Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 6/7
Nov. 3rd, 2018 11:31 am![[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: 6,134
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 Six
Under Goodfellow’s meticulous scrutiny, muttered protests and indignant sufferance, Sullivan stepped into his office. Limbs betraying a slight shuffle, knees threatening an eventual collapse, he made his way to the chair behind his desk. Careful not to stumble or fall, he struggled into it . . . not as difficult as his condition suggested but more difficult than it should be . . . more embarrassing than he would like it to be.
Slowly, carefully, Sullivan leaned back, body grateful, unintentionally releasing a soft sigh of relief, of contentment, thankful to be alive . . . not as healthy as he should be, as he was . . . Right as rain by morning Goodfellow had said, the man only relaying Doctor Macey’s diagnosis. He was wondering which morning Macey had been referring to because it wasn’t this particular morning. His body was still suffering from leftovers: pain, fatigue and a dull headache ruthlessly stubborn in its refusal to leave.
“Sir?” said Goodfellow, hovering in the doorway, body language betraying his concern, his discomfort . . . his own embarrassment.
“Nothing to worry about, sergeant. Right as rain remember.”
“Yes, sir. Cup of tea, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Sullivan, “and some Rich Tea biscuits if you wouldn’t mind.”
Goodfellow nodded as he turned away, his expression relaying his doubts . . . a threat to throw Sullivan over his shoulder and carry him back to the hospital. Hesitated, pausing in the open doorway, turned back to face Kembleford’s very stubborn detective inspector and said, “Are you sure about this, sir?”
“The tea or the biscuits?”
A huff of frustration and impatience. So unlike Goodfellow. “About not taking time off, sir. Doctor Macey was insistent . . .”
“Not to worry, sergeant, I’ll deal with doctor Macey.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning, stepping out of the office.
“Oh, and sergeant . . .”
Stopping, Goodfellow turned back again, caring frustration still evident. “Yes, sir?”
“What time are you expecting my father?” said Sullivan, the words replaced with a smile, the rare expression lacking humour.
“Me, sir?”
“You called him, sergeant.”
A look of contrition. “Yes, sir. Any minute now, sir. I sent PC Weathers to pick him up from the train station, sir.”
“Better make it two cups of tea then, sergeant. One black, no sugar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant . . .”
“Yes sir,” said Goodfellow, turning again, impatience beginning to crease his features.
“Please ignore anything my father says. He speaks without thinking and . . .” Body twitching with embarrassment, Sullivan paused, a moment taken to make a decision, not sure he wanted to reveal so much, a few words enough to give a more detailed picture of a relationship best forgotten. Decided an explanation was needed, a warning to his sergeant. Shoulders slumping, Sullivan said, “He can be very unpleasant when he puts his mind to it.”
“Should I could call PC Weathers, sir. Tell him to return your father to the train station with a goodbye and an apology . . . sir.”
Didn’t take long for Sullivan to realise Goodfellow wasn’t asking, instead making a somewhat, polite suggestion.
“Thank you, sergeant and as grateful as I am with your offer, I do believe it would only make things worse. And we couldn’t do that to PC Weathers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing straight, his shoulders back, a determined expression. “If you need me to run interference, sir, just let me know.”
Sullivan smiled, grateful, accepting he may actually have a part-time friend in Cotswold. Before he could voice a more sincere word of thanks, Goodfellow quickly turned and walked away, through the open doorway and out of sight. Slumping further down into the chair, Sullivan allowed his head to fall back, a slow movement, neck resting against the frame of the chair. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep, slow breath. Felt the pull of aching muscles . . . a slap of memory . . . a pillow pressing down . . . unable to breathe.
Blue eyes snapped open.
A tall figure in the doorway . . .
“I was told you were on death’s doorstep.”
“Death wouldn’t open the door, sir,” said Sullivan, sitting up and lowering his gaze away from his father, searching for something, anything on his desk that would create the impression Kembleford’s detective inspector was too busy for social conversation. Almost smiled when he noticed Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report sitting on top of his in-tray.
“A phone call would have been polite. And it would have saved me a trip.”
Held his breath, patience threatening to leave. A slow release. “How? You were already on the train from London.”
“I’m not in the mood for backtalk, son.”
Ignoring the invitation to an argument, Sullivan stood and walked around the side of his desk. Ran his fingers along its edge, a slight pressure against the wood, his balance kept; couldn’t allow his father to see the remaining physical weakness plaguing his body. Stopped a short distance from the man he’d once feared and stared back at his father.
There was little resemblance, Sullivan taking after his mother’s side of the family, his features mirroring that of his grandfather: black hair, blue eyes and a tall, thin build. Sullivan’s father stood two inches taller, his hair gray and thin. The dark, expensive suit did little to disguise the bulk his father carried around his chest and upper arms, Sullivan aware of his father’s strength, of what he could do . . . of what he was capable.
“You don’t look well,” said his father, closing the office door and stepping further into the room.
A need to step back, out of harm’s way, Sullivan refusing to follow a childhood instinct. “I’ll have PC Weathers drive you back to the station. The train to London leaves at seven.”
Another step, bringing him closer to Sullivan. “You don’t want me to stay.”
Polite but blunt. “No.”
“No?”
“There’s no reason for you to stay, sir. I’m fine.”
“I would think you were reason enough.”
“We both know you don’t want to stay.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you, son.”
“Your kind of argument would only end with your arrest--”
Sullivan flinched when the door bounced open, its edge slamming against the wall, the window rattling in fear within its frame. The interruption . . . the sight of Goodfellow walking into the room unannounced . . . an unexpected wave of relief flowed through Sullivan, never so grateful to see his sergeant. How Goodfellow had known . . . possible the man had been listening, ear pressed against the door, waiting for words to indicate a need for a required intrusion . . . a need to rescue Kembleford’s detective inspector; his timing was perfect.
Goodfellow stopped next Sullivan’s father, nudging the man with his shoulder and with an apologetic expression, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to interrupt but Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy are here to see you.”
“I would think a visit from his own father was more important,” said Sullivan’s father, his tone impatient, angry as he shifted his gaze toward Goodfellow. A quick deduction flickered in his grey eyes, a dismissive expression before returning his gaze to Sullivan.
“Yes, sir, I’m sure it is but . . . well, sir, Father Brown is insistent.”
Tearing his gaze away from his father, Sullivan looked at Goodfellow and frowned. If this was his sergeant running interference, he wasn’t sure he liked it. Involving Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy . . . It was possible Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy had no idea Goodfellow had drawn them into a plan of subterfuge.
After a brief smile, a flicker of conspiracy in his gaze, Goodfellow continued, “They’re a little early for their appointment, sir but the Father was hoping you would see them now. He knows you’re busy with a murder investigation but . . .”
“But what, sergeant?” said Sullivan, deciding there was nothing he could really do other than play along.
“His gout is acting up again, sir,” said Goodfellow, pausing to look at Sullivan’s father. “Old war wound . . .”
“Sergeant?”
“Sorry, sir. The Father says he’s got a funeral to do at eight, a wedding at ten and then he has to go see Mrs. Henderson whose husband is threatening to run off with the gardener again and then . . .”
Never knew Goodfellow could be so convincing with his lies. He almost believed him . . . almost.
“Yes, thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan. “I get the picture.”
“And the post mortem report should be on your desk, sir. I know you wanted it first thing.”
“Sergeant, have PC Weathers drive my father to the train station so he can catch the train back to London.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning to leave, stopping before turning back. “And the police surgeon will be here shortly. Wants to discuss his findings with you, sir.”
Not so sure if that particular statement was a lie. Possible it was true. An impending visit by Macey more than likely, he shouldn’t expect anything less, Macey probably now aware Kembleford’s detective inspector had discharged himself from the Cottage Hospital . . .
Didn’t expect Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy - picnic basket in hand - to lurch into his office. The smell of freshly baked bread, assorted pastries and chicken soup filled the room. Stomach rolling over, hunger crawled up into his throat. Couldn’t remember when he last ate.
“This way if you don’t mind, sir.”
It took a moment for Sullivan’s father to realise Goodfellow was talking to him. Body tense with anger, he remained dormant, unwilling to move, staring at his son. With a confident stance, Sullivan stared back. A standoff. Each man waiting for the other to surrender. Knowledge and experience told Sullivan his father wouldn’t make a scene in front of others, particularly strangers. No need to do anything other than wait.
Not a long wait.
His father turned away, pausing when he saw Father Brown.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Father Brown as he reached out to shake the hand of Sullivan’s father. “Father Brown and you are?”
Ignoring the introduction, the man turned away, a slow, deliberate glance back at Sullivan. “You’re too early, Father. It seems Death didn’t want him either.”
“This way, sir,” said Goodfellow, a hint of anger and retaliation in his voice as he led Sullivan’s father out of the room. A moment later, Goodfellow returned, upper body appearing in the doorway, his face grim. “I’ll tell PC Weathers to wait and make sure he gets on the train, sir. Unless . . .”
“Thank you, sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow before stepping out of sight and closing the door.
Sullivan sighed with regret, a slight flush of anger toward his sergeant; Goodfellow had left without taking Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy with him, leaving them enclosed within the small confines of Sullivan’s office. Interrupted before he could point out the mistake, to ask Brown and Mrs. McCarthy, with restrained politeness, to leave . . .
“Inspector?” said Brown, stepping further into Sullivan’s office. “We went to the hospital but they told us you’d discharged yourself. Is that wise? Shouldn’t you have stayed until you fully recovered?”
“No need to stay in a bed, Father. I’m fine now, thank you,” said Sullivan, turning away from the priest and making his way back to his chair. He needed to sit down . . . quickly, before he collapsed beneath the weight of fatigue, anger and memories.
“But you almost died yesterday.”
Sitting down, body relaxing, Sullivan looked at Brown and said, “‘Almost’ being the key word.”
“If you were to ask me,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I would tell you it was a mistake. Discharging yourself like that. You still look too pale for your own good.”
Sullivan knew how he looked, familiar features reflected back at him earlier that morning as he shaved with a hand trembling with weakness, an electric shaver allowing for a safer encounter; his skin pale, grey circles under his eyes and cheeks still slightly blushed with the reminder of his illness . . . of the attempt on his life.
Aware Brown’s visit had a purpose, his stumble into Goodfellow’s ruse an accident, the priest an innocent participant, Sullivan said, “Did you want something, Father?”
Father Brown, taking Sullivan’s question as an invitation, took the picnic basket from Mrs. McCarthy and placed it on the desk close to Sullivan. Setting his umbrella and hat aside, and wearing an innocent smile, Brown sat down before Sullivan could protest . . . verbally or physically.
Knowing there was nothing innocent about that smile, Sullivan’s anger . . . his frustration grew.
“The man who was here when we came in . . .” said Father Brown, his curiosity peaked, mind eager for more details. “Who was he?”
“Sergeant Goodfellow,” said Sullivan.
“Very droll, Inspector.”
“We can ask the man, you know,” said Mrs. McCarthy.
“Then, please, feel free to chase after him, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“A quick stroll would do us the world of good, Mrs. M,” said Brown, the threat of interference too clear.
“Meddling again, Father,” said Sullivan as he lowered his gaze, reaching for Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report.
“I was only enquiring, Inspector.”
“No, Father,” said Sullivan, dropping the file onto his desk, opening it, words blurring as he began to read the report. “You were invading my personal life.”
“Ahhh . . .”
Realising he’d made a mistake, his heart clenched with emotion, his breath catching in his throat.
“. . . that man was your father.”
“Oh . . .” said Mrs. McCarthy with an expression of shock and disappointment.
“Can I ask . . . I can only assume your father came all the way from London . . . why would he return so abruptly?”
Sullivan remained silent, gaze steady as he read the report, his emotions curdling in his chest, a tight knot of pain in his throat. A few painful seconds before the pain began to diminish, lungs pulling in a slow deep breath.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’ll take that as a statement, Father, not a question,” said Sullivan, as he continued to read, typed words struggling to find their way through the emotions plaguing his mind, cause of death eventually revealed. His suspicions correct . . .
“Perhaps, in some small way, I can help.”
Ignoring the suggestion, his silence his answer, Sullivan pressed his lips together, a thin line, an attempt to stop an inappropriate response, so willing to speak out of term, to insult . . . to blame . . . to release his emotions. Lowered his head further . . . He couldn’t deal with this, not now. He needed to take a moment, time to regain some semblance of control, to sort through the disruptive emotions. Couldn’t do it in front of Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy. If he stumbled now, in front of this man . . . this caring woman, he didn’t think he would recover.
A few minutes taken, Sullivan eventually regaining control . . .
A soft cough, an attempt to gain his attention.
Blinked. Lifted his gaze. “Spit it out, Father. Before you choke.”
“Mrs. McCarthy made you some breakfast and I thought I’d come with her in a show of support . . .”
Sullivan grimaced, expecting so much more. “Support? I doubt that.”
A puff of indignation from Mrs. McCarthy. “And after everything we did for you yesterday. A little gratitude would be in order young man.”
He couldn’t remember everything that happened yesterday, everything they did for him. Bits and pieces only, an awareness of their attendance, of Mrs. McCarthy’s administration, her complaints regarding his lack of attention. Memory more reliable, more accurate after he woke to find Goodfellow at his bedside. He remembered the assault, attacked in his own home . . . remembered the feeling of vulnerability . . . the fear of death as it came for him, its arms reaching out . . .
“I’ll ask you again, Father, what do you want? And please, tell me before I lose my patience and have someone throw you out of my office.”
“Would you like a pastry, Inspector?” said Father Brown.
“There’s also some chicken soup and bread. Freshly made this morning with my own hands,” said Mrs. McCarthy, as she leaned over the edge of his desk to open the picnic basket. “Just in case your stomach isn’t ready for something sweet.”
The sweet smell almost sickening in its strength, his stomach still clenching with hunger. Sullivan glanced from Father Brown to Mrs. McCarthy and back again. After the coldness of his father’s visit, this was too much . . . could feel his limbs begin to tremble . . . perhaps it was a lack of food, his body weak . . . in need of sustenance. He didn’t know what to say. Thank you would be a start but he felt too embarrassed . . . too awkward, not used to this kind of attention. Not since his mother . . .
“And while you’re partaking in Mrs. M’s delicious pastries or chicken soup,” said Brown, “I could ask you some questions about the incident.”
There it was, the real reason they were here. Not out of concern but a need to gain information, to investigate crimes committed against Kembleford’s detective inspector. They were here to meddle. Not surprised, he should have expected it.
“And what incident would that be, Father?”
“Come now, Inspector, we’re both well aware of what incident--”
“I’m not a crime for you to solve.”
“I’m only trying to--”
“Meddle?”
“Help, Inspector. I’m trying to help.”
“Why is that, Father? Because you assume I won’t be able to solve the case without you,” said Sullivan, holding up his hand, interrupting Brown’s rebuttal. “I can assure you, Father, I am quite capable. Now, if you don’t mind, I have police work to--”
“Is that Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy report?”
Sullivan, leaning forward and unable or unwilling to stop himself said, “Yes, it is, Father, but no need for you to see it. You already know the cause of death.”
Brown’s expression fell, features becoming expressionless. This time Sullivan recognised that particular look immediately, the priest still refusing to relay knowledge imperative to the investigation. Keeping information from the police . . . still, after everything that had happened. Sullivan decided not to concede, to allow Father Brown’s actions to go unpunished. An arrest for obstruction useless, the prosecuting solicitors unwilling to put a priest in jail; words his only means of punishment.
“Shall I make an assumption of my own, Father?” said Sullivan, waiting a moment for the priest to respond, to answer. When Brown remained silent, as Sullivan knew he would, he continued, “You saw the thread of cotton on the floor beneath Elizabeth Atwood’s bed but to see it, you would need to bend down, to look under the bed which means you were suspicious of her cause of death before you entered the room to give her last rights. Did Atwood say something to you during times of confession? Did he discuss how he wanted to kill his wife with you? I hope not, Father, because that would make you an accessory.”
“Now, see here . . .”
“Please don’t interrupt, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan without looking away from Father Brown. “He confessed to you, told you he’d murdered his wife before you went upstairs and you kept that confession to yourself--”
“As you well know, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Father Brown can’t break the seal of the confessional.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Convenient isn’t it . . . for the murderer. Confess your sin. Repent. Gain God’s forgiveness and get on with your life. Albert Atwood murdered his wife, a bed-ridden woman who couldn’t defend herself and if I can’t find the evidence to prove it was Albert who murdered his wife, he’ll get away with it.”
Sullivan took Brown’s silence, his stone-faced expression as confirmation.
“And that’s not all, Father. Because of your silence, we weren't able to arrest a murderer. I was physically assaulted on two occasions, warned off the case by two men I believe were hired by Atwood . . .” Leaned further forward, enjoying the look of guilt in the priest’s eyes. “I almost died, Father.”
Sullivan felt smug.
For a brief moment.
Realised what he was doing. He’d taken it too far, his intent to hurt, to blame. Quickly regretted what he’d said. His attitude. Shouldn’t take his anger out on the people who showed such concern for his welfare, who sat by his bedside while he lay close to death. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he rubbed his forehead with fingers trembling with emotion. Tried to massage his growing headache away, his efforts useless, the dull pain growing, pinching the skin tight around his skull. Releasing a soft murmur of sound, of remorse, he dropped his hand back onto his desk.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t--”
“Begrudge a helping hand,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Blame the Father for things out of his control.”
“It’s understandable, Mrs. M,” said Father Brown. “The inspector has been through a terrible ordeal. And I’m sure a sudden visit from his father hasn’t helped.”
“My father is of no concern to you.”
“Would you like to talk about it, Inspector?”
“I appreciate your offer but--”
“But,” said Mrs. McCarthy in an indignant tone, her features full of disappoint and was that a hint of anger . . .
Seeing that expression one too many times today, Sullivan snapped. Body and limbs tense with frustration, his anger erupting, he stood up and in a tone he assumed would bring no argument, said, “Enough! Both of you. I want you out of my office. Now!”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Father Brown, standing and gathering up his hat and umbrella. His surrender too quick, his eager departure unexpected. Sullivan had assumed the priest would put up more of a fight. To ask more prying questions, not stopping until Sullivan slammed the door closed behind him. Wondered if Brown had decided to take a different direction with his meddling. A terrible, abrupt thought . . .
“Father!”
Father Brown stopped, turned to face Sullivan, his innocent expression betraying his inner thoughts.
“Do not go looking for the two men who assaulted me.”
“I . . .” said Brown, mouth snapping closed before he could say more.
“They’re dangerous men, Father. What they did to me . . . if . . . if you involve yourself, or Mrs. McCarthy . . .” Thoughts pausing, interrupted when a more disturbing thought came to mind. He hadn’t considered it until now. Should have thought of it sooner. “Where’s Sid Carter?”
Brown hummed . . .
Mrs. McCarthy stepped in to help. “Sidney is with Lady Felicia.”
“And where is Lady Felicia?”
“At this moment, we have no idea,” said Mrs. McCarthy, hands clasped in front of her, small handbag swinging on her left wrist. “Do we, Father?”
“Inspector, I can honestly say that I have no idea where Lady Felicia is at this moment.”
“You may not know where they are but you do know what they're doing.”
That silent expression again.
“I implore you, Father. Do not involve yourself or your dubious associates in this matter. It will only bring you, or them, harm.”
“We’re already involved, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “You should know that better than anyone.”
Not sure, what Brown meant by that, Sullivan watched with a confused expression as the priest opened the door and walked away, Mrs. McCarthy quickly following Brown’s lead. Held his breath, expecting one of them to stop in the doorway, to turn toward him, to say something . . . a retort, a last word. He was only partially wrong.
Mrs. McCarthy did stop in the doorway, turning back to face Sullivan. Her expression softening, a smile forming, she said, “Eat something, Inspector. Please. I’m sure it will make you feel better and it may help your temperament. And I expect to find that basket empty when I come back for it.”
There was an insult hidden in there somewhere, he was certain.
Still . . . with a warm heart he watched as she walked away. Stared at the empty doorway, gaze lingering. Took a deep breath, a slow release as he discarded his emotions before the unfamiliar feeling of warmth could take a solid hold. Looked down at the contents of the picnic basket. Smiled. So much food. Realised Mrs. McCarthy couldn’t have done this on her own, help required, no doubt acquired with a stern look and a voiced threat.
As indignant as Mrs. McCarthy was, she was also very kind.
Removed an Eccles cake from the basket. Frowned at his choice, removed a second one, placing them on his desk. He didn’t normally indulge but it had been a while since his last meal. Couldn’t allow the rest of the food to go to waste.
“Sergeant!”
Pounding footsteps, a sound of panic as Goodfellow appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Have uniform keep an eye out for Sid Carter and Lady Felicia. I do believe they’re doing the rounds looking for the men who tried to kill me. We don’t want them coming to any harm.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, already turning away.
“And share this around would you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, pushing the picnic basket closer to the edge of his desk. “Mrs. McCarthy expects an empty basket when she returns for it and we can’t disappoint her, not after all the effort she went to.”
Goodfellow smiled, stepped forward, hesitated and said, “Yes, sir. Do you still want that cup of tea, sir?”
“Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, sitting down, reaching for an Eccles cake as he began to read the rest of Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report.
“Doctor Macey called, sir. Said he was on his way.”
Lifted his gaze, saw the awkward stance worn by his sergeant, the guilty expression. Knew there was more. “And?”
“I told him you were on your way to see Father Brown, sir.”
“Very good of you, sergeant.”
Goodfellow relaxed.
“And, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan felt uncomfortable, embarrassed but he was determined to voice his thanks . . . this time. “Thank you . . . for . . .”
“You’re welcome, sir,” said Goodfellow and with an appreciative smile, and a hungry look, he removed the basket from Sullivan’s desk and hurried from the room, leaving Kembleford’s detective inspector to indulge himself with Mrs. McCarthy’s Eccles cakes.
The detailed post mortem report did nothing to reduce his hunger, Mrs. McCarthy’s culinary skills too good. He felt better for it, excessive calories helping, strength returning to his limbs, his body, the weakness retreating at a slow, steady pace. Grateful his headache had also finally succumbed, leaving him in peace and without pain. Feeling more like himself, Sullivan was confident he could do his job, no reason to take time off, no reason to bring in a temporary replacement.
The report confirmed foul play, Elizabeth Atwood murdered. Signs of asphyxia, of facial petechiae . . . of white cotton fibres in her throat and lungs, the fibres similar to the fibre found at the crime scene. No injuries found on her body, no defensive wounds to suggest she had fought her killer; the poor woman smothered to death while she lay sleeping in her bed.
The toxicology results told an unexpected story. There wasn’t enough morphine in Elizabeth Atwood’s system to kill her . . . possible Hartford had nothing to do with her death. Questions began to speculate at the back of Sullivan’s mind. Did Hartford give her the morphine to make her more compliant, easier for a husband to kill a sleeping wife? Did he do it because of a request from Atwood? Or had it been Hartford’s suggestion? Blackmail was still a possibility. And extortion.
Too many questions still unanswered.
It was time arrest Albert Atwood on suspicion of murder . . .
Sullivan’s plans interrupted when Goodfellow stepped into the room, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“Just got a call from Lady Felicia, sir. Says they’ve found the two men who attacked you.”
.
.
.
Expecting a painful collision, Sullivan curled his body and raised his arms in an effort to protect his head; no more injuries required, already bruised and bloody . . . another stay at the local hospital not wanted. Pain exploded, his body slamming against the wall before falling back down, landing in a crumpled heap on the pub’s beer-stained floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, and ignoring his body’s desperate plea for rest, Sullivan struggled to stand, pushing upward with weak limbs, balance stumbling, legs clumsy.
Shook it off . . . a need for self defence, a need to survive a third physical attack . . . no other choice, his police service pistol lost somewhere amongst the broken debris of pub furniture; alone in his defence, Goodfellow and two burly uniformed officers preoccupied with thug number two and a small group of angry, disrupted afternoon drinkers, alcohol fuelling their anger. He hadn’t expected this much trouble, this much resentment from the locals, the arrests made more difficult than they should have been.
Hadn’t expected to find his two suspects having a pint down at the local pub, trading witty stories with the locals. The suspects round interrupted, the afternoon drinkers protesting, loud voices and even louder threats, not long before the situation had become physical; one Kembleford detective inspector and three uniformed officers against a dozen men.
Backed up against the wall and with nowhere to go, Sullivan stood in a defensive position, a confident fighting stance. Faced his opponent . . . thug number one. Body ready to give in, to surrender to the aches and pains, the exhaustion, Sullivan hoped he lasted long enough to enclose a set of handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one.
The man stepped forward, right arm already swinging . . . the thug overconfident, more weight behind his punch than accuracy. Sullivan ducked under the expected swing. The man now off balance, Sullivan slammed his right fist into the man’s abdomen. A rushed release of breath, the man collapsing forward . . . Sullivan punched him in the throat, a powerful upper right jab. Clasping his hands around his throat, the man made a weak attempt to stand upright as he struggled to pull in a breath.
Sullivan stopped him, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair, pushing thug number one’s upper body, his head downward, a continuous movement as Sullivan raised his right leg, slamming his knee into the man’s face; a direct hit, bone breaking, blood spurting. Sullivan released his grip, a smile of satisfaction as he watched the man go down. Waited a few moments, ready to put the boot in if the man moved to get back up . . . Sullivan grateful when the man stayed down.
Allowing his body to collapse, a controlled movement, Sullivan dropped his entire weight onto the man’s back, pressing his left knee between the man’s shoulder blades, keeping him down . . . keeping him still. Ignored the man’s efforts to breathe through an obviously broken nose as he removed a set of handcuffs from an inside pocket of his jacket. Cautioning the man of his rights, Sullivan closed and locked the handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one.
One arrest made, Sullivan stood up and stumbled back. Taking a moment, pressing his lower back against the wall, he leaned forward, hands on his knees and took a slow, deep, painful breath. Ribs bruised, he was certain. Felt the trickle of warm blood as it travelled from his left temple, over his cheek . . . that particular punch had been painful, knocking his senses into disarray for a few agonising moments, the fight almost over before it had begun.
Lifting his head, his gaze, Sullivan searched for Goodfellow; watched with pride and approval as his sergeant head butted thug number two into oblivion, the man dropping to the floor. Second arrest made. Watched as two of Kembleford’s finest took care of what remained, most of the patrons deciding they preferred another pint rather than a night in a police cell, quickly losing interest and returning to the bar, their backs to the dwindling fight.
Sullivan pushed away from the wall, making his way toward Goodfellow, searching for his lost revolver as he went. A sound of breaking glass, Sullivan turning with surprise and expectation, his legs catching, tangling as he began to fall . . . Felt a strong grip wrap around his right arm, pulling him back up, helping him to keep his balance. Sullivan turned to offer his thanks . . . scowled at the sight of Father Brown, so close . . . too close.
Didn’t know what angered him the most; Brown already at the scene when Sullivan arrived, or the smile he now wore. A smile full of understanding . . . of concern. Sullivan wasn’t in the mood for the emotional attention or the interference. Ready to provide a gratifying, verbal slap down, to reprimand the priest’s interference; too slow, Brown speaking before Sullivan could begin.
“I must say, Inspector, I didn’t know you could defend yourself with such . . . grace,” said Father Brown, holding out Sullivan’s police revolver. “I believe you lost this during the fight.”
Not certain if that was an insult or an unfamiliar offer of praise.
“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you with it,” said Sullivan, anger selecting his words as he tore the weapon from the priest’s hand. Pulled his arm from Brown’s embrace. Felt his balance shift, a moment of fear before his equilibrium returned. Put his hand up to stop Brown when the priest reached for him once more.
Putting the verbal reprimand to the side, information required, Sullivan continued, “How did you come to be here before we arrived?”
“I . . .”
Sullivan nodded in understanding, quickly coming to a conclusion on his own. “Lady Felicia called you first. Of all the idiotic things you’ve done . . . At least you had the decency to leave Mrs. McCarthy behind . . . you did leave her out of it?”
“Mrs. McCarthy is back at the presbytery.”
“Probably the only smart thing you’ve done today,” said Sullivan. “You do realise your attendance here warned the suspects of our impending arrival. If they had left before we got here . . . I could arrest you and your associates for obstruction and interfering with a police investigation.”
“I think,” said Sid Carter, pint of lager in his right hand as he shouldered his way into the conversation, stepping between Father Brown and Sullivan; a protective barrier, “a thank you is in order. You wouldn’t have found them if it weren’t for us.”
His gaze full of anger, Sullivan stepped up to Carter, a physical altercation pending.
Carter raised his left hand in a gesture of surrender, stepped back and said, “Just saying.”
Sullivan turned his angry gaze toward Father Brown. “What did they tell you?”
Brown closed down his expression, a blank stare. Familiar with that particular look, no time required to decipher Brown’s expression, Sullivan knew the priest was hiding something, certain the man had talked to the two suspects before Sullivan and his men arrived.
“They didn’t tell him anything,” said Sid.
“Father Brown?”
“Sid is correct, Inspector,” said Brown. “They refused to tell me anything useful.”
“Now why don’t I believe you, Father?”
“Believe what you will, Inspector.”
“You always do,” said Sid.
Looked back at Carter. “One more word, Carter and I will arrest you.”
Sid stood tall, crossed his arms as best he could with a pint of beer in one hand and said, “For what?”
“Disturbing my peace and sanity,” said Sullivan.
“Sid,” said Father Brown, “go and make sure Lady Felicia is all right. I’m sure all this violence has upset her.”
“I highly doubt it,” said Carter as he walked away.
“Inspector,” said Father Brown, “it was not my intent to warn these men of your arrival. I was simply trying to help you.”
Pulled his gaze from the back of the retreating Sid Carter to look at Brown. “Your help, Father, is not needed or wanted.”
Brown nodded, opened his mouth to speak. Closed his mouth. A moment of hesitation before he spoke. “You’re bleeding, Inspector.”
“I’m well aware of what I’m doing, Father,” said Sullivan. “And I’m warning you for the last time. Stay out of my investigation. If you don’t, I will arrest you.”
Didn’t wait for a response, turning his back to the priest and walking away. Decided that one day, no doubt sometime in the near future, he would carry out his threat; arrest the priest, lock him in a cell for a week at least. There would be no need to inform the prosecuting solicitors, paper work lost on its way to their in-tray. It could even be an opportunity for Kembleford’s detective inspector to prove he was capable of solving a murder without Father Brown's interference. Allowed that thought to brew in his subconscious.
Stepping over broken furniture, Sullivan could feel every ache in his body, the fatigue pulling at his limbs, a need to sleep, to rest and recover. Couldn’t give in to the exhaustion, still too much to do. He knew with a heavy, sinking feeling that Father Brown would make every attempt to reach Albert Atwood first. Sullivan couldn’t allow that to happen. Thug number one and thug number two would have to wait.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, stopping beside Goodfellow.
Goodfellow raised a hand, pointing toward the cut on Sullivan’s temple and said, “You all right, sir?”
“I’m fine, sergeant. You?”
“Couldn’t be better, sir,” said Goodfellow with a wink and a wide smile.
“Good,” said Sullivan. “Have the uniforms take our suspects back to the station. I’ll question them later.”
“Sir?
“We need to speak to Albert Atwood before Father Brown causes anymore damage.”
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
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: 6,134
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 Six
Under Goodfellow’s meticulous scrutiny, muttered protests and indignant sufferance, Sullivan stepped into his office. Limbs betraying a slight shuffle, knees threatening an eventual collapse, he made his way to the chair behind his desk. Careful not to stumble or fall, he struggled into it . . . not as difficult as his condition suggested but more difficult than it should be . . . more embarrassing than he would like it to be.
Slowly, carefully, Sullivan leaned back, body grateful, unintentionally releasing a soft sigh of relief, of contentment, thankful to be alive . . . not as healthy as he should be, as he was . . . Right as rain by morning Goodfellow had said, the man only relaying Doctor Macey’s diagnosis. He was wondering which morning Macey had been referring to because it wasn’t this particular morning. His body was still suffering from leftovers: pain, fatigue and a dull headache ruthlessly stubborn in its refusal to leave.
“Sir?” said Goodfellow, hovering in the doorway, body language betraying his concern, his discomfort . . . his own embarrassment.
“Nothing to worry about, sergeant. Right as rain remember.”
“Yes, sir. Cup of tea, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Sullivan, “and some Rich Tea biscuits if you wouldn’t mind.”
Goodfellow nodded as he turned away, his expression relaying his doubts . . . a threat to throw Sullivan over his shoulder and carry him back to the hospital. Hesitated, pausing in the open doorway, turned back to face Kembleford’s very stubborn detective inspector and said, “Are you sure about this, sir?”
“The tea or the biscuits?”
A huff of frustration and impatience. So unlike Goodfellow. “About not taking time off, sir. Doctor Macey was insistent . . .”
“Not to worry, sergeant, I’ll deal with doctor Macey.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning, stepping out of the office.
“Oh, and sergeant . . .”
Stopping, Goodfellow turned back again, caring frustration still evident. “Yes, sir?”
“What time are you expecting my father?” said Sullivan, the words replaced with a smile, the rare expression lacking humour.
“Me, sir?”
“You called him, sergeant.”
A look of contrition. “Yes, sir. Any minute now, sir. I sent PC Weathers to pick him up from the train station, sir.”
“Better make it two cups of tea then, sergeant. One black, no sugar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant . . .”
“Yes sir,” said Goodfellow, turning again, impatience beginning to crease his features.
“Please ignore anything my father says. He speaks without thinking and . . .” Body twitching with embarrassment, Sullivan paused, a moment taken to make a decision, not sure he wanted to reveal so much, a few words enough to give a more detailed picture of a relationship best forgotten. Decided an explanation was needed, a warning to his sergeant. Shoulders slumping, Sullivan said, “He can be very unpleasant when he puts his mind to it.”
“Should I could call PC Weathers, sir. Tell him to return your father to the train station with a goodbye and an apology . . . sir.”
Didn’t take long for Sullivan to realise Goodfellow wasn’t asking, instead making a somewhat, polite suggestion.
“Thank you, sergeant and as grateful as I am with your offer, I do believe it would only make things worse. And we couldn’t do that to PC Weathers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing straight, his shoulders back, a determined expression. “If you need me to run interference, sir, just let me know.”
Sullivan smiled, grateful, accepting he may actually have a part-time friend in Cotswold. Before he could voice a more sincere word of thanks, Goodfellow quickly turned and walked away, through the open doorway and out of sight. Slumping further down into the chair, Sullivan allowed his head to fall back, a slow movement, neck resting against the frame of the chair. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep, slow breath. Felt the pull of aching muscles . . . a slap of memory . . . a pillow pressing down . . . unable to breathe.
Blue eyes snapped open.
A tall figure in the doorway . . .
“I was told you were on death’s doorstep.”
“Death wouldn’t open the door, sir,” said Sullivan, sitting up and lowering his gaze away from his father, searching for something, anything on his desk that would create the impression Kembleford’s detective inspector was too busy for social conversation. Almost smiled when he noticed Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report sitting on top of his in-tray.
“A phone call would have been polite. And it would have saved me a trip.”
Held his breath, patience threatening to leave. A slow release. “How? You were already on the train from London.”
“I’m not in the mood for backtalk, son.”
Ignoring the invitation to an argument, Sullivan stood and walked around the side of his desk. Ran his fingers along its edge, a slight pressure against the wood, his balance kept; couldn’t allow his father to see the remaining physical weakness plaguing his body. Stopped a short distance from the man he’d once feared and stared back at his father.
There was little resemblance, Sullivan taking after his mother’s side of the family, his features mirroring that of his grandfather: black hair, blue eyes and a tall, thin build. Sullivan’s father stood two inches taller, his hair gray and thin. The dark, expensive suit did little to disguise the bulk his father carried around his chest and upper arms, Sullivan aware of his father’s strength, of what he could do . . . of what he was capable.
“You don’t look well,” said his father, closing the office door and stepping further into the room.
A need to step back, out of harm’s way, Sullivan refusing to follow a childhood instinct. “I’ll have PC Weathers drive you back to the station. The train to London leaves at seven.”
Another step, bringing him closer to Sullivan. “You don’t want me to stay.”
Polite but blunt. “No.”
“No?”
“There’s no reason for you to stay, sir. I’m fine.”
“I would think you were reason enough.”
“We both know you don’t want to stay.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you, son.”
“Your kind of argument would only end with your arrest--”
Sullivan flinched when the door bounced open, its edge slamming against the wall, the window rattling in fear within its frame. The interruption . . . the sight of Goodfellow walking into the room unannounced . . . an unexpected wave of relief flowed through Sullivan, never so grateful to see his sergeant. How Goodfellow had known . . . possible the man had been listening, ear pressed against the door, waiting for words to indicate a need for a required intrusion . . . a need to rescue Kembleford’s detective inspector; his timing was perfect.
Goodfellow stopped next Sullivan’s father, nudging the man with his shoulder and with an apologetic expression, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to interrupt but Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy are here to see you.”
“I would think a visit from his own father was more important,” said Sullivan’s father, his tone impatient, angry as he shifted his gaze toward Goodfellow. A quick deduction flickered in his grey eyes, a dismissive expression before returning his gaze to Sullivan.
“Yes, sir, I’m sure it is but . . . well, sir, Father Brown is insistent.”
Tearing his gaze away from his father, Sullivan looked at Goodfellow and frowned. If this was his sergeant running interference, he wasn’t sure he liked it. Involving Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy . . . It was possible Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy had no idea Goodfellow had drawn them into a plan of subterfuge.
After a brief smile, a flicker of conspiracy in his gaze, Goodfellow continued, “They’re a little early for their appointment, sir but the Father was hoping you would see them now. He knows you’re busy with a murder investigation but . . .”
“But what, sergeant?” said Sullivan, deciding there was nothing he could really do other than play along.
“His gout is acting up again, sir,” said Goodfellow, pausing to look at Sullivan’s father. “Old war wound . . .”
“Sergeant?”
“Sorry, sir. The Father says he’s got a funeral to do at eight, a wedding at ten and then he has to go see Mrs. Henderson whose husband is threatening to run off with the gardener again and then . . .”
Never knew Goodfellow could be so convincing with his lies. He almost believed him . . . almost.
“Yes, thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan. “I get the picture.”
“And the post mortem report should be on your desk, sir. I know you wanted it first thing.”
“Sergeant, have PC Weathers drive my father to the train station so he can catch the train back to London.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning to leave, stopping before turning back. “And the police surgeon will be here shortly. Wants to discuss his findings with you, sir.”
Not so sure if that particular statement was a lie. Possible it was true. An impending visit by Macey more than likely, he shouldn’t expect anything less, Macey probably now aware Kembleford’s detective inspector had discharged himself from the Cottage Hospital . . .
Didn’t expect Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy - picnic basket in hand - to lurch into his office. The smell of freshly baked bread, assorted pastries and chicken soup filled the room. Stomach rolling over, hunger crawled up into his throat. Couldn’t remember when he last ate.
“This way if you don’t mind, sir.”
It took a moment for Sullivan’s father to realise Goodfellow was talking to him. Body tense with anger, he remained dormant, unwilling to move, staring at his son. With a confident stance, Sullivan stared back. A standoff. Each man waiting for the other to surrender. Knowledge and experience told Sullivan his father wouldn’t make a scene in front of others, particularly strangers. No need to do anything other than wait.
Not a long wait.
His father turned away, pausing when he saw Father Brown.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Father Brown as he reached out to shake the hand of Sullivan’s father. “Father Brown and you are?”
Ignoring the introduction, the man turned away, a slow, deliberate glance back at Sullivan. “You’re too early, Father. It seems Death didn’t want him either.”
“This way, sir,” said Goodfellow, a hint of anger and retaliation in his voice as he led Sullivan’s father out of the room. A moment later, Goodfellow returned, upper body appearing in the doorway, his face grim. “I’ll tell PC Weathers to wait and make sure he gets on the train, sir. Unless . . .”
“Thank you, sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow before stepping out of sight and closing the door.
Sullivan sighed with regret, a slight flush of anger toward his sergeant; Goodfellow had left without taking Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy with him, leaving them enclosed within the small confines of Sullivan’s office. Interrupted before he could point out the mistake, to ask Brown and Mrs. McCarthy, with restrained politeness, to leave . . .
“Inspector?” said Brown, stepping further into Sullivan’s office. “We went to the hospital but they told us you’d discharged yourself. Is that wise? Shouldn’t you have stayed until you fully recovered?”
“No need to stay in a bed, Father. I’m fine now, thank you,” said Sullivan, turning away from the priest and making his way back to his chair. He needed to sit down . . . quickly, before he collapsed beneath the weight of fatigue, anger and memories.
“But you almost died yesterday.”
Sitting down, body relaxing, Sullivan looked at Brown and said, “‘Almost’ being the key word.”
“If you were to ask me,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I would tell you it was a mistake. Discharging yourself like that. You still look too pale for your own good.”
Sullivan knew how he looked, familiar features reflected back at him earlier that morning as he shaved with a hand trembling with weakness, an electric shaver allowing for a safer encounter; his skin pale, grey circles under his eyes and cheeks still slightly blushed with the reminder of his illness . . . of the attempt on his life.
Aware Brown’s visit had a purpose, his stumble into Goodfellow’s ruse an accident, the priest an innocent participant, Sullivan said, “Did you want something, Father?”
Father Brown, taking Sullivan’s question as an invitation, took the picnic basket from Mrs. McCarthy and placed it on the desk close to Sullivan. Setting his umbrella and hat aside, and wearing an innocent smile, Brown sat down before Sullivan could protest . . . verbally or physically.
Knowing there was nothing innocent about that smile, Sullivan’s anger . . . his frustration grew.
“The man who was here when we came in . . .” said Father Brown, his curiosity peaked, mind eager for more details. “Who was he?”
“Sergeant Goodfellow,” said Sullivan.
“Very droll, Inspector.”
“We can ask the man, you know,” said Mrs. McCarthy.
“Then, please, feel free to chase after him, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“A quick stroll would do us the world of good, Mrs. M,” said Brown, the threat of interference too clear.
“Meddling again, Father,” said Sullivan as he lowered his gaze, reaching for Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report.
“I was only enquiring, Inspector.”
“No, Father,” said Sullivan, dropping the file onto his desk, opening it, words blurring as he began to read the report. “You were invading my personal life.”
“Ahhh . . .”
Realising he’d made a mistake, his heart clenched with emotion, his breath catching in his throat.
“. . . that man was your father.”
“Oh . . .” said Mrs. McCarthy with an expression of shock and disappointment.
“Can I ask . . . I can only assume your father came all the way from London . . . why would he return so abruptly?”
Sullivan remained silent, gaze steady as he read the report, his emotions curdling in his chest, a tight knot of pain in his throat. A few painful seconds before the pain began to diminish, lungs pulling in a slow deep breath.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’ll take that as a statement, Father, not a question,” said Sullivan, as he continued to read, typed words struggling to find their way through the emotions plaguing his mind, cause of death eventually revealed. His suspicions correct . . .
“Perhaps, in some small way, I can help.”
Ignoring the suggestion, his silence his answer, Sullivan pressed his lips together, a thin line, an attempt to stop an inappropriate response, so willing to speak out of term, to insult . . . to blame . . . to release his emotions. Lowered his head further . . . He couldn’t deal with this, not now. He needed to take a moment, time to regain some semblance of control, to sort through the disruptive emotions. Couldn’t do it in front of Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy. If he stumbled now, in front of this man . . . this caring woman, he didn’t think he would recover.
A few minutes taken, Sullivan eventually regaining control . . .
A soft cough, an attempt to gain his attention.
Blinked. Lifted his gaze. “Spit it out, Father. Before you choke.”
“Mrs. McCarthy made you some breakfast and I thought I’d come with her in a show of support . . .”
Sullivan grimaced, expecting so much more. “Support? I doubt that.”
A puff of indignation from Mrs. McCarthy. “And after everything we did for you yesterday. A little gratitude would be in order young man.”
He couldn’t remember everything that happened yesterday, everything they did for him. Bits and pieces only, an awareness of their attendance, of Mrs. McCarthy’s administration, her complaints regarding his lack of attention. Memory more reliable, more accurate after he woke to find Goodfellow at his bedside. He remembered the assault, attacked in his own home . . . remembered the feeling of vulnerability . . . the fear of death as it came for him, its arms reaching out . . .
“I’ll ask you again, Father, what do you want? And please, tell me before I lose my patience and have someone throw you out of my office.”
“Would you like a pastry, Inspector?” said Father Brown.
“There’s also some chicken soup and bread. Freshly made this morning with my own hands,” said Mrs. McCarthy, as she leaned over the edge of his desk to open the picnic basket. “Just in case your stomach isn’t ready for something sweet.”
The sweet smell almost sickening in its strength, his stomach still clenching with hunger. Sullivan glanced from Father Brown to Mrs. McCarthy and back again. After the coldness of his father’s visit, this was too much . . . could feel his limbs begin to tremble . . . perhaps it was a lack of food, his body weak . . . in need of sustenance. He didn’t know what to say. Thank you would be a start but he felt too embarrassed . . . too awkward, not used to this kind of attention. Not since his mother . . .
“And while you’re partaking in Mrs. M’s delicious pastries or chicken soup,” said Brown, “I could ask you some questions about the incident.”
There it was, the real reason they were here. Not out of concern but a need to gain information, to investigate crimes committed against Kembleford’s detective inspector. They were here to meddle. Not surprised, he should have expected it.
“And what incident would that be, Father?”
“Come now, Inspector, we’re both well aware of what incident--”
“I’m not a crime for you to solve.”
“I’m only trying to--”
“Meddle?”
“Help, Inspector. I’m trying to help.”
“Why is that, Father? Because you assume I won’t be able to solve the case without you,” said Sullivan, holding up his hand, interrupting Brown’s rebuttal. “I can assure you, Father, I am quite capable. Now, if you don’t mind, I have police work to--”
“Is that Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy report?”
Sullivan, leaning forward and unable or unwilling to stop himself said, “Yes, it is, Father, but no need for you to see it. You already know the cause of death.”
Brown’s expression fell, features becoming expressionless. This time Sullivan recognised that particular look immediately, the priest still refusing to relay knowledge imperative to the investigation. Keeping information from the police . . . still, after everything that had happened. Sullivan decided not to concede, to allow Father Brown’s actions to go unpunished. An arrest for obstruction useless, the prosecuting solicitors unwilling to put a priest in jail; words his only means of punishment.
“Shall I make an assumption of my own, Father?” said Sullivan, waiting a moment for the priest to respond, to answer. When Brown remained silent, as Sullivan knew he would, he continued, “You saw the thread of cotton on the floor beneath Elizabeth Atwood’s bed but to see it, you would need to bend down, to look under the bed which means you were suspicious of her cause of death before you entered the room to give her last rights. Did Atwood say something to you during times of confession? Did he discuss how he wanted to kill his wife with you? I hope not, Father, because that would make you an accessory.”
“Now, see here . . .”
“Please don’t interrupt, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan without looking away from Father Brown. “He confessed to you, told you he’d murdered his wife before you went upstairs and you kept that confession to yourself--”
“As you well know, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Father Brown can’t break the seal of the confessional.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Convenient isn’t it . . . for the murderer. Confess your sin. Repent. Gain God’s forgiveness and get on with your life. Albert Atwood murdered his wife, a bed-ridden woman who couldn’t defend herself and if I can’t find the evidence to prove it was Albert who murdered his wife, he’ll get away with it.”
Sullivan took Brown’s silence, his stone-faced expression as confirmation.
“And that’s not all, Father. Because of your silence, we weren't able to arrest a murderer. I was physically assaulted on two occasions, warned off the case by two men I believe were hired by Atwood . . .” Leaned further forward, enjoying the look of guilt in the priest’s eyes. “I almost died, Father.”
Sullivan felt smug.
For a brief moment.
Realised what he was doing. He’d taken it too far, his intent to hurt, to blame. Quickly regretted what he’d said. His attitude. Shouldn’t take his anger out on the people who showed such concern for his welfare, who sat by his bedside while he lay close to death. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he rubbed his forehead with fingers trembling with emotion. Tried to massage his growing headache away, his efforts useless, the dull pain growing, pinching the skin tight around his skull. Releasing a soft murmur of sound, of remorse, he dropped his hand back onto his desk.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t--”
“Begrudge a helping hand,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Blame the Father for things out of his control.”
“It’s understandable, Mrs. M,” said Father Brown. “The inspector has been through a terrible ordeal. And I’m sure a sudden visit from his father hasn’t helped.”
“My father is of no concern to you.”
“Would you like to talk about it, Inspector?”
“I appreciate your offer but--”
“But,” said Mrs. McCarthy in an indignant tone, her features full of disappoint and was that a hint of anger . . .
Seeing that expression one too many times today, Sullivan snapped. Body and limbs tense with frustration, his anger erupting, he stood up and in a tone he assumed would bring no argument, said, “Enough! Both of you. I want you out of my office. Now!”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Father Brown, standing and gathering up his hat and umbrella. His surrender too quick, his eager departure unexpected. Sullivan had assumed the priest would put up more of a fight. To ask more prying questions, not stopping until Sullivan slammed the door closed behind him. Wondered if Brown had decided to take a different direction with his meddling. A terrible, abrupt thought . . .
“Father!”
Father Brown stopped, turned to face Sullivan, his innocent expression betraying his inner thoughts.
“Do not go looking for the two men who assaulted me.”
“I . . .” said Brown, mouth snapping closed before he could say more.
“They’re dangerous men, Father. What they did to me . . . if . . . if you involve yourself, or Mrs. McCarthy . . .” Thoughts pausing, interrupted when a more disturbing thought came to mind. He hadn’t considered it until now. Should have thought of it sooner. “Where’s Sid Carter?”
Brown hummed . . .
Mrs. McCarthy stepped in to help. “Sidney is with Lady Felicia.”
“And where is Lady Felicia?”
“At this moment, we have no idea,” said Mrs. McCarthy, hands clasped in front of her, small handbag swinging on her left wrist. “Do we, Father?”
“Inspector, I can honestly say that I have no idea where Lady Felicia is at this moment.”
“You may not know where they are but you do know what they're doing.”
That silent expression again.
“I implore you, Father. Do not involve yourself or your dubious associates in this matter. It will only bring you, or them, harm.”
“We’re already involved, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “You should know that better than anyone.”
Not sure, what Brown meant by that, Sullivan watched with a confused expression as the priest opened the door and walked away, Mrs. McCarthy quickly following Brown’s lead. Held his breath, expecting one of them to stop in the doorway, to turn toward him, to say something . . . a retort, a last word. He was only partially wrong.
Mrs. McCarthy did stop in the doorway, turning back to face Sullivan. Her expression softening, a smile forming, she said, “Eat something, Inspector. Please. I’m sure it will make you feel better and it may help your temperament. And I expect to find that basket empty when I come back for it.”
There was an insult hidden in there somewhere, he was certain.
Still . . . with a warm heart he watched as she walked away. Stared at the empty doorway, gaze lingering. Took a deep breath, a slow release as he discarded his emotions before the unfamiliar feeling of warmth could take a solid hold. Looked down at the contents of the picnic basket. Smiled. So much food. Realised Mrs. McCarthy couldn’t have done this on her own, help required, no doubt acquired with a stern look and a voiced threat.
As indignant as Mrs. McCarthy was, she was also very kind.
Removed an Eccles cake from the basket. Frowned at his choice, removed a second one, placing them on his desk. He didn’t normally indulge but it had been a while since his last meal. Couldn’t allow the rest of the food to go to waste.
“Sergeant!”
Pounding footsteps, a sound of panic as Goodfellow appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Have uniform keep an eye out for Sid Carter and Lady Felicia. I do believe they’re doing the rounds looking for the men who tried to kill me. We don’t want them coming to any harm.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, already turning away.
“And share this around would you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, pushing the picnic basket closer to the edge of his desk. “Mrs. McCarthy expects an empty basket when she returns for it and we can’t disappoint her, not after all the effort she went to.”
Goodfellow smiled, stepped forward, hesitated and said, “Yes, sir. Do you still want that cup of tea, sir?”
“Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, sitting down, reaching for an Eccles cake as he began to read the rest of Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report.
“Doctor Macey called, sir. Said he was on his way.”
Lifted his gaze, saw the awkward stance worn by his sergeant, the guilty expression. Knew there was more. “And?”
“I told him you were on your way to see Father Brown, sir.”
“Very good of you, sergeant.”
Goodfellow relaxed.
“And, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan felt uncomfortable, embarrassed but he was determined to voice his thanks . . . this time. “Thank you . . . for . . .”
“You’re welcome, sir,” said Goodfellow and with an appreciative smile, and a hungry look, he removed the basket from Sullivan’s desk and hurried from the room, leaving Kembleford’s detective inspector to indulge himself with Mrs. McCarthy’s Eccles cakes.
The detailed post mortem report did nothing to reduce his hunger, Mrs. McCarthy’s culinary skills too good. He felt better for it, excessive calories helping, strength returning to his limbs, his body, the weakness retreating at a slow, steady pace. Grateful his headache had also finally succumbed, leaving him in peace and without pain. Feeling more like himself, Sullivan was confident he could do his job, no reason to take time off, no reason to bring in a temporary replacement.
The report confirmed foul play, Elizabeth Atwood murdered. Signs of asphyxia, of facial petechiae . . . of white cotton fibres in her throat and lungs, the fibres similar to the fibre found at the crime scene. No injuries found on her body, no defensive wounds to suggest she had fought her killer; the poor woman smothered to death while she lay sleeping in her bed.
The toxicology results told an unexpected story. There wasn’t enough morphine in Elizabeth Atwood’s system to kill her . . . possible Hartford had nothing to do with her death. Questions began to speculate at the back of Sullivan’s mind. Did Hartford give her the morphine to make her more compliant, easier for a husband to kill a sleeping wife? Did he do it because of a request from Atwood? Or had it been Hartford’s suggestion? Blackmail was still a possibility. And extortion.
Too many questions still unanswered.
It was time arrest Albert Atwood on suspicion of murder . . .
Sullivan’s plans interrupted when Goodfellow stepped into the room, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“Just got a call from Lady Felicia, sir. Says they’ve found the two men who attacked you.”
.
.
.
Expecting a painful collision, Sullivan curled his body and raised his arms in an effort to protect his head; no more injuries required, already bruised and bloody . . . another stay at the local hospital not wanted. Pain exploded, his body slamming against the wall before falling back down, landing in a crumpled heap on the pub’s beer-stained floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, and ignoring his body’s desperate plea for rest, Sullivan struggled to stand, pushing upward with weak limbs, balance stumbling, legs clumsy.
Shook it off . . . a need for self defence, a need to survive a third physical attack . . . no other choice, his police service pistol lost somewhere amongst the broken debris of pub furniture; alone in his defence, Goodfellow and two burly uniformed officers preoccupied with thug number two and a small group of angry, disrupted afternoon drinkers, alcohol fuelling their anger. He hadn’t expected this much trouble, this much resentment from the locals, the arrests made more difficult than they should have been.
Hadn’t expected to find his two suspects having a pint down at the local pub, trading witty stories with the locals. The suspects round interrupted, the afternoon drinkers protesting, loud voices and even louder threats, not long before the situation had become physical; one Kembleford detective inspector and three uniformed officers against a dozen men.
Backed up against the wall and with nowhere to go, Sullivan stood in a defensive position, a confident fighting stance. Faced his opponent . . . thug number one. Body ready to give in, to surrender to the aches and pains, the exhaustion, Sullivan hoped he lasted long enough to enclose a set of handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one.
The man stepped forward, right arm already swinging . . . the thug overconfident, more weight behind his punch than accuracy. Sullivan ducked under the expected swing. The man now off balance, Sullivan slammed his right fist into the man’s abdomen. A rushed release of breath, the man collapsing forward . . . Sullivan punched him in the throat, a powerful upper right jab. Clasping his hands around his throat, the man made a weak attempt to stand upright as he struggled to pull in a breath.
Sullivan stopped him, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair, pushing thug number one’s upper body, his head downward, a continuous movement as Sullivan raised his right leg, slamming his knee into the man’s face; a direct hit, bone breaking, blood spurting. Sullivan released his grip, a smile of satisfaction as he watched the man go down. Waited a few moments, ready to put the boot in if the man moved to get back up . . . Sullivan grateful when the man stayed down.
Allowing his body to collapse, a controlled movement, Sullivan dropped his entire weight onto the man’s back, pressing his left knee between the man’s shoulder blades, keeping him down . . . keeping him still. Ignored the man’s efforts to breathe through an obviously broken nose as he removed a set of handcuffs from an inside pocket of his jacket. Cautioning the man of his rights, Sullivan closed and locked the handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one.
One arrest made, Sullivan stood up and stumbled back. Taking a moment, pressing his lower back against the wall, he leaned forward, hands on his knees and took a slow, deep, painful breath. Ribs bruised, he was certain. Felt the trickle of warm blood as it travelled from his left temple, over his cheek . . . that particular punch had been painful, knocking his senses into disarray for a few agonising moments, the fight almost over before it had begun.
Lifting his head, his gaze, Sullivan searched for Goodfellow; watched with pride and approval as his sergeant head butted thug number two into oblivion, the man dropping to the floor. Second arrest made. Watched as two of Kembleford’s finest took care of what remained, most of the patrons deciding they preferred another pint rather than a night in a police cell, quickly losing interest and returning to the bar, their backs to the dwindling fight.
Sullivan pushed away from the wall, making his way toward Goodfellow, searching for his lost revolver as he went. A sound of breaking glass, Sullivan turning with surprise and expectation, his legs catching, tangling as he began to fall . . . Felt a strong grip wrap around his right arm, pulling him back up, helping him to keep his balance. Sullivan turned to offer his thanks . . . scowled at the sight of Father Brown, so close . . . too close.
Didn’t know what angered him the most; Brown already at the scene when Sullivan arrived, or the smile he now wore. A smile full of understanding . . . of concern. Sullivan wasn’t in the mood for the emotional attention or the interference. Ready to provide a gratifying, verbal slap down, to reprimand the priest’s interference; too slow, Brown speaking before Sullivan could begin.
“I must say, Inspector, I didn’t know you could defend yourself with such . . . grace,” said Father Brown, holding out Sullivan’s police revolver. “I believe you lost this during the fight.”
Not certain if that was an insult or an unfamiliar offer of praise.
“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you with it,” said Sullivan, anger selecting his words as he tore the weapon from the priest’s hand. Pulled his arm from Brown’s embrace. Felt his balance shift, a moment of fear before his equilibrium returned. Put his hand up to stop Brown when the priest reached for him once more.
Putting the verbal reprimand to the side, information required, Sullivan continued, “How did you come to be here before we arrived?”
“I . . .”
Sullivan nodded in understanding, quickly coming to a conclusion on his own. “Lady Felicia called you first. Of all the idiotic things you’ve done . . . At least you had the decency to leave Mrs. McCarthy behind . . . you did leave her out of it?”
“Mrs. McCarthy is back at the presbytery.”
“Probably the only smart thing you’ve done today,” said Sullivan. “You do realise your attendance here warned the suspects of our impending arrival. If they had left before we got here . . . I could arrest you and your associates for obstruction and interfering with a police investigation.”
“I think,” said Sid Carter, pint of lager in his right hand as he shouldered his way into the conversation, stepping between Father Brown and Sullivan; a protective barrier, “a thank you is in order. You wouldn’t have found them if it weren’t for us.”
His gaze full of anger, Sullivan stepped up to Carter, a physical altercation pending.
Carter raised his left hand in a gesture of surrender, stepped back and said, “Just saying.”
Sullivan turned his angry gaze toward Father Brown. “What did they tell you?”
Brown closed down his expression, a blank stare. Familiar with that particular look, no time required to decipher Brown’s expression, Sullivan knew the priest was hiding something, certain the man had talked to the two suspects before Sullivan and his men arrived.
“They didn’t tell him anything,” said Sid.
“Father Brown?”
“Sid is correct, Inspector,” said Brown. “They refused to tell me anything useful.”
“Now why don’t I believe you, Father?”
“Believe what you will, Inspector.”
“You always do,” said Sid.
Looked back at Carter. “One more word, Carter and I will arrest you.”
Sid stood tall, crossed his arms as best he could with a pint of beer in one hand and said, “For what?”
“Disturbing my peace and sanity,” said Sullivan.
“Sid,” said Father Brown, “go and make sure Lady Felicia is all right. I’m sure all this violence has upset her.”
“I highly doubt it,” said Carter as he walked away.
“Inspector,” said Father Brown, “it was not my intent to warn these men of your arrival. I was simply trying to help you.”
Pulled his gaze from the back of the retreating Sid Carter to look at Brown. “Your help, Father, is not needed or wanted.”
Brown nodded, opened his mouth to speak. Closed his mouth. A moment of hesitation before he spoke. “You’re bleeding, Inspector.”
“I’m well aware of what I’m doing, Father,” said Sullivan. “And I’m warning you for the last time. Stay out of my investigation. If you don’t, I will arrest you.”
Didn’t wait for a response, turning his back to the priest and walking away. Decided that one day, no doubt sometime in the near future, he would carry out his threat; arrest the priest, lock him in a cell for a week at least. There would be no need to inform the prosecuting solicitors, paper work lost on its way to their in-tray. It could even be an opportunity for Kembleford’s detective inspector to prove he was capable of solving a murder without Father Brown's interference. Allowed that thought to brew in his subconscious.
Stepping over broken furniture, Sullivan could feel every ache in his body, the fatigue pulling at his limbs, a need to sleep, to rest and recover. Couldn’t give in to the exhaustion, still too much to do. He knew with a heavy, sinking feeling that Father Brown would make every attempt to reach Albert Atwood first. Sullivan couldn’t allow that to happen. Thug number one and thug number two would have to wait.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, stopping beside Goodfellow.
Goodfellow raised a hand, pointing toward the cut on Sullivan’s temple and said, “You all right, sir?”
“I’m fine, sergeant. You?”
“Couldn’t be better, sir,” said Goodfellow with a wink and a wide smile.
“Good,” said Sullivan. “Have the uniforms take our suspects back to the station. I’ll question them later.”
“Sir?
“We need to speak to Albert Atwood before Father Brown causes anymore damage.”