Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 3/7
Oct. 31st, 2018 06:36 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: 5,440
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 Three
Sullivan hesitated when he reached the front door of the presbytery. Removed his hat, shook the rain from the brim. Left his coat on, body not yet warm enough to remove the solid source of warmth. Proving a point, his body shivered, pain vibrating through his skull. Headache demanding attention, Sullivan pressed the fingers of his right hand against his forehead, a comforting gesture.
Interrupted when the front door sprung open, a large, dark shadow looming over him. A flash of memory, still fresh . . . taken by surprise, Sullivan dropped his hand to his side and took a stumbling step back. Managed to correct his balance before he fell . . .
Father Brown stepped out of the shadows.
A long, slow, deep breath. Let it out with a soft sigh, a sound of frustration. Grimaced with embarrassment. Lifted his chin, shifted his balance, his body language advertising his aversion to the man standing before him, an aversion grown from the priest’s constant interference in police matters.
Except . . .
He wasn’t meddling. Not in this case. Why?
The explanation still elusive. Blamed his headache, the pain dull, unrelenting . . . pulled away from his misery when Brown spoke, his verbal reception hesitant.
“Inspector?” said Father Brown, gaze narrowing with recognition and concern. “Always a pleasure.”
Sullivan convinced it wasn’t. Step forward, confidence returning. Decided to ask the man for an explanation, not a direct approach, working his way up to the question as he would when interviewing a witness or a . . . suspect. If he didn’t like the priest’s response . . . eventual regret, he would blame his injury, his headache . . . convince himself he wasn’t of sound mind when he’d made the decision to ask Brown why he wasn’t meddling. Paused. Considered changing his mind. Spoke before he could.
“Are you unwell, Father?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Inspector,” said Brown, quick to redirect the conversation back toward Sullivan.
Experienced enough to recognise a diversion when he heard one, Sullivan continued on, even more determined to gain an explanation.
“You look a little pale,” said Sullivan.
“I’m sure I don’t look as pale as you, Inspector,” said Brown, raising a hand and pointing his forefinger, his aim accurate, a confident verbal shot. “That bruising on your face is spectacular and what is that on your neck . . . are those finger marks?”
“Not to worry, Father. I’ve just seen a doctor about it. Doctor Hartford in fact. Didn’t know what he was doing. Should have lost his licence years ago. You must know him. I’m sure you met him last night.”
“Of course,” said Father Brown as he shifted his gaze, turning his head away, too slow to hide an expression of guilt, features shutting down when he turned back to look at Sullivan.
“What did you think of the man?” said Sullivan.
“It would have been rude of me to ignore Albert’s needs to socialise with Doctor Hartford.”
“So unlike you, Father.”
“As you well know, Inspector, the people of my flock come first.”
Sullivan hummed. The sound short and to the point. Time to be direct.
“You’re not meddling, Father. Why is that?”
“Why are you here, Inspector?”
“You didn’t answer my question--”
“Am I a suspect?”
“I only suspect you of . . .” An intentional pause. “Failing to meddle. There must be a reason. Normally you’re so . . . intrusive.”
Voice silent, Father Brown stared back at Sullivan.
Recognised the stubborn set of the man’s shoulders. Understood he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Not to worry, Father. I’m sure I’ll work it out.”
“I’m sure you will, Inspector . . . eventually.”
A low blow.
“I would like to speak to Mrs. McCarthy.”
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
Invited in under obligation, Sullivan moved passed the priest and followed Brown’s verbal directions to the kitchen. Stopped in the doorway when he found himself under the intense scrutiny of Father Brown’s proverbial ‘flock’. Could feel the priest’s presence behind him. Movements slow, Sullivan moved into the room, stepped to the side. The silence thick, his entry almost expected, they stared at him, expressions of accusation. Had they heard the conversation between inspector and priest?
“Inspector! What have you done to yourself?”
Mrs. McCarthy, her tone almost accusatory . . . always ready to point out the most obvious.
A glance toward Brown, a silent verbal request for help, the man keeping his gaze somewhere else. Pursed his lips, not surprised the priest was going to leave him to fight this battle alone. Remembered how he felt inside the bathroom of Hartford’s consulting rooms. Didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of the people who seemed to dislike him most, sometimes, even more so than the criminals of Kembleford.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Well done, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia from her seat at the kitchen table. “Keep the gossip to a minimum.”
Turned his gaze to Sid Carter, the man seated on the other side of the table. Waited for the insult. Nothing came, the suspected part-time criminal staring back at him with a look of disappointment and a shake of his head. They had heard. Pushing the sudden urge to defend himself to the side, Sullivan looked at Mrs. McCarthy.
“Mrs. McCarthy, I would like to speak to you,” said Sullivan. “In private.”
“Here or at the station?” said Sid, standing, pushing his chair back with an abrupt movement, his stance almost threatening.
A flare of anger. “I’ve already had one confrontation today, Mr. Carter. I am not in the mood for another.”
“It’s all right, Sid,” said Father Brown, waiting until the younger man returned to his seat. “I’m sure the Inspector isn’t here to arrest Mrs. McCarthy.”
A quiet breath, enough to calm his anger. If he spoke now . . . wasn't sure he could be polite in his request to . . . quickly lost all control of the situation, Mrs. McCarthy stepping in, her voice loud, insistent.
“What you need, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, coming toward him, a frontal attack, “is a nice cup of tea.”
Sid snorted his amusement. “That’s not what he needs.”
“Sid,” said Father Brown. “Please.”
As bad as he feared . . . almost as bad as he had silently hoped, putting up a meagre defence when Mrs. McCarthy reached him. Her small hand took his elbow and with a strength he didn’t know she had, she pulled him toward the kitchen table. About to push him down onto a chair next to Lady Felicia, she stopped, frowned in concern and began to pull his coat from his shoulders.
“You’re soaked through, Inspector. Take that coat off before you get a chill.”
“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to--”
“Of course there is,” said Mrs. McCarthy, succeeding where Sullivan was struggling. Removed his coat, a show of expertise. Took his hat, pushed him down into the chair and threw his coat and hat to the side, over the edge of the table, an obvious disregard for the water dripping onto the floor. “Can’t have one of Kembleford’s best detective inspector’s coming down with a cold now can we.”
Frowned, a sputter of confusion. He was Kembleford’s only detective inspector.
Thought it was over. Felt safe . . . a hint of disappointment; confused as to why he felt the need to be coddled and by Mrs. McCarthy. Alone in Kembleford, a lack of companionship, of friends, no one to wipe his brow when he felt ill, no one to reassure his doubts, his fears . . . no one to . . . knew he was feeling sorry for himself. A slump of shoulders when he understood the cause of conflicting emotions; his past thrown into his present by a callous Hartford. Shook the unwelcome emotions . . . the loneliness from his mind. Pulled his body away when Mrs. McCarthy leaned in, her face so close. Turned his head away when he understood what she was doing. Caught Lady Felicia’s gaze. She smiled at him, a look of satisfaction, of enjoyment. Grimaced as he turned his head back, Mrs. McCarthy still so close. He could smell her perfume, a pleasant odour.
“A little camphor oil will take care of that, Inspector. Stay right there--”
Father Brown smiled. “Doctor Hartford has already seen to the Inspector’s injury, Mrs. McCarthy, so there really is no need to indulge the man.”
He would give the priest the victory, refusing to respond or deny the man’s accusations of indulgence. Settled back into a comfortable position when Mrs. McCarthy stepped away. Raised his hand to straighten a tie that didn’t need to be straightened, sure there was a hint of embarrassment in his cheeks. His concern validated when Sid Carter gave him a knowing look.
“Doctor Hartford,” said Mrs. McCarthy, her disgust evident in her tone, “is an incompetent fraud.”
“I think we’re all well aware of what he is, Mrs. M,” said Brown.
“How he has managed to continue to practice medicine, I don’t know.” She looked down at Sullivan. “I’ve heard he was responsible for the death of a child. Gave her too much medicine.”
Failed to keep the surprise from his features. Hadn’t known the rumours about Hartford were so accurate.
“That’s hearsay, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “You really should stop listening to rumours.”
Made an effort. “If I could--”
“I do no such thing,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Rumours are speculation and I don’t indulge myself with--”
Failed to keep his patience. “Enough! Please. If I could talk to Mrs. McCarthy alone and in private.”
“You can’t have both,” said Sid.
“Alone,” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at the priest, “and without Father Brown listening at the door.”
“As if he would,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “The Father is a gentlemen and a scholar. Discreet to a fault.”
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. McCarthy, but this is an investigation and on occasion I have found Father Brown to be more than . . .” Stopped before the insult emerged, certain they would be less than impressed with his very descriptive profile of Father Brown. The man was more than discreet. When it came to revealing secrets, confessions, his mind was like a vault, unwilling to unlock, to reveal information given to him during confession.
Frowned, explanation so close he could feel it circling his consciousness, keeping enough distance to stop him from reaching out and touching it. So frustrating, not usually so slow to come to an understanding, normally able to clarify the facts, to put the pieces of the puzzle together to reveal the final picture in a more efficient manner. There had to be a reason, a justification as to why he couldn’t comprehend why Brown was suddenly so reluctant to meddle.
The fog began to lift, thoughts forming, becoming clearer, mind almost ready to inflict him with understanding . . .
“Is there something wrong, Inspector?” said Lady Felicia, leaning forward, her face turned toward him, an expression of confusion and a flicker of concern.
Recognising the importance of the information slowly revealing itself, Sullivan refused to look away from Brown, the man staring back at him. Concentrated, attempting to force the revelation forward . . . snatched away when Mrs. McCarthy placed her hand across his forehead, his line of sight to the priest now broken.
She leaned in, tutted in annoyance when he pulled his head away, his frustration palpable. “Please! Mrs. McCarthy. I’m fine. I don’t need . . .” His anger too strong, the woman not the cause; Mrs. McCarthy only offering comfort, a side effect of her concern. Knew he should be grateful and he was, Mrs. McCarthy giving him what he had wanted, taking a moment of indulgence . . . everything spinning out of his control.
Headache making a sudden increase, Sullivan lifted his hand to his head, fingers massaging his forehead. Perhaps he should have delayed his visit, made a formal announcement to assure that Mrs. McCarthy was alone or he could have simply relayed an invitation to meet him at the police station; Brown’s associates unable to attend a formal interview. Thought it best he apologise before things got out of hand . . . possibly already too late.
“Mrs. McCarthy, I apologise. Your intentions are admirable and on any other occasion . . . at this time I do not require your attention.”
Placing a hand on his shoulder, Mrs. McCarthy said, “Apology accepted but I do hope you won’t refuse a cup of tea.”
Dropped his hand back into his lap, looked up at her and smiled. “Of course not.”
“I do believe the poor man has a headache,” said Lady Felicia, her gaze steady. “Mrs. M, does the Father have any Bex powders. Monty swears by them, Inspector. I’ve even managed to suffer a powder or two after an exuberant dinner party.”
Mrs. McCarthy began to move away. Hesitated, before leaning down toward Sullivan, invading his personal space once again. Her breath warm, she whispered, “She means an exuberant amount of alcohol.”
Not stupid, Sullivan remained silent.
“A polite hostess, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Lady Felicia. “Would have a cup of tea and a powder on the table in front of him already. I mean really, it’s obvious even to me the man is in pain.”
“I’m fine, Lady Felicia,” said Sullivan, the lie forming with ease. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Looking at that,” said Sid, nodding toward Sullivan, “I’d say someone hit you pretty hard.”
Pursed his lips. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Would have to put his foot down and exert his authority. Remembered he had already tried that . . . these people never listened, too enthusiastic as aids to the priest's intrusive meddling, already causing an obstruction to a detective inspector’s investigation. He would have no more of it . . .
Father Brown stepped forward, back into Sullivan’s line of sight. “Is that what happened, Inspector? Did someone hit you?”
“What do you think he meant by confrontation, Father,” said Sid.
“Inspector?” said Brown, his tone of voice indicating he expected an answer.
Sullivan wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Who would do such a thing?” said Brown.
“Come now, Father,” said Sullivan. “You’re not a stupid man.”
Sid leaned forward, his smile a warning of what was to come. “Did some old lady throttle you with her handbag when you tried to help her cross the road?”
Narrowed his eyes. Level of patience dropping even further . . .
Mrs. McCarthy glared at Sid. “I think a little respect is in order, young man.”
“I think we should leave the Inspector and Mrs. McCarthy alone,” said Brown, moving back to the door.
Sid leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “I don’t.”
“I can move this conversation to the police station,” said Sullivan, staring back at Carter, gaze unflinching, so accustomed to a dislike of authority. Sid Carter an accurate example, always so willing to insult and disparage at every opportunity; his loyalty to Father Brown and his two leading ladies always bringing Carter to the priest’s defence. It grated on Sullivan’s patience, chipped away at his authority when Carter struck, giving his verbal insults in front of an audience.
“There’s no need, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure we’re all willing to cooperate with you in your investigation.”
Took a moment to look away, a slow release, his gaze finding Brown. “Are you?”
“To the best of our ability,” said Brown, turning his gaze away.
Let it go. Too impatient to take any further part in the priest’s games. Looked back at Carter. Raised an eyebrow, an invitation to rebuke Father Brown’s declaration of assistance.
Carter stood up, pointed at Sullivan. “If you upset her . . .”
“Sid,” said Brown, a warning tone used.
Watched as they left the room, a little surprised Brown hadn’t been more insistent, the man’s manner a little troubling. Took a deep, calming breath, his agitation, his impatience . . . his anger, taking on a much calmer tone. These people pushed him to the edge, his anger resting on an unstable precipice. A loss of anger, of control, something he didn’t like or appreciate . . . so often reminded of his father. Lowered his gaze, an ache of emotion squeezing his chest. Damn Hartford for bringing it all back; the man causing more pain than the physical altercation. The effects lingering, haunting . . . felt his mind drifting, heading toward a time in his past he didn’t want to revisit . . .
“Inspector Sullivan.”
Mrs. McCarthy’s soft voice not enough to distract . . . more familiar voices invading, pushing the present away. Felt like he . . . a hand on his shoulder, a more insistent tone . . . mind snapping back, Sullivan lifted his gaze.
“Inspector? Are you sure you’re all right,” said Mrs. McCarthy, a frown of concern.
A slip of the tongue, words tumbling. “It hasn’t been a good day, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Would you like to talk about it? I’m sure Father Brown would be willing to listen. He has a way with people.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan, aware of his sudden anger, his disappointment. “If we could just get on with it, please. I’ve wasted enough time.”
Her features relaxing, Mrs. McCarthy, in an understanding tone, said,” I’m sorry, Inspector. I was under the assumption I would be the last person you would want to confide in, especially considering the rumours about my ability to gossip.”
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan. “And you’re incorrect. I do understand that if asked you can be very restrained. As discreet as Father Brown when it comes to the seal of the confessional.”
“You want to confide in me?”
“No, I want to gossip with you,” said Sullivan. “Mrs. McCarthy, I need you to indulge yourself in rumours about Albert and Elizabeth Atwood.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot of tea,” said Mrs. McCarthy.
It didn’t take long, Mrs. McCarthy so skilled in the preparation of a pot of tea. Only a matter of minutes before she returned to the table with pot in hand, a plate of Rich Tea biscuits and two small white pills; knowledge or coincidence she was supplying him with his favourite biscuit he didn’t know. Decided not to ask, only creating embarrassment if it wasn’t a decision made with intent; grateful either way.
Asked something else instead. “No bex powders?”
“Father Brown does not swear by them,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she sat down next to him, quick to pour milk into an empty cup. “Now, as you well know, Inspector, I’m not one for gossip, but I’ll help in any way I can.”
Sullivan smiled. “You come highly recommended, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Really!” An indignant tone. “I have no idea who would want to make such a slanderous allegation.”
She was exaggerating. They both knew it. “She claimed you were Kembleford’s best.”
“Did she now . . .”
Poured tea into the cup before placing it in front of him. She did know. A warmth of emotion spread through his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Mrs. McCarthy so unassuming . . . how did she . . .
“How do you know?” said Sullivan, nodding toward the china cup.
She smiled at him. “It’s known through Kembleford that a particular detective inspector--”
Held up his hand, returned her smile and said, “I prefer to believe I’m still a man of mystery.”
“A mystery you are, Inspector. Now, what is it you would like to know about the Atwoods?”
“I need to separate truth from rumour,” said Sullivan, turning his upper body to face Mrs. McCarthy. “I know it’s hearsay but you must have spoken to someone who knew them. Someone who felt the need to talk. To divulge information. Someone who took an opportunity to relieve themselves of a burden.”
Understanding slammed into Sullivan, the explanation for Brown’s lack of interference slapping him across the face. How could he be so stupid? That damn seal of confession. Atwood had used it to its full advantage, confessing to the priest, relieving himself of his burden, his guilt . . . he had passed on information about his wife’s death, possibly giving incriminating evidence that would convict and hang the man.
“And what sort of information are you referring to, Inspector?”
Turned his head away from Mrs. McCarthy, twisting his upper body into an awkward and painful position, gaze staring at the closed door that led to Father Brown’s current location . . . in the words of Sid Carter, Sullivan wanted to throttle the priest. Damn his religion, his faith . . . his refusal to hand over information gained. How could the priest live with that sort of information? How could he keep a confession of murder to himself . . . keep it from the police? How could he allow a murderer to walk free? He should have known . . . should have understood the moment he walked into Albert Atwood’s living room.
Mrs. McCarthy leaned forward, laid her hand on his forearm. Her expression dropping as fear sharpened her features. Attempted to catch Sullivan’s gaze. Spoke to gain his attention. “Inspector?”
His anger . . . his frustration with the priest . . . he swore beneath his breath. If he confronted Brown now, it would do no good. A loss of temper, a threat of arrest, not enough for Sullivan. He wanted to throw everything he had into a confrontation and damn the consequences. Knew it would quickly turn into a violent encounter, Carter not willing to allow the police to treat his friend in such a way, resorting to violence to protect the priest from a very angry detective inspector.
Thought of his father.
Blinked.
The emotion ebbed away, an outgoing tide, the energy draining from his body, limbs becoming weak. He slumped down further into the chair, back curving, his shoulders pushed forward. He felt numb, as though in shock . . . had he actually considered striking a man of God? His headache pulsed through his skull. Hand trembling, he reached up, pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. The anger quick to return . . . anger aimed inward, his reaction . . . used more force than necessary to massage his headache, the pain only increasing.
“I’m getting Father Brown,” said Mrs. McCarthy, standing up, her chair scraping across the floor.
Torn away from a waking memory, Sullivan turned to look up at Mrs. McCarthy, the woman standing over him. Saw the fear and concern in her eyes, her body language, both emotions aimed in his direction. He had to say something, reassure her that everything was all right. That he was all right. It would be a lie, but he wasn’t about to reveal all to this woman; his words . . . his confession quickly conveyed to Father Brown.
Another thought, one he wished he hadn’t considered. Did Father Brown tell Mrs. McCarthy about Atwood’s confession? Did he tell his small group of helpers? Gathered here in the kitchen of the presbytery for a reason. Information gained, shared amongst each other, including the confession of a killer. He couldn’t be sure; Brown so committed to the seal of the confessional or was it just Kembleford’s detective inspector the priest refused to confide in.
His silence revealed too much, Mrs. McCarthy taking a step toward the door. He couldn’t face the priest, not yet, his emotions eager to return. He would have to calm himself further, distract with someone else. Lowered his hand, eyes covered, he closed them. Took a moment. Opened his eyes and lowered his hand, resting it on the table in front of him. Swallowed his pride, sat up straight and said, “There’s no need, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Are you sure, Inspector?” said Mrs. McCarthy, stepping back. “You’re not yourself. You keep . . .”
Frowned at her hesitation. “Please, by all means, Mrs. McCarthy, say what’s on your mind.”
“Your mind keeps wandering off, Inspector.”
“Is that so?”
Mrs. McCarthy wrung her hands together, a moment taken to make a decision. She sat down, her back straight. A pause before she leaned forward, her hand once again on Sullivan’s forearm. “Should I call the doctor?”
Looked down at her touch. Lifted his gaze. There must have been something written in his eyes, Mrs. McCarthy snatching her hand away. A moment of guilt, the emotion departing as quickly as it came. “No. There’s no need.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, pushing the two white pills toward him. “At least take these, they should help.”
Speaking before his mind had a chance to catch up, Sullivan said, “Did he tell you?”
She frowned. “Did who tell me what?”
Brain still slow to catch up. “Did Father Brown tell you Atwood confessed to him?”
Her gaze steady, Mrs. McCarthy huffed, a sound of surprise and anger. “No. Father Brown would never break the seal of the confessional.” Leaned forward once more. “Albert Atwood confessed to killing his wife?”
Finally catching up to the conversation, Sullivan released a narrow breath through pursed lips. “You will keep that to yourself, Mrs. McCarthy. I spoke without thinking.”
“Yes you did, Inspector. To accuse Father Brown like that--”
“I wasn’t making an accusation.”
“What do you want to know about the Atwood’s, Inspector?” She was no longer on his side, her posture now stiff with anger and resentment, her concern for his welfare removed.
He didn’t mind, his doubt about her growing. Mrs. McCarthy and Father Brown were very close, almost like an old married couple with a hefty age difference. Anything he said against the priest taken to heart, his words hurtful. As a detective inspector, he was use to it, often stirring up emotions of anger and hatred, witnesses and suspects always taking offence, never understanding he was only doing his job.
No longer a conversation, now an interview, Sullivan said, “I don’t want to influence what you say, Mrs. McCarthy. Just tell me what you’ve heard . . . what you believe to be true.”
“Well, I heard,” said Mrs. McCarthy, comfortable in the environment of gossip, “and this came from the woman herself . . .”
“You knew her?”
“We weren’t close, Inspector. I accompanied Father Brown on occasion when she requested his presence to take confession. She was too sick to go to church you see. A God-fearing woman like that, Elizabeth Atwood needed confession. She was a sickly woman, Inspector. Spent a lot of time in bed . . .”
Made every attempt to keep the anger from his features, his body language, failing in a spectacular fashion when Mrs. McCarthy paused to frown at him in disappointment.
“Don’t tell me you disapprove, Inspector? The poor woman can’t be held responsible for--”
“Did she ever talk to you about her husband?”
“If you mean, did she ever tell me about her husband’s disposition, yes she did. She told me he was a nervous man, scared of his own shadow. How a man with his physical attributes . . . not my description, Inspector. Lady Felica is not one to keep her thoughts to herself when it comes to men.”
Shifted his body with impatience. “The rumours of his nervous nature are true?”
“So she said.”
“Could she have been lying?”
“Why on Earth would she lie about that?”
“Mrs. Atwood has her own set of rumours.”
“I’ve heard a few, Inspector but you can’t blame the poor woman. Always sick, unable to take care of her home or her husband. Something like that is bound to change you.”
“How did she change, Mrs. McCarthy, and please be honest?”
“You haven’t taken the pain killers, Inspector. Or drunk your tea.”
A delaying tactic, the effort to change the subject so familiar. Picking up the pills, Sullivan swallowed them down with the help of the now lukewarm tea. Grimaced when pain spiked through his throat, the taste of something unpleasant still in his mouth. Ignored it. Ignored the biscuits set in front of him, his appetite lacking.
“Mrs. McCarthy . . .”
“She became vindictive, angry. She was very domineering toward her husband, even when we were there,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she looked away. “The way she treated that man. So disrespectful she was. After everything, he did for her. He doted on her.”
Not the impression he’d received last night from Miss. Anonymous, a suggestion implied that Atwood had murdered his wife, confessing she was afraid of her neighbour. “Was she afraid of her husband?”
“You’re not listening, Inspector. If she were afraid of him, she would not have treated him the way she did. It’s why she needed confession.”
“How many times did you accompany Father Brown to see Mrs. Atwood?”
“On six occasions.”
“And what did you do while Father Brown took her confession?”
“I sat with Mr. Atwood.”
“What is your opinion of Albert Atwood as a man?”
She looked away.
“Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan leaning forward, closer to the woman. “Anything you say to me will be confidential.”
Looked back at him, her expression full of doubt, Sullivan now unsure he could trust what she was about to tell him. “Please, Mrs. McCarthy. I’m certain Atwood murdered his wife but I need proof. Anything you tell me will give me a better understanding of the man.”
“You’re not one for gossip, Inspector.”
“I wouldn’t classify your opinion as gossip, Mrs. McCarthy.”
She smiled, a grateful expression. “I didn’t like the man. I’m sure you saw the state of that cottage. She refused to bring in help. Worried her husband would stray and he did. He was having an extramarital affair.”
Sullivan frowned, thoughts stuttering in confusion. Looked away, time taken to think. It would give motive. Her chronic illness an opportunity to make her death look like natural causes, her heart finally giving up on life. If that had been his plan, he’d failed miserably, her doctor refusing to hand over a death certificate.
“Inspector?”
Had Hartford suspected a different cause of death? His refusal to state natural causes giving him a chance to blackmail and coerce Atwood into making payment for a death certificate. If that were true . . . Atwood would have two choices; make the payment or remove Hartford, the doctor’s life at risk. Closed his eyes at the implication, a chance Hartford would need police protection. Or not, Sullivan remembering Hartford’s phone conversation, an indication of co-operation, certain he was working with Atwood and not against him. Certain they were working together against Kembleford’s detective inspector.
“Inspector Sullivan!”
Opened his eyes, looked back at Mrs. McCarthy and said, “You said he doted on her.”
“If there was any good in that man, it was that he loved his wife.”
“Enough to go out and have an affair. Is that why you didn’t like him?”
“He committed a sin.”
Sullivan nodded. “His affair? Is that gossip or do you know for certain?”
“Mrs. Atwood herself told me.”
“You’re certain.”
“Of course I am but . . .
“But what?”
“As much as I dislike the man, I don’t believe he killed her. He’s too afraid of his own shadow.”
“Fear can make a man do many things, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“If you don’t believe me, Inspector, ask Father Brown. He’ll tell you Albert Atwood didn’t kill his wife.”
“Even though he confessed?”
“You don’t know that, Inspector. Ask the Father if he believes Albert Atwood killed his wife.”
Ask Father Brown.
No, he wasn’t going to ask Father Brown. That would be a mistake. Not in the mood to accept a refusal to cooperate with the police, for the blank expression that tried so hard to reveal very little to Sullivan. Leaned back in surprise, memories brought forward; the subtle suggestions made by Brown in Atwood’s living room: the look of approval, the direct gaze after dropping his hat onto the floor, the cough created when Atwood claimed his wife had died of natural causes. Brown had made an effort to convey information. His anger grew, not a mind reader, not able to read a given confession within Brown’s facial expressions, his body language. The man should have been more direct. Sullivan knew he should have been more attentive to Brown’s suggestions . . . he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“Inspector . . .”
It was time to leave, before his anger erupted, Father Brown the target. Truth now separated from gossip, from rumour . . . another motive created. Atwood now the main suspect. Results of the post mortem not yet available, Sullivan needed a plan, an alternative. Atwood had to know, Hartford giving the man information; threats not enough, Sullivan not willing to ‘back off’, possible Atwood might do a runner . . .
“I need to make a telephone call,” said Sullivan, standing up, snatching his hat and coat off the table and turning toward the door, a few seconds before he turned back to face Mrs. McCarthy. “Please.”
His intent . . . to spend the afternoon looking for the culprits involved with the physical altercation with Kembleford’s detective inspector, gain a confession, an admittance of physical intimidation manufactured by Atwood. He could then arrest Atwood, the man locked away in a small cell while Sullivan found the evidence required to charge Atwood with murder.
To do that, he was going to require a second source of protection: Sergeant Goodfellow.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four
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: 5,440
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 Three
Sullivan hesitated when he reached the front door of the presbytery. Removed his hat, shook the rain from the brim. Left his coat on, body not yet warm enough to remove the solid source of warmth. Proving a point, his body shivered, pain vibrating through his skull. Headache demanding attention, Sullivan pressed the fingers of his right hand against his forehead, a comforting gesture.
Interrupted when the front door sprung open, a large, dark shadow looming over him. A flash of memory, still fresh . . . taken by surprise, Sullivan dropped his hand to his side and took a stumbling step back. Managed to correct his balance before he fell . . .
Father Brown stepped out of the shadows.
A long, slow, deep breath. Let it out with a soft sigh, a sound of frustration. Grimaced with embarrassment. Lifted his chin, shifted his balance, his body language advertising his aversion to the man standing before him, an aversion grown from the priest’s constant interference in police matters.
Except . . .
He wasn’t meddling. Not in this case. Why?
The explanation still elusive. Blamed his headache, the pain dull, unrelenting . . . pulled away from his misery when Brown spoke, his verbal reception hesitant.
“Inspector?” said Father Brown, gaze narrowing with recognition and concern. “Always a pleasure.”
Sullivan convinced it wasn’t. Step forward, confidence returning. Decided to ask the man for an explanation, not a direct approach, working his way up to the question as he would when interviewing a witness or a . . . suspect. If he didn’t like the priest’s response . . . eventual regret, he would blame his injury, his headache . . . convince himself he wasn’t of sound mind when he’d made the decision to ask Brown why he wasn’t meddling. Paused. Considered changing his mind. Spoke before he could.
“Are you unwell, Father?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Inspector,” said Brown, quick to redirect the conversation back toward Sullivan.
Experienced enough to recognise a diversion when he heard one, Sullivan continued on, even more determined to gain an explanation.
“You look a little pale,” said Sullivan.
“I’m sure I don’t look as pale as you, Inspector,” said Brown, raising a hand and pointing his forefinger, his aim accurate, a confident verbal shot. “That bruising on your face is spectacular and what is that on your neck . . . are those finger marks?”
“Not to worry, Father. I’ve just seen a doctor about it. Doctor Hartford in fact. Didn’t know what he was doing. Should have lost his licence years ago. You must know him. I’m sure you met him last night.”
“Of course,” said Father Brown as he shifted his gaze, turning his head away, too slow to hide an expression of guilt, features shutting down when he turned back to look at Sullivan.
“What did you think of the man?” said Sullivan.
“It would have been rude of me to ignore Albert’s needs to socialise with Doctor Hartford.”
“So unlike you, Father.”
“As you well know, Inspector, the people of my flock come first.”
Sullivan hummed. The sound short and to the point. Time to be direct.
“You’re not meddling, Father. Why is that?”
“Why are you here, Inspector?”
“You didn’t answer my question--”
“Am I a suspect?”
“I only suspect you of . . .” An intentional pause. “Failing to meddle. There must be a reason. Normally you’re so . . . intrusive.”
Voice silent, Father Brown stared back at Sullivan.
Recognised the stubborn set of the man’s shoulders. Understood he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Not to worry, Father. I’m sure I’ll work it out.”
“I’m sure you will, Inspector . . . eventually.”
A low blow.
“I would like to speak to Mrs. McCarthy.”
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
Invited in under obligation, Sullivan moved passed the priest and followed Brown’s verbal directions to the kitchen. Stopped in the doorway when he found himself under the intense scrutiny of Father Brown’s proverbial ‘flock’. Could feel the priest’s presence behind him. Movements slow, Sullivan moved into the room, stepped to the side. The silence thick, his entry almost expected, they stared at him, expressions of accusation. Had they heard the conversation between inspector and priest?
“Inspector! What have you done to yourself?”
Mrs. McCarthy, her tone almost accusatory . . . always ready to point out the most obvious.
A glance toward Brown, a silent verbal request for help, the man keeping his gaze somewhere else. Pursed his lips, not surprised the priest was going to leave him to fight this battle alone. Remembered how he felt inside the bathroom of Hartford’s consulting rooms. Didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of the people who seemed to dislike him most, sometimes, even more so than the criminals of Kembleford.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Well done, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia from her seat at the kitchen table. “Keep the gossip to a minimum.”
Turned his gaze to Sid Carter, the man seated on the other side of the table. Waited for the insult. Nothing came, the suspected part-time criminal staring back at him with a look of disappointment and a shake of his head. They had heard. Pushing the sudden urge to defend himself to the side, Sullivan looked at Mrs. McCarthy.
“Mrs. McCarthy, I would like to speak to you,” said Sullivan. “In private.”
“Here or at the station?” said Sid, standing, pushing his chair back with an abrupt movement, his stance almost threatening.
A flare of anger. “I’ve already had one confrontation today, Mr. Carter. I am not in the mood for another.”
“It’s all right, Sid,” said Father Brown, waiting until the younger man returned to his seat. “I’m sure the Inspector isn’t here to arrest Mrs. McCarthy.”
A quiet breath, enough to calm his anger. If he spoke now . . . wasn't sure he could be polite in his request to . . . quickly lost all control of the situation, Mrs. McCarthy stepping in, her voice loud, insistent.
“What you need, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, coming toward him, a frontal attack, “is a nice cup of tea.”
Sid snorted his amusement. “That’s not what he needs.”
“Sid,” said Father Brown. “Please.”
As bad as he feared . . . almost as bad as he had silently hoped, putting up a meagre defence when Mrs. McCarthy reached him. Her small hand took his elbow and with a strength he didn’t know she had, she pulled him toward the kitchen table. About to push him down onto a chair next to Lady Felicia, she stopped, frowned in concern and began to pull his coat from his shoulders.
“You’re soaked through, Inspector. Take that coat off before you get a chill.”
“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to--”
“Of course there is,” said Mrs. McCarthy, succeeding where Sullivan was struggling. Removed his coat, a show of expertise. Took his hat, pushed him down into the chair and threw his coat and hat to the side, over the edge of the table, an obvious disregard for the water dripping onto the floor. “Can’t have one of Kembleford’s best detective inspector’s coming down with a cold now can we.”
Frowned, a sputter of confusion. He was Kembleford’s only detective inspector.
Thought it was over. Felt safe . . . a hint of disappointment; confused as to why he felt the need to be coddled and by Mrs. McCarthy. Alone in Kembleford, a lack of companionship, of friends, no one to wipe his brow when he felt ill, no one to reassure his doubts, his fears . . . no one to . . . knew he was feeling sorry for himself. A slump of shoulders when he understood the cause of conflicting emotions; his past thrown into his present by a callous Hartford. Shook the unwelcome emotions . . . the loneliness from his mind. Pulled his body away when Mrs. McCarthy leaned in, her face so close. Turned his head away when he understood what she was doing. Caught Lady Felicia’s gaze. She smiled at him, a look of satisfaction, of enjoyment. Grimaced as he turned his head back, Mrs. McCarthy still so close. He could smell her perfume, a pleasant odour.
“A little camphor oil will take care of that, Inspector. Stay right there--”
Father Brown smiled. “Doctor Hartford has already seen to the Inspector’s injury, Mrs. McCarthy, so there really is no need to indulge the man.”
He would give the priest the victory, refusing to respond or deny the man’s accusations of indulgence. Settled back into a comfortable position when Mrs. McCarthy stepped away. Raised his hand to straighten a tie that didn’t need to be straightened, sure there was a hint of embarrassment in his cheeks. His concern validated when Sid Carter gave him a knowing look.
“Doctor Hartford,” said Mrs. McCarthy, her disgust evident in her tone, “is an incompetent fraud.”
“I think we’re all well aware of what he is, Mrs. M,” said Brown.
“How he has managed to continue to practice medicine, I don’t know.” She looked down at Sullivan. “I’ve heard he was responsible for the death of a child. Gave her too much medicine.”
Failed to keep the surprise from his features. Hadn’t known the rumours about Hartford were so accurate.
“That’s hearsay, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “You really should stop listening to rumours.”
Made an effort. “If I could--”
“I do no such thing,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Rumours are speculation and I don’t indulge myself with--”
Failed to keep his patience. “Enough! Please. If I could talk to Mrs. McCarthy alone and in private.”
“You can’t have both,” said Sid.
“Alone,” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at the priest, “and without Father Brown listening at the door.”
“As if he would,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “The Father is a gentlemen and a scholar. Discreet to a fault.”
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. McCarthy, but this is an investigation and on occasion I have found Father Brown to be more than . . .” Stopped before the insult emerged, certain they would be less than impressed with his very descriptive profile of Father Brown. The man was more than discreet. When it came to revealing secrets, confessions, his mind was like a vault, unwilling to unlock, to reveal information given to him during confession.
Frowned, explanation so close he could feel it circling his consciousness, keeping enough distance to stop him from reaching out and touching it. So frustrating, not usually so slow to come to an understanding, normally able to clarify the facts, to put the pieces of the puzzle together to reveal the final picture in a more efficient manner. There had to be a reason, a justification as to why he couldn’t comprehend why Brown was suddenly so reluctant to meddle.
The fog began to lift, thoughts forming, becoming clearer, mind almost ready to inflict him with understanding . . .
“Is there something wrong, Inspector?” said Lady Felicia, leaning forward, her face turned toward him, an expression of confusion and a flicker of concern.
Recognising the importance of the information slowly revealing itself, Sullivan refused to look away from Brown, the man staring back at him. Concentrated, attempting to force the revelation forward . . . snatched away when Mrs. McCarthy placed her hand across his forehead, his line of sight to the priest now broken.
She leaned in, tutted in annoyance when he pulled his head away, his frustration palpable. “Please! Mrs. McCarthy. I’m fine. I don’t need . . .” His anger too strong, the woman not the cause; Mrs. McCarthy only offering comfort, a side effect of her concern. Knew he should be grateful and he was, Mrs. McCarthy giving him what he had wanted, taking a moment of indulgence . . . everything spinning out of his control.
Headache making a sudden increase, Sullivan lifted his hand to his head, fingers massaging his forehead. Perhaps he should have delayed his visit, made a formal announcement to assure that Mrs. McCarthy was alone or he could have simply relayed an invitation to meet him at the police station; Brown’s associates unable to attend a formal interview. Thought it best he apologise before things got out of hand . . . possibly already too late.
“Mrs. McCarthy, I apologise. Your intentions are admirable and on any other occasion . . . at this time I do not require your attention.”
Placing a hand on his shoulder, Mrs. McCarthy said, “Apology accepted but I do hope you won’t refuse a cup of tea.”
Dropped his hand back into his lap, looked up at her and smiled. “Of course not.”
“I do believe the poor man has a headache,” said Lady Felicia, her gaze steady. “Mrs. M, does the Father have any Bex powders. Monty swears by them, Inspector. I’ve even managed to suffer a powder or two after an exuberant dinner party.”
Mrs. McCarthy began to move away. Hesitated, before leaning down toward Sullivan, invading his personal space once again. Her breath warm, she whispered, “She means an exuberant amount of alcohol.”
Not stupid, Sullivan remained silent.
“A polite hostess, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Lady Felicia. “Would have a cup of tea and a powder on the table in front of him already. I mean really, it’s obvious even to me the man is in pain.”
“I’m fine, Lady Felicia,” said Sullivan, the lie forming with ease. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Looking at that,” said Sid, nodding toward Sullivan, “I’d say someone hit you pretty hard.”
Pursed his lips. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Would have to put his foot down and exert his authority. Remembered he had already tried that . . . these people never listened, too enthusiastic as aids to the priest's intrusive meddling, already causing an obstruction to a detective inspector’s investigation. He would have no more of it . . .
Father Brown stepped forward, back into Sullivan’s line of sight. “Is that what happened, Inspector? Did someone hit you?”
“What do you think he meant by confrontation, Father,” said Sid.
“Inspector?” said Brown, his tone of voice indicating he expected an answer.
Sullivan wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Who would do such a thing?” said Brown.
“Come now, Father,” said Sullivan. “You’re not a stupid man.”
Sid leaned forward, his smile a warning of what was to come. “Did some old lady throttle you with her handbag when you tried to help her cross the road?”
Narrowed his eyes. Level of patience dropping even further . . .
Mrs. McCarthy glared at Sid. “I think a little respect is in order, young man.”
“I think we should leave the Inspector and Mrs. McCarthy alone,” said Brown, moving back to the door.
Sid leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “I don’t.”
“I can move this conversation to the police station,” said Sullivan, staring back at Carter, gaze unflinching, so accustomed to a dislike of authority. Sid Carter an accurate example, always so willing to insult and disparage at every opportunity; his loyalty to Father Brown and his two leading ladies always bringing Carter to the priest’s defence. It grated on Sullivan’s patience, chipped away at his authority when Carter struck, giving his verbal insults in front of an audience.
“There’s no need, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure we’re all willing to cooperate with you in your investigation.”
Took a moment to look away, a slow release, his gaze finding Brown. “Are you?”
“To the best of our ability,” said Brown, turning his gaze away.
Let it go. Too impatient to take any further part in the priest’s games. Looked back at Carter. Raised an eyebrow, an invitation to rebuke Father Brown’s declaration of assistance.
Carter stood up, pointed at Sullivan. “If you upset her . . .”
“Sid,” said Brown, a warning tone used.
Watched as they left the room, a little surprised Brown hadn’t been more insistent, the man’s manner a little troubling. Took a deep, calming breath, his agitation, his impatience . . . his anger, taking on a much calmer tone. These people pushed him to the edge, his anger resting on an unstable precipice. A loss of anger, of control, something he didn’t like or appreciate . . . so often reminded of his father. Lowered his gaze, an ache of emotion squeezing his chest. Damn Hartford for bringing it all back; the man causing more pain than the physical altercation. The effects lingering, haunting . . . felt his mind drifting, heading toward a time in his past he didn’t want to revisit . . .
“Inspector Sullivan.”
Mrs. McCarthy’s soft voice not enough to distract . . . more familiar voices invading, pushing the present away. Felt like he . . . a hand on his shoulder, a more insistent tone . . . mind snapping back, Sullivan lifted his gaze.
“Inspector? Are you sure you’re all right,” said Mrs. McCarthy, a frown of concern.
A slip of the tongue, words tumbling. “It hasn’t been a good day, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Would you like to talk about it? I’m sure Father Brown would be willing to listen. He has a way with people.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan, aware of his sudden anger, his disappointment. “If we could just get on with it, please. I’ve wasted enough time.”
Her features relaxing, Mrs. McCarthy, in an understanding tone, said,” I’m sorry, Inspector. I was under the assumption I would be the last person you would want to confide in, especially considering the rumours about my ability to gossip.”
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan. “And you’re incorrect. I do understand that if asked you can be very restrained. As discreet as Father Brown when it comes to the seal of the confessional.”
“You want to confide in me?”
“No, I want to gossip with you,” said Sullivan. “Mrs. McCarthy, I need you to indulge yourself in rumours about Albert and Elizabeth Atwood.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot of tea,” said Mrs. McCarthy.
It didn’t take long, Mrs. McCarthy so skilled in the preparation of a pot of tea. Only a matter of minutes before she returned to the table with pot in hand, a plate of Rich Tea biscuits and two small white pills; knowledge or coincidence she was supplying him with his favourite biscuit he didn’t know. Decided not to ask, only creating embarrassment if it wasn’t a decision made with intent; grateful either way.
Asked something else instead. “No bex powders?”
“Father Brown does not swear by them,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she sat down next to him, quick to pour milk into an empty cup. “Now, as you well know, Inspector, I’m not one for gossip, but I’ll help in any way I can.”
Sullivan smiled. “You come highly recommended, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Really!” An indignant tone. “I have no idea who would want to make such a slanderous allegation.”
She was exaggerating. They both knew it. “She claimed you were Kembleford’s best.”
“Did she now . . .”
Poured tea into the cup before placing it in front of him. She did know. A warmth of emotion spread through his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Mrs. McCarthy so unassuming . . . how did she . . .
“How do you know?” said Sullivan, nodding toward the china cup.
She smiled at him. “It’s known through Kembleford that a particular detective inspector--”
Held up his hand, returned her smile and said, “I prefer to believe I’m still a man of mystery.”
“A mystery you are, Inspector. Now, what is it you would like to know about the Atwoods?”
“I need to separate truth from rumour,” said Sullivan, turning his upper body to face Mrs. McCarthy. “I know it’s hearsay but you must have spoken to someone who knew them. Someone who felt the need to talk. To divulge information. Someone who took an opportunity to relieve themselves of a burden.”
Understanding slammed into Sullivan, the explanation for Brown’s lack of interference slapping him across the face. How could he be so stupid? That damn seal of confession. Atwood had used it to its full advantage, confessing to the priest, relieving himself of his burden, his guilt . . . he had passed on information about his wife’s death, possibly giving incriminating evidence that would convict and hang the man.
“And what sort of information are you referring to, Inspector?”
Turned his head away from Mrs. McCarthy, twisting his upper body into an awkward and painful position, gaze staring at the closed door that led to Father Brown’s current location . . . in the words of Sid Carter, Sullivan wanted to throttle the priest. Damn his religion, his faith . . . his refusal to hand over information gained. How could the priest live with that sort of information? How could he keep a confession of murder to himself . . . keep it from the police? How could he allow a murderer to walk free? He should have known . . . should have understood the moment he walked into Albert Atwood’s living room.
Mrs. McCarthy leaned forward, laid her hand on his forearm. Her expression dropping as fear sharpened her features. Attempted to catch Sullivan’s gaze. Spoke to gain his attention. “Inspector?”
His anger . . . his frustration with the priest . . . he swore beneath his breath. If he confronted Brown now, it would do no good. A loss of temper, a threat of arrest, not enough for Sullivan. He wanted to throw everything he had into a confrontation and damn the consequences. Knew it would quickly turn into a violent encounter, Carter not willing to allow the police to treat his friend in such a way, resorting to violence to protect the priest from a very angry detective inspector.
Thought of his father.
Blinked.
The emotion ebbed away, an outgoing tide, the energy draining from his body, limbs becoming weak. He slumped down further into the chair, back curving, his shoulders pushed forward. He felt numb, as though in shock . . . had he actually considered striking a man of God? His headache pulsed through his skull. Hand trembling, he reached up, pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. The anger quick to return . . . anger aimed inward, his reaction . . . used more force than necessary to massage his headache, the pain only increasing.
“I’m getting Father Brown,” said Mrs. McCarthy, standing up, her chair scraping across the floor.
Torn away from a waking memory, Sullivan turned to look up at Mrs. McCarthy, the woman standing over him. Saw the fear and concern in her eyes, her body language, both emotions aimed in his direction. He had to say something, reassure her that everything was all right. That he was all right. It would be a lie, but he wasn’t about to reveal all to this woman; his words . . . his confession quickly conveyed to Father Brown.
Another thought, one he wished he hadn’t considered. Did Father Brown tell Mrs. McCarthy about Atwood’s confession? Did he tell his small group of helpers? Gathered here in the kitchen of the presbytery for a reason. Information gained, shared amongst each other, including the confession of a killer. He couldn’t be sure; Brown so committed to the seal of the confessional or was it just Kembleford’s detective inspector the priest refused to confide in.
His silence revealed too much, Mrs. McCarthy taking a step toward the door. He couldn’t face the priest, not yet, his emotions eager to return. He would have to calm himself further, distract with someone else. Lowered his hand, eyes covered, he closed them. Took a moment. Opened his eyes and lowered his hand, resting it on the table in front of him. Swallowed his pride, sat up straight and said, “There’s no need, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Are you sure, Inspector?” said Mrs. McCarthy, stepping back. “You’re not yourself. You keep . . .”
Frowned at her hesitation. “Please, by all means, Mrs. McCarthy, say what’s on your mind.”
“Your mind keeps wandering off, Inspector.”
“Is that so?”
Mrs. McCarthy wrung her hands together, a moment taken to make a decision. She sat down, her back straight. A pause before she leaned forward, her hand once again on Sullivan’s forearm. “Should I call the doctor?”
Looked down at her touch. Lifted his gaze. There must have been something written in his eyes, Mrs. McCarthy snatching her hand away. A moment of guilt, the emotion departing as quickly as it came. “No. There’s no need.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, pushing the two white pills toward him. “At least take these, they should help.”
Speaking before his mind had a chance to catch up, Sullivan said, “Did he tell you?”
She frowned. “Did who tell me what?”
Brain still slow to catch up. “Did Father Brown tell you Atwood confessed to him?”
Her gaze steady, Mrs. McCarthy huffed, a sound of surprise and anger. “No. Father Brown would never break the seal of the confessional.” Leaned forward once more. “Albert Atwood confessed to killing his wife?”
Finally catching up to the conversation, Sullivan released a narrow breath through pursed lips. “You will keep that to yourself, Mrs. McCarthy. I spoke without thinking.”
“Yes you did, Inspector. To accuse Father Brown like that--”
“I wasn’t making an accusation.”
“What do you want to know about the Atwood’s, Inspector?” She was no longer on his side, her posture now stiff with anger and resentment, her concern for his welfare removed.
He didn’t mind, his doubt about her growing. Mrs. McCarthy and Father Brown were very close, almost like an old married couple with a hefty age difference. Anything he said against the priest taken to heart, his words hurtful. As a detective inspector, he was use to it, often stirring up emotions of anger and hatred, witnesses and suspects always taking offence, never understanding he was only doing his job.
No longer a conversation, now an interview, Sullivan said, “I don’t want to influence what you say, Mrs. McCarthy. Just tell me what you’ve heard . . . what you believe to be true.”
“Well, I heard,” said Mrs. McCarthy, comfortable in the environment of gossip, “and this came from the woman herself . . .”
“You knew her?”
“We weren’t close, Inspector. I accompanied Father Brown on occasion when she requested his presence to take confession. She was too sick to go to church you see. A God-fearing woman like that, Elizabeth Atwood needed confession. She was a sickly woman, Inspector. Spent a lot of time in bed . . .”
Made every attempt to keep the anger from his features, his body language, failing in a spectacular fashion when Mrs. McCarthy paused to frown at him in disappointment.
“Don’t tell me you disapprove, Inspector? The poor woman can’t be held responsible for--”
“Did she ever talk to you about her husband?”
“If you mean, did she ever tell me about her husband’s disposition, yes she did. She told me he was a nervous man, scared of his own shadow. How a man with his physical attributes . . . not my description, Inspector. Lady Felica is not one to keep her thoughts to herself when it comes to men.”
Shifted his body with impatience. “The rumours of his nervous nature are true?”
“So she said.”
“Could she have been lying?”
“Why on Earth would she lie about that?”
“Mrs. Atwood has her own set of rumours.”
“I’ve heard a few, Inspector but you can’t blame the poor woman. Always sick, unable to take care of her home or her husband. Something like that is bound to change you.”
“How did she change, Mrs. McCarthy, and please be honest?”
“You haven’t taken the pain killers, Inspector. Or drunk your tea.”
A delaying tactic, the effort to change the subject so familiar. Picking up the pills, Sullivan swallowed them down with the help of the now lukewarm tea. Grimaced when pain spiked through his throat, the taste of something unpleasant still in his mouth. Ignored it. Ignored the biscuits set in front of him, his appetite lacking.
“Mrs. McCarthy . . .”
“She became vindictive, angry. She was very domineering toward her husband, even when we were there,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she looked away. “The way she treated that man. So disrespectful she was. After everything, he did for her. He doted on her.”
Not the impression he’d received last night from Miss. Anonymous, a suggestion implied that Atwood had murdered his wife, confessing she was afraid of her neighbour. “Was she afraid of her husband?”
“You’re not listening, Inspector. If she were afraid of him, she would not have treated him the way she did. It’s why she needed confession.”
“How many times did you accompany Father Brown to see Mrs. Atwood?”
“On six occasions.”
“And what did you do while Father Brown took her confession?”
“I sat with Mr. Atwood.”
“What is your opinion of Albert Atwood as a man?”
She looked away.
“Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan leaning forward, closer to the woman. “Anything you say to me will be confidential.”
Looked back at him, her expression full of doubt, Sullivan now unsure he could trust what she was about to tell him. “Please, Mrs. McCarthy. I’m certain Atwood murdered his wife but I need proof. Anything you tell me will give me a better understanding of the man.”
“You’re not one for gossip, Inspector.”
“I wouldn’t classify your opinion as gossip, Mrs. McCarthy.”
She smiled, a grateful expression. “I didn’t like the man. I’m sure you saw the state of that cottage. She refused to bring in help. Worried her husband would stray and he did. He was having an extramarital affair.”
Sullivan frowned, thoughts stuttering in confusion. Looked away, time taken to think. It would give motive. Her chronic illness an opportunity to make her death look like natural causes, her heart finally giving up on life. If that had been his plan, he’d failed miserably, her doctor refusing to hand over a death certificate.
“Inspector?”
Had Hartford suspected a different cause of death? His refusal to state natural causes giving him a chance to blackmail and coerce Atwood into making payment for a death certificate. If that were true . . . Atwood would have two choices; make the payment or remove Hartford, the doctor’s life at risk. Closed his eyes at the implication, a chance Hartford would need police protection. Or not, Sullivan remembering Hartford’s phone conversation, an indication of co-operation, certain he was working with Atwood and not against him. Certain they were working together against Kembleford’s detective inspector.
“Inspector Sullivan!”
Opened his eyes, looked back at Mrs. McCarthy and said, “You said he doted on her.”
“If there was any good in that man, it was that he loved his wife.”
“Enough to go out and have an affair. Is that why you didn’t like him?”
“He committed a sin.”
Sullivan nodded. “His affair? Is that gossip or do you know for certain?”
“Mrs. Atwood herself told me.”
“You’re certain.”
“Of course I am but . . .
“But what?”
“As much as I dislike the man, I don’t believe he killed her. He’s too afraid of his own shadow.”
“Fear can make a man do many things, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“If you don’t believe me, Inspector, ask Father Brown. He’ll tell you Albert Atwood didn’t kill his wife.”
“Even though he confessed?”
“You don’t know that, Inspector. Ask the Father if he believes Albert Atwood killed his wife.”
Ask Father Brown.
No, he wasn’t going to ask Father Brown. That would be a mistake. Not in the mood to accept a refusal to cooperate with the police, for the blank expression that tried so hard to reveal very little to Sullivan. Leaned back in surprise, memories brought forward; the subtle suggestions made by Brown in Atwood’s living room: the look of approval, the direct gaze after dropping his hat onto the floor, the cough created when Atwood claimed his wife had died of natural causes. Brown had made an effort to convey information. His anger grew, not a mind reader, not able to read a given confession within Brown’s facial expressions, his body language. The man should have been more direct. Sullivan knew he should have been more attentive to Brown’s suggestions . . . he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“Inspector . . .”
It was time to leave, before his anger erupted, Father Brown the target. Truth now separated from gossip, from rumour . . . another motive created. Atwood now the main suspect. Results of the post mortem not yet available, Sullivan needed a plan, an alternative. Atwood had to know, Hartford giving the man information; threats not enough, Sullivan not willing to ‘back off’, possible Atwood might do a runner . . .
“I need to make a telephone call,” said Sullivan, standing up, snatching his hat and coat off the table and turning toward the door, a few seconds before he turned back to face Mrs. McCarthy. “Please.”
His intent . . . to spend the afternoon looking for the culprits involved with the physical altercation with Kembleford’s detective inspector, gain a confession, an admittance of physical intimidation manufactured by Atwood. He could then arrest Atwood, the man locked away in a small cell while Sullivan found the evidence required to charge Atwood with murder.
To do that, he was going to require a second source of protection: Sergeant Goodfellow.