The Incredulity of Father Brown

Byrne was bound to admit that there was no legal evidence against anybody as things stood. A motive for murder was not enough. Even a moral aptitude for murder was not enough. And he could not conceive that pale young pacifist, Henry Horne, butchering another man by brutal violence, though he might imagine the blaspheming Jake and even the sneering Jew as capable of anything. The police and the man who appeared to be assisting them (who was no other than the rather mysterious man with the monocle, who had been introduced as Mr. Nares) realized the position quite as clearly as the journalist. They knew that at the moment the Bolshevist conspirators could not be prosecuted and convicted, and that it would be a highly sensational failure if they were prosecuted and acquitted. Nares started with an artful candour by calling them in some sense to the council, inviting them to a private conclave and asking them to give their opinions freely in the interests of humanity. He had started his investigations at the nearest scene of tragedy, the bungalow by the sea; and Byrne was permitted to be present at a curious scene, which was at once a peaceful parley of diplomatists and a veiled inquisition or putting of suspects to the question. Rather to Byrne’s surprise the incongruous company, seated round the table in the seaside bungalow, included the dumpy figure and owlish head of Father Brown, though his connection with the affair did not appear until some time afterwards. The presence of young Potter, the dead man’s secretary, was more natural; yet somehow his demeanour was not quite so natural. He alone was quite familiar with their meeting-place, and was even in some grim sense their host; yet he offered little assistance or information. His round snub-nosed face wore an expression more like sulks than sorrow.

Jake Halket as usual talked most; and a man of his type could not be expected to keep up the polite fiction that he and his friends were not accused. Young Horne, in his more refined way, tried to restrain him when he began to abuse the men who had been murdered; but Jake was always quite as ready to roar down his friends as his foes. In a spout of blasphemies he relieved his soul of a very unofficial obituary notice of the late Gideon Wise. Elias sat quite still and apparently indifferent behind those spectacles that masked his eyes.

“It would be useless, I suppose,” said Nares coldly, “to tell you that your remarks are indecent. It may affect you more if I tell you they are imprudent. You practically admit that you hated the dead man.”

“Going to put me in quod for that, are you?” jeered the demagogue. “All right. Only you’ll have to build a prison for a million men, if you’re going to jail all the poor people who had reason to hate Gid Wise. And you know it’s God truth as well as I do.”

Nares was silent; and nobody spoke until Elias interposed with his clear though faintly lisping drawl.

“This appears to me to be a highly unprofitable discussion on both sides,” he said. “You have summoned us here either to ask us for information or to subject us to cross-examination. If you trust us, we tell you we have no information. If you distrust us, you must tell us of what we are accused, or have the politeness to keep the fact to yourselves. Nobody has been able to suggest the faintest trace of evidence connecting any one of us with these tragedies any more than with the murder of Julius Caesar. You dare not arrest us, and you will not believe us. What is the good of our remaining here?”

And he rose, calmly buttoning his coat, his friends following his example. As they went towards the door, young Horne turned back and faced the investigators for a moment with his pale fanatical face.

“I wish to say,” he said, “that I went to a filthy jail during the whole war because I would not consent to kill a man.”

With that they passed out, and the members of the group remaining looked grimly at each other.

“I hardly think,” said Father Brown, “that we remain entirely victorious, in spite of the retreat.”

“I don’t mind anything,” said Nares, “except being bullyragged by that blasphemous blackguard Halket. Horne is a gentleman, anyhow. But whatever they say, I am dead certain they know; they are in it, or most of them are. They almost admitted it. They taunted us with not being able to prove we’re right, much more than with being wrong. What do you think, Father Brown?”

The person addressed looked across at Nares with a gaze almost disconcertingly mild and meditative.

“It is quite true,” he said, “that I have formed an idea that one particular person knows more than he has told us. But I think it would be well if I did not mention his name just yet.”

Nare’s eyeglass dropped from his eye; and he looked up sharply. “This is unofficial so far,” he said. “I suppose you know that at a later stage if you withhold information, your position may be serious.”

“My position is simple,” replied the priest. “I am here to look after the legitimate interests of my friend Halket. I think it will be in his interest, under the circumstances, if I tell you I think he will before long sever his connection with this organization, and cease to be a Socialist in that sense. I have every reason to believe he will probably end as a Catholic.”

“Halket!” exploded the other incredulously. “Why he curses priests from morning till night!”

“I don’t think you quite understand that kind of man,” said Father Brown mildly. “He curses priests for failing (in his opinion) to defy the whole world for justice. Why should he expect them to defy the whole world for justice, unless he had already begun to assume they were⁠—what they are? But we haven’t