch it, Inspector. Your hands are dirty. You don’t want an infection.”
Blood on the tips of his pale fingers. Closed his eyes, his head falling back, a painful thump against the wall. Very inconsiderate. Rain fell onto his face, rinsing the blood from his skin. Snapped his eyes open when Hartford set his hat back on his head, unsteady hands pulling it down tight. Recognised Hartford’s aggressive actions.
“You don’t want it getting wet either.”
Sullivan stared back at Hartford, an accusation already forming, words catching in the back of his throat when he realised Hartford couldn’t be responsible. Hartford wasn’t the driving force behind the warning, the confrontation occurring only minutes after he’d left the man’s office, not enough time for Hartford to make contact, to employ someone willing to commit a physical assault against a police officer.
Albert Atwood. Too much of a coward to do it himself, relying on others, paying others to deliver his warning. No proof but he could remember the faces of the two men. If he saw them again, an arrest made, lawful revenge taken. A small voice in the back of his mind, knew if he did see them again, it would be under the same circumstances. Once he reached the presbytery, he would make a phone call, stupidity on his part if he continued alone, Goodfellow a reliable source of protection, two against two better odds.
“Come back inside,” said Hartford, reaching forward once more. “I can take care of that.”
Wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, Hartford didn’t exactly come with glowing recommendations. Wasn’t sure if the man would go out of his way to cause more injury; if stitches were required . . . “I was heading to the presbytery. I can take care of it there.”
“Nonsense,” said Hartford, smiling, the expression genuine, full of natural humour. “I don’t think Mrs. McCarthy would be too happy to have you bleeding all over Father Brown’s rooms.”
Of course, Hartford was right, each side of the solution as bad as the other: an incompetent doctor or Mrs. McCarthy. Sullivan wasn’t sure if Mrs. McCarthy would take control, insisting on cleaning his injury for him or if she would simply refuse him entry, telling him to come back when he’d cleaned himself up. Thought of the gossip, Mrs. McCarthy spreading a story, the narration distorted, rumours growing in exaggeration; the last thing he wanted.
Nodding in agreement, hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sullivan allowed Hartford to help him up, his balance taking a moment longer to catch up. Waited to see if his legs could sustain his weight, his headache. Injury failing to take him back down, his limbs steady, Sullivan began to make his way back to Hartford’s consulting rooms, the doctor taking the lead . . . remembered Elizabeth Atwood’s file. Paused, turning to look back, gaze searching the ground. The file was gone, taken.
Looking back at Hartford, Sullivan said, “Did you take Elizabeth Atwood’s file?”
“No,” said Hartford, pausing to look back over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn downward, a confused expression. “You took it. Don’t you remember? Maybe you hit your head harder than I first--”
“I didn’t hit my head.”
“I’m sorry?”
Repeated his statement. “I didn’t hit my head.”
Hartford made his way back to Sullivan. Leaning in he tried to look into Sullivan’s eyes. Frowned. “You did fall over . . . didn’t you?”
“No,” said Sullivan, stepping away from the intense scrutiny.
“Someone did this to you?”
Kept his thoughts to himself.
“Are you suggesting I’m responsible for this?”
“Not you, doctor,” said Sullivan. “Albert Atwood. I’ve been warned off.”
Hartford shook his head. “Albert wouldn’t do something like that. He doesn’t have the courage.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“You’re confused, Inspector. You’ve hit your head.”
Sullivan looked back over his shoulder, toward the church, the presbytery. Maybe he should . . .
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” said Hartford, moving back, taking Sullivan’s right elbow and pulling him forward. “You need a decent examination, make sure you haven’t suffered a concussion.”
He didn’t have a concussion, too familiar with the symptoms of a head injury. Felt the need to repeat himself, to reassure the doctor that he was fine. He wasn’t confused. His memory was still intact, only taking a short time to return. He didn’t feel sick, dizzy . . . he just . . . Pulled his arm from Hartford’s grip. “I don’t have a concussion. I didn’t hit my head.”
“You don’t have to hit your head, Inspector. A single punch can be just as devastating as a blow to the head.”
Returned his gaze to the church . . .
“I know you don’t trust me, Inspector, but that cut needs to be taken care of. If you’re not willing to allow me to do it, you need to take yourself to someone you can trust. Another doctor. The hospital. Get yourself seen--”
“No,” said Sullivan, coming to a decision. “No. It’s fine.”
“Inspector, I don’t--”
Sullivan held up his hand. “I don’t trust you, but where can you go wrong with a cut.”
That smile again. “Inspector, I do believe you’re worried my care will result in your untimely death.”
He couldn’t let that go. “You’re right, doctor, I am worried.”
“No need to be, Inspector,” said Hartford, still smiling. “From what I can see, you don’t need stitches. I’ll just clean it and cover it up. As you said, I can’t go wrong with a task as simple as that.”
Once back inside Hartford’s consulting rooms, Sullivan removed his hat, its brim wet through. He felt cold, an unfamiliar chill climbing the length of his spine. Put it down to the weather. No reason yet to be concerned. He’d had worse. Part of the job, not everyone willing to accept accusations, the threat of arrest. Hardened criminals, devoid of fear, ready to fight back, always ready to inflict pain and injury on a detective inspector. Everyone so much more relaxed in the country, even the criminals . . .
“There’s a bathroom there,” said Hartford, pointing to a closed door. “Why don’t you clean yourself up while I get my bag? I’ll be in my office when you’re done.”
Sullivan watched as Hartford moved away, toward one of the consulting rooms. When the man disappeared into the room, Sullivan turned away, stepped up to the closed door. Reached out to open it, his hand, his fingers trembling, the chill spreading into his limbs. Felt a trickle of rainwater roll down his back, his body shivering at the touch. Opened the door and stepped into a large open bathroom. Caught sight of himself in the large mirror set above an even larger sink.
Moving closer to the sink, the mirror, Sullivan angled his head to the side for a better view. It didn’t look as bad as it felt. Already bruising, the cut was small, Hartford correct, no need for stitches. He reached upward, toward the injury, fingers still shaking. Closed his fist, an angry breath released. Closed his eyes in understanding. His body was reacting to the assault, a delayed reaction. A natural response, no need to feel concerned, knowing it would pass. It always did.
Dropping his hat onto the sink, Sullivan opened his eyes, leaned forward and rested his weight on his arms, hands gripping the edge of the sink. Lowered his head, closed his eyes once more. A sudden weakness in his knees, a need to sit down but he knew if he did relax, sit down, he would find it too difficult to get back up. Somewhere else, he would listen to his body’s needs. Not here though, not with Hartford so close. Felt a sudden urge to rush to the presbytery, hopeful Mrs. McCarthy would sit him down in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot tea in one hand and a strawberry scone in the other. Felt the need to allow someone else to take care of him for a change.
No. He was a grown man. A detective inspector. Quite capable of taking care of his own needs. Opened his eyes, stood up straight. Another quick glance at the cut on the side of his face, suddenly looking forward to another run-in with the two men responsible. No intention of causing them physical harm but it would be very satisfying to place them in handcuffs.
Another look at his reflection, gaze travelling downward. Reached up and pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck for a better view. The bruising vivid, red; would be hard to hide when the colours of bruising were in full bloom. Swallowed, feeling a twinge of pain he hadn’t recognised earlier. Knew the pain would only get worse.
Turned on the tap, hot water splashing into the sink. Using his handkerchief, Sullivan cleaned his face as best as he could. The injury had already stopped bleeding, the cut not deep enough. When finished he held the handkerchief under the tap before pressing it against the back of his neck. A sudden explosion of heat, a welcomed relief, the intense chill conceding defeat. Aware he was only delaying the inevitable, best to get it over with; still not sure, he wanted a debauched doctor to take care of a minor injury. Confused as to why he had allowed the man to convince him otherwise. Something wasn’t right, too easy for Hartford to persuade him to follow him back into his consulting rooms, now certain Hartford was manipulating a detective inspector’s situation, his injury . . .
Stared back at his reflection. “You’ve no one but yourself to blame if something goes amiss.”
Lowered his gaze. The injury too small, the bruising spreading, a circular shape of deepening reds and purples. Decided he had no need of a doctor, especially a doctor of Hartford’s calibre, the man’s lack of competence more of a hindrance than helpful. He would make his excuses, show himself out, continue with the investigation.
Wrung out the handkerchief in the sink and placed it back into a coat pocket. Snatched his hat off the sink, turned away from his reflection and walked out of the bathroom. A hurried tone, a rushed conversation, Hartford’s voice stopping Sullivan. A moment to determine the direction of the man’s voice. Hartford wasn’t in his office, his location the reception room.
Sullivan moved slowly, his steps quiet. Stopped outside the closed doorway, Hartford wanting privacy. Leaning close, his right ear brushing against the door, Sullivan listened, slightly uncomfortable at the intrusion. The words muted, unrecognisable. Ready to give up and step away . . .
A raised tone. “He’s fine. If you wanted to deter him from the investigation you did a poor job of it.”
A flush of anger, Sullivan resisting the urge to rush into the room, to confront Hartford. Question him as to the identity of the person on the other end of the conversation. Held his breath, calmed his anger. Listened for any admission, of further intent.
“No. Threats won’t work. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s obstinate. If you want him to back off . . . He’s not stupid. He won’t go anywhere alone, not now . . . If you think that’s best . . . No, I--” An abrupt end to the conversation.
Nothing said to implicate Atwood. A moment to think. Did he want Hartford to know he’d overheard part of the conversation? Enough information given to conclude there would be more altercations, more threats, Atwood not yet willing to give up. It would be a mistake, Hartford relaying Sullivan’s gained knowledge back to Atwood. As a result, Atwood would take a step back; detach his involvement from the situation. Left alone, Atwood would become over confident, reveal his part in the physical assault of a detective inspector . . . a chance he would reveal his part in his wife’s death, Sullivan now certain Elizabeth Atwood was murdered.
Moved away from the door. Enough distance created, Sullivan walked back, his steps deliberate, loud. The reception door snapped open, Hartford revealing himself, his expression full of surprise. Words stumbled out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I had to make a phone call. Cancel an appointment. If you’re ready--”
“No need, doctor,” said Sullivan, his lies more confident. “I had the vague recollection I was supposed to be at the presbytery for a reason. I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Goodfellow. I fear I’m running late.”
Hartford frowned, about to say something. Stopped in time. Reconsidered. Not ready to argue, to convince Sullivan to stay, a change of mind, Hartford said, “Of course, Inspector. If you have any concerns about your injury please come back.”
“I’ll see myself out, doctor,” said Sullivan, pushing past Hartford and moving into the reception room. The thought of having his back to Hartford . . . resisted the urge to turn around, to walk backward. Shoulders tense, Sullivan kept moving, his pace steady, calm. Reached the safety of the open door to the outside. A lack of hesitation, he walked out into the rain, set his direction toward the presbytery.
A release of breath.
A feeling of relief . . .