Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 1/7
Oct. 23rd, 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: 6,573
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 One
Inspector Sullivan moved along the hallway, feet finding their way in the dark. Up ahead, a door, slightly ajar, a splinter of light escaping, not enough to light his way. Soft voices echoed through the hallway, a muted conversation, the words difficult to distinguish, the voices hard to recognise but he had his suspicions. Close enough and he would be able to eavesdrop, people more willing to admit guilt to a priest than a Kembleford police inspector . . . more willing to reveal something important, something that may very well condemn a murderer.
Floorboards creaked beneath his feet, Sullivan hesitating, a muttered curse voiced, too low to be heard. The conversation coming to an abrupt end, Sullivan moved quickly, the footsteps of Sergeant Goodfellow slapping against the floor behind him. Felt the urge to roll his eyes, Goodfellow sounding more like a stumbling elephant than a competent police officer.
Pushing a door open, his intrusion unannounced, Inspector Sullivan stepped into a small, cluttered living room, the occupants revealed, the tension immediate and . . . stopped. Not in astonishment, no longer inclined to feel surprised at finding Father Brown at a crime scene, the priest’s appearance now a reluctant expectation but at the expression playing across Father Brown’s features.
Stone-faced, Brown seemed to be trying very hard not to look at the two police officers, an amusing result, the priest giving off an air of constipation. Although familiar with that particular expression – he’d seen it often – the cause and reason for it eluded Sullivan. Knew it was important, mouth opening to voice his curiosity, interrupted when Sergeant Goodfellow moved in behind him, forcing Sullivan to move further forward, stopping once again when he reached the center of the room.
Goodfellow stopped beside him, so close their shoulders brushed against each other, the force of the movement shifting Sullivan’s balance. Patience already short, Sullivan turned his head to look at Goodfellow, his expression revealing his irritation. Goodfellow, nodding in understanding, took a short step back, his head lowered, his gaze shifting with awkward embarrassment. Sullivan grimaced, suddenly understanding, his response to Goodfellow’s close proximity making him look foolish, undermining his authority before he’d had a chance to implement his position as a detective inspector.
Turned back to face the priest.
Father Brown sat on a tattered lounge, its pattern of flowers fading into a background full of dull browns, his umbrella perched beside him, leaning at a precarious angle. Beside the priest sat Albert Atwood, the newly grieving widower. Lowering his gaze, Sullivan watched as Brown’s fingers played with the brim of his hat.
Looking back up, gaze travelling, Sullivan took note of the stole Father Brown wore around his neck and over his shoulders. Interesting. The priest wore the stole when giving last rites or taking confession. Came to a conclusion; to ignore the strong need to appease his growing inquisitiveness, the explanation for the blank expression would show itself to him eventually. Would no doubt regret it if he made a direct inquiry.
Removing his hat, holding it in his left hand, Sullivan decided a subtle greeting would be best, no reason yet to throw accusations. “Mr. Atwood, I’m Inspector Sullivan and this--”
“I know who you are,” said Atwood.
Sullivan nodded in acknowledgement and returned his gaze to the priest. “Father Brown.”
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Brown, still refusing to make eye contact, his head turned away, staring at the front window, the view hidden behind a set of heavy curtains, the original colour not easy to discern.
Flicking his gaze back toward Atwood for a brief moment before looking back to Brown, Sullivan said, “Giving last rites, Father, or have you been taking Mr. Atwood’s confession?”
Brown lifted his chin, defiant, silent, his guilt apparent.
“The Father gave my wife last rites, Inspector, and now he’s giving me counsel.”
“Is that what the Father calls it?”
Goodfellow smirked.
A small reaction from Father Brown, the man about to protest Sullivan’s remark, mouth opening, words on the tip of his tongue. Appearing to change his mind, Brown snapped his mouth closed, expression returning to a blank state, still refusing to take part in the conversation.
Reaching into the inside of his coat, removing a black notebook and fountain pen, Sullivan stared at Albert Atwood, the man leaning back, away from Sullivan’s intensive gaze. Hair dark and untidy, his skin pale, his eyes difficult to read, Atwood was a tall man; seated he towered over Father Brown. Chest wide, his arms thick, he was an impressive figure of masculinity but it stopped there; rumours spoke of a man with a nervous nature, known around Kembleford as a man who lived under the vicious personality of a domineering wife.
If the rumour was true . . . a possible motive established if cause of death was due to another’s hand. A flash of pain stumbled through Sullivan’s eyes as he continued to stare at Atwood; the thought of his own father encouraging his emotions, his defences. He knew . . . understood what it was like . . . growing up under the influence of a domineering parent, his father ruling the household with an iron hand. Empathised with Atwood . . .
If the rumour was true.
If the man had no part in the death of his wife.
No time to dwell on his own past, a death to investigate. Putting his emotions aside, Sullivan said, “What time did your wife pass, Mr. Atwood?”
Atwood looked away, a quick glance toward Father Brown, something passing between the two men, before his gaze returned to Sullivan. The exchanged glance caught Sullivan’s attention, adding to his curiosity, his suspicions growing.
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t with her when she . . . I found her about an hour ago. She seemed all right this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? What time was that, Mr. Atwood?”
“About two. I took her up a cup of tea but she was asleep so I left her to it.”
A quick flick of his pen as Sullivan made a notation in his notebook. “How often do you check on her?”
“She usually yelled out if she needed something.”
“So, not very often then,” said Sullivan, lifting his gaze to look at Atwood.
“That’s not what I said. I . . . um . . . of course, I do. She was fine. Just tired. Slept a lot she did.”
“And where were you . . . before you found your wife dead?”
“I was here listening to the radio,” said Atwood, nodding at the other side of the room.
Sullivan looked back over his shoulder. A radio sat on a sideboard that looked to be on its last legs, its stability ready to crumble beneath the weight of too many cat figurines. A thin blanket of dust covered everything, including the radio. Turning away, Sullivan moved toward to the sideboard.
“I’m sorry about the mess. The wife hasn’t been up to cleaning lately.”
Not far to go, a few steps, the room so small. Leaning over, a closer look, Sullivan examined the radio, the knobs; too much dust caked between the knobs and the body of the radio . . . inconsistent with Atwood’s statement. The radio hadn’t been used in a long time.
“Do you listen to the radio often, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, making a note of it in his police issued notebook as he turned to face the man.
“The wife liked to listen to the . . . uh . . . Goon Show every week,” said Atwood.
“What do you like to listen to, Mr. Atwood?”
Atwood, struggling to sit still, said, “I don’t have any favourites. I listen to whatever is on.”
“And what was on this afternoon?”
“What?”
“What were you listening to, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, glancing back over his shoulder at Atwood.
“I don’t remember. Everything is a blank. Shock, I guess.”
“You guess . . .”
Sullivan nodded and moved back into the center of the room, next to Goodfellow, a united front. He noticed the look Father Brown threw his way; recognition made, it was a look of approval . . . as though he needed the approval of an intrusive, amateur detective. Didn’t allow the look to linger, returning his gaze to Atwood, the man watching him with too much care.
“Do you own a cat, Mr. Atwood?”
The question threw Atwood – as Sullivan intended – the confidence he was discharging faltering . . . the confidence a contradiction to the rumours . . . if they were true.
“What? No. The wife use to collect them. She was allergic to cats, thought those were the next best thing. Ugly things if you ask me.”
“A bit early to refer to your wife in the past tense. She only died . . . I’m sorry, when did you say she died?”
“I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t . . .”
“Her death was expected, Inspector. She’d been sick for a long time.”
“Then I can assume her doctor will have records of his consultations with your wife.”
“I can’t account for his records.”
“What time did you call the doctor?”
“Straight away.”
“And Father Brown? When did you call him?”
“After I called the doctor,” said Atwood.
“About an hour ago,” said Sullivan, nodding.
Leaning forward, Atwood said, “I don’t really understand, Inspector. Why are you here?”
“It’s procedure, Mr. Atwood. Is the doctor still here?”
“No.”
“Did he leave a death certificate?”
“No.”
Sullivan frowned. “Why not?”
Atwood waved a hand, a dismissive motion. “Said he would drop one off in the morning.”
“Did he offer any suggestions as to how your wife died?”
Father Brown shifted in his seat, his hat falling from his hands onto the floor. Muttering an apology, Brown leaned over, paused, lifted his gaze to stare directly at Sullivan . . . a silent conversation before snatching his hat off the floor and sitting back up, his back straight, eyes once again staring at the window, fingers blindly brushing the dust from his hat.
Sullivan smiled, more of a grimace, unable to decipher Brown’s expression during the few seconds Brown had actually looked at him. Was certain the priest was trying to tell him something, communication without words, with only a look, his eyes so expressive. To Sullivan it had all been gibberish, unable to understand what the priest was trying to say, what he was trying to convey. Shook the moment off; if Father Brown wanted him to know something he would tell him in a more private environment . . . whether Sullivan wanted to hear it or not. Damn meddlesome . . .
“She died of natural causes.”
Returned his attention back to the conversation . . . the interview. “Did the doctor tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then why do you assume she died of natural causes?”
“I told you. She’d been sick.”
“In what way?”
“Her heart,” said Atwood, staring back at Sullivan. “She probably had a heart attack in her sleep.”
A little confused and suspicious, Sullivan wondered why the doctor hadn’t left a death certificate. A regular consultant, he would be aware of her condition, aware of imminent death. “The name of the doctor who saw to your wife, Mr. Atwood and then I would like to see your wife’s body.”
Atwood frowned. “The undertaker is preparing to take her away.”
“Not until after I’ve examined the scene, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, turning his gaze toward Brown, waiting for the expected interruption. None came, Brown still silent, still determined to look elsewhere. Hesitation kept Sullivan’s gaze steady, curiosity quickly turning to suspicion, mind acknowledging the prolonged absence of meddling. So unlike the Father, the oddity in front of him so out of place, such an uncommon thing at a crime scene. Normally interfering, always meddling, never hesitant in pointing out evidence, voicing a question, giving suggestions. Today, in attendance but only giving a look, verbally silent. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Understanding slow to arrive. Narrowed his eyes in thought.
“Are you going to examine my wife as well? Try to determine how she died?” said Atwood.
The words snapped his gaze away, back toward Atwood. “As I’ve told you, it’s procedure. I need to see the scene. I need to look for anything suspicious. Anything that may--”
“Suspicious? What are you suggesting, Inspector?”
“At the moment, I’m not suggesting anything. It’s too early to form any conclusions, Mr. Atwood.”
“Who do you think you are? You come barging in here. Offer no condolences. And you make suggestions my wife’s death wasn’t natural.” Atwood clenched his hands in an awkward embrace in his lap. A twitch in his left leg, a slow bounce, his face revealing his struggle to remain passive, to keep still. A valiant effort, his failure obvious when his fingers began a merry dance. “My wife was sick, Inspector. She died of natural causes.”
Father Brown coughed, not as subtle as a look, drawing the stare of everyone in the room toward him. A slight smile, the expression twisting into something else, a grimace. Sullivan assumed it was an apology. Turned his gaze away, catching the wince of guilt crossing the priest’s features in his peripheral. More confirmation something wasn’t right, the atmosphere wrong . . . uncomfortable, Brown constantly reminding Sullivan the priest was acting out of character. Turning his gaze back to Brown, Sullivan took a moment to think about it. Couldn’t help but reaffirm his suspicions. An explanation for the priest’s expression, his behaviour, took a step forward, closer, the answer forming at the back of Sullivan’s mind; slowing coming together . . . he left it to simmer.
Shifted his gaze back to Atwood, a slow deliberate movement. “The name of your wife’s doctor, please, Mr. Atwood?”
“You’ll believe him but you won’t believe me, is that it?”
Sergeant Goodfellow leaned forward, past Sullivan. “If the doctor confirms natural death--”
“Yes! Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, turning to face his sergeant, his words, his expression shutting down Goodfellow’s explanation. There was no reason, no need to explain themselves, their intentions or their actions. They were here to investigate a death, and until proven otherwise, his intention, his training taught him to treat it as suspicious. “The name of the doctor, please, Mr. Atwood. I won’t ask again.”
“Doctor Hartford.”
The name recognised, Hartford’s reputation, his past, another possible clue; the man surrounded by his own set of rumours, most of them true. The man should have lost his licence long ago, too many friends in high places keeping him where he is. Practicing in a small country village where he could successfully associate any rumours to local gossip. Deny, lie and continue as though nothing were wrong.
And if that didn’t work, start your own rumours, create malicious gossip that would deflect or explain; give them something else to talk about. But the physician couldn’t hide a police record or a malpractice suit . . . couldn’t hide from a Kembleford detective inspector who had dealings with him in the past. Sullivan looked down, wrote the name in his notebook, drawing an elaborate question mark beside it.
An explanation as to why Hartford hadn’t left a death certificate; reasonable cause . . . suspicious Mrs. Atwood’s death wasn’t natural, taking an opportunity to blackmail, to coerce payment to place Atwood’s diagnosis on the death certificate. The man had done it before, no reason why he wouldn’t try it again. A question he would put to Doctor Hartford in the morning.
Looked back at Atwood. “I understand he can be unreliable. Easily manipulated. Even known to take a payment or two to . . . reconsider a diagnosis.”
Frowning, Father Brown turned his head, his gaze finding Sullivan. Feeling the scrutiny, Sullivan looked at Brown, let out a breath, a soft sigh of frustration. He wasn’t an idiot, aware that Brown had to know about Doctor Hartford, Mrs. McCarthy notorious for relaying village gossip. Perhaps, Brown was surprised that Kembleford’s detective inspector knew about the doctor’s reputation.
“You’re making suggestions again, Inspector.”
“No, Mr. Atwood. I’m not.”
Atwood stood up, his full height revealed. Brown followed, snapping his body off the couch, his umbrella falling from its perch. Taking a step forward, the priest put his shoulder in front of Atwood, an obstruction created. So obvious now that something was seriously wrong, Brown protecting the widower . . . or was he making a not so subtle attempt to protect two of Kembleford’s police officers.
“I hope you know how to grovel, Inspector, because that’s what you’ll need to do if you expect me to accept your apology when this is over.”
Not easily intimidated, Sullivan smiled and said, “I have no intention of grovelling, or apologising, Mr. Atwood.”
“Inspector Sullivan,” said Brown, his voice hoarse, dry. “Need I remind you, Mr. Atwood’s wife has died?”
Surprised by Brown’s tone of voice, his verbal reprimand, Sullivan took a step forward, looked at Brown, his stare unflinching. Refused to look away, Brown relenting, looking away first. Satisfied, he’d regained control of the situation, the conversation, Sullivan looked back at Atwood. He could see the anger in the man’s eyes, the tension in his muscles; the man was ready and willing to lash out, to lose his temper.
Felt Goodfellow behind him, the sergeant reading the situation as well as Sullivan had, his position showing support, a willingness to step in if his physical strength was required. Although Sullivan was confident of taking care of himself in a physical altercation, Albert Atwood was something different; he had muscle where Sullivan didn’t; he had height, Sullivan’s six foot not enough against this man. It would take cunning, dirty tactics to take Atwood down, or when available, an extra man . . . Sergeant Goodfellow. Sullivan now grateful he had brought his loyal sergeant with him. If things continued in the direction Atwood’s mood indicated, he was going to need Goodfellow . . .
Taking advantage of an opportunity – a little pressure might cause the man to snap, reveal his real personality, confident they could take him if the situation became volatile – Sullivan smiled and said, “Are the rumours true, Mr. Atwood?”
“What rumours?” said Atwood, his shoulders slumping, fingers twitching at his side.
Atwood knew of the rumours, Sullivan was certain.
“The rumours about your wife.”
A look of relief crossed Atwood’s features, a quick disappearance, a mask put back in place.
“It’s rumoured your wife was . . .” said Sullivan, pausing, looking to his sergeant to continue. “What was it, sergeant?”
“His wife has . . . sorry . . . had a nasty personality and was very bossy,” said Goodfellow.
“That’s true, Inspector, but can you blame her. She was sick all the time--”
“So what you’re saying, Mr. Atwood, is that your wife’s illness attributed to her personality.”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware there are also rumours about you?”
Atwood sat down, falling back onto the lounge, a look of defeat converging, covering his features.
“I’m asking because your behaviour contradicts the rumours. I’m wondering if it would be the same with your wife.”
“Rumours,” said Father Brown, still standing. “Always start with a speck of truth.”
It wasn’t much but it was a start, Brown putting his foot in, making a comment about the investigation. His tone sarcastic, his expression less than welcoming, Sullivan said, “Nice of you to finally join us, Father.”
Father Brown, face creasing in disappointment, gave Sullivan a look, one that was easy to interpret. Not sorry, Sullivan returned his attention back to Atwood. “Would you like to show us the way to your wife’s bedroom or--”
“Up the stairs, second door on your right. The undertaker will still be with her.”
Inspector Sullivan nodded and turned away.
“If it’s all the same with you, Inspector,” said Father Brown, sitting back down next to Atwood. “I’ll stay here for the moment.”
Sullivan froze. Turned back. Gave Brown a scrutinising stare. “I wasn’t going to ask you to join us, Father.”
Father Brown nodded, his gaze elsewhere, a deliberate snub, an arrogant dismissal, so unlike the priest to be rude. Another indication that Brown wasn’t acting himself, things becoming more complicated. An automatic retort, a verbal backlash, ready to respond, Sullivan realised Brown had already seen the body, giving Mrs. Atwood last rights. No doubt, the priest had taken advantage, studying the scene looking for clues. He’d done it before, slow to call the police, time taken to satisfy his inner amateur detective. Sullivan certain Brown had done it again, delaying Atwood’s call to the police.
Could that explain Brown’s look of guilt, his behaviour? Was he not meddling now because he had found nothing to indicate murder? Could he have already concluded natural circumstances, a natural death? If that were the case, Brown would have gladly informed Sullivan, taken the opportunity to prove Sullivan’s deduction’s wrong, his line of questioning futile. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Sullivan wasn’t going to rely on Brown for answers. He would go over the scene, draw his own conclusions. Narrowed his eyes, turned and walked out of the room, Goodfellow close behind.
.
.
.
Body language polite, Sullivan stepped into the bedroom, an offer of silent condolences; not sure Mrs. Atwood would hear him. He hesitated, scowled, a natural reaction to the smell of death. Decomposition so capable of inducing a sickening odor, his stomach rolling in slow, methodical motion at the thought . . . frowned. Suspicion continuing to grow, the smell, not strong enough to suggest a length of time of decomposition, but a suggestion that Elizabeth Atwood’s death wasn’t as recent as her husband had told them.
Moved further into the room, the scene before him . . . so calm. Body now in permanent slumber, Elizabeth Atwood looked peaceful, asleep, as though a light nudge, a snap of noise would wake her. There were no obvious signs of violence, of murder. No physical indications that would lead Sullivan to a conclusion of foul play . . . but the smell. Something gave him pause . . . instinct telling him a different story lay beneath what he believed to be a false exterior.
Nodded to the undertaker, the man taking a step back at the sight of Goodfellow, the uniform an introduction, no words needed. Obvious as to why they were there. The undertaker, dressed in black, his dark hair combed back with a heavy amount of brylcreem, moved to a corner of the room, held his hands together in front and lowered his head, a small amount of privacy given.
Sullivan considered asking him to leave the room, decided against it. If Albert Atwood accused him of falsifying evidence, of causing injury to his wife to show proof of murder, there would be a witness to contradict his accusations. Someone who could testify that Sullivan had done nothing more than carry out a visual examination of the body.
“I need you to bear witness,” said Sullivan, turning to face the undertaker.
“Mr. Granger at your service, sir.”
“Mr. Granger,” said Sullivan, a slight nod before moving closer to the bed.
The smell stronger, reminding him Mrs. Atwood’s demise wasn’t recent, her death old, her last breath taken hours earlier, possibly the previous day. Under closer scrutiny, something looked familiar, Sullivan turning to face the undertaker.
“Is she in full rigor mortis?”
The undertaker looked at him, a surprise expression. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Atwood passed away at least twelve hours ago.”
Sullivan glanced back over his shoulder at Goodfellow before looking back at the undertaker. “Or longer. Full rigor lasts another twelve hours. And if the smell is any indication, she’s been dead a while.”
“She could have been dead anywhere up to twenty four hours?” said Goodfellow. “Atwood lied then.”
“It’s possible he didn’t notice,” said Sullivan, frowning down at the body before looking at the bedside tables: no evidence her husband had left her a cup of tea. “Opens the door, believes she’s asleep and then shuts her away again. Out of mind, out of sight.”
“But how do you not notice your wife has died?” said Goodfellow, looking at Sullivan. “Surely he must have noticed she hadn’t moved since the last time he checked on her.”
“Yes . . . It’s also possible he did realise she was dead. Perhaps he wanted to wait until it was dark before he called us in. Fewer officers on duty, a quick declaration of natural causes and off to the pub or home to the wi--” Remembered who was in the room. Snapped his head to the side and pointed in the undertaker’s direction. “You didn’t hear that!”
“No, sir. Of course not,” said Mr. Granger.
Sullivan nodded in satisfaction, believed the undertaker did not intend to repeat what he’d just heard.
“Maybe,” said Goodfellow, “he waited a while to make sure she was dead?”
“Maybe,” said Sullivan looking back at the body laid out on the bed. A step closer, his knees touching the edge of the bed. Breathed through his mouth, not willing . . . he didn't want the odour emanating from Elizabeth Atwood to invade his sinuses.
He reached out, knuckles of his fingers brushing across the side of Mrs. Atwood’s face, her skin soft, cold like ice. Her flesh was pale, almost translucent. Blue veins, like a stagnant river, ran beneath skin that had aged prematurely, her age not yet reaching forty. Hair already turning grey cut short, the edges uneven; it suited her. Face round, nose pinched, her lips plump; she reminded Sullivan of his aunt on his mother’s side. Removed his touch and turned away from the bed.
Noticed Goodfellow and the undertaker watching him. Feeling self-conscious, Sullivan said, “It will be criminal negligence or manslaughter.”
“What about murder, sir?” said Goodfellow.
“I see no signs of a physical injury but considering Mr. Atwood lied about her time of death, I think a full post mortem is in order. Arrange it will you, sergeant. Without telling Mr. Atwood. I’ll inform him myself of our ongoing investigation.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, nodding and leaving the room.
Left alone with Mrs. Atwood and the undertaker, Sullivan no longer felt the need to have a witness present while he gave a cursorily examination, Mrs. Atwood’s death not fresh, any injuries inflicted now would be ineffective. Frowned at the thought, aware there were police officers in existence that would do such a thing, anything to prove guilt, bias in the direction of blame. Planting evidence, inflicting injuries; something he would never do . . . something he had never considered.
“Mr. Granger, your services will no longer be required. I’ll have the police surgeon inform you when he’s ready to release Mrs. Atwood back to your care.”
“You’re no longer in need of a witness?”
“Not anymore. Mrs. Atwood has been dead an extended amount of time. If I were to inflict any new injuries to falsify culpability they would be attributed to someone other than her killer and I’m yet to find any proof of foul play.”
“I’m sorry,” said Granger. “I didn’t mean to suggest you would do such a thing. I meant no offence, sir.”
“You made no suggestions, Mr. Granger and I take no offence. I appreciate your discretion.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Granger, moving away toward the door, pausing in the open doorway. “If he did cause her death, I hope to God you prove it.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Granger.”
Waited until the undertaker left the room and then made a slow turn, gaze taking in the small space; everything in this cottage cramped and cluttered. A normal sense of urgency to open the window, allow the smell of death to escape, to make breathing more bearable. He moved further away from the bed, keeping his distance. His gaze travelled the room a second time, looking for anything that would prove foul play had occurred. Saw nothing, only more dust, more clutter, more figurines; Mrs. Atwood loved her cats. A soft smile, a gentle expression, a hint of amusement, Sullivan certain Mrs. Atwood wouldn’t be offended.
A few minutes to make a more thorough search of the room, the dust telling him nothing was out of place. Stepped back toward the bed. Got down on his hands and knees. A tawny owl sounded in the distance, mating season well underway. A sudden rush of wind, a tree branch slapping against the window. Looked under the bed, nothing hidden, nothing that would frighten a small child or a detective inspector. Made a move to stand up, pausing when something caught his attention. A closer look.
On the worn, tread wooden floor, a very recent addition . . . a piece of white, cotton thread resting on top of a thin layer of dust . . . undisturbed.
.
.
.
The investigation took a different direction, Albert Atwood not happy, Father Brown doing everything he could to keep the man calm. Sullivan had explained his intent, more than once, a repetitive conversation, Atwood claiming a lack of understanding, adamant that his wife had died of natural causes. Sullivan kept the discovery of the cotton fibre close to his chest, certain Father Brown was already aware of that particular piece of evidence; Sullivan surprised the evidence had still been there, Father Brown known to remove evidence from a crime scene and keep it to himself, away from the prying eyes of Kembleford’s detective inspector.
The only information he released to Atwood was to expect the police surgeon and a collection of uniformed police officers to take photos of the scene and to collect anything that may prove to be evidence. Assured Atwood the officers would do a thorough search of the cottage. The widower not happy when Sullivan explained the coroner was going to conduct a full post mortem the next day. He had then left the man in the capable hands of Father Brown. Left the house to carry out an investigation he was now confident would lead to an arrest and a conviction for murder.
Waited outside, expecting Father Brown to make his excuses to Atwood and follow, intent on offering advice and suggestions, to ask if Kembleford’s detective inspector had noticed evidence that only a blind man . . . or an incompetent detective inspector would miss. Sullivan wasn’t waiting to take advice but to express the need for Brown to stay out of his investigation. The man was too meddlesome for his own good, often putting himself at risk, coming close to death on more than one occasion.
It was like second nature to the man, an obsessive need to investigate. Why Brown had become a priest, Sullivan had no idea and he wasn’t going to ask, the man’s reasons private, not for someone else’s judgement. But Sullivan knew with a certainty that one day he would go too far, lose his life or worse . . . be responsible for the loss of a life that wasn’t his own. His clan of assistants, always so willing, so eager to help were also at risk. If only the man kept out of it, left it to people who knew what they were doing. Let out a rush of breath, frustration escaping, an outlet for his emotions, his growing anger.
A drop of rain on his face, the weather quickly turning. Placed his hat on his head, tugging it into place, the brim not enough to keep the rain from his face. Turned around to look at the front door of Atwood’s cottage. Expression morphing into one of confusion, Sullivan at a loss as to why Brown was yet to show himself; the priest definitely acting out of character. He wasn’t going to worry about it, grateful to have the opportunity to investigate a crime without Brown’s interference.
Hesitated when his thoughts returned to the priest’s lack of enthusiasm when it came to interfering. He could feel the explanation hanging onto the edge of his subconscious, the reason not yet ready to reveal itself. Knew the priest would have seen the evidence. Knew Brown would have come to the same conclusion; Mrs. Atwood already deceased for more than twelve hours, the smell an indication she had lain there for too long, possible her husband had kept his distance, not taking care of his wife’s medical requirements. No, the priest would know enough to continue, to ask the appropriate questions but why was he not . . .
“Sir?”
A touch of impatience. “Coming, sergeant.”
Sullivan moved toward the police vehicle, stopped when he caught movement in the shadows surrounding a large oak tree, its branches still snapping against Elizabeth Atwood’s bedroom window. Body filling with tension, adrenaline already pumping through his veins, he stepped into the street, turning to face the person now approaching.
Relaxed when he saw the female form, curves in all the appropriate places. She wore a dark coat, the material curled around her waist, her hips. Dragging his gaze upward, a difficult effort to return to his normal state of chivalrous behaviour, Sullivan noticed the scarf embracing her skull, hair tucked away. Pulled forward, the scarf hid most of her features. She walked up to him, past him, words spoken, her voice snatched away by the wind, but Sullivan heard enough.
“Follow me . . . discreetly. Please.”
Felt like she had just propositioned him.
A flush of embarrassment in his cheeks.
Turned his head, unsure if he should do what she asked. Watched as her direction of movement snapped to the left, her form disappearing behind a hedge thick with leaves. A moment later she reappeared, waved a hand, motioning in a frantic manner for him to join her.
Still felt like a proposition.
Decided . . . what the hell, if she tried anything . . . her arrest would be his physical defence.
A quick glance back at his sergeant, Goodfellow wearing the bright grin of a conspirator, as though they were in this together, waiting for Sullivan to invite him to take part in a romantic interlude with a female paramour. Grimacing in disgust, Sullivan said, “Go and stay with the body, sergeant, there’s a good fellow . . .” Walked away, feet heavy with anger, his footsteps echoing in the wind.
Keeping his distance, an area of safety created, Sullivan moved into a position where he could see the woman. Squinting, a quick glance. Once satisfied the woman wasn’t in a compromising position, he stepped closer.
She spoke without introduction. “Is she dead?”
Wasn’t about to reveal he knew who she was referring to. Tilted his head, a slight angle. “Is who dead?”
“I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look, Inspector, so please, don’t pretend you are.”
Certain he’d just been insulted.
“Yes, Mrs. Atwood is dead.”
“Have you arrested her husband?”
“Who are you?”
She let out a sigh of frustration, the sound dramatic, irritating. It was obvious she was quickly losing patience. “It’s Miss. Anonymous to you, Inspector.”
With a curl of his lip, not at all impressed with her attitude, Sullivan removed his notebook and pen. Made an obvious point of writing it down . . . “Miss. Anonymous . . . how do you spell that . . . no wait. I think I can guess.”
She removed her scarf, a pretty face revealed, her lips painted with red lipstick. More than a few drops of rain, her hair quickly becoming damp. “Sarcastic and handsome.”
“Are you a friend of the Atwood’s or a neighbour?”
“Neither. And there is no sense in speaking with their neighbours, Inspector, they’re too afraid of Atwood to tell you anything.”
Returned to his notebook, adding more notes. “Miss. Anonymous, neighbour to the Atwood’s.”
“Sarcastic, handsome and smart.”
Almost rolled his eyes . . . almost. Maintained a semblance of control. “Do you have some information you want to provide or is this something else?”
“Don’t think too highly of yourself, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous. “I have information.”
“Then by all means,” said Sullivan, holding notebook and pen at the ready . . . just in case Miss. Anonymous had something worthwhile to say. “I’m listening.”
“Elizabeth Atwood may have been a sickly woman, Inspector, but it wasn’t her illness that killed her.”
“And you know this because . . .”
“Everyone knows it. It’s all over the street. All of Kembleford will know by morning.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Gossip does travel fast in Kembleford.”
“You’ve got some of the best gossips in Kembleford here, Inspector. You should use them. I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you. They gossip because they’re lonely, you see.”
“Right.” Lifted his head, a light splatter of rain on his face. Quickly lowered his head. She was smiling at him. Felt uncomfortable. She had him on the wrong foot, his balance of confidence and authority broken. Tried to regain some sort of control. “Any suggestions?”
Her smile grew. Along with his embarrassment. “I don’t mean . . . that’s not . . .” A breath of acceptance; he was acting the fool. A sudden need to explain himself. “There are rumours about Mr. and Mrs. Atwood and I need to confirm if they’re true or false.”
“That’s why I suggested you listen to local gossip.”
His shoulders slumped.
Not as stupid as you look, she’d said.
Certain, at this moment, he was looking very stupid.
“Mrs. McCarthy is your best bet.”
Pursed his lips. “Of course she is.”
A front door slammed shut, the noise loud. Miss. Anonymous flinched, tucking herself closer to the hedge. Sullivan stood up onto the tips of his shoes, glanced over the hedge. Father Brown was walking away from the cottage, the opposite direction, his umbrella up, protection from the rain; their secret meeting safe, no need to worry about discovery.
“Just Father Brown,” said Sullivan.
Eyes wide, a hint of fear covering her features. “I don’t want Albert Atwood to know I’m talking to you, Inspector.”
Understood, comprehension not difficult to find. “You’re afraid of him.”
“Of course, I bloody am.”
“Then the rumours aren’t true?”
“That depends on which rumour you’re talking about.”
“The rumour that Albert Atwood is a man who has a nervous nature.”
“That one is true.”
“So, you think a fearful man killed his wife.”
She moved closer, too close, her left hand reaching out, fingers gripping his forearm. “Even a man with a nervous nature can lose his temper, Inspector.”
He nodded, very aware of what someone like Albert Atwood was capable of doing. He wasn’t sure in this particular case. There was no sign of physical damage to the body. If Atwood had lost his temper, struck out, there would have been injuries . . . bruises, cuts, a fatal wound. No, if Atwood had murdered his wife, it was a deliberate act. Another weapon used; poison an obvious option.
“And you base this assumption on . . .”
“Rumours, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous, her grip increasing before letting go.
About to ask another question, Sullivan left alone when the woman rushed off, a fast movement, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Took a step to follow her . . . changed his mind. Stayed in place, thoughts tumbling through his mind. It was a start, an anonymous tip, someone else suspicious of Mrs. Atwood’s death. Suspicions based on rumours.
Rumours always start with a speck of truth. That’s what the priest had said.
Not enough for an arrest warrant but it was something keeping him on what he knew was the right path except Sullivan didn’t want to gossip with Mrs. McCarthy, didn’t want to become part of that circle. He had used informants in the city, both men and women. Even trusted some of them, their information always based on fact and truth; not gossip. However, he needed to know more about the rumours, to separate truth from fiction. He needed to know if the rumours about Mrs. Atwood were true. It wouldn't make a difference if they were. A domineering wife, no matter how vicious, was not a reasonable excuse to commit murder.
No choice.
In the morning, a visit with Mrs. McCarthy was required.
An expression of irritation crossed his features.
But not before he paid a visit to Doctor Hartford.
Chapter One | Chapter Two
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: 6,573
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 One
Inspector Sullivan moved along the hallway, feet finding their way in the dark. Up ahead, a door, slightly ajar, a splinter of light escaping, not enough to light his way. Soft voices echoed through the hallway, a muted conversation, the words difficult to distinguish, the voices hard to recognise but he had his suspicions. Close enough and he would be able to eavesdrop, people more willing to admit guilt to a priest than a Kembleford police inspector . . . more willing to reveal something important, something that may very well condemn a murderer.
Floorboards creaked beneath his feet, Sullivan hesitating, a muttered curse voiced, too low to be heard. The conversation coming to an abrupt end, Sullivan moved quickly, the footsteps of Sergeant Goodfellow slapping against the floor behind him. Felt the urge to roll his eyes, Goodfellow sounding more like a stumbling elephant than a competent police officer.
Pushing a door open, his intrusion unannounced, Inspector Sullivan stepped into a small, cluttered living room, the occupants revealed, the tension immediate and . . . stopped. Not in astonishment, no longer inclined to feel surprised at finding Father Brown at a crime scene, the priest’s appearance now a reluctant expectation but at the expression playing across Father Brown’s features.
Stone-faced, Brown seemed to be trying very hard not to look at the two police officers, an amusing result, the priest giving off an air of constipation. Although familiar with that particular expression – he’d seen it often – the cause and reason for it eluded Sullivan. Knew it was important, mouth opening to voice his curiosity, interrupted when Sergeant Goodfellow moved in behind him, forcing Sullivan to move further forward, stopping once again when he reached the center of the room.
Goodfellow stopped beside him, so close their shoulders brushed against each other, the force of the movement shifting Sullivan’s balance. Patience already short, Sullivan turned his head to look at Goodfellow, his expression revealing his irritation. Goodfellow, nodding in understanding, took a short step back, his head lowered, his gaze shifting with awkward embarrassment. Sullivan grimaced, suddenly understanding, his response to Goodfellow’s close proximity making him look foolish, undermining his authority before he’d had a chance to implement his position as a detective inspector.
Turned back to face the priest.
Father Brown sat on a tattered lounge, its pattern of flowers fading into a background full of dull browns, his umbrella perched beside him, leaning at a precarious angle. Beside the priest sat Albert Atwood, the newly grieving widower. Lowering his gaze, Sullivan watched as Brown’s fingers played with the brim of his hat.
Looking back up, gaze travelling, Sullivan took note of the stole Father Brown wore around his neck and over his shoulders. Interesting. The priest wore the stole when giving last rites or taking confession. Came to a conclusion; to ignore the strong need to appease his growing inquisitiveness, the explanation for the blank expression would show itself to him eventually. Would no doubt regret it if he made a direct inquiry.
Removing his hat, holding it in his left hand, Sullivan decided a subtle greeting would be best, no reason yet to throw accusations. “Mr. Atwood, I’m Inspector Sullivan and this--”
“I know who you are,” said Atwood.
Sullivan nodded in acknowledgement and returned his gaze to the priest. “Father Brown.”
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Brown, still refusing to make eye contact, his head turned away, staring at the front window, the view hidden behind a set of heavy curtains, the original colour not easy to discern.
Flicking his gaze back toward Atwood for a brief moment before looking back to Brown, Sullivan said, “Giving last rites, Father, or have you been taking Mr. Atwood’s confession?”
Brown lifted his chin, defiant, silent, his guilt apparent.
“The Father gave my wife last rites, Inspector, and now he’s giving me counsel.”
“Is that what the Father calls it?”
Goodfellow smirked.
A small reaction from Father Brown, the man about to protest Sullivan’s remark, mouth opening, words on the tip of his tongue. Appearing to change his mind, Brown snapped his mouth closed, expression returning to a blank state, still refusing to take part in the conversation.
Reaching into the inside of his coat, removing a black notebook and fountain pen, Sullivan stared at Albert Atwood, the man leaning back, away from Sullivan’s intensive gaze. Hair dark and untidy, his skin pale, his eyes difficult to read, Atwood was a tall man; seated he towered over Father Brown. Chest wide, his arms thick, he was an impressive figure of masculinity but it stopped there; rumours spoke of a man with a nervous nature, known around Kembleford as a man who lived under the vicious personality of a domineering wife.
If the rumour was true . . . a possible motive established if cause of death was due to another’s hand. A flash of pain stumbled through Sullivan’s eyes as he continued to stare at Atwood; the thought of his own father encouraging his emotions, his defences. He knew . . . understood what it was like . . . growing up under the influence of a domineering parent, his father ruling the household with an iron hand. Empathised with Atwood . . .
If the rumour was true.
If the man had no part in the death of his wife.
No time to dwell on his own past, a death to investigate. Putting his emotions aside, Sullivan said, “What time did your wife pass, Mr. Atwood?”
Atwood looked away, a quick glance toward Father Brown, something passing between the two men, before his gaze returned to Sullivan. The exchanged glance caught Sullivan’s attention, adding to his curiosity, his suspicions growing.
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t with her when she . . . I found her about an hour ago. She seemed all right this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? What time was that, Mr. Atwood?”
“About two. I took her up a cup of tea but she was asleep so I left her to it.”
A quick flick of his pen as Sullivan made a notation in his notebook. “How often do you check on her?”
“She usually yelled out if she needed something.”
“So, not very often then,” said Sullivan, lifting his gaze to look at Atwood.
“That’s not what I said. I . . . um . . . of course, I do. She was fine. Just tired. Slept a lot she did.”
“And where were you . . . before you found your wife dead?”
“I was here listening to the radio,” said Atwood, nodding at the other side of the room.
Sullivan looked back over his shoulder. A radio sat on a sideboard that looked to be on its last legs, its stability ready to crumble beneath the weight of too many cat figurines. A thin blanket of dust covered everything, including the radio. Turning away, Sullivan moved toward to the sideboard.
“I’m sorry about the mess. The wife hasn’t been up to cleaning lately.”
Not far to go, a few steps, the room so small. Leaning over, a closer look, Sullivan examined the radio, the knobs; too much dust caked between the knobs and the body of the radio . . . inconsistent with Atwood’s statement. The radio hadn’t been used in a long time.
“Do you listen to the radio often, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, making a note of it in his police issued notebook as he turned to face the man.
“The wife liked to listen to the . . . uh . . . Goon Show every week,” said Atwood.
“What do you like to listen to, Mr. Atwood?”
Atwood, struggling to sit still, said, “I don’t have any favourites. I listen to whatever is on.”
“And what was on this afternoon?”
“What?”
“What were you listening to, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, glancing back over his shoulder at Atwood.
“I don’t remember. Everything is a blank. Shock, I guess.”
“You guess . . .”
Sullivan nodded and moved back into the center of the room, next to Goodfellow, a united front. He noticed the look Father Brown threw his way; recognition made, it was a look of approval . . . as though he needed the approval of an intrusive, amateur detective. Didn’t allow the look to linger, returning his gaze to Atwood, the man watching him with too much care.
“Do you own a cat, Mr. Atwood?”
The question threw Atwood – as Sullivan intended – the confidence he was discharging faltering . . . the confidence a contradiction to the rumours . . . if they were true.
“What? No. The wife use to collect them. She was allergic to cats, thought those were the next best thing. Ugly things if you ask me.”
“A bit early to refer to your wife in the past tense. She only died . . . I’m sorry, when did you say she died?”
“I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t . . .”
“Her death was expected, Inspector. She’d been sick for a long time.”
“Then I can assume her doctor will have records of his consultations with your wife.”
“I can’t account for his records.”
“What time did you call the doctor?”
“Straight away.”
“And Father Brown? When did you call him?”
“After I called the doctor,” said Atwood.
“About an hour ago,” said Sullivan, nodding.
Leaning forward, Atwood said, “I don’t really understand, Inspector. Why are you here?”
“It’s procedure, Mr. Atwood. Is the doctor still here?”
“No.”
“Did he leave a death certificate?”
“No.”
Sullivan frowned. “Why not?”
Atwood waved a hand, a dismissive motion. “Said he would drop one off in the morning.”
“Did he offer any suggestions as to how your wife died?”
Father Brown shifted in his seat, his hat falling from his hands onto the floor. Muttering an apology, Brown leaned over, paused, lifted his gaze to stare directly at Sullivan . . . a silent conversation before snatching his hat off the floor and sitting back up, his back straight, eyes once again staring at the window, fingers blindly brushing the dust from his hat.
Sullivan smiled, more of a grimace, unable to decipher Brown’s expression during the few seconds Brown had actually looked at him. Was certain the priest was trying to tell him something, communication without words, with only a look, his eyes so expressive. To Sullivan it had all been gibberish, unable to understand what the priest was trying to say, what he was trying to convey. Shook the moment off; if Father Brown wanted him to know something he would tell him in a more private environment . . . whether Sullivan wanted to hear it or not. Damn meddlesome . . .
“She died of natural causes.”
Returned his attention back to the conversation . . . the interview. “Did the doctor tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then why do you assume she died of natural causes?”
“I told you. She’d been sick.”
“In what way?”
“Her heart,” said Atwood, staring back at Sullivan. “She probably had a heart attack in her sleep.”
A little confused and suspicious, Sullivan wondered why the doctor hadn’t left a death certificate. A regular consultant, he would be aware of her condition, aware of imminent death. “The name of the doctor who saw to your wife, Mr. Atwood and then I would like to see your wife’s body.”
Atwood frowned. “The undertaker is preparing to take her away.”
“Not until after I’ve examined the scene, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, turning his gaze toward Brown, waiting for the expected interruption. None came, Brown still silent, still determined to look elsewhere. Hesitation kept Sullivan’s gaze steady, curiosity quickly turning to suspicion, mind acknowledging the prolonged absence of meddling. So unlike the Father, the oddity in front of him so out of place, such an uncommon thing at a crime scene. Normally interfering, always meddling, never hesitant in pointing out evidence, voicing a question, giving suggestions. Today, in attendance but only giving a look, verbally silent. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Understanding slow to arrive. Narrowed his eyes in thought.
“Are you going to examine my wife as well? Try to determine how she died?” said Atwood.
The words snapped his gaze away, back toward Atwood. “As I’ve told you, it’s procedure. I need to see the scene. I need to look for anything suspicious. Anything that may--”
“Suspicious? What are you suggesting, Inspector?”
“At the moment, I’m not suggesting anything. It’s too early to form any conclusions, Mr. Atwood.”
“Who do you think you are? You come barging in here. Offer no condolences. And you make suggestions my wife’s death wasn’t natural.” Atwood clenched his hands in an awkward embrace in his lap. A twitch in his left leg, a slow bounce, his face revealing his struggle to remain passive, to keep still. A valiant effort, his failure obvious when his fingers began a merry dance. “My wife was sick, Inspector. She died of natural causes.”
Father Brown coughed, not as subtle as a look, drawing the stare of everyone in the room toward him. A slight smile, the expression twisting into something else, a grimace. Sullivan assumed it was an apology. Turned his gaze away, catching the wince of guilt crossing the priest’s features in his peripheral. More confirmation something wasn’t right, the atmosphere wrong . . . uncomfortable, Brown constantly reminding Sullivan the priest was acting out of character. Turning his gaze back to Brown, Sullivan took a moment to think about it. Couldn’t help but reaffirm his suspicions. An explanation for the priest’s expression, his behaviour, took a step forward, closer, the answer forming at the back of Sullivan’s mind; slowing coming together . . . he left it to simmer.
Shifted his gaze back to Atwood, a slow deliberate movement. “The name of your wife’s doctor, please, Mr. Atwood?”
“You’ll believe him but you won’t believe me, is that it?”
Sergeant Goodfellow leaned forward, past Sullivan. “If the doctor confirms natural death--”
“Yes! Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, turning to face his sergeant, his words, his expression shutting down Goodfellow’s explanation. There was no reason, no need to explain themselves, their intentions or their actions. They were here to investigate a death, and until proven otherwise, his intention, his training taught him to treat it as suspicious. “The name of the doctor, please, Mr. Atwood. I won’t ask again.”
“Doctor Hartford.”
The name recognised, Hartford’s reputation, his past, another possible clue; the man surrounded by his own set of rumours, most of them true. The man should have lost his licence long ago, too many friends in high places keeping him where he is. Practicing in a small country village where he could successfully associate any rumours to local gossip. Deny, lie and continue as though nothing were wrong.
And if that didn’t work, start your own rumours, create malicious gossip that would deflect or explain; give them something else to talk about. But the physician couldn’t hide a police record or a malpractice suit . . . couldn’t hide from a Kembleford detective inspector who had dealings with him in the past. Sullivan looked down, wrote the name in his notebook, drawing an elaborate question mark beside it.
An explanation as to why Hartford hadn’t left a death certificate; reasonable cause . . . suspicious Mrs. Atwood’s death wasn’t natural, taking an opportunity to blackmail, to coerce payment to place Atwood’s diagnosis on the death certificate. The man had done it before, no reason why he wouldn’t try it again. A question he would put to Doctor Hartford in the morning.
Looked back at Atwood. “I understand he can be unreliable. Easily manipulated. Even known to take a payment or two to . . . reconsider a diagnosis.”
Frowning, Father Brown turned his head, his gaze finding Sullivan. Feeling the scrutiny, Sullivan looked at Brown, let out a breath, a soft sigh of frustration. He wasn’t an idiot, aware that Brown had to know about Doctor Hartford, Mrs. McCarthy notorious for relaying village gossip. Perhaps, Brown was surprised that Kembleford’s detective inspector knew about the doctor’s reputation.
“You’re making suggestions again, Inspector.”
“No, Mr. Atwood. I’m not.”
Atwood stood up, his full height revealed. Brown followed, snapping his body off the couch, his umbrella falling from its perch. Taking a step forward, the priest put his shoulder in front of Atwood, an obstruction created. So obvious now that something was seriously wrong, Brown protecting the widower . . . or was he making a not so subtle attempt to protect two of Kembleford’s police officers.
“I hope you know how to grovel, Inspector, because that’s what you’ll need to do if you expect me to accept your apology when this is over.”
Not easily intimidated, Sullivan smiled and said, “I have no intention of grovelling, or apologising, Mr. Atwood.”
“Inspector Sullivan,” said Brown, his voice hoarse, dry. “Need I remind you, Mr. Atwood’s wife has died?”
Surprised by Brown’s tone of voice, his verbal reprimand, Sullivan took a step forward, looked at Brown, his stare unflinching. Refused to look away, Brown relenting, looking away first. Satisfied, he’d regained control of the situation, the conversation, Sullivan looked back at Atwood. He could see the anger in the man’s eyes, the tension in his muscles; the man was ready and willing to lash out, to lose his temper.
Felt Goodfellow behind him, the sergeant reading the situation as well as Sullivan had, his position showing support, a willingness to step in if his physical strength was required. Although Sullivan was confident of taking care of himself in a physical altercation, Albert Atwood was something different; he had muscle where Sullivan didn’t; he had height, Sullivan’s six foot not enough against this man. It would take cunning, dirty tactics to take Atwood down, or when available, an extra man . . . Sergeant Goodfellow. Sullivan now grateful he had brought his loyal sergeant with him. If things continued in the direction Atwood’s mood indicated, he was going to need Goodfellow . . .
Taking advantage of an opportunity – a little pressure might cause the man to snap, reveal his real personality, confident they could take him if the situation became volatile – Sullivan smiled and said, “Are the rumours true, Mr. Atwood?”
“What rumours?” said Atwood, his shoulders slumping, fingers twitching at his side.
Atwood knew of the rumours, Sullivan was certain.
“The rumours about your wife.”
A look of relief crossed Atwood’s features, a quick disappearance, a mask put back in place.
“It’s rumoured your wife was . . .” said Sullivan, pausing, looking to his sergeant to continue. “What was it, sergeant?”
“His wife has . . . sorry . . . had a nasty personality and was very bossy,” said Goodfellow.
“That’s true, Inspector, but can you blame her. She was sick all the time--”
“So what you’re saying, Mr. Atwood, is that your wife’s illness attributed to her personality.”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware there are also rumours about you?”
Atwood sat down, falling back onto the lounge, a look of defeat converging, covering his features.
“I’m asking because your behaviour contradicts the rumours. I’m wondering if it would be the same with your wife.”
“Rumours,” said Father Brown, still standing. “Always start with a speck of truth.”
It wasn’t much but it was a start, Brown putting his foot in, making a comment about the investigation. His tone sarcastic, his expression less than welcoming, Sullivan said, “Nice of you to finally join us, Father.”
Father Brown, face creasing in disappointment, gave Sullivan a look, one that was easy to interpret. Not sorry, Sullivan returned his attention back to Atwood. “Would you like to show us the way to your wife’s bedroom or--”
“Up the stairs, second door on your right. The undertaker will still be with her.”
Inspector Sullivan nodded and turned away.
“If it’s all the same with you, Inspector,” said Father Brown, sitting back down next to Atwood. “I’ll stay here for the moment.”
Sullivan froze. Turned back. Gave Brown a scrutinising stare. “I wasn’t going to ask you to join us, Father.”
Father Brown nodded, his gaze elsewhere, a deliberate snub, an arrogant dismissal, so unlike the priest to be rude. Another indication that Brown wasn’t acting himself, things becoming more complicated. An automatic retort, a verbal backlash, ready to respond, Sullivan realised Brown had already seen the body, giving Mrs. Atwood last rights. No doubt, the priest had taken advantage, studying the scene looking for clues. He’d done it before, slow to call the police, time taken to satisfy his inner amateur detective. Sullivan certain Brown had done it again, delaying Atwood’s call to the police.
Could that explain Brown’s look of guilt, his behaviour? Was he not meddling now because he had found nothing to indicate murder? Could he have already concluded natural circumstances, a natural death? If that were the case, Brown would have gladly informed Sullivan, taken the opportunity to prove Sullivan’s deduction’s wrong, his line of questioning futile. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Sullivan wasn’t going to rely on Brown for answers. He would go over the scene, draw his own conclusions. Narrowed his eyes, turned and walked out of the room, Goodfellow close behind.
.
.
.
Body language polite, Sullivan stepped into the bedroom, an offer of silent condolences; not sure Mrs. Atwood would hear him. He hesitated, scowled, a natural reaction to the smell of death. Decomposition so capable of inducing a sickening odor, his stomach rolling in slow, methodical motion at the thought . . . frowned. Suspicion continuing to grow, the smell, not strong enough to suggest a length of time of decomposition, but a suggestion that Elizabeth Atwood’s death wasn’t as recent as her husband had told them.
Moved further into the room, the scene before him . . . so calm. Body now in permanent slumber, Elizabeth Atwood looked peaceful, asleep, as though a light nudge, a snap of noise would wake her. There were no obvious signs of violence, of murder. No physical indications that would lead Sullivan to a conclusion of foul play . . . but the smell. Something gave him pause . . . instinct telling him a different story lay beneath what he believed to be a false exterior.
Nodded to the undertaker, the man taking a step back at the sight of Goodfellow, the uniform an introduction, no words needed. Obvious as to why they were there. The undertaker, dressed in black, his dark hair combed back with a heavy amount of brylcreem, moved to a corner of the room, held his hands together in front and lowered his head, a small amount of privacy given.
Sullivan considered asking him to leave the room, decided against it. If Albert Atwood accused him of falsifying evidence, of causing injury to his wife to show proof of murder, there would be a witness to contradict his accusations. Someone who could testify that Sullivan had done nothing more than carry out a visual examination of the body.
“I need you to bear witness,” said Sullivan, turning to face the undertaker.
“Mr. Granger at your service, sir.”
“Mr. Granger,” said Sullivan, a slight nod before moving closer to the bed.
The smell stronger, reminding him Mrs. Atwood’s demise wasn’t recent, her death old, her last breath taken hours earlier, possibly the previous day. Under closer scrutiny, something looked familiar, Sullivan turning to face the undertaker.
“Is she in full rigor mortis?”
The undertaker looked at him, a surprise expression. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Atwood passed away at least twelve hours ago.”
Sullivan glanced back over his shoulder at Goodfellow before looking back at the undertaker. “Or longer. Full rigor lasts another twelve hours. And if the smell is any indication, she’s been dead a while.”
“She could have been dead anywhere up to twenty four hours?” said Goodfellow. “Atwood lied then.”
“It’s possible he didn’t notice,” said Sullivan, frowning down at the body before looking at the bedside tables: no evidence her husband had left her a cup of tea. “Opens the door, believes she’s asleep and then shuts her away again. Out of mind, out of sight.”
“But how do you not notice your wife has died?” said Goodfellow, looking at Sullivan. “Surely he must have noticed she hadn’t moved since the last time he checked on her.”
“Yes . . . It’s also possible he did realise she was dead. Perhaps he wanted to wait until it was dark before he called us in. Fewer officers on duty, a quick declaration of natural causes and off to the pub or home to the wi--” Remembered who was in the room. Snapped his head to the side and pointed in the undertaker’s direction. “You didn’t hear that!”
“No, sir. Of course not,” said Mr. Granger.
Sullivan nodded in satisfaction, believed the undertaker did not intend to repeat what he’d just heard.
“Maybe,” said Goodfellow, “he waited a while to make sure she was dead?”
“Maybe,” said Sullivan looking back at the body laid out on the bed. A step closer, his knees touching the edge of the bed. Breathed through his mouth, not willing . . . he didn't want the odour emanating from Elizabeth Atwood to invade his sinuses.
He reached out, knuckles of his fingers brushing across the side of Mrs. Atwood’s face, her skin soft, cold like ice. Her flesh was pale, almost translucent. Blue veins, like a stagnant river, ran beneath skin that had aged prematurely, her age not yet reaching forty. Hair already turning grey cut short, the edges uneven; it suited her. Face round, nose pinched, her lips plump; she reminded Sullivan of his aunt on his mother’s side. Removed his touch and turned away from the bed.
Noticed Goodfellow and the undertaker watching him. Feeling self-conscious, Sullivan said, “It will be criminal negligence or manslaughter.”
“What about murder, sir?” said Goodfellow.
“I see no signs of a physical injury but considering Mr. Atwood lied about her time of death, I think a full post mortem is in order. Arrange it will you, sergeant. Without telling Mr. Atwood. I’ll inform him myself of our ongoing investigation.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, nodding and leaving the room.
Left alone with Mrs. Atwood and the undertaker, Sullivan no longer felt the need to have a witness present while he gave a cursorily examination, Mrs. Atwood’s death not fresh, any injuries inflicted now would be ineffective. Frowned at the thought, aware there were police officers in existence that would do such a thing, anything to prove guilt, bias in the direction of blame. Planting evidence, inflicting injuries; something he would never do . . . something he had never considered.
“Mr. Granger, your services will no longer be required. I’ll have the police surgeon inform you when he’s ready to release Mrs. Atwood back to your care.”
“You’re no longer in need of a witness?”
“Not anymore. Mrs. Atwood has been dead an extended amount of time. If I were to inflict any new injuries to falsify culpability they would be attributed to someone other than her killer and I’m yet to find any proof of foul play.”
“I’m sorry,” said Granger. “I didn’t mean to suggest you would do such a thing. I meant no offence, sir.”
“You made no suggestions, Mr. Granger and I take no offence. I appreciate your discretion.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Granger, moving away toward the door, pausing in the open doorway. “If he did cause her death, I hope to God you prove it.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Granger.”
Waited until the undertaker left the room and then made a slow turn, gaze taking in the small space; everything in this cottage cramped and cluttered. A normal sense of urgency to open the window, allow the smell of death to escape, to make breathing more bearable. He moved further away from the bed, keeping his distance. His gaze travelled the room a second time, looking for anything that would prove foul play had occurred. Saw nothing, only more dust, more clutter, more figurines; Mrs. Atwood loved her cats. A soft smile, a gentle expression, a hint of amusement, Sullivan certain Mrs. Atwood wouldn’t be offended.
A few minutes to make a more thorough search of the room, the dust telling him nothing was out of place. Stepped back toward the bed. Got down on his hands and knees. A tawny owl sounded in the distance, mating season well underway. A sudden rush of wind, a tree branch slapping against the window. Looked under the bed, nothing hidden, nothing that would frighten a small child or a detective inspector. Made a move to stand up, pausing when something caught his attention. A closer look.
On the worn, tread wooden floor, a very recent addition . . . a piece of white, cotton thread resting on top of a thin layer of dust . . . undisturbed.
.
.
.
The investigation took a different direction, Albert Atwood not happy, Father Brown doing everything he could to keep the man calm. Sullivan had explained his intent, more than once, a repetitive conversation, Atwood claiming a lack of understanding, adamant that his wife had died of natural causes. Sullivan kept the discovery of the cotton fibre close to his chest, certain Father Brown was already aware of that particular piece of evidence; Sullivan surprised the evidence had still been there, Father Brown known to remove evidence from a crime scene and keep it to himself, away from the prying eyes of Kembleford’s detective inspector.
The only information he released to Atwood was to expect the police surgeon and a collection of uniformed police officers to take photos of the scene and to collect anything that may prove to be evidence. Assured Atwood the officers would do a thorough search of the cottage. The widower not happy when Sullivan explained the coroner was going to conduct a full post mortem the next day. He had then left the man in the capable hands of Father Brown. Left the house to carry out an investigation he was now confident would lead to an arrest and a conviction for murder.
Waited outside, expecting Father Brown to make his excuses to Atwood and follow, intent on offering advice and suggestions, to ask if Kembleford’s detective inspector had noticed evidence that only a blind man . . . or an incompetent detective inspector would miss. Sullivan wasn’t waiting to take advice but to express the need for Brown to stay out of his investigation. The man was too meddlesome for his own good, often putting himself at risk, coming close to death on more than one occasion.
It was like second nature to the man, an obsessive need to investigate. Why Brown had become a priest, Sullivan had no idea and he wasn’t going to ask, the man’s reasons private, not for someone else’s judgement. But Sullivan knew with a certainty that one day he would go too far, lose his life or worse . . . be responsible for the loss of a life that wasn’t his own. His clan of assistants, always so willing, so eager to help were also at risk. If only the man kept out of it, left it to people who knew what they were doing. Let out a rush of breath, frustration escaping, an outlet for his emotions, his growing anger.
A drop of rain on his face, the weather quickly turning. Placed his hat on his head, tugging it into place, the brim not enough to keep the rain from his face. Turned around to look at the front door of Atwood’s cottage. Expression morphing into one of confusion, Sullivan at a loss as to why Brown was yet to show himself; the priest definitely acting out of character. He wasn’t going to worry about it, grateful to have the opportunity to investigate a crime without Brown’s interference.
Hesitated when his thoughts returned to the priest’s lack of enthusiasm when it came to interfering. He could feel the explanation hanging onto the edge of his subconscious, the reason not yet ready to reveal itself. Knew the priest would have seen the evidence. Knew Brown would have come to the same conclusion; Mrs. Atwood already deceased for more than twelve hours, the smell an indication she had lain there for too long, possible her husband had kept his distance, not taking care of his wife’s medical requirements. No, the priest would know enough to continue, to ask the appropriate questions but why was he not . . .
“Sir?”
A touch of impatience. “Coming, sergeant.”
Sullivan moved toward the police vehicle, stopped when he caught movement in the shadows surrounding a large oak tree, its branches still snapping against Elizabeth Atwood’s bedroom window. Body filling with tension, adrenaline already pumping through his veins, he stepped into the street, turning to face the person now approaching.
Relaxed when he saw the female form, curves in all the appropriate places. She wore a dark coat, the material curled around her waist, her hips. Dragging his gaze upward, a difficult effort to return to his normal state of chivalrous behaviour, Sullivan noticed the scarf embracing her skull, hair tucked away. Pulled forward, the scarf hid most of her features. She walked up to him, past him, words spoken, her voice snatched away by the wind, but Sullivan heard enough.
“Follow me . . . discreetly. Please.”
Felt like she had just propositioned him.
A flush of embarrassment in his cheeks.
Turned his head, unsure if he should do what she asked. Watched as her direction of movement snapped to the left, her form disappearing behind a hedge thick with leaves. A moment later she reappeared, waved a hand, motioning in a frantic manner for him to join her.
Still felt like a proposition.
Decided . . . what the hell, if she tried anything . . . her arrest would be his physical defence.
A quick glance back at his sergeant, Goodfellow wearing the bright grin of a conspirator, as though they were in this together, waiting for Sullivan to invite him to take part in a romantic interlude with a female paramour. Grimacing in disgust, Sullivan said, “Go and stay with the body, sergeant, there’s a good fellow . . .” Walked away, feet heavy with anger, his footsteps echoing in the wind.
Keeping his distance, an area of safety created, Sullivan moved into a position where he could see the woman. Squinting, a quick glance. Once satisfied the woman wasn’t in a compromising position, he stepped closer.
She spoke without introduction. “Is she dead?”
Wasn’t about to reveal he knew who she was referring to. Tilted his head, a slight angle. “Is who dead?”
“I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look, Inspector, so please, don’t pretend you are.”
Certain he’d just been insulted.
“Yes, Mrs. Atwood is dead.”
“Have you arrested her husband?”
“Who are you?”
She let out a sigh of frustration, the sound dramatic, irritating. It was obvious she was quickly losing patience. “It’s Miss. Anonymous to you, Inspector.”
With a curl of his lip, not at all impressed with her attitude, Sullivan removed his notebook and pen. Made an obvious point of writing it down . . . “Miss. Anonymous . . . how do you spell that . . . no wait. I think I can guess.”
She removed her scarf, a pretty face revealed, her lips painted with red lipstick. More than a few drops of rain, her hair quickly becoming damp. “Sarcastic and handsome.”
“Are you a friend of the Atwood’s or a neighbour?”
“Neither. And there is no sense in speaking with their neighbours, Inspector, they’re too afraid of Atwood to tell you anything.”
Returned to his notebook, adding more notes. “Miss. Anonymous, neighbour to the Atwood’s.”
“Sarcastic, handsome and smart.”
Almost rolled his eyes . . . almost. Maintained a semblance of control. “Do you have some information you want to provide or is this something else?”
“Don’t think too highly of yourself, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous. “I have information.”
“Then by all means,” said Sullivan, holding notebook and pen at the ready . . . just in case Miss. Anonymous had something worthwhile to say. “I’m listening.”
“Elizabeth Atwood may have been a sickly woman, Inspector, but it wasn’t her illness that killed her.”
“And you know this because . . .”
“Everyone knows it. It’s all over the street. All of Kembleford will know by morning.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Gossip does travel fast in Kembleford.”
“You’ve got some of the best gossips in Kembleford here, Inspector. You should use them. I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you. They gossip because they’re lonely, you see.”
“Right.” Lifted his head, a light splatter of rain on his face. Quickly lowered his head. She was smiling at him. Felt uncomfortable. She had him on the wrong foot, his balance of confidence and authority broken. Tried to regain some sort of control. “Any suggestions?”
Her smile grew. Along with his embarrassment. “I don’t mean . . . that’s not . . .” A breath of acceptance; he was acting the fool. A sudden need to explain himself. “There are rumours about Mr. and Mrs. Atwood and I need to confirm if they’re true or false.”
“That’s why I suggested you listen to local gossip.”
His shoulders slumped.
Not as stupid as you look, she’d said.
Certain, at this moment, he was looking very stupid.
“Mrs. McCarthy is your best bet.”
Pursed his lips. “Of course she is.”
A front door slammed shut, the noise loud. Miss. Anonymous flinched, tucking herself closer to the hedge. Sullivan stood up onto the tips of his shoes, glanced over the hedge. Father Brown was walking away from the cottage, the opposite direction, his umbrella up, protection from the rain; their secret meeting safe, no need to worry about discovery.
“Just Father Brown,” said Sullivan.
Eyes wide, a hint of fear covering her features. “I don’t want Albert Atwood to know I’m talking to you, Inspector.”
Understood, comprehension not difficult to find. “You’re afraid of him.”
“Of course, I bloody am.”
“Then the rumours aren’t true?”
“That depends on which rumour you’re talking about.”
“The rumour that Albert Atwood is a man who has a nervous nature.”
“That one is true.”
“So, you think a fearful man killed his wife.”
She moved closer, too close, her left hand reaching out, fingers gripping his forearm. “Even a man with a nervous nature can lose his temper, Inspector.”
He nodded, very aware of what someone like Albert Atwood was capable of doing. He wasn’t sure in this particular case. There was no sign of physical damage to the body. If Atwood had lost his temper, struck out, there would have been injuries . . . bruises, cuts, a fatal wound. No, if Atwood had murdered his wife, it was a deliberate act. Another weapon used; poison an obvious option.
“And you base this assumption on . . .”
“Rumours, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous, her grip increasing before letting go.
About to ask another question, Sullivan left alone when the woman rushed off, a fast movement, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Took a step to follow her . . . changed his mind. Stayed in place, thoughts tumbling through his mind. It was a start, an anonymous tip, someone else suspicious of Mrs. Atwood’s death. Suspicions based on rumours.
Rumours always start with a speck of truth. That’s what the priest had said.
Not enough for an arrest warrant but it was something keeping him on what he knew was the right path except Sullivan didn’t want to gossip with Mrs. McCarthy, didn’t want to become part of that circle. He had used informants in the city, both men and women. Even trusted some of them, their information always based on fact and truth; not gossip. However, he needed to know more about the rumours, to separate truth from fiction. He needed to know if the rumours about Mrs. Atwood were true. It wouldn't make a difference if they were. A domineering wife, no matter how vicious, was not a reasonable excuse to commit murder.
No choice.
In the morning, a visit with Mrs. McCarthy was required.
An expression of irritation crossed his features.
But not before he paid a visit to Doctor Hartford.