Part 17 (1/2)

”Do you mean Pendragon's chart of his Pacific Islands?” asked Fanshaw.

”You thought it was a chart of the Pacific Islands,” answered Brown.

”Put a feather with a fossil and a bit of coral and everyone will think it's a specimen. Put the same feather with a ribbon and an artificial flower and everyone will think it's for a lady's hat. Put the same feather with an ink-bottle, a book and a stack of writing-paper, and most men will swear they've seen a quill pen. So you saw that map among tropic birds and sh.e.l.ls and thought it was a map of Pacific Islands. It was the map of this river.”

”But how do you know?” asked Fanshaw.

”I saw the rock you thought was like a dragon, and the one like Merlin, and--”

”You seem to have noticed a lot as we came in,” cried Fanshaw. ”We thought you were rather abstracted.”

”I was sea-sick,” said Father Brown simply. ”I felt simply horrible.

But feeling horrible has nothing to do with not seeing things.” And he closed his eyes.

”Do you think most men would have seen that?” asked Flambeau. He received no answer: Father Brown was asleep.

NINE -- The G.o.d of the Gongs

IT was one of those chilly and empty afternoons in early winter, when the daylight is silver rather than gold and pewter rather than silver.

If it was dreary in a hundred bleak offices and yawning drawing-rooms, it was drearier still along the edges of the flat Ess.e.x coast, where the monotony was the more inhuman for being broken at very long intervals by a lamp-post that looked less civilized than a tree, or a tree that looked more ugly than a lamp-post. A light fall of snow had half-melted into a few strips, also looking leaden rather than silver, when it had been fixed again by the seal of frost; no fresh snow had fallen, but a ribbon of the old snow ran along the very margin of the coast, so as to parallel the pale ribbon of the foam.

The line of the sea looked frozen in the very vividness of its violet-blue, like the vein of a frozen finger. For miles and miles, forward and back, there was no breathing soul, save two pedestrians, walking at a brisk pace, though one had much longer legs and took much longer strides than the other.

It did not seem a very appropriate place or time for a holiday, but Father Brown had few holidays, and had to take them when he could, and he always preferred, if possible, to take them in company with his old friend Flambeau, ex-criminal and ex-detective. The priest had had a fancy for visiting his old parish at Cobhole, and was going north-eastward along the coast.

After walking a mile or two farther, they found that the sh.o.r.e was beginning to be formally embanked, so as to form something like a parade; the ugly lamp-posts became less few and far between and more ornamental, though quite equally ugly. Half a mile farther on Father Brown was puzzled first by little labyrinths of flowerless flower-pots, covered with the low, flat, quiet-coloured plants that look less like a garden than a tessellated pavement, between weak curly paths studded with seats with curly backs. He faintly sniffed the atmosphere of a certain sort of seaside town that he did not specially care about, and, looking ahead along the parade by the sea, he saw something that put the matter beyond a doubt. In the grey distance the big bandstand of a watering-place stood up like a giant mushroom with six legs.

”I suppose,” said Father Brown, turning up his coat-collar and drawing a woollen scarf rather closer round his neck, ”that we are approaching a pleasure resort.”

”I fear,” answered Flambeau, ”a pleasure resort to which few people just now have the pleasure of resorting. They try to revive these places in the winter, but it never succeeds except with Brighton and the old ones.

This must be Seawood, I think--Lord Pooley's experiment; he had the Sicilian Singers down at Christmas, and there's talk about holding one of the great glove-fights here. But they'll have to chuck the rotten place into the sea; it's as dreary as a lost railway-carriage.”

They had come under the big bandstand, and the priest was looking up at it with a curiosity that had something rather odd about it, his head a little on one side, like a bird's. It was the conventional, rather tawdry kind of erection for its purpose: a flattened dome or canopy, gilt here and there, and lifted on six slender pillars of painted wood, the whole being raised about five feet above the parade on a round wooden platform like a drum. But there was something fantastic about the snow combined with something artificial about the gold that haunted Flambeau as well as his friend with some a.s.sociation he could not capture, but which he knew was at once artistic and alien.

”I've got it,” he said at last. ”It's j.a.panese. It's like those fanciful j.a.panese prints, where the snow on the mountain looks like sugar, and the gilt on the paG.o.das is like gilt on gingerbread. It looks just like a little pagan temple.”

”Yes,” said Father Brown. ”Let's have a look at the G.o.d.” And with an agility hardly to be expected of him, he hopped up on to the raised platform.

”Oh, very well,” said Flambeau, laughing; and the next instant his own towering figure was visible on that quaint elevation.

Slight as was the difference of height, it gave in those level wastes a sense of seeing yet farther and farther across land and sea. Inland the little wintry gardens faded into a confused grey copse; beyond that, in the distance, were long low barns of a lonely farmhouse, and beyond that nothing but the long East Anglian plains. Seawards there was no sail or sign of life save a few seagulls: and even they looked like the last snowflakes, and seemed to float rather than fly.

Flambeau turned abruptly at an exclamation behind him. It seemed to come from lower down than might have been expected, and to be addressed to his heels rather than his head. He instantly held out his hand, but he could hardly help laughing at what he saw. For some reason or other the platform had given way under Father Brown, and the unfortunate little man had dropped through to the level of the parade. He was just tall enough, or short enough, for his head alone to stick out of the hole in the broken wood, looking like St John the Baptist's head on a charger.

The face wore a disconcerted expression, as did, perhaps, that of St John the Baptist.

In a moment he began to laugh a little. ”This wood must be rotten,” said Flambeau. ”Though it seems odd it should bear me, and you go through the weak place. Let me help you out.”