The Innocence of Father Brown HTML version

The Flying Stars
"The most beautiful crime I ever committed," Flambeau would say in his highly moral
old age, "was also, by a singular coincidence, my last. It was committed at Christmas. As
an artist I had always attempted to provide crimes suitable to the special season or
landscapes in which I found myself, choosing this or that terrace or garden for a
catastrophe, as if for a statuary group. Thus squires should be swindled in long rooms
panelled with oak; while Jews, on the other hand, should rather find themselves
unexpectedly penniless among the lights and screens of the Cafe Riche. Thus, in England,
if I wished to relieve a dean of his riches (which is not so easy as you might suppose), I
wished to frame him, if I make myself clear, in the green lawns and grey towers of some
cathedral town. Similarly, in France, when I had got money out of a rich and wicked
peasant (which is almost impossible), it gratified me to get his indignant head relieved
against a grey line of clipped poplars, and those solemn plains of Gaul over which broods
the mighty spirit of Millet.
"Well, my last crime was a Christmas crime, a cheery, cosy, English middle-class crime;
a crime of Charles Dickens. I did it in a good old middle-class house near Putney, a house
with a crescent of carriage drive, a house with a stable by the side of it, a house with the
name on the two outer gates, a house with a monkey tree. Enough, you know the species.
I really think my imitation of Dickens's style was dexterous and literary. It seems almost
a pity I repented the same evening."
Flambeau would then proceed to tell the story from the inside; and even from the inside it
was odd. Seen from the outside it was perfectly incomprehensible, and it is from the
outside that the stranger must study it. From this standpoint the drama may be said to
have begun when the front doors of the house with the stable opened on the garden with
the monkey tree, and a young girl came out with bread to feed the birds on the afternoon
of Boxing Day. She had a pretty face, with brave brown eyes; but her figure was beyond
conjecture, for she was so wrapped up in brown furs that it was hard to say which was
hair and which was fur. But for the attractive face she might have been a small toddling
The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already a ruby light was rolled
over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with the ghosts of the dead roses. On
one side of the house stood the stable, on the other an alley or cloister of laurels led to the
larger garden behind. The young lady, having scattered bread for the birds (for the fourth
or fifth time that day, because the dog ate it), passed unobutrusively down the lane of
laurels and into a glimmering plantation of evergreens behind. Here she gave an
exclamation of wonder, real or ritual, and looking up at the high garden wall above her,
beheld it fantastically bestridden by a somewhat fantastic figure.
"Oh, don't jump, Mr. Crook," she called out in some alarm; "it's much too high."