The Innocence of Father Brown
The Honour of Israel Gow
A stormy evening of olive and silver was closing in, as Father Brown, wrapped in a grey
Scotch plaid, came to the end of a grey Scotch valley and beheld the strange castle of
Glengyle. It stopped one end of the glen or hollow like a blind alley; and it looked like
the end of the world. Rising in steep roofs and spires of seagreen slate in the manner of
the old French-Scotch chateaux, it reminded an Englishman of the sinister steeple-hats of
witches in fairy tales; and the pine woods that rocked round the green turrets looked, by
comparison, as black as numberless flocks of ravens. This note of a dreamy, almost a
sleepy devilry, was no mere fancy from the landscape. For there did rest on the place one
of those clouds of pride and madness and mysterious sorrow which lie more heavily on
the noble houses of Scotland than on any other of the children of men. For Scotland has a
double dose of the poison called heredity; the sense of blood in the aristocrat, and the
sense of doom in the Calvinist.
The priest had snatched a day from his business at Glasgow to meet his friend Flambeau,
the amateur detective, who was at Glengyle Castle with another more formal officer
investigating the life and death of the late Earl of Glengyle. That mysterious person was
the last representative of a race whose valour, insanity, and violent cunning had made
them terrible even among the sinister nobility of their nation in the sixteenth century.
None were deeper in that labyrinthine ambition, in chamber within chamber of that
palace of lies that was built up around Mary Queen of Scots.
The rhyme in the country-side attested the motive and the result of their machinations
As green sap to the simmer trees
Is red gold to the Ogilvies.
For many centuries there had never been a decent lord in Glengyle Castle; and with the
Victorian era one would have thought that all eccentricities were exhausted. The last
Glengyle, however, satisfied his tribal tradition by doing the only thing that was left for
him to do; he disappeared. I do not mean that he went abroad; by all accounts he was still
in the castle, if he was anywhere. But though his name was in the church register and the
big red Peerage, nobody ever saw him under the sun.
If anyone saw him it was a solitary man-servant, something between a groom and a
gardener. He was so deaf that the more business-like assumed him to be dumb; while the
more penetrating declared him to be half-witted. A gaunt, red-haired labourer, with a
dogged jaw and chin, but quite blank blue eyes, he went by the name of Israel Gow, and
was the one silent servant on that deserted estate. But the energy with which he dug
potatoes, and the regularity with which he disappeared into the kitchen gave people an
impression that he was providing for the meals of a superior, and that the strange earl was
still concealed in the castle. If society needed any further proof that he was there, the
servant persistently asserted that he was not at home. One morning the provost and the