Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 7/7
Nov. 3rd, 2018 12:07 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: 5,752
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 Seven
The street quiet, curtains of prying neighbours at rest, Sullivan knocked on Albert Atwood’s front door. Couldn’t be sure his main suspect was at home, possible the man had already absconded, nothing to indicate otherwise, the house silent. Knocked a second time, more force used, fist pounding against the door.
Soft footfalls in the hallway, muttered curses as the lock disengaged. Sullivan stepped back, a distance of safety. The front door opened to reveal a rumpled Atwood, his face pale, eyes and nose red with the indulgence of alcohol . . . or grief, Sullivan certain it was the former. Expected outburst lacking, Atwood was silent as he turned around and walked back down the hallway toward the small, cluttered living room at the back of the semi-detached home.
Sullivan looked at Goodfellow, his sergeant shrugging in response. Feeling a twinge of pain, ribs protesting, Sullivan twisted his upper body, turning to glance back down the street. The area still quiet, so still . . . felt a chill crawling the length of his spine, a shivering echo . . . a suggested warning. Ignored the sensation, placing blame where it didn’t belong; his body, exhaustion and pain guiding his thoughts, his decisions in the wrong direction, in a hurry to get it over with before Father Brown could interfere further.
Police issued revolver heavy in a jacket pocket, Sullivan stepped through the open doorway and made his way down the hallway. Goodfellow mirrored his movements, keeping close to Kembleford’s detective inspector. Cautious, Sullivan stopped at the entrance to the living room, gaze searching for Albert Atwood. No great feat, the room so small . . . finding the man sitting on the end of the small lounge, half bottle of scotch whiskey resting beside him.
Thankfully, no sign of Father Brown.
Atwood, his head down, refusing to look at Sullivan, said, “What do you want?”
“Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan as he moved forward, further into the room, Goodfellow still close behind him, moving with him. “According to the post mortem report, your wife was murdered.”
Atwood lifted his head, his gaze unsteady as he tried to stare back at Sullivan. “But I have a death certificate that says it was natural causes.”
“No, Mr. Atwood, someone put a cloth over her mouth and nose and suffocated her to death while she slept.” Sullivan frowned, confused for a moment, realisation quickly dawning. “Doctor Hartford gave you a death certificate?”
“Yes, this morning. Said I’ll need it.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“His normal fee.”
“Did you pay him to falsify your wife’s cause of death?”
“What? No. Why would I do that?”
“Is Doctor Hartford blackmailing you, Mr. Atwood? Is he demanding money to keep your wife’s real cause of death quiet?”
“No. Why are you asking me that . . . I didn’t . . . he said she died of natural causes.”
Frown growing, his forehead creasing, Sullivan felt a moment of doubt, Atwood so sincere with his response . . . so confident his wife had died of natural causes. He could be wrong. Always so wrong lately, Brown constantly coming to a correct solution while Kembleford’s detective inspector stumbled his way through a list of worthy suspects before the priest finally passed on information gained, pointing Sullivan in the right direction.
It hadn’t been this way in the city, Sullivan able to solve a case of murder on his own, quickly moving through the ranks to detective inspector but here . . . here it was different. Already under scrutiny, his intelligence and his abilities now in doubt . . . questioned. Possible he would soon be demoted and back in uniform . . .
Shut that particular thought down.
Get on with the job.
“Why didn’t you tell me Hartford had been to see your wife the night she died?”
Atwood blinked, his gaze shifting before looking back at Sullivan. “The night she died . . . what are you saying? She died the next day. Hartford said she died the next day. . .”
All doubt gone, Sullivan said, “Your wife died not long after Hartford’s visit.”
“You think he killed Elizabeth?”
“No, Mr. Atwood, I think you killed your wife.”
“But . . . she died of natural causes,” said Atwood.
“Not according to the autopsy report.”
A knock on the front door.
Sullivan froze, heart pounding against bruised ribs. A slow release of breath. Father Brown. There was no doubt. No question . . . it couldn’t be anyone else. He was determined to ignore the priest, to leave the man on the doorstep, so convinced Brown would give up and walk away . . . eventually.
Atwood stood up, his body swaying. “Maybe, I should . . .”
“Sit down, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, as Goodfellow stepped forward, right arm reaching toward Atwood, palm facing the big man. A placating gesture given by his sergeant but Sullivan knew if Atwood showed any indication of physically assaulting Sullivan, Goodfellow would respond in kind. Hoped it didn’t come to that, a physical encounter in such a small space would be bloody, violent and over very quickly.
A tense moment before Atwood shrugged his shoulders in submission and sat back down. Something nagged at the back of Sullivan’s mind, eating its way through assumption to reveal a moment of clarity; Atwood wasn’t behaving as Sullivan expected, different from their last visit. A sudden deduction . . . Atwood was showing no fear, no anxiety. The alcohol was fuelling his courage. It was possible he’d been drinking the night he murdered his wife; Dutch courage.
Another knock at the door, the noise loud, insistent. No longer sure Brown would give up, Kembleford's detective inspector decided it was time to arrest Atwood and take him back to the station. To wait for Atwood to sober up before he questioned him further.
“Mr. Atwood, we’ll continue this interview at the police station--”
“Albert?”
Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Out of patience, no longer waiting, Father Brown had let himself into Albert Atwood’s home.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, keeping his gaze on Atwood. “See to it that Father Brown leaves, with force if necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning away, hesitating before he turned back. “Are you sure, sir? I don’t think . . .”
Father Brown rushed into the room, hat and umbrella in his left hand. “Albert!”
Sullivan turned to face the unwanted interruption.
Albert Atwood lifted his head, his gaze steady as he reached over the side of the lounge, fingers clasping the weapon hidden from sight. Stood up and struck out, the butt of a double barrel shotgun searching for a target, an easy thing, the room small.
Father Brown’s eyes widened with surprise . . .
Instinct screaming, his body tense, Sullivan shifted his body to the right as he looked back at Atwood.
Too late.
Saw the butt of the shotgun as it came toward him, its intent obvious. Tried to duck, knees buckling . . . pain ruptured through the left side of his skull, vision blurring as his body collapsed, falling face down, a painful landing as he met the floor.
Goodfellow reacted, an attempt to move forward, to get closer to Atwood, stopping in place when Atwood quickly switched his grip on the double barrel shotgun, turning it with trembling hands, cocking the weapon as he pointed toward Goodfellow and Father Brown.
“I’m not going to hang,” said Atwood, the words whispered, his tone full of fear.
Consciousness remained . . . Sullivan’s thoughts staggering through a cloud of confusion and pain. He felt dizzy, disoriented as he made every attempt to focus, to think, to understand what had just happened. Couldn’t think through the pain.
“Albert,” said Brown, taking a step forward, standing next to sergeant Goodfellow. “Please think about what you’re doing.”
Using a different approach, Sullivan opened his eyes, gaze stumbling as he searched for an answer to explain his situation, not sure how he’d gotten himself into such a painful predicament. Not much to see, the floor beneath him, a blurred impression of flowers brown in colour. He frowned, grimacing at the pull of pain through the left side of his head. Tried to push a body heavy with pain up onto unstable elbows, his efforts clumsy, his body refusing to obey the simplest of commands. He needed time . . . time to recover.
“Put the gun down,” said Goodfellow as he took a discreet step closer to Kembleford’s injured detective inspector, gaze snapping downward to look at Sullivan, a look of relief passing over his features when he saw Sullivan move. Returned his gaze to Atwood. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
“How can things get any worse? What are you going to do? Hang me twice?”
“Alfred, you know I will do everything in my power to help you,” said Father Brown.
“When I confessed to you, you told me I would have God’s forgiveness but he hasn’t forgiven me. If he’d forgiven me, the police wouldn’t be here to arrest me,” said Atwood, lowering the barrel of the shotgun, pointing it toward Sullivan.
Seconds passed, maybe minutes, Sullivan wasn’t sure, side effects of the blow to the side of his head diminishing. Blinked, everything coming into focus, things becoming clear. Too clear. Mind no longer fighting for clarity, understanding bringing a sudden realisation to the forefront . . . he’d made a serious mistake, now in a situation that could cost him his life, the life of his sergeant . . . of Father Brown.
What was it about Kembleford that brought out the stupidity in him?
Don’t think about it. Not now. Plenty of time to think about his mistakes later . . . certain, if he survived this, they would demote him and put him back in a uniform . . . if he were lucky. If luck didn’t play a part in it, they would transfer him back to the city, closer to his father.
“Albert, please,” said Brown as he lowered his hat and umbrella, dropping them, allowing them to fall to the floor before moving forward, hands raised in submission. “You don’t want to do this.”
Silently cursing his stupidity, his assumptions, Sullivan moved his hand toward the gun in his coat pocket, a slow deliberate movement. Could feel his confidence building as his fingers gripped the handle of the police issued revolver, a comfortable embrace around the butt of the gun. Pulled the weapon from his coat pocket . . .
“What else can I do, Father?” said Atwood as he reached down, left hand grabbing the back of Sullivan’s coat, pulling Kembleford’s detective inspector up and back. “I can’t hang. I won’t hang. Not for the likes of Elizabeth. You have no idea what she put me through. I didn’t tell you everything in confession. Not when you came to visit us, not when I confessed the other night.”
The sudden movement, his body jerked backward, Sullivan lost the grip on his weapon, the revolver falling to the floor, his only means of defence, his only opportunity to end a violent confrontation, now in plain sight for everyone to see.
“Tell me now, Albert. Explain it to me and to the Inspector,” said Brown, looking down at Sullivan as Atwood pulled Kembleford’s detective inspector back from the center of the room.
Dragged back, Sullivan clenched his jaw and fought to stay conscious, the movement increasing his pain, the vertigo brief but disruptive. Shoulders and back collided with a solid obstacle Sullivan could only assume was the lounge. His breath catching in his throat, he refused to give into the pain pounding through his skull, the nausea rolling through his stomach . . . the fear a tight band around his chest. Lifting his gaze, he could see Goodfellow, his sergeant flicking his gaze from Atwood to Sullivan and back again. He could see Father Brown, his expression calm as he spoke to Atwood.
“It’s too late,” said Atwood. “And if you can’t help me . . . someone else can.”
“What do you mean,” said Brown, frowning.
He could feel Atwood’s presence, the man sitting down on the lounge, legs protruding, and partially blocking Sullivan’s line of sight. Could feel the barrels of the shotgun as Atwood placed it against the side of his head, Sullivan now understanding he was a hostage, a bargaining tool, Atwood searching for a way out, Kembleford’s detective inspector giving him an opportunity.
Atwood, a man desperate and scared, alcohol fuelling his courage was now in control.
“I want him to leave,” said Atwood, nodding at Goodfellow.
Goodfellow glanced at Sullivan, pulling his worried gaze away to look back at Atwood. “I can’t do that.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Albert, please,” said Father Brown. “Give me the gun.”
“Make him leave. If he doesn’t . . .” said Atwood, increasing the pressure, Sullivan grimacing as he tilted his head away, Atwood following his movement, unrelenting. “I’ll kill him if you don’t go.”
His voice weak, revealing the pain and exhaustion he felt, Sullivan said, “If you kill me . . . it will be over for you.”
“After I kill you, will your sergeant have time to take the gun away from me before I shoot him?”
Sullivan conceded, Atwood was right. The room small, space lacking, if Goodfellow made an attempt to take the gun from Atwood . . . if Atwood pulled the trigger in the struggle, Goodfellow in the way of the shotgun pellets . . . or Father Brown; a bloody and violent end for either man.
“Tell him to leave,” said Atwood.
The ultimatum left hanging, the threat real, Sullivan could think of only one thing. His own life now in doubt; if he could save another, if he could protect Goodfellow . . . His sergeant was a family man, a wife and children at home. Brown was a different matter, Sullivan certain Atwood wouldn’t harm the priest.
“Do what he says, sergeant,” said Sullivan.
“Sir?” said Goodfellow, an expression of doubt filling his features.
“That was an order, sergeant.”
“Sir . . .”
“Go home to your family.”
“Sir, I can’t do that. I can’t leave you and the Father here. If something were to happen . . .”
Sullivan looked at Goodfellow. “It’s going to happen whether you’re here or not, sergeant. I would prefer to die knowing I didn’t take you from your family.”
“This isn’t your doing, sir.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best, sergeant,” said Brown as he turned to face Goodfellow. “Your presence is only provoking Albert’s anger. And I promise you, I won’t allow anything further to happen to the Inspector.”
“Go home to your family,” said Sullivan. “Please.”
“Just so you know, sir, we’ll be having words about this back at the station,” said Goodfellow. His body language reluctant, hesitant, Goodfellow turned his back on Kembleford’s detective inspector and walked away, stepping through the open doorway. Heavy footsteps as he moved along the hallway, the front door opening then closing.
Sullivan could feel the relief, the emotion palpable . . .
“Albert, you can put the gun down now. The inspector isn’t a threat to you.”
“No. I’ve been told he’s stubborn. That he won’t give up until he sees me hang.”
“Who have you been speaking to, Albert?”
“Someone who can help me. I know, that as long as he’s alive, he’s a threat. If I let him live, he’ll only come back and arrest me.”
Sullivan closed his eyes, the pain heavy in his skull, the exhaustion pulling him away from the conversation, the words drifting away . . . Goodfellow was safe, it was all that mattered right now, confident Brown would take care of the rest, convincing Atwood to surrender. He didn’t like the idea of relying on the priest to save the life of Kembleford’s only detective inspector but he didn’t have a choice. Decided he no longer cared, accepting his imminent death . . . as long as Brown survived . . .
“Killing the inspector won’t stop your arrest, Albert.”
“This is all her fault!” said Atwood, his anger increasing the pressure against Sullivan’s head. “She wouldn’t die. I kept waiting. Kept hoping she would but she didn’t. If she just left me so I could live my life.”
“Albert . . .”
Sullivan’s feeling of relief didn’t last long, the sound of footsteps returning, Sullivan frowning in confusion, assuming his loyal sergeant had decided to ignore his order to leave . . . his plea to leave.
Doctor Hartford, carrying a black medical bag in his left hand, walked into the room.
“Well, Inspector, it looks like you’ve been in the wars?” said Hartford as he stopped beside Father Brown.
Sullivan frowned, the confusion returning. “Hartford? Why are you here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Inspector,” said Hartford. “When I found out you left the hospital, I knew you would show up here sooner or later. I didn’t expect the priest though.”
Nodding, Sullivan finally understood, the answer revealing itself. “The threats you made . . .”
“Yes, I meant every word. Every threat. I’ve been waiting a long time to punish you and the other men involved in the investigation. I chose you to be the first. Your stubborn refusal . . . your persistence in trying to gain the evidence to convict me.”
“You knew who I was when I walked into your office,” said Sullivan, not as a question but in acceptance. He’d sat in Hartford’s office listening to and accepting his lies as truth, unable to read his intentions . . . Sullivan felt like a fool; a simpleton disguised as a detective inspector.
“Yes. When I was told you’d transferred to this small, insignificant village, I followed you.” Pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the priest. “I am sorry about all of this, Father, but you shouldn’t have come here.”
“Doctor Harford,” said Brown, his expression passive. “I will always do what I can to help a member of my flock and right now, Albert needs my help. And so does the Inspector.”
Albert spoke up, gaze settling on Brown. “You haven’t done anything to help. I shouldn’t have confessed.”
“This has nothing to do with Father Brown,” said Sullivan as he struggled to move, to find a position that didn’t make him look weak or vulnerable in front of this man. Kicked in the side, the tip of Atwood’s boot finding bruised ribs, Sullivan grunted in pain.
“You’re right of course. It has nothing to do with the priest but he’s here and there isn’t much I can do about that.”
“You can ask him to leave.”
“So he can inform your sergeant of my presence? No.”
“He’s not involved in this,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge the growing confusion stretching across Brown’s features.
“Not in our state of affairs.”
“Sally Emerson,” said Sullivan, shifting his body, an attempt to alleviate the pain, the pressure against the side of his head, the barrels of the shotgun digging painfully into the skin of his temple.
“Yes. Poor, little Sally. Her death was the result of a simple mistake. There was no reason for a lawsuit or an investigation. There was no reason to ruin my practice or my life.”
“You’re actually admitting culpability in her death.”
“I suppose I am.”
Impatience growing, Atwood said, “You said you’d get me out of this.”
“Patience, Albert. We’ll leave when I’m ready. I’ve waited a long time for revenge.” Hartford moved forward, kneeling beside Sullivan and placing his bag on the floor. Turning to reach behind him, he picked up the revolver and placed it in a coat pocket, out of harm’s way, out of reach of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You won’t need this.”
“Albert,” said Brown. “This man can’t help you.”
“And you can? I don’t think so, Father. Your offer of help hasn’t done anything to get me out of this.”
“Albert, this man intends to harm Inspector Sullivan. He--”
“I intend to do more than that, Father. By the time I’m finished with the Inspector, he’ll be dead. And he won’t be the last.”
“Albert,” said Sullivan, “what Hartford is saying, is that he also intends to kill you and Father Brown. Is that what you want?”
“He isn’t going to kill me. He’s going to help me and I don’t care what happens to you.”
“And Father Brown?”
“Father Brown will be fine,” said Hartford. “He'll receive a sedative to keep him quiet, enough time for Albert and me to leave Kembleford.”
“And then what,” said Sullivan. “You’ll both be wanted men. They won’t stop looking for the men responsible for the death of a police officer.”
“I don’t know about Albert but after I leave here, I’ll be heading north. You see, Inspector, when I’m done with you, I will be moving on to the next man . . . Oldfield, I think. He was in charge of the investigation.”
“You’re insane,” said Sullivan.
“Possibly.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Brown. “What does Elizabeth’s death have to do with your revenge against Inspector Sullivan and who is Sally Emerson?”
Sullivan smiled, a reaction born from satisfaction; for the first time since he’d met Father Brown, the priest was stumped, unaware of what was going on, no knowledge or understanding of the situation playing out in front of him.
“Albert didn’t mention Hartford when he confessed murder to you, Father?” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at Brown, the expression of confusion the priest still wore telling Sullivan he was right. Looked back at Hartford. “Sally Emerson was a patient of Hartford’s. She died from an overdose of morphine. There was an investigation into her death. Sally was nine years old.”
“The investigation was brutal, Father. They wouldn’t give up, especially this one,” said Hartford, a smile gracing his features as he wrapped his hand around Sullivan’s neck, a soft touch as his fingers traced the dark bruises on Sullivan’s skin.
Recognising the touch, Sullivan said, “You were there. In my bedroom. You drugged me.”
“Yes. Although, I wasn’t expecting you to have such a reaction to the combination of drugs I injected into your system. Imagine my disappointment when I heard the news. I didn’t wait so long for you to die so quickly. I didn’t want you to die without knowing the name of the man who took your life.”
“You also drugged me outside your office.”
“Correct again, Inspector. You really aren’t as stupid as you look,” said Hartford, frowning as he continued. “You didn’t have a reaction after that particular injection. Perhaps I should have waited longer before the second injection. It’s possible I gave you an overdose . . .”
“Just like Sally,” said Sullivan.
“Just like Sally.”
“What did you give me?”
“Ah, a good question. It was a combination of drugs that induces anxiety and anger. Your emotions are heightened. But you’re not a man prone to anxiety or anger . . .”
Flicked his gaze toward Brown, the man capable of inducing anger in Kembleford’s detective inspector. Returned his gaze to Hartford.
“You don’t take after your father when it comes to anger. So, to create these emotions, I gave you a subtle suggestion. The mere mention of your father was enough. That much was obvious when I watched you after you left my office. All I needed to do after that was inject the drug into your system.”
“Why?”
“I told you, Inspector. Revenge.”
“Why drug me? Why not something less . . . extravagant?”
“I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to be scared,” said Hartford. “May I ask, Inspector, how did you know I injected you with a drug outside of my office.”
“I’m not as stupid as I look. I considered the idea, and your drug did the rest. The anxiety you caused made me suspicious. Where did you inject me? The police surgeon couldn’t find an injection site.”
“Between your toes. I only had to slip off your shoe. Took me less than a minute. The two men working for me gave me the perfect opportunity. I believe you arrested them earlier although they won’t implicate me in your death. I paid them too much money for that. I could have done so much more while you were unconscious but I didn’t. Where was the fun in ending your life so quickly?”
“The phone call . . . you weren’t speaking to Albert.”
“No. That was for your benefit. I wanted you to think Albert had hired those men. I wanted to keep your attention off me for a little longer.”
“Why?”
“Because, Inspector, if you had suspected me of killing Elizabeth Atwood, you would have arrested me. I couldn’t allow that.”
“You told Albert how to kill his wife.”
“No,” said Hartford as he stared at Sullivan. “I had nothing to do with Elizabeth Atwood’s death. I was telling you truth about that night. I gave her some morphine to help her sleep. That’s all.”
“And that was an opportunity for Albert.”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” said Hartford as he reached into the black medical bag and removed a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “He called me after he killed her. I knew he would need to call the police but I told him the police would investigate. That they would also perform an autopsy and discover the cause of death.”
“You gave him a way out.”
“I knew you would be in charge of the investigation so I brought my plans for revenge forward. I told Albert to refrain from calling the police for twenty four hours so I could hire some men to do the dirty work. I also knew that once Albert gave you the name of his wife’s doctor, you would show up on my doorstep. The two men who warned you off were waiting for you with instructions to cause you injury and harm under the guise of a warning.”
“You planned all of this. All this because I believed you killed Sally. Because I tried to get the evidence to make a formal arrest.”
“Yes,” said Hartford, gaze steady as he continued to look at Sullivan. “All but Elizabeth’s death. What I don’t understand, Inspector, is why he killed her. He wouldn’t tell me.”
Sullivan tore his gaze away from Hartford to look at Father Brown. He wanted to see the passive expression, the stubborn refusal to admit he knew why Albert Atwood murdered his wife.
“He wanted a new life with his mistress but it was taking too long for his wife to die--”
“Shut up,” Atwood shouted, digging his left knee into Sullivan’s shoulder, kicking him a second time with his right leg, boot slamming into Sullivan’s side, his gaze pulled away from Brown. A snap of breath, Sullivan pausing, trying to find his way through the pain. Continued when he was able. “He’d run out of patience and decided to take matters into his own hands. But he didn’t have the courage to kill her while she looked him in the eye so--”
“He killed her while she slept,” said Hartford, nodding in understanding as he reached for Sullivan’s arm.
He could feel the tension building in Atwood, could feel the man’s knee trembling with anxiety and anger . . . decided to push the man further, to create a reaction; a risk Sullivan knew but if he didn’t act now . . . no time left, Hartford preparing to inject Kembleford’s detective inspector with a lethal combination of drugs. Atwood was willing to allow Brown to live, but he knew Hartford wasn’t going to let the priest go, to allow him to pass on information gained, Hartford confessing his next move, his next victim.
“So he drank some Dutch courage and murdered her in her sleep,” said Sullivan. “Something only a coward would do. To murder a frail woman who couldn’t fight back . . . the man’s a yellow-bellied coward . . .”
Knew the moment Atwood snapped, Sullivan reaching up with his right hand. Fingers gripping the barrels of the shotgun, he snapped his head away and pushed the weapon toward Hartford, the doctor too busy with the sleeve of Sullivan’s coat to notice the danger he was in . . . just as Atwood pulled the trigger, the explosion loud next to Sullivan’s ear, the noise deafening.
The back of Hartford’s head exploded . . . so close to Sullivan, blood, bone and brain matter splattering across the side of Sullivan’s face.
Atwood fell to the floor, in shock or remorse, Sullivan didn’t know. He didn’t care. He watched through vision turning dark, as Father Brown stepped forward, as the priest knelt down next to Atwood and carefully removed the shotgun from Atwood’s trembling hands.
It was over.
He was still alive.
His body jerked with surprise when he felt the hands on his shoulders, his body shaken in an attempt to draw his attention to man in front of him. Shifted his gaze . . . Sergeant Goodfellow knelt in front of him, his lips moving, words spoken, his voice subdued.
“Sir! Are you all right?”
Sullivan couldn’t hear what Goodfellow was saying but he had an idea . . . turned his head, shifted his gaze to look at Hartford. Felt the hands on his face, large palms cupping each cheek as Goodfellow forced Sullivan to look at him, as his sergeant began to wipe Hartford’s remains from Sullivan’s face.
Understanding, Sullivan said, “I’m . . . I’m all right, sergeant. The shot didn’t . . . It didn’t hit me.”
Goodfellow nodded in acceptance and relief, the concern in his blue eyes visible.
Ignoring his sergeant’s worried expression, Sullivan closed his eyes. Felt an arm around his shoulders as his body finally gave into the exhaustion and pain, collapsing forward, falling . . .
.
.
.
Kembleford’s detective inspector paused, hand hovering, hesitation controlling his movements; a moment of doubt, concerned he would be turned away, his apology unheard, couldn’t blame them if they did send him on his way. A deep, calming breath, bruised ribs aching. He could do this . . .
No he couldn’t. Lowered his arm, limb falling to his side. He couldn’t face them, not after the way he’d treated them, even if the drugs had forced a change of emotion in him . . . forced him to think, to act in a way he normally wouldn’t. Yes, the priest provoked anger, resentment but he didn’t always act on it, only raising his voice and threatening arrest when Brown had pushed him too far; the priest always had a away of testing Sullivan’s patience.
Never had he considered using physical violence against the man, not until after Hartford had played with his emotions, drugs affecting his ability to remain neutral . . . never had he felt such anger toward another person, always calm when dealing with the difficult . . . with criminals; it didn’t help, confessions shut down at the first sign of retribution . . . of judgement, at the realisation they could hang for their crime.
Always more willing to confess to a priest.
Shaking his head in disappointment . . . in himself, too scared to face a man of the cloth, a man of understanding and forgiveness. Sullivan turned away from the door of the presbytery and stepped down onto the road; a brisk walk back to the police station would help clear his head, to remove the tension from his body. The door opened behind him, Sullivan stopping, closing his eyes at the sound of the not-so-subtle cough.
He could do this.
Opened his eyes and turned around . . .
“Inspector,” said Father Brown, a soft welcoming smile on his features as he stood in the doorway to the presbytery. “Always a pleasure.”
Sullivan didn’t doubt the priest, not this time. Nodded and said, “Father.”
“How are you, Inspector? Recovering nicely, I hope.”
“I’m fine thank you . . .” Not a lie, the headache gone, the exhaustion no longer dragging him down, his strength returned. Understood this was only small talk, Brown giving him to time to say what he’d come to say.
He decided to blurt out the apology, to get it out of the way. “Father Brown, I’ve come to . . .” Snapped his mouth closed, uncertain what to say . . . uncertain how to apologise. Such a simple word, a simple thing and yet so difficult to voice.
“Apologise?” said Brown.
Sullivan grimaced, uncertain if Brown was mocking him. “Yes, to you and Mrs. McCarthy.”
Father Brown smiled. “The flowers she received this morning were quite fetching.”
“Really,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge his involvement in the small gift.
“Sent by someone who wasn’t willing to sign the card. It simply said, ‘Thank You’. Out of embarrassment, I would think. Wouldn’t you, Inspector?”
Sullivan looked away, the embarrassment Brown spoke of clouding his features.
“They would have more meaning if you apologised in person.”
Remaining silent, Sullivan looked toward Hartford’s medical rooms. A shiver ran the length of his spine. Reminded of how close death had come, Sullivan thought about what Mrs. McCarthy had done for him, taking care of him while he lay fighting for his life. The effort she went through to fill a picnic basket with freshly baked pastries. He hadn’t felt such concern shown his way since his mother . . .
Turned to look at Brown and said, “I can’t do that Father, she might come to an incorrect conclusion.”
“And what conclusion would that be, Inspector?”
“That I might actually like her,” said Sullivan, the soft smile crossing his features giving him away.
“Ah,” said Brown. “We can’t have that, can we.”
“Father, I do want to apologise for my actions during this case. I treated you and your associates poorly and I am sorry for that.”
Apology spoken, Sullivan felt better, a moment of relief.
“Apology accepted, Inspector and I will convey your kind thoughts to Mrs. M, even though you had little control over your actions. I, and the others, do not blame you for the things you said . . . even Sid, although reluctantly, has already forgiven you.”
He didn’t particularly care what Sid Carter thought about him . . .
“Would you like to come in, Inspector. Mrs. M has the kettle on and she’s made a fresh batch of strawberry scones.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Sullivan, tipping his hat. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“It wouldn’t be an intrusion, Inspector. You’re always welcome here.”
“Another time, Father,” said Sullivan, turning away, a single step taken before Brown spoke, the priest’s words cramping his chest, the sudden wave of emotions pulling the breath from his lungs.
“Inspector, did you know you talk in your sleep? While you were in the hospital you said some disturbing things while you slept.”
A slow breath before he turned back.
“If there is a time when you want to talk about your father, or Sally Emerson, you know where I am,” said Brown, nodding and turning away. He stepped back into the presbytery, closing the door behind him.
Sullivan would never understand the man, he couldn’t comprehend the priest’s ability to forgive, to understand . . . to intrude . . . to meddle. Maybe, one day, he would take Brown up on his offer, to talk about his father’s violence, to talk about . . .
One day.
But not today.
Sullivan walked away, back to the life of Kembleford’s detective inspector.
The End.
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: 5,752
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 Seven
The street quiet, curtains of prying neighbours at rest, Sullivan knocked on Albert Atwood’s front door. Couldn’t be sure his main suspect was at home, possible the man had already absconded, nothing to indicate otherwise, the house silent. Knocked a second time, more force used, fist pounding against the door.
Soft footfalls in the hallway, muttered curses as the lock disengaged. Sullivan stepped back, a distance of safety. The front door opened to reveal a rumpled Atwood, his face pale, eyes and nose red with the indulgence of alcohol . . . or grief, Sullivan certain it was the former. Expected outburst lacking, Atwood was silent as he turned around and walked back down the hallway toward the small, cluttered living room at the back of the semi-detached home.
Sullivan looked at Goodfellow, his sergeant shrugging in response. Feeling a twinge of pain, ribs protesting, Sullivan twisted his upper body, turning to glance back down the street. The area still quiet, so still . . . felt a chill crawling the length of his spine, a shivering echo . . . a suggested warning. Ignored the sensation, placing blame where it didn’t belong; his body, exhaustion and pain guiding his thoughts, his decisions in the wrong direction, in a hurry to get it over with before Father Brown could interfere further.
Police issued revolver heavy in a jacket pocket, Sullivan stepped through the open doorway and made his way down the hallway. Goodfellow mirrored his movements, keeping close to Kembleford’s detective inspector. Cautious, Sullivan stopped at the entrance to the living room, gaze searching for Albert Atwood. No great feat, the room so small . . . finding the man sitting on the end of the small lounge, half bottle of scotch whiskey resting beside him.
Thankfully, no sign of Father Brown.
Atwood, his head down, refusing to look at Sullivan, said, “What do you want?”
“Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan as he moved forward, further into the room, Goodfellow still close behind him, moving with him. “According to the post mortem report, your wife was murdered.”
Atwood lifted his head, his gaze unsteady as he tried to stare back at Sullivan. “But I have a death certificate that says it was natural causes.”
“No, Mr. Atwood, someone put a cloth over her mouth and nose and suffocated her to death while she slept.” Sullivan frowned, confused for a moment, realisation quickly dawning. “Doctor Hartford gave you a death certificate?”
“Yes, this morning. Said I’ll need it.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“His normal fee.”
“Did you pay him to falsify your wife’s cause of death?”
“What? No. Why would I do that?”
“Is Doctor Hartford blackmailing you, Mr. Atwood? Is he demanding money to keep your wife’s real cause of death quiet?”
“No. Why are you asking me that . . . I didn’t . . . he said she died of natural causes.”
Frown growing, his forehead creasing, Sullivan felt a moment of doubt, Atwood so sincere with his response . . . so confident his wife had died of natural causes. He could be wrong. Always so wrong lately, Brown constantly coming to a correct solution while Kembleford’s detective inspector stumbled his way through a list of worthy suspects before the priest finally passed on information gained, pointing Sullivan in the right direction.
It hadn’t been this way in the city, Sullivan able to solve a case of murder on his own, quickly moving through the ranks to detective inspector but here . . . here it was different. Already under scrutiny, his intelligence and his abilities now in doubt . . . questioned. Possible he would soon be demoted and back in uniform . . .
Shut that particular thought down.
Get on with the job.
“Why didn’t you tell me Hartford had been to see your wife the night she died?”
Atwood blinked, his gaze shifting before looking back at Sullivan. “The night she died . . . what are you saying? She died the next day. Hartford said she died the next day. . .”
All doubt gone, Sullivan said, “Your wife died not long after Hartford’s visit.”
“You think he killed Elizabeth?”
“No, Mr. Atwood, I think you killed your wife.”
“But . . . she died of natural causes,” said Atwood.
“Not according to the autopsy report.”
A knock on the front door.
Sullivan froze, heart pounding against bruised ribs. A slow release of breath. Father Brown. There was no doubt. No question . . . it couldn’t be anyone else. He was determined to ignore the priest, to leave the man on the doorstep, so convinced Brown would give up and walk away . . . eventually.
Atwood stood up, his body swaying. “Maybe, I should . . .”
“Sit down, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, as Goodfellow stepped forward, right arm reaching toward Atwood, palm facing the big man. A placating gesture given by his sergeant but Sullivan knew if Atwood showed any indication of physically assaulting Sullivan, Goodfellow would respond in kind. Hoped it didn’t come to that, a physical encounter in such a small space would be bloody, violent and over very quickly.
A tense moment before Atwood shrugged his shoulders in submission and sat back down. Something nagged at the back of Sullivan’s mind, eating its way through assumption to reveal a moment of clarity; Atwood wasn’t behaving as Sullivan expected, different from their last visit. A sudden deduction . . . Atwood was showing no fear, no anxiety. The alcohol was fuelling his courage. It was possible he’d been drinking the night he murdered his wife; Dutch courage.
Another knock at the door, the noise loud, insistent. No longer sure Brown would give up, Kembleford's detective inspector decided it was time to arrest Atwood and take him back to the station. To wait for Atwood to sober up before he questioned him further.
“Mr. Atwood, we’ll continue this interview at the police station--”
“Albert?”
Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Out of patience, no longer waiting, Father Brown had let himself into Albert Atwood’s home.
“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, keeping his gaze on Atwood. “See to it that Father Brown leaves, with force if necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning away, hesitating before he turned back. “Are you sure, sir? I don’t think . . .”
Father Brown rushed into the room, hat and umbrella in his left hand. “Albert!”
Sullivan turned to face the unwanted interruption.
Albert Atwood lifted his head, his gaze steady as he reached over the side of the lounge, fingers clasping the weapon hidden from sight. Stood up and struck out, the butt of a double barrel shotgun searching for a target, an easy thing, the room small.
Father Brown’s eyes widened with surprise . . .
Instinct screaming, his body tense, Sullivan shifted his body to the right as he looked back at Atwood.
Too late.
Saw the butt of the shotgun as it came toward him, its intent obvious. Tried to duck, knees buckling . . . pain ruptured through the left side of his skull, vision blurring as his body collapsed, falling face down, a painful landing as he met the floor.
Goodfellow reacted, an attempt to move forward, to get closer to Atwood, stopping in place when Atwood quickly switched his grip on the double barrel shotgun, turning it with trembling hands, cocking the weapon as he pointed toward Goodfellow and Father Brown.
“I’m not going to hang,” said Atwood, the words whispered, his tone full of fear.
Consciousness remained . . . Sullivan’s thoughts staggering through a cloud of confusion and pain. He felt dizzy, disoriented as he made every attempt to focus, to think, to understand what had just happened. Couldn’t think through the pain.
“Albert,” said Brown, taking a step forward, standing next to sergeant Goodfellow. “Please think about what you’re doing.”
Using a different approach, Sullivan opened his eyes, gaze stumbling as he searched for an answer to explain his situation, not sure how he’d gotten himself into such a painful predicament. Not much to see, the floor beneath him, a blurred impression of flowers brown in colour. He frowned, grimacing at the pull of pain through the left side of his head. Tried to push a body heavy with pain up onto unstable elbows, his efforts clumsy, his body refusing to obey the simplest of commands. He needed time . . . time to recover.
“Put the gun down,” said Goodfellow as he took a discreet step closer to Kembleford’s injured detective inspector, gaze snapping downward to look at Sullivan, a look of relief passing over his features when he saw Sullivan move. Returned his gaze to Atwood. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
“How can things get any worse? What are you going to do? Hang me twice?”
“Alfred, you know I will do everything in my power to help you,” said Father Brown.
“When I confessed to you, you told me I would have God’s forgiveness but he hasn’t forgiven me. If he’d forgiven me, the police wouldn’t be here to arrest me,” said Atwood, lowering the barrel of the shotgun, pointing it toward Sullivan.
Seconds passed, maybe minutes, Sullivan wasn’t sure, side effects of the blow to the side of his head diminishing. Blinked, everything coming into focus, things becoming clear. Too clear. Mind no longer fighting for clarity, understanding bringing a sudden realisation to the forefront . . . he’d made a serious mistake, now in a situation that could cost him his life, the life of his sergeant . . . of Father Brown.
What was it about Kembleford that brought out the stupidity in him?
Don’t think about it. Not now. Plenty of time to think about his mistakes later . . . certain, if he survived this, they would demote him and put him back in a uniform . . . if he were lucky. If luck didn’t play a part in it, they would transfer him back to the city, closer to his father.
“Albert, please,” said Brown as he lowered his hat and umbrella, dropping them, allowing them to fall to the floor before moving forward, hands raised in submission. “You don’t want to do this.”
Silently cursing his stupidity, his assumptions, Sullivan moved his hand toward the gun in his coat pocket, a slow deliberate movement. Could feel his confidence building as his fingers gripped the handle of the police issued revolver, a comfortable embrace around the butt of the gun. Pulled the weapon from his coat pocket . . .
“What else can I do, Father?” said Atwood as he reached down, left hand grabbing the back of Sullivan’s coat, pulling Kembleford’s detective inspector up and back. “I can’t hang. I won’t hang. Not for the likes of Elizabeth. You have no idea what she put me through. I didn’t tell you everything in confession. Not when you came to visit us, not when I confessed the other night.”
The sudden movement, his body jerked backward, Sullivan lost the grip on his weapon, the revolver falling to the floor, his only means of defence, his only opportunity to end a violent confrontation, now in plain sight for everyone to see.
“Tell me now, Albert. Explain it to me and to the Inspector,” said Brown, looking down at Sullivan as Atwood pulled Kembleford’s detective inspector back from the center of the room.
Dragged back, Sullivan clenched his jaw and fought to stay conscious, the movement increasing his pain, the vertigo brief but disruptive. Shoulders and back collided with a solid obstacle Sullivan could only assume was the lounge. His breath catching in his throat, he refused to give into the pain pounding through his skull, the nausea rolling through his stomach . . . the fear a tight band around his chest. Lifting his gaze, he could see Goodfellow, his sergeant flicking his gaze from Atwood to Sullivan and back again. He could see Father Brown, his expression calm as he spoke to Atwood.
“It’s too late,” said Atwood. “And if you can’t help me . . . someone else can.”
“What do you mean,” said Brown, frowning.
He could feel Atwood’s presence, the man sitting down on the lounge, legs protruding, and partially blocking Sullivan’s line of sight. Could feel the barrels of the shotgun as Atwood placed it against the side of his head, Sullivan now understanding he was a hostage, a bargaining tool, Atwood searching for a way out, Kembleford’s detective inspector giving him an opportunity.
Atwood, a man desperate and scared, alcohol fuelling his courage was now in control.
“I want him to leave,” said Atwood, nodding at Goodfellow.
Goodfellow glanced at Sullivan, pulling his worried gaze away to look back at Atwood. “I can’t do that.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Albert, please,” said Father Brown. “Give me the gun.”
“Make him leave. If he doesn’t . . .” said Atwood, increasing the pressure, Sullivan grimacing as he tilted his head away, Atwood following his movement, unrelenting. “I’ll kill him if you don’t go.”
His voice weak, revealing the pain and exhaustion he felt, Sullivan said, “If you kill me . . . it will be over for you.”
“After I kill you, will your sergeant have time to take the gun away from me before I shoot him?”
Sullivan conceded, Atwood was right. The room small, space lacking, if Goodfellow made an attempt to take the gun from Atwood . . . if Atwood pulled the trigger in the struggle, Goodfellow in the way of the shotgun pellets . . . or Father Brown; a bloody and violent end for either man.
“Tell him to leave,” said Atwood.
The ultimatum left hanging, the threat real, Sullivan could think of only one thing. His own life now in doubt; if he could save another, if he could protect Goodfellow . . . His sergeant was a family man, a wife and children at home. Brown was a different matter, Sullivan certain Atwood wouldn’t harm the priest.
“Do what he says, sergeant,” said Sullivan.
“Sir?” said Goodfellow, an expression of doubt filling his features.
“That was an order, sergeant.”
“Sir . . .”
“Go home to your family.”
“Sir, I can’t do that. I can’t leave you and the Father here. If something were to happen . . .”
Sullivan looked at Goodfellow. “It’s going to happen whether you’re here or not, sergeant. I would prefer to die knowing I didn’t take you from your family.”
“This isn’t your doing, sir.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best, sergeant,” said Brown as he turned to face Goodfellow. “Your presence is only provoking Albert’s anger. And I promise you, I won’t allow anything further to happen to the Inspector.”
“Go home to your family,” said Sullivan. “Please.”
“Just so you know, sir, we’ll be having words about this back at the station,” said Goodfellow. His body language reluctant, hesitant, Goodfellow turned his back on Kembleford’s detective inspector and walked away, stepping through the open doorway. Heavy footsteps as he moved along the hallway, the front door opening then closing.
Sullivan could feel the relief, the emotion palpable . . .
“Albert, you can put the gun down now. The inspector isn’t a threat to you.”
“No. I’ve been told he’s stubborn. That he won’t give up until he sees me hang.”
“Who have you been speaking to, Albert?”
“Someone who can help me. I know, that as long as he’s alive, he’s a threat. If I let him live, he’ll only come back and arrest me.”
Sullivan closed his eyes, the pain heavy in his skull, the exhaustion pulling him away from the conversation, the words drifting away . . . Goodfellow was safe, it was all that mattered right now, confident Brown would take care of the rest, convincing Atwood to surrender. He didn’t like the idea of relying on the priest to save the life of Kembleford’s only detective inspector but he didn’t have a choice. Decided he no longer cared, accepting his imminent death . . . as long as Brown survived . . .
“Killing the inspector won’t stop your arrest, Albert.”
“This is all her fault!” said Atwood, his anger increasing the pressure against Sullivan’s head. “She wouldn’t die. I kept waiting. Kept hoping she would but she didn’t. If she just left me so I could live my life.”
“Albert . . .”
Sullivan’s feeling of relief didn’t last long, the sound of footsteps returning, Sullivan frowning in confusion, assuming his loyal sergeant had decided to ignore his order to leave . . . his plea to leave.
Doctor Hartford, carrying a black medical bag in his left hand, walked into the room.
“Well, Inspector, it looks like you’ve been in the wars?” said Hartford as he stopped beside Father Brown.
Sullivan frowned, the confusion returning. “Hartford? Why are you here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Inspector,” said Hartford. “When I found out you left the hospital, I knew you would show up here sooner or later. I didn’t expect the priest though.”
Nodding, Sullivan finally understood, the answer revealing itself. “The threats you made . . .”
“Yes, I meant every word. Every threat. I’ve been waiting a long time to punish you and the other men involved in the investigation. I chose you to be the first. Your stubborn refusal . . . your persistence in trying to gain the evidence to convict me.”
“You knew who I was when I walked into your office,” said Sullivan, not as a question but in acceptance. He’d sat in Hartford’s office listening to and accepting his lies as truth, unable to read his intentions . . . Sullivan felt like a fool; a simpleton disguised as a detective inspector.
“Yes. When I was told you’d transferred to this small, insignificant village, I followed you.” Pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the priest. “I am sorry about all of this, Father, but you shouldn’t have come here.”
“Doctor Harford,” said Brown, his expression passive. “I will always do what I can to help a member of my flock and right now, Albert needs my help. And so does the Inspector.”
Albert spoke up, gaze settling on Brown. “You haven’t done anything to help. I shouldn’t have confessed.”
“This has nothing to do with Father Brown,” said Sullivan as he struggled to move, to find a position that didn’t make him look weak or vulnerable in front of this man. Kicked in the side, the tip of Atwood’s boot finding bruised ribs, Sullivan grunted in pain.
“You’re right of course. It has nothing to do with the priest but he’s here and there isn’t much I can do about that.”
“You can ask him to leave.”
“So he can inform your sergeant of my presence? No.”
“He’s not involved in this,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge the growing confusion stretching across Brown’s features.
“Not in our state of affairs.”
“Sally Emerson,” said Sullivan, shifting his body, an attempt to alleviate the pain, the pressure against the side of his head, the barrels of the shotgun digging painfully into the skin of his temple.
“Yes. Poor, little Sally. Her death was the result of a simple mistake. There was no reason for a lawsuit or an investigation. There was no reason to ruin my practice or my life.”
“You’re actually admitting culpability in her death.”
“I suppose I am.”
Impatience growing, Atwood said, “You said you’d get me out of this.”
“Patience, Albert. We’ll leave when I’m ready. I’ve waited a long time for revenge.” Hartford moved forward, kneeling beside Sullivan and placing his bag on the floor. Turning to reach behind him, he picked up the revolver and placed it in a coat pocket, out of harm’s way, out of reach of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You won’t need this.”
“Albert,” said Brown. “This man can’t help you.”
“And you can? I don’t think so, Father. Your offer of help hasn’t done anything to get me out of this.”
“Albert, this man intends to harm Inspector Sullivan. He--”
“I intend to do more than that, Father. By the time I’m finished with the Inspector, he’ll be dead. And he won’t be the last.”
“Albert,” said Sullivan, “what Hartford is saying, is that he also intends to kill you and Father Brown. Is that what you want?”
“He isn’t going to kill me. He’s going to help me and I don’t care what happens to you.”
“And Father Brown?”
“Father Brown will be fine,” said Hartford. “He'll receive a sedative to keep him quiet, enough time for Albert and me to leave Kembleford.”
“And then what,” said Sullivan. “You’ll both be wanted men. They won’t stop looking for the men responsible for the death of a police officer.”
“I don’t know about Albert but after I leave here, I’ll be heading north. You see, Inspector, when I’m done with you, I will be moving on to the next man . . . Oldfield, I think. He was in charge of the investigation.”
“You’re insane,” said Sullivan.
“Possibly.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Brown. “What does Elizabeth’s death have to do with your revenge against Inspector Sullivan and who is Sally Emerson?”
Sullivan smiled, a reaction born from satisfaction; for the first time since he’d met Father Brown, the priest was stumped, unaware of what was going on, no knowledge or understanding of the situation playing out in front of him.
“Albert didn’t mention Hartford when he confessed murder to you, Father?” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at Brown, the expression of confusion the priest still wore telling Sullivan he was right. Looked back at Hartford. “Sally Emerson was a patient of Hartford’s. She died from an overdose of morphine. There was an investigation into her death. Sally was nine years old.”
“The investigation was brutal, Father. They wouldn’t give up, especially this one,” said Hartford, a smile gracing his features as he wrapped his hand around Sullivan’s neck, a soft touch as his fingers traced the dark bruises on Sullivan’s skin.
Recognising the touch, Sullivan said, “You were there. In my bedroom. You drugged me.”
“Yes. Although, I wasn’t expecting you to have such a reaction to the combination of drugs I injected into your system. Imagine my disappointment when I heard the news. I didn’t wait so long for you to die so quickly. I didn’t want you to die without knowing the name of the man who took your life.”
“You also drugged me outside your office.”
“Correct again, Inspector. You really aren’t as stupid as you look,” said Hartford, frowning as he continued. “You didn’t have a reaction after that particular injection. Perhaps I should have waited longer before the second injection. It’s possible I gave you an overdose . . .”
“Just like Sally,” said Sullivan.
“Just like Sally.”
“What did you give me?”
“Ah, a good question. It was a combination of drugs that induces anxiety and anger. Your emotions are heightened. But you’re not a man prone to anxiety or anger . . .”
Flicked his gaze toward Brown, the man capable of inducing anger in Kembleford’s detective inspector. Returned his gaze to Hartford.
“You don’t take after your father when it comes to anger. So, to create these emotions, I gave you a subtle suggestion. The mere mention of your father was enough. That much was obvious when I watched you after you left my office. All I needed to do after that was inject the drug into your system.”
“Why?”
“I told you, Inspector. Revenge.”
“Why drug me? Why not something less . . . extravagant?”
“I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to be scared,” said Hartford. “May I ask, Inspector, how did you know I injected you with a drug outside of my office.”
“I’m not as stupid as I look. I considered the idea, and your drug did the rest. The anxiety you caused made me suspicious. Where did you inject me? The police surgeon couldn’t find an injection site.”
“Between your toes. I only had to slip off your shoe. Took me less than a minute. The two men working for me gave me the perfect opportunity. I believe you arrested them earlier although they won’t implicate me in your death. I paid them too much money for that. I could have done so much more while you were unconscious but I didn’t. Where was the fun in ending your life so quickly?”
“The phone call . . . you weren’t speaking to Albert.”
“No. That was for your benefit. I wanted you to think Albert had hired those men. I wanted to keep your attention off me for a little longer.”
“Why?”
“Because, Inspector, if you had suspected me of killing Elizabeth Atwood, you would have arrested me. I couldn’t allow that.”
“You told Albert how to kill his wife.”
“No,” said Hartford as he stared at Sullivan. “I had nothing to do with Elizabeth Atwood’s death. I was telling you truth about that night. I gave her some morphine to help her sleep. That’s all.”
“And that was an opportunity for Albert.”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” said Hartford as he reached into the black medical bag and removed a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “He called me after he killed her. I knew he would need to call the police but I told him the police would investigate. That they would also perform an autopsy and discover the cause of death.”
“You gave him a way out.”
“I knew you would be in charge of the investigation so I brought my plans for revenge forward. I told Albert to refrain from calling the police for twenty four hours so I could hire some men to do the dirty work. I also knew that once Albert gave you the name of his wife’s doctor, you would show up on my doorstep. The two men who warned you off were waiting for you with instructions to cause you injury and harm under the guise of a warning.”
“You planned all of this. All this because I believed you killed Sally. Because I tried to get the evidence to make a formal arrest.”
“Yes,” said Hartford, gaze steady as he continued to look at Sullivan. “All but Elizabeth’s death. What I don’t understand, Inspector, is why he killed her. He wouldn’t tell me.”
Sullivan tore his gaze away from Hartford to look at Father Brown. He wanted to see the passive expression, the stubborn refusal to admit he knew why Albert Atwood murdered his wife.
“He wanted a new life with his mistress but it was taking too long for his wife to die--”
“Shut up,” Atwood shouted, digging his left knee into Sullivan’s shoulder, kicking him a second time with his right leg, boot slamming into Sullivan’s side, his gaze pulled away from Brown. A snap of breath, Sullivan pausing, trying to find his way through the pain. Continued when he was able. “He’d run out of patience and decided to take matters into his own hands. But he didn’t have the courage to kill her while she looked him in the eye so--”
“He killed her while she slept,” said Hartford, nodding in understanding as he reached for Sullivan’s arm.
He could feel the tension building in Atwood, could feel the man’s knee trembling with anxiety and anger . . . decided to push the man further, to create a reaction; a risk Sullivan knew but if he didn’t act now . . . no time left, Hartford preparing to inject Kembleford’s detective inspector with a lethal combination of drugs. Atwood was willing to allow Brown to live, but he knew Hartford wasn’t going to let the priest go, to allow him to pass on information gained, Hartford confessing his next move, his next victim.
“So he drank some Dutch courage and murdered her in her sleep,” said Sullivan. “Something only a coward would do. To murder a frail woman who couldn’t fight back . . . the man’s a yellow-bellied coward . . .”
Knew the moment Atwood snapped, Sullivan reaching up with his right hand. Fingers gripping the barrels of the shotgun, he snapped his head away and pushed the weapon toward Hartford, the doctor too busy with the sleeve of Sullivan’s coat to notice the danger he was in . . . just as Atwood pulled the trigger, the explosion loud next to Sullivan’s ear, the noise deafening.
The back of Hartford’s head exploded . . . so close to Sullivan, blood, bone and brain matter splattering across the side of Sullivan’s face.
Atwood fell to the floor, in shock or remorse, Sullivan didn’t know. He didn’t care. He watched through vision turning dark, as Father Brown stepped forward, as the priest knelt down next to Atwood and carefully removed the shotgun from Atwood’s trembling hands.
It was over.
He was still alive.
His body jerked with surprise when he felt the hands on his shoulders, his body shaken in an attempt to draw his attention to man in front of him. Shifted his gaze . . . Sergeant Goodfellow knelt in front of him, his lips moving, words spoken, his voice subdued.
“Sir! Are you all right?”
Sullivan couldn’t hear what Goodfellow was saying but he had an idea . . . turned his head, shifted his gaze to look at Hartford. Felt the hands on his face, large palms cupping each cheek as Goodfellow forced Sullivan to look at him, as his sergeant began to wipe Hartford’s remains from Sullivan’s face.
Understanding, Sullivan said, “I’m . . . I’m all right, sergeant. The shot didn’t . . . It didn’t hit me.”
Goodfellow nodded in acceptance and relief, the concern in his blue eyes visible.
Ignoring his sergeant’s worried expression, Sullivan closed his eyes. Felt an arm around his shoulders as his body finally gave into the exhaustion and pain, collapsing forward, falling . . .
.
.
.
Kembleford’s detective inspector paused, hand hovering, hesitation controlling his movements; a moment of doubt, concerned he would be turned away, his apology unheard, couldn’t blame them if they did send him on his way. A deep, calming breath, bruised ribs aching. He could do this . . .
No he couldn’t. Lowered his arm, limb falling to his side. He couldn’t face them, not after the way he’d treated them, even if the drugs had forced a change of emotion in him . . . forced him to think, to act in a way he normally wouldn’t. Yes, the priest provoked anger, resentment but he didn’t always act on it, only raising his voice and threatening arrest when Brown had pushed him too far; the priest always had a away of testing Sullivan’s patience.
Never had he considered using physical violence against the man, not until after Hartford had played with his emotions, drugs affecting his ability to remain neutral . . . never had he felt such anger toward another person, always calm when dealing with the difficult . . . with criminals; it didn’t help, confessions shut down at the first sign of retribution . . . of judgement, at the realisation they could hang for their crime.
Always more willing to confess to a priest.
Shaking his head in disappointment . . . in himself, too scared to face a man of the cloth, a man of understanding and forgiveness. Sullivan turned away from the door of the presbytery and stepped down onto the road; a brisk walk back to the police station would help clear his head, to remove the tension from his body. The door opened behind him, Sullivan stopping, closing his eyes at the sound of the not-so-subtle cough.
He could do this.
Opened his eyes and turned around . . .
“Inspector,” said Father Brown, a soft welcoming smile on his features as he stood in the doorway to the presbytery. “Always a pleasure.”
Sullivan didn’t doubt the priest, not this time. Nodded and said, “Father.”
“How are you, Inspector? Recovering nicely, I hope.”
“I’m fine thank you . . .” Not a lie, the headache gone, the exhaustion no longer dragging him down, his strength returned. Understood this was only small talk, Brown giving him to time to say what he’d come to say.
He decided to blurt out the apology, to get it out of the way. “Father Brown, I’ve come to . . .” Snapped his mouth closed, uncertain what to say . . . uncertain how to apologise. Such a simple word, a simple thing and yet so difficult to voice.
“Apologise?” said Brown.
Sullivan grimaced, uncertain if Brown was mocking him. “Yes, to you and Mrs. McCarthy.”
Father Brown smiled. “The flowers she received this morning were quite fetching.”
“Really,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge his involvement in the small gift.
“Sent by someone who wasn’t willing to sign the card. It simply said, ‘Thank You’. Out of embarrassment, I would think. Wouldn’t you, Inspector?”
Sullivan looked away, the embarrassment Brown spoke of clouding his features.
“They would have more meaning if you apologised in person.”
Remaining silent, Sullivan looked toward Hartford’s medical rooms. A shiver ran the length of his spine. Reminded of how close death had come, Sullivan thought about what Mrs. McCarthy had done for him, taking care of him while he lay fighting for his life. The effort she went through to fill a picnic basket with freshly baked pastries. He hadn’t felt such concern shown his way since his mother . . .
Turned to look at Brown and said, “I can’t do that Father, she might come to an incorrect conclusion.”
“And what conclusion would that be, Inspector?”
“That I might actually like her,” said Sullivan, the soft smile crossing his features giving him away.
“Ah,” said Brown. “We can’t have that, can we.”
“Father, I do want to apologise for my actions during this case. I treated you and your associates poorly and I am sorry for that.”
Apology spoken, Sullivan felt better, a moment of relief.
“Apology accepted, Inspector and I will convey your kind thoughts to Mrs. M, even though you had little control over your actions. I, and the others, do not blame you for the things you said . . . even Sid, although reluctantly, has already forgiven you.”
He didn’t particularly care what Sid Carter thought about him . . .
“Would you like to come in, Inspector. Mrs. M has the kettle on and she’s made a fresh batch of strawberry scones.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Sullivan, tipping his hat. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“It wouldn’t be an intrusion, Inspector. You’re always welcome here.”
“Another time, Father,” said Sullivan, turning away, a single step taken before Brown spoke, the priest’s words cramping his chest, the sudden wave of emotions pulling the breath from his lungs.
“Inspector, did you know you talk in your sleep? While you were in the hospital you said some disturbing things while you slept.”
A slow breath before he turned back.
“If there is a time when you want to talk about your father, or Sally Emerson, you know where I am,” said Brown, nodding and turning away. He stepped back into the presbytery, closing the door behind him.
Sullivan would never understand the man, he couldn’t comprehend the priest’s ability to forgive, to understand . . . to intrude . . . to meddle. Maybe, one day, he would take Brown up on his offer, to talk about his father’s violence, to talk about . . .
One day.
But not today.
Sullivan walked away, back to the life of Kembleford’s detective inspector.
The End.