beautiful."
"Her behaviour always was beautiful," said the other. "I've heard from
everybody here all about her refinements and subtleties and spiritual
soarings above poor Mandeville's head. But all these spiritualities and
subtleties seem to me to boil themselves clown to the simple fact that
she certainly was a lady and he most certainly was not a gentleman. But,
do you know, I have never felt quite sure that St. Peter will make that
the only test at the gate of heaven.
"As for the rest," he went on with increasing animation, "I knew from
the very first words she said that she was not really being fair to the
poor Italian, with all her fine airs of frigid magnanimity. And again, I
realized it when I knew that the play was _The School for Scandal_."
"You are going rather too fast for me," said Jarvis in some
bewilderment. "What does it matter what the play was?"
"Well," said the priest, "she said she had given the girl the part of
the beautiful heroine and had retired into the background herself with
the older part of a matron. Now that might have applied to almost any
play; but it falsifies the facts about that particular play. She can
only have meant that she gave the other actress the part of Maria, which
is hardly a part at all. And the part of the obscure and self-effacing
married woman, if you please, must have been the part of Lady Teazle,
which is the only part any actress wants to act. If the Italian was a
first-rate actress who had been promised a first-rate part, there was
really some excuse, or at least some cause, for her mad Italian rage.
There generally is for mad Italian rages; Latins are logical and have a
reason for going mad. But that one little thing let in daylight for me
on the meaning of her magnanimity. And there was another thing, even
then. You laughed when I said that the sulky look of Mrs. Sands was a
study in character; but not in the character of Mrs. Sands. But it was
true. If you want to know what a lady is really like, don't look at her;
for she may be too clever for you. Don't look at the men round her, for
they may be too silly about her. But look at some other woman who is
always near to her, and especially one who is under her. You will see in
that mirror her real face, and the face mirrored in Mrs. Sands was very
ugly.
"And as for all the other impressions, what were they? I heard a lot
about the unworthiness of poor old Mandeville; but it was all about his
being unworthy other, and I am pretty certain it came indirectly from
her. And, even so, it betrayed itself. Obviously, from what every man
said, she had confided in every man about her confounded intellectual
loneliness. You yourself said she never complained; and then quoted her
about how her uncomplaining silence strengthened her soul. And that is
just the note; that's the unmistakable style. People who complain are
just jolly, human Christian nuisances; I don't mind them. But people who
complain that they never complain are the devil. They are really the
devil; isn't that swagger of stoicism the whole point of the Byronic
cult of Satan? I heard all this; but for the life of me I couldn't hear
of anything tangible she had to complain of. Nobody pretended that her
husband drank, or beat her, or left her without money, or even was
unfaithful, until the rumour about the secret meetings, which were
simply her own melodramatic habit of pestering him with curtain-lectures
in his own business office. And when one looked at the facts,
apart from the atmospheric impression of martyrdom she contrived to
spread, the facts were really quite the other way. Mandeville left off
making money on pantomimes to please her; he started losing money on
classical drama to please her. She arranged the scenery and furniture as
she liked. She wanted Sheridan's play and she had it; she wanted the
part of Lady Teazle and she had it; she wanted a rehearsal without
costume at that particular hour and she had it. It may be worth
remarking on the curious fact that she wanted that."
"But what is the use of all this tirade?" asked the actor, who had
hardly ever heard his clerical friend, make so long a speech before. "We
seem to have got a long way from the murder in all this psychological
business. She may have eloped with Knight; she may have bamboozled
Randall; she may have bamboozled me. But she can't have murdered her
husband; for everyone agrees she was on the stage through the whole
scene. She may be wicked; but she isn't a witch."
"Well, I wouldn't be so sure," said Father Brown, with a smile. "But she
didn't need to use any witchcraft in this case. I know now that she did
it, and very simply indeed."
"Why are you so sure of that?" asked Jarvis, looking at him in a puzzled
way.
"Because the play was _The School for Scandal_," replied Father Brown,
"and that particular act of _The School for Scandal_. I should like to
remind you, as I said just now, that she always arranged the furniture
how she liked. I should also like to remind you that this stage was
built and used for pantomimes; it would naturally have trap-doors and
trick exits of that sort. And when you say that witnesses could attest
to having seen all the performers on the stage, I should like to remind
you that in the principal scene of _The School for Scandal_ one of the
principal performers remains for a considerable time on the stage, but
is _not_ seen. She is technically 'on,' but she might practically be very
much 'off.' That is the Screen of Lady Teazle and the Alibi of Mrs.
Mandeville."
There was a silence and then the actor said: "You think she slipped
through a trap-door behind a screen down to the floor below, where the
manager's room was?"
"She certainly slipped away in some fashion; and that is the most
probable fashion," said the other. "I think it all the more probable
because she took the opportunity of an undress rehearsal, and even
indeed arranged for one. It is a guess; but I fancy if it had been a dress
rehearsal it might have been more difficult to get through a trap-door
in the hoops of the eighteenth century. There are many little
difficulties, of course, but I think they could all be met in time and
in turn."
"What I can't meet is the big difficulty," said Jarvis, putting his head
on his hand with a sort of groan. "I simply can't bring myself to
believe that a radiant and serene creature like that could so lose, so
to speak, her bodily balance, to say nothing of her moral balance. Was
any motive strong enough? Was she very much in love with Knight?"
"I hope so," replied his companion; "for really it would be the most
human excuse. But I'm sorry to say that I have my doubts. She wanted to
get rid of her husband, who was an old-fashioned, provincial hack, not
even making much money. She wanted to have a career as the brilliant
wife of a brilliant and rapidly-rising actor. But she didn't want in
that sense to act in _The School for Scandal_. She wouldn't have run away
with a man except in the last resort. It wasn't a human passion with
her, but a sort of hellish respectability. She was always dogging her
husband in secret and badgering him to divorce himself or otherwise get
out of the way; and as he refused he paid at last for his refusal.
There's another thing you've got to remember. You talk about these
highbrows having a higher art and a more philosophical drama. But
remember what a lot of the philosophy is! Remember what sort of conduct
those highbrows often present to the highest! All about the Will to
Power and the Right to Live and the Right to Experience ... damned nonsense
and more than damned nonsense--nonsense that can damn."
Father Brown frowned, which he did very rarely; and there was still a
cloud on his brow as he put on his hat and went out into the night.
V
THE VANISHING OF VAUDREY
SIR ARTHUR VAUDREY, in his light-grey summer suit, and wearing on
his grey head the white hat which he so boldly affected, went walking
briskly up the road by the river from his own house to the little group
of houses that were almost like outhouses to his own, entered that
little hamlet, and then vanished completely as if he had been carried
away by the fairies.
The disappearance seemed the more absolute and abrupt because of the
familiarity of the scene and the extreme simplicity of the conditions of
the problem. The hamlet could not be called a village; indeed, it was
little more than a small and strangely-isolated street. It stood in the
middle of wide and open fields and plains, a mere string of the four or
five shops absolutely needed by the neighbours; that is, by a few
farmers and the family at the great house. There was a butcher's at the
corner, at which, it appeared, Sir Arthur had last been seen. He was
seen by two young men staying at his house; Evan Smith, who was acting
as his secretary, and John Dalmon, who was generally supposed to be
engaged to his ward. There was next to the butcher's a small shop
combining a large number of functions, such as is found in villages, in
which a little old woman sold sweets, walking-sticks, golf-balls, gum,
balls of string and a very faded sort of stationery. Beyond this was the
tobacconist, to which the two young men were betaking themselves when
they last caught a glimpse of their host standing in front of the
butcher's shop; and beyond that was a dingy little dressmaker's, kept by
two ladies. A pale and shiny shop, offering to the passer-by great
goblets of very wan, green lemonade, completed the block of buildings;
for the only real and Christian inn in the neighbourhood stood by itself
some way, down the main road. Between the inn and the hamlet was a
cross-roads, at which stood a policeman and a uniformed official of a
motoring club; and both agreed that Sir Arthur had never passed that
point on the road.
It had been at an early hour of a very brilliant summer day that the old
gentleman had gone gaily striding up the road, swinging his walking-stick
and flapping his yellow gloves. He was a good deal of a dandy, but
one of a vigorous and virile sort, especially for his age. His bodily
strength and activity were still very remarkable, and his curly hair
might have been a yellow so pale as to look white instead of a white
that was a faded yellow. His clean-shaven face was handsome, with a
high-bridged nose like the Duke of Wellington's; but the most
outstanding features were his eyes. They were not merely metaphorically
outstanding; something prominent and almost bulging about them was
perhaps the only disproportion in his features; but his lips were
sensitive and set a little tightly, as if by an act of will. He was the
squire of all that country and the owner of the little hamlet. In that
sort of place everybody not only knows everybody else, but generally
knows where anybody is at any given moment. The normal course would have
been for Sir Arthur to walk to the village, to say whatever he wanted to
say to the butcher or anybody else, and then walk back to his house
again, all in the course of about half an hour: as the two young men did
when they had bought their cigarettes. But they saw nobody on the road
returning; indeed, there was nobody in sight except the one other guest
at the house, a certain Dr. Abbott, who was sitting with his broad back
to them on the river bank, very patiently fishing.
When all the three guests returned to breakfast, they seemed to think
little or nothing of the continued absence of the squire; but when the
day wore on and he missed one meal after another, they naturally began
to be puzzled, and Sybil Rye, the lady of the household, began to be
seriously alarmed. Expeditions of discovery were dispatched to the
village again and again without finding any trace; and eventually, when
darkness fell, the house was full of a definite fear. Sybil had sent for
Father Brown, who was a friend of hers and had helped her out of a
difficulty in the past; and under the pressure of the apparent peril he
had consented to remain at the house and see it through.
Thus it happened that when the new day's dawn broke without news, Father
Brown was early afoot and on the look out for anything; his black,
stumpy figure could be seen pacing the garden path where the garden was
embanked along the river, as he scanned the landscape up and down with
his short-sighted and rather misty gaze.
He realized that another figure was moving even more restlessly along
the embankment, and saluted Evan Smith, the secretary, by name.
Evan Smith was a tall, fair-haired young man, looking rather harassed,
as was perhaps natural in that hour of distraction. But something of the
sort hung about him at all times. Perhaps it was more marked because he
had the sort of athletic reach and poise and the sort of leonine yellow
hair and moustache which accompany (always in fiction and sometimes in
fact) a frank and cheerful demeanour of "English youth." As in his case
they accompanied deep and cavernous eyes and a rather haggard look, the
contrast with the conventional tall figure and fair hair of romance may
have had a touch of something sinister. But Father Brown smiled at him
amiably enough and then said more seriously:
"This is a trying business."
"It's a very trying business for Miss Rye," answered the young man
gloomily; "and I don't see why I should disguise what's the worst part
of it for me, even if she is engaged to Dalmon. Shocked, I suppose?"
Father Brown did not look very much shocked, but his face was often
rather expressionless; he merely said, mildly:
"Naturally, we all sympathize with her anxiety. I suppose you haven't
any news or views in the matter?"
"I haven't any news exactly." answered Smith; "no news from outside at
least. As for views...." And he relapsed into moody silence.
"I should be very glad to hear your views," said the little priest
pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind my saying that you seem to have
something on your mind."
The young man stirred rather than started and looked at the priest
steadily, with a frown that threw his hollow eyes into dense shadow.
"Well, you're right enough," he said at last. "I suppose I shall have to
tell somebody. And you seem a safe sort of person to tell."
"Do you know what has happened to Sir Arthur?" asked Father Brown
calmly, as if it were the most casual matter in the world.
"Yes," said the secretary harshly, "I think I know what has happened to
Sir Arthur."
"A beautiful morning," said a bland voice in his ear; "a beautiful
morning for a rather melancholy meeting."
This time the secretary jumped as if he had been shot, as the large
shadow of Dr. Abbott fell across his path in the already strong
sunshine. Dr. Abbott was still in his dressing-gown; a sumptuous
oriental dressing-gown covered with coloured flowers and dragons,
looking rather like one of the most brilliant flower beds that were
growing under the glowing sun. He also wore large, flat slippers, which
was doubtless why he had come so close to the others without being
heard. He would normally have seemed the last person for such a light
and airy approach, for he was a very big, broad and heavy man,
with a powerful benevolent face very much sunburnt, in a frame of
old-fashioned grey whiskers and chin beard, which hung about him
luxuriantly, like the long, grey curls of his venerable head. His long
slits of eyes were rather sleepy and, indeed, he was an elderly
gentleman to be up so early; but he had a look at once robust and
weather-beaten, as of an old farmer or sea captain who had once been out
in all weathers. He was the only old comrade and contemporary of the
squire in the company that met at the house.
"It seems truly extraordinary," he said, shaking his head. "Those little
houses are like dolls' houses, always open front and back, and there's
hardly room to hide anybody, even if they wanted to hide him. And I'm
sure they don't. Dalmon and I cross-examined them all yesterday; they're
mostly little old women that couldn't hurt a fly. The men are nearly all
away harvesting, except the butcher; and Arthur was seen coining out of
the butcher's. And nothing could have happened along that stretch by the
river, for I was fishing there all day."
Then he looked at Smith and the look in his long eyes seemed for the
moment not only sleepy, but a little sly.
"I think you and Dalmon can testify," he said, "that you saw me sitting
there through your whole journey there and back."
"Yes," said Evan Smith shortly, and seemed rather impatient at the long
interruption.
"The only thing I can think of," went on Dr. Abbott slowly; and then the
interruption was itself interrupted. A figure at once light and sturdy
strode very rapidly across the green lawn between the gay flowerbeds,
and John Dalmon appeared among them, holding a paper in his hand. He was
neatly dressed and rather swarthy, with a very fine square Napoleonic
face and very sad eyes; eyes so sad that they looked almost dead. He
seemed to be still young, but his black hair had gone prematurely grey
about the temples.
"I've just had this telegram from the police," he said "I wired to them
last night and they say they're sending down a man at once. Do you know,
Dr. Abbott, of anybody else we ought to send for? Relations, I mean, and
that sort of thing."
"There is his nephew, Vernon Vaudrey, of course," said the old man. "If
you will come with me, I think I can give you his address and--and
tell you something rather special about him."
Dr. Abbott and Dalmon moved away in the direction of the house and, when
they had gone a certain distance, Father Brown said simply, as if there
had been no interruption:
"You were saying?"
"You're a cool hand," said the secretary. "I suppose it comes of hearing
confessions. I feel rather as if I were going to make a confession. Some
people would feel a bit jolted out of the mood of confidence by that
queer old elephant creeping up like a snake. But I suppose I'd better
stick to it, though it really isn't my confession, but somebody else's."
He stopped a moment, frowning and pulling his moustache; then he said,
abruptly:
"I believe Sir Arthur has bolted, and I believe I know why."
There was a silence and then he exploded again.
"I'm in a damnable position, and most people would say I was doing a
damnable thing. I am now going to appear in the character of a sneak and
a skunk and I believe I am doing my duty."
"You must be the judge," said Father Brown gravely. "What is the matter
with your duty?"
"I'm in the perfectly foul position of telling tales against a rival,
and a successful rival, too," said the young man bitterly; "and I don't
know what else in the world I can do. You were asking what was the
explanation of Vaudrey's disappearance. I am absolutely convinced that
Dalmon is the explanation."
"You mean," said the priest, with composure, "that Dalmon has killed Sir
Arthur?"
"No!" exploded Smith, with startling violence. "No, a hundred times! He
hasn't done that, whatever else he's done. He isn't a murderer, whatever
else he is. He has the best of all alibis; the evidence of a man who
hates him. I'm not likely to perjure myself for love of Dalmon; and I
could swear in any court he did nothing to the old man yesterday. Dalmon
and I were together all day, or all that part of the day, and he did
nothing in the village except buy cigarettes, and nothing here except
smoke them and read in the library. No; I believe he is a criminal, but
he did not kill Vaudrey. I might even say more; _because_ he is a criminal
he did not kill Vaudrey."
"Yes," said the other patiently, "and what does that mean?"
"It means," replied the secretary, "that he is a criminal committing
another crime: and his crime depends on keeping Vaudrey alive."
"Oh, I see," said Father Brown.
"I know Sybil Rye pretty well, and her character is a great part of this
story. It is a very fine character in both senses: that is, it is of a
noble quality and only too delicate a texture. She is one of those
people who are terribly conscientious, without any of that armour of
habit and hard common sense that many conscientious people get. She is
almost insanely sensitive and at the same time quite unselfish. Her
history is curious: she was left literally penniless like a foundling
and Sir Arthur took her into his house and treated her with
consideration, which puzzled many; for, without being hard on the old
man, it was not much in his line. But, when she was about seventeen, the
explanation came to her with a shock; for her guardian asked her to
marry him. Now I come to the curious part of the story. Somehow or
other, Sybil had heard from somebody (I rather suspect from old Abbott)
that Sir Arthur Vaudrey, in his wilder youth, had committed some crime
or, at least, done some great wrong to somebody, which had got him into
serious trouble. I don't know what it was. But it was a sort of
nightmare to the girl at her crude sentimental age, and made him seem
like a monster, at least too much so for the close relation of marriage.
What she did was incredibly typical of her. With helpless terror and
with heroic courage she told him the truth with her own trembling lips.
She admitted that her repulsion might be morbid; she confessed it like a
secret madness. To her relief and surprise he took it quietly and
courteously, and apparently said no more on the subject; and her sense
of his generosity was greatly increased by the next stage of the story.
There came into her lonely life the influence of an equally lonely man.
He was camping-out like a sort of hermit on one of the islands in the
river; and I suppose the mystery made him attractive, though I admit he
is attractive enough; a gentleman, and quite witty, though very
melancholy--which, I suppose, increased the romance. It was this man,
Dalmon, of course; and to this day I'm not sure how far she really
accepted him; but it got as far as his getting permission to see her
guardian. I can fancy her awaiting that interview in an agony of terror
and wondering how the old beau would take the appearance of a rival. But
here, again, she found she had apparently done him an injustice. He
received the younger man with hearty hospitality and seemed to be
delighted with the prospects of the young couple. He and Dalmon went
shooting and fishing together and were the best of friends, when one day
she had another shock. Dalmon let slip in conversation some chance
phrase that the old man 'had not changed much in thirty years,' and the
truth about the odd intimacy burst upon her. All that introduction and
hospitality had been a masquerade; the men had obviously known each
other before. That was why the younger man had come down rather covertly
to that district. That was why the elder man was lending himself so
readily to promote the match. I wonder what you are thinking?"
"I know what you are thinking," said Father Brown, with a smile, "and it
seems entirely logical. Here we have Vaudrey, with some ugly story in
his past; a mysterious stranger come to haunt him, and getting whatever
he wants out of him. In plain words, you think Dalmon is a blackmailer."
"I do," said the other; "and a rotten thing to think, too."
Father Brown reflected for a moment and then said: "I think I should
like to go up to the house now and have a talk to Dr. Abbott."
When he came out of the house again an hour or two afterwards, he may
have been talking to Dr. Abbott, but he emerged in company with Sybil
Rye, a pale girl with reddish hair and a profile delicate and almost
tremulous; at the sight other, one could instantly understand all the
secretary's story of her shuddering candour. It recalled Godiva and
certain tales of virgin martyrs; only the shy can be so shameless for
conscience's sake. Smith came forward to meet them, and for a moment
they stood talking on the lawn. The day which had been brilliant from
daybreak was now glowing and even glaring; but Father Brown carried his
black bundle of an umbrella as well as wearing his black umbrella of a
hat; and seemed, in a general way, buttoned up to breast the storm. But
perhaps it was only an unconscious effect of attitude; and perhaps the
storm was not a material storm.
"What I hate about it all," Sybil was saying in a low voice, "is the
talk that's beginning already; suspicions against everybody. John and
Evan can answer for each other, I suppose; but Dr. Abbott has had an
awful scene with the butcher, who thinks he is accused and is throwing
accusations about in consequence."