The Three Tools of Death

Both by calling and conviction Father Brown knew better than most

of us, that every man is dignified when he is dead. But even he

felt a pang of incongruity when he was knocked up at daybreak and

told that Sir Aaron Armstrong had been murdered. There was

something absurd and unseemly about secret violence in connection

with so entirely entertaining and popular a figure. For Sir Aaron

Armstrong was entertaining to the point of being comic; and

popular in such a manner as to be almost legendary. It was like

hearing that Sunny Jim had hanged himself; or that Mr. Pickwick

had died in Hanwell. For though Sir Aaron was a philanthropist,

and thus dealt with the darker side of our society, he prided

himself on dealing with it in the brightest possible style. His

political and social speeches were cataracts of anecdotes and

"loud laughter"; his bodily health was of a bursting sort; his

ethics were all optimism; and he dealt with the Drink problem (his

favourite topic) with that immortal or even monotonous gaiety

which is so often a mark of the prosperous total abstainer.

The established story of his conversion was familiar on the

more puritanic platforms and pulpits, how he had been, when only a

boy, drawn away from Scotch theology to Scotch whisky, and how he

had risen out of both and become (as he modestly put it) what he

was. Yet his wide white beard, cherubic face, and sparkling

spectacles, at the numberless dinners and congresses where they

appeared, made it hard to believe, somehow, that he had ever been

anything so morbid as either a dram-drinker or a Calvinist. He

was, one felt, the most seriously merry of all the sons of men.

He had lived on the rural skirt of Hampstead in a handsome

house, high but not broad, a modern and prosaic tower. The

narrowest of its narrow sides overhung the steep green bank of a

railway, and was shaken by passing trains. Sir Aaron Armstrong,

as he boisterously explained, had no nerves. But if the train had

often given a shock to the house, that morning the tables were

turned, and it was the house that gave a shock to the train.

The engine slowed down and stopped just beyond that point

where an angle of the house impinged upon the sharp slope of turf.

The arrest of most mechanical things must be slow; but the living

cause of this had been very rapid. A man clad completely in

black, even (it was remembered) to the dreadful detail of black

gloves, appeared on the ridge above the engine, and waved his

black hands like some sable windmill. This in itself would hardly

have stopped even a lingering train. But there came out of him a

cry which was talked of afterwards as something utterly unnatural

and new. It was one of those shouts that are horridly distinct

even when we cannot hear what is shouted. The word in this case

was "Murder!"

But the engine-driver swears he would have pulled up just the

same if he had heard only the dreadful and definite accent and not

the word.

The train once arrested, the most superficial stare could take

in many features of the tragedy. The man in black on the green

bank was Sir Aaron Armstrong's man-servant Magnus. The baronet in

his optimism had often laughed at the black gloves of this dismal

attendant; but no one was likely to laugh at him just now.

So soon as an inquirer or two had stepped off the line and

across the smoky hedge, they saw, rolled down almost to the bottom

of the bank, the body of an old man in a yellow dressing-gown with

a very vivid scarlet lining. A scrap of rope seemed caught about

his leg, entangled presumably in a struggle. There was a smear or

so of blood, though very little; but the body was bent or broken

into a posture impossible to any living thing. It was Sir Aaron

Armstrong. A few more bewildered moments brought out a big

fair-bearded man, whom some travellers could salute as the dead

man's secretary, Patrick Royce, once well known in Bohemian

society and even famous in the Bohemian arts. In a manner more

vague, but even more convincing, he echoed the agony of the

servant. By the time the third figure of that household, Alice

Armstrong, daughter of the dead man, had come already tottering

and waving into the garden, the engine-driver had put a stop to

his stoppage. The whistle had blown and the train had panted on

to get help from the next station.

Father Brown had been thus rapidly summoned at the request of

Patrick Royce, the big ex-Bohemian secretary. Royce was an

Irishman by birth; and that casual kind of Catholic that never

remembers his religion until he is really in a hole. But Royce's

request might have been less promptly complied with if one of the

official detectives had not been a friend and admirer of the

unofficial Flambeau; and it was impossible to be a friend of

Flambeau without hearing numberless stories about Father Brown.

Hence, while the young detective (whose name was Merton) led the

little priest across the fields to the railway, their talk was more

confidential than could be expected between two total strangers.

"As far as I can see," said Mr. Merton candidly, "there is no

sense to be made of it at all. There is nobody one can suspect.

Magnus is a solemn old fool; far too much of a fool to be an

assassin. Royce has been the baronet's best friend for years; and

his daughter undoubtedly adored him. Besides, it's all too absurd.

Who would kill such a cheery old chap as Armstrong? Who could dip

his hands in the gore of an after-dinner speaker? It would be

like killing Father Christmas."

"Yes, it was a cheery house," assented Father Brown. "It was

a cheery house while he was alive. Do you think it will be cheery

now he is dead?"

Merton started a little and regarded his companion with an

enlivened eye. "Now he is dead?" he repeated.

"Yes," continued the priest stolidly, "he was cheerful. But

did he communicate his cheerfulness? Frankly, was anyone else in

the house cheerful but he?"

A window in Merton's mind let in that strange light of surprise

in which we see for the first time things we have known all along.

He had often been to the Armstrongs', on little police jobs of the

philanthropist; and, now he came to think of it, it was in itself

a depressing house. The rooms were very high and very cold; the

decoration mean and provincial; the draughty corridors were lit by

electricity that was bleaker than moonlight. And though the old

man's scarlet face and silver beard had blazed like a bonfire in

each room or passage in turn, it did not leave any warmth behind

it. Doubtless this spectral discomfort in the place was partly

due to the very vitality and exuberance of its owner; he needed no

stoves or lamps, he would say, but carried his own warmth with

him. But when Merton recalled the other inmates, he was compelled

to confess that they also were as shadows of their lord. The

moody man-servant, with his monstrous black gloves, was almost a

nightmare; Royce, the secretary, was solid enough, a big bull of a

man, in tweeds, with a short beard; but the straw-coloured beard

was startlingly salted with grey like the tweeds, and the broad

forehead was barred with premature wrinkles. He was good-natured

enough also, but it was a sad sort of good-nature, almost a

heart-broken sort--he had the general air of being some sort of

failure in life. As for Armstrong's daughter, it was almost

incredible that she was his daughter; she was so pallid in colour

and sensitive in outline. She was graceful, but there was a

quiver in the very shape of her that was like the lines of an

aspen. Merton had sometimes wondered if she had learnt to quail

at the crash of the passing trains.

"You see," said Father Brown, blinking modestly, "I'm not sure

that the Armstrong cheerfulness is so very cheerful--for other

people. You say that nobody could kill such a happy old man, but

I'm not sure; ne nos inducas in tentationem. If ever I murdered

somebody," he added quite simply, "I dare say it might be an


"Why?" cried Merton amused. "Do you think people dislike


"People like frequent laughter," answered Father Brown, "but I

don't think they like a permanent smile. Cheerfulness without

humour is a very trying thing."

They walked some way in silence along the windy grassy bank by

the rail, and just as they came under the far-flung shadow of the

tall Armstrong house, Father Brown said suddenly, like a man

throwing away a troublesome thought rather than offering it

seriously: "Of course, drink is neither good nor bad in itself.

But I can't help sometimes feeling that men like Armstrong want an

occasional glass of wine to sadden them."

Merton's official superior, a grizzled and capable detective

named Gilder, was standing on the green bank waiting for the

coroner, talking to Patrick Royce, whose big shoulders and bristly

beard and hair towered above him. This was the more noticeable

because Royce walked always with a sort of powerful stoop, and

seemed to be going about his small clerical and domestic duties in

a heavy and humbled style, like a buffalo drawing a go-cart.

He raised his head with unusual pleasure at the sight of the

priest, and took him a few paces apart. Meanwhile Merton was

addressing the older detective respectfully indeed, but not

without a certain boyish impatience.

"Well, Mr. Gilder, have you got much farther with the mystery?"

"There is no mystery," replied Gilder, as he looked under

dreamy eyelids at the rooks.

"Well, there is for me, at any rate," said Merton, smiling.

"It is simple enough, my boy," observed the senior


stroking his grey, pointed beard. "Three minutes after you'd gone

for Mr. Royce's parson the whole thing came out. You know that

pasty-faced servant in the black gloves who stopped the train?"

"I should know him anywhere. Somehow he rather gave me the


"Well," drawled Gilder, "when the train had gone on again,

that man had gone too. Rather a cool criminal, don't you think,

to escape by the very train that went off for the police?"

"You're pretty sure, I suppose," remarked the young man, "that

he really did kill his master?"

"Yes, my son, I'm pretty sure," replied Gilder drily, "for the

trifling reason that he has gone off with twenty thousand pounds

in papers that were in his master's desk. No, the only thing

worth calling a difficulty is how he killed him. The skull seems

broken as with some big weapon, but there's no weapon at all lying

about, and the murderer would have found it awkward to carry it

away, unless the weapon was too small to be noticed."

"Perhaps the weapon was too big to be noticed," said the

priest, with an odd little giggle.

Gilder looked round at this wild remark, and rather sternly

asked Brown what he meant.

"Silly way of putting it, I know," said Father Brown

apologetically. "Sounds like a fairy tale. But poor Armstrong

was killed with a giant's club, a great green club, too big to be

seen, and which we call the earth. He was broken against this

green bank we are standing on."

"How do you mean?" asked the detective quickly.

Father Brown turned his moon face up to the narrow facade of

the house and blinked hopelessly up. Following his eyes, they saw

that right at the top of this otherwise blind back quarter of the

building, an attic window stood open.

"Don't you see," he explained, pointing a little awkwardly

like a child, "he was thrown down from there?"

Gilder frowningly scrutinised the window, and then said:

"Well, it is certainly possible. But I don't see why you are so

sure about it."

Brown opened his grey eyes wide. "Why," he said, "there's a

bit of rope round the dead man's leg. Don't you see that other

bit of rope up there caught at the corner of the window?"

At that height the thing looked like the faintest particle of

dust or hair, but the shrewd old investigator was satisfied.

"You're quite right, sir," he said to Father Brown; "that is

certainly one to you."

Almost as he spoke a special train with one carriage took the

curve of the line on their left, and, stopping, disgorged another

group of policemen, in whose midst was the hangdog visage of

Magnus, the absconded servant.

"By Jove! they've got him," cried Gilder, and stepped forward

with quite a new alertness.

"Have you got the money!" he cried to the first policeman.

The man looked him in the face with a rather curious expression

and said: "No." Then he added: "At least, not here."

"Which is the inspector, please?" asked the man called Magnus.

When he spoke everyone instantly understood how this voice had

stopped a train. He was a dull-looking man with flat black hair,

a colourless face, and a faint suggestion of the East in the level

slits in his eyes and mouth. His blood and name, indeed, had

remained dubious, ever since Sir Aaron had "rescued" him from a

waitership in a London restaurant, and (as some said) from more

infamous things. But his voice was as vivid as his face was dead.

Whether through exactitude in a foreign language, or in deference

to his master (who had been somewhat deaf), Magnus's tones had a

peculiarly ringing and piercing quality, and the whole group quite

jumped when he spoke.

"I always knew this would happen," he said aloud with brazen

blandness. "My poor old master made game of me for wearing black;

but I always said I should be ready for his funeral."

And he made a momentary movement with his two dark-gloved


"Sergeant," said Inspector Gilder, eyeing the black hands with

wrath, "aren't you putting the bracelets on this fellow; he looks

pretty dangerous."

"Well, sir," said the sergeant, with the same odd look of

wonder, "I don't know that we can."

"What do you mean?" asked the other sharply. "Haven't you

arrested him?"

A faint scorn widened the slit-like mouth, and the whistle of

an approaching train seemed oddly to echo the mockery.

"We arrested him," replied the sergeant gravely, "just as he

was coming out of the police station at Highgate, where he had

deposited all his master's money in the care of Inspector


Gilder looked at the man-servant in utter amazement. "Why on

earth did you do that?" he asked of Magnus.

"To keep it safe from the criminal, of course," replied that

person placidly.

"Surely," said Gilder, "Sir Aaron's money might have been

safely left with Sir Aaron's family."

The tail of his sentence was drowned in the roar of the train

as it went rocking and clanking; but through all the hell of

noises to which that unhappy house was periodically subject, they

could hear the syllables of Magnus's answer, in all their

bell-like distinctness: "I have no reason to feel confidence in

Sir Aaron's family."

All the motionless men had the ghostly sensation of the

presence of some new person; and Merton was scarcely surprised

when he looked up and saw the pale face of Armstrong's daughter

over Father Brown's shoulder. She was still young and beautiful

in a silvery style, but her hair was of so dusty and hueless a

brown that in some shadows it seemed to have turned totally grey.

"Be careful what you say," said Royce gruffly, "you'll

frighten Miss Armstrong."

"I hope so," said the man with the clear voice.

As the woman winced and everyone else wondered, he went on:

"I am somewhat used to Miss Armstrong's tremors. I have seen her

trembling off and on for years. And some said she was shaking

with cold and some she was shaking with fear, but I know she was

shaking with hate and wicked anger--fiends that have had their

feast this morning. She would have been away by now with her

lover and all the money but for me. Ever since my poor old master

prevented her from marrying that tipsy blackguard--"

"Stop," said Gilder very sternly. "We have nothing to do with

your family fancies or suspicions. Unless you have some practical

evidence, your mere opinions--"

"Oh! I'll give you practical evidence," cut in Magnus, in his

hacking accent. "You'll have to subpoena me, Mr. Inspector, and I

shall have to tell the truth. And the truth is this: An instant

after the old man was pitched bleeding out of the window, I ran

into the attic, and found his daughter swooning on the floor with

a red dagger still in her hand. Allow me to hand that also to the

proper authorities." He took from his tail-pocket a long

horn-hilted knife with a red smear on it, and handed it politely

to the sergeant. Then he stood back again, and his slits of eyes

almost faded from his face in one fat Chinese sneer.

Merton felt an almost bodily sickness at the sight of him; and

he muttered to Gilder: "Surely you would take Miss Armstrong's

word against his?"

Father Brown suddenly lifted a face so absurdly fresh that it

looked somehow as if he had just washed it. "Yes," he said,

radiating innocence, "but is Miss Armstrong's word against his?"

The girl uttered a startled, singular little cry; everyone

looked at her. Her figure was rigid as if paralysed; only her

face within its frame of faint brown hair was alive with an

appalling surprise. She stood like one of a sudden lassooed and


"This man," said Mr. Gilder gravely, "actually says that you

were found grasping a knife, insensible, after the murder."

"He says the truth," answered Alice.

The next fact of which they were conscious was that Patrick

Royce strode with his great stooping head into their ring and

uttered the singular words: "Well, if I've got to go, I'll have a

bit of pleasure first."

His huge shoulder heaved and he sent an iron fist smash into

Magnus's bland Mongolian visage, laying him on the lawn as flat as

a starfish. Two or three of the police instantly put their hands

on Royce; but to the rest it seemed as if all reason had broken up

and the universe were turning into a brainless harlequinade.

"None of that, Mr. Royce," Gilder had called out


"I shall arrest you for assault."

"No, you won't," answered the secretary in a voice like an

iron gong, "you will arrest me for murder."

Gilder threw an alarmed glance at the man knocked down; but

since that outraged person was already sitting up and wiping a

little blood off a substantially uninjured face, he only said

shortly: "What do you mean?"

"It is quite true, as this fellow says," explained Royce,

"that Miss Armstrong fainted with a knife in her hand. But she

had not snatched the knife to attack her father, but to defend


"To defend him," repeated Gilder gravely. "Against whom?"

"Against me," answered the secretary.

Alice looked at him with a complex and baffling face; then she

said in a low voice: "After it all, I am still glad you are brave."

"Come upstairs," said Patrick Royce heavily, "and I will show

you the whole cursed thing."

The attic, which was the secretary's private place (and rather

a small cell for so large a hermit), had indeed all the vestiges

of a violent drama. Near the centre of the floor lay a large

revolver as if flung away; nearer to the left was rolled a whisky

bottle, open but not quite empty. The cloth of the little table

lay dragged and trampled, and a length of cord, like that found on

the corpse, was cast wildly across the windowsill. Two vases were

smashed on the mantelpiece and one on the carpet.

"I was drunk," said Royce; and this simplicity in the

prematurely battered man somehow had the pathos of the first sin

of a baby.

"You all know about me," he continued huskily; "everybody

knows how my story began, and it may as well end like that too.

I was called a clever man once, and might have been a happy one;

Armstrong saved the remains of a brain and body from the taverns,

and was always kind to me in his own way, poor fellow! Only he

wouldn't let me marry Alice here; and it will always be said that

he was right enough. Well, you can form your own conclusions, and

you won't want me to go into details. That is my whisky bottle

half emptied in the corner; that is my revolver quite emptied on

the carpet. It was the rope from my box that was found on the

corpse, and it was from my window the corpse was thrown. You need

not set detectives to grub up my tragedy; it is a common enough

weed in this world. I give myself to the gallows; and, by God,

that is enough!"

At a sufficiently delicate sign, the police gathered round

the large man to lead him away; but their unobtrusiveness was

somewhat staggered by the remarkable appearance of Father Brown,

who was on his hands and knees on the carpet in the doorway, as

if engaged in some kind of undignified prayers. Being a person

utterly insensible to the social figure he cut, he remained in

this posture, but turned a bright round face up at the company,

presenting the appearance of a quadruped with a very comic human


"I say," he said good-naturedly, "this really won't do at all,

you know. At the beginning you said we'd found no weapon. But

now we're finding too many; there's the knife to stab, and the

rope to strangle, and the pistol to shoot; and after all he broke

his neck by falling out of a window! It won't do. It's not

economical." And he shook his head at the ground as a horse does


Inspector Gilder had opened his mouth with serious intentions,

but before he could speak the grotesque figure on the floor had

gone on quite volubly.

"And now three quite impossible things. First, these holes in

the carpet, where the six bullets have gone in. Why on earth

should anybody fire at the carpet? A drunken man lets fly at his

enemy's head, the thing that's grinning at him. He doesn't pick a

quarrel with his feet, or lay siege to his slippers. And then

there's the rope"--and having done with the carpet the speaker

lifted his hands and put them in his pocket, but continued

unaffectedly on his knees--"in what conceivable intoxication

would anybody try to put a rope round a man's neck and finally put

it round his leg? Royce, anyhow, was not so drunk as that, or he

would be sleeping like a log by now. And, plainest of all, the

whisky bottle. You suggest a dipsomaniac fought for the whisky

bottle, and then having won, rolled it away in a corner, spilling

one half and leaving the other. That is the very last thing a

dipsomaniac would do."

He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and said to the

self-accused murderer in tones of limpid penitence: "I'm awfully

sorry, my dear sir, but your tale is really rubbish."

"Sir," said Alice Armstrong in a low tone to the priest, "can

I speak to you alone for a moment?"

This request forced the communicative cleric out of the

gangway, and before he could speak in the next room, the girl was

talking with strange incisiveness.

"You are a clever man," she said, "and you are trying to save

Patrick, I know. But it's no use. The core of all this is black,

and the more things you find out the more there will be against

the miserable man I love."

"Why?" asked Brown, looking at her steadily.

"Because," she answered equally steadily, "I saw him commit

the crime myself."

"Ah!" said the unmoved Brown, "and what did he do?"

"I was in this room next to them," she explained; "both doors

were closed, but I suddenly heard a voice, such as I had never

heard on earth, roaring `Hell, hell, hell,' again and again, and

then the two doors shook with the first explosion of the revolver.

Thrice again the thing banged before I got the two doors open and

found the room full of smoke; but the pistol was smoking in my

poor, mad Patrick's hand; and I saw him fire the last murderous

volley with my own eyes. Then he leapt on my father, who was

clinging in terror to the window-sill, and, grappling, tried to

strangle him with the rope, which he threw over his head, but

which slipped over his struggling shoulders to his feet. Then it

tightened round one leg and Patrick dragged him along like a

maniac. I snatched a knife from the mat, and, rushing between

them, managed to cut the rope before I fainted."

"I see," said Father Brown, with the same wooden civility.

"Thank you."

As the girl collapsed under her memories, the priest passed

stiffly into the next room, where he found Gilder and Merton alone

with Patrick Royce, who sat in a chair, handcuffed. There he said

to the Inspector submissively:

"Might I say a word to the prisoner in your presence; and

might he take off those funny cuffs for a minute?"

"He is a very powerful man," said Merton in an undertone.

"Why do you want them taken off?"

"Why, I thought," replied the priest humbly, "that perhaps I

might have the very great honour of shaking hands with him."

Both detectives stared, and Father Brown added: "Won't you

tell them about it, sir?"

The man on the chair shook his tousled head, and the priest

turned impatiently.

"Then I will," he said. "Private lives are more important

than public reputations. I am going to save the living, and let

the dead bury their dead."

He went to the fatal window, and blinked out of it as he went

on talking.

"I told you that in this case there were too many weapons and

only one death. I tell you now that they were not weapons, and

were not used to cause death. All those grisly tools, the noose,

the bloody knife, the exploding pistol, were instruments of a

curious mercy. They were not used to kill Sir Aaron, but to save


"To save him!" repeated Gilder. "And from what?"

"From himself," said Father Brown. "He was a suicidal maniac."

"What?" cried Merton in an incredulous tone. "And the

Religion of Cheerfulness--"

"It is a cruel religion," said the priest, looking out of the

window. "Why couldn't they let him weep a little, like his fathers

before him? His plans stiffened, his views grew cold; behind that

merry mask was the empty mind of the atheist. At last, to keep up

his hilarious public level, he fell back on that dram-drinking he

had abandoned long ago. But there is this horror about alcoholism

in a sincere teetotaler: that he pictures and expects that

psychological inferno from which he has warned others. It leapt

upon poor Armstrong prematurely, and by this morning he was in

such a case that he sat here and cried he was in hell, in so crazy

a voice that his daughter did not know it. He was mad for death,

and with the monkey tricks of the mad he had scattered round him

death in many shapes--a running noose and his friend's revolver

and a knife. Royce entered accidentally and acted in a flash. He

flung the knife on the mat behind him, snatched up the revolver,

and having no time to unload it, emptied it shot after shot all

over the floor. The suicide saw a fourth shape of death, and made

a dash for the window. The rescuer did the only thing he could--

ran after him with the rope and tried to tie him hand and foot.

Then it was that the unlucky girl ran in, and misunderstanding the

struggle, strove to slash her father free. At first she only

slashed poor Royce's knuckles, from which has come all the little

blood in this affair. But, of course, you noticed that he left

blood, but no wound, on that servant's face? Only before the poor

woman swooned, she did hack her father loose, so that he went

crashing through that window into eternity."

There was a long stillness slowly broken by the metallic

noises of Gilder unlocking the handcuffs of Patrick Royce, to whom

he said: "I think I should have told the truth, sir. You and the

young lady are worth more than Armstrong's obituary notices."

"Confound Armstrong's notices," cried Royce roughly. "Don't

you see it was because she mustn't know?"

"Mustn't know what?" asked Merton.

"Why, that she killed her father, you fool!" roared the other.

"He'd have been alive now but for her. It might craze her to know


"No, I don't think it would," remarked Father Brown, as he

picked up his hat. "I rather think I should tell her. Even the

most murderous blunders don't poison life like sins; anyhow, I

think you may both be the happier now. I've got to go back to the

Deaf School."

As he went out on to the gusty grass an acquaintance from

Highgate stopped him and said:

"The Coroner has arrived. The inquiry is just going to begin."

"I've got to get back to the Deaf School," said Father Brown.

"I'm sorry I can't stop for the inquiry."

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Innocence of Father Brown