The Complete Father Brown Mysteries [Annotated, With Introduction, Rare Additional Material] (43 page)

This
man used the old feudal fables — properly, in his snobbish soul, really envied and
admired them. So that thousands of poor English people trembled before a mysterious
chieftain with an ancient destiny and a diadem of evil stars — when they are
really trembling before a guttersnipe who was a pettifogger and a pawnbroker
not twelve years ago. I think it very typical of the real case against our
aristocracy as it is, and as it will be till God sends us braver men.

Mr
Nutt put down the manuscript and called out with unusual sharpness: “Miss Barlow,
please take down a letter to Mr Finn.”

DEAR
FINN, — You must be mad; we can’t touch this. I wanted vampires and the bad old
days and aristocracy hand-in-hand with superstition. They like that. But you must
know the Exmoors would never forgive this. And what would our people say then,
I should like to know! Why, Sir Simon is one of Exmoor’s greatest pals; and it
would ruin that cousin of the Eyres that’s standing for us at Bradford. Besides,
old Soap-Suds was sick enough at not getting his peerage last year; he’d sack
me by wire if I lost him it with such lunacy as this. And what about Duffey?
He’s doing us some rattling articles on “The Heel of the Norman.” And how can
he write about Normans if the man’s only a solicitor? Do be reasonable. —
Yours, E. NUTT.

As
Miss Barlow rattled away cheerfully, he crumpled up the copy and tossed it into
the waste-paper basket; but not before he had, automatically and by force of habit,
altered the word “God” to the word “circumstances.”

FATHER
BROWN was in no mood for adventures. He had lately fallen ill with over-work, and
when he began to recover, his friend Flambeau had taken him on a cruise in a
small yacht with Sir Cecil Fanshaw, a young Cornish squire and an enthusiast for
Cornish coast scenery. But Brown was still rather weak; he was no very happy
sailor; and though he was never of the sort that either grumbles or breaks
down, his spirits did not rise above patience and civility. When the other two
men praised the ragged violet sunset or the ragged volcanic crags, he agreed
with them. When Flambeau pointed out a rock shaped like a dragon, he looked at
it and thought it very like a dragon. When Fanshaw more excitedly indicated a
rock that was like Merlin, he looked at it, and signified assent. When Flambeau
asked whether this rocky gate of the twisted river was not the gate of
Fairyland, he said “Yes.” He heard the most important things and the most
trivial with the same tasteless absorption. He heard that the coast was death
to all but careful seamen; he also heard that the ship’s cat was asleep. He
heard that Fanshaw couldn’t find his cigar-holder anywhere; he also heard the
pilot deliver the oracle “Both eyes bright, she’s all right; one eye winks, down
she sinks.” He heard Flambeau say to Fanshaw that no doubt this meant the pilot
must keep both eyes open and be spry. And he heard Fanshaw say to Flambeau
that, oddly enough, it didn’t mean this: it meant that while they saw two of
the coast lights, one near and the other distant, exactly side by side, they
were in the right river-channel; but that if one light was hidden behind the
other, they were going on the rocks. He heard Fanshaw add that his country was
full of such quaint fables and idioms; it was the very home of romance; he even
pitted this part of Cornwall against Devonshire, as a claimant to the laurels
of Elizabethan seamanship. According to him there had been captains among these
coves and islets compared with whom Drake was practically a landsman. He heard
Flambeau laugh, and ask if, perhaps, the adventurous title of “Westward Ho!”
only meant that all Devonshire men wished they were living in Cornwall. He
heard Fanshaw say there was no need to be silly; that not only had Cornish
captains been heroes, but that they were heroes still: that near that very spot
there was an old admiral, now retired, who was scarred by thrilling voyages
full of adventures; and who had in his youth found the last group of eight
Pacific Islands that was added to the chart of the world. This Cecil Fanshaw
was, in person, of the kind that commonly urges such crude but pleasing enthusiasms;
a very young man, light-haired, high-coloured, with an eager profile; with a
boyish bravado of spirits, but an almost girlish delicacy of tint and type. The
big shoulders, black brows and black mousquetaire swagger of Flambeau were a
great contrast.

All
these trivialities Brown heard and saw; but heard them as a tired man hears a tune
in the railway wheels, or saw them as a sick man sees the pattern of his wall-paper.
No one can calculate the turns of mood in convalescence: but Father Brown’s
depression must have had a great deal to do with his mere unfamiliarity with
the sea. For as the river mouth narrowed like the neck of a bottle, and the
water grew calmer and the air warmer and more earthly, he seemed to wake up and
take notice like a baby. They had reached that phase just after sunset when air
and water both look bright, but earth and all its growing things look almost
black by comparison. About this particular evening, however, there was something
exceptional. It was one of those rare atmospheres in which a smoked-glass slide
seems to have been slid away from between us and Nature; so that even dark
colours on that day look more gorgeous than bright colours on cloudier days.
The trampled earth of the river-banks and the peaty stain in the pools did not
look drab but glowing umber, and the dark woods astir in the breeze did not
look, as usual, dim blue with mere depth of distance, but more like
wind-tumbled masses of some vivid violet blossom. This magic clearness and intensity
in the colours was further forced on Brown’s slowly reviving senses by
something romantic and even secret in the very form of the landscape.

The
river was still well wide and deep enough for a pleasure boat so small as theirs;
but the curves of the country-side suggested that it was closing in on either
hand; the woods seemed to be making broken and flying attempts at bridge-building
— as if the boat were passing from the romance of a valley to the romance of a
hollow and so to the supreme romance of a tunnel. Beyond this mere look of
things there was little for Brown’s freshening fancy to feed on; he saw no
human beings, except some gipsies trailing along the river bank, with faggots
and osiers cut in the forest; and one sight no longer unconventional, but in
such remote parts still uncommon: a dark-haired lady, bare-headed, and paddling
her own canoe. If Father Brown ever attached any importance to either of these,
he certainly forgot them at the next turn of the river which brought in sight a
singular object.

The
water seemed to widen and split, being cloven by the dark wedge of a fish-shaped
and wooded islet. With the rate at which they went, the islet seemed to swim
towards them like a ship; a ship with a very high prow — or, to speak more
strictly, a very high funnel. For at the extreme point nearest them stood up an
odd-looking building, unlike anything they could remember or connect with any
purpose. It was not specially high, but it was too high for its breadth to be
called anything but a tower. Yet it appeared to be built entirely of wood, and
that in a most unequal and eccentric way. Some of the planks and beams were of
good, seasoned oak; some of such wood cut raw and recent; some again of white
pinewood, and a great deal more of the same sort of wood painted black with
tar. These black beams were set crooked or crisscross at all kinds of angles,
giving the whole a most patchy and puzzling appearance. There were one or two
windows, which appeared to be coloured and leaded in an old-fashioned but more
elaborate style. The travellers looked at it with that paradoxical feeling we
have when something reminds us of something, and yet we are certain it is
something very different.

Father
Brown, even when he was mystified, was clever in analysing his own mystification.
And he found himself reflecting that the oddity seemed to consist in a
particular shape cut out in an incongruous material; as if one saw a top-hat
made of tin, or a frock-coat cut out of tartan. He was sure he had seen timbers
of different tints arranged like that somewhere, but never in such architectural
proportions. The next moment a glimpse through the dark trees told him all he
wanted to know and he laughed. Through a gap in the foliage there appeared for
a moment one of those old wooden houses, faced with black beams, which are still
to be found here and there in England, but which most of us see imitated in
some show called “Old London” or “Shakespeare’s England’. It was in view only
long enough for the priest to see that, however old-fashioned, it was a
comfortable and well-kept country-house, with flower-beds in front of it. It
had none of the piebald and crazy look of the tower that seemed made out of its
refuse.

“
What
on earth’s this?” said Flambeau, who was still staring at the tower.

Fanshaw’s
eyes were shining, and he spoke triumphantly. “Aha! you’ve not seen a place quite
like this before, I fancy; that’s why I’ve brought you here, my friend. Now you
shall see whether I exaggerate about the mariners of Cornwall. This place
belongs to Old Pendragon, whom we call the Admiral; though he retired before
getting the rank. The spirit of Raleigh and Hawkins is a memory with the Devon
folk; it’s a modern fact with the Pendragons. If Queen Elizabeth were to rise
from the grave and come up this river in a gilded barge, she would be received
by the Admiral in a house exactly such as she was accustomed to, in every
corner and casement, in every panel on the wall or plate on the table. And she
would find an English Captain still talking fiercely of fresh lands to be found
in little ships, as much as if she had dined with Drake.”

“
She’d
find a rum sort of thing in the garden,” said Father Brown, “which would not please
her Renaissance eye. That Elizabethan domestic architecture is charming in its
way; but it’s against the very nature of it to break out into turrets.”

“
And
yet,” answered Fanshaw, “that’s the most romantic and Elizabethan part of the business.
It was built by the Pendragons in the very days of the Spanish wars; and though
it’s needed patching and even rebuilding for another reason, it’s always been
rebuilt in the old way. The story goes that the lady of Sir Peter Pendragon
built it in this place and to this height, because from the top you can just
see the corner where vessels turn into the river mouth; and she wished to be
the first to see her husband’s ship, as he sailed home from the Spanish Main.”

“
For
what other reason,” asked Father Brown, “do you mean that it has been rebuilt?”

“
Oh,
there’s a strange story about that, too,” said the young squire with relish. “You
are really in a land of strange stories. King Arthur was here and Merlin and
the fairies before him. The story goes that Sir Peter Pendragon, who (I fear)
had some of the faults of the pirates as well as the virtues of the sailor, was
bringing home three Spanish gentlemen in honourable captivity, intending to
escort them to Elizabeth’s court. But he was a man of flaming and tigerish
temper, and coming to high words with one of them, he caught him by the throat
and flung him by accident or design, into the sea. A second Spaniard, who was
the brother of the first, instantly drew his sword and flew at Pendragon, and
after a short but furious combat in which both got three wounds in as many
minutes, Pendragon drove his blade through the other’s body and the second
Spaniard was accounted for. As it happened the ship had already turned into the
river mouth and was close to comparatively shallow water. The third Spaniard
sprang over the side of the ship, struck out for the shore, and was soon near
enough to it to stand up to his waist in water. And turning again to face the
ship, and holding up both arms to Heaven — like a prophet calling plagues upon
a wicked city — he called out to Pendragon in a piercing and terrible voice,
that he at least was yet living, that he would go on living, that he would live
for ever; and that generation after generation the house of Pendragon should
never see him or his, but should know by very certain signs that he and his
vengeance were alive. With that he dived under the wave, and was either drowned
or swam so long under water that no hair of his head was seen afterwards.”

“
There’s
that girl in the canoe again,” said Flambeau irrelevantly, for good-looking young
women would call him off any topic. “She seems bothered by the queer tower just
as we were.”

Indeed,
the black-haired young lady was letting her canoe float slowly and silently past
the strange islet; and was looking intently up at the strange tower, with a
strong glow of curiosity on her oval and olive face.

“
Never
mind girls,” said Fanshaw impatiently, “there are plenty of them in the world, but
not many things like the Pendragon Tower. As you may easily suppose, plenty of
superstitions and scandals have followed in the track of the Spaniard’s curse;
and no doubt, as you would put it, any accident happening to this Cornish
family would be connected with it by rural credulity. But it is perfectly true
that this tower has been burnt down two or three times; and the family can’t be
called lucky, for more than two, I think, of the Admiral’s near kin have
perished by shipwreck; and one at least, to my own knowledge, on practically
the same spot where Sir Peter threw the Spaniard overboard.”

“
What
a pity!” exclaimed Flambeau. “She’s going.”

“
When
did your friend the Admiral tell you this family history?” asked Father Brown, as
the girl in the canoe paddled off, without showing the least intention of extending
her interest from the tower to the yacht, which Fanshaw had already caused to
lie alongside the island.

“
Many
years ago,” replied Fanshaw; “he hasn’t been to sea for some time now, though he
is as keen on it as ever. I believe there’s a family compact or something. Well,
here’s the landing stage; let’s come ashore and see the old boy.”

They
followed him on to the island, just under the tower, and Father Brown, whether from
the mere touch of dry land, or the interest of something on the other bank of
the river (which he stared at very hard for some seconds), seemed singularly improved
in briskness. They entered a wooded avenue between two fences of thin greyish
wood, such as often enclose parks or gardens, and over the top of which the
dark trees tossed to and fro like black and purple plumes upon the hearse of a
giant. The tower, as they left it behind, looked all the quainter, because such
entrances are usually flanked by two towers; and this one looked lopsided. But
for this, the avenue had the usual appearance of the entrance to a gentleman’s
grounds; and, being so curved that the house was now out of sight, somehow looked
a much larger park than any plantation on such an island could really be.
Father Brown was, perhaps, a little fanciful in his fatigue, but he almost
thought the whole place must be growing larger, as things do in a nightmare.
Anyhow, a mystical monotony was the only character of their march, until
Fanshaw suddenly stopped, and pointed to something sticking out through the
grey fence — something that looked at first rather like the imprisoned horn of
some beast. Closer observation showed that it was a slightly curved blade of metal
that shone faintly in the fading light.