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Chapter Text

The bell above the shop door chimed and Chief Inspector Sullivan touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment as the familiar figure of Father Brown entered. The priest grinned and leant forward in a conspiratorial hush, “Both fending for ourselves again this evening” he observed dryly, eyes drifting towards the marble topped counter which, this late in the afternoon, bore slim pickings in lieu of the usual abundant selection of meats.

“Indeed” the policeman replied, shuffling along as the stooped woman at the head of the queue placed her items in a string bag and exited the shop to the tinkle of the bell.

“Have you heard from Mrs Dev… Isabel?” Father Brown twisted his face at the slip of his tongue. He, along with most of Kembleford, was still adapting to his parish secretary’s new surname.

Chief Inspector Sullivan smiled, “Yes, she telephoned yesterday evening, it seems she and Brenda are having a lovely time.”

“I know she was looking forward to seeing Eddie.”

“Yes, quite.” The Chief Inspector paused, suddenly unsure if the priest was referring to Isabel or her young companion.

“Though I have grown accustomed to Miss Palmer’s company at the presbytery” Father Brown lowered his voice to a whisper, “I must admit I have rather enjoyed having a few days of solitude.” The flash of a grin hid his guilt, “For reflection” he added piously.

Edgar tugged nervously at his shirt cuffs poking from the sleeves of his dark grey jacket, a wry smile touching his lips. “Married life is obviously wonderful but…” he cocked his head to the side, “after so long as a bachelor full-time companionship makes for quite the change. Spending the past few evenings alone has given me time to take stock of my new circumstances.” “And a reprieve from the blasted ‘Muckles’ on the radio”, he thought.

Father Brown nodded his understanding. As fond as he was of Isabel and Miss Palmer both ladies could fairly be described as talkative characters. Every man needed space to sit and lose himself in his own thoughts now and again.

At the head of the queue a young man stared intently as the plump woman behind the counter wiped her hands on her dark blue and white striped apron. “Ah, hello Paul” she greeted him cheerily, “let me guess, Tuesday…” she cast her eyes upwards in thought, “It’ll be two pork chops, am I right?”

“No, actually I would like three pork chops today please” he replied in a polite yet mechanical tone.

Behind him Chief Inspector Sullivan searched his memory the surname of the little fellow who drove the battered old Morris dropside that was parked, rather badly, outside Fernsley’s shop window. Paul what? It was on the tip of his tongue.

“Three pork chops today?!” the woman behind the counter cried, her incredulous tone edging on patronising, “you must be hungry!”

“No, that is an incorrect assumption” came the curt reply.

The woman muttered something under her breath then set about weighing the chops. When her eyes met Father Brown’s she rolled them theatrically and gave an exasperated flick of the head, a look the priest returned with a benevolent smile. “Hello Paul, how are you today?” he called forward cheerily.

The young man fidgeted on the spot, scratching roughly at the side of his poorly shaved neck, his tattered shirt cuffs flapping around his wrists. He replied, without turning, in the stilted phrasing learned by rote by those unfamiliar with a language or, in this case, ill at ease with social niceties: “I am fine thank you Father. How are you today?”

“I’m very well, thank you” Father Brown replied cordially. “We haven’t seen you at mass for quite some time now. I hope you know the door to St Mary’s is always open.”

“I haven’t been to mass since Mum died” Paul replied matter of factly, “and yes, I believe it is customary for the church doors to remain open at all times.”

While the woman behind the counter shook her head silently at the young man’s frankness Edgar stifled a smile; It wasn’t often he came across someone even less adept than himself in the art of small-talk.

Gallantly persevering the priest went on, “I’ve been hearing very good things about your work as a handyman. It seems you are quite in demand.”

The lack of direct question seemed difficult for Paul to interpret. He swivelled his head slightly and squinted, stopping short of actually facing the priest. “I’m a very good handyman Father and yes, I’ve been keeping rather busy. If you need any jobs doing at the church or at the presbytery you’ll have to wait.”

Suddenly the shop door flew open almost dislodging the bell from its hook.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” The stocky man stopped in his tracks as the priest’s presence registered with him. “Sorry Father” he muttered gruffly squeezing himself into the crowded little space.

“I’ll not be having language like that in my shop, Alf Rowland!”

“Sorry Alma” the newcomer replied testily, removing his flat cap to reveal dark chestnut hair swept forward at the temples. “Only I’m in a hurry and I can’t be waiting for you to finish serving him” he nodded towards the back of Paul’s head. Sensing all other eyes upon him Mr Rowland tempered himself, “Just you know what a palaver it is with him, counting out his change like a blind old biddy” he muttered to nobody in particular, “we’ll be here all night waiting for him to settle up.”

Alma shot daggers at the griping man. Moving with deliberate slowness she finished wrapping the chops in their rustling paper then laid them on the counter. “That’ll be three and ten please love” she said kindly, then as the young man began picking through a handful of coins added deliberately, “take your time, no need to hurry.”

Chief Inspector Sullivan and Father Brown exchanged raised eyebrows, it was obvious Alma was more than happy to antagonise the surly Mr Rowland. Huffing and snorting Alf peered between the hanging carcass’, out through the shop window, foot tapping impatiently on the sawdust-dusted flagstone floor. Edgar felt his gaze drawn towards him, eyes lingering on the blotches of scarred smooth skin running in a line from behind the man’s right ear across his neck, down towards his jutting jaw, the underbite of which added to his permanently disgruntled air. Ashamed to find himself staring at the poor man’s disfigurement which, if he remembered correctly, were the result of a workplace accident, he forced his attention back towards the shop counter. “Deja vu” he thought, to once again find himself attempting to source something for his supper along with the other male misfits of the village before heading home to an empty house. With a smile he realised how quickly he’d become accustomed to Isabel taking care of the shopping on behalf of them both.

“Right you are” Alma was saying as she took the handful of proffered coins from Paul, dropping them into the till’s wooden drawer, “mind how you go and I’ll see you again soon.”

“Yes, I’ll see you on Friday in fact when I come in for my…”

“Bacon” Alma chipped in with a smile. “Creature of habit you are Paul Dunn.”

“For pity’s sake Alma!” Mr Rowland cried from the back of the queue, “What is this, a butchers shop or a mother’s meeting? Less chatting and more serving, eh? I haven’t got all day you know, chop-chop!”

Picking up his package from the counter Paul Dunn turned and smiled awkwardly. “Ha-ha, that’s a good one” he said with a forced hollow laugh.

“You what?” Alf Rowland barked.

“Chop chop.” Paul gestured to the package of meat in his hand.

As Father Brown and Alma tried to contain their laughter Chief Inspector Sullivan took a deep breath, rolling his eyes heavenwards; he had no desire to become embroiled in a petty spat on his way home from work. Paul shuffled past Mr Rowland towards the door, a whiff of vinegary body odour trailing behind him. Mr Rowland appeared content to let the younger man’s attempt at a joke slide, possibly due to the policeman’s watchful presence.

Father Brown smiled genially towards the departing man. “Goodbye Paul.”

When Paul turned back Edgar was struck by the way his gaze seemed intent on landing anywhere other than the priest’s face. While Alf Rowland’s scars bestowed him with a slightly menacing quality there was something equally disquieting about Paul Dunn’s features which, Edgar thought bluntly, were rather strangely distributed: they’d all taken up residence in the lower half of his face leaving a desert of blank forehead accentuating his prematurely balding head, his skittish eyes adding to his overall oddness. It was hard to guess his age, if it weren’t for the receding hair he could’ve passed as a teenager with his small, wiry frame: Mid twenties perhaps?

“Goodbye Father Brown” Paul replied in monotone and with that he departed into the clear bright afternoon.

“Thank the Lord for that” Alf cried as outside Paul’s decrepit van door slammed shut. “C’mon then Alma, serve the Inspector” he urged.

Chief Inspector Sullivan extended his arm graciously, “Please, I’m in no hurry, be my guest” he offered, the gesture taking Mr Rowland aback.

Trying hard to keep his face expressionless Father Brown smiled inwardly: whether the Chief Inspector’s intention was to pacify or further irritate the man he wasn’t entirely sure.

Behind the counter Alma huffed, seemingly displeased at Alf jumping the queue, but she could hardly argue with the policeman now, could she?

“What’ll it be then?” she asked sharply, her crossed arms a sign, as if one were needed, that her patience had already worn thin with this particular customer.

“Give me some liver, enough for me and the lad.”

“Some manners wouldn’t go amiss” Alma huffed, sliding the white enamel tray along the counter.

“Please.” The sarcasm only sought to thicken the iron-tinged air in the butchers shop which by now could easily be cut with one of the cleavers resting on the heavy wooden cutting block.

If there were a professional, attentive way to portion up chopped liver then Alma showed it scant regard. Both the priest and the policeman winced as she slammed handfuls of meat onto the paper then dumped the whole lot onto the scales. Money changed hands wordlessly then pulling his cap back onto his scar-pocked head Alf Rowland snatched the package from the counter and stormed from the shop without pleasantries. The door was lucky to remain on its hinges.

Alma let out a long sigh. “Oh well” she half-whispered, “think we all know why he’s in such a foul mood.” Though neither of her remaining customers chose to be drawn by the comment she elaborated nonetheless. “Maisie’s working late again I hear, and you know Alf don’t like cooking for himself, never mind having to take care of the lad too while she’s out ’til all hours.”

“Ah yes, of course. Mrs Rowland will no doubt be at Ryecombe Manor tonight to help cater the fundraiser.” Father Brown smiled broadly in Alma’s direction. “I’m sure Mr Rowland will manage to hold the fort while his wife is busy supplementing their income.”

“Nicely done” Edgar thought, as the priest deftly poured cold water on Alma’s embers of a rumour.

“Oh yes, I’m sure he manages” the woman backtracked hastily, “only you can understand him being a bit put out. A man works hard all day, by all accounts the least he should expect is his wife at home and a hot meal on the table.” The colour instantly rose in her cheeks as she realised her faux pas. “I don’t mean you of course, Chief Inspector!” she gabbled as Edgar dipped his head to hide the chuckle he felt brewing. “Isabel’s off visiting her Eddie, that’s completely different!” Deciding it best to get back to business, though still a little flustered, she asked, “Well, let’s see now, what can I get for you?”

Edgar cast his eye over the trays on the countertop. It appeared Paul Dunn had procured the last of the chops.

“I can highly recommend the pork and hop sausages” Father Brown commented from over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow; he knew full well the policeman still refused to eat anything from Fernsley’s that may conceal grisly surprises.

“Thank you Father” Edgar grimaced, then turning back to Alma replied, “I’ll just take a few slices of ham please.”

“Oh yes, boil a few potatoes and that’ll make for a nice easy supper for you” Alma smiled, then added hastily, “not that you aren’t capable of preparing a proper meal of course! I know you can look after yourself, Isabel’s said what a fine cook you are.”

Edgar blushed a little at the thought of his wife singing his praises around the village but, in hindsight, he was probably a darn sight more domesticated than many men of his generation, the irritable Alf Rowland included.

“And Isabel’s back tomorrow, is that right?” Alma chirped, wrapping the ham and setting it on the scales.

“Er yes, that’s correct.”

“Oh well then, that’s not too bad is it? Only one more night on your tod.”

“Only one more night without the infernal ‘Muckles’” Edgar thought ruefully. One more night in his now familiar chair, book in one hand and a nice glass of scotch in the other. One final peaceful evening to himself before his whirlwind of a wife swept through the door to regale him with endless tales of her trip to London. At the thought of seeing her again, he beamed.

Chapter Text

A sombre silence hung over the presbytery kitchen as Isabel swept silently down the hallway wrapping the edges of her bright pink cardigan around herself in a hug. Reaching the doorway she froze, her stomach already in knots. “Father” she asked nervously, “What on earth is going on?”

Sitting in his customary chair Father Brown stared straight ahead, fingers steepled, brow deeply furrowed. Brenda turned and looked up to her friend then waited for the priest to speak.

“Somebody please tell me” Isabel implored, “I got home to find this mornings milk spoiling on the doorstep, Edgar’s dinner half eaten on the plate from last night and the bed not slept in! I made to go to the police station but when I turned the corner it was like Piccadilly Circus outside and…” wrapping her arms even tighter around her waist tears brimmed in her eyes. “Well, I thought you’d know what was happening, so I came here instead.”

Father Brown was suddenly snapped from his rumination. Poor Isabel was obviously fretting about the wellbeing of her husband. “The Chief Inspector has been very busy” he began, by way of putting her mind at ease. His words had an immediate and visible effect her shoulders un-hunching with a sigh as she took a seat at the table, light cotton dress tucked primly beneath her legs. “As I was just telling Miss Palmer it’s been rather a long night” he went on. “Kenneth Rowland is missing.”

“Missing? Little Kenny?” Isabel gasped, a hand coming to her lips, “Maisie’s boy?”

“Father reckons that’s why those coppers were at the station when we got off the train” Brenda explained.

Closing her eyes Isabel silently chastised herself. She’d been so relieved to get back to Kembleford after their hectic few days visiting Eddie that the presence of the police constables at the train station had barely registered with her, save to highlight the fact that Edgar wasn’t there to meet them as arranged. She’d fumed all the way back home, imagining the look on his face as he stumbled to explain why he hadn’t been there as promised. Of course she’d known it would be work that had sidetracked him, but she hadn’t imagined he’d be dealing with anything as awful as this.

“Well how long has Kenny been gone? Who saw him last? Have they any idea…?” Isabel’s mind trailed off along with the unfinished sentence.

Taking a calming breath Father Brown began recounting the facts. “It would seem Kenny failed to make it to school yesterday morning but Mrs Waldrom the schoolmistress put his absence down to a flare up of his asthma.”

“His breathing does get worse after harvest when the fields are ploughed” Isabel nodded.

“Maisie Rowland was helping cater at Ryecombe Manor yesterday evening, she left home just after one assuming Kenny was at school. When he didn’t show up for his dinner his father thought the boy had simply lost track of time. He waited a while then went out to look for him. It was just before nine o’clock when he raised the alarm and reported Kenny missing.”

“Nine o’clock!” Isabel shuddered. “He’d been missing all day?”

“His mother saw him off out the door in the morning and he hasn’t been seen since.”

“Good grief!” Isabel’s brain began to race. She leapt to her feet: “I should go to the station, see if Edgar needs my help.”

Father Brown grimaced, cautious not to hurt her feelings. “The Chief Inspector is busy organising the local men into search parties” he said gently, “It may pay to wait a little while before offering your assistance.”

Isabel digested his words: he was right, of course. The last thing Edgar needed was his wife turning up at the station brimming with questions.

Brenda screwed up her face. “‘ow come they’re only organising a search now if they knew the boy was missing yesterday?”

The hint of accusation caused Isabel to bristle.

“The police along with a number of men from the village have been out through the night” the priest assured her, recalling the way the Red Lion had disgorged itself of drinkers the moment the call had gone up for volunteers. “As Kenny is apparently fond of building dens in the woods they concentrated their focus there, in case he had taken it upon himself to camp out. We did hope” Father Brown raised his eyebrows, “that come daylight he’d simply show up back at home, that he’d been off on some misguided adventure. But alas that doesn’t seem to be the case therefore the police are formulating a more comprehensive search plan. They’ve called in officers from all the neighbouring villages and word has gone around asking everybody to check their outbuildings in case he slept rough somewhere.”

“Slept in an outbuilding!? He’s eight years old!” Memories of Eddie at the same age formed as a sob in Isabel’s chest.

“Ya don’t think…” Brenda asked hesitantly, “that somebody might ‘ave taken ‘im, do ya?”

“You mean kidnapped him?” Isabel gasped. “Oh goodness, no, I’m sure he’s just wandered off, got lost somewhere.” She turned to her left, hoping Father Brown would concur.

“Kenny apparently knows the area around Kembleford like the back of his hand.” The priest’s face twisted sourly. “Had he simply become lost it’s more than likely he’d have found his way at least to a road or a house by now. And news of his disappearance will have spread like wildfire, people for miles around will be on the look out for him.” Letting out a long breath he went on. “The fact that Kenny didn’t make it to school yesterday has led the police to believe that he either played truant, in which case he could’ve run away or be hiding somewhere, or alternatively that another person, or persons, may have been involved in his disappearance.”

“Then he must have tried to run away, or he’s hiding somewhere” Isabel said without conviction, “and now he’ll be afraid to come home thinking he’ll be in trouble.”

“Isn’t ‘e a bit young t’be out all this time though?” Brenda asked. “Suppose ‘e could ‘ave ‘ad an accident or…”

“Let’s try and remain positive, shall we?” Isabel interjected with false cheeriness.

Glancing at the clock on the wall Father Brown pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry there isn’t much more I can tell you” he said as he stood, “I spent most of the night attempting to comfort Mrs Rowland, I’d be there now if it weren’t for the fact that I have Mr Sheridan’s funeral to preside over shortly.”

“Oh yes, that’s this afternoon.”

“The turn out may be impacted by so many men assisting with the search, and the women are over at the village hall preparing refreshments for them. But I’m sure Mrs Sheridan will understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me I must get to St Mary’s.”

Brenda waited until Father Brown had disappeared down the hallway before folding her arms sullenly across her blue gingham blouse. “What’s all this “menfolk” doing the searching? Don’t Kembleford’s women ‘ave eyes in their ‘eads too?”

Isabel exhaled gently. “I’m sure Edgar, the police, know how best to organise a search.”

“Oh right, so while the blokes are off being useful we’re supposed to go and make sandwiches and flasks of tea? Yeah, that’ll ‘elp find the lad I’m sure!”

“Brenda!”

The sharpness of Isabel’s tone took the younger woman by surprise. “Sorry” she muttered.

“No, I’m sorry” Isabel shook her head. She glanced at the clock which read quarter past one. It seemed incredible that she and Brenda had stared the day in London, catching the early train from Paddington. “I’m going to the village hall” she declared getting to her feet, “now’s not the time to make a point about the division of labour; until little Kenny is found we all just need to play our part.”

Knowing her friend was right Brenda rallied herself. “Alright then, let’s go and feed the troops.”

Chapter Text

“I’m here to see Mrs Rowland.” The voice of Father Brown drifted through the open window followed by the muffled reply of the constable positioned on the doorstep. The click which heralded the opening of the front door was followed seconds later by another which marked it once more closed. The scraping of boots on the rough mat further announced the visitor.

“Oh Father, come in, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?” Mrs Rowland’s voice was shaky, little more than a whisper as she half-stood to greet her guest.

Stepping into the smokey front room the priest closed the door behind himself and beckoned for the woman to re-take her seat. Maisie had always been a slight woman but her thinness had intensified overnight transforming her into a gaunt, frail figure, old beyond her thirty-two years. Her dark frizzy hair was scraped back, tied at the side in a plain ribbon. “Have you heard anything?” she asked anxiously.

“I’ve come straight from St Mary’s” Father Brown stated in lieu of an answer, declining to remind her of Mr Sheridan’s funeral. “I’m sure the police will inform you as soon as there is any news.” Taking a seat next to her on the darkly patterned settee he watched her pluck bobbles of fluff from the arms of her thin summer jumper and drop them into the half-full ashtray on the table by her side, bony fingers moving swiftly and unthinkingly. Beside the ashtray lay a dark wooden frame and though the priest couldn’t see it’s contents from this distance he already knew the image well; it was the photograph Maisie Rowland had clung to fiercely for most of the night, a photo of Kenny with his impish smile, jug ears and bowl-cut hair.

“It’s funny” Maisie said, staring blankly at the window, propped open to allow the hint of a breeze and the hubbub of the village to creep inside, “all that commotion going on out there yet here I am just sat, twiddling my thumbs.” She shivered, her arms winding themselves around each other, then turned to her visitor. “I feel frozen” she said in disbelief, “not cold I mean, but frozen, numb, on the inside.”

It was understandable for the poor woman to be in shock. The initial panic that had gripped her yesterday evening when she’d returned home to find her son missing, police and parish priest in her front room, had gradually given way to darker, disconsolate feelings as the hours ticked by. “Alf’s gone out to look again, said he couldn’t just sit on his hands” she explained vacantly. “Sergeant Goodfellow tried to tell him he was better off here at home but…”

Nodding his understanding Father Brown sat deep in thought, racking his brain for words of comfort. What could he say that hadn’t already been said? Yesterday evening Sergeant Goodfellow had reassured them Kenny was probably somewhere in the woods having a whale of a time, oblivious to the worry his absence was causing. The various well wishers who’d formed a steady stream at the front door this morning, most bearing gifts of baked goods, had quoted age-old adages about the futility of fretting and the power of positive thought. But at this moment every Bible verse and proverb that sprang to Father Brown’s mind turned to bitter ash by the time it reached his mouth and so, uncharacteristically, he remained silent.

“Father?” Maisie asked hesitantly. His head jerked around, eyes meeting hers which, though dry now, were red and puffy from all the tears. “Will you hear my confession?”

“Of course.” Reaching into his deep cassock pocket he removed the violet stole, unrolled it and pressed it to his lips. As he did so Maisie Rowland stood, crossed the room to the window and pulled it down shut. Retaking her seat she waited as the priest draped the brightly coloured vestment around his neck.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned, it’s been… a few months now since my last confession.” Straightening her back she drew a deep breath, flared nostrils accentuating her equine features. Her head turned briefly to the closed door, the fingers of her right hand darting to her wedding ring. Satisfied they couldn’t be overheard she continued. “I’ve had relations outside of marriage…” A dry sob escaped her throat as a rough breath. “I… I…”

Father Brown waited patiently, but when it became apparent Mrs Rowland was unable to continue he finally spoke. “I noticed Howard Yendle was one of the men back to help with harvest again this year.”

“Well, I wish he’d stayed away” Maisie blurted, fingers recoiling from the gold band. But it was sadness, not anger that brimmed in her voice. It came as no surprise that Father Brown had noted Howard’s reappearance in Kembleford, nor that he’d so quickly deduced he was the man she was referring to. “After what happened last summer, with Howard, it took time but I finally made myself see it’d been a foolish mistake. I was flattered, that’s all, got carried away. After he left I promised myself it was all done and dusted.”

“So what happened?”

Maisie fidgeted, her bony fingers resuming work, this time picking at tufts of fluff on a small embroidered cushion. “Howard was working up at Brookes’ Farm, start of the summer. When Lizzie Brookes got married they had one of those big marquee things in the garden.”

“I remember, quite the party they had!”

“That’s right. Well, I went up to help with the buffet.” Shaking her head she sighed, “Howard was there, helped us clear up at the end of the evening and… well, seeing him again all the feelings came back, it was as though he’d never left. It wasn’t just a physical thing what went on between me and him Father. I know that doesn’t make it right but I want you to know I’m not that sort of woman. Howard is so…” a sad smile formed on her lips. “He’s a good man Father, a kind, caring sort of a man.”

Closing his eyes briefly Father Brown considered Maisie’s plea, but adultery, even when committed as an affirmation of love, was adultery all the same.

“Well, anyway, I put an end to it last week, and this time for good. Haven’t seen Howard since.” The words were a struggle for her, each one catching in her throat. Though he desperately wanted to believe her there was something in her tone that told the priest Mrs Rowland was trying to convince herself, as much as him, that the affair was truly over.

The sudden dull tapping of a persistent bumblebee against the window pane caught both their attentions. After a few more fruitless attempts it turned tail and disappeared amongst the heavy drooping fuchsia whose bright two-toned colours seemed altogether out-of-place in front of a home where such a dark cloud hung.

Regaining his train of thought Father Brown asked gently, “How did Howard react to you ending your relationship?”

Maisie shrugged. “He wasn’t happy, of course. He said the fact we’d, you know, rekindled things again this summer was proof it meant something, to the both of us. He told me he’d thought about me ever since he left last year and reckoned I’d been thinking about him all that time too.” She turned to the priest and nodded guiltily, “I tried to forget about him Father, I swear, but I couldn’t.” Bringing her fingertips to her forehead she traced a line back and forth above her brow which was creased with worry and sadness. “I told Howard it was no use, it didn’t matter what we felt about each other, I’m a married woman, a mother!” The utterance of the word ‘mother’ was enough to bring tears brimming to her dark glassy eyes once more. “What sort of a life would we have if I went off with him? Flitting here, there and everywhere in search of work? I couldn’t raise Kenny like that, he needs a proper home. Not that I’m certain Howard would’ve wanted to take Kenny on, not really. And not that Alf would’ve let him go, even if I’d plucked up the courage to leave. He’d have kept Kenny from me out of spite if nothing else.”

“She’s given the matter serious consideration” Father Brown realised sadly as he thought how best to steer the confession back on track. “It is not uncommon for a couple who’ve been married for as long as you and Alf have to go through a trying period. I know things have been especially difficult since Alf’s accident.”

“Difficult? You don’t know the half of it Father!” Maisie fumed.

Dipping his head the priest peered over the rims of his glasses, frowning. “Maisie, does Alf still hit you?”

“Not often.” The forced casualness in her tone was at odds with the way her arms instinctively wound themselves tightly around her body as if steeling for a blow. “He’s still got a temper on him, especially after a drink. He’d kill me if he found out about Howard.” Her lips twisted into a forced half-smile but on seeing Father Brown’s sympathetic look she allowed it to fall away.

A flicker of concern dancing across his face Father Brown asked hastily, “Does Alf ever lose his temper with Kenny?”

Maisie snorted, “Of course he does! You know what a handful Kenny can be…” then the realisation dawned on her. “But Alf wouldn’t hurt Kenny, not really.” Met by a sceptical glare her tone hardened, “Alf has nothing to do with Kenny going missing Father, I can tell you that. You’re barking up the wrong tree!”

Turning back to face the window Father Brown couldn’t shake the seed of doubt taking root in his fertile brain, yet there was nothing more he could say without causing further distress.

“If anybody is to blame for all this Father, it’s me.”

“How-so?”

A look of bewilderment engulfed Maisie’s face, her fingertips reaching up to touch the tiny silver cross that hung on a chain around her neck. “Oh, I don’t know” she flustered, “That’s just how I feel. If I hadn’t gone off, or I mean if I’d been here like I should’ve been or…” she shook her head despondently then turned her eyes to the ceiling. “Or maybe this is God’s punishment, for what I got up to with Howard.”

“Kenneth’s disappearance is not God’s punishment for anything.” The conviction in his words had the desired effect, Maisie slowly nodding her acceptance. “And you mustn’t punish yourself by thinking you are in any way to blame for this situation. However… you must repent of your sins, and you must try from now on to put Howard Yendle from your thoughts and work with your husband to heal the rift in your marriage.”

“Oh Father, I’ll forget all about Howard I swear. I never want to see him again or hear his name. The only thing I want is for Kenny to come home. Please Father, I’m so sorry for everything, just ask God to bring my Kenny home.”

And with that Mrs Rowland collapsed against the priest, familiar sobs racking her bony body.

Chapter Text

Kembleford’s police station was abuzz when Isabel entered, shopping basket in one hand, plate piled high with sandwiches in the other. Hovering in the doorway she deftly stepped aside to allow a constable to pass as at the front desk a harried looking sergeant frantically scribbled in a notebook, telephone receiver cradled to his ear. The chairs along the wall were occupied by an elderly woman clutching a handbag tightly to her stomach and a smartly dressed man with a heavily bandaged hand.

The door to Chief Inspector Sullivan’s office flew open and in two long strides he was at the desk, grabbing the large map that lay half folded by the telephone. Isabel stepped forward but before she could speak the desk sergeant replaced the receiver and began, “Lads have left the railway station, searched all the sheds and what-have-you and the Station Master’s been briefed. He’ll make sure all the drivers, firemen, conductors keep their eyes peeled and he’ll get word to any of the workers on the track to be on the look-out for the lad.”

“Good” Edgar nodded, scrutinising the map.

“And er,” the sergeant said, beckoning a young fair-haired constable from behind him with a nod of the head, “Constable Lowe’s got a suggestion.”

“Go on then” the Chief Inspector prompted a little tersely, readjusting one of the gold coloured sleeve garters above his white-shirted elbow.

“Sir Benedict Gellert’s old estate” the constable said calmly. “We used to go as boys, there’s a spot that’s got good rocks for climbing and a sort of pond, a pool. It’s not deep but we’d use it for cooling off when it was warm. Reckon it could be somewhere Kenny might’ve gone to play and…”

“And got into difficulty” they all thought.

“Sounds as though it’s worth investigating.” Edgar turned to the desk sergeant gesturing to the telephone, “See if you can find out who’s looking after the Gellert place.” He screwed his eyes tight, “We’ve no free vehicles, have we?” he thought aloud.

“I can borrow my brother’s motorbike” Lowe suggested, “take a look up there myself.”

Glad of the young officer’s initiative Edgar nodded. “Go. Take a thorough look around. Report back whether you find anything or not.” The words had barely left his mouth before Lowe was squeezing past him and out the door.

Sensing her chance Isabel moved forward and placed the plate of sandwiches on the front desk. “Sorry I didn’t get these to you earlier, Brenda and I have been out in Hercules delivering to the search parties. Better late than never though” she explained with an apologetic smile.

An awkward silence descended: Edgar observed his wife in his peripheral vision but said nothing. She was dressed practically in the bottle-green trousers she usually reserved for working in the garden, plain beige long sleeved top and burgundy headscarf tied high and tight in a bow around her wheat-blond curls completing the outfit. While the colours may’ve been rather subdued in comparison to her usual bright attire she still exuded a subtle sunniness in spite of the dire situation.

In the end it was Sergeant Mayhew who broke the silence. “Thank you, I’ll put these through the back” he said, sliding the plate from the desk. Isabel handed him the basket, “There’s cake and some biscuits too, not sure what kind.”

Grabbing the map Edgar turned and strode back into his office leaving Isabel adrift by the desk. She’d expected him to be busy, distracted even, but he hadn’t so much as acknowledged her let alone welcomed her back. Tentatively she stepped towards his open office door and was greeted by the acrid smell of coffee, Edgar sitting hunched over the desk, pencil hovering over the notepad that rested beside the map. His ruffled hair and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin were further proof he hadn’t been home since yesterday evening. Isabel waited.

When her husband finally spoke he did so without lifting his head. “Yes?”

Isabel bit her lip at his coldness. He could just as well’ve been speaking to one of his officers as to his beloved. Then, remembering her words of advice to Brenda about playing one’s part, she swallowed her emotions. “There’s women who want to join the search” she said plainly.

Edgar shook his head as though she were speaking gibberish, eyes still scanning the map.

As she’d told Brenda, now wasn’t the time to make a point; the last thing she wanted was to badger Edgar when he was clearly very busy. Yet as the afternoon had worn on she’d realised her friend was right. Taking a breath she tried again. “Edgar, the village hall is full to the rafters with women buttering bread like there’s no tomorrow. There’s enough sandwiches over there to sink a battleship.” No response. “Some of the women, not all but some, think they’d be more use out looking for Kenny.”

Finally Edgar raised his head but in doing so closed his eyes.

“I’m talking about capable young women Edgar. Fit enough to traipse through fields, sensible enough to know what they’re looking for.”

“But it’s not about the looking.” They were the first words he’d spoken to her, and they were spoken rather harshly. When he opened his eyes he saw the hurt etched on her face.

Rising from his chair he circled behind her, gently closing the office door. “I’m not concerned about the women’s ability to look” he said quietly, slipping back to stand behind his desk, “I’m concerned about what they might find.”

It took a second for his words to sink in. It went unsaid that many of the men out searching had seen terrible things, but not all the men: not the younger ones, or those who hadn’t seen action in the wars. She pushed Edgar’s dark reasoning aside, and sensing his mood was one of apprehension, not annoyance, pleaded the case once more.

“I understand your concern” she said warmly, “everybody just wants to help in whatever way they can. It’s up to you of course, just as long as you know there’s plenty more people at your disposal over at the hall.”

Clenching his jaw Edgar brought his hand up to massage his temples. “Alright” he said reluctantly, eyes flickering to hers then away again. “Go back to the hall and speak to the women. But make sure they understand the potential for… distress if they join the search.”

“I will, I will” Isabel nodded, acknowledging his misgivings.

“And no women with young children are to join the search” he added hastily. “Nor any women with close links to the boy: aunts, godmother’s or the suchlike.”

While it was doubtful the same criteria had been applied to the menfolk Isabel made no argument.

“And I er…” Edgar paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want you joining the search.”

Though she bit her tongue annoyance was writ large across her face.

“Hercules” Edgar stammered. “You’re able to deliver refreshments to the search parties.”

For the first time he allowed his gaze to fully meet hers and Isabel felt her stomach sink. “He looks dreadful” she realised, the weight of responsibility and concern clouding his usually clear eyes. She saw a hint of something else too, shame perhaps, when he added unconvincingly, “Until the boy is found I’d prefer if you remained in the village, in case I have need to call on you.”

All Isabel could muster in response was a weak nod.

“Right then” Edgar said, stepping behind her once more, opening the door, “I’ll leave that in your hands.”

Isabel turned and followed him towards the front desk where Sergeant Goodfellow and Father Brown now added to the already congested scene.

“Anything from the school?” Edgar asked brusquely.

Goodfellow turned to his boss, “Mrs Waldrom’s beside herself that she didn’t question Kenny’s absence, she just thought it’d be his asthma playing up.”

“I said to Father Brown, it’s always worse this time of year” Isabel chipped in, oblivious to her husband’s mounting impatience.

“Anything useful Sergeant?” Edgar snarled.

“No Sir, sorry. I spoke to all the children but there was nothing…”

Before Goodfellow could finish Edgar turned his attention to Sergeant Mayhew. “Isabel is going to bring you a list of names of women who are to join the search.”

“Women?” Mayhew cried in disbelief.

“Yes Sergeant, women.” With two fingers pressed to his temple Edgar gave his instructions. “I want them divided between the existing search groups and the men they replace to be formed into an additional team.”

“Yes Sir” Mayhew nodded as Edgar retreated into his office. “Suppose it can’t be any worse having women out searching than some of the blokes who showed up this morning to help. Old man Barnes and Tommy Grant can barely walk ten paces before they’re puffing and panting, then there’s Mr McPherson, he’s as blind as a bat, not to mention that fool Paul Dunn.”

“Paul Dunn is not a fool” Father Brown corrected the officer.

“He was a couple of years ahead of my Eddie at school” Isabel agreed, “did quite well by all accounts. He just thinks a little differently to most folks, that’s what his mother always used to say.”

“Do you remember that time in church Father?” Goodfellow smiled, “you were up there talking about the feeding of the five thousand, the loaves and the fishes when Paul pipes up, “what sort of fish were they Father?” then starts listing all the types of fish he’d ever caught, “tench and chub and pike and roach…””

Mayhew snorted, “Well, when I went to Dunn’s place this morning he answered the door like one o’clock half struck. It’s like a pig-sty that cottage, no wonder he’s always scratching away like he does, he’s probably got fleas. There was washing strung up above the fireplace, last nights dinner plates left on the table. When I told him Kenny was missing and that I needed to check his shed he looked at me like I was daft. He said “well I don’t know why you’d want to look in there”, in that cocky tone of his.”

“That’s just Paul’s way” Father Brown said, “he can be rather direct in his manner.”

“Oh he’s direct alright” Mayhew shook his head, “When I told him to get dressed and get himself to the village to join the search he was none too pleased I can tell you. Then come noon, we’d just reached the crossroads west of Brookes’ Farm and off he wandered. I asked where the devil he thought he was going and he says “I’ve to go home now Sergeant.” He’s soft in the head I tell you, I don’t think he realises how serious this is.”

“AND I DON”T THINK YOU REALISE,” Edgar bellowed as he reappeared at his office door, “that standing there gossiping won’t get the boy found either. GET TO WORK.”

The door slammed shut behind him and the four chastised figures silently went their separate ways.

Chapter Text

A steady stream of weary men trudged through the graveyard of St Mary’s, past the presbytery and onwards up the lane towards the village, pausing to talk in small groups before going their separate ways. The bright honey coloured houses whose fronts were adorned with planters of sun-yellow marigolds and scarlet chrysanthemums stood in stark contrast to the mens dust-dulled clothes. Many of stooped figures leant heavily on long thumb-sticks while others carried shorter staffs and canes which, under different circumstances, would be used to beat the undergrowth during one of the local pheasant shoots. The sky, earlier a flat blue canvass, was lightly mottled now with bright white clouds hanging almost motionless in the still September air.

Peeling away from the searchers Sergeant Goodfellow paused by the presbytery wall as Father Brown made his way outside to join him. Removing his cap Goodfellow ran the back of his hand across his brow, the westwardly dipping sun creating a halo of his short stubbly hair where the light reflected off his freckled head.

“Any news?” the priest asked hopefully. They were the words on everybody’s lips even thought it was evident that ‘any news’, if and when it came, would spread through the village in a heartbeat.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to reply the policeman’s attention was drawn to the rapidly approaching figure of Alf Rowland. Barrelling towards him, arms waving wildly, he barred his crooked nicotine stained teeth like a wild animal. “What the HELL is going on here then!?” he yelled.

Goodfellow instinctively straightened his back and squared his shoulders giving him at least half-a-foot height advantage over the approaching man. “Mr Rowland” he said calmly.

“I said, what’s going on? Where are that lot going?” He gestured towards the men he’d just passed.

“The Chief Inspector is sending them home for the night…”

“HOME!? It’s only just gone six” he thundered, pointing up to the gleaming gold hands of the church clock. “It’ll be light for another two hours yet.”

The sergeant steeled himself, “Yes, but most of these men are the same ones that started the search yesterday. They’ve been on their feet all night and all day.”

The heated exchange drew furtive glances from the dribs and drabs of men yet to disperse.

“Mr Rowland...” Father Brown began, hoping to appease the understandably distraught father.

But Mr Rowland was having non of it, bringing his hand in front of the priest’s face to silence him. “I don’t want words Father, I want action. I want my son found.”

Father Brown’s attention was suddenly drawn across the road; moving against the flow of bodies Paul Dunn ambled towards the presbytery, hands in pockets, but before he reached the trio of men he was intercepted by an older, rotund gentlemen who seemed intent on dissuading him from going any further.

“We need to be sure that when we search an area we do so thoroughly” Goodfellow tried to explain to Mr Rowland. “Tired men could miss something vital. It’s better they go home, get some food, some rest and start afresh tomorrow.”

“TOMORROW? My boy’s eight years old Sergeant, he’s been out on his own one night already.”

“We’ve still got other teams out looking, I promise. Everybody is doing their best to find Kenny, I assure you.”

Catching sight of the two men in conversation just a few feet away Alf Rowland turned his ire in their direction. “Everybody doing the best to help are they? I heard that idiot took himself home at lunchtime. More interested in your grub were you Dunn?” he yelled across the road.

The young man shuffled nervously on the spot, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. Before he could reply the older gentleman beside him interjected; “I’m sure Paul will be back in the morning to join the search again, isn’t that right Paul?” The older man’s clipped accent was in contrast to his unkempt appearance. Every hair he possessed appeared to be growing in a different direction, from the long white chest hair that sprouted from his shirt collar to his thick wiry eyebrows, winding up his forehead like weeds searching for sunlight. To top it all off a thin nest of silvery-grey crinkles rested on his tanned liver-spotted head.

Oblivious to the lifeline he’d been thrown Paul replied in his customary candid manner. “There won’t need to be a search tomorrow Mr Turvey, Kenny will be home by then.”

“Yes, well, it’s good to remain optimistic” Father Brown chimed in quickly with a forced smile, sensing Alf’s temper was about to boil over.

“Yes, don’t worry Mr Rowland” Paul added flatly.

“DON’T WORRY?!”

Sergeant Goodfellow placed a hand flat on Mr Rowland’s chest before he could make a move towards the lad. “Go home Alf” he said firmly but quietly. “Go and check how your Maisie’s doing.”

“I know how she’s doing, Sergeant. She’s worrying herself to death.” With that he shrugged free of the policeman’s hand, turning towards home. “Idiot!” he spat, glaring at Paul.

“He means no harm, Mr Rowland” Mr Turvey said, positioning himself between Alf and the nervous young man. “And you can rely on the rest of us to be back at first light to help look for your boy.”

Leaning to the older man Alf Rowland snarled, “You’d know all about looking for boys, wouldn’t you Turvey?” The snide remark drew awkward glances from the by-standers who began showing undue interest in one another’s boots. “If I find out anyone has harmed my lad I’ll kill them with my own bare hands, and by God I mean that” Alf thundered, indifferent to the scene he was causing.

“Enough Alf!” Goodfellow barked, yanking him back by the shoulder. “Get away home or I’ll take you there myself.”

Reluctantly Mr Rowland did as he was told, storming past the line of men who averted their eyes to escape his wrath.

“I’d better get back to the station” Goodfellow said with a dip of his head, “see how the Chief Inspector’s getting on.”

“If there’s anything I can do...” Again, Father Brown realised, the same offer lay on everybody’s lips. The priest watched the sergeant leave followed by Mr Turvey leaning heavily on his tall hazel thumb-stick, its steel ferrule tapping rhythmically on the road, his wide gait swaying him from side to side like toy boat bobbing on a choppy pond. Drawing parallel to the group of men still muttering and mumbling furtively to one another something was said which caused Mr Turvey to bristle. Turning his head aside sharply he deviated in an almost imperceptible arc then plodded onwards past Paul Dunn’s battered old van at the top of the road, the tapping of his stick growing ever more distant. The last of the gathered men bid each other goodbye, drifting off in all directions like achenes from a dandelion clock scattering in the breeze.

When Father Brown turned back towards St Mary’s only one person remained, staring intently at the clock on the church tower. “I’m sorry that Mr Rowland shouted at you Paul, sometimes he finds it hard to control his temper. You know you mustn’t feel pressured into joining the search tomorrow.”

“But Sergeant Mayhew said this morning that I had to help with the search.”

“Yes, well, I can have a word with Sergeant Mayhew, and with Mr Rowland once he’s calmed down.”

Paul said nothing, his small beady eyes still fixed on the clock.

“I’d like to give you some advice if I may?” the priest ventured, hands clasped behind his back.

“My mother always said that if I needed advice I should come to you Father.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Deciding the simple, direct approach favoured by Paul himself was best he said, “It’s good to remain optimistic about Kenny’s safe return and I know you were trying to offer words of comfort to Mr Rowland. However he is very upset at the moment so I think it best you stay out of his way if possible.”

“Mum used to say, “Paul, sometimes it’s best to keep your head down and your mouth shut”.”

“Wise words indeed.”

“It will be dark by eight, won’t it Father?” Paul asked blankly.

Squinting as he tried to decipher what was going through the young man’s brain, Father Brown nodded, “Eight or thereabouts.” He paused. “Are you alright Paul?” he asked kindly.

Finally tearing his eyes from the clock Paul’s gaze landed somewhere on the priest’s shoulder. “I am fine thank you Father. How are you?”

The priest closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m worried Paul. Very worried” he said candidly.

“Don’t worry Father, everything will be alright.”

His advice about platitudes had seemingly failed to sink in. “I do hope you’re right Paul” he muttered spiritlessly, “I do hope you’re right.”

The young man headed up the lane towards his little blue van, the paint peeling from its low drop-sides. Father Brown fell in step behind him. “Looks as though you’ve had an accident” he said as they reached the vehicle.

Paul scratched his neck, bending down to take a closer look. A dark smear was just visible against the cab’s rusting metal grill which bore a deep dent.

“Oh dear, not too much damage I hope?” Father Brown winced.

For a moment there was no answer then with a forced hollow laugh Paul replied “Ha-ha, that’s a good one.”

Confusion vied with the sense of déjà vu now washing over the priest.

“I hit a deer Father” came the explanation, “Oh dear, poor deer. It was alright though, went scampering on its way into the woods.”

“Ah, I see” the priest nodded, grasping the play on words. Reaching forward he gently teased a single short reddish-brown hair from the grill, blood smearing his fingertips. He peered at it intently. “Well then, I’d better let you get scampering on your way too.”

“Father?” Paul asked, clambering into the cab. “The doors to St Mary’s are always open, aren’t they?”

“Always,” Father Brown smiled, “as is my own.”

“Goodbye Father Brown” came the mechanical farewell as the cab door closed, the van coughing and spluttering to life.

“Goodbye Paul” Father Brown said with a wry shake of his head. The flock of St Mary’s, he reflected, was all the richer for the patchwork of personalities that comprised it.

Chapter Text

The fug of cigarette smoke hung heavily in the Rowlands’ front room, grabbing at Chief Inspector Sullivan’s nose and throat the instant he stepped inside. Alf Rowland sat hunched forward in an arm chair while Maisie, at the end of the settee, wound an arm tightly around her waist. Both man and wife held lit cigarettes, the ashtray perched between them on a small doily-topped table full to the brim with butts. Next to it sat a dark brown beer bottle, its dregs just visible in the bottom of a half-pint glass; the bottle’s twin sat on the floor by its master’s feet.

From his place next to Mrs Rowland Father Brown looked up expectantly at the policeman.

“No news I’m afraid” Edgar said, pre-empting the inevitable question, “though I do have something I’d like to show you. It was found in the undergrowth about half a mile outside the village.”

Both Alf and Maisie’s eyes widened in expectation despite the policeman’s attempt not to raise their hopes. Reaching into the pocket of his double breasted overcoat Sullivan removed a small paper bag. Stepping closer to the couple he shook the contents into his hand and held it towards them, “Do you recognise this?”

Maisie reached towards his open palm, her finger stopping just short of the tapered metal object. Her voice quivering she asked, “Is that a bullet?”

“No, no.” Chief Inspector Sullivan quickly turned the item over to reveal the hollow underside, “it’s a car, a toy racing car though it seems to have lost its wheels.”

Leaning forward Father Brown peered at the mottled item which at one time, he guessed, had been painted cream but was now stripped back almost entirely to its silvery base. Rounded at one end and running to a blunted point at the other he could just make out the little nodule representing the driver when the Chief Inspector set it upright again.

Mrs Rowland shook her head, “I don’t recognise it. Alf?” she turned hopefully to her husband.

“Kenny’s not one for toy cars” he said without looking. “He likes climbing trees, making dens, that sort of a thing.”

“Nevertheless I’d ask you to take a look please Mr Rowland, just to be sure” Edgar asked cordially.

“Look at the state of it” Alf scoffed when he finally saw it, “that old thing’s not seen the light of day in years.”

Slipping the car back into the paper bag the Chief Inspector did his best to ignore Mr Rowland’s flippant remark.

“Oh, but now I come to think of it…!” Mrs Rowland exclaimed, her face suddenly animated. Swiftly stubbing out her cigarette she shuffled quickly from the room, her footsteps echoing lightly as she dashed up the wooden stairs.

The three men waited for her return; Father Brown’s eyes remained fixed on the open door while Alf bowed his head and stared at his bootlaces. Chief Inspector Sullivan on the other hand took the opportunity to surreptitiously cast his eye around the room. It wasn’t long before Kenny’s photograph in its dark wooden frame caught his eye, tucked against the arm of the settee where his mother had been sitting. Sullivan flinched at the boy’s carefree smile then turned his attention discreetly towards Mr Rowland. Sergeant Goodfellow had informed him the man’s temper was starting to fray which came as no great surprise. Hadn’t Mr Rowland already appeared overly agitated in the butchers shop on Tuesday afternoon, before he’d reported his son missing?

At the sound of Mrs Rowland’s footsteps dashing back down the stairs all attention turned to the door.

“I was right” Maisie nodded sharply reentering the room, “It’s gone.”

“Sorry, what’s gone?” the Sullivan asked, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Kenny’s cap gun. We bought him it for his birthday.”

“And what difference does that make woman?” Alf barked at his wife who shrank on the spot. “He’s taken his toy gun with him, how’s that going to help the police find him?”

“Thank you Mrs Rowland” Sullivan said with considered kindness. “As I said last night any detail, however small, may prove to be important.”

“A toy, important?!” Alf sneered as his wife retook her seat and promptly lit another cigarette which quivered between her bony fingers.

Forging onwards the Chief Inspector asked “Is there anything else that comes to mind about Kenny, his mood, his behaviour, anything he said or did…?”

Silently the Rowlands shook their heads in unison. “Did anything occur on Tuesday or the days leading up to it that seemed in any way strange or…?”

“For Christ’s sake man,” Alf roared, “how many times are you lot going to ask us the same bleedin’ questions?”

“The Chief Inspector is only doing his job Mr Rowland” Father Brown said sternly before casting his eyes up to the policeman who stood poker straight in the middle of the room.

Fiddling with his shirt collar Edgar silently thanked the priest for his support. Addressing Mr Rowland calmly he explained, “Sometimes, as with the toy gun, people come to remember things that at first may have slipped their minds, or that may not have seemed relevant. I’m sorry if it seems we are going over old ground but it’s important to make sure we aren’t missing anything. Now, is there anybody you can think of who you’ve had a disagreement with, a falling out with?”

“I’ve had enough of this” Mr Rowland said gruffly getting to his feet. Jabbing a finger towards the policeman’s chest his lip curled with sarcasm, “I had a row with my boss last week Inspector, he’s been cutting corners again.” Turning his face to the side he pointed to the streaks of scarred skin snaking their way down the back of his head and around his neck. “This is what happened the last time he cut corners” he spat. At this range the scars reminded Edgar of a varnish applied too thickly, darker than their surroundings with a smooth glossy finish. Regaining just a modicum of composure Alf went on. “I rowed with my boss, threatened to go to the union. I had a row with one of those harvest workers in the Red Lion too come to think of it, Friday night, over a game of dominos. They don’t half like to throw their money around come pay day, that lot. But nobody hurts a child over an argument…” As though only just realising how close he was standing to the taller man Mr Rowland stepped backwards then lowered himself into his chair, staring once again at his feet.

“Mrs Rowland?” Edgar said, turning to the seated woman. “I know we’ve asked you this already but is there anybody you can think of, anybody who you’ve had a disagreement with or who may hold a grudge…?”

The panic in Maisie’s eyes came in a flash, face swivelling towards Father Brown, her chest rising in a short soundless gasp. Sullivan bristled at the look that passed between the pair. While every instinct told him to press her on the matter her husband’s slumped figure in his peripheral vision caused him to hesitate. A quick glance told him Mr Rowland was lost in thought and so choosing his words carefully he continued, “If there is anything you can think of it is imperative that you let me know.” He paused, shackled by the angry man’s presence. “You can telephone me at any time or come to the station...” He dearly hoped his meaning was clear, and that she’d be more forthcoming once her husband wasn’t in earshot.

Then, though it lasted mere seconds, he watched intently the wordless exchange that played out between the priest and his parishioner:

“Should I tell him?” she seemed to ask, eyebrows tightly knitted, her fingers grasping at the small silver cross around her neck.

“Yes, you must” he implored, eyes widening.

“But I’m scared” her gaze said, head dipping towards her husband, fingers now toying with her wedding ring. “Please don’t say anything.”

“I won’t” he consoled her with the trace of a sad smile.

Realising his hands were tied Chief Inspector Sullivan tipped his hat, “Well, Mr Rowland, Mrs Rowland I’ll go now but if there’s…”

“Go?” Alf cried though the venom in his voice had diminished. “You’ve come here to show us an old toy car and ask all the same questions? All day you’ve had men out and that’s all you’ve found?”

“They can’t find what’s not there Alf” Maisie snapped.

But her husband wasn’t in the mood to be silenced. “That’s it then? You’ve nothing else to tell us?”

Clenching his jaw the policeman closed his eyes briefly while he composed himself. “My apologies, I thought Sergeant Mayhew had updated you about the search. We’ve been door to door, checked all the outbuildings and uninhabited properties within half a mile of the village, conducted a thorough search of…”

“Don’t stand there telling us all the places you’ve looked Inspector. I don’t care where my boy’s not, I care where he is.”

There was no reasoning with a man in Alf Rowland’s state of mind; Edgar knew he’d be rebuked no matter what he said.

Father Brown watched the Chief Inspector visibly clinging to the last of his fraying nerves, clenching and unclenching his fists, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. “I’m going to go back to the station now to draw up the next set of search areas. We’ve more officers from neighbouring forces plus the army joining us tomorrow when we resume.”

“Tomorrow?” Mr Rowland turned to Father Brown. “But Sergeant Goodfellow said it was only the one search party being stood down, didn’t he Father? That the rest would keep looking? It’s not even eleven o’clock yet and what? You’ve sent the lot of them home?” All fight suddenly drained from the man as he pleaded with the priest. “What good’s tomorrow? What about now? The lad’s already been out there one night on his own.”

“With a waning moon and the way it’s clouded over I imagine it would be impractical to conduct a thorough search through the hours of darkness, isn’t that right Chief Inspector?”

Sullivan’s annoyance at whatever secret of Maisie Rowland’s the priest was privy to gave way once again to gratitude for his backing in the face of Mr Rowland.

“That’s right Father. A more effective use of resources is to allow the men to rest then resume again at first light, though we will have some officers patrolling the village and at key positions throughout the night.”

“He’s not his coat.” Maisie’s feeble statement caught them all off guard. She turned to her husband, tears in her eyes. “He only went out in that thin green jumper.”

Alf’s hand shot to where hers hovered above the ashtray, grabbing her wrist firmly, thumb rubbing back and forth across her forearm. “Our Kenny’s not daft love, nobody builds a better den than that lad. He’ll be bedded down somewhere, probably even got a fire on the go! Don’t you worry love, don’t you worry.”

The sudden display of affection between the couple left both their visitors taken aback. Turning for the door the Edgar stopped in his tracks when Mrs Rowland called after him.

“Promise me you’ll find my Kenny, Chief Inspector!” she beseeched, “Promise me you’ll find him!”

The lump in his throat prevented the policeman from making any such promise, even if he’d wanted to. Stepping into the small hallway he sensed the priestly figure rising to his feet behind him. “I’ll be back in the morning. Do try and get some rest” he heard him say.

Outside the front door a constable straightened as his boss stepped past him. “When did you last have a break constable?” he asked tersely, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Er, about six o’clock Sir.”

Edgar checked his watch just as the church clock chimed the three-quarters. “I’ll send somebody to relieve you once I’m back at the station.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Buttoning his dark blue overcoat against the chill that had come with nightfall Sullivan strode on down the short path, swinging open the rickety wooden gate. At the sight of the black bicycle propped against the low wall he turned to face the house, his back to the car parked by the curb, its silver trim glinting in the light from a nearby lamppost. A moment later Father Brown appeared, closed the door behind himself and with a quiet word to the constable scurried down the path, umbrella in hand.

“Chief Inspector, I was hoping to have a word with you.”

“And I with you” Sullivan replied curtly. “Care to enlighten me?”

“About what?”

“You know damn well what” came the hissed reply. “I saw you in there with Mrs Rowland” he whispered roughly to avoid being overheard. “Well?”

Father Brown raised his chin and took a deep breath but said nothing.

“In case it had slipped your attention Father an eight year old boy has been missing now for at least a day, quite possibly significantly longer!”

“And if Mrs Rowland knew anything that would help bring her son home she would have told you before now” the priest shot back.

“But there is something she’s not divulging, isn’t there?” the policeman asserted angrily, “either from fear of her husband or to protect somebody else or through guilt.” His careful scrutiny of the priest’s face paid dividends, the faintest flicker showing on the older man’s face at the mention of the word ‘guilt’. “Has Maisie Rowland confessed something to you Father?”

“You know very well that confession…”

“What did she tell you?” Now it was Edgar’s turn to be the one angrily dominating the conversation.

“I can assure you that nothing has been said to me that has relevance to your investigation.”

Spinning on his heels Edgar brought his palms down with a loud slap on the roof of the Wolseley. “It is NOT for YOU to decide what IS or IS NOT relevant to MY investigation.” Bracing his hands against the car he rocked his hips backwards, allowing his back to straighten, head drooping forwards into the gap between his splayed arms.

It was a position Father Brown had seen Sid adopt many times after one too many at the Red Lion, but the Chief Inspector was afflicted by something more pernicious than alcohol. He was fatigued, naturally, and doubtless stressed from juggling the numerous lines of inquiry the investigation had spawned through the course of the day. But above all else it was the crushing weight of duty, magnified my Maisie Rowland’s pleas, that bore down almost visibly upon the younger man’s shoulders.

“Eight years old Father” Edgar whispered forlornly, his voice on the verge of breaking. “One night spent camping in the woods I could believe, but not two. If he’s out there somewhere, injured… or worse…”

Father Brown nipped the bleak notion in the bud. “Kenny is a resilient young boy, and tomorrow with increased manpower he will be found.”

“Unless…” Edgar closed his eyes. “Unless it’s too late” he thought, “or unless he’s been taken.”

His hand hovering just above the Chief Inspector’s shoulder Father Brown hesitated. Edgar wasn’t a demonstrative man but it pained him to see anyone in this much distress. Reaching forward he gave the shoulder a firm squeeze.

Whether through shock or objection Sullivan jolted upright, swatting the proffered hand away fiercely. Then, taken aback by his own response his eyes widened before dipping downwards in embarrassment. Hastily he opened the car door and slipped inside. “Goodnight Father” he muttered, reaching for the door handle.

“Goodnight Chief Inspector” Father Brown replied, “And Chief Inspector, if you need to talk.”

Edgar’s head snapped up, eyes ablaze. “You’re the one who needs to do the talking Father” he growled, “You and Maisie Rowland. Because if I find out you’re holding anything back that stops me from finding that boy…”

With that the car door slammed shut and the Wolseley roared away through the darkened village.

Chapter Text

The door to the front room creaked open gently, Isabel tutting sadly to herself at the sight of her husband fast asleep in the high-backed armchair. With his head lolled heavily to the side and one leg jutting straight out he looked anything but comfortable underneath his dark blue overcoat which lay draped across his shoulders like a blanket. Tip-toeing forwards Isabel slid the small tea plate from its precarious perch on his lap, shaking her head at the sight of the thin white bread folded in two, a single bite mark revealing its marmalade slathered interior. She sat the plate down on the small table next to the mug of tea: a quick touch with the back of her hand told her the contents were stone cold. Stroking his arm lightly so as not to startle him Isabel whispered softly, “Edgar. Edgar love.” For a moment there was no response then his head shot upright, overcompensated, and drooped heavily forwards. Blinking rapidly he baulked at the light emanating from the lamp by his chair. “Edgar love, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in” Isabel apologised in a hush, sliding her hand up his arm to curl around his shoulder.

“I tried to be quiet, didn’t want to disturb you” came the dry mouthed reply.

“Don’t be silly, you can’t sleep there all crumpled up like that, let’s get you to bed.”

“What time is it?” Edgar asked groggily, squinting towards the clock on the mantlepiece.

“Just gone twenty to five. Come on, I’ll help you…”

“No, I need to get back to the station.” Forcing his eyes wide open he sat bolt upright, shrugged off not only the overcoat but his wife’s hand too and levered himself from the chair.

“But what time did you get in?” Isabel implored, tightening the belt of her pale green dressing gown. “I waited up for you til gone two.”

“I don’t know, a little after three I think” came the distracted reply. “I’m meeting with Major Capon from the Kemble’s to discuss how best to coordinate our efforts” taking a swift gulp of the cold tea he winced, “and the local men are reconvening at five-thirty to begin again at first light.” Brushing past Isabel he stepped into the hallway, wrestling his arms into the overcoat. “I need to see if there’ve been any updates, make sure the search areas are clearly defined…”

“Edgar love” Isabel pleaded gently, “just give me ten minutes. You can nip upstairs and have a wash while I fry up some bacon, you can at least take a sandwich with you.”

Stepping quickly back into the front room Edgar ran his hand across his cheek, annoyed to detect more than a hint of stubble. “No time for that” he declared and swiping the marmalade sandwich from the tea plate turned and strode back towards the front door. “This’ll do.”

“But Edgar” Isabel called after him.

It was no use; the front door slammed shut and off he marched into the inky blue-blackness.

Chapter Text

A hectic orderliness filled the police station as Isabel edged her way towards the front desk, shopping basket looped across her arm. A pair of constables she didn’t recognise stood behind the desk, one scribbling in a notebook, the other stepping past her to poke his head into Edgar’s office. “That was Mr Chapman from the allotment association. They’ve checked the whole place over again, sheds, greenhouses, everything, no sign of the lad.”

Edgar gave a short nod of acknowledgement and without looking up pointed his fountain pen towards one of the two large wooden framed boards that had appeared on rolling easels in the already cramped space. The constable duly stepped forward, scoring a line through the word ‘allotments’ before replacing the pen on its small narrow ledge beneath the board.

“Cricket pavilion? Bowling club?” Edgar asked, eyes never leaving the papers on his desk.

“Haven’t heard back yet,” the constable’s eyes scanned the map on the adjacent board, “I was thinking Sir, we could check with the Ramblers and Twitchers. If there’s any paths or bridleways not marked on this map they’d be the ones that’d know.”

A moments pause followed while Edgar considered the proposal. “Yes, alright, do that then I want you to take over from Sergeant Mayhew heading the search along the canal, ask him to come back to the station.”

“Righty-ho Sir.”

“Oh, and Constable, send Goodfellow in.”

“Goodfellow’s not here Sir, he got called across to the school.”

That caught his boss’s attention, Edgar’s head snapping up. “The school?”

“Yes Sir, Mrs Waldrom called, not sure what about but he said he’d pop over there.”

“Alright. On you go.” Dismissing the junior officer his eyes fell on Isabel lingering in the doorway, decked out in the same practical clothes she’d worn yesterday. “Oh, hello. What is it?” he asked bluntly.

Isabel patted the handle of the wicker basket where it lay in the crook of her elbow. “Brought you a couple of things” she smiled weakly, pretending his offhand manner didn’t sting. Removing a greaseproof-paper package from under the tea-towel covering she proffered it in his direction, “a bacon sandwich, since you left without eating.”

Unable to hide his exasperation Edgar took the square package and cast his eye around for somewhere to place it, standing to set it atop the tall filing cabinet. “I’ll have it shortly” he said unconvincingly.

“And I brought these” his wife ventured, peeling back the cloth to reveal the rest of the basket’s contents, “in case you want to get cleaned up.”

At the sight of the small wash bag and towel with a fresh white shirt tucked beside them his mood softened slightly. “Ah, yes” his eyes narrowed, “No doubt top brass will be putting in an appearance soon and I assume there’s still a swarm of reporters out there waiting for an update.”

Isabel confirmed the latter with a nod.

“In that case I’d better have a quick wash and a shave.”

“Sir? I think you should…” Goodfellow’s familiar voice preceded him into the office. “Oh, sorry to interrupt” he apologised noting Isabel’s presence.

“No, you’re not interrupting, go ahead Sergeant.”

“Got a call from Mrs Waldrom the schoolmistress, asked me to go over on account of something one of the children said.”

“And? What is it?” Sullivan asked impatiently as Isabel tried to fade into the background.

“Kenny’s friend, a lad by the name of Ian, made a comment as they were getting ready for assembly. Said he hoped Kenny would be back today so they could go after school to play in the woods.”

“The Rowlands already told us Kenny plays in the woods, it was the first place we looked when Alf reported him missing.”

“I know, but I think it’s best if you speak to the boy yourself.” Stooping to brace his hands on his knees he beckoned the unseen figure towards the office. “Right now Ian” he said gently, “you come in here and tell the Chief Inspector what you told me.”

Isabel felt a smile tug at her lips at the sight of the small boy in his shorts and shirt and V-neck vest. His scrawny limbs were deeply tanned, bearing all the scratches and scabs of a boyhood summer well-spent.

“Go on then, he won’t bite” Goodfellow prompted the boy with an encouraging smile.

Unaccustomed as he was to dealing with small children Chief Inspector Sullivan took his sergeant’s lead, stooping to better match the boy’s height.

“I said I hoped Kenny would be back today so we can go and play in the woods together.” Though he spoke quite clearly the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot made plain his nervousness.

“I see” Sullivan said gently. “Well, that is very useful information, thank you. But we’ve already checked the woods…”

“Not the big woods” Ian interrupted with shake of his head. Turning to Goodfellow he sighed, “I told you, we don’t play in those woods any more. Because of the big boys.”

“Apparently some of the older lads are in the habit of smashing up the younger ones’ dens” Goodfellow explained to Sullivan.

“They’re not dens, they’re forts” Ian corrected him earnestly.

“Sorry, forts” Goodfellow smiled.

“Then where exactly do you and Kenny build your forts?” Sullivan asked, hoping to glean some nugget from this slightly torturous conversation.

“In the secret woods.”

“The secret woods?” the Chief Inspector narrowed his eyes, awaiting more detail.

“Yes, the one with the trees.”

“The woods with the trees?” Sullivan repeated with thinly veiled tetchiness. “And where might they be?”

Twisting back and forth on the spot Ian looked pained. “I promised Kenny I wouldn’t tell anybody. He said to keep it secret or the older boys would come and spoil things again, and he said his dad wouldn’t like him playing there either.”

The telephone at the front desk attempted to ring but was silenced almost immediately, the unseen constable announcing himself succinctly to the caller the same way he’d done dozens of times already this morning. Turning his attention back to the boy Sullivan drew a deep breath then catching Goodfellow’s eye gave a nod of acquiescence, inviting his mild-mannered sergeant to take over.

“It’s very important that you tell us anything you can that might help us find Kenny” Goodfellow said calmly but firmly, “Both me and Chief Inspector Sullivan are very good at keeping secrets, I promise” he winked.

Straightening up Sullivan felt his patience with the boy fading fast.

“And what about her?” Ian asked, eyeing Isabel suspiciously where she stood silently in the corner of the room. Taking her cue she ran her finger and thumb across her closed lips then turned the invisible key in its lock. Satisfied they could all be trusted Ian looked intently at Sergeant Goodfellow. “The secret woods are the woods where the man lives.”

“Which man?”

Ian shrugged, “I dunno, the nice man. He lets us play there. He gave us loads of old wood to build our fort and sometimes when it’s hot he even gives us bottles of pop!”

The potential lead was just enough to keep Sullivan’s simmering frustration at bay.

“Where are these secret woods?” he asked with a casualness he didn’t possess.

Ian spun on his heels, brow furrowed, mentally mapping the village outside the station walls. Sticking his arm out straight he pointed vaguely in the direction of the cells. “They’re that way I think” then reconsidering turned towards the office window, “or maybe that way, I’m not quite sure.”

“But you know how to get there?” Goodfellow asked the lad.

“Oh yes, I know the way” he nodded, his feathery brown hair bouncing enthusiastically atop his head.

Turning to his superior Goodfellow waited for the nod to carry on. “In that case why don’t you show us these secret woods, eh?”

“Does that mean I don’t have to go back to school?” Ian asked expectantly, brown eyes twinkling.

“Not just yet” Goodfellow confirmed, raising himself back to full height.

Swiping his jacket from the coat-hook by the door Sullivan shrugged it onto his shoulders then reached for his hat, “This better not be a ploy for him to get out of lessons” he muttered through gritted teeth, following Goodfellow and the boy out towards the front desk. “We shouldn’t be long” he informed the constable whose hand rested expectantly on the telephone receiver.

“Sir, about the green van that was reported hanging around the village on Tuesday morning” the young man said hastily, “we’ve just had a call from Mr Welsh, the plumber over in Burrywick...”

“And?” Sullivan prompted tersely.

“Mr Welsh reckons it could’ve been his van that was spotted. Seems he’s got a new fellow working for him who got a bit lost on his way between jobs.”

The Chief Inspector stopped in his tracks, raising a hand to squeeze his temples. “Who do we have free?” he asked, though the answer was fairly obvious.

“Er…” the constable looked at the empty space next to him then replied almost apologetically, “just me here Sir.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

At the sound of his wife’s voice Edgar’s head snapped around as if only just remembering her presence. Turning back to the constable he asked, “Who was it reported seeing the van?”

Before the constable could leaf through the bulging file on the desk Goodfellow piped up, “Mrs Adams.”

“Do you know where Mrs Adams is?” Edgar asked Isabel.

“At the hall I’d expect, helping with the catering.”

“Constable, call Mr Welsh, tell him somebody will be over soon to take a look at the van." He turned to Isabel, "Can you drive Mrs Adams to Burrywick, see if she recognises either the van or the driver? And make sure she doesn’t confirm anything she isn’t completely certain about.” Isabel accepted the task with a nod. Addressing Goodfellow Sullivan went on, “If it was the plumbers van she saw then hopefully we can piece together the driver's movements…”

“I could ask Mr Welsh for a list of all the stops the driver was due to make on Tuesday” Isabel suggested.

“Yes, that would be helpful.”

A tiny ember of warmth ignited within Isabel; it was the first remotely approving thing Edgar had said to her since she’d returned from London. But without further ado her husband marched out the door, Goodfellow ushering the boy quickly behind, large hand on his tiny shoulder. The fleeting warmth was replaced by a twisting deep in Isabel’s stomach, the freshly pressed shirt and wash-bag staring mockingly up at her from the basket on her arm while the smell of the lovingly prepared bacon sandwich cooling on the filing cabinet wafted from the empty office behind her.

Chapter Text

“Ian, did Kenny mention anything to you about intending to play truant?” Chief Inspector Sullivan asked, fighting his way down the thicket-lined path, eyes scanning left and right as he went.

“Play what?” the confused little voice from behind asked.

“Did Kenny say anything about bunking off school?” Goodfellow translated.

“Nope” came the simple reply. Having left the car at the end of a dirt track some hundred yards away the trio paced along, Ian employing a rapid skip-step to keep up with the two tall policemen. Overhanging thorny tentacles clawed at their clothes, both men glad of the hats offering some protection to their heads. “There it is” Ian pointed enthusiastically to a thinning in the hedgerow just ahead on the left.

While Sullivan strode on Goodfellow slowed, swivelling his head in an attempt to get his bearings. Approaching a dilapidated five-bar gate Sullivan stopped and waited for the others to catch up. “In here?” he asked the boy as he peered over the gate.

A firm nod was the only answer.

When Goodfellow arrived his boss pointed wordlessly to the hand painted square sign that hung lopsidedly from the half-rotten wood: “PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT!”

Seemingly oblivious to the stark black and white sign Ian was already scrambling up over the gate.

“Hold on” Sullivan warned him but by now the boy was sitting astride the top bar as though riding a horse.

“It doesn’t open, you have to climb over” the lad chirped, dropping down onto the other side. “And mind for those nettles.”

The two policemen followed one after the other, their long legs making easy work of the rickety gate that groaned and wobbled slightly under each man’s weight. Fighting their way through the undergrowth they emerged a few steps later into a sparsely wooded patch of scrubland. Sullivan shot out his hand, halting the young boy before he could venture any further.

“That’s our tyre swing and the fort’s over there hidden by those branches and we’re going to build an Indian village…”

As Ian pointed gaily here and there the two officers took a moment to survey their surroundings. The near-triangular shaped parcel of land was bordered on one long edge by a post and wire fence and on the other by a steeply sloping riverbank. At the far side, about two hundred yards ahead of them, the plot narrowed to only ten or fifteen yards wide. The smattering of trees hardly constituted a wood but it was easy to see from the detritus strewn around that the place had been turned into a veritable playground by Kenny and Ian. Though it took a moment to register, Sullivan soon realised that an eerie silence hung over the place: no chirping of crickets, no birdcall, somehow even the faint morning breeze failed to make the leaves rustle. It was as if nature itself was holding its breath, aware that something was amiss.

When Ian made a move to step forward the Chief Inspector formed a barrier with his hand again. “No” he said firmly, “wait here.”

Crouching a touch Goodfellow patted the boy on the back of the head and smiled, “You just stay there a minute while we take a little look around eh? Good lad.”

Without speaking Sullivan and Goodfellow began their recce, casting wide sweeping glances over the area as they headed slowly in the direction of the boys’ fort, Sullivan taking the river bank side, Goodfellow tending towards the wire fence: A deflated football, a couple of rusting tin cans, a scrap of old fabric fashioned into a flag on the end of a stick. The fort itself was nothing more than a haphazard pile of broken planks covered by spindly branches, some of which still sported sprigs of foliage. The Chief Inspector stepped cautiously towards a clearing in the tree-line that offered a window to the river below. He leant out as far as he dared, his face immediately cloaked by invisible cobwebs which he blew and slapped from his stubbly cheeks. Casting his eyes first upstream then downstream he noted the water was higher than he’d expected after such a dry spell, its glassy surface bearing reflections of the patchy clouds hovering above. When he turned back his interest was piqued by his sergeant whose eyes seemed drawn over and over again to the area adjacent to the one they were searching.

“Problem Sergeant?” Sullivan asked discreetly when their paths began to converge midway down the plot.

Goodfellow twisted his face, knowing his boss’s distaste for idle gossip. Checking to make sure Ian was out of earshot he almost smiled at the sight of the lad, knee-socks pooling around his bony ankles, happily grazing on blackberries fresh from the bush. “Well Sir, you ought to know” he half-whispered as the pair walked side by side, “I reckon this land belongs to the fellow who lives there”, he gave a sharp jerk of his head to the left. Sullivan peered towards the wire fence, spotting a small but well maintained looking cottage through the undergrowth .

“What about him?”

“Man by the name of Peter Turvey” Goodfellow explained.

“And?”

The sergeant paused. “Nothing more than rumour, but the thing is, local children call him “Pervy Turvey”.”

Sullivan stopped in his tracks, his heart suddenly skipping a beat. “Well go on then!” he implored through gritted teeth. Rumour or not this wasn’t the kind of information that could be ignored.

“It was a good few years ago now” Goodfellow began as they resumed their slow walk, “Mr Turvey had a chap here working for him, was giving him board and lodgings. Then one night this chap’s in the ‘The Cloak and Dagger’, a pub that used to be here but…”

“Yes, yes, get to the point.”

“This chap said he was leaving town, didn’t want to be under the same roof as Mr Turvey on account of him…”

“Spit it out Sergeant!” Sullivan growled, eyes still scanning back and forth.

“Chap said Mr Turvey had made advances towards him.”

“I see. Then what happened?”

“That’s it really. The chap never made any formal complaint, just went on his way. But word got out about Mr Turvey, about his predilection.”

“Anything more than that?”

“How do you mean Sir?”

“Any other complaints against him? Does this Mr Turvey have a record?”

“No, nothing. He’s a bit of an odd one though, keeps himself to himself out here.”

The Chief Inspector turned to look at Ian, pacing around where they’d left him back near the gate, a stick for a rifle that he squinted down the barrel of with one eye closed. The boy looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Sullivan’s stomach lurched. “There’s another boy just like that somewhere” he shuddered at the thought, “an innocent young boy waiting to be found.” He shook the image from his brain. “Mr Turvey, has there ever been any suggestion, any hint at all about him… bothering children.”

It was the possibility that had as yet gone largely unspoken, but as time drew on both men knew it was less and less likely that little Kenny Rowland had simply played truant and then become lost. Had some simple accident befallen him, a twisted ankle, a fall from a tree, the chances were he’d’ve been found by now. It was over 48 hours since his mother had packed him off to school yet there was still no sign of the lad. As exceptionally rare as it was for a child to be abducted it couldn’t be ruled out. However, more common than abduction by a stranger, sadly, was a child coming to harm at the hands of somebody closer to home. The man who lived not fifty feet away from the spot where Kenny often played, perhaps?

Goodfellow dismissed his boss’s question with a sharp shake of his head, the pair now approaching the far end of the wedge shaped plot. “If anything it’s the other way around Sir” he said. “There was a spell a couple of years back when Mr Turvey had nothing but bother from a bunch of local boys: stones thrown at his greenhouse, water butts kicked over, even graffiti on his shed.”

“But nothing more recent?”

“Well, if there has been he hasn’t reported it to us. Not that there was ever much we could do, we had our suspicions but he never got a good look at the boys responsible.”

Sullivan came to a stop, beckoning his sergeant over. “What do you make of this?” he asked, squatting down onto his haunches. Goodfellow joined him, taking the cap from his head and running the back of his hand across his brow. Before them lay a patch of disturbed earth, about three feet square and of uneven depth. A small hand shovel lay discarded in the shallow hole.

“It’s not very big” Goodfellow commented, tentatively touching the dry crumbly soil. What he really meant was “It’s not big enough to be a grave.”

As suspicious as the strange little pit was Sullivan’s instincts matched his sergeant’s. If a person wanted to dispose of something why here, so close to the property boundary? And why use such an inappropriate tool for the job? Then again, he reminded himself, desperate people rarely thought logically. He looked at the jumble of exposed roots and rocks: Could it in fact have been the beginnings of a grave? If so why had it been abandoned? Would they find another child sized hole before their search was over? It was yet another unhelpful thought he fought to cast aside. Getting back to their feet the two policemen covered the remaining twenty yards to the narrowest point of the woods. Peering over the fence there was nothing to note but the winding rough track that snaked around to Mr Turvey’s property. Turning they made their way back towards the boys’ fort, each selecting a slightly different line than previously taken, scouring the area again as they went.

Initial search completed they turned their attention now to the assorted mess off planks and branches. Stooping Sullivan picked up a small red strip of paper studded with scars of little black blisters, the faint scent of gunpowder evoking distant disjointed memories. “From Kenny’s cap gun” he stated.

Ian’s sudden wail caught both men off guard, “Oh no! what happened here?” he squawked.

“I told you to wait over there” Goodfellow scolded gently, but the boy was now picking his way through the fort with his trusty stick.

“But look, somebody’s smashed up our fort!” he lamented, lower lip trembling.

Goodfellow and Sullivan exchanged glances and once again the senior officer was happy to take a back seat. “So the fort wasn’t always like this?” the sergeant asked.

“No, it was a proper fort, a good one. We spent ages making it.” He jabbed at a plank with his stick. “The man gave us these old bits of wood and some nails.”

“And when were you last here? When was the last time you saw the fort before it got broken up?”

“The other day.”

Sullivan bit his tongue as he continued to comb the area, nudging bits of wood aside with his foot.

“Which day was it? Can you remember?” Goodfellow asked patiently.

“Er, Monday. After school. Me and Kenny came here and it was alright when I left to go home for my tea.”

“And you haven’t been back here since?”

“No, when Kenny wasn’t at school the next day I was too scared to come here by myself”.

“Scared? Why?” Sullivan’s question appeared to throw the lad who stopped his stick-poking and mulled over his answer.

“Well, I was scared of...er…”

The two policemen bristled. “Scared of who?” Goodfellow asked gently.

Ian fell silent, shuffling nervously from foot to foot.

Careful not to put words into the boy’s mouth Sullivan changed tack, pointing towards the cottage. “What can you tell us about the man who lives over there?”

“Er, he’s kind, and he’s a little bit tubby and he’s got hairs that come out of his ears and nose and he’s got funny eyebrows like this.” Ian raised the backs of his hands to his eye-sockets, wiggling his fingers like worms to demonstrate Mr Turvey’s wild eyebrows.

Sullivan puffed his cheek in exasperation at the boy’s description. But there was nothing in his tone, he noted, that suggested Ian found Mr Turvey threatening or unnerving.

“So why were you scared to come here without Kenny?” Goodfellow asked again casually, casting aside some branches to reveal the bare earth beneath.

When the reply finally came it was scarcely more than a hesitant whisper. “Because of Martin.”

“Martin who?” Sullivan interjected more gruffly than he’d intended. “Does Martin have a surname?”

“Oh, I’d imagine so” Ian replied without sarcasm.

“Sir.” The sharpness with which the single word was uttered caused Sullivan to spin on his heels. His sergeant stood with his back to the boy, his wide stance acting as a physical barrier. He gestured to the ground between his boots.

The Chief Inspector stooped to get a better view. A small grey rock, slightly larger than a cricket ball, lay between his colleague’s feet. Its smooth sides rose to a slight ridge upon which there was a small but unmistakable trace of blood.

Taking over sentry duty Sullivan set about bagging up the stone while Goodfellow steered Ian away without any fuss.

“Tell me about this Martin lad” he said, as though he and Ian were two old men chatting over a pint in the pub.

“Well, I don’t like to tell tales, but he’s a bit of a bully really. He followed me and Kenny down the path on Monday.”

Slipping the evidence bag into his jacket pocket the Chief Inspector began searching more closely for any further traces of blood, all the while listening to the conversation playing out behind him.

“Martin wanted Kenny to go with him, but Kenny said no.”

“Where did Martin want him to go?”

Ian shrugged. “I don’t know. But he got angry at Kenny, said he was a baby for playing in the woods and building forts.”

“And what did Kenny say?”

“Kenny said Martin was the baby, even though he’s bigger than us, ‘cos he’s too scared to come into these woods. Kenny said all the other big boys would laugh at Martin when they found out he wouldn’t even climb over the gate like we do. I don’t know what Martin’s scared of, there’s no ghosts in here or anything.”

“And then what happened?”

“Er…” Ian twisted his face in thought, wispy hair ruffling in the breeze. “Martin went away. Then me and Kenny came here and started collecting some branches for the teepee we’re going to build over there” he pointed with his stick. “We’re going to have battles between cowboys and Indians, but we’ll have to fix this fort first” he sighed.

“Did you see anybody else hanging around here on Monday? Or anybody else hanging around here of late?”

“Nope, just the nice man. And Martin. I saw him again when I was on my way home for tea and he shouted and called me a rude name when I passed him.”

“And where was Martin when he called you a name?”

Ian pointed in the direction of the five-bar gate. “On that path. I thought maybe he was coming back to try and get Kenny to off go with him again.”

“You didn’t stick around to find out?”

“It was time for my tea so I had to go home.” A hint of anger creased the young lad’s brow, “Oh, maybe Martin smashed up our fort!” he hypothesised.

Goodfellow didn’t reply, asking instead, “And did you see Kenny or Martin again after that?”

The little boy gave a solemn shake of the head then reached his hand up gingerly towards the policeman’s. “Where’s Kenny?” he asked plainly, tiny eyebrows knitted together. “Will you find him soon and tell him not to worry about the fort? We can build an even better one together.”

With his back turned to the scene playing out between man and boy Sullivan scrunched his eyes tightly shut at the childish plea. Quickly composing himself he cleared his throat then pointed in the direction of the shallow pit. “Can you tell us what that is?” he asked the boy.

Ian squinted, confused, then ambled in the direction indicated. The two policemen followed shortly behind. “I don’t know” the boy shrugged, “but it wasn’t there last time I was here.”

“Alright, thank you. Now I’d like you to take a little look around and see if there is anything else amiss.”

“Anything else that’s different from the last time you were here, anything that seems odd” Goodfellow clarified.

“What are your thoughts?” Sullivan asked quietly, watching Ian scampering about still wielding his stick. “Any ideas who this Martin lad is?”

“There’s a couple of boys in the village called Martin. But Martin Ludlow would be my guess, he’s about thirteen, fourteen I’d say.”

“A boy that age could well terrorise a pair of youngsters, but as for being involved in anything more sinister…” He rubbed his forehead. “I’d like him brought in, if for no other reason than he’s one of the last people to see Kenny before he disappeared.”

“Yes Sir.”

“And I want Mr Turvey brought in for questioning too, and get some men down here to conduct a full search.”

“Yes Sir.”

As if on cue Ian rambled back in their direction.

“Well, anything else look out of place?” Goodfellow asked, hands braced on knees.

“Nope” came the chirpy reply.

“In that case we’d better get you back to school.”

The boys shoulders slumped. “Oh, can’t I stay here and mend the fort? I want it to be fixed for when Kenny gets back.”

“Sorry, no, it’s back to school for you.”

“Sergeant Goodfellow?” Ian asked nervously, “You won’t tell Martin will you, that I called him a bully?”

“Don’t you worry about Martin” the policeman said, a guiding hand steering the boy back towards the gate.

“And don’t tell Kenny’s dad this is where we play. Kenny’s dad doesn’t like the man with the funny eyebrows.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that” he assured him, and in one fell swoop he scooped the lad up under the armpits and swung him over the gate, depositing him, giggling, on the far side.

Something about the innocent interaction struck Sullivan like a fist in the guts.

Chapter Text

Father Brown glided to a gentle halt in the yard of Brookes’ Farm, swinging his leg from over his trusty steed as the whirring of the chain died away to nothing in the still morning air. He squinted into the bright blue sky punctuated by patchy cloud: while the temperature was pleasant the day had the potential to be another uncomfortably warm one for the men, and women he corrected himself, out searching. Propping Bucephalus against the honey-stone wall of an outbuilding he tuned his ear to his surroundings. The familiar noises of farmyard activity could be heard, the rough spluttering hum of a motor in a nearby field, the strangulated laughter of the old goat Mrs Brookes kept for milk, a barn door creaking on it’s hinges. Finally his ears pricked up, the clack of boots on the hard surface of the yard guiding him around the corner where he was relieved to find the very person he’s been hoping to: Howard Yendle.

Though the man busy loading crates onto a flat backed truck was a similar age to Alf Rowland the two couldn’t have been more different. Where Alf was short and stocky Howard was as tall as the priest himself with the lean muscular physique of a farm labourer. His thick dark hair swept upwards from a round olive-skinned face, almond shaped eyes nestling below gently arching eyebrows. If Maisie Rowland had been looking for the antithesis of her husband then, physically speaking at least, she’d found him in Howard Yendle.

As Father Brown approached his eyes were drawn to the barn behind the worker, its wooden doors, once painted red, now weathered pink and flaking. Inside lay all manner of rusting farm machinery, wooden crates, produce filled sacks and goodness knew what odds and ends lurking beneath tattered tarpaulins. The smell of engine oil mingled with that of fresh manure.

“Hello Father, can I help you?” Howard called as the priest neared.

“I came to see Mrs Brookes.” He hid the white-lie with an amiable smile, knowing full-well that Mrs Brookes wasn’t at home.

“She’s not in Father, she’s gone down the village, helping prepare food for the search parties.” All the while the strapping young man continued to heave crate after crate onto the truck, ropey blue veins rippling up his weather-beaten arms.

“Ah, of course” the priest nodded, then segued seamlessly into his real line of questioning. “Not part of the search yourself?” he asked casually.

The question broke Howard’s rhythm. “Well, Mr Brookes has let go those he can spare, but there’s plenty work needs doing here, rain won’t hold off forever” he said, head flicking upwards to the unthreatening sky.

“Ah yes, I understand.” He paused a moment while a few more crates were loaded then attempted to reignite the conversation. “You were here last year, weren’t you? And the year before that if I remember correctly.” There was a nod of reply but no more. “You must like the place, if it keeps drawing you back” he pushed on.

“I take work where I can get it Father. My family’ve been seasonal worker for years.”

“It must be a hard life for a young man though, moving around as you do. Do you have family of your own?”

Howard bristled. He was sure the priest knew the personal circumstances of everybody in his parish, be they residents or itinerant workers such as himself, just passing through. “No Father” he replied bluntly.

“A girlfriend perhaps? Somebody you are close to?”

Dusting off his hands Howard abandoned his task, folding his arms then leaning on the side of the truck. His deep brown eyes darted back and forth across the empty farmyard. “What’s this about?” he asked sceptically, voice lowered.

While Maisie Rowland had already divulged the nature of their relationship to the priest, she’d done so under the seal of confession. As such Father Brown was forced to adopt a circuitous approach. “I can assure you Mr Yendle that you can talk openly to me, in complete confidence.”

“You already know don’t you?” Howard shook his head in disbelief, “I knew she’d tell you.” A moment passed then panic widened his soulful eyes. “It was Maisie that told you wasn’t it?” he asked frantically, still afraid to be overheard. “It’s not got out has it? In the village? Oh hell, Alf doesn’t know about us does he?”

With Howard’s own confession complete, after a fashion, Father Brown could now speak freely. “No, I don’t believe Mr Rowland is aware of his wife’s infidelity.”

The words that at first brought relief soon caused the man to laugh mirthlessly. “No, that was a daft question really. If Alf knew about me and Maisie he’d be up here knocking seven bells out of me.” His eyes met the priests as he stated with conviction, “He’s a nasty piece of work. Don’t want to get in his way when he’s in a bad mood.”

“Is that why you haven’t joined the search?” the older man asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Thought it was better I volunteered to stay here, keep out of Alf’s way, just in case.” He shrugged, rubbing a hand across his cleanly shaved chin, “Doubt Maisie would want to catch sight of me either.”

“No, she has rather a lot on her plate at the moment.”

The two men fell into silence contemplating all that Maisie Rowland, and her husband, were going through with the disappearance of their son. Father Brown, as was his proclivity, found himself scrutinising Howard Yendle. There was no getting away from the fact that he was a good looking young man, his sun-ripened complexion marking him as slightly more exotic than Kembleford’s native residents. Was he, as Maisie had claimed, kind and caring to boot? She’d said their relationship was rooted in something deeper than physical attraction, but did Howard see it that way? It wouldn’t be unheard of for a good looking nomad to have a string of women up and down the country. Did Howard have other ‘Maisie’s’ scattered across the land? Married women with unaffectionate husbands who were easy pickings, their heads turned by a wink and a smile and some carefully crafted compliments? He’s seemed concerned about Alf knowing about their affair, but was he worried for Maisie’s sake, or simply his own?

Sighing deeply Howard stretched his arms above his head, knitted his fingers together and brought his palms to rest on top of his glossy black hair. It was then that the pale blue bruises dappling the inside of his upper arms became visible along with a handful of short bright-pink scratches. “Don’t suppose there’s any news is there, about the lad?” he asked pessimistically.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Casting his eyes over the pile of crates still stacked by the truck Howard stretched once more then resumed his work. “Well, as I said Father, Mrs Brookes is down at the village, but I can tell her you called by if you want?”

“Oh no, no need.”

The priest’s lingering presence was obviously starting to grate on Mr Yendle. “Anything else Father? Only I’ve work to be getting on with” he asked surlily.

“Ah, of course, don’t let me stop you. “Make hay while the sun shines” as they say.” He turned to leave, then glanced back over his shoulder. “It’ll be the hop harvest next won’t it? Am I to assume you’ll be moving on for that?”

“Oh, very subtle Father” Howard scoffed, “might as well just tell me to sling my hook.”

Father Brown winced at his own tactlessly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant. You want me gone, don’t want me leading one of your flock astray.”

“I am simply mindful that your continued presence here will be painful for Maisie, and for yourself.”

For the first time a flash of anger crossed Howard’s face. “I’ll tell you what’s painful Father” he snarled. “Not being with Maisie, that’s what’s painful. Am I leaving soon? Probably. Do I wish I could stay? Absolutely.” Taking a deep breath his frustration came spilling out, “I asked Mr Brookes if he’d take me on here at the farm, but he’s no need of another full time worker. I’ve been asking around the village too but no luck there either. So, looks like I’ll have no choice but to move on. Does that satisfy you?”

“I am sorry to have upset you...”

“Upset me? It’s Maisie you should be worried about. She’s tearing herself to shreds you know, with the guilt of us. Any time we were together, just when she’d start to seem happy, really happy, suddenly in a flash it’d be, “the Bible this and God that and what would Father Brown think?"" He scuffed a hand across his eyes, emotions brimming to the surface, “ I told her she had nothing to feel guilty about. We love each other. I keep telling her that. And I won’t have you or God or anybody tell me that love is a sin.”

The priest took a moment to digest Howard’s statement before replying as compassionately as he could. “Love is not a sin, no. But adultery, yes.”

“Go back to the village eh Father?” Howard hissed, “You go and do your work, and let me get on with mine.”

Rounding the corner to where he’d parked his bike Father Brown could still hear the angry thud of crate after crate being slammed onto the back of the truck. Howard Yendle’s feelings for Maisie Rowland obviously ran deep. His anger towards their enforced separation, on the other hand, bubbled dangerously close to the surface.

Chapter Text

Chief Inspector Sullivan stepped from the station’s small washroom dabbing a towel to his freshly shaven face then paced off down the corridor towards his office. “Are they here?” he asked Goodfellow who obediently followed behind.

“Yes Sir, they’re in the interview room.”

“And we’re sure this is the right Martin we’ve got?”

“Yes Sir. Took a bit of coaxing from young Ian but it was Martin Ludlow who was bothering him and Kenny.”

“And what about Turvey?”

“He’s with one of the search parties, we’re getting a message out now, asking him to come in.”

Sliding past the end of the front desk Sullivan entered his office, casting his eyes around for somewhere to deposit the wash-bag and crumpled up shirt he clutched in one hand. Spotting the bacon sandwich Isabel had brought earlier he snatched it from the filing cabinet and threw it in the bin, setting the other items down in its place. Tucking his clean white shirt into the waistband of his dark grey trousers he slipped the charcoal coloured braces up over his shoulders then wrestled his two sleeve garters into place.

“Anything else to tell me about the lad before we go in there?”

“Not really. Never been in any bother that I can recall. From a decent sort of family. Goes to the secondary modern.”

Sullivan dabbed once more to his face, tutting at the flecks of bright red blood that blotted the towel from the series of small nicks along his jawline. Smoothing his dampened hair down with the palms of his hands he hung the towel on the coat rack by the door, snatched a folder from the pile on his desk then headed off towards the interview room.

Sergeant Goodfellow, as ever, followed two paces behind.

“What’s all this about Inspector?” a middle aged man in a dark grey suit asked anxiously, the sharp smell of his aftershave diluted only slightly by the room's stale air.

Standing in the interview room doorway the question took Sullivan aback, his hand still coiled around the door handle. Moving forward to allow his sergeant to step inside the two officers took their customary positions, the senior officer in the seat at the plain metal table, his right-hand-man in the corner, feet apart, back rod-straight.

“I mean whatever this is about” the man sat opposite said, “I’d have thought you’d have more pressing matters to be dealing with.”

It was a valid point Mr Ludlow made, unaware as he apparently was about his son’s run-in with Kenny Rowland. Edgar willed himself to remain patient though his head buzzed with the myriad strands of the investigation he was trying to weave together.

“We just have a few questions for Martin” the Chief Inspector replied without giving anything away, nodding to the young lad sat slumped in the metal chair next to his father. Though he’d been in the room less than twenty seconds he’d already given Martin Ludlow the once over: Average build for a boy his age though the too-big black blazer swamped him somewhat, no doubt it had been purchased for the new school year with ‘room to grow’ factored in. His blond hair was combed into a side parting, a little on the long side with a greasy sheen while the freckles that dappled his cheeks and upturned nose were partly obscured by clusters of deep red spots peppered here and there. Beneath his left eye was a cut half-an-inch wide surrounding which was the formation of a nasty looking bruise. But of greater interest to Edgar than the boy’s appearance was his posture. Though he was trying to impart an air of indifference Martin’s pose reeked instead of self-consciousness.

“Hello Martin. My name is Chief Inspector Sullivan, this is Sergeant Goodfellow.” His benign tone just about masked the stress simmering inside. “I have a few questions I’d like you to answer, alright?”

Martin shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”

Edgar felt his jaw clench. The last thing he needed now was to be dealing with a surly teen.

“Did you see Kenny Rowland on Monday afternoon?” The startled look in the lad’s pale blue eyes confirmed Ian’s account. But Edgar pushed for an answer nonetheless, his tone a little firmer. “Martin, did you see Kenny Rowland on Monday afternoon?”

“I, er, I might’ve done.” Gripping the edge of the table with his fingers the boy rocked his chair back onto its hind legs, the leather satchel hanging over the chair-back swinging idly.

Any patience Edgar had possessed on entering the interview room evaporated in an instant. He brought his hand down on the desk with a thud. “Kenny Rowland is missing” he barked, “this is a very serious matter, do you understand?”

Mr Ludlow interjected, “Yes, yes Inspector he does, I’m sorry” he apologised profusely, roughly pushing his son’s chair back upright. “Sit up straight” he scolded the lad, “and answer the Inspector.”

“Let me put this another way Martin” Sullivan went on, folding his arms and resting them on the table, “we have a witness who says you followed Kenny and another boy to the woods behind Mr Turvey’s house on Monday afternoon.”

Suddenly Mr Ludlow’s demeanour changed. Where just a few seconds ago he’d been imploring his son to cooperate he now threatened to derail the interview with a hypothesis of his own. ”Peter Turvey's house? That old pervert?” he cried, “Well, there’s your answer as to what happened to Kenny Rowland, if he’s been hanging about Turvey’s place it’s him you ought to be talking to not…”

“Mr Ludlow, please!” Edgar growled. “You are here as your son’s guardian, I will ask for your input if and when it is required.”

Put firmly in his place it was Mr Ludlow’s turn to adopt the pose of a disgruntled youth, leaning back with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Let’s start again shall we?” Sullivan suggested, taking a deep breath. “Martin, we need to establish Kenny’s movements in the lead up to his disappearance so let’s keep this simple shall we, then you can get back to school and your father can get back to work. Monday afternoon, tell me what happened.”

At last Martin appeared to be taking the matter seriously, all trace of cockiness erased by the policeman’s chastising of his father. “Monday afternoon, yes, I saw Kenny and Ian heading towards the woods behind Pervy, er, I mean Mr Turvey’s place.”

“And did you ask Kenny Rowland to go somewhere with you?”

“Er, sort of” he shrugged.

“Where did you want him go?”

A silent shrug this time.

“Well you must’ve had a plan.”

Martin thought for a moment. “Just, er, to play.”

Mr Ludlow’s hand shot out, clipping the boy around the back of the head. “Answer the question and let them get back to looking for Kenny.”

“I told you” Martin protested, “I just wanted him to come and play.”

Edgar squinted across the table. “You’re fourteen years old, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then help me understand, why would a fourteen year old want to play with an eight year old?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mr Ludlow bristled, then remembering the policeman’s warning slunk back into his chair again quietly.

Ignoring the interruption the Chief Inspector continued. “Don’t you have any friends your own age to play with?”

“Not really” came the rather mournful reply. “Lads I used to hang around with think I’m a wimp ‘cos I don’t get involved in the sort of larks they do.”

“And when you saw Kenny Rowland on Monday afternoon did he call you a wimp, a baby perhaps, because you were too scared to follow him into Mr Turvey’s woods?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes or no Martin, did Kenny Rowland tease you, did he call you a baby?”

“Yes!” The boys teenage voice creaked, see-sawing between octaves. He swept a hand up to brush aside a lank lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, but it was obvious to Edgar that in reality the boy wanted to wipe the tears that were brimming in his eyes.

“And then what happened? After Kenny called you a baby?”

“I left him and Ian on the path by the woods.” Realising it was best to be forthcoming he elaborated, “But then after a while I decided to go back.”

Edgar sighed, at last they were getting somewhere. Martin’s admission tallied with Ian’s account about passing him on his way home for tea. “Why did you go back to the woods?” He scrutinised Martin’s face, his body language, for any trace of subterfuge or lie.

“I was worried Kenny might tell people I was scared to go there so I thought I’d prove him wrong, prove I’m not afraid of the old pervert.”

“And when you got to the woods was Kenny Rowland there?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else?”

“No. I passed Ian on the way though, he was heading back to the village.”

“And when you got the woods what did you do?”

“What do you mean, do?”

There was a defensiveness in Martin’s tone that grabbed both Sullivan and Goodfellow’s interest. “What did you and Kenny do in the woods on Monday afternoon?”

“Just, er, messed about.”

Time to let him stew, the Chief Inspector decided. Opening the manilla folder that lay in front of him on the cool metal table he leafed slowly through the sheets of paper within, his eyes scanning blindly downwards. Martin Ludlow had no way of knowing the folder contained the draft update he’d been preparing for the reporters who remained permanently camped by the station’s entrance. Thirty seconds ticked by, then another. From his peripheral vision he saw Martin’s fingers creep up to the cut below his eye, gently probing the swollen flesh around it. It could be nothing, or…

“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got on your cheek” Sullivan observed casually, barely raising his eyes from the folder, “What happened?”

“I, er, got a knock playing rugby at school.”

“Ah, I see” the policeman smiled, shuffling the papers into a neat stack. “When was that?”

“Monday” Mr Ludlow replied when his son hesitated.

Closing the folder Sullivan slid it forward to indicate his interest now lay elsewhere. “And if Sergeant Goodfellow were to telephone your school, they would confirm this rugby incident I presume?” He hadn’t even finished the sentence before the panic rose in Martin, his breathing suddenly gasping and ragged. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He paused, his tone hardening, “And so I ask again, Martin, what happened to your cheek?”

“I was playing in the woods, with Kenny, and I tripped and fell. It was nothing.”

“And yet you saw fit to lie to your father, and to me, about how you came by the injury.” The accusation caused the boy’s face to crumple and for a moment Edgar feared Martin might burst into sobs.

“When you say you and Kenny were playing in the woods, was it perhaps the case that you and he were arguing, fighting? About him calling you a baby?”

“No!” Martin shook his head violently at the suggestions.

“Or perhaps you hurt your cheek when you were demolishing the fort he and his friend had made?”

“No, that’s not what happened!”

When Mr Ludlow shuffled uncomfortably in his seat Sullivan gauged it was time to tone things down again before the man intervened.

“But you were angry with Kenny, weren’t you? Because he mocked you, because he wouldn’t go with you when you asked him?”

“A bit, maybe.”

“Why did you want him to go with you Martin?” Though he’d asked the question already there was something unsatisfactory about the vagueness of his answer thus-far. “What were your plans?”

“I dunno, I just wanted somebody to lark about with.”

“Larks like throwing stones at greenhouses, kicking over water butts?”

Martin whined, “I told you, I don’t do stuff like that. That’s the other lads.” Turning to his father he vowed, “Honest Dad, I keep out of that sort of stuff.”

Mr Ludlow’s stiffening back indicated that the policeman had pushed that line of questioning as far as he reasonable could.

“So” Sullivan summarised, “On Monday afternoon you and Kenny Rowland played together in the woods, you took a tumble, banged your cheek. Anything else?”

“No, nothing” Martin stated emphatically. “We just messed around for a while then I went home for tea.”

“He was back at his usual time” Mr Ludlow confirmed.

“And Kenny? Did he leave the woods at the same time?”

“No, he was still there playing when I left.”

Leaning across the table Edgar fixed his stare on Martin who recoiled slightly under his gaze. His closing questions were delivered in a steady even tone. “When did you last see Kenny Rowland?”

“Monday, in the woods.”

“You didn’t see him again after that?”

“No, honest I didn’t.”

“Do you know where Kenny Rowland might be?”

“I’ve no idea. If he’s not camped out at that stupid fort of his then I really don’t know.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell us about Kenny Rowland?”

“No.”

“How about Mr Turvey?”

At the mention of the man’s name Mr Ludlow reached a hand towards his son’s shoulder then thought better of it. It seemed while he was happy enough to give the boy a clip around the ear in the presence of the policeman, he wasn’t quite as comfortable in showing him affection. “If Mr Turvey has done anything Martin, you must tell the Inspector.” The fear was evident in the man’s quivering voice.

“He’s not done anything Dad” Martin shook his head. “He’s just creepy. Like sometimes you see him around the village and he just…he just stares at you.”

Though seemingly satisfied by his son’s answer Mr Ludlow still couldn’t resist but to reiterate his concerns. “Well, I still think it’s very strange if you ask me, Turvey letting young boys play in his woods like that, hidden away from view.”

“Well Mr Ludlow” Sullivan said, snatching up the folder and rising to his feet, “nobody did ask you and I’d strongly advise you to refrain from such speculation.”

Heading down the corridor towards the front desk, Martin and his father sandwiched between the two policemen, Edgar wondered whether interviewing the lad had been anything other than a huge waste of his time, time that was in preciously short supply. “Thank you for your cooperation” he nodded to Mr Ludlow, but before any more could be said all attention turned to the doorway as in waddled Peter Turvey.

The first thing Edgar noticed was how alarmingly accurate Ian’s description of Mr Turvey had been, from protruding stomach to copious nasal hair and huge tufty eyebrows.

“You wanted to speak to me Chief Inspector?” the older man asked cordially.

“Yes, please, have a seat” Edgar gestured to the row of chairs against the wall. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

You could’ve cut the atmosphere with a knife as Mr Ludlow wrapped a protective arm around his son’s shoulder and ushered him past the seated man. “Disgusting” he muttered without so much as looking at him, “Absolutely disgusting!”

Chapter Text

Beckoning Sergeant Goodfellow with a flick of his head, Chief Inspector Sullivan entered his office and dropped the manilla folder on to the pile on his desk. “Close the door Sergeant” he instructed: Goodfellow complied. “What did you make of Martin Ludlow?” he asked, fingers steepled to his lips.

“Felt a bit sorry for him to be honest” the sergeant replied. “Sounds like the lads his own age’ve been giving him a hard time, suppose he’s a bit lonely.”

Sullivan refrained from rolling his eyes. Trust Goodfellow to find sympathy for the surly boy little Ian had described as a bully. “And the cut to his cheek?” he asked, “an innocuous accident as he claimed?”

Goodfellow shifted his weight from one aching foot to another, unable to remember the last time he’d sat down. “You know what boys that age are like for getting in scrapes, suppose he could have tripped the way he said.”

“Then why lie about it to his father?” Casting his eyes quickly down to his shoes, still dusty from their foray into the woods, he began polishing them on the backs of his trouser legs. Why, he wondered, did he suddenly feel the need to ask Goodfellow’s opinion? Now wasn’t the time to start doubting his ability to lead an investigation. Then again now wasn’t the time to be too proud to ask for help either, he reasoned. His sergeant was highly experienced after all and, clandestine collaboration with the clergy aside, Edgar trusted his judgement.

Tilting his head to the side Goodfellow gave the question some thought then shrugged, “Don’t know why Martin would lie to his dad Sir. Maybe he thought a rugby injury sounded more impressive somehow, showing off for his old man?”

“And what about the vagueness of his answers? All this “just messing about” and “larks”. It’s quite the age gap isn’t it, between him and Kenny Rowland. Do we really believe they were playing happily together after Ian left?”

“Seems a bit odd I admit, but yeah, I think it’s possible. As for the specifics of what they got up to, or what Martin wanted to get up to, well, you know what boys are like.”

“No” Sullivan thought, “that’s half the problem, I don’t know what boys are like.” His own childhood was a distant memory and besides, he was quite sure growing up in London bore scant resemblance to growing up in a place like Kembleford. What did children do for fun around here? It was hardly a surprise that “mischief” ranked so highly on many boys' list of favoured pastimes.

Realising his boss was waiting for him to elaborate Goodfellow went on. “Well, you saw the way Ian occupied himself with that stick while we were taking a look around the woods. Boys use their imaginations, don’t they? Cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers. It’s that or letting off steam: climbing trees, running about, play-fighting.”

The last suggestion caused the Chief Inspector’s eyes to narrow. “Play-fighting or perhaps actual fighting?” he pondered, then dismissed it. If there’d been any physical altercation between Martin and Kenny on Monday the Rowlands would’ve noticed when Kenny got home that evening, wouldn’t they?

In an ideal world Edgar would’ve allowed himself more time to digest his conversation with Martin before moving on. He’d probably even pay a visit to the Rowlands to ask them about Martin Ludlow and if Kenny had ever mentioned having trouble with him. But it wasn’t an ideal world, manpower was stretched to the limit and Peter Turvey was sat by the front desk waiting to be interviewed.

“Right then” he declared, chivvying himself up along with his sergeant. “Let’s get back to it.”

The dark blue paintwork of the interview room gave a sombre feeling to any meeting that went on inside its four walls: There was never a frivolous conversation to be had in here. Chief Inspector Sullivan sat with his back to the door, Sergeant Goodfellow once again taking up his customary position in the corner of the room. Though another manilla folder had been brought in for show Sullivan doubted whether Mr Turvey would be a susceptible to his ruse as young Martin Ludlow had been when faced with the prop. Just as he’d done with the young boy a short while ago so Sullivan cast his eye inquisitively across the man seated opposite him. If the situation hadn't been as serious he’d’ve almost laughed at the sight of Mr Turvey's wayward eyebrows, remembering Ian's innocent mimicry of them back in the woods. The thread-bare tattersall shirt the older man wore was stretched tightly over his portly stomach, distorting the burgundy and green woven checks so they resembled a globe’s arcing lines of longitude. Damp patches under his armpits were evidence of the hours he’d spent out searching in the increasing heat of the day; it was surprising therefore that the man carried only a faint trace of dried sweat about him. From his rolled up sleeves emerged tanned forearms mottled by even darker liver spots, coated in a matt of dense white hair while his hands remained out of sight, folded in his lap beneath the table.

Peter Turvey seemed calm but alert sitting upright in his chair, and the policeman’s momentary silence left him unperturbed.

“Mr Turvey, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my name is Chief Inspector Sullivan, I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the woodland that forms part of your property.” Formalities exchanged and scene set he got to the point: “Why didn’t you inform us that Kenny Rowland is a frequent visitor to your property?”

The slight shake of his head caused Mr Turvey’s loose jowls to wobble aside his stubbly square chin. “When I heard of the boy’s disappearance I immediately checked my property in its entirety for any signs of him. He wasn’t to be seen and neither did I find any indication that he’d camped out in the little woods where he and his friend play.”

Having previously only heard the man utter a few words by the front desk his eloquence and lack of a local twang caught Sullivan off guard. Given his rough and ready appearance he’d taken Turvey for a yokel and thus expected to be met with a rustically simply response.

Without further prompting the man went on, “My reasons for not mentioning Kenny’s visits to the woods were twofold; I didn’t want to waste police time when I’d already ascertained that he wasn’t there, and secondly I wished to avoid causing Mr Rowland any unnecessary alarm.” He looked the policeman straight in the eye. “I’m sure you are aware of the rumours about me Chief Inspector” he swallowed hard, voice straining slightly ,“I didn’t want you to waste your time by turning your focus on me, and I didn’t want Alf Rowland jumping to any conclusions, throwing his weight around.” He sighed, shaking his head again, fleshy neck and jowls rippling, “I apologise if I have complicated matters, I should have been more transparent. I’m actually surprised it’s taken you this long to speak to me to be honest. As I said, there are rumours about me, though none of them true I hasten to add.”

This was not the way Edgar had imagined the interview would pan out. He used the folder on the desk as a diversion in order to collect his thoughts without appearing on the back-foot. Leafing blindly through a few loose sheets of paper he closed the folder again and rested his hands on the table.

“How long have you lived at your property?”

“Almost eight years.”

“And you live there alone?”

The question, the implication, hit a raw nerve. The answer, nevertheless, was delivered with civility. “Yes. And as you yourself must be aware there are countless reasons a man may live alone Chief Inspector.”

It was Sullivan’s turn to bristle at the implication; before he’d met Isabel rumours had swirled about his own companionless existence here in the village. He ignored the comment, “You choose to live alone, your property is well marked with signs to deter visitors yet you’ve allowed two small boys to play on your land for quite some time now. Why is that?”

“I’ve no issue with a couple of harmless children playing there. They’re polite, well behaved, cause me no trouble. It’s the older boys I’ve had problems with in the past: rubbish strewn around the place, camp fires lit, rowdy antics. Besides, Kenny told me they’d had some bother with the older boys too, making a nuisance of themselves, spoiling their fun. So yes, if I see any older children there then I chase them off, I can do without that sort of aggravation and so can the youngsters.”

“It’s very generous of you to allow the younger boys to play there, keep an eye on them like that.”

“There’s no law against showing some kindness, is there?”

“In the woods there is a freshly dug hole. What can you tell me about that?”

“I noticed that, the little square patch of earth” Turvey nodded. “But there’s nothing I can tell you about it I’m afraid. Goodness knows what those boys get up to.”

“You didn’t see who dug the hole?”

“I don’t keep a watch on them the whole time they’re playing, Chief Inspector. I’m a busy man. As long as they’re not doing any harm I’m happy to leave them to their own devices.”

“But you do watch the boys play sometimes, don’t you?” It was a bit of a stretch, but Martin Ludlow’s comment about Turvey staring at children was beginning to nag at Edgar's brain.

“I’m sorry, can you explain what you mean by watch them?” There was no rancour in the man’s voice, only the slightest hint of resignation.

“It’s been said that you are prone to staring at children Mr Turvey.”

The directness of the statement took him aback. His wiry eyebrows undulated before coming to rest in a deep V of concern. “If I’ve made the boys feel in any way uncomfortable then I am very sorry, that was never my intention.” There was a crack in his voice now.

“Goodfellow will probably be standing there feeling sorry him too now” Sullivan thought uncharitably. “So you do watch them play?” he asked.

“Of course I glance over the fence when I’m over that way, see what they’re up to. They’re young boys playing on my property so I feel duty-bound to keep a bit of an eye on them. I caught them once trying to make a rope swing over the river.” The memory brought a wan smile to his lips. “I told them it was far too dangerous, the river is deceptively deep there and the banks rather steep. I’d hate to think of them getting into difficulty.” He brought a large calloused hand to his forehead and rubbed it slowly.

Edgar looked at the closed folder once more, deciding how best to proceed. He needn’t’ve bothered, Mr Turvey drove the conversation forwards of his own accord, “Chief Inspector, I had nothing to do with young Kenny’s disappearance, and I hope with every ounce of my being that we find him safe and well. I don’t want you wasting a moment longer talking to me than you have to. So please, don’t beat about the bush, my feelings are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Whatever you want to know, just ask me.”

The older man’s candour was unexpected but refreshing and Sullivan took him up on his offer, asking plainly “Tell me what happened with the young man, the one you employed, who boarded with you and then suddenly…left.”

Mr Turvey took a deep breath. “I used to take on help, on an ad-hoc basis, when I had heavier work to be done or needed a second pair of hands around the place. One of the seasonal workers decided to stay here in Kembleford after the harvest ended and I agreed to employ him. He was a decent worker, we had little in common but then again he was a good deal younger than myself. He drank a little too much for my liking but all in all the arrangement suited us both. That was, until…”

Despite his deeply tanned skin the red flush that rose in Mr Turvey’s cheeks was unmistakeable. Mentally preparing himself he splayed his hands flat on the table. Sullivan was in no hurry to interrupt, Turvey had been forthcoming thus far, best to let him take his time. Turning his eyes to the ceiling the older man continued. “One evening, when I was already in bed, I heard him come home and it was quite obvious from the racket he made that he was drunk. It was also quite obvious that he was not alone.”

Narrowing his eyes Edgar folded his arms, curious to hear where this tale would take them. Mr Turvey’s eyes remained rolled upwards, unable to look the policeman in the eye. “The next thing I know there are noises, amorous noises, coming from downstairs. He and his friend were blatantly copulating.” Realising that the officer hadn’t fully grasped the situation he tried to heed his own words about getting to the point. “He and his male friend were copulating, Chief Inspector.”

“Well, that puts a different spin on the rumours” Goodfellow thought silently, his expression, as ever, giving little away.

“It would’ve been bad enough, disrespectful enough had he brought a young woman home” Mr Turvey went on, indignation creeping into this voice, “but I could not tolerate such depravity under my roof. The next morning I paid him what he was due and sent him on his way.” Finally able to face the policeman again he calmed himself. “I know full well that you’ll have heard a rather different version of events. I suppose he thought himself very clever making those baseless accusations before he left, sullying my good name in the pub. It was an almost Machiavellian revenge one might say, tarring me with the same brush as himself, given my complete revulsion of men like him.” Coughing to clear his throat he wrapped up the loose ends. “Rumour spread that I was a homosexual and a predatory one at that. As unbearable as that was to hear it was nothing compared to the threats that some of the local boys began making.”

“Threats?” Sullivan asked.

“They’d come to my property to torment me, saying disgusting things. There were acts of vandalism too. And when I finally lost my temper with them, tried to chase them off, they said they’d claim I’d in fact lured them there and exposed myself to them. That’s when it began, the nickname.” He saw the flicker of recognition in Sullivan’s eye, “I am well aware what the boys call me, some of the adults too for that matter.” Shaking his head forlornly he admitted, “I wish I’d handled things differently back then. I didn’t see fit to dignify that man’s sordid lie with a rebuttal, but my silence was taken as an admission of guilt and my desire for privacy interpreted as unhealthy secrecy.”

Nodding as he digested the man’s statement Chief Inspector Sullivan once more had his next step pre-empted.

“You’re welcome to search my property though I implore you to direct your resources elsewhere. Let me be clear, I have no perverse interest in men and I certainly have no ungodly interest in little boys. I say again, I had nothing to do with Kenny Rowland’s disappearance Chief Inspector.”

“Thank you Mr Turvey” Sullivan nodded, “we’re already conducting a search of your woods but we will extend that to the rest of your property for the purposes of thoroughness.” The fact that the police were already searching his woods came as a shock to Peter Turvey but he said nothing. “Now, I must ask, can you account for your whereabouts on Tuesday please? Again, simply for thoroughness” he assured him.

“Tuesday, yes, let’s see. I spent most of the day in Hambleston, doing some shopping, running errands.”

“Rather a long way to go to do your shopping isn’t it?” Curiosity mixed with the hint of scepticism in Edgar’s voice.

“I’m something of a persona non grata in Kembleford Chief Inspector, there’s scarcely a shop who wants my custom. I’m more comfortable taking my business elsewhere.”

“What time did you leave for Hambleston?”

“Just after nine. I had a pig to collect from the slaughterhouse. They butcher them for me too, I’ve not got the stomach for it myself.”

“And from there where did you go?”

“Various places. I had a bill to settle at the garage for some work I’d had done on my van last month. Then I went out to the mill, I sometimes use meat as part-payment for goods there, traded some pork and bacon for a sack of flour and some other bits and pieces.”

Getting the gist Sullivan decided to wrap up the interview. “What time did you get back to Kembleford on Tuesday?”

“Oh, must’ve been half past three, four o’clock perhaps.”

“And did you see Kenny Rowland at all on Tuesday?”

“No, no I didn’t. The last time I saw Kenny was on Monday afternoon: well, not so much saw him as heard him really, playing there in the woods.”

“Very well. I’ll ask you to give one of my officers a list of all your movements in Hambleston on Tuesday then you’re free to go.”

“Go? Go where?” For the first time there was panic in both Mr Turvey’s voice and eyes. “Everybody in the search party knows I’ve been called in for questioning and we know the conclusions they’ll jump to, especially now your officers are searching my home. There’ll be a lynch mob waiting out there for me!”

Drawing a deep breath the Chief Inspector turned to his sergeant who shrugged unhelpfully. He hadn’t the man power to provide police protection for Mr Turvey at his house, yet neither did he have the manpower to deal with the riot that would ensue if he allowed him to leave the station alone with the shadow of doubt still hanging over him. “If you’d be more comfortable here until we’ve concluded our search you’re welcome to wait at reception, or if you’d prefer somewhere a little quieter you could sit in one of the cells.”

“Yes, I think that’d be for the best, I’ll wait here at the station” Peter Turvey nodded rapidly, jowls jiggling.

Neither officer had even seen a man so keen to be offered a place in a police cell.

Chapter Text

“Alright, good work lads, we’ll have a quick break” the solidly built police officer at the head of the party declared loudly.

Brenda tried not to show her relief, plodding towards the edge of the dusty field, long stick in hand. The dozen or so bodies who made up the team looked in vain for some shade: the late morning sun may not’ve held the full intensity of mid-summer but it was still uncomfortably warm, especially now the earlier cloud had vanished leaving the sky a clear bright blue. Another consequence of the warm weather was the way it intensified the sweet pungent smell of manure that had been spread for miles around. Although accustomed to the stench from her years living in the area it could still nip you at the back of your nose if you took a deep breath.

Plonking themselves down the men divided themselves unevenly into two smaller groups. Brenda sat, legs outstretched, at the edge of the smaller one, waggling her toes in her battered brown boots. The dark blue trousers she’d tucked into her socks were starting to feel itchy and clammy, she tugged the fabric from her skin only for it to cling to her again as soon as she let it go.

Shrugging their knapsacks from their shoulders the group began rifling through in search of sustenance. Brenda was carrying an old bag that Isabel had leant her, one that had belonged to Eddie Devine. Rummaging inside she produced a slab of malt-loaf already cut into thick slices. She peeled back the edges of the grease-proof paper then leant forward to reveal the contents to the men, placing it into the middle of the circle along with the other varied offerings. Yesterday when Sullivan had given the women permission to join the search she wan’t sure what sort of reception she’d receive, especially from some of the older blokes. But they’d all been friendly enough: well, they hadn’t grumbled about her presence, put it that way. In reality they were all walking too far apart while searching to be able to talk, and with the atmosphere as subdued as it was nobody was really in the mood for chit-chat. But when they’d met up this morning, just before first light, a couple of the men had greeted her warmly and she’d sensed they were impressed she’d shown up again. Maybe they’d expected her to think better of it after having a taste the day before?

The only problem she’d had with her fellow searchers so far had been a few hours ago when they’d stopped for their first tea-break, all of them sitting in a small strip of shade with their backs against a low stone wall. When the sergeant produced two flasks of tea from his knapsack he’d handed them wordlessly to Brenda as the men all held out their metal mugs expectantly, assuming she’d play the role of ‘mother’. It had taken a moment for it to dawn on her, why they were all looking at her dumbly, empty mugs sitting in their hands. Resentment bubbling she’d reminded herself of Isabel’s advice back at the presbytery about not making a point and everybody playing their part. Courteously but unenthusiastically she’d gone along the line filling each man’s mug in turn. “I’ve been on me feet just as long as you ‘ave” she seethed to herself. As a matter of fact it wasn’t her feet that were the problem. They’d walked miles yesterday, from when she’d joined the search late in the afternoon until well after dark but it was keeping her eyes on the ground that she’d found difficult, not the distance covered. Time after time she felt herself wanting to lift her head, to scan around for any traces young Kenny may’ve left behind. But the sergeant’s instructions had been clear, each ‘man’ (she didn’t correct him), was to remain focussed on their own swathe, head swaying left and right as they walked in line across field upon field. There was no point looking so far ahead, the sergeant told them, that you missed something right under your nose. By the time she’d arrived back at the presbytery her feet were protesting but it was her neck and shoulders that stiffened and ached: goodness knew how they’d feel after another full day of this.

Two of the older men busied themselves peeling hardboiled eggs, discarding the flakes of shell on the stubbly grass around them while a third took a savage bite from a firm green apple. When a younger fellow, a couple of years older than her with kind green eyes and thin pink lips reached for a slice of malt-loaf and held it up to Brenda in a motion of ‘cheers’ she felt herself blush. The same fair-haired young man had teased her gently yesterday when he’d told her she could earn herself a little extra money as a pheasant-beater on the shoots:

“Not sure I’d ‘ave the stomach for it” she’d confessed with a shake of her head as they’d trooped back to the village.

“What d’you mean?”

Brenda had twisted her face up. It was true she ate all sorts of meat, animals, so it was a bit hypocritical to be so squeamish about a bird. “Not sure I like the idea of beating ‘em with a stick” she’d admitted queasily.

To his credit the young man, (“Christopher, or my mates call me Chris”) had made sure they weren’t overheard when he’d explained her misunderstanding.

“Oh right, so you don’t actually beat the pheasants” she’d smiled bashfully wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Grabbing a slice of the malt-loaf for herself Brenda was relieved to see the men poring their own tea this time, one of them even gesturing for her to pass her mug to be filled.

“Reckon if any harm’s come to the lad those gypsies’ll have something to do with it” one of the older men eating a boiled egg said.

“Been no gypsies or tinkers through here in a while though” the other egg-eating man replied, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Pointing over the hedge towards the next field the first man picked out a dark-haired fellow leaning under the open bonnet of a flat-bed truck. “Them lot” he said dismissively.

The other searcher turned and looked. “The farm workers? They’re not gypsies!” he shook his head.

“As close as, in my opinion. They breeze in and breeze out again, I wouldn’t trust them as far a I could throw ‘em.”

Brenda swivelled her head to see the focus of their discussion. Though he was bent at the waist the man was obviously quite tall and with his sleeves rolled up she could see his strong muscly arms were tanned to nearly the same colour as her own.

“Alf Rowland’s not a fan of that lot either. I heard he had a run in with one of them the other night in the Red Lion” the first man went on through a mouthful of egg.

“Alf Rowland could start an argument in a phone box, especially when he’s got a drink in him.”

They all turned when the truck in the neighbouring field coughed to life then died again with a feeble splutter. The man jumped down from the cab then stopped and glowered in their direction. Suddenly self-conscious Brenda dipped her eyes yet she was still able to make out his movements as he returned to the front of the truck and ducked his head once more beneath the bonnet.

“I heard tell Alf’s on thin ice at work on account of his temper, had a shouting match with his boss on the factory floor.”

Brenda rolled her eyes. “These blokes are just as bad as Mrs D for gossiping” she thought, all the while soaking up the details, making mental notes to report back to Father Brown.

“You know they only kept him on at the factory on account of his accident, doing right by him I suppose. But from what I heard he’s been nothing but trouble ever since.”

Finishing his boiled egg the group-gossipmonger wiped his hands on his trouser leg. “I still reckon if any harm’s come to Kenny it’ll be one of the outsiders”

Brenda recoiled at the term. In her experience there were plenty of ways a person could be judged an ‘outsider’, and it wasn’t always to do with where you came from. She cast her eye towards the tall man leaning into the truck's cab; his swarthy complexion and jet-black hair set him apart from most of Kembleford’s other residents, even those who’d spent all summer in the sun.

This time when the man turned the key in the ignition the truck’s initial cough seemed to clear its throat and it settled into a gentle rumble. Returning to the bonnet he closed it with a gentle thud that barely made it over the hedge to the still-seated group.

“Well, Kembleford’s not without its own undesirables” the second man pointed out, shaking out the dregs of his tea onto the ground.

“Who d’you mean? Pervy Turvey?”

“I didn’t say that.” There was a hint of guilt in the protest as he tucked his mug back inside his knapsack.

“But that’s who you meant. I don’t know what to make of that fellow if I’m honest with you, something not right about him but as for the rumours…”

“Well, I was with searching in the same group as him yesterday and he was acting awfully strange when we got back to the village.”

“Strange how?”

“Lurking by the presbytery, him and that oddball Paul Dunn huddled together: few sandwiches short of a picnic that lad” he scoffed.

“What’ve Turvey and Dunn got to be conspiring about?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Five more minutes lads” the sergeant called across from his place by the other group. He pointed to a cluster of building atop a small rise in the distance. “Once we get to Brookes’ farm lunch should’ve been dropped off for us”. Brenda squinted into the distance: the farm didn’t look that far away but at the speed they were walking it would take an age to get there.

Just as nagging as the pain in Brenda’s neck was the knot in her stomach which had been gnawing away at her with every step today. “Where on earth is ‘e?” she thought, picturing Kenny, a scamp of a lad who reluctantly accompanied his mother to church on Sundays, two oversized teeth appearing recently in his previously gappy-smile. She didn’t know much about Kenny Rowland, or his family for that matter, only that Mrs Rowland appeared to be perpetually on-edge, always fussing with the silver cross around her neck or picking invisible fluff from her clothes. Mr Rowland on the other hand seemed to be constantly cheesed-off about something or other, stomping around the place with that scruffy cap not quite covering the horrible scars that, try as she might, always made her stare. The Rowlands didn’t seem like the happiest family in the world, that was plain: was that why Kenny had run away? If indeed he had run away. She didn’t like all this gossip about ‘outsiders’ or ‘Pervy Turvey’ being to blame for the boy’s disappearance but surely after all this time Kenny would’ve come home or been found if there was an innocent explanation. She’d lost count of the times she’d thought of running away when she was younger, the childish temptation just to go, to be anywhere other than here. She’d known one or two girls who’d done just that, only to end up right back where they’d started with a proper-good lecture about how foolish they been and all the dangers that could’ve befallen them.

Pushing the thoughts aside Brenda gathered up the remaining malt-loaf, re-wrapped it gently and tucked it back into her bag. Licking her sticky fingers clean she pushed herself to her feet. She’d never underestimate the power of tea and cake again, she thought, her stomach grumbling and sloshing. Already she couldn’t wait for lunch: thank goodness for the women back in the village hall preparing what she knew would be a veritable feast for them.

One-by-one the men wandered over to the hedgerow and, knowing by now what they were up to Brenda arched her eyebrows and turned her back to give them some privacy. Her gaze fell once more on the truck in the next field, its engine still humming contentedly. The man with the jet-black hair was leaning over the back, arranging what looked like a lumpy sack of potatoes under a tarpaulin. He must've sensed her watching, turning quickly to scowl at her then looking away sharply, finishing whatever he was doing before climbing up into the truck and slowing driving off.

“Right, c’mon then, back to it” the sergeant called, trying to inject what enthusiasm he could muster into his weary voice.

As the men reconvened from their toilet break Brenda scanned the horizon hoping to find something more substantial than a hedgerow to provide her with some privacy. All she could see however was field after stubbly field and in the distance Brookes’ farm. “They’ll ‘av a lav I can use” she reassured herself, the tea in her stomach sloshing once more. But suddenly the farm looked further away than ever. Pulling her knapsack back across her shoulders and grabbing her trusty stick she began to wish she hadn’t had gulped that cup of tea down after all.

Chapter Text

Seated behind his desk Chief Inspector Sullivan’s head shot up as one of the younger officers knocked on his open door, gesturing to the chaotic looking board in the corner of the office.

“Go ahead” Sullivan said with a wave of his hand. The gangly constable stepped forward and tapped with a pen at one of the bullet points three-quarters of the way down the list. “Manager from the stables telephoned, he’s had the grooms check the whole place.” With that he scored a line through the word ‘Stables’, adding, “He reckons they get the occasional child hanging around, wanting to see the horses, but not been any there for a while, and not any boys matching Kenny’s description.” He stayed rooted to the spot, awaiting further probing or to be dismissed.

A few seconds later he instead received his boss’s short rebuke. “Well don’t just stand there, get back to it. I want an update on the car that was parked by the crossroads near Standing.”

“Yes Sir.” Scuttling back to the front desk the young fellow almost walked slap-bang into the Chief Inspector’s new wife who entered the station clutching some sheets of folded paper.

Unsure whether to address the uniformed officer or her husband she spoke in a voice loud enough for them both to hear. “I’m just back from the plumber’s place in Burrywick.”

Curiosity piqued, Edgar went to the front desk to meet her.

Isabel's eyes darted to his smooth looking cheeks and chin and the unsightly dark dots along his jaw where he’d obviously cut himself shaving. Getting straight to the point she said, “Mrs Adams is sure it was the plumber’s van she saw on Tuesday, recognised it straight away.” She proffered a piece of paper to Edgar who took it, quickly scanning it from top to bottom. “Those are all the jobs the plumber was given and there…” she pointed to the sheet, “telephone numbers if they had them, though sometimes it’s just an address.”

He was impressed; the list was clearly laid out in chronological order and her initiative in requesting the telephone numbers of Mr Welsh’s clients would make their job of corroborating his worker's whereabouts all the easier. He handed the paper to the constable. “Check these out. I want time the plumber arrived, the time he left and anything that seemed out of the ordinary about the man.”

“Mr Welsh says he’s a decent young fellow” Isabel chimed in.

“I’m sure he did. But he was seen driving around and around the village in a suspicious manner on the day the boy disappeared so I’m not going to rule him out on the say-so of a mere plumber.”

His condescending tone vexed Isabel more than she cared to admit. She took a calming breath, “Well, I wrote down the young man’s details...” she held the second piece of paper out between her finger and thumb.

“He can deal with it” Edgar said rather impolitely, indicating the constable behind the desk. With that he marched back into his office.

Trying her best to appear unfazed by her husband’s behaviour she craned her neck up towards the towering young constable and began explaining to him the information she’d acquired.

A moment later Sergeant Goodfellow entered the station, Father Brown a few paces behind.

“I’ve just come from Turvey’s place Sir” the sergeant said from the office doorway, “we’ve expanded the search but it’ll take some time. Bit of a rabbit warren that place: greenhouses, sheds, garages and that’s before we get started on the house.”

Isabel’s ears pricked up at the mention of the expanded search but she thought it wise to keep any questions to herself. Father Brown, needless to say, had no such qualms. “Peter Turvey’s place?” he asked Goodfellow, face twisted in confusion. “What has prompted you to search there?”

Before his loose-lipped sergeant could divulge too much Chief Inspector Sullivan replied tersely. “Kenny Rowland sometimes played in the woods by Mr Turvey’s house.” He hoped the half-truth would be enough to satisfy the priest’s interest: he had neither the time nor the inclination to explain about Martin Ludlow’s thinly veiled accusations against “Pervy Turvey” or their subsequent questioning of the eloquent older man.

“Ah, I see” Father Brown nodded. “Chief Inspector, since I have your attention there’s a small matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

Edgar’s internal groan was almost audible to all gathered, except of course the man who’d triggered it. “I don’t have time to discuss “small matters”” he wanted to say, “and I’d rather you didn’t have my attention.” He glowered at the black-clad figure and sighed, “Well, what is it?”

“I’ve just been doing my rounds, paid a visit to Nora Banks, she’s in rather a delicate state, emotionally speaking.” His face twisted in concern. “Her husband and son, understandably, were amongst the first to join the search, and I’m afraid this whole affair has stirred up many upsetting memories for her.”

Reading the Chief Inspector’s perplexed expression Goodfellow stepped in to provide the necessary background information. “It was long before your time Sir, the Banks girl went missing. She wasn’t found until a couple of years back.” Most telling of all were the words the sergeant left unsaid: ‘murdered’, ‘dead’, ‘remains’.

Sullivan raised a hand to stop him. It was true he’d been part of neither the original case nor the investigation that finally led to the girl’s body being found, that had happened on Mallory’s watch. But during his initial posting here in Kembleford the Banks case had loomed large over the village. Though never one for involving himself more than necessary in the community he served it had been impossible not to notice how the police’s failure to find the girl, even with the alleged perpetrator locked up, touched each and every resident. He’d read about the eventual discovery of her remains during his time back in London, surprised, yet somehow not surprised, to see the unremarkable little village making the front pages in the national press, again.

“I think it’s all the activity about the place” Father Brown was saying now, though Edgar was only half listening, “reminding Nora of all the searches for her own daughter.”

Even with Maggie Banks laid to rest Kembleford would be forever scarred not just by her death, but by the years she’d remained lost and the uncertainty that had brought. The girl’s decomposed remains had been hidden in an old well shaft, Edgar recalled. He hadn’t been present that day of course, yet the stench of death and decaying bones struck him as he imagined the scene.

When Sergeant Goodfellow replied to the priest it sounded to Edgar as though the man was speaking underwater, his words muffled and spongy. He was saying something about forewarning the Banks family if the search teams would be going near their property.

What if Kenny Rowland was lying at the bottom of a concrete shaft, waiting to be discovered? What if he was injured, in pain, slowly bleeding to death? “Stop-stop-stop” Edgar willed himself, shaking his head to clear the intrusive thought. What if the boy was at the bottom of a concrete shaft already dead, the victim of a terrible accident? Or worse still, the victim of a terrible deed? What if, while he sat here listening to the priest witter on, a child-killer was out there walking free, lining up his next victim? “Stop-Stop-Stop. Focus-Focus-Focus” he implored his brain.

“Such a cruel twist” Father Brown was reflecting as out by the desk the telephone rang, “fourteen years Mr Banks spent ceaselessly searching for his daughter and now, after finally finding some peace, there he is again, out searching for another missing child.”

“Fourteen years!” Edgar repeated silently to himself in near disbelief. A sudden wave of panic swept over him, bile burning sweetly-sick at the back of his throat, his face flushed and sweaty. What if he failed to find Kenny Rowland? Would Alf spend the next 14 years searching relentlessly for his son? Would Maisie be driven near-mad by the not-knowing? What about little Ian, just eight years old, growing up without his best friend, reaching all the milestones they should have shared together, alone?

“I’ll make sure the officers heading the search teams keep an eye on Mr Banks, and Daniel too” Goodfellow assured the priest. “Everybody would understand if they found it too distressing…”

“I couldn’t stay here” Edgar realised, the sudden clarity of thought grabbing him by the throat. “If I don’t find the boy I can’t stay here in Kembleford, not with this hanging over me. And how would Isabel face people, the whole village knowing her husband was the officer who’d failed to return the boy safely home?” He grabbed the glass of water that perched on the edge of his desk, bringing it to his lips with trembling hands. “We’d have to leave” he thought despondently, catching a glimpse of his wife still in conversation with the constable at the front desk, the wife he’d promised he’d remain here in Kembleford for. “Or I’d have to leave at least.” Putting down the glass he mopped his brow with the back of his hand. How could he face Isabel if he failed to solve this case? How could he look her in the eye and expect to see anything other than disappointment and distain reflected back? “STOP-STOP-STOP. FOCUS-FOCUS-FOCUS” his brain screamed.

“Talking of the well being of the searchers” Father Brown said to Goodfellow, the pair of them still standing in the office doorway, “has Paul Dunn joined the efforts again today?”

“I couldn’t say for certain Father, but I don’t think so.”

“I should pay him a visit” the priest ruminated, brow furrowed. “Paul’s never coped well with changes to his routine, or large crowds. All this hubbub must be quite unsettling for somebody of his disposition.”

From behind his desk Edgar almost laughed. “Paul Dunn’s not the only one unsettled by it all!” he wanted to yell. He looked around, his office in complete disarray, the huddle of people crowding his eye-line. Though his office window remained closed it didn’t prevent the murmur of gathered reporters from seeping inside, their words may’ve been indistinct yet to Edgar’s ears their questioning of his competence came though loud and clear.

How could he be expected to think clearly amongst this clutter and chaos? These additional officers brought in from neighbouring forces, how was he supposed to know their strengths and weakness’, who to delegate what to, who was reliable and who wasn’t? He hadn’t even attempted to learn half their names. His eyes swivelled to the board with its ever expanding list of potential leads and cryptic notations. Were they really leads, he wondered? Or was he losing his grip on this investigation already? Was he already grasping at straws? Feeling his breathing becoming ragged he loosened off his top button, waggling two fingers to slacken the knot of his tie. He needed something solid to focus on. Somebody had to know something about the boy’s disappearance, something they weren’t telling him.

Jumping to his feet Sullivan all but shoved Sergeant Goodfellow from the office without a word of explanation, at the same time tugging at Father Brown’s elbow, encouraging him further inside. When the office door slammed shut Goodfellow, Isabel and the lanky young constable were left bewildered by the front desk while inside the Chief Inspector’s office Father Brown was no less confused.

Standing opposite the priest Edgar lowered his voice to avoid being overhead. The indignation in his tone however came across loud and clear: “Have you thought anymore about last night, our conversation at the Rowlands’ house?”

“Pardon?” Father Brown asked, squinting in confusion at the policeman. And then he remembered, the Chief Inspector’s outburst by his car when he wouldn’t break the seal of the confessional to divulge what Maisie Rowland had told him. “My position on the matter remains unchanged, I am bound…”

Pointing to the clock on the wall Edgar seethed, “This is the third day he’s been missing. Over two days and two nights! But you’re still not prepared to tell me what secret his mother is keeping?”

Father Brown bit his tongue. What could he say that he hadn’t said yesterday? That in his opinion Maisie Rowland’s confession bore no relevance to the investigation? Such assurances hadn’t washed with the Chief Inspector then and, given his agitated state, would likely only antagonise the man further if repeated again now.

“I don’t expect you to tell me verbatim” Edgar growled, “just give me a clue, a hint, anything.”

At the pleading in his voice the priest tried desperately hard to think of a way in which he could appease him, help him even, without compromising himself.

Eyes widening at the spark of an idea Edgar beckoned the older man towards the corner of the room with him. Picking up a pen from the ledge beneath the scrawled mess of a board he presented it to him. Taking a deep breath he leant towards the priest, barely whispering his proposal. “Just a mark” he pointed to the list of names and places, suspicious activities and half-baked theories. “I can step outside if you prefer. If when I came back there was an indication, or something new amongst all that…”

In a single heartbeat Father Brown’s expression changed from confusion to indignation to pity. How easy it would be to hide a small notation of his own amongst the scribbles and scrawls that had been made in so many different hands. He almost wanted to compliment the Chief Inspector on his ingenuity. Alas the confessional had no back-door by which the police could be fed information, however discreetly, not even “just this once.”

Snatching the pen from the priest’s grasp Sullivan threw it against the board in frustration and listened to it clatter to the floor. “In your heart of hearts” he asked vehemently, “do you really believe Maisie Rowland’s confession has no conceivable connection to the disappearance of her son?”

“No connection at all” he wanted to say. But did he truly believe that? Hadn’t his meeting with Howard Yendle sown within him the tiniest seed of doubt about the young man’s simmering frustration?

The priest’s tight-lipped silence was, to Edgar, utterly infuriating and completely stupefying in equal measure. There he stood in his dog-collar, that righteous look on his face, a man of God wilfully withholding information from an investigation of not just huge import but also great urgency. A phrase sprang to mind and he had to bite his tongue lest he spit it out: “You’re so heavenly minded you’re no earthly good.”

Embarrassed by the naivety of his fruitless beseeching Edgar said no more but stepped past Father Brown to show him the door. “Where’s Goodfellow?” he asked the constable listlessly.

“He went out again Sir, I’m not sure where. Took a telephone call and was off.”

“He picks his times to go AWOL” Edgar thought, but in reality he knew his most trusted sergeant wouldn’t be slacking. Combing his fingers back through his hair he puffed out his cheeks, eyes closed.

Isabel, who’d lingered at the front desk longer than was necessary, looked sadly towards her husband. Already dark black circles were forming under his eyes and though he’d wet and combed down his hair, without its usual Brylcreem to hold it in place it tufted messily at his crown.

Addressing the constable Sullivan explained, “When Goodfellow gets back I need him to find me somebody with knowledge of the local rivers.”

“But we’ve already got teams searching the rivers Sir” the constable reminded him.

Summoning his dwindling patience he nodded, “I’m aware of that, thank you constable” then grabbing the map lying on the end of the desk he searched for Peter Turvey’s property. He replayed the man’s remark in his mind, the comment about warning Kenny and Ian about playing by the river. Edgar had seen for himself how steep the bank was and how high the water ran, quite possibly deep enough and fast enough to sweep a small child away. Ignoring the two other pairs of eyes watching over his shoulder he set out his request. “We’re conducting a general search of the rivers, but that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I want to know, specifically, if…” he hesitated, conscious not to say anything too upsetting with his wife in earshot, “…if somebody got into difficulty here at Mr Turvey’s property” he jabbed a finger at the map, “where would be the best place to focus our attention.”

“Mr Hook.”

Edgar swivelled at the priest’s utterance. “Pardon?”

“Mr Hook has fished these rivers almost seventy years, man-and-boy. Since old George Murray passed I’d say nobody would be more knowledgeable on the subject than Mr Hook.” Father Brown declared.

“Right, well, constable, call this Mr Hook…”

“He doesn’t have the telephone” the priest grimaced.

Edgar’s fraying nerves couldn’t handle much more of this but he urged himself to remain civil . “Father, would you be so kind as to call on Mr Hook, ask him to come here to the station to look at this map?”

“I’m afraid he’s rather frail these days.”

Teeth gritted the policeman replied, “I’m not asking him to conduct the search himself, just to look at the damn map.”

“I understand. However I suspect Mr Hook would want to look at the river before giving his verdict.”

The constable chipped in, “My uncle’s an angler, reckons the rivers change all the time depending on the rain we’ve had and…”

Closing his eyes Edgar took a moment to collect his thoughts before turning to his wife. “Would you be able to drive Mr Hook to the river so that he can assess the conditions?” The question was a rhetorical one, the map from the desk already being thrust in her direction.

Despite his curt tone in truth Isabel was delighted to be given another assignment, however minor. If it helped ease Edgar’s burden even just a little she’d gladly do it. Besides it was this or go back to buttering bread in the village hall. “I’ll mark on the map any areas he suggests” she assured him.

“Right, good. Report back to…” he looked blankly at the constable, realising he didn’t know the fellow’s name. “Report back here when you’re done.”

No “please”, no “thank you.” Edgar simply dispensed his instructions and returned to his office.

Stepping towards the door Father Brown placed a hand gently on Isabel’s arm. “He has rather a lot on his plate” he whispered sympathetically, sensing how much her husband’s frostiness was upsetting her.

Contorting her face into a mask of unflappability she dismissed the concern with a small shake of her head. Her feelings mattered little at the moment. It was Kenny they needed to worry about. And Edgar.

“WHERE IS HE? WHERE THE HELL IS HE?” They heard Alf Rowland well before they saw him, all bellowing voice and stomping boots. When he burst into the station he did so chest first, barrelling forward past the two bystanders to the front desk where the young officer straightened his back instinctively. Slamming his hands on the desk Alf hollered “I KNOW HE’S HERE, TURVEY…”

Isabel shrank back towards Father Brown as Edgar shot from his office. “Mr Rowland!” he said firmly.

But the raging Mr Rowland was already storming towards the cells. Edgar caught him roughly by the shoulder, yanking him back, the nameless constable coming to his assistance, forming a barrier between Alf and his intended target.

“He’s in there, isn’t he?” Alf shouted, finger jabbing past the constable’s shoulder. Though the fierceness remained in his voice, the volume had dropped a little.

Manhandling him back towards the waiting area Edgar instinctively positioned himself in front of Isabel, shielding her with his body. Constable no-name stood on alert next to Father Brown.

“Tell me what’s happened” the desperate man demanded, spit flecking his lips. Wrenching the flat cap from his head he screwed it tightly into a ball, the knuckles of his dirt ingrained hand turning white with fury. “What’s that monster done to my boy? I’ll kill him!” He turned his face towards the cells, “I’LL KILL YOU TURVEY” he thundered.

The bright light hanging over the front desk cast a sheen on Alf’s unsightly scars, while anger accentuated his jutting jaw. Though sympathetic to the man’s plight Chief Inspector Sullivan was determined to take control of the situation. Apart from anything else the shouting was greatly exacerbating his pounding headache. Puffing out his chest to assert his dominance over the smaller man he spoke clearly and calmly but with absolute authority. “I asked Mr Turvey to come here to help us with our inquiry. He has not been charged…”

“Not been charged?” Mr Rowland narrowed his eyes in suspicion, “but he is a suspect?”

Still aiming to diffuse Alf’s anger Edgar thought carefully for a moment. “Is Peter Turvey a suspect?” he asked himself, doubt nagging in his gut.

But the policeman’s silence only enflamed Alf’s ire. “If he’s done nothing wrong home comes you’ve got him in a cell?”

Father Brown screwed up his face. Until a few minutes ago he’d been unaware of Mr Turvey’s land being searched. Now he’d learned the man had also been spoken to by the police and was sitting in a cell fifteen feet away. “Why have him in a cell indeed?” he wondered, internally echoing Alf’s question.

This one was somewhat easier for Sullivan to answer. “Mr Turvey is here of his own volition, in case we have any further questions he can help us with.” It was a loose interpretation of events but he could hardly tell the truth, that Peter Turvey was cowering in a police cell for fear of this very scenario.

“Any more questions about what?” Mr Rowland squared his shoulders, refusing to be mollified, “I’ve got a few questions of my own for the old pervert. You give me two minutes in there alone with him, I’ll find out what he really knows about my Kenny!” The threat wasn’t an idle one, yet it lacked a certain venom. Edgar cast his mind back to last night at the Rowlands’ house, the way Alf had stood toe-to-toe with him, much as he did now, jabbing a finger at his chest, then the way that anger had quickly burnt itself out.

Taking a deep breath Edgar attempted to put the matter to bed. “As upset as you are Mr Rowland, I cannot have you bursting in here, throwing your weight around. We are doing everything we can to ensure the search for your son is as comprehensive and efficient as possible. I advise you to leave, go and calm yourself, and allow me and my officers to get on with our work.”

As predicted Mr Rowland began to wilt, his shoulders slumping, his voice lowered in a tone of resignation. “So Turvey hasn’t said anything? You haven’t found anything, evidence of anything…bad?”

Softening his own tone Sullivan replied earnestly, “The moment we have anything to report I can assure you that you and your wife will be the first to know.”

Both men fell quiet, only Alf’s snorting breaths filling the air. “So there’s no evidence that any harm’s come to my lad?” he gulped, tears reddening his eyes. Scrunching the cap in his hands he brought it in a ball to his stomach, clutching it like a teddy bear.

Not wanting to cause undue alarm Edgar decided to keep news of the blood flecked stone to himself. Until forensics confirmed it was human blood and identified the type it was a suspicious but not compelling find. He shook his head, “No evidence that he’s come to any harm.”

Leaning forwards from his spot by the door Father Brown, wary of Alf’s response, coaxed gently, “Why don’t we go and get some fresh air?” He was surprised to receive a weak nod of agreement, Mr Rowland arranging his cap back on his head before allowing the priest to usher him, dazed, from the station.

The lanky constable motioned towards Mr Turvey’s cell. “I’d better check he’s alright” he said, striding off down the corridor.

Edgar barely heard him, his head splitting from all the commotion. It took a second before he realised only he and Isabel remained by the front desk. When he turned to her it was clear from her expression Alf’s outburst had shaken her badly: she needed comfort, reassurance.

Looking back at her husband Isabel saw the first signs that things were beginning to unravel within him. It was hardly surprising, apart from napping for an hour or so in the chair at home he’d been flat-out for over forty-eight hours and goodness knew when he’d last eaten anything. She needed to comfort him, to reassure him.

Staring silently at one another neither could muster the necessary words.

The ringing of the phone on the end of the desk jolted Edgar from his contemplation. Turning he snatched up the receiver, “Kembleford Police Station, Chief Inspector Sullivan speaking… yes Chief Superintendent… no, not yet Sir” His free hand smoothed down his hair, making himself more presentable for his superior officer on the other end of the line.

Pointing towards the door Isabel gulped back her emotions, smiling reassuringly, “I’ll go and see Mr Hook about the river” she mouthed, and with that she slipped away.

Chapter Text

The quiet hustle and bustle filling the village hall lacked the cheery chatter that usually accompanied a gathering of the local womenfolk, the workmanlike order and efficiency reminding Father Brown of bees buzzing around a hive. It was certainly a ‘hive of activity’ and at the centre of it all stood the self-appointed queen-bee herself, Mrs Adams. How she’d come to hold the position of chief-supervisor in such situations nobody was quite sure, but Kembleford’s star piccalilli maker was always to be found front and centre of any village crisis, overseeing operations with a sharp-tongue and iron-rod. She was the only woman Father Brown had ever know able to put the formidable Mrs McCarthy in her place with nothing more than a withering stare. And today of course Mrs Adams’ sense of importance was elevated through dint of her assisting the police earlier in the morning. She’d spent longer recounting in minute detail her trip with Isabel to Burrywick and back than the excursion itself had taken, but at least all gathered were now fully in the picture about the crucial role she’d played in identifying the plumber’s green van.

“Hello Father” Violet Goodfellow welcomed him with her usual warm smile as he surveyed the sea of pastel blouses from the doorway. “Are you coming in? Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Though it went against his natural instincts to decline such an offer on this occasion he shook his head. “I don’t want to stop you from your crucial work” he smiled, eyes scanning the long trestle tables topped with delectable delights. It was like five summer-fêtes, a harvest-supper and the Christmas feast rolled into one: the women of the village certainly knew how to rustle up a good spread.

“We’ve just finished sending out the last of the lunches to the search parties” she signalled to a map that had been tacked to the wall beneath the high windows. “Daniel marked it up for us, so we’d know where to have Mr Rutherford drop things off. He’s been our main delivery driver since Isabel’s busy elsewhere.”

“Impressive headquarters you’ve got here” the priest smiled, venturing further inside. And it really was, he marvelled, the whole enterprise resembling a production line. Down one side of the hall the sandwich-making-station was in full swing: slices of cheap white bread were buttered at pace, filled with a variety of jarred pastes and sliced meats, condiments added, the whole lot cut in two, wrapped then placed into little wooden fruit crates. A central row of tables groaned under the weight of miniature pork-pies and other pastry-clad savouries at one end, baked goods at the other. He noticed that Mrs Dawson, whose baking capabilities (or lack thereof) were well renowned had been put in charge of divvying up fruit between the various boxes and hampers that lined the edge of the low wooden stage.

“Keep up the good work ladies!” Mrs Adams boomed in her schoolmistressy tone, “the men will have no sooner finished their lunches before they’ll be ready for some tea. Hard work out there, hot work, vital work, we must keep them well fed.”

Mrs Goodfellow couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow: nobody needed reminding how vital the searchers’ work was, and none of them needed to be told to “keep up the good work” either, they’d managed to keep it up quite well this morning when Mrs Adams had gone off galavanting to Burrywick. But bombast and piccalilli making seemed to be the two things the heavy-bosomed cardigan-clad woman excelled at. Unnecessary pep-talk over she resumed her role patrolling the hall, casting her critical eye over poor Mrs Stuart whose ability to neatly slice Battenberg suffered under the sudden intense scrutiny.

“I’ve just come to get some more sugar” a frazzled looking young woman with a floury-flowery-apron tied around her waist explained, slipping into the hall then scurrying towards a table at the back of the room.

“Take whatever you need my dear” Mrs Adams replied with a regal swish of her hand.

“Some of the women are baking at home. We thought it best to pool any spare ingredients people might need here” Violet explained to the priest as she portioned up one of four golden crusted corned-beef pies that lay before her. “It saves everybody running back and forth to the shops, make the most of what we’ve got to hand first.”

“Excellent idea” Father Brown nodded approvingly, the smell of fresh pastry tempting his stomach.

Noticing the priest and the policeman’s wife in conversation Mrs Adams instantly deemed it pertinent to insert herself into their conversation. “Don’t scrimp on the portions” she instructed Violet needlessly, nodding towards the pie. “Oh Father, hello” she added casually, as though only just aware of the priest’s presence. Glancing around to check she wouldn’t be overheard she lowered her voice, “I suppose you’ve just come from seeing Mrs Rowland, how is she?”

In his peripheral vision he saw Mrs Goodfellow stiffen. No doubt she too had been on the receiving end of awkward questions, being the sergeant’s wife the other women were bound to needle her for inside knowledge of the police investigation. Though declining to provide a verbal response Father Brown knew his face said it all: “Not well.”

“Poor Maisie” Mrs Adams tutted sadly, “I hear she’s not eating which’ll do her no good, she’s already thin as a rake. I’ve long since thought she’s living on her nerves, well, nerves and cigarettes, have you noticed she smokes like a chimney these days?”

Refusing to be drawn by the gossip Father Brown straightened his back, his gaze settling on a wooden chair piled high with a stack of neatly folded tea towels.

Unperturbed Mrs Adams went on, “And of course we all heard about Alf’s outburst over at the station. Who can blame him though?” she took another guarded look around before mouthing “With you know who being arrested.”

Father Brown’s eyes turned to Mrs Goodfellow who by now had a murderous grip on the handle of the large kitchen knife. As courteously as possible she chimed in, “Emotions are bound to be running high, which is all the more reason for us to refrain from speculation, as I’m sure you’d agree.” Her own quietly authoritative tone was more than a match for Mrs Adams’.

“Oh, I wasn’t speculating!” Mrs Adams protested with a look of contrived shock.

“No, of course not” Violet said benevolently, struggling to quash the rising annoyance she felt at the bossy old bag. “Charity Violet” she cautioned herself, “we’re all getting hot and bothered cooped up in here together.”

“I think maybe Mrs Goodfellow was referring to whoever gave you the information about an arrest being made” Father Brown interjected, “The police have not made any arrests, they are merely gathering more information.” Rumours, not surprisingly, were already spreading like wildfire and he was glad Violet was here at the heart of things to help nip them in the bud.

“Oh, right, well…” Suitably chastised Mrs Adams wandered off to check the bread-buttering was up to standard.

With a tilt of his head Father Brown indicated to Violet his intention to circulate. He began with a slow lap of the hall offering words of support and praise for the women’s efforts, hoping he didn’t sound as condescending as Mrs Adams. “Ah, lemonade will go down well in this weather” he smiled to a young woman stooped by a crate of glass bottles. Stepping through into the hall’s small kitchen he was hit by a wall of steam in the already uncomfortably warm space. “Can’t go wrong with a boiled egg” he nodded towards the large pan simmering away on the stove-top while smearing the fog from the lens’ of his glasses. By the sink two women worked in unison, backs turned, washing out thermos flasks and shaking the crumbs from empty cake tins. “Many hands make light work” he remarked then hushed himself before his comments descended into the truly banal.

Reentering the main hall Father Brown paused at the scene before him, drawing a deep breath. Kembleford may have been dealt a sickening blow with the disappearance of young Kenny Rowland, but he was utterly convinced no community was better equipped to deal with such an event. While the women continued their work in near silence he thought of the similar scenes playing out beyond the hall, the web of search parties now extending far and wide. From the flat open fields to the shrouded corners of the thickets woods the searchers, be they policemen, soldiers, farmers, factory-men or even young housekeepers, would be working in the same diligent hush as the women here before him. There’d be no morale rousing songs as they walked for mile after mile, none of the usual horseplay or jesting that so often sprang forth when groups of men shed sweat together. He felt a welling of something akin to paternal pride for his flock, all of them toiling with such steadfast resolution. The whole village had come together to play their part, however great or small, determined not to become demoralised by the lack of progress, determined not to become besieged by fears of what fate may have befallen the missing boy, determined to leave no stone unturned in the search for the child.

Collecting himself the priest applied his most benevolent smile then made his way back through the gentle throng of the hall. “I’d best leave you to it” he said by way of parting to Mrs Adams.

“Where are you off to Father?” she asked rather abruptly.

“Oh, er” he squinted slightly cagily. “The police station.”

“Wait!” she commanded and he didn’t dare disobey.

Mrs Adams strode towards the stage reappearing a few moments later with a small wicker hamper atop which were balanced two square tins, one bright blue bearing a picture of Trafalgar Square, the other slightly battered one beneath emblazoned with green and gold chevrons. “Take these to the station,” she instructed him sharply, piling the items onto his outstretched arms, “and let them know there’ll be soup laid on here this evening when the men’ve finished searching, they can have a good feed before they go home.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, and Father, tell the officers to keep up the good work.”

Grinning sheepishly Father Brown received a small sideways glance from Mrs Goodfellow which seemed to say “now you know how we feel.”

Duly dispatched Father Brown headed towards the door with his armful of supplies. He’d be more than happy to deliver the much needed nourishment to the men at the station. Mrs Adams’ words of encouragement on the other hand may stick in the policemen’s throats: he’d be better off leaving those behind.

Chapter Text

Chief Inspector Sullivan squeezed his way past the end of the front desk, passing from the back-rooms towards his office, face creasing in annoyance at the cluttered scene. “Take those off the desk” he snapped at the tall constable, gesturing towards the miniature picnic basket and two metal tins, one of which sat lid discarded, “this is a police station, not a tea room.” He’d no sooner uttered the words when his stomach grumbled loudly at the sight of the shortbread fingers and pale swirling biscuits that looked to be equally as sweet and crumbly. The constable did as he was instructed, moving the snacks under the desk out of sight. Edgar would’ve preferred if he’d taken them through to the break room but said nothing as Goodfellow’s reappearance was presently of more pressing interest.

“Well?” he asked his sergeant snippily.

“Lady Felicia telephoned” Goodfellow explained following his boss into the office, “She’s overseas at the moment with Lord Montague, on business…”

“Yes, yes, go on…” Sullivan hurried him while scrutinising the map denoting the search areas.

“Well of course they’ve said if there’s anything they can do…” sensing his boss’s patience wearing thin he tried to be more succinct. “Lord Montague suggested we might want to use the hounds.”

“Hounds?”

“Yes, the dogs used for the fox-hunts. I know we’ve had the police dogs out searching but I thought it couldn’t hurt to take him up on the offer.”

“And?” the Chief Inspector asked, turning from the map to leaf rapidly through a stack of papers on his desk.

“Well, I went to see Mrs Rowland, got one of little Kenny’s vests from her, needed something with his scent on you see. I was leaving just as Father Brown brought Alf back. I heard about his outburst over Mr Turvey...”

“Get to the point will you?” Sullivan implored bluntly, as out by the front desk the telephone rang for the hundredth time today.

“Right, well, I went over to Montague and spoke to the kennel master, told him the areas that were of interest to us, starting with Mr Turvey’s woods. He’s going to send two lots of dogs out and report straight back if they turn anything up.”

“Anything else?”

“I called by Mr Turvey’s place on the way back, the men have almost finished the search, found nothing of interest so far.”

Screwing his eyes closed Sullivan cursed himself for taking such a harsh tone with Goodfellow. It was always difficult to convey an authoritative air with his officers without appearing unapproachable; with so much going on he hadn’t the mental capacity to worry about striking that delicate balance at the moment. As for the more complex rules of social interaction, they were gradually taking a back-seat, for while basic manners took little effort the energy required to adopt the appropriate mask for a given situation, the way he usually attempted to do, had proved an increasing strain on his personal resources these past two days.

Appearing in the doorway, almost stooping to avoid banging his head on the frame, Constable-no-name was mercifully more direct than the sergeant. “Another phone-call about the car that was parked at the crossroads on Tuesday” he began, “As with the other sightings the lady who called wasn’t clear on the model, only that it was small, red and in her words “nicely kept”.”

“Did she see the registration?”

“No, sorry Sir she didn’t. But we’re getting a clearer idea, all witness’ so far agree it starts in a seven and it’s probably got a five in it.”

“Right well, keep on compiling the list. Eventually we should have enough to identify the vehicle.”

“Yes Sir.” Turning to leave he sidestepped, bowing a little in apology as for the second time today he almost knocked the boss’s wife off her feet.

Looking a little flustered Isabel entered the office, quickly appraising her husband: the dampness around his shirt collar and state of his hair suggested he’d just splashed some water on his face.

“Everything alright?” he asked a little anxiously on seeing her expression.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed resignedly, “just those reporters out there are getting a little bit pushy, clamouring with questions every time somebody goes by.” Seeing the flash of concern on her husband’s face she quickly added, “Not that I’ve said anything to them of course.” Leaning over Edgar’s unusually disorganised desk she unfurled the map he’d given her earlier. “So...” she began, Goodfellow peering over her shoulder, Edgar leaning forwards, chin on fist. “I took Mr Hook to a few spots where he could get close to the river to have a good look.” Taking a pencil from the desk she elaborated, “Mr Hook says that if Kenny got into difficulty anywhere between here” she scored a mark through the pale blue line indicating the river at a point just north of the village, “and here” she marked a second line downstream quarter of a mile south of Mr Turvey’s property, “then you should look at these two bends” she made two more marks, “here and here.” Her pencil hovered near the ford a couple of miles south-east of the village as she gathered herself. She’d vowed she wouldn’t let her emotions prevent her from fulfilling the task Edgar had set her. Taking a deep breath she continued calmly, “Mr Hook said the water’s not high enough to carry a body over the ford at the moment, if Kenny was swept down river that’s the furthest point he’s likely to have got, no point searching past there.”

It was an impressive summary, Edgar thought, looking at the two marks denoting the bends in the river where any debris, including the body of a small boy, would be liable to become lodged. It can’t have been a pleasant task for either Isabel nor the old man to have undertaken, revisiting the river where he’d spent so many happy years under such dire circumstances.

“Sergeant, get a team sent to these two bends, I want a thorough search.”

“Yes Sir, but who should I send?”

Frustration simmering Edgar turned in exasperation to consult the map on the board once more, eyes narrowing in concentration as he rubbed his temples. “Then men from here” he jabbed a finger, “split them in two, send one group to each bend. Make sure each group has at least two men capable of wading.”

“Yes Sir. But…”

“But what Sergeant?”

“Well Sir, it’s just all we’ve got is Peter Turvey saying Kenny and Ian thought about making a swing over the river a while back. He never saw the lads playing in the river and Ian didn’t mention it. And even if Kenny did get in trouble in the water there’s plenty other tributaries, streams to be considered. So you see we’ve no evidence that Kenny got into difficulty in the river around that particular spot.”

“Incase it had slipped your attention” Sullivan growled, “we have no evidence of anything whatsoever!” He ran his hands back across his hair. “The only thing we do know is that somebody went to the woods at Turvey’s place after Monday. That hole didn’t dig itself and Ian was adamant the fort hadn’t been damaged when he left on Monday afternoon. So if Kenny did go to the woods instead of school on Tuesday then him taking a tumble into the river is as plausible an explanation for his disappearance as any.”

Feeling chastised Goodfellow gave a simple nod and turned towards the door.

“Oh, and have a word with those reporters, tell them to back off. We’re giving them as much information as we can, I don’t want them harassing people or I’ll have them dispersed.”

“Yes Sir.” With that Goodfellow left the office, pulling the door closed behind himself.

Isabel stood patiently, waiting to see what mission her husband might have for her next. Though she tried not to dwell on it each time he ignored her, as he appeared to be doing now, each time he spoke to her in the same emotionless tone he did Constable Melville whose name, she suspected, Edgar still hadn’t bothered to learn, it tore a little at her heart. She understood he was consumed by the investigation but surely he could make some effort to differentiate between his wife and his subordinates?

Edgar stood by the search map, Goodfellow’s doubts above moving a search team ringing in his ears. He was vaguely aware of Isabel’s presence behind him and to his shame he realised he was yet to thank her for the excellent work she’d done surveying the river with Mr Hook.

“I hope Alf hasn’t been giving you any more trouble” she said in an attempt to break the ice.

Shaking his head Edgar turned, eyes flickering to her face then dropping to his desk. “Er, no” he replied, “Father Brown took Mr Rowland home to calm down then stayed a while with Maisie. He’s now in the cells offering his ‘spiritual counsel’ to Mr Turvey.” The scepticism was apparent in his tone: what he meant was the priest was busy meddling again.

An awkward silence descended as Edgar willed himself to say something, anything, not only to thank Isabel for all her hard work but to tell her how grateful he was simply for the reassurance her presence brought.

Having waited in vain for her husband to say something meaningful Isabel decided it was best if she left before her emotions got the better of her. “Well, I have a couple of quick errands to run” she said with a forced smile, “then I’ll be at the hall if there’s anything you need me for.”

“Oh, right, yes…” Edgar stammered. “You take care of whatever business you have, we’ll manage fine here without you.” He winced at the inadvertent implication that she wasn’t needed.

“Isabel” he called suddenly as she reached for the door handle; It was the first time he’d spoken her name aloud since she’d returned from London yesterday and, as he’d feared, the sound of it caught in his throat. But when she looked back towards him, tears brimming in her eyes, he couldn’t think what else to say.

Fighting back the tears Isabel waited, watching: Edgar’s deep blue eyes looked right through her. She could almost see the thoughts cascading through in his brain.

Approaching the tall filing cabinet he picked up the crumpled white shirt he’d changed out of earlier. “Could you take that home please?” he asked croakily.

Taking the screwed up ball of fabric from him it took all her resolve not to grab his hands and pull him to her. “Not a problem” she smiled weakly, “I mean it Edgar, you just have to tell me if there is anything I can do, anything you need.”

When he didn’t reply she turned quietly and left. Edgar may not know what he needed her to do, but she did: she desperately needed to take care of him. The only problem was she wasn’t sure how to.

Chapter Text

The heat of the day had somehow even managed to permeate the usually cool dingy-blue cell, a whiff of stale body odour hanging in the air, not surprising given the warm conditions in which the searchers had been working. Peter Turvey sat on the low bench-cum-bed, arms folded across his ample stomach while beside him Father Brown perched with his head slightly bowed. While he may not be here to take confession the priest had long since discovered this seating arrangement had its advantages. The temptation was always to look a person square in the eye when speaking to them, hoping to gauge their reaction, yet years of experience had taught him people spoke more candidly when they didn’t feel under the scrutiny of another’s gaze.

“If you’re here to offer me spiritual guidance Father, I should inform you I’m rather lapsed” the well spoken man said.

“No matter, I’m always happy to lend a friendly ear. I’m ashamed to say I know little about you Mr Turvey, although I have the impression maybe that’s how you prefer it.”

Digesting the statement Mr Turvey ran a hand over his stubbly jowls. “Not really” he sighed. “Yes, I’m a private sort of a man but I’d have liked to’ve become more involved in village life if I’m honest.”

The revelation surprised Father Brown who swivelled, peering over the rim of his glasses. “Oh, I’m sorry to have misjudged the situation.”

The apology was brushed aside by a shake of the head and a half-smile. “I came here in ’48, took me a year or so but I was starting to find my feet, had just joined the cricket team in fact, when those awful rumours put pay to all that.” He fidgeted uneasily, “At first I didn’t know exactly what had been said about me, then when I heard the scandalous accusations that young man had made I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Naively I thought it would blow over, which shows just how poorly I understood the mindset which prevails in a place like Kembleford.” He afforded himself a small mirthless chuckle yet it soon gave way to a look of despair. “Even after all this time I get the looks: looks of disgust, distrust, mother’s hands on their children’s shoulders, shielding them from me, crossing the road when they see me approach. I know I’m the local bogeyman, have heard children incant my name while they dare each other to encroach into those woods - “Watch out! Pervy Turvey will get you!” I even struggle to find men willing to do work around the property these days, young Paul Dunn helps me occasionally but mainly I have to rely on fellows from out of town, men who don’t know what’s been said about me, or are so in need of the money they can’t afford to be choosey.”

Eyes screwed shut, hands clasped tightly together Father Brown pitied the poor man sat beside him, his untidy appearance at odds with his orderly mind. “Why didn’t I extend the hand of friendship earlier?” he chastised himself. He’d long since heard the salacious rumours of course, about the 'incomer' who’d set up home by the edge of the village. But he’d never paid any heed to them, instead cautioning his parishioners against the evils of such gossip. But why hadn’t he thought of the impact those falsehoods had brought to bear on Mr Turvey himself? Why had he presumed that the man who showed his face in the village as infrequently as possible was happy with his hermit’s life?

“I’m sorry” he said, aware of the inadequacy of his words. “I didn’t realise things were so difficult for you.”

Again there was no bitterness in Mr Turvey’s tone when he resumed his story, only pain. “It hurts all the more Father because I am completely innocent of any wrong doing. I’m no deviant Father, no homosexual.” His face twisted in disgust as he spat the final word from his lips.

Father Brown stiffened at the proclamation; While he’d never believed Mr Turvey to be a ’bogeyman’, as he himself had put it, he realised to his shame that he’d assumed there to be a kernel of truth in the initial accusation made against him. While doubtful that he’d propositioned his young worker all the years ago as was claimed, he had rather assumed Mr Turvey may have a fondness for men. Fortunately the surprise didn’t register on his face.

Mr Turvey went on, “I know there’s men like that about” he leant sideways towards the priest and in a conspiratorial hush added, “I won’t name names but there’s a gentleman in the village I assume to be of that persuasion who still gives me a wink whenever we pass in the street.”

Unsure whether the statement was meant as a warning or a joke Father Brown opted for a non-committal answer. “Oh, I see”. He knew fine well that more than one of his own flock were, as Mr Turvey put it, “of that persuasion” but didn’t say as much.

“As I told the Chief Inspector there’s plenty reasons a man lives alone and he should know that better than most: his name hasn’t avoided the lips of the local gossips. In fact I rather fancied he may have married sooner, it’s one thing for a man to be un-wed in the anonymity of the city but in Kembleford there are certain expectations of a man of his standing. Ah well, his recent nuptials should put pay to all that now.”

Taken aback Father Brown’s head snapped towards the cell door which had been pulled-too yet remained unlocked. What on earth did he mean about Chief Inspector Sullivan being the source of gossip!? He’d never been in earshot when anything of that nature had been uttered, though it was true the policeman’s marital status had been widely discussed by many of the village women over the years, Mrs McCarthy and Lady Felicia included, all of them desperate to see the young officer set-up and settled-down with a suitable beau. And what was meant by “recent nuptials” putting pay to rumours?

“Their’s is not a lavender marriage, I can assure you!” Father Brown blurted with a hint of indignation, thinking of his two love-struck friends still revelling in their honeymoon phase.

Raising a hand to ruffle the crinkled mess of wiry grey hair atop his head Mr Turvey cursed himself for his clumsiness. “Apologies Father, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I, more than anybody, should know how easily comments can be misconstrued.”

“Yes, well, as I said, Mr and Mrs Sullivan are very happily married.” With hindsight it was an unnecessary flourish but better to nip any doubts in the bud.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that” Mr Turvey replied with genuine warmth. He paused, steepling together his calloused hands where they rested in his lap, “Not that it’s anybody’s business but I myself was married once too. Still am, technically speaking.”

The revelation caught the priest off-guard much as Mr Turvey had expected it to. He smiled gently as he explained, “I came back from the War to a six-year-old child who barely recognised me and a wife who’d coped perfectly well during my absence.” Sadness clouded his eyes, “I did nothing wrong Father, yet at the same time it seemed I was unable to do anything right.” He stared at his hands as though the cracked dry skin held the key to the mystery, “I didn’t return full of fear or rage the way some men did, I never mistreated my family. But I vividly recall one instance, my son was playing in the small back garden of our home, making a terrible racket as children that age are prone to do. I shouted at him to be quiet, and I’ll never forget the flicker of terror on his little face before he ran to the comfort of his mother. “Oh Peter, he’s just playing” my wife said.”

The sadness was palpable as Mr Turvey’s head drooped forwards at the memory. “I tried to make things work” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, “but in the end it became apparent it would be better if I left.”

The stuffiness of the cell was increasing steadily causing Father Brown to tug at his dog collar while waiting to see if the man next to him had any more to get off his chest. After a minute or so of silence the priest gently nudged things along. “And so you came to Kembleford?”

There was a nod of ‘Yes’ in reply. “I decided a change was needed, a complete change. In my previous life I was actually a clerk in a barrister’s chambers, back in Oxford.”

“Ah!” the priest raised his eyebrows, fascinated to be learning more about the would-be member of his flock. With a wash and a haircut and a well tailored suit he could just about envisage Peter Turvey moving in such esteemed circles. “So you aren’t from an agricultural background?” he asked, willing the man to elaborate.

“Oh good grief no! When I stumbled upon that plot for sale I told myself “this is what you need, get back to basics, set up a small holding, live off the land”. Of course I soon learned it’s not that simple. ‘No man is an island’, isn’t that what they say? I’d like to consider myself reasonably self-sufficient these days but I do have to rely on others for certain roles, butchering my meat for example and I’m not much of a mechanic,” he grinned with self-deprecation. When his smile fell away he added, “Any actual money I make from selling produce and so on I send back to my family.”

“And what of your family? Your wife, your son? Is there no hope of a reconciliation?”

“Alas not Father, my wife was clear that it was best if we made a clean break of things. It wasn’t how I wanted things to go” he shrugged resignedly, “but I left, let them get on with their lives.” When he spoke again his voice threatened to break. “I miss them terribly Father” he admitted with a sniff, “It’s so very difficult knowing my son is growing up to become a young man and I’m not there to see it, to guide him.”

Reaching across Father Brown placed a hand on his shoulder; it was possibly the first physical affection the poor chap had received in years.

“Maybe I do watch the local boys playing” the stooped man almost sobbed, “but if I do watch, if I do stare, it’s entirely unintentional. I suppose I’m just reminded of all that I’ve missed out on these past years since I last saw my own child.” Pulling a crumpled handkerchief from his trouser pocket he rubbed his nose, attempting to regain his composure. “As I told the Chief Inspector I try to keep an eye on the younger ones, make sure they aren’t doing anything foolish, and to make sure they aren’t bothered by the older boys when they come sniffing around, making trouble.” He shook his head at the thought of Ian and Kenny playing happily together in the woods. “That’s why I gave that Martin lad short-shrift when I saw him lurking in the woods on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Martin Ludlow was at Kenny’s fort on Tuesday afternoon?!” the priest gasped. From what he’d gleaned from Sergeant Goodfellow the older boy had admitted to being with Kenny on Monday but no mention had been made of his whereabouts on Tuesday.

Before Mr Turvey had a chance to reply footsteps echoed down the corridor and, understandably given the earlier events of today, the man stiffened nervously. The footsteps though were well known to Father Brown who waited expectantly for Chief Inspector Sullivan to appear in the cell doorway.

“Mr Turvey, Father” the policeman said by way of opening, “The search of your property is complete. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Not at all” Mr Turvey replied, unsurprised by the officer’s statement.

“There is just one matter I’d like you to clear up for us if you would” Sullivan asked almost hesitantly.

“Yes, of course. As I told you, ask me anything that allows you to focus your attention where it will hopefully be more fruitful”

Reaching forward the Chief Inspector passed a handful of small photographs to the seated man who leafed through them with a sad smile. From over his shoulder Father Brown caught sight of the sepia-snapshots of the small boy at play.

“My son, Chief Inspector” Mr Turvey said with a lump in his throat.

“Your son?”

“Yes, although I imagine he looks quite different these day. He lives with his mother in Oxford. I can give you their address if that helps.”

Head dipping in slight embarrassment Sullivan reassured himself that it was a question he’d had to ask. Admittedly the photographs were completely innocent in nature but it was the only thing his officers had turned up at Mr Turvey’s property that had seemed remotely out of place. “Well, thank you” he muttered, stepping back towards the door, “And may I remind you that, as before, you are free to leave whenever you wish.”

“Chief Inspector” Father Brown piped up, his grin, as usual, laying bare his enthusiasm.

“Yes Father?” Sullivan asked with a resigned sigh.

“I think Mr Turvey may have some pertinent information for you.”

The policeman narrowed his eyes. Just when his gut was telling him Peter Turvey was no predator here came the priest to throw a hand-grenade into his investigation. How was it the man in the cassock always wheedled more details from the people in these cells than he himself managed to?

“And what information is this which you’ve decided to withhold from me until now, Mr Turvey?” Sullivan asked harshly.

“Not withheld, more failed to mention” the priest replied on the other man’s behalf. “Martin Ludlow” he prompted, “Tuesday afternoon.”

“Oh” Mr Turvey raised his eyebrows, cottoning on, “I mentioned seeing Martin Ludlow in the woods on Tuesday afternoon but as you’ve already spoken to the lad I’m sure that’s something you are aware of. And besides, I can’t imagine he’d have anything to do with young Kenny’s disappearance, he’s only a child himself for goodness sake.”

Unfortunately Chief Inspector Sullivan didn’t completely share Mr Turvey’s confidence about what a teenage boy like Martin was, or wasn’t, capable of. “Tuesday afternoon?” he asked sharply, “you’re sure it was Tuesday, not Monday?”

“Definitely Tuesday.”

“What time?”

“Half-three, maybe four o’clock: it was after I’d retuned from Hambleston.”

Seething that the man hadn’t thought to enlighten him sooner and mind racing as to why Martin Ludlow hadn’t divulged his visit to the woods on Tuesday during their chat, Sullivan rubbed his temples. “Right, well, thank you for that information” he half-snarled. “As I said you are free to go.”

Following the senior officer tentatively down the corridor Mr Turvey watched him disappear into his office, a shout of “Get the Ludlow boy back in” ringing out before he slammed the door behind himself.

From the far side of the desk Sergeant Goodfellow sighed at the sharpness of the order but smiled warmly when Father Brown and the portly gent approached.

“Could you tell me where Mr Rowland is at the moment?” Mr Turvey asked without rancour.

“He’s at home with his wife” the sergeant assured him, “Father Brown here had a word, calmed him down. And now we’ve searched your property you shouldn’t have any more problems.”

Mr Turvey raised a sceptical eyebrow, painfully aware that wasn’t how things worked around here. Never-the-less he put his personal fears aside, “I would like to rejoin the search Sergeant” he declared, “I’m sure you need all the men you can get.”

The priest and the policeman exchanged a glance that said “not a good idea.” After all Mr Turvey’s alibi was still to be fully corroborated.

“Well, that’s very good of you...” Goodfellow drawled slowly, trying to think how best to decline the offer.

Father Brown chipped in, “Wouldn’t it perhaps be best for Mr Turvey to return home?” he suggested airily. “Since the search of his property has concluded it may be prudent to have somebody there in case young Kenny makes a reappearance at his fort.”

Goodfellow clicked his fingers then pointed to the ever-helpful priest. “Exactly what I was thinking Father” he smiled broadly. “Would you be able to do that for us Mr Turvey?” he asked politely.

Smoothing a hand across his rounded stomach the man cocked a wiry eyebrow, “Keep an eye on the woods in case Kenny returns?” he asked, the scepticism evident in his voice.

“That’s right” Goodfellow nodded eagerly.

Peter Turvey sighed knowing full well it was a fool's errand designed to keep him away from Kembleford’s masses. The boy had been missing how long now? Two and a half days? Of course they all knew there was negligible chance of him simply showing up at his fort to play. But, he reminded himself, the best thing he could do was allow the police to continue their search however they saw fit and if that meant locking himself away at home, then so be it. “Very well Sergeant” he said with a nod, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Allow me to walk with you?” Father Brown asked, vowing to take a keener interest in the man’s wellbeing from now on.

“Of course” Mr Turvey replied with a grateful smile.

“And please remember” the priest added sincerely as they headed away from the front desk, “that the door to St Mary’s, and the presbytery, are always open.”

Chapter Text

The bell above the door chimed and Isabel entered Fernsley’s butchers to find Alma, back turned behind the counter, deep in conversation with Mrs Stafford. The smell of the slender woman’s cheap perfume fought with the shop’s bleachy odour and she was decked out as usual, Isabel noted uncharitably, like mutton dressed as lamb. It wasn’t that she was an unattractive sort of woman, she’d kept her slender figure well into middle age, but her over coiffured hair pinned and lacquered into a solid brown mass under her elaborate hat was just one indication that her appearance was of inordinate importance to her.

“Well I can only assume the Ludlow lad made some sort of accusation against Mr Turvey and that’s why there’s been police crawling all over his place” Alma hypothesised, busily wrapping a huge portion of marbled lumps of meat.

“And I heard tell one of the young boys was whisked away from school this morning by Sergeant Goodfellow” Mrs Stafford added, gloved hand fluttering here and there, “goodness knows what that was all about.”

Isabel pursed her lips together, fighting the urge to set the two women straight. The last thing Edgar needed was the Kembleford rumour-mill working overtime with people jumping to conclusions the way Alf Rowland had done earlier at the station. But Edgar also didn’t need his wife sticking her oar in: after all she knew she had a habit of putting her foot in things. Clearing her throat with theatrical flare both women turned to face her, Mrs Stafford demurring slightly at the sight of the policeman’s wife.

“Oh, Isabel, nice to see you back” Alma chirped from over the counter, keen to gloss over her gossiping. “Hope you and young Brenda had a nice trip to London.”

Isabel pasted a smile on her face. “Oh yes, it was very nice, though of course it seems like a distant memory now.” She stopped herself before mention of the missing boy escaped her lips.

“Is it true?” Mrs Stafford asked in a half-whisper, leaning so uncomfortably close to Isabel that she feared she’d choke on the cloying scent of fake roses, “I heard Alf Rowland took a pop at Pervy Turvey!” Her eyes widened in expectation of the answer.

“No, that’s not true” Isabel replied simply, desperately hoping to get served and leave before inadvertently letting anything slip. Though she abhorred the use of Mr Turvey’s nickname she decided to overlook it on this occasion.

“How’s that husband of yours?” Alma asked, passing Mrs Stafford her parcel of meat. “He must be glad to have you home to take care of him. Poor fellow’s been rushed off his feet.”

Tears pricking her eyes Isabel found sudden interest in the bottom of her shopping basket as she averted her watery-gaze. “Yes, he’s very busy” she replied banally, trying not to dwell on the fact her husband didn’t seem to give two hoots that she was back home and desperate to take care of him.

“I saw Violet Goodfellow this morning” Mrs Stafford said, dropping the wrapped meat into her garish oversized shopping bag, “she reckons her Daniel was like a zombie last night when he got home from the search. He’d no sooner finished his super and he was out like a light she said.”

“Chance would be a fine thing” Isabel thought, lump in her throat. What she wouldn’t give to see Edgar fed and packed off to bed for a proper sleep.

“You’d have thought they’d have found him by now, wouldn’t you?” Alma shook her head sadly, absent-mindedly wiping the same spot of the counter over and over again with her cloth. “I mean how far can a lad Kenny’s age stray?”

“I know” Mrs Stafford agreed, “they’ve got men scattered between here and next week but from what I heard the police are still no closer to finding the poor mite.”

Though the preening woman probably meant no slight Isabel’s jangling nerves found her leaping to the police’s defence. “Everybody’s working tirelessly to find Kenny” she blurted, “and there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes than…” Two pairs of widening eyes stared back at her in anticipation of some juicy tidbit: she bit her tongue. “And it’s not just men” she snapped reproachfully, “There’s women out there too, searching, or over at the village hall. Plenty of ways everyone can play their part.”

Alma raised an eyebrow and turned her attention to shuffling metal trays of offal and ribs, Isabel’s rather unsubtle dig at Mrs Stafford having brought a frostiness to the warm interior.

Suitably chastised Mrs Stafford began rifling through her purse, silently counting out coins. She mumbled something about having been terribly busy and intending to offer her services at the village hall later.

“It just beggars belief” Alma said, “to think Alf Rowland was stood in this very shop on Tuesday afternoon, buying liver for him and young Kenny, non-the-wiser to the fact that the poor boy hadn’t even made it as far as school that morning.”

“Hmph” Mrs Stafford huffed passing the money to Alma, gloved hand held out waiting for her change. “Fancy Maisie making Alf fend for himself like that. I can’t say I’m fond of the man but she could’ve at least put his dinner in the oven before she went off out.”

“Oh, he wasn’t best pleased about that, I can tell you. Had a face like thunder, getting all shirty about Paul Dunn taking too long to get served.” Tapping a finger to her temple Alma added in an unsubtle whisper, “Paul’s a bit like my husband’s cousin Archie, not all there, but he’s polite enough, in his own sort of way.”

“Well” Isabel said, keen to squash the gossip, “I’m sure Mr Rowland understood his wife had her hands full on Tuesday afternoon catering up at Ryecombe Manor.”

“Catering?” Mrs Stafford scoffed stepping aside to afford Isabel a better view of the fares on display. “There was no catering to be done at the Manor on Tuesday.”

“Oh? I must be mistaken” Isabel said trying not to show her surprise. But the knotting in her stomach told her something was amiss. “I thought I’d heard Maisie Rowland had gone up there to help prepare food for a do they were having.”

“Oh they were having a do alright.” Suddenly aware she had an audience Mrs Stafford raised her chin haughtily. “Young Gillian from next door-but-one helps out at those sort of things, but there was no food to be prepared. Gillian said it was just those little canopies” she mangled the word flatly, indicating something small pinched between finger and thumb. “All the women had to do was get there a short while before the guests arrived to arrange things on plates and put the glasses out on trays.”

Isabel’s antenna twitched. “Oh, well then, my mistake” she gabbled breezily, fighting the urge to turn and run. Switching her attention as casually as she could to what to buy in the hope her husband would be home for dinner, her mind was already galloping ahead. She had to get to the station as soon as possible yet without arousing suspicion. Something wasn’t adding up and Edgar needed to know.

Chapter Text

Sergeant Goodfellow waited outside the Chief Inspector’s closed office door, unable to make out the words being spoken from within yet perfectly capable of deciphering the fraught nature of the telephone-call. While the powers-that-be were happy enough to profess their support for Kembleford’s finest when talking to the press, behind closed doors it was another matter altogether. Surely they knew that everything possible was being done to find Kenny Rowland, so why did they insist on the endless calls, demanding updates when it was plain they’d’ve been informed of any developments had they occurred?: all they succeeded in doing, it seemed to him, was taking up more of the boss’s time and patience.

On hearing the receiver being placed firmly back in its cradle the sergeant took a step backwards in anticipation of the Chief Inspector emerging from his lair. When the door flew open it would be fair to say the man looked decidedly frazzled but then again he’d been looking that way since yesterday morning when the initial overnight search had failed to find the boy.

“Martin Ludlow and his father are in the interview room.” Goodfellow’s statement was met with a curt nod. Following his boss down the corridor the two officers took the chance to mull things over.

“Now that we know Martin was back in the woods on Tuesday afternoon I’d say there’s a good chance Kenny was back there too, wouldn’t you agree?” Sullivan asked.

“Suppose so Sir, and if they were playing there it could explain the appearance of that strange hole though I still can’t imagine what purpose it’s meant to serve.”

“As you said Sergeant, boys and their imaginations’.” A shrug punctuated the half-thought.

On reaching the door to the interview room Goodfellow raised a hand to halt his colleague. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

Nodding towards Edgar’s rolled-up shirt sleeves the sergeant winced. “I just think Sir it looks a bit…”

“Unprofessional?”

“I was going to say intimidating. I know that’s not your intention but Martin’s only a young lad.”

“Right, yes, good point.” Rolling down his sleeves and buttoning the cuffs Sullivan gave himself a word of warning: “He’s not going to tell you anything if he’s scared witless. Press him as firmly as you need to but keep your calm, he’s only a child.”

With no folder to use as a prop this time only the bare metal table lay between Chief Inspector Sullivan and Martin Ludlow as the former took his seat. Mr Ludlow in his dark grey suit was seated in the chair next to his son but whether through design or chance his was positioned a foot further back putting Martin firmly front-and-centre. With Goodfellow’s observation about not intimidating the lad ringing in his ears Sullivan became acutely aware of the harsh overhead lamp illuminating only the very centre of the deliberately dark, austere room, its narrow beam reflecting off the boy’s greasy blond hair. Goodfellow as always stood in the corner, half hidden in the shadows.

“I’m sorry Inspector” Mr Ludlow said with forced courtesy, “but can you please tell me what this is about? I received a telephone call asking me to meet Martin here again, the second time I’ve been called from work today, and I do perhaps wonder if this couldn’t have waited. Was it really necessary to remove him from his lessons this close to the end of the school day?”

“I can assure you Mr Ludlow we wouldn’t have asked Martin back here if we didn’t deem it necessary.” The strained politeness almost choked Sullivan, as did Mr Ludlow’s repeated omission of “Chief” from his title. Taking a deep breath he willed himself to relax his shoulders, leaning gently across the table towards the boy. “Martin, can you tell me when you last saw Kenny Rowland?”

Scrunching up his face in confusion the boy replied evenly, “Like I told you, it was Monday afternoon, in the woods.”

“And where were you on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Um, I was at, er, school and then I dunno, just around the village.”

Edgar paused, observing the nervous flickering in the boy’s pale blue eyes. Studying him more closely under the harsh overhead lamp he saw the trace of sparse pale hairs lining his upper lip and sprouting feebly from his chin. “Has his father noticed?” Edgar wondered. “Is it nearing the time for a lesson in how to shave?” His scrutiny however didn’t prompt Martin to elaborate. “We spoke to your school Martin and they said you were absent for the final lesson on Tuesday. You were last seen there at 2pm. That’s two o’clock on the afternoon Kenny went missing.”

Mr Ludlow reached out and grabbed his son’s shoulder roughly. “No more lies Martin!” he bellowed, “No more wasting the police’s time do you hear me?!”

Cowering slightly in his chair Martin admitted with a whine, “It was maths, I hadn’t done my homework so I bunked off.”

“And where did you go once you’d ‘bunked off’?”

“I came back to Kembleford.”

“Can you please be more specific?” Already Sullivan was finding it hard not to lose his temper lay down the law.

“I went to the woods.”

“Which woods?” He knew the answer of course but he needed to hear the boy say it himself.

“Pervy, er, Mr Turvey’s woods.”

“And why did you go there?”

Martin froze, his pungent adolescent odour slowly filling the room.

“Why did you go to the woods Martin?” the Chief Inspector asked with greater conviction.

“To wait for Kenny finishing at school.”

“And why were you waiting for Kenny?”

A nervous shrug: “I dunno.”

Fixing his eyes on Martin’s Sullivan spoke calmly. “We found a stone with blood on it near the boys’ fort. Forensics are looking at it but we believe it to be human blood.”

Fingers darting to the cut below his left eye Martin stammered, “I, I , I told you, we were messing about on Monday. Kenny stuck his foot out and tripped me up, I fell and hit my cheek.”

“Kenny tripped you up on Monday? When we spoke this morning you said you tripped. So, which was is it?”

“Same thing isn’t it?” The insolent reply came out as barely a whisper.

“No Martin, they’re not the same thing at all. So which was it? Did you trip, or did Kenny trip you?”

The lad’s eyes found the furthest corner of the room and stared into it, slumping back in his chair. “Alright, Kenny tripped me up.”

“Well, that must’ve been embarrassing” Edgar commented, and despite himself he felt a tiny pang of sympathy for the awkward sweaty lump sitting opposite him. “I don’t suppose you’d want anybody to know that would you?” He glanced towards the boy’s father who realised now why his son had lied about how he’d come by the black eye. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted the older boys to hear about it.”

Martin shrugged then swept a wayward strand of hair up from his forehead.

“Did it make you angry Martin? A little boy like Kenny tripping you up, causing that cut to your cheek?”

“No, I wasn’t angry” Martin protested weakly, “it was just an accident. We were chasing each other, tussling you know.”

Edgar could almost feel the tensing in Goodfellow’s body at the word ‘tussle’.

“Explain what you mean by tussling please.”

“Oh, like, er, play fighting.”

The knot in Sullivan’s stomach tightened. “Take a breath, don't rush him” he warned himself. “And on Tuesday when you went to the woods, did you see Kenny again then? Did you and he perhaps tussle?”

“No!” The answer was almost spat across the table.

“Martin, did you hit Kenny Rowland?”

“I might have given him a shove, after he tripped me. But that was on Monday.” The boy was well and truly rattled now, arms folded defensively, fear seeping from every teenage pore.

“Did you perhaps hit Kenny with a stone?”

Anger flared in Martin’s eyes. “No! I told you, I fell and bashed my face on the stone, if there’s any blood there it’s mine.”

“Our forensics team will be able to check if the blood type matches yours.”

“Yeah, well it will!” Martin’s face crumpled, defiantly sniffing back tears, nostrils of his upturned nose twitching and flaring.

Sullivan took a moment to let the lads emotions settle. As discreetly as possible he cast his eyes towards Goodfellow, wishing for some silent gesture from his sergeant, a nod of the head or a twisting of his face to indicate whether the tone of his questions was becoming too harsh. But Goodfellow remained impassive, standing stony-faced with his back ramrod straight. Mr Ludlow too gave little away though if anything the smartly dressed man appeared almost bewildered by the turn of events.

“Martin” the Chief Inspector said firmly, “On Tuesday you left school early and went back to the woods to wait for Kenny. Why?”

“I, er, I dunno.”

“That is NOT an answer Martin” he said sternly, “Why?”

Twisting in his seat Martin slipped his hand into the leather satchel hanging from the back of the chair. The glint of silver and the all-too familiar shape caused both officers to flinch, Edgar’s hand raising from the table in a gesture of self-defence as Goodfellow rocked forwards on the balls of his feet. It took a split second for both men to realise that what the boy held was no more than a toy.

Laying the cap-gun on the table the lad explained, “I wanted to give this back to Kenny.”

Letting out a tiny sigh of relief Sullivan let his eyes rest on the toy.

“I took it from him on Monday, after the fight… I mean the tussle.” He screwed his eyes shut at the misspoken word then, with his voice little more than a croak added weakly, “I told Kenny I’d give it back if he brought me a bottle of his dad’s beer.”

Mr Ludlow leant forward, elbows on knees and stared at the side of his son’s face. “A bottle of beer? What on earth did you want that for?”

Martin spun to face his father and bleated, “So I could go to the bridge where the boys my age hang out. They said I could only go if I took a bottle of beer to share, but I was too scared to steal one from home and I didn’t know where else to get one from! So I thought I’d get Kenny to steal one from his dad instead. Everybody knows Alf drinks like a fish, he wouldn’t miss one bottle, would he?”

Through frustrated at Mr Ludlow’s intervention Edgar sensed at least some progress was being made. A thought sprang to his mind, “What can you tell me about the hole that had been dug near the end of the woods?”

“Nothing” Martin replied openly, “I mean I noticed it when I went there on Tuesday but I don’t know what it’s for, you’d have to ask Kenny, or Ian.”

Leaning back in his chair Sullivan studied the teenager before him. The cut on his cheek and the darkening bruise gave him a thuggish air, but beyond that he looked no different to any other boy his age. In fact take away the spotty cheeks and greasy hair, disregard the hint of facial hair and whiff of oniony body odour and you’d be left with a blond-haired blue-eyed boy who wouldn’t look out of place in St Mary’s choir. But looks could be deceptive.

Steeling himself to wind up their conversation Edgar tugged at his shirt cuffs and puffed out his chest. He’d heeded Goodfellow’s advice thus-far but now he needed to make certain the boy was telling him the full story.

“So let’s get this right Martin” he said, addressing him just as he would an adult, harsh suspicion brimming in his voice, “On Monday you went to the woods to try and persuade Kenny to steal a bottle of beer from his father?”

Martin nodded rapidly in reply, “But he wouldn’t.”

“So you had a fight?”

“A tussle.”

“You hit your face, you stole his gun and told him he’d only get it back if he met you in the woods again on Tuesday with the beer?”

“Yes, that’s right, that’s right” Martin stammered, the policeman’s change in tone having the desired effect.

“On Tuesday you left school early and waited in the woods for Kenny.”

“Yes, yes I did, but he never showed up.”

“Kenny didn’t come to the woods on Tuesday afternoon?”

“No, I swear Inspector, that’s the truth. I meant it this morning when I said I didn’t see Kenny again after Monday.”

Sullivan felt his eye twitch, his brain replaying this mornings interview. He hadn’t directly asked Martin Ludlow about his movements on Tuesday, focussing instead on the lad’s interaction with Kenny on the Monday afternoon. Martin’s failure to mention that he’d returned to the woods on the day the younger boy went missing was therefore a lie by omission. But he was old enough and smart enough to be aware of that, so why not come clean this morning when he’d had the chance? Was he naive enough to think he wouldn’t get caught out for bunking off school, or did he have a more troubling reason for not wanting to place himself at the scene a second time? Shaking his head Edgar told himself there was no point dwelling on this morning’s slipshod interview, pressing on with his line of questioning.

“And so what did you do when Kenny didn’t meet you as agreed on Tuesday?”

Eyes dropping to his hands Martin’s lower lip began to tremble. A not so gently nudge on the shoulder from his father made him sit up straight and continue. “I was angry so I smashed up his fort.” His shame was plain to see. He blubbed, “I smashed it up and Mr Turvey must’ve heard me cos he came and chased me off.”

Softening his tone a touch Edgar pressed on, “Where did you go after he chased you off?”

Martin wiped his nose on the cuff of his oversized blazer, “I wandered around the village a bit, looking for Kenny, but I couldn’t find him so I just went home.”

The Chief Inspector’s eyes asked Mr Ludlow to corroborate his son’s story. “He got home about half past five” the man nodded.

Sullivan replayed Martin’s comment about Alf Rowland’s drinking habits, making a mental note to somehow find out if any bottles of beer were missing from the Rowlands’ home. After all if Alf had caught Kenny in the act of pilfering one goodness knew how he’d’ve reacted.

Leaning across the table, shadows cast across his face from the stark light above, the Chief Inspector ground the final answers from the trembling boy. “Martin, I am going to ask you very clearly and I need the truth: Do you know where Kenny Rowland is?”

“No” Martin sobbed, then turning to his father repeated it with a shake of the head, “No, I don’t know.”

“Do you have any idea what may have happened to Kenny or where he might be?”

“No, no I swear Inspector, honestly!”

Mr Ludlow’s hand crept up to curl around his son’s shoulder, the boy descending into sobs.

“If I have cause to call you in here again Martin there will be consequences. It is an offence to obstruct an officer in his investigation, do you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand, I’m sorry Inspector, I’ve told you everything, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Satisfied there was no more to be gleaned and having put the fear of God into the lad, Sullivan stood and addressed Mr Ludlow whose son now clung to him for all his worth. “That will be all” he said before picking up the toy gun and scraping back his chair. A flick of his head told Goodfellow to follow him from the interview room and off they strode down the corridor, the sound of the boy’s bawling receding behind them.

Chapter Text

A sheepish looking Martin Ludlow was led towards the door of the police station by his equally sheepish looking father, both man and boy with heads down offering not so much as a muttered goodbye to either Sullivan or Goodfellow standing rigidly behind the front desk.

They were met in the doorway by Father Brown, tipping his hat to the pair in acknowledgement as he headed in the other direction. The Chief Inspector let out a low sigh at the sight of the meddlesome priest.

Goodfellow on the other hand seemed happy to see him, “Back again Father? Thought you were off to make some visits.”

“That had been my intention, however…” he twisted his face in displeasure, “as I was leaving here with Mr Turvey we passed by the school and, well, I think there’s something you ought to know.”

“And what’s that?” Edgar asked reluctantly.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose the priest explained, “It’s fair to say that it’s pandemonium outside the school I’m afraid. All the mothers have congregated to collect their children to walk them home, and I overheard them telling Mrs Waldrom that they won’t be sending the children back again until Kenny has been found.”

Goodfellow’s shoulders slumped at the news while Sullivan raised a hand to his throbbing forehead.

“There’s more” Father Brown said with an apologetic smile, “As we approached the school Mr Turvey’s presence caused some tension: I was glad I was there accompany him by. But things were being said about him…”

“I’m sure they were” Sullivan muttered.

“And also…”

“Yes? Spit it out!”

Father Brown steeled himself: he wasn’t relishing being the bearer of bad tidings. “There was much talk about the mysterious red car that was seen at the crossroads on Tuesday. I’m afraid the word “kidnapper” has started to be bandied about.”

From behind the desk the sergeant threw up his hands in frustration, “We’ve no evidence that the car has anything to do with Kenny going missing. Could’ve simply been somebody parked there while they went off for a walk.” His eyes were suddenly drawn to the appearance of Isabel in the doorway, her honey coloured hair and purplish-red headscarf bringing a splash of colour to the otherwise drab surrounds.

Father Brown shrugged, “Either way, may I suggest Chief Inspector that you organise a meeting, to update people on your investigation. It may help to nip a few rumours in the bud, put minds at rest.”

“Organise a village meeting?!” Edgar couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice as he continued sarcastically, “Why yes Father, I’ll make it my top priority after I’ve chased the lab for forensics on the bloody stone, updated the search areas, prepared a statement for the baying pack of reporters whom, I assume, are still camped outside, reconvened with with Major Capon as I promised I would, taken another ear-bashing from the Chief Superintendent about my lack of progress and tied up the twenty loose ends” he signalled to the board in his office, “ including hopefully this mysterious red car which is apparently causing such consternation.” Realising how self-pitying he sounded and catching the worried look on his wife’s face as she hovered behind the priest he adjusted his tie and dropped his eyes to one of the many folders lying open on the front desk.

Outburst over Father Brown waited a second before he spoke again. “I’m sorry Chief Inspector, I know you are incredibly busy. I just thought you should know that people may be in need of some reassurance.”

“And I’m sorry” Edgar said dejectedly, “But how can I provide reassurance when I don’t have the faintest idea what’s happened to the boy?” With that he began leafing through a stack of papers.

“Was young Martin able to shed any more light on things?” the priest asked as Isabel shuffled towards the desk, trying to catch her husband’s eye.

Goodfellow shook his head in reply.

Chin tilting upwards Father Brown considered what he knew of the Ludlow’s and their son. “My instinct says Martin won’t’ve been involved in Kenny’s disappearance. In fact I don’t believe any of the local boys, however wayward, would harm another child.”

Sullivan gritted his teeth: “What you believe is sadly irrelevant Father. What I require is evidence, not your instinct.” However, though he was loathed to admit it, his own gut was telling him exactly the same thing. He turned to address Goodfellow, “From what we’ve seen Martin is afraid to steal from his father, afraid of the tales told about Peter Turvey, afraid to get involved in the older boys’ antics. Hardly points to him doing harm to Kenny and then having the nous to cover it up.”

Nodding Goodfellow added, “And Martin’s fight with Kenny on Monday can’t’ve amounted to much, otherwise the Rowlands would have noticed something when he got home. I could have a word with the older boys though, sounds like they broke Kenny and Ian’s other fort up earlier in the summer. Maybe they were hanging around Turvey’s place too, saw something, or saw Kenny around the village on Tuesday?” He received a nod of agreement from his boss.

“Edgar” Isabel said, stepping closer, “I…”

Edgar held up a hand to shush her, speaking instead to his sergeant. “And we’ll need to speak to Alf Rowland to see if he’s missing any beer. I dare say he wouldn’t have been best pleased if he’d found Kenny stealing a bottle.” He thought for a moment. “I know Alf Rowland has a temper, but does he have a history of violence?”

Twisting his face as he thought Goodfellow replied “Not as such Sir, but he’s been in his fair share of scuffles, usually when he’s drunk, throwing his weight around at the Red Lion. Never been cause to arrest him though.”

Sullivan’s eyes extended the question to his wife and Father Brown.

“I’ve heard rumours” Isabel offered feebly.

When the priest didn’t reply Sullivan pressed him, “Father?” The cagey shrug didn’t tell him much, but he recognised the way the man clamped his lips together to avoid letting something slip. “Hmm, so that’s it” Edgar thought, “Alf throws his weight around at home, that’ll be what Maisie divulged during confession.”

“Edgar, I really need to speak to you.” Isabel’s words broke Edgar’s train of thought and he saw her signal to the shopping basket on her arm. “I went to the butchers to get something for later and there was a woman there, Mrs Stafford, and she was telling Alma…”

“Isabel, I have more important things to think about than food and idle gossip!” he snapped, turning towards his office.

“Edgar! Listen!” At last she’d caught his attention and he turned to face her, Father Brown and Sergeant Goodfellow listening in intently. “What I heard in the butchers, I think it could be important.”

Chapter Text

The clock of St Mary’s had just struck four as Edgar and Isabel hovered in the doorway at the back of the church. The usual scent of candle wax and musty hymn books lingered in the uncomfortably muggy afternoon air and Edgar, fully suited with tie straight and tight, wished he’d had more than a swig of lukewarm tea before leaving the station. With a tilt of his head he gestured down the aisle to where Father Brown and Maisie Rowland knelt with hands clasped, heads bowed in muted prayer.

“Did you manage to get her here without arousing suspicion?” Edgar asked his wife in a hushed tone.

Standing on tiptoe to bring her mouth towards his ear she noticed again the shaving-cut along his jawline. “Yes” she whispered in reply, her nose picking up the faintest hint of sweat emanating from his skin, “Alf thinks she’s come with me to light a candle.”

The rustling of dress and cassock sounded as priest and parishioner retook their seats on the pew and Edgar steeled himself, knowing it was time to put the awkward question of her whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon to the distraught Mrs Rowland.

As he turned to walk away Isabel caught his wrist. “I’ll wait outside” she informed him, nodding towards the door. “Keep any passers-by at bay, make sure you aren’t interrupted.”

“Yes, that would be very helpful” Edgar thanked her with a weak smile, the soft grip of her hand on his jacket sleeve inexplicably reassuring.

The Chief Inspector’s hard soled shoes on the stone-flagged aisle announced his approach as, with hat in hand, he slipped into the pew in front of Mrs Rowland and Father Brown then swivelled back to face the woman, patting down his ruffled hair. She toyed nervously with her silver necklace and Edgar’s nose twitched at the stench of nicotine that clung to her clothes.

Getting straight to the point he began, “Mrs Rowland, I need to ask you about your movements on the afternoon your son went missing.”

A small sob and nod of the head indicated she’d been expecting the question. “I left home a little after lunchtime, about one o’clock.”

Edgar paused but when she didn’t elaborate he was forced to press her gently. “Where did you go after leaving home?”

Whipping a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jumper she turned to Father Brown and sniffled. The priest nodded as though giving her permission to speak, his simple action causing the policeman to rage silently at the power the man held over his flock.

Dabbing the hanky to her cheeks she shook her head. “I didn’t go to Ryecombe Manor like I said I did, not straight away at least.”

“Then where did you go?”

“I’m sorry” she sobbed, hand grasping the small cross at the end of the chain, “I can’t tell you that. But it’s got nothing to do with Kenny going missing, I swear.”

When Edgar turned to Father Brown the annoyance burned in his eyes as he wordlessly appealed to the priest to intervene.

“Maybe it would be best if you told the Chief Inspector everything” Father Brown suggested. “I’m sure he will treat anything you tell him with the upmost discretion.”

“I’m sorry Father, I can’t” Maisie sobbed, chin dipping to her chest.

Sullivan took a deep breath and held it. “She apologises to the priest” he fumed to himself, “but not to the man who’s running himself ragged trying to find her son while she withholds information.”

Sliding angrily from his pew the Chief Inspector stormed towards the back of the church. “Father” he commanded and the priest smiled feebly at Mrs Rowland before shuffling after him. The two men stood face to face by the wood-panelled confessional. Jabbing an accusatory finger towards the crouched figure of the weeping woman Sullivan snarled through gritted teeth, “She’s lied about her whereabouts on Tuesday and now she’s refusing to cooperate!” His finger turned to the thick curtain hanging across the central compartment beside them, “But of course she doesn’t mind telling you where she was, does she? Oh yes, that makes perfect sense!” he scoffed, “provide the priest with the necessary information yet leave the hapless police in the dark and expect them to miraculously find her son.”

Father Brown briefly considered protesting, of informing the angry policeman that Maisie Rowland hand’t confided in him about her movements on Tuesday, but he thought better of it: even if he was believed it would prove meagre consolation.

“Father, I have no desire to arrest the poor woman” Sullivan whispered harshly, “but if she continues to waste my time by sitting there tight lipped I have to ask myself if she really wants her son found or not.”

“Chief Inspector!” Father Brown admonished him in a gruff hush, “You cannot for a moment doubt that poor woman’s suffering!”

Maisie’s sudden wail echoed through the church, silencing both men. “STOP IT!” she cried, “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Father Brown and the Chief Inspector exchanged guilty glances, both having been unaware that Mrs Rowland was able to hear their heated exchange. Sheepishly they headed back down the aisle, resuming their positions in the pews.

“I was going to go to the butchers” Maisie began weakly, “get some mince to put in the oven for Alf and Kenny. But then…” she grabbed at the wedding band on her bony finger, twisting it nervously, “but then I decided to pay Howard a visit instead.”

“Howard?” the policeman asked a little more sharply than he’d intended, “Who’s Howard?”

Sensing Maisie’s difficulty Father Brown filled in the details he felt permitted to. “Howard Yendle is one of the casual workers, he’s been up at Brookes’ Farm for the harvest.”

“And why did you go to see Mr Yendle?” Sullivan asked, though the answer was rather obvious, the woman’s fingers again finding the silver cross around her neck. He recalled his visit to the Rowlands’ home yesterday evening, the way Mrs Rowland had fiddled with both pieces of jewellery when he’d questioned her. At the time he’d taken it as nothing more than a reassuring ritual but now he saw it for what it was: Good old Catholic guilt, plain for all to see. He had no desire to embarrass the woman but he needed her to tell him more about her relationship with this Howard Yendle fellow and her movements on Tuesday. Fortunately speaking the man’s name aloud seemed to have broken Maisie’s reticence.

“I went to apologise to him” she said plainly, sniffing back tears. “You see the last time we’d spoken I’d been rather sharp with him.” She turned to Father Brown as she continued, “When I ended our relationship I said things I didn’t mean to Howard, hurtful things. I’m not proud of that, he’s a decent man and he didn’t deserve it so I went to apologise, to clear the air.” She looked Father Brown straight in the eye but couldn’t tell if scepticism was hiding behind his benevolent smile. “It’s true Father, I had no intention of, you know, seeing him again, not like that” she protested as Edgar scrutinised her discreetly from the pew in front, “And when I told you that I hadn’t seen Howard since last week Father, that was true, strictly speaking.”

A shaft of light pierced through one of the high plain glass windows and fell upon Maisie Rowland, the tears on her sunken cheeks glistening softly.

“You left home around one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon and went to visit Howard Yendle at Brookes’ Farm?” Chief Inspector Sullivan asked, fixing the details into his brain.

Maisie nodded her head rapidly, turning back to the policeman. “But when I got to the farm I couldn’t find Howard. I know the spots he usually works, I looked all around, discreetly of course, some of the other fellas were about, but not Howard. After a while I began to think maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all, maybe it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“So then what did you do?”

“There’s a spot near the river, I went there, just sat for a while.”

“Can anybody corroborate that?”

Half-laughing half-crying Maisie shook her head, “Can anybody confirm that I sat by the river and cried myself senseless? No Chief Inspector, it was just me there.”

Trying to coax her gently Sullivan asked, “How long did you sit there would you say?”

“Until it was time to go to the Manor to get ready for the fundraiser they was having.”

“You didn’t go back home, to wait for your son returning from school?”

Though not intended as an accusation Father Brown flashed Sullivan a glare of warning, his remark seeming unnecessarily tactless.

“I couldn’t face going back!” Mrs Rowland howled quietly, “I needed some time alone, away from the house, the village, some time to clear my head.” Composing herself she turned to Father Brown. “I told you this was all my fault, didn’t I Father? It’s like the Chief Inspector says, I should’ve been home on Tuesday afternoon that way I’d’ve noticed when Kenny didn’t come back from school.”

Furrowing his brow Father Brown sought to reassure her, “Even if you’d been at home that afternoon, wouldn’t you have assumed Kenny had simply gone off to play after school? You wouldn’t have thought anything was amiss until he failed to appear at dinnertime, which is exactly when your husband noted his absence.”

“But I wouldn’t have waited as long as Alf did to report our son missing!”

The venom in the woman’s voice caught Edgar off-guard. She was right though, wasn’t she? The boy had been expected home at six yet Alf hadn’t raised the alarm until almost nine o’clock by which time it was already dark. Why had Mr Rowland spent so long searching alone for the boy?

“Thank you Mrs Rowland” the Chief Inspector said getting to his feet. “If there is anything else you want to speak to me about, privately, I’m sure Father Brown or Isabel will be able to arrange for us to meet again.”

“Chief Inspector” Father Brown called quietly as he rushed to follow the policeman towards the door.

“Yes Father?” Sullivan asked impatiently.

“May I ask what you plan to do with this new information?”

Rubbing his temples the policeman decided there was no point in trying to keep the priest in the dark. “I’m going to speak to this Howard Yendle chap. Maisie claims he wasn’t at Brookes’ Farm when she went to find him therefore I’d very much like to know where he was on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Will you speak to him at the farm or bring him to the station?”

“What concern is that of yours?” Edgar was nearing the end of his tether and finding it harder and harder to hide it.

“You know how badly Alf Rowland reacted when he heard Mr Turvey had been brought in for questioning. What will he think if he hears Mr Yendle is at the station? He is, as yet, unaware of his wife’s relationship with Howard but if word were to get out…”

Clenching his jaw the Chief Inspector inhaled deeply through his nose. Was there no end to the priest’s meddling? Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d kept Maisie’s infidelity a secret? Now here he was attempting to dictate where Edgar should conduct his interviews!

“I will be as discreet as I can Father” Edgar growled through gritted teeth, “But at this precise moment the Rowlands’ marital woes are the least of my concern.” With that he spun on his heels and strode towards the door. Father Brown screwed his eyes closed, praying this investigation wouldn’t lead to yet more heartache for Maisie Rowland.

Chapter Text

Chief Inspector Sullivan paused outside the interview room, preparing himself mentally for the task ahead. This would be the fourth interview he’d conducted in here today and the fourth person different person he’d quizzed about their movements on Tuesday. “Tuesday” he reminded himself, “Kenny Rowland went off to school on Tuesday morning but never came back. Today is Thursday” he checked his watch, “Thursday, just after five.” His mind spun: could that be right? Was it really approaching forty-eight hours since the boy had been reported missing? And what of the hours before that, between him leaving home on Tuesday morning and failing to return for dinner that evening?

“Ready Sir?” Goodfellow asked, approaching from the direction of the front desk. For the first time Sullivan noticed how weary his sergeant looked, the bags under his eyes and lack of customary cheer just two indicators of the toll the past few days had taken on him.

“Yes Sergeant, let’s get started.”

Howard Yendle’s head shot up the moment the two policemen entered the room. “Can somebody tell me what this is about?” he asked politely, Goodfellow taking up position in the corner as Sullivan pulled back his chair. The grating of the metal legs across the floor was like nails down a chalkboard, the Chief Inspector attempting not to wince at the sound.

“We’d just like you to confirm your whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon if you would please Mr Yendle” Sullivan said matter-of-factly.

“Well, er… I’d’ve been up at the farm.”

“Brookes’ Farm?” The question was intended to put Mr Yendle at ease by having him confirm such a simple detail.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You work there?”

“Yes” Mr Yendle nodded, his dark almond shaped eyes narrowing as he tried to work out where this was leading. ”Mr Brookes only employs us for the harvest though, I’m not there full time.”

“I see” Sullivan said nodding. He scrutinised the well built muscular man opposite, bare arms and rounded face darkened by months spent in the fields. But despite his trade no more than a shadow of dark stubble lined his cheeks and chin indicating he’d shaved this morning, a detail that was in keeping with his overall clean and tidy appearance.

“And you were at the farm all afternoon?”

“Um, yes. Busy time, plenty of work to be done.”

“Can anybody confirm that?” The question was kept deliberately light.

“Confirm that I was at the farm?” Howard Yendle shrugged and for the first time readjusted his position, folding his large forearms onto the table. “Why would I need somebody to confirm that? What’s this about?”

Sensing Yendle was getting rattled Sullivan paused, fixing his eyes on him. “Can anybody confirm your whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon?” he asked again, this time his tone harsher.

“Well, er, yes. Bill Atkinson, one of the other workers, he’ll vouch for me.”

Sullivan kept his face impassive. “That’s good” he nodded then turned to address Goodfellow. “Let’s arrange for somebody to speak to Mr Atkinson then we’ll need to pay another visit to Maisie Rowland.”

Howard Yendle sat bolt upright in his chair. “Maisie? Why Maisie?” he asked, startled.

It was the crack in Yendle’s facade that the Chief Inspector had been hoping for. “Because” he said calmly, “Maisie Rowland claimed she came to visit you at the farm on Tuesday afternoon but you weren’t there.”

Yendle’s eyes widened, “Maisie came to the farm?” he asked in disbelief. “Why?” He blinked as though to make himself think more clearly, “I mean, how is er…Mrs Rowland?”

Despite the man’s genuine surprise and obvious concern Sullivan didn’t furnish him with any answers, opting to steer the conversation down a different track. “Tell me about your relationship with Mrs Rowland.”

Leaning across the table and lowering his voice Howard asked “What d’ya mean by relationship?” His dark brown eyes flitted nervously around the room, “I mean, what’ve you heard?”

“Enough!” Sullivan snarled, “I’ve asked you a question and I expect an answer, is that clear?”

Nodding compliantly Howard puffed out his cheeks. “Maisie and me were seeing each other” he admitted dejectedly, “but she broke it off.”

“”Seeing each other”?”

Howard took the hint and elaborated. “It started last year, but when the time came for me to move on we broke things off. Then when I came back to Kembleford at the start of the summer Maisie and me became reacquainted.”

An unmistakable sadness weighed on Mr Yendle as he recounted the tale, his gaze dropping to his hands which lay clasped together on the metal table. “She’s not happy in her marriage, I think that much is common knowledge, Alf doesn’t treat her right.” Shaking his head despondently he shrugged, “We talked about making a proper go of things, me and her. I told her she could come away with me but she said she couldn’t leave Kenny and Alf would never let the lad go. Don’t know why, he’s hardly the doting father as far as I can tell. I tried to make her see sense, to see that it’s no life she’s got here” he smiled sadly, “Not that I could offer her life of luxury mind you. But at least I’d treat her right, treat her the way she deserves.”

It must have been the overwhelming tiredness spreading through the Chief Inspector that left him looking across the table with such sympathy, the gnawing in his stomach not just reminding him of his hunger but of how it felt to be hopelessly in love with a woman you were sure you could never share a future with.

Coughing to clear the tightness in his throat Edgar snapped back into professional mode, “So when Maisie came to see you at the farm on Tuesday, where were you exactly?”

“Here, in the village” Howard replied, his broad shoulders slumping. “I asked my mate Bill to cover for me in case Mr Brookes wondered where I’d got to.”

“And what brought you to Kembleford?”

“I wanted to pay a visit to Mr Turvey.”

Neither Sullivan nor Goodfellow could hide the spark of intrigue at hearing Peter Turvey’s name mentioned yet again.

“Why did you want to see Mr Turvey?” the Chief Inspector asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“I wanted to know if he’d take me on when the harvest ended. Like I told Father Brown I thought maybe I could get myself some work here in the village, stick around a while longer.”

Edgar’s jaw clenched at the mention of the priest. When, he wondered, had he taken it upon himself to speak to Howard Yendle? And what exactly had he found out? “So you planned on staying in Kembleford, even though Maisie Rowland broke off your relationship?”

“Stupid I know, but I thought if I could stay close by, get a proper job, maybe… I’d do anything to be with her.”

Again Sullivan felt his heartstrings tugging. “You’re tired and hungry, that’s all” he cautioned himself, “You can’t afford to go soft like Goodfellow. Stick to the facts.” He drew a deep breath, “What time did you go to see Mr Turvey?”

Howard ran a hand back through his shiny ink-black hair, “After lunch, about half one I’d say. Me and Bill had been working in the bottom field, I snuck down here in the truck. But Mr Turvey wasn’t around.”

“No” thought Edgar, attempting to fit the pieces together, “Turvey was running errands in Hambleston, or so he claims.” His mind began to drift, wondering if the old man’s alibi had been fully corroborated yet and making a mental note to ask his officers for an update on the matter. He shook his head to regain his focus. “Did you see anybody else at Mr Turvey’s property?”

“No, like I said there was nobody there.”

“You didn’t perhaps see Kenny Rowland? In the woods behind the house maybe?”

At the mention of the boys name Howard blinked rapidly. “Kenny?” he asked confused, “No, why would Kenny be there? Why are you asking me if I saw Kenny?”

It was understandable that the man was rattled by the question but surely he must’ve known the child’s disappearance was the reason he’d been dragged to the police station, half the county was out searching for the lad and all other cases had been swept from the local constabulary’s desk for the time being.

Collecting his thoughts Sullivan watched the fear and confusion darting across Howard Yendle’s face. “You said that Maisie Rowland could never leave her husband because to do so would mean giving up Kenny.”

Howard nodded forlornly in confirmation.

“And you also just told us that you’d do ”anything” to be with Maisie.”

“That’s right” Howard gulped.

“Therefore it would be reasonable to say, would it not, that young Kenny Rowland stood between you and Maisie and your chance of a future together?”

“No, no, no!” Wiping his hands from side to side across the table My Yendle shook his head, disputing the accusation as it dawned on him. “Wasn’t Kenny that stood between us, it was Alf.”

“But without the boy on the scene…”

“NO!” Howard cried, “You can’t think I had anything to do with the boy going missing. Maisie loves that boy to the bone.”

“Then perhaps after being strung along and dumped for a second time the best way to punish Maisie was through Kenny.” The twist of the knife was cruel but necessary and Yendle’s response was as visceral as Sullivan had expected.

“NO!” he yelled again, leaping to his feet, palms braced on the table as he loomed towards the Chief Inspector. “You’ve got it wrong! I told you, I went to see Turvey but he wasn’t there so I left. I NEVER saw Kenny on Tuesday, NOT at Turvey’s place, NOT anywhere. I’d NEVER hurt a hair on that boy’s head!” His eyes drifted to the corner where the uniformed sergeant stood on full alert, ready to intervene should Mr Yendle decide to close the final gap to the seated officer. Feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him at his outburst he slumped back into the chair. “Sorry Chief Inspector” he muttered, folding his arms, “Shouldn’t’ve shouted like that, I’m just worried for the lad, and for Maisie.”

Giving his pulse a moment to slow back down to normal Sullivan said nothing, hoping the flicker of concern he’d felt hadn’t shown on his face. Howard Yendle was a touch taller than he was, his solid build and arms like tree trunks would’ve proved a challenge for himself and Goodfellow combined if the man had snapped. “At least now we know he’s got a short fuse” he thought, “maybe he’s not so different from Alf Rowland after all.”

“Back to Tuesday afternoon” Edgar resumed as if nothing had happened, “You went to see Mr Turvey but he wasn’t there and you didn’t see anybody else loitering around the place.”

“No, not Kenny, not anybody.” His eyes focussed intently on the Chief Inspector’s, his tone level and serious as he tried to make amends for his fit of temper. “I wandered around the place, checked the sheds, greenhouse and what-have-you but there was no sign and I when couldn’t see Turvey’s van in the lane I figured he wasn’t home.”

“So then what did you do?” Maisie hadn’t said exactly how long she’d waited for Howard at the farm, but she’d given the impression she’d been there a little while before opting instead for solitude by the river.

Howard rolled his eyes to the ceiling, splaying his hands on the table before admitting guiltily, “I went to the Red Lion.” Holding up a hand of apology he explained, “I only had one, a whiskey, double if you must know, then I headed back to the farm. Ask the landlord, he’ll tell you I wasn’t there too long.”

“We will” Sullivan assured him plainly, then narrowed his eyes. “It’s a bit of a trek isn’t it, from the farm down to the village? You didn’t think to call back at Mr Turvey’s place after your drink at the pub? See if he’d returned home in the meantime?”

“Like I said I came down in the truck so it didn’t take that long. But no, I didn’t pay a second visit. I’m a good worker, a hard worker, ask anyone. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dream of shirking off. But Tuesday I just wasn’t myself y'know...”

“Go on…” Sullivan prompted when the sentence trailed off into silence.

“On Tuesday I spent all morning going on to my mate Bill about Maisie and what I could do to make things work for us. It was Bill who suggested I try Mr Turvey for work, reckoned he’d heard tell he was looking for somebody to help him out. Once the thought was in my head I had to go and see about it, I was worried somebody would beat me to it and I’d be left kicking myself. But then when I was sat in the Red Lion I realised I was only fooling myself, me staying in Kembleford would only make things worse, not better, for both Maisie and me. And I knew I was pushing my luck too with Mr Brookes: if he found the truck missing or if somebody saw me in the pub in the afternoon word might get back to him. He’s a decent boss but he’s no soft touch, I didn’t want to get myself or Bill into any trouble so I drank up, went back to the farm.”

“You didn’t return to the village on Tuesday afternoon?”

“No, I didn’t. But I came back for a couple of pints with the lads after work, drowning my sorrows I suppose you’d say.”

“What time was that?”

Howard puffed out his cheeks, recalling the evening. “Knocked off work just as it was getting dark, we all had a quick wash up then Mr Brookes let us bring the truck down to the village so we were in the Red Lion by quarter past, maybe twenty past eight I’d say. Timed it right too ‘cos just as we arrived Alf Rowland was leaving.”

“Alf Rowland was in the Red Lion on Tuesday night!?” Sullivan cursed his undisguised shock.

Howard Yendle simply shrugged his big broad shoulders, “Like I said he was leaving just as we got there, in a foul mood and half-cut as always.”

Chief Inspector Sullivan turned to Sergeant Goodfellow and arched an eyebrow. This wouldn’t be the last interview the two men conducted today.

Chapter Text

“Constable, has Major Capon reported back in yet?” Chief Inspector Sullivan shouted from his office.

“No Sir, not yet” Constable No-Name called back as the telephone at the front desk continued its insistent ringing.

Facing the large boards which had grown more and more congested as the day’d wore on Edgar was in half a mind to wipe them clean and start afresh but as satisfying as the organised end result would be he hadn’t the time for such indulgences. He’d have to force himself to see through the chaos and corrections and crossings out to identify which lines of inquiry were still ongoing, which leads were yet to be followed up on, and which pieces of information had led to dead-ends. “Can’t see the wood for the trees here” he muttered to himself irately, taking a bite from a stale cheese sandwich.

Standing back he swallowed down the mouthful of sandwich, face twisting in culinary disapproval. Squinting at the board he repeated the phrase, this time mumbling it into the empty office: “Can’t see the wood for the trees.”

He cast his mind back to his visit to Peter Turvey’s woods with Sergeant Goodfellow and Kenny’s little friend Ian this morning. The boys’ fort, they now knew, had been destroyed in a petulant fit by Martin Ludlow on Tuesday afternoon. He’d been chased off by Peter Turvey when he’d arrived back from running errands in Hambleston. And it was while Mr Turvey was in Hambleston that Howard Yendle had called there looking for work. Three people all at Turvey’s woods on the day the lad disappeared yet not one of them had seen the boy. “Maybe he was never there” Edgar pondered aloud. “Maybe the woods have nothing to do with his disappearance, could all be coincidence.” His nose wrinkled; there was nothing a policeman hated more than ‘coincidences’. “But then who dug the shallow pit, and why?” he asked the wooden board. “Martin noticed the pit on Tuesday afternoon, who else but Kenny would’ve dug it? And if Kenny didn’t go to play in the woods where did he go? Assuming he had any choice in the matter.”

“A’hem.” Goodfellow appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat to announce his presence while trying valiantly to pretend he hadn’t just heard his boss talking to himself.

Sullivan spun on his heels, depositing the half eaten sandwich on his desk. “The river search has drawn a blank so far and Montague’s hounds haven’t turned anything up” he blurted out pointing back towards the board. “Army should be almost done with their current search area, when they report back in we’ll have them move to here” he tapped the map with his finger before picking up the steaming mug of coffee from his desk and taking a slurp. “And we’re still working to fully corroborate Turvey’s alibi.”

Goodfellow nodded as he digested the information but, as simple as Sullivan’s words were, they took their merry time in percolating through to his brain. He clenched his teeth, swallowing hard to stifle a yawn but in truth he was struggling to keep his eyes open. His boss on the other hand seemed a little more reinvigorated from when he’d left him a short while ago to visit the Red Lion. The sergeant knew one thing for sure, he was glad not to be carrying the burden of command on a case of this magnitude.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” the Chief Inspector asked snappily.

“Oh, right, yes Sir.” Goodfellow formulated his thoughts; “The landlord confirmed what Howard Yendle told us about Tuesday. Said Yendle was in there after lunchtime for a drink, reckoned he kept looking up at the clock, seemed nervous, on edge.”

“Because he was worried about being caught skipping work perhaps? Or had he another reason to be on edge that he didn’t divulge?” Sullivan pondered.

“Dunno Sir” the sergeant shrugged. “He was back in there with a bunch of the other farm workers sometime just after dark and they left a little before closing time at ten, just before word started to get around the village about Kenny being missing.”

Edgar took another mouthful of tar-thick coffee and scratched at his cheek, “What about Alf Rowland?”

It was with a sorry shake of the head and a look of consternation that Goodfellow explained the other man’s movements on Tuesday. “Apparently Alf was waiting on the doorstep when they opened at half-six which, from what the landlord said, is a fairly common occurrence. Alf complained that Maisie had left him to make his own supper and that Kenny hadn’t come home on time. Yendle told us Alf left about twenty past eight, landlord couldn’t put an exact time on it but reckoned that sounded about right. As for him being ‘half-cut’, he’d had a few pints but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And the landlord, the dozen or so other men who were in there drinking on Tuesday night, they didn’t think to mention Alf’s presence to us? Surely they must’ve known Alf had omitted his visit to the pub from his version of events?”

Goodfellow shrugged. “Guess they didn’t want to drop him in it, he’s got enough on his plate as it is.”

“That, or they’re too scared to drop him in it” Edgar suggested, replaying Alf’s outbursts in his mind: his annoyance at Paul Dunn holding up the queue on Tuesday afternoon, the way he’d snapped at Edgar about the search being called off on Wednesday night, the way he’d flown off the handle here at the station earlier today on learning that Peter Turvey was being questioned. Alf Rowland had a temper, there was no denying that.

“So” Sullivan summarised, “Alf claimed that when Kenny wasn’t back by six he ate his dinner then went out looking for him, and when he’d had no luck finding the lad he came here to the station to report him missing a little before nine.”

“That’s right Sir” Goodfellow agreed. “But in reality Alf ate his dinner, went straight to the Red Lion and only began searching for the boy when he went home again at twenty-past eight to find he still wasn’t back.”

“Then half-an-hour after that he reported Kenny missing.”

Goodfellow grimaced as his boss took another swig of coffee followed by another bite of the cheese sandwich. It wouldn’t’ve been an appealing combination at the best of times but the sandwich wasn’t even from the latest batch sent from the village hall, it’s edges all curled up and the cheese starting to whiff.

Holding out a finger Sullivan began counting: “First we had Mrs Rowland saying she went to Ryecombe Manor when in fact she went to Brookes’ Farm.” A second finger sprang forth, “Next her lover, Howard Yendle, claimed to be at Brookes’ Farm when he was actually at Turvey’s place then the pub.” The third finger was reserved for Mr Rowland, “And now we learn Alf was at the Red Lion when he told us he was out searching for his son!” Throwing his hands up he shook his head in disbelief, “It even took us two goes to get the full story out of Martin Ludlow and he’s no more than a child. Is nobody in this village capable of telling the truth?”

Furrowing his brow Goodfellow mulled over the facts, “So we know where Alf was on Tuesday, but not why he lied.”

“Exactly” Sullivan nodded.

“Could he have gone to the Red Lion to be seen.”

“Seen?”

“What if something had already happened to Kenny, Alf going to the Red Lion would provide him with an alibi.”

Raising his eyebrows at the startling theory Edgar squeezed his temples. “You mean if something happened to the boy between Alf getting home from work and leaving the house at six-thirty? It’s possible I suppose but…” He shook his head, “But what?” he thought, his brain suddenly feeling scrambled. “I don’t know…” he shrugged in answer to his sergeant. “But there’s only one way we’re going to find out.”

Goodfellow nodded his understanding, “You want me to go and bring Alf Rowland in for questioning?”

“No!” Sullivan’s hand shot up to halt him, then he pointed towards the window. “All those reporters are still outside, they’ll have a field day if we bring the missing boy’s father in here kicking and screaming.” He took a long gulp of the coffee then stood the mug back down, reaching to grab his suit jacket from the chair back. “No, it’s better that we speak to Alf discreetly. Let’s go over there and have a word.”

Together the two officers headed from the station, neither of them relishing the prospect of aggravating an already irate Alf Rowland.

Chapter Text

It should’ve come as no surprise to Edgar to find Father Brown here at the Rowlands’ home, it was only natural he’d’ve accompanied Maisie back after their clandestine meeting at St Mary’s. And aside from that there was the simple fact that the priest consistently showed up exactly where Edgar wished he wouldn’t, usually with the worst possible timing. “Brown’s Law” he sighed to himself, “The infuriating fellow in a frock always finds himself a front row seat at times like this.”

Nevertheless on entering the Rowlands’ smokey front room he removed his hat, politely acknowledging the priest who was seated next to Mrs Rowland on the dingy looking settee.

“Father, Mrs Rowland, Mr Rowland” he nodded to each in turn as Sergeant Goodfellow shuffled into the corner of the cramped room.

“Is it right you’ve got one of those harvest workers in the cells?” Alf asked sharply, stubbing his cigarette out in the tray, scowling up at the policeman. “What’s happened? You found something?”

The Chief Inspector held up a palm to curb the man’s questions. “There is nothing new to report but I do have some details I’d like to check with you Mr Rowland” he stated, “about the evening you reported your son missing.”

As if on queue the hands on the small wooden clock seated on the window-sill ticked towards six: Forty-eight hours since Alf had sat down for dinner without his son.

“Not more bleedin’ questions!” Alf complained, his finger jabbing towards the window. “I’m done with going over all the same stuff, get out there and find my son!” He turned to his wife who sat shoulders hunched, cigarette trembling between her fingers. “Only the other week I told you them farm lads were trouble, didn’t I Maisie? But you wouldn’t listen” he shook his head dismissively at his wife and continued his tirade, “You’re too soft, I’ve seen them in the Red Lion on a pay-day, strutting ‘round like they own the place. Good-for-nothings the lot of them, if you ask me.”

Maisie’s reply was weak and reedy, “Alf, please, just give the Chief Inspector a chance to speak.”

Mr Rowland ran his fingers back across the side of his head, smoothing down his chestnut hair where it bordered the bare islands of scars. “Go on then, ask whatever you came here to ask” he spat.

Sullivan cast a sideways glance to the priest. He’d’ve preferred to speak to Mr Rowland alone but, he reasoned, if he asked Father Brown and Maisie to leave it would only add to the already fraught atmosphere. Maybe it was a blessing after all that the bad-penny priest was present, poor Maisie looked ready to crawl out of her skin, her free hand clutching the cross around her neck for dear life while the other brought the cigarette to her mouth time and time again, drawing deep rapid puffs. No doubt the woman’s mind was racing, the last time she’d seen the policeman he’d been on his way to speak to her lover. With a discreet nod he attempted to reassure her he wasn’t about reveal the affair to her husband. A quick glance over his shoulder told him Goodfellow was staying alert. Alf Rowland wasn’t a big man but that meant little; If he took umbrage at Edgar’s questioning and made a lunge for him he’d be hard to put down in the confines of the small cluttered room.

Sullivan took a deep breath then instantly regretted it, the lungful of stale-smoky air adding to the queasiness in his stomach. “Mr Rowland, can you tell me what happened on Tuesday afternoon between you leaving work and reporting Kenny missing?”

“This again?” Alf muttered shaking his head. “I told you” he snarled, baring his crooked yellow teeth, “I got home from work about half-four. Found the note from Maisie saying she was off out to the Manor so I’d have to sort dinner for Kenny and me. I went to the butchers, you saw me there yourself, both of you” he nodded between Edgar and Father Brown, “and then I came home.”

“And after that?”

“Dinner’s always on the table at six” his eyes flicked to the clock, the hands creeping past the hour mark. Sullivan nodded his understanding, “always” didn’t apply to today, not now their world had been turned upside down.

Alf shrugged, “I started eating, reckoned Kenny would be back once he heard the church clock strike.”

Maisie backed him up tearily, “If Kenny’s out playing and loses track of time that’s how he knows it’s time to come home.”

“By the time I’d finished eating he still wasn’t back so I went out looking for him” Alf concluded.

“What time was that?”

“Time it took me to eat my dinner” the seated man replied unhelpfully. A moment later he relented, “Just before half-six I’d say.”

“Where did you go first when you began searching for your son?”

“Just around the village.”

“Not the Red Lion perhaps?”

At the mention of the pub Mr Rowland’s eyes widened and he raised a finger towards the Chief Inspector. “What’s this about?” he demanded.

Edgar steeled himself. “You told us that you went straight out looking for Kenny, but in fact you went straight to the Red Lion, is that not correct?”

Father Brown tried to hide his surprise but no matter how far he dipped his chin his raised eyebrows were still plain for all to see. Mrs Rowland on the other hand narrowed her dark teary eyes in confusion towards her husband.

“As it so happens Inspector” Alf said, his tone now defensive, “I thought I’d stop by the pub to ask if anybody there’d seen Kenny.”

“And had they?”

“No.”

“So then what did you do?”

Alf wrung his hands together. “Well, I left.”

Damn it was hard to keep your patience with a man like Alf Rowland, especially at a time such as this. Edgar gritted his teeth as he attempted to drag the truth from the obstinate oik.

“What time did you leave the Red Lion Mr Rowland?”

Cigarette sucked to a stub Maisie ground it out in the ashtray then seamlessly picked up another, struck a match, and lit it. Though her bony body was bowed nervously her head bobbed forwards towards her husband, her nostrils flaring slightly as she waited to hear what he had to say for himself.

Alf’s eyes dropped to his hands, washing them together over and over, one set of fingers dragged through the other palm before repeating the gesture in reverse. They were a working man’s hands, big powerful hands Edgar noted. For a second Alf’s eyes flashed towards his wife but he didn’t dare let them linger. “Alright, if you must know I stayed for a quick pint. What of it? Can’t a man have a drink after work?”

Edgar ground his teeth in frustration at Alf’s attitude. “What of it?” he fumed, silently, repeating the petulant response. “Stayed for a quick pint?” he growled accusingly, patience rapidly dissipating. “Then would you care to explain why we have witness’ who say you didn’t leave the pub until twenty-past eight?”

“Who told you that?!” Alf shouted, but Sullivan ignored him.

“You were in the Red Lion for almost two hours while your son was missing Mr Rowland. Two hours! That’s more than a quick pint, wouldn’t you say?” From his peripheral vision Edgar saw Father Brown tense and lean forward as the conversation became heated, but for once the old man had the good sense to keep his protests to himself.

Maisie’s eyes widened at the revelation but her surprise soon turned to anger when the reality sank in. She could barely disguise the disgust in her eyes, glowering at her husband in his armchair.

“Now listen here Inspector!” Alf shouted, jumping to his feet. “My boy is missing and you come here to MY home accusing ME…”

Sullivan took a step forward, closing the gap to the shorter man. “NO Mr Roland, YOU listen to ME.” His assertiveness paid off as Alf shrank back half a pace. “Your son is missing, half the county is out searching for him, yet you have the audacity to lie to me, to hamper this investigation?” Attempting to lower his tone he went on, “You’ve lied since the very beginning, you’ve had ample opportunity to set the record straight but have chosen not to. And I have to ask myself why? Why would you lie about your movements on Tuesday evening?”

A deafening silence filled the room before Alf Rowland stumbled backwards, crumpling into his armchair, the policeman’s words sapping all strength from the man’s legs. His eyes dipped to the floor between his feet and when he finally spoke the words appeared to cling reluctantly to his lips. “Why did I lie about going to the pub?” His feeble tone suggested he was searching within himself for the answer and when it finally came to him he wasn’t pleased by what he’d found. “Because I panicked.” Tentatively he cast his eyes towards Maisie whose expression was hardening. “How was I going to explain that while you’d been up at the Manor working I’d been out drinking while our boy…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but instead pleaded for his wife’s understanding: “I was sure he’d be home when I got back from the pub, you know how he loses track of time, especially with the nights still light. I reckoned he was out playing, hadn’t heard the church clock, but I thought he was bound to be back once it got dark.” When he turned again to the Chief Inspector the disbelief was plain on his face, “Kenny’s always back by dark. I thought he’d be here whinging about being hungry.”

The man’s protruding lower-jaw began jutting back and forward, his eyes reddening as he fought back the tears. His final admission was accompanied by a crack in his voice. “I reckoned Kenny’d complain about being hungry, and I thought to myself, “well, it’ll serve him right for playing out so late!”.”

Maisie’s expression flicked between fury and disappointment at her husband’s admission. “You and that pub!” she hissed between puffs on her cigarette. “Since your accident all you’ve done is drown your sorrows. You care more about the blokes at the Red Lion than you do me and our Kenny.”

The look on Alf Rowland’s face suggested his wife had never dared speak to him in such a way before. Seconds later Maisie’s eyes widening in shock told the same story as she shrank back in her seat in expectation of a slap which, with their current crop of guests, didn’t come.

Sensing an opening Chief Inspector cast his eye towards the empty beer bottles on the table next to Alf. “You also drink at home I see” he asserted.

“No harm in that” Alf huffed though his hunched demeanour and guilty glance towards his wife suggested he was suddenly beginning to doubt the truth of that statement.

“Have you noticed any bottles of beer missing in the past few days?”

The question confused both Alf and Maisie who looked at each other with brows creased. “What sort of a question is that?” Alf shrugged. He nodded to the empties on the table, “I mean I don’t exactly keep count.”

“So you wouldn’t notice if, for example, a single bottle went missing?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would.” The way he searched the Chief Inspector’s eyes for a clue suggested he had no idea why his beer would be of such sudden interest. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

Sullivan considered his options: Explain the relevance of the bottle of beer and throw Martin Ludlow’s involvement into the mix or, given Alf showed no flicker of recognition at the mention of missing alcohol, leave it for now and focus his attention to the man’s movements on Tuesday evening. Quickly opting for the latter Sullivan dismissed the matter with a brisk shake of his head, “Merely a question” he said casually then swiftly moved on.

“Back to Tuesday evening, what happened between eight-twenty when you left the Red Lion and ten-to-nine when you reported Kenny missing?” he asked without accusation.

Alf shook his head sadly, “I ran around the damn village like my backside was on fire, shouting my head off for the boy, you can ask anyone that, they’ll’ve all heard me.”

Though satisfied that Mr Rowland's story added-up Sullivan took the opportunity to press him just a little further: who knew when the man would be this cooperative again. “Were you angry with Kenny when he didn’t come home for his dinner?”

“Angry?” The question was answered at first by a shrug. “I was a bit annoyed, but that was before I realised he was missing.”

“Were you angry with your wife?”

Twisting his face in confusion Alf asked quietly, “What do you mean? Why would I be angry with Maisie?”

“Maybe you were unhappy that she’d left you at home to look after your son while she went out?”

The suggestion seemed to baffle Alf more than irk him, and the fact that he wasn’t antagonised by it spoke volumes. “Maisie was at work. I wasn’t best pleased she hadn’t left dinner for us but…” he shrugged to indicate there was no more to be added.

Hearing her own lie about her whereabouts repeated in good faith by her husband Maisie’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and at the same time her own guilt dulled the animosity she felt towards Alf. The Chief Inspector stood rooted to the spot, his eyes flicking between guilt-ridden father and shell-shocked mother. Neither could look each other in the eye, both seemingly blaming themselves for allowing their son’s absence to go unnoticed for as long as it had. A wave of wooziness washed over Sullivan, caffeine and exhaustion battling for supremacy, and he wondered if Goodfellow or Father Brown could see him visibly swaying or if it was merely a figment of his imagination. Desperately he tried to remain stock still, willing himself not to shuffle his feet on the already threadbare carpet.

Glancing quickly over his shoulder Sullivan noted that Goodfellow’s usual rigid stance had slackened but the look of warning he shot him caused the sergeant to refocus, pulling himself to full height as his boss prepared to poke the bear one final time.

“Mr Rowland, have you ever struck your son?” Sullivan asked plainly.

“I’ve given him a clip around the ear, what father hasn’t done that?”

“Did you strike Kenny on Tuesday?”

Mr Rowland fixed the policeman with his gaze, his voice firm but without anger. “I didn’t even see Kenny on Tuesday, was out to work before he was up. The last I saw of him was on Monday night when I went up to bed, checked in on him and he was tucked up asleep. I haven’t laid eyes on him since.”

Nodding his understanding the Chief Inspector searched his mind for any other details to be clarified before he left.

“How can this be happening Inspector?” Alf’s sudden cry caught Sullivan off-guard. Clenching his fist to his chest, slowly beating at his heart in self-reproach he wailed, “I should’ve gone looking for him sooner. I should’ve come to you sooner instead of thinking he was just up to mischief somewhere.”

“No point blaming yourself” Maisie managed to splutter from the end of the settee, cigarette still darting back and fort to her lips, eyes drifting towards the window. On some level, Edgar suspected, she was talking to herself as much as her husband.

With a nod to Father Brown, who’d remained surprisingly tight-lipped throughout, the Chief Inspector indicated his intention to leave. The priest reciprocated, his own nod confirming that he planned to stay: to listen, to mediate, to console. Though only a small doily-topped table lay between Mr and Mrs Rowland their body language suggested they were in fact separated now by a far greater chasm.

“We’ll keep you informed” Sullivan said by way of wrapping things up.

“Please bring my boy home safe Inspector” Alf implored as the two policemen headed towards the door. Edgar paused, eyes closed, suddenly dragged back in time twenty-four hours to this very room, Maisie Rowland making the same impassioned plea.

All Sullivan could muster was a mumbled “Good evening”, painfully aware of the inadequacy of his response.

Chapter Text

Father Brown slipped into the police station, grinning in greeting to the tall young constable behind the desk before silently gesturing towards the Chief Inspector’s office. The sound of Sullivan and Goodfellow deep in discussion drifted towards him as he shuffled towards the doorway.

“Remember Lowe went yesterday to check the pool at the Gellert estate?” Goodfellow asked, scrutinising the map.

“He said he’d played there himself as a child” Sullivan nodded rapidly.

“Yes Sir. Well think of all the other ponds and lakes and streams where a boy could get into trouble. The canal too, and the marshland. I know we’ve had men check out the spots Mr Hook suggested but apart from that the search groups could only really look for signs of Kenny going into the water. They might’ve had a probe about with a stick where they could but…”

“But if Kenny entered the water and was dragged under there’d be no sign on the surface.” It was a valid point and one Edgar had already considered, memories of heaving Mr Hubble’s lifeless body from the lake at Sir Raleigh Beresford’s place forefront in his mind. He scratched at his cheeks, “I’ve already requested a specialist team, they should be with us tomorrow but we’ll need to decide where to direct them, can’t just ask them to drag every koi-pond and ornamental lake in the district. We’ll need to check with the Rowlands, see if Kenny liked to swim, see if he could swim, and I suppose ask the local boys where the favoured spots are to cool off.”

Turning to reach the mug from his desk the Chief Inspector flinched in surprise when he saw the black-clad figure lingering in the doorway. “Thought you were staying with the Rowlands?” he said, taking a swig.

By the way the policeman gulped it down Father Brown deduced his coffee must be stone cold. And he was sure it was coffee in the mug, not just by the strong bitter smell that hung in the air but by the overly-alert spark in Sullivan’s eyes and jerky movements as he turned his back on the priest to study the map once more.

“I intended to stay a while longer” Father Brown explained, “however I sensed Maisie and Alf would benefit from some time alone.”

“How was Alf when you left?” Goodfellow asked, mouth twisted in concern.

“Subdued” the priest replied, “both of them very subdued.”

A second black-clad figure appeared beside the priest. “That’s the whole strip from the north bank of the river up to the main Hambleston road searched Sir” Sergeant Mayhew called to his boss. “We met up with the lads who started the other side of Brookes’ Farm, they said they’d keep going a few hours yet but my lot were dead on their feet so I had to call it a day.”

Sullivan took a pencil and outlined the areas in question. “The other searchers should meet up with the Kembles before dark then that’ll be this whole sector covered” he swept his hand broadly across the map encompassing a huge swathe of countryside.

“The men who’ve come back in are either at the hall getting some food or over at the Red Lion. I told them to be ready again at first light and they were asking where we’d be searching tomorrow. Some of them don’t live in the village you see, wondered if they could meet us at the start point if we were heading further afield.”

Eyes darting haphazardly across the board Edgar shook his head, “Don’t know where they’ll be needed I’m afraid, I need to liaise with Major Capon, make sure the Kembles are still at our disposal, and I have to check with head office, see if we’re are getting any more officers drafted in from other forces.” His stomach rumbled loudly then gurgled as the cold coffee percolated through his system.

“Soup” Edgar heard his wife declare as she entered the station, the thought of food causing his stomach to growl insistently once more. The sound of heavy flasks being set on the front desk had Mayhew turning on his heels, eager for some nourishment after another long day.

Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet the Chief Inspector willed his mind to focus yet his eyes seemed determined to dart from one part of the map to the next making the occasional detour across to the information board which by now looked as if an overzealous child had been let loose on it: arrows and question marks and crossings out overlayed the jumble of notations. His mind felt much like the board, a knotted ball of twine he desperately longed to unravel, the only problem being he couldn’t seem to find an end to being tugging at.

Isabel stepped into the office, Father Brown shuffling forward to let her pass, as behind them Mayhew and the tall young constable slurped noisily from their mugs. “Soup at the front desk” she informed the trio.

“Much appreciated” Goodfellow smiled in reply.

“Maybe the Kembles should start here tomorrow” Edgar mused, tapping his pencil to the map. “We could get them to work eastwards leaving this area here” he pointed again, “for the civilian teams to cover.”

Turning her face from the priest and the sergeant, Isabel bit her lips together. “Daniel has the common decency to acknowledge me, unlike my own husband” she thought tearily. “He’s completely ignoring me again.”

When Sullivan turned to drop the pencil on his desk he appeared shocked to find Father Brown still there and even more-so to see his wife: somehow he’d heard her voice yet failed to register her presence. He shook his head rapidly, hoping to jostle some logic back into his brain. Staring blankly at the two visitors he finally blurted out “I’ve just finished briefing the press and now we’re trying to formulate a new plan for tomorrow.” He narrowed his eyes, unsure why he’d deemed it necessary to update the pair. “Close the door please Father” he heard himself say.

Door duly closed Father Brown and Isabel stood facing the two policemen, Isabel bunching the sleeves of her beige top up around her elbows to combat the office’s suffocating warmth. Edgar blinked quickly, weighing up the pros and cons of seeking the others’ opinions. How many times had he fought to exclude the meddling priest from his investigations? How many times had he reprimanded Goodfellow for divulging information he shouldn’t have? But this was different, he reasoned; An eight year-old child was missing and he needed all the help he could get if there was any chance this investigation was to end in anything other than tragedy. Maybe if the four of them talked this through one of them would hit upon something pertinent.

“If Kenny wandered off, got himself lost or got into physical difficulty then there’s not much more we can do than keep searching, is that agreed?”

Father Brown and Isabel cast each other a dumbfounded glance, neither having expected to be included so readily in Edgar’s deliberations. Even Goodfellow seemed wrong-footed by the turn of events. All three mumbled their agreement with the statement.

Standing behind his chair his fingers drummed out a rapid rhythm on the wooden back, his mouth now almost unable to keep pace with his brain. “Though instances of abduction are exceedingly rare we can’t rule it out entirely.” The word ‘abduction’ sadly raised no eyebrows, after all, as Father Brown had already attested, it was one of the many rumours circulating around the village. “We still haven’t traced the red car” Sullivan shrugged, “there’s to be a radio appeal going out shortly for any information, regarding the car or any other suspicious activity. Maybe something will come to light from that, but without further evidence we’re at a dead end there as far as I can see.”

Again his hypothesis was backed up by three nodding heads.

“And so that leaves us with the one avenue we can continue to explore, that being the possibility somebody closer to home played a part in Kenny’s disappearance.”

“You mean that Kenny’s been hurt by somebody here in the village?” Isabel asked, brow furrowed.

“Hurt or… taken” Goodfellow nodded.

“In which case it’s possible that the key to his whereabouts is here” Edgar pointed towards the board. “We may already be looking at the answer, may already have spoken to the culprit, we just don’t realise it.”

Father Brown nodded all the while wondering if the Chief Inspector realised how readily he was using the word “we”.

Reaching across his desk Sullivan picked up a large lined pad of paper and tore the top sheet from it, turning to pin the blank page onto the board containing the map. “Means, motive, opportunity” he declared animatedly before scrawling the name ‘Howard Yendle’ at the top of the sheet. “Let’s start with ‘motive’.”

Instantly understanding the rules of the exercise Goodfellow replied, “Yendle could’ve wanted to remove Kenny from the equation to pave the way with Maisie, or to punish Maisie for ending their relationship.”

“Uh-huh” Sullivan nodded writing ‘obstacle’ and ‘punishment’ beneath the man’s name. “Opportunity?”

“His trip to Turvey’s woods, ostensibly looking for work. He could’ve found Kenny playing there” Father Brown put forward.

Sullivan added ‘Turvey’s Woods’ in a hasty scribble. “Now ‘means’. There’s numerous ways an adult could harm or overpower a child without any sort of weapon being involved, but as we’re yet to locate Kenny we need to think about means in terms of being able to conceal the boy.” His analytical mind having kicked in he didn’t even flinch at the notion that Kenny could be being held captive or worse still, dead. Answering his own question he wrote ‘truck’ and ‘farm’ on the list. “Yendle came to the village in Mr Brookes’ truck. He could’ve used the truck to take Kenny somewhere, maybe back up to the farm. I assume there’s dozens of outbuilding and barns up there.”

“But surely they’ll have all been searched” Isabel interjected.

Edgar almost smiled, “But what if Howard Yendle was the one tasked with scouring the farm buildings while the other workers joined the search party?”

Another page was ripped from the pad and pinned up next to the first. ‘P Turvey’ was scrawled across the top and the process started again.

“Motive?”

“Hate to say it Sir, but just because he says he’s no unhealthy interest in young boys doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth.”

Edgar summarised this with the single word ‘misconduct’. “Opportunity?” he demanded of his team.

“Didn’t he say he spent the day in Hambleston?” Isabel asked.

Sullivan beat a fist to his brain as he tried to recall the details. “Turvey said he left home at nine and returned around half past three though we’re still working to confirm that. Kenny left home about half past eight.”

Father Brown shrugged, “Just enough time for Kenny to get to the woods before Mr Turvey left for Hambleston.”

’08:30-09:00’ and ’15:30-?’ were noted as windows of opportunity.

“Means? We’ve done a search of the property ourselves and there’s no sign of Kenny there.”

There was a silence then a thought crept across Goodfellow’s face prompting him to ask unsurely, “Could Turvey’ve taken Kenny with him, to Hambleston, or dropped him off somewhere on the way?”

Shrugging Sullivan sighed, “Turvey has a van at his disposal, it’s possible,” then wrote ‘transported ?’, the hasty scribble a far cry from his usual neat handwriting. There were too many question marks for his liking but it was the best they could do for now.

“Alf Rowland?” This time the sheet wasn’t even tacked to the board before the suggestions started raining in.

“Lost his temper” Isabel said uncomfortably.

“Could’ve found Kenny trying to steel a beer, could’ve been angry at Maisie for leaving him to do dinner” Goodfellow added. “Maybe he just flew off the handle, snapped.”

“Anger” Sullivan said as he rapidly jotted down the word.

“It’s possible Kenny was at home when Alf returned from work or after his visit to the butchers” Father Brown chipped in. “Alf wasn’t seen again until the Red Lion opened at half-six. A decent window of opportunity.” Quickly he screwed his eyes shut, realising he was becoming carried away with the puzzle. He cautioned himself to remember these were real people they were casting aspersions over, members of his own flock even, not characters in a mystery novel.

Alf’s opportunity was noted by the words ‘home - before pub’.

“Means?” Edgar asked. He waited and watched as everybody racked their brains.

“Dunno sir” Goodfellow shrugged. “Alf doesn’t have a vehicle, so if something did happen to Kenny at the house how would he move him, hide him, in such a short space of time?”

“Hmm” Sullivan tapped a finger to his lips “We haven’t actually searched the Rowland’s house yet have we Sergeant?”

“No Sir.”

It was a grim thought, but could Kenny actually be concealed somewhere in the Rowlands’ tiny home? The attic? the coal shed?

“Anybody else we should have up here?” the Chief Inspector asked, looking at the cases against Yendle, Turvey and the boy’s father.

“What about Martin Ludlow?” Father Brown suggested despite himself.

“I know Martin was angry at Kenny and that they’d fought, but surely Martin wouldn’t be capable of doing any real harm to him” Isabel shook her head in disbelief.

“There’s the bloody stone we found” Edgar reminded her, “Martin claims it’s his blood but we’re still waiting to have the lab confirm that.”

“Even so” Goodfellow jumped in, “Martin was at school until two, Turvey saw him loitering in the woods around half-three or four o’clock and then the lad was home for dinner by half-past five. Say he did hit Kenny with that stone, maybe even hurt him more than intended, a lad Martin’s size couldn’t force Kenny to go off with him or move a body. We’ve been all over those woods, we’d’ve found a trace of him by now.”

“Hmm, you’re right, I don’t think we can call Martin Ludlow a credible suspect” Sullivan declared, not even affording the lad a place on the board.

Standing back he scrutinised the three pieces of paper. Maybe the exercise hadn’t moved the investigation any further forward but at least the picture surrounding these three particular individuals was starting to become clearer.

The quartet stood crammed into the office, the names of three men bearing down on them from the large wooden board. Their combined worry distilled into an almost palpable tension, the air around them fizzling while beyond the closed window their picturesque little village swarmed with activity.

Sullivan took a deep breath. How many times had he tried to explain to the hard-headed priest that police-work relied on good solid evidence, not just beliefs in the way his own amateur investigations did? For all his past protestations though he knew the question swirling in his brain had to be voiced: “Gut feelings?” he asked.

He pointed first to Howard Yendle’s name, underneath which read ‘Obstacle, Punishment, Turvey’s Woods, Truck, Farm.’

Father Brown was quick to jump to the man’s defence. ”I don’t believe Howard would do anything to cause Maisie distress.”

“And he couldn’t have known that Kenny would skip school on Tuesday, could he?” Isabel pointed out.

Edgar shrugged. “So if Yendle was involved it was opportunistic or at least not premeditated.”

He pointed to the next name on the board, ‘P Turvey, misconduct, 08:30-09:00, 15:30-?, transported?’

“I hardly know the man” Isabel admitted wrapping her arms around herself, trying to drive the man’s vile nickname from her mind.

“I fear Peter Turvey has been the victim of a great injustice these past few years” Father Brown declared solemnly. “I for one believe his claim that the allegations against him were baseless. He’s simply a man who keeps to himself. He’d no reason to harm Kenny.“

Goodfellow nodded in agreement, then seemingly doubted himself, “But you never can tell, can you? And it’s a little strange he let the boys play in his woods like that.”

“That leaves Alf.” There wasn’t much of a case against him, Sullivan realised, looking at the board: ‘anger, home - before pub’.

“I feel sorry for the bloke with what’s happened, of course I do” Goodfellow shook his head, “but he’s fond of his drink and there’s no denying he’s got a nasty streak in him.”

“I’m no fan of Alf Rowland’s” Isabel declared confidently, “but that man is beside himself with worry. If that’s an act, if he knows anything about what happened to Kenny, then he can darn well join the Players ‘cos he’s got me convinced.”

“And his increasingly bad temper these past couple of days has seemingly been born of his guilt at not reporting Kenny missing sooner. I agree with Isabel” Father Brown nodded, “Alf’s anger is genuine, not performative, it is an anger with himself, masking his shame and fear.”

“Yet Alf was already in a foul mood when you and I saw him in the butchers Father, remember?” Sullivan reminded him. “And that was before he knew his boy was missing.”

As usual Father Brown had been quick to defend those he thought were innocent and, as much as Edgar was loathed to agree with the him he couldn’t find fault with his judgement of the three men. But if they were all innocent of any involvement in the boy’s disappearance then who was the culprit? “Maybe there isn’t one” he reminded himself, the image of a tiny body being pulled from a stream or a lake flooding his mind: “Maybe this whole exercise is just a waste of time.”

Clapping his hands together he fought to override his defeatist attitude. Until the boy was found, one way or another, there could be no letting up. Each and every avenue of inquiry had to been seen through to its conclusion. “Right then” he declared, chivvying up the troops, “let’s see if we can tie up a few loose ends.”

Squeezing his way between Isabel and Father Brown he swung open the office door and beckoned vigorously with his hand, “In here you two” he called towards the desk.

Into the already crowded office stepped Sergeant Mayhew, mug of steaming soup in his hand, and the gangly constable who’d been seconded to Kembleford primarily to man the phones.

Wasting no time an animated Sullivan launched straight in, “Three men, three sets of alibis we need to get squared away.” He pointed to the board, “Alf Rowland. Father Brown and I can confirm he was in Fernsley’s butchers on Tuesday afternoon and we now know he spent two hours or so in the Red Lion before reporting his son missing. However there is one thing we haven’t considered, and that’s whether he was actually at the factory earlier in the day as he claims.” Pointing to Sergeant Mayhew he gave his first instruction, “I need you to find somebody who works closely with Alf, somebody who’d have noticed if he slipped away during his shift on Tuesday.”

“Most of the factory workers are still out searching” Mayhew frowned.

“How about Mr Sharples, the foreman?” Father Brown suggested. “I believe he and Mr Rowland clashed recently so I’d imagine he’d be keeping a particular eye on Alf.”

Why couldn’t his own officers be as proactive and logical in their thought as the parish priest, Edgar wondered with a sigh. “Was Mr Sharples part of the search?” he asked.

Mayhew shook his head, “No, he couldn’t be spared from the factory” he checked his watch, “But he should be done for the day. He lives up past the doctor’s surgery, I should find him there.”

“Now, Constable…er…” Sullivan clicked his fingers, searching for the you man’s name.

“It’s Melville, Sir” the lanky fellow informed him timidly.

This was evidently news to his superior whose eyes blinked in surprise, “Well then, Constable Melville, where do we stand with Peter Turvey’s alibi?”

“We’ve contacted most of the places he reckoned he visited: the slaughterhouse, the garage, the hardware place. They all checked out so far but we’ve still got a couple of gaps for later in the day: the mill, the cafe he said he ate at.”

“I need a complete timeline for his movements, so chase up any outstanding stops he claims to have made.”

“But all the shops and business’ will be closed now Sir.”

“Well get them to open!” The order was issues through gritted teeth. “Go to Hambleston, bang on doors, whatever you have to. We must check if Turvey had time to make any sort of detour.” Even if the man’s alibi was watertight it wouldn’t be enough to completely eliminate him from their inquiries but there was an outside chance that somebody in Hambleston would throw up a new lead.

Addressing his most trusted sergeant Sullivan took a breath. “We know about Yendle’s visits to the Red Lion, both in the afternoon and again in the evening, but aside from that we haven’t confirmed exactly how long he was absent from work on Tuesday.”

“I’ll get up to Brookes’ Farm” Goodfellow nodded eagerly despite his deepening fatigue.

Sergeant Mayhew interjected, “Most of the farm workers were in the search group I just finished up with. You’ll find them at the hall getting a feed or, more likely, across at the pub.”

“The Red Lion it is then” Goodfellow nodded to his counterpart.

Sullivan held up a cautionary finger, “Now remember what Yendle told us about his friend Bill being willing to cover for him with Mr Brookes. If that’s the case maybe this Bill and the rest of the workers could be tempted to close ranks, perhaps lie to cover up more than just their friend skipping work.”

Goodfellow nodded his understanding, “I’ll speak to a few of them separately, make sure their stories tally.”

“Don’t be frightened to lay down the law Sergeant” Sullivan said with a cocked eyebrow, “Threaten them with obstruction, accessory, perjury” he eyed the priest, “eternal damnation if you have to. But I want the truth and I want it corroborated.”

“Understood Sir.”

“After that we’ll have to consider conducting our own search of Brookes’ Farm, and though I hate to say it possibly even the Rowlands’ house.” Edgar took a deep breath. “Alright, off you go” he commanded and with that the three uniformed officers filed dutifully from the office.

Sliding open his desk drawer Edgar removed a small colourless bottle, hurriedly unscrewing the shiny black top. Isabel didn’t need to read the cream and blue label to know the pills he shook into his hand were aspirin, the branding was familiar enough to her.

“Edgar, it’s a hot meal and a good sleep you need, not those” Isabel said in a worried hush, leaning over the desk towards him.

Palming the two white tablets into his mouth he used the dregs from his coffee mug to try and wash them down but had to swallow hard twice to help them on their way. Annoyed to be admonished in front of the priest he rebuked her quietly, “Well in case you hadn’t noticed I don’t have the luxury of popping home for some supper and a nap so these will have to do.” With that he replaced the bottle in the drawer and slipped off his wristwatch, laying it gently alongside the pills. It was only on occasions such as this, when every braincell held a conflicting thought, that he registered the ticking of his watch. Hopefully locked away in his drawer he’d get some respite from the relentless reminder that time was running out to find the child lest it be in tragic circumstances.

Isabel scowled at her husband as he turned back towards the notes he’d pinned to the board. She’d no idea why he’d taken his watch off, but she knew it wasn’t worth asking given his current mood. While superficially he may’ve appeared reinvigorated by the copious amounts of coffee he’d obviously been drinking she could easily see the haunted look behind his wide unblinking eyes.

Staring at the boards, hands on hips, Edgar inhaled deeply through his nose as a now familiar lightheadedness swept through him. The vegetably smell of the soup Mayhew had been drinking lingered in the air prompting Edgar’s stomach to growl jealously when the scent hit his nose. Both his thought and vision suddenly blurred, yet the harder he tried to focus on the board’s details the more distorted they became. Garish colours and shapes danced before his eyes as if he was viewing the world through a kaleidoscope: each time they seemed about to settle into a coherent pattern they’d tumble and fracture once more. Finally he was forced to grab the side of the board for support, licking his suddenly dry lips.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing something?” he croaked, attempting to strike a casual pose, all the while hoping his voice didn’t betray his precarious state. “Something that’s been right here under my nose the whole time?”

Father Brown shuffled past Isabel to stand side-by-side with the policeman. Peering over the rims of his glasses he scanned not just the recently added notes but also the lines and lines of information scrawled on the neighbouring board. “Maybe we should go back to the beginning” he suggested with a confused frown. “Why didn’t Kenny Rowland go to school on Tuesday? According to his teacher he’s never played truant before.”

“Good question Father” Edgar nodded, running a hand back through his ruffled hair as the wooziness slowly subsided. “He wasn’t due to meet Martin to retrieve his cap gun until after school.”

“So he left for school as normal…”

“Or did he?!”

The question stunned both Father Brown and Isabel who moved in closer to her husband. “What do you mean?” she asked incredulously.

He shrugged, eyes wide and flickering, “I know it sounds farfetched but Alf said he saw Kenny go up to bed on Monday night, but not before he left for work on Tuesday morning.”

“Well yes, but that was because Kenny was still asleep, Alf goes out early” Isabel shook her head in confusion.

Edgar cast a sceptical look between both his wife and the priest. “We’ve only Maisie’s word for it that Kenny left home as usual on Tuesday, nobody else saw the boy leave the house”.

“You can’t possibly think Maisie is lying about that?” Father Brown gasped.

Throwing up his hands Edgar confessed “Maisie, Alf, Yendle, Turvey: they could all be lying for all I know.”

“No” Isabel shook her head vehemently, “I don’t know Maisie well, but I know a desperate mother when I see one. I cannot believe she’d have anything to do with Kenny’s disappearance.”

“There’s that word again”, Edgar thought frustratedly, “believe”. Maybe this had been a bad idea, asking for help from non-professionals. Trusting his own gut was one thing, but he could hardly act on the opinions of others.

He looked at the clock on the wall whose ticking was just as intrusive if not worse than his quarantined wristwatch. “All I know is, according to his mother, Kenny walked out the front door as normal at eight-thirty on Tuesday morning and now it’s gone half past six on Thursday night. That’s two and a half days he’s been missing, or three if Maisie is lying.”

“And you’ve been on the go nearly all that time” Isabel fretted to herself, looking at the bags under his eyes and the waxy sallowness of his skin.

“Eight year-old boys don’t just vanish into thin air” Edgar threw his hands up, “He has to be somewhere. I just fear we’re looking in the wrong place.” With that he turned his attention back to the board, hoping beyond hope that inspiration would strike.

Staring at the two men's backs Isabel’s shoulders slumped despondently. She was no detective, no sleuth, there was nothing she could do to help, not even, seemingly, offer words of comfort to her husband. She fought to think of something insightful to say, or failing that at least something positive, but it was no use. It would be dark again in a couple of hours and the remaining search teams, barring a miracle, would return empty handed once more. Whatever had happened to Kenny she knew that another night out there, wherever he may be, didn’t bode well for the child. Would this be another night that Edgar didn’t come home? How long could he possibly sustain this?

Father Brown racked his brains as he analysed the boards. Of all the mysteries he’d solved through the years why was he at such a loss now when it mattered most? Where was the missing piece of the jigsaw, the overlooked detail, the seemingly mundane yet incongruous fact that would lead them to the missing boy? There was no confirmed crime scene to be revisited, no key witness or prime suspect to prod and probe, in fact there was no indication that a crime had even been committed. He willed his mind to reach out and grab the thread which would unravel the whole sorry puzzle, but nothing happened. When would he feel the familiar spark of inspiration the way he’d done countless times before? Or what if the truth only became clear once it was too late. “What if it is already too late?” he asked himself sorrowfully.

Blinking rapidly Edgar turned from the board. He was looking but he wasn’t seeing, and there were countless other things to be done rather than stare blindly at the same old information. “If you’ll excuse me now I need to speak to HQ” he gestured towards the telephone.

Aware that they were being dismissed Father Brown and Isabel shuffled towards the door, Isabel holding back to allow the priest to exit first. Turning back to her husband she found his eyes were dipped, attention drawn to a bundle of folders on his desk. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out and by the time Edgar finally looked up, she was gone.

Alone in his office, and in his thoughts, Chief Inspector Sullivan slumped down in his chair, fingers steepled to his lips almost in prayer. “He has to be somewhere” he mumbled to himself, a lump choking his throat. “What if he’s hurt or lost, desperately waiting to be found? What if he’s scared and losing hope?” Edgar would’ve happily traded every collar of his career, every two-bit criminal he’d put behind bars, every major case he’d cracked with Special Branch just to find this lad. Hell, he’d give up every accolade he’d ever received, his career even, just so long as he could bring the boy home safe before doing so.

The telephone at the front desk rang insistently and with the station now deserted Edgar sluggishly hauled himself to his feet to answer it. Every tired step between his chair and the front desk echoed with the fear that his chances of finding the child alive were diminishing rapidly; By the time he lifted the receiver his stomach was nothing but a churning pit of hopelessness.

Chapter Text

Sitting at the kitchen table, elbow planted next to a large glass of milk, Brenda’s cheek rested heavily on her knuckles. Under the table her feet throbbed while her calves and shins itched like billy-o from all the dry grass and creepy crawlies she’s spent the day traipsing amongst. The plate in front of her held two thick slices of bread with lashings of raspberry jam on but despite feeling famished she, as yet, hadn’t found the energy to reach out and lift one to her mouth.

“C’mon” she chivvied herself silently, “get this in ya then up to bed.”

One weary bite of bread took an age to chew and swallow then she lifted the glass taking a long gulp of the creamy milk and grimaced: she’d left it sitting so long it had turned warm and a little sour. Licking her lips she tasted saltiness of her skin. “Should ‘av a bath” she told herself, knowing it would help with the aches in her neck and shoulders too. And her back, and her legs, and her feet. But as nice an idea as it was it would be too much effort for tonight, she’d have a good wash down with a flannel before turning in, that’d do. It wasn’t as though the blokes in the search party would care how she smelt, they were all stinking to high heaven themselves, fresh sweat layered upon stale. Drooping her head slightly she sniffed at the thin checked shirt she’d been wearing all day. “Not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself” she noted.

Unable to muster the energy for a second bite of jam and bread Brenda closed her eyes and was met by an image of the fair-haired young man she’d walked side-by-side in silence with for most of the day. She’d rather not be too pongy if she was going to be spending time with Christopher, “Chris” she corrected herself with a half-smile, again tomorrow. With his clear green eyes lingering in her mind she thought enviously of how lovely Mrs D always smelt. Of course Brenda didn’t have her sort of money to be wasting on fancy soaps and those salts that made the bath water bubble and fizz. “Oh, a long hot bath full of bubbles like you see in the films. Bliss!” she smiled to herself. But more than any bubble bath all she really wanted right now was her bed and some sleep.

Stepping past the pair of brown battered boots in the hallway Father Brown made his way to the kitchen to find his young ward half asleep in her chair. “Good evening Brenda” he said, voice barely more than a whisper so as not to startle her.

“Evening Father” she slurred without opening her drooping eyelids.

“The last of the search parties have been fed and dispatched back home” he informed her, taking his seat. “You didn’t stop by the village hall? The ladies had made soup and sponge puddings.”

“Too tired to eat” she mumbled, “jam’n’bread’ll do.”

He looked at the barely touched food, smiling sympathetically knowing she’d probably been sitting there, listlessly, for quite some time.

“Any news?” she asked wearily, “I ‘eard Alf made a right scene about Turvey earlier.” She used her words sparingly, each one requiring great effort.

“A lot has happened today” the priest replied vaguely. Such a paradox, he thought, that so much had happened yet nothing had changed. Since leaving the village hall with the last of the searchers he’d been at St Mary’s contemplating that very matter. His intention had been to go there for prayer and contemplation yet his curious mind had thwarted his efforts, compelling him to go over and over the same old ground much as he’d done earlier in the Chief Inspector’s office.

“How was the search?” Father Brown asked, watching the dozing figure beside him.

“Oh, not bad. Got a lift back t’ the village in an army van. Crammed in like sardines but better than walking.”

Though she didn’t complain it was evident the day had taken its toll on the young woman. “Brenda” Father Brown said earnestly.

“Yeah, what?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I want you to know how very very proud I am of you, and I hope you are proud of yourself too.”

“Uh-hm” she nodded weakly, her face squishing up and down against the heel of her hand.

“It was an excellent suggestion about allowing women to help with the search.”

“Hmm, s’pose so.” A huge yawn elongated her rounded face. “But all that searching and we still ‘aven’t found poor little Kenny.”

Closing his eyes Father Brown leant back in his chair, hands clasped across his stomach, visualising again the search-map at the police station. The area that had now been covered was considerable, as far as an eight year old boy could conceivably stray in a day, or even two. Would Chief Inspector Sullivan expand the area even further tomorrow or favour ever more detailed searches of places the boy had most likely visited? “Probably a combination of the two” he mused.

“Brenda” he said again gently, “I think you should try to eat a little more then make your way to bed.” She was dog-tired, she’d need nourishment and sleep if she intended to rejoin the ranks again tomorrow.

“Yeah” she slurred sleepily, “Bed.” Forcing her eyes half-open she squinted at the priest and gave a sad smile. “I’d love to think I’d wake up in the morning and you’d say: “Don’t worry, go back to sleep, no need to search anymore, Kenny’s back home safe and sound”.”

“Ahh.” Father Brown’s eyes widened as at last the penny dropped. “Go to bed Brenda!” he urged, leaping from his chair, swinging cassock grasped at the knee as he scurried down the hallway towards the door.

“What, er, where are you…?” Brenda stammered in confusion. But it was too late, the door slammed shut and the last thing Brenda heard before she lay her head on the table and fell fast asleep was the whirring of a bike chain and wheels crunching over gravel.

Thursday 23:35

Standing at the kitchen bench Isabel cradled a large Mason Cash mixing bowl in the crook of her arm, beating the thick gloopy batter with a stiff metal whisk. The bowl kept slipping against the thin wool of her chocolate brown cardigan which she’d slipped on to combat the evening chill that had now descended. She huffed at the fact she couldn’t find her usual rhythm, concentrating intently on every flick of her wrist: it was a sure sign she was flagging. After leaving Edgar at the station earlier she’d called by the village hall to help with the serving of soup and the tidying up yet as soon as she’d come home she’d felt strangely compelled to make somethings to take back with her to the hall in the morning. Baking was a distraction too, she was aware of that, but while she was happy enough that she’d been contributing to the search in her own way, running errands for Edgar and using Hercules to drop off food parcels around and about, she still feared some of the women, Mrs Adams in particular, would think she’d been shirking her responsibilities. Neither fully dedicated to either the catering, as Violet Goodfellow had been, nor the physical search like Brenda was, would people perhaps think Isabel was getting ideas above her station now she was the Chief Inspector’s wife? She could almost hear the whispers behind her back about her preferring the intrigue of the investigation over the monotony of sandwich making.

The second Edgar touched the front door handle Isabel heard it, alert to sounds of her husband returning home at last. She almost held her breath as she waited for him to step through the door, the whisk falling still and silent in her hand. She glanced at her wristwatch: just gone half past eleven.

“I’m in here” she called to the hallway where Edgar was removing his coat and hat. The nervous catch in her voice took her by surprise. Putting down the bowl and dusting her hands off on her pink polka-dot apron she took a deep breath, the sound of his feet dragging across the hall carpet indicating just how tired he was. When the kitchen door crept slowly open she resisted the urge to immediately fuss over him but it was terribly difficult, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him look this haggard before. Even during the terrible affair with Alan Alford when he’d been thrown in a police cell and worried out of his mind about Isabel’s kidnapping he hadn’t looked this gaunt, this lost.

In the doorway Edgar paused, looking across the kitchen to his wife whose hair, now freed from the practical headscarf, fell down to frame her worried face. She couldn’t disguise the tears brimming in her eyes or the way her she bit her lower lip in an attempt to stop it quivering.

“Good evening” he said rather formally by way of greeting.

“Hello” she replied croakily, “I’m just baking some buns.” She closed her eyes, silently berating herself. Of all the things she could say to him in this moment did she really think he cared what was in the bowl? But what else was there to say? If there’d been a development in the case, a breakthrough of any sort, he’d’ve announced it by now. The fact that he seemed to have no more to say meant the three men’s alibis had seemingly checked out while the searches, she already knew from her visit to the hall, had turned up no new evidence.

Pulling back a chair from the table Edgar slumped down and stared at his folded hands. Regardless of where he focussed his eyes an apparition floated in his peripheral vision, the wretched corpse of a generic young child adorned with Kenny Rowland’s bowl cut hair, while his ears rang with taunts about his incompetency. The harder he tried to push the intrusions aside the more fiercely they fought back, his brain intent on torturing him, the image of a small dead boy pulling into focus while all he could hear playing over and over on a loop was: “You’re useless: he’s dead. Too late: he’s dead.”

Bile rose in the back of his throat, his windpipe tightening and for an awful moment he thought he’d either be sick or, worse still, let out a strangled scream. “A scream, or a cry, or both” he thought, pulse quickening, “I need to let something out, anything, before I burst!” He looked forlornly at his wife who stood motionless by the bench, part hoping that she’d come to him and soothe his pain, part willing her not to: not now, not yet, not with his duty still unfulfilled.

Barring the few moments they’d spent together in the front room in the early hours of this morning when she’d found him sleeping in the armchair, this was the only time they’d been together at home since Isabel had returned from London on Wednesday. Only a few feet separated them now yet she’d somehow never felt further away from him. Isabel brought her fingers up to cover her lips, physically holding back the questions she knew were for her benefit more than his: “What’s happening? What’s the plan? What can I do for you to make myself feel useful, fell needed, feel loved?” She looked at the bowl of cake mix and cursed herself; If she’d come home sooner from the village hall and started on something more substantial, a plate-pie perhaps, he could be tucking into something warm and filling as he sat there at the table.

Finally breaking the silence Isabel tried valiantly to hide her mounting sadness, her need to nurture bubbling to the surface, “When I was in Fernsley’s earlier I got you some pork chops, I know you’ll say you don’t want anything but I really think you ought to eat.” She took a quick breath and though Edgar didn’t acknowledge her neither did he dismiss the idea outright. “You must be hungry love…”

“That is an incorrect assumption!”

Though Edgar’s stilted reply made not a shred of sense to her, his wide-eyed expression and sharp intake of breath told Isabel it was of great significance indeed.

Chapter Text

Careering down the pitch black country lane, Isabel’s fingers tightly gripping Hercules’ steering wheel, the urgency of Edgar’s mission was made clear by two facts: firstly he hadn’t baulked at his wife’s insistence that she be the one to drive, and secondly he hadn’t once told her to slow down. Peering intently through the windscreen the dark outlines of trees whizzed by on either side. The moon, only a couple of weeks ago a shimmering white disc almost as bright as the sun, was now no more than a sliver while even the stars seemed to be devoid of their usual twinkle in the jet black sky. Isabel’s focus was on keeping a sharp eye out for the unmarked track on the right, after all she’d insisted that she knew where she was heading: now would not be the time to take a wrong turn.

So focussed was Isabel on scanning ahead for the turning that she almost failed to see the black-clad figure on his equally-black bicycle, swerving at the last moment to avoid knocking him into the ditch.

“Christ!” Edgar muttered in shock as the priest appeared momentarily alongside the passenger window before disappearing behind them again in a blur. The car decelerated quickly and for moment Edgar worried that Isabel was stopping to check on her boss, but with a steady turn of the wheel she eased Hercules off the road onto a short rutted track.

“This is it” she declared screeching to a halt in-front of a dilapidated cottage: Edgar was out of the vehicle and half way to the front door before she’d even put the handbrake on.

Eyes quickly scanning the darkened property for signs of life Edgar brought the heel of his hand to the small wooden door and began pounding furiously. “OPEN UP!” he hollered, “POLICE! OPEN UP!”

The clanging of Father Brown’s bicycle hurtling down the track was followed by the thud of metal on ground as the priest dropped his trusty steed and dashed towards the cottage.

“POLICE! OPEN UP OR I’M BREAKING THE DOOR DOWN!”

“Chief Inspector! Please calm down, you’ll terrify him” Father Brown beseeched breathlessly.

“Don’t tell me to “calm down”” Edgar growled, all the while still banging on the door. Just as he was about to step back and take aim with his foot against the lock a light flicked on inside the small property causing him to hesitate.

When the door crept open an inch the policeman didn’t wait for an invitation. Slamming it wide he strode into the dingy little kitchen, rapidly surveying his surroundings for signs of danger and, more importantly, the missing child. Turning to face the man who’d been propelled backwards by the swinging door Sullivan barked, “Where is he, where’s the boy?!”

Paul Dunn’s small beady eyes immediately darted to Father Brown who stood in the doorway with Isabel’s outline just visible behind him. Wrapping his arms around himself Dunn looked smaller than ever as he stammered, “I, umm…”

Anxiety having torn his patience to shreds Sullivan dispensed with the questioning and began his search, stepping past the rickety wooden table towards a closed door. Throwing it open he stopped in his tracks then taking a deep breath hurried forward.

Stepping into the kitchen Father Brown held his hands up to calm Paul who by now was visibly quaking, backing into the corner of the room, a wounded animal retreating into its cave.

“ISABEL!” Edgar called from the room off the kitchen, her name a desperate plea.

Hurrying towards her husband it took a second for her eyes to adjust to the unlit space, her fingers flying to her lips when the cause of his alarm became apparent. On a small lumpy bed lay Kenny Rowland, a pair of ill-fitting pyjama bottoms sagging around his scrawny hips while his bare bony chest heaved up and down. It was scant consolation but at least the boy’s heavy ragged breaths told them he was alive.

Isabel found the light switch on the wall, flicking it on with a ‘click’, the dim bulb providing little illumination other than to highlight the paleness of Kenny’s skin.

Edgar tore his overcoat off, throwing it to the floor, then leaning over the bed shook the boy gently by the shoulders, “Kenny, Kenny, can you hear me? Wake up Kenny.”

Stepping to the other side of the bed Isabel laid her hand to the boy’s brow, her face creased with concern as Edgar’s increasingly rough attempts to rouse the child solicited only the tiniest of moans.

Spinning on his heels the Chief Inspector stormed back towards the kitchen, Father Brown instinctively placing himself between the cowering Paul Dunn and the rapidly approaching officer. But Edgar made a bee-line not for the man, but for the dresser by the door atop which stood a small boxy wireless and a telephone. Fingers shaking he picked up the receiver, dialled rapidly then waited, eyes closed, for his call to be answered. “This is Sullivan, I’m at Paul Dunn’s place, Kenny Rowland is here. I need officers and an ambulance and I need Goodfellow to go to the Rowlands’ house, have them meet us at the hospital.” He paused, “Paul Dunn” he clarified into the receiver then cast a questioning glance to Father Brown who instinctively understood.

“Birch Lane, tell them we’re between the bridge and the old coach house” the priest explained.

Edgar relayed the instructions then listened again. “Tell them…” he looked through the doorway to Isabel, crouched by the bed tending to the boy, “tell them their son is alive.” With that he slammed down the receiver.

“Edgar” Isabel called, holding aloft a small colourless glass jar, “It’s Veronal.”

Jaw clenched and nostrils flaring Edgar closed the gap towards Father Brown who still formed a physical barrier between him and Paul. “Did you give him that?” the policeman shouted, pointing towards the bottle in Isabel’s hand, “How much did you give him?”

“I just gave him the same as mum used to take” Paul whimpered, scratching nervously at the side of his neck as he twisted and danced on the spot behind the priest. “It’s alright, mum took it all the time. I just gave Kenny some to help him sleep.”

Hands flying to his head Edgar let out a strangled cry of anger then balling his hand into a fist he pulled it back and drove it squarely into the large wooden lintel above the stone fireplace. It met the beam with a crunching of bone yet the pain of impact brought no sound from his lips.

Paul Dunn burst into anguished sobs, dropping to the floor, shuffling back further into the corner of the room. Wrapping his arms around his tucked up knees he began rocking back and forwards, panting and whimpering through the tears.

Isabel emerged into the kitchen, trying to ignore her husband who leant, arms braced, against the chimney breast. “Paul” she called hesitantly, and Father Brown stood aside so she could see the young man. “Are there any other medicines in the house?” she asked as calmly as she could.

“ANSWER HER!” Edgar roared before Dunn had a chance to reply.

“Please Chief Inspector” Father Brown puffed, still a little out of breath from his frantic journey here from the presbytery, “Shouting will not help.” The look in the policeman’s eyes told him what he already knew; The crashing conflict of emotions were overwhelming him, the momentary relief at finding the boy replaced by fear for his wellbeing while coffee and adrenalin still coursed through his veins.

Crouching in an attempt to catch Paul’s ever shifting gaze Father Brown asked composedly, “Paul, where did your mother keep the medicines?”

A shaky finger indicated a cabinet above the sink and Isabel dashed over, flinging open the door, rifling through the small selection of bottles and bandages. “An emetic” she declared, grasping an orange tinted bottle, “It’ll bring up anything left in his stomach”. Pulling open a drawer she scrabbled around noisily then produced a spoon. “I’ll need your help Edgar” she said, hurrying back to Kenny’s bedside.

Positioned either side of the bed Edgar held Kenny’s limp body in a half seated position while Isabel decanted a small amount of syrup onto the teaspoon. The boy’s head fell groggily to one side and Isabel had to pat his cheek lightly to coax his mouth open. “C’mon sweetheart, it’ll make you feel better” she cooed. When the bitter, unpalatable gloop touched his lips Kenny flinched, trying to recoil but eventually, with eyes still tightly shut, he managed to swallow enough of the medicine to have the desired effect. Isabel climbed onto the bed allowing Edgar to transfer the weight of the drowsy child to her and, ignoring the stench of stale urine, placed the small painted chamber pot in her lap as she waited for the vomiting to begin. Eyes scanning over the boy’s scrawny torso Edgar searched for any other signs of injury. Cautiously he lifted one of Kenny’s skinny wrists, limp like a rag-doll’s, and examined the scrapes across his hand before turning his attention to the deeper abrasions around his elbow. Satisfied there was no more to be seen without stripping the boy naked he gently replaced the slack little arm to rest on Isabel’s thigh.

With the boy in Isabel’s care Edgar stormed back through to the kitchen.

“Don’t let him hit me Father Brown!” Paul wailed, forearm folded defensively around his head of thinning hair.

Admittedly the Chief Inspector’s temper had shown itself but thus-far it had only been a fireplace on the wrong end of his fist and Father Brown was certain his friend wouldn’t direct the same violence towards a person. Back bent, hands on his knees he tried to allay Paul’s fears, “Nobody is going to hit you Paul” he said calmly.

“But he hit you Father!” Paul cried, “I saw him, outside Kenny’s house, I saw Chief Inspector Sullivan hit you!”

A look of confusion to passed between the priest and the policeman. While they searched their minds to put the alleged incident in context Isabel sat stunned on the bed. As Kenny retched noisily into the bowl she desperately willed either her husband or her boss to refute Paul’s accusation: when neither did she shrank back, holding the boy closer to her, wondering worriedly what had gone on between the two men that she hadn’t been made privy to.

“Maybe I should take Paul outside, get some air” Father Brown suggested, straightening up.

“He’s going nowhere!” Edgar growled, his sharply pointed finger causing Paul to shrink back deeper into the corner.

The priest drew a deep breath; The Chief Inspector’s state of ill-temper showed no indication of abating. While he sympathised with the man’s situation the fact that Kenny’s pitiful heaving had subsided while his moaning grew a little louder suggested the boy’s condition may be improving. Fixing his eyes on Edgar he tried to placate him, “Kenny has been found, he’s safe, that’s what matters.”

“That’s what matters?!” Edgar shook his head in disbelief. He pointed through the doorway to the bed, “And if the drugs have done him permanent harm, or if he’s been interfered with, who will be to blame for not getting here sooner?”

“Nobody will be to blame” Father Brown scowled, “We all did our best.”

Trying to hold back his rage caused Edgar to almost hyperventilate, chest rising and falling jaggedly. When he caught his breath sufficiently to respond it was like a gun going off, words firing from the barrel of his mouth towards the priest. “WE did our best?” he repeated incredulously. “For crying out loud won’t I EVER make you understand? It was MY job to find him” he jabbed a finger at his chest then turned it to jab at Father Brown’s, “YOUR job was to hold his mother’s hand and light candles.”

“Edgar!” Isabel’s admonishing voice pierced the red mist surrounding her husband, his head snapping towards her. “Father Brown is only trying to help.” Brushing Kenny’s hair back from his brow she murmured words of comfort to the wheezing boy.

Head and heart both pounding Edgar felt as though the walls were closing in around him. Isabel sat in the dimly lit adjoining room and even from this distance the look she cast him was like a knife to his heart. Fear and disappointment burned in her eyes, that look alone cutting him more deeply than any scolding words ever could. Shakily he turned back to the priest and ignoring the tears he knew were welling in his eyes went on through gritted teeth. “I don’t need your help Father, I need to you leave me to do my job, because when the dust settles nobody in Kembleford will say “Why didn’t the priest find the missing boy sooner? Why didn’t the priest save Kenny from that…monster.”” His eyes turned to Paul who still sat curled in a ball on the flagstone floor.

“That’s not a nice thing to say Chief Inspector” Paul protested, “I’m not a monster!” Wiping his nose on the scruffy sleeves of his shirt he snivelled pathetically.

Chief Inspector Sullivan slowly crouched, one knee on the filthy floor, forearm resting on his bent leg, staring intently at Paul Dunn. “Who are you?” he thought, “What are you? And why didn’t I see through you before now?”

“I’m not a monster” Paul protested again, his oddly high forehead lined with deep furrows.

“Not a monster you say?” Edgar asked in a menacing hush. “You have an eight year old boy drugged and half-naked in your bed, would you care to explain that to me, Mr Dunn?”

“That’s not my bed” Paul spat back defensively, then cast an arm towards the small set of wooden stairs at the far side of the fireplace. “My bedroom’s upstairs, that in there where Kenny is was Mum’s room.”

Trying to discern whether he was being mocked or deceived by the pathetic mess of a man Chief Inspector Sullivan fixed him with a steely gaze yet was unable to reach a conclusion. Was it possible that in Paul Dunn’s warped mind the ownership of the bed was really the most pertinent point for discussion?

The earlier surge of adrenalin began to drain from Edgar’s body and he felt himself rapidly sliding all the way from frantic concern down through anger and disgust until he was met like a punch to the guts by utter despair. Standing again he slowly began taking in his surroundings. How long had it been? Five minutes, a little more since he’d burst into the tiny cramped cottage yet only now did he see the details. Amongst the mess of the squalid kitchen a child sized shirt hung from a hook above the fireplace with two small shoes kicked into the corner by the hearth. On the table lay two plates, two cups while propped against the back of one of the wooden chairs was what looked to be a homemade bow, the string of which was, literally, a piece of old twine strung not nearly taut enough to be be in any way effective. Bringing a hand to his forehead he recalled Sergeant Mayhew’s jabbering yesterday at the station, “washing strung up above the fireplace, last nights dinner plates left on the table” he’d said of his visit to this very room. He shook his head in disbelief. Had one of his most senior officers really been here yesterday morning, in this very kitchen, while poor Kenny lay in that wretched state just feet away? “How didn’t he notice?” he asked himself, then quickly turned the question on himself, “how didn’t I notice? Mayhew said “plates”, plural: Dunn lives alone. Add that to the extra chop he bought in Fernsley’s for dinner…”

Striking the heel of his hand hard to his forehead Edgar cursed himself for the missed opportunities and the untold damage the delay may have caused the young boy to whom Isabel still tended. He attempted to push aside the self-reproach, trying instead to formulate a plan for when the other officers arrived. The property would need to be searched and Dunn taken to the station for questioning. Should he press the man for more information now, before he had the chance to concoct a cover story, or was he really in too delicate a state to face further probing at the moment? Maybe the more apt question was whether Edgar himself was in a fit state to conduct a meaningful interview.

The shrill ringing of an alarm clock caused everyone to jump. Swivelling their heads towards the narrow shelf above the fireplace Father Brown and Edgar both stared daggers at the offending device whose two hands pointed straight up towards the twelve. It was the final straw; Edgar stepped forward, swiped the clock from the shelf, watching it clatter and shatter on the stone floor.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Paul cried at the commotion, rocking back and forth in the corner. Father Brown stooped to place a consoling hand on his shoulder, the bite of sharp sour body odour causing his nose to crinkle.

“Edgar love, take a deep breath” Isabel called from the bedroom, then added “It’s alright Paul…”

“Just you worry about Kenny” Edgar shot back at her, his voice tight and reedy: he instantly regretted his brusqueness. Gingerly he edged towards the bedroom door yet when he reached the thresh he could bring himself to go no further. Kenny’s tiny pale body lay limp in Isabel’s arms, his chest fluttering up and down, breath rattling in his throat. The damp air reeked of urine and sweat and mould, the peeling plaster and mottled black ceiling testament to the dismal state of the place. The air quality alone would be enough to hospitalise an asthmatic child such as Kenny, never mind the sleeping draught Paul had plied him with.

Isabel watched her husband standing motionless in the doorway, concern lining his face. “The ambulance will be here soon” she reassured him though internally she harboured her own fears for Kenny’s wellbeing.

“I did nothing wrong Father” they heard Paul whimper from his corner. “I don’t know why Kenny’s still asleep, mum never slept that long when she took her medicine.”

“Yes, but your mother was an adult Paul” Father Brown explained simply, “You can’t give a child the same dose of medicine, their bodies are so much smaller.”

Paul snivelled, “You mean like how Kenny said just to get him one pork chop for dinner, but I eat two, ‘cos he’s just a little boy but I’m bigger?”

Closing his eyes Edgar leant his head against the doorframe. If he didn’t know any better he’d think Paul Dunn was deliberately rubbing salt in his wounds. Alma’s voice rang in his head as he recalled standing in the queue in the butchers shop. “Three pork chops today, you must be hungry!” she’d exclaimed. Paul had replied as plain as day, “No, that is an incorrect assumption.”

Slowly Edgar drifted back into the kitchen, Father Brown standing stock still at Paul’s side. Looking first at the priest and then at Kenny’s captor he said nothing, his blank expression and glazed eyes perfectly encapsulating the complete numbness which permeated every fibre of his being.

“Please Father” Paul pleaded, “just take Kenny home now and tell his mum I’m sorry. And tell Mr Rowland not to be angry. I’m very sorry for all the bother Chief Inspector” he added with a squeak from behind the priest’s legs.

Whether Edgar heard the apology or not Father Brown wasn’t sure, the policeman simply turned and walked out the front door.

“I’m very tired and I’d like for everybody just to go away and leave me alone now” Paul blubbed petulantly.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple” Father Brown replied sadly.

“But I’ve done nothing wrong, please, just take Kenny home and go away, all of you!”

Placing a consoling hand once again on the distraught man’s shoulder Father Brown looked towards Isabel, gently rocking Kenny in her arms. The tears streaming down her cheeks weren’t just for the frail boy, he knew, but for her husband who'd disappeared into the darkness.

Standing at the end of the small rutted track Edgar waited for the lights and sirens that would soon descend, relieved to suck in the lungfuls of cool clean air. His right arm hung limply by his side, knuckles beginning to swell and throb from their encounter with the lintel. “Best I stand here” he told himself, “don’t want the ambulance to miss the turn off.” But staring down the empty road towards Kembleford he knew the real reason he was out here all alone: because he was too ashamed to remain in there.

Chapter Text

Striding from his office, pen and notepad in hand, Chief Inspector Sullivan did a double take when he noticed Father Brown seated by the front desk. He eyed the priest suspiciously but said nothing.

“I’ve just taken Paul through to the interview room Sir. I reminded him he’s under arrest and that he’s not obliged to say anything” Goodfellow said wearily, his eyelids drooping.

“Very good Sergeant, let’s make a start.”

“Chief Inspector?”

Father Brown’s voice instantly put Edgar on edge. “Yes Father?” he asked as cordially as he could manage.

“If you’d permit, I’d like to sit with Paul during the interview, in light of his difficulties.”

“Ah, so that’s why he’s still hanging around” Edgar sighed to himself. “Paul Dunn is an adult and as such…”

“But he’s terrified!” the priest pleaded. “Don’t you think, perhaps, he’d be more likely to talk freely with a familiar face present?”

Sullivan dipped his head in shame. He knew fine well what the priest was alluding to. Flexing his swollen knuckles he recalled the way he’d struck the beam above the fireplace back at the cottage. Paul Dunn was terrified of him, and who could blame the man? “Fine, you can sit with him” he conceded straightening his tie, “But I ask the questions and Dunn gives the answers. Do not try to lead the interview and do not put words in his mouth, is that clear?”

“Perfectly” Father Brown nodded. Pushing himself to his feet he followed the two policemen down the corridor.

When the three men entered the small dark room Paul Dunn’s head jerked up in response, his eyes flitting from one person to the next, unsure where to land. Sullivan placed his pen and notepad on the table then walked to the back of the room grabbing two chairs by their backs. He positioned one next to the seated suspect and the other he dragged into the corner, a nod of the head indicating that it was for Goodfellow’s use. It was customary for the sergeant to stand during proceedings but the poor man was dead on his feet and as Father Brown had observed Dunn was unlikely to open-up if he was scared witless: Goodfellow was quite an imposing figure when he drew himself up to full height.

As Father Brown took his seat next to the huddled young man Sullivan took a moment to compose himself before starting. He observed the figure opposite him, a small wiry fellow not much bigger than the teenage Martin Ludlow. He’d pose no threat to any of the men in this room should he decide to throw his weight around, yet he’d easily be capable of overpowering a child. His beady eyes continued to dart here and there. “Nerves?” Sullivan wondered, “Guilt, or just one of his peculiar habits?” Having never had a conversation with Dunn before, aside from their brief interaction at the cottage a short while ago, he could only take other people’s word for how intelligent, or otherwise, the odd young man was. Best to keep things as simple and concise as possible, he decided, until he figured out what was really going on in that strange little head of his.

Not wanting to appear intimidating he willed his face to relax then asked calmly, “Paul, can you tell me how Kenny Rowland came to be in your bed in the state in which we found him?”

Paul leant forward a little, “Oh, I already told you, that’s not my bed.”

Edgar ground his teeth at the spectacularly poor start. “Do you realise the seriousness…?” he asked harshly then bit his tongue. The answer might well be “no”, Dunn’s ‘difficulties’ as Father Brown had termed them could prevent him from grasping how much trouble he was in or how much danger he’d put Kenny in. “Alright, let’s start at the beginning” he suggested, trying to get things back on track. “How did Kenny come to be at your cottage?”

“I took him there in my van.”

Sullivan waited but Paul didn’t elaborate. There was no hint of sarcasm or obstinance in the childish looking man’s tone, his answers just seemed to be rather literal. “Let’s work with that then” Edgar told himself, “If we can marry direct questions with direct answers Dunn’s eccentricity may turn out to be a blessing.” Reminding himself to keep his tone light he moved on. “Why did you take Kenny to your cottage?”

“To get a spade.”

“A spade?”

Father Brown leant towards the young man, “It would help if you could give Chief Inspector Sullivan as much detail as possible” he counselled.

Though it hadn’t taken the priest long to interfere Edgar wasn’t overly vexed by the intervention. He massaged his temples while Paul nodded and fidgeted at the other side of the table.

“More detail?” Paul asked, turning his eyes to the ceiling in thought, “I took Kenny to my cottage to get a spade because the one he was using to dig his hole was just a little hand shovel.” Holding his hands apart he indicated a length of about two feet.

“Kenny was digging a hole with a hand shovel?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” It was a question for the sake of thoroughness, the presence of the small shallow pit they’d found springing instantly to mind.

“Behind Mr Turvey’s house, where him and his friend Ian play in that little bit of scrubby woodland.”

“When was this?”

“Umm, on Tuesday.”

“And why were you at Mr Turvey’s house?”

“I sometimes do a bit of work for him, said I’d help him with his fence next time I was passing. So I looked by, but he wasn’t at home.”

“But Kenny Rowland was there?”

“Yes” Paul scratched at his neck a little, twisting in his seat. “I heard a noise, thought it might be Mr Turvey, but when I looked over the fence I saw Kenny digging his hole.” He held his hands apart again, “With the little shovel.”

“What time was this?”

“Umm, I’m not sure exactly. But after lunchtime.”

“Good” Edgar nodded. This was actually going much better than he’d hoped, a natural sort of rhythm developing in the back and forth between the two of them. “So, you saw Kenny digging a hole in Mr Turvey’s woods on Tuesday afternoon?”

“That is correct.” From anybody else’s lips the reply would’ve sounded condescending.

“Then what happened?”

For the first time Paul fell quiet, chin dipping to his chest, shoulders hunching inwards as he retreated into himself. His eyes crept slowly towards Sergeant Goodfellow in the corner, then he shook his head nervously at the sight of the uniformed officer.

“Paul, the Chief Inspector asked you a question” Father Brown prodded gently.

Sullivan scowled: this was his interview, it was up to him when to push and when to wait.

Swivelling in his chair Paul whispered to Father Brown though his words could still be heard by the other two men present, “But I don’t want to answer Father or I’ll get myself in trouble.”

The frankness in his admission told Sullivan that Dunn would make a poor liar therefore any deception should be easy to spot. “Paul” he said a little more firmly, “you have to tell me what happened.”

“I drove Kenny back to my cottage” came the timid reply.

“Go on.”

Suddenly animated Paul blurted, “And then you see what happened, and it wasn’t my fault, but a deer ran out into the road. Do you remember Father, you saw the blood where I’d hit it with my van?”

Eyes blazing Sullivan glowered at the priest. Why the hell was this the first he was hearing about blood on a van? Aware of the poor light Paul’s description of events cast him in Father Brown held up a hand in defence but bit his tongue. There’d be time later to explain himself. And he was sure the Chief Inspector would be demanding a full explanation.

Paul’s head swung back and forth between the policeman and the priest, trying to decipher what was going on between the two men. “It’s alright Chief Inspector” he said, completely misconstruing the situation, “the deer wasn’t hurt. Like I told Father Brown it just skedaddled into the woods.”

Scribbling the words “Blood on van. FB knew” on his notepad Sullivan went on, “So you hit a deer, it skedaddled, then what?”

“Then Kenny was crying.”

Three sets of eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why was Kenny crying?” Sullivan asked simply.

“Because he fell off the back of my van when I braked for the deer.” Paul cowered, his eyes darting to the seated sergeant. “Please don’t be angry Sergeant Goodfellow, I know you told me off before about letting the youngsters ride on the back of my van. I told Kenny to be careful, to stay sat down, but he must’ve been larking about.”

Goodfellow tried to keep his face impassive yet a tiny smile of reassurance made its way to the corner of his mouth when he saw how nervous Paul was.

Sullivan waited for Dunn’s focus to return to him. “Kenny was riding on the back of your van, you braked suddenly and he fell off?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right Chief Inspector. So you see, it was just an accident.” With that he let out sigh of relief and turned to the priest. “Can I go home now Father? I’m very tired, I’ve not been sleeping very well.”

Edgar was so taken aback that for a moment he couldn’t think how to proceed. Could Dunn really believe he’d be free to go? They were only just getting started!

It was Father Brown who broke the bad news, “No, you can’t leave yet, the Chief Inspector still has more questions for you.”

“Oh, alright” Paul shrugged. He looked a little disappointed but still rather unperturbed by the whole situation.

“What happened after Kenny fell from the van?” Edgar resumed.

“He cried for a bit ‘cos he had a really nasty scrape on his elbow and on his hand.” Dunn pointed to his own elbow and palm to demonstrate. “But I told him it would be alright and then we went back to my cottage.”

Puffing out his cheeks Edgar steeled himself for what would come next. He could handle the glacial drip-drip manner in which Dunn was filling in the gaps, but what he still didn’t know, still feared, was exactly what had happened when this odd little man had got the young boy back to his cottage and why on earth he’d kept him there so long.

“And after you got Kenny back to your cottage, then what?”

“I told him to take off his jumper and shirt.”

Father Brown and Sergeant Goodfellow exchanged a worried glance while Sullivan’s fists clenched reflexively: while the knuckles of his left hand rippled white those on the right remained red and puffy from his earlier outburst.

“Why did you tell him to do that, to undress?” Anger simmered just below the surface.

“Well, his jumper had a hole in it” Paul pointed to his elbow again, “from where he’d fallen, and there was a bit of blood on his shirt.” Addressing Father Brown he stated, “My mum always said if you get blood on something put it straight into cold salty water otherwise you’ll never get the stains out.” He smiled, proud to have shared the household tip.

Recalling the child-sized shirt hanging over the fireplace Sullivan felt another part of the puzzle click into place.

Without prompting Paul went on, “It wasn’t a bad cut on Kenny’s elbow, I cleaned it up properly, and his hand too. He jumped a bit when I dabbed the antiseptic on but I told him he was brave.” He smiled proudly again as though expecting praise for his actions, his face gradually falling with confusion when none came. “I thought about trying to darn his jumper but I’m not very good at that, so I said I’d better let his mum do it, I’d probably make it worse.” The self-deprecation brought a sadness to his voice.

“Then what happened?”

“Then Kenny started to get upset.”

“Upset?” Father Brown asked then immediately flashed the Chief Inspector an apologetic look for butting in.

“Yeah, he started going on about how he’d be in trouble with his dad when he got home, for bunking off school. Well, I told him, “you shouldn’t really be bunking off school, should you?” but he said he had to otherwise he wouldn’t get his cap-gun back.”

The mention of the toy which young Martin Ludlow had been holding to ransom caught everyone off-guard. A subtle nod from Sullivan gave Father Brown permission to continue with the questions: with Paul seemingly quite content to talk to the priest it offered him the opportunity to sit back a little and observe.

“I don’t understand” Father Brown admitted, brow knotted, “How would bunking off school help Kenny get his toy gun back?”

“Kenny said Martin Ludlow stole his cap gun.” Paul turned quickly to Sergeant Goodfellow, “Martin Ludlow is a bit of bully you know, always picking on the younger boys. You should have a word with him.”

Goodfellow gave a courteous nod, trying desperately hard to remain alert in his chair. Maybe he’d’ve been better off standing, he reflected, less chance of nodding off.

“Sorry, I still don’t understand” Father Brown shook his head, “Why exactly did Kenny skip school on Tuesday?”

“To dig a hole in the woods.” On seeing the blank expressions around him Paul rolled his eyes before spelling it out. “Kenny was digging a hole to make a trap like he’d seen the Indians do in one of the cowboy pictures. He was going to cover it in sticks so when Martin came to the woods after school he’d fall in the hole. Kenny said he’d shoot him with his bow and arrow until Martin gave him his cap gun back.” Pausing he scratched his neck, then added charitably, “To be honest I think Kenny’d’ve struggled to dig a hole big enough to trap Martin, even with a proper spade: that ground’s rock hard. And it’s not much of a bow and arrow he’s made for himself either. But I didn’t say anything about that, didn’t want to dash his spirits, not when he was already so upset.”

A raised finger from Sullivan indicated that he was ready to resume the role of interrogator. “Kenny skipped school to set a trap for Martin Ludlow, but it was the prospect of going home to face his father that worried him?”

“Yes, that’s right. He didn’t want to get in trouble with Alf and he didn’t want liver for his dinner.”

Edgar groaned internally. For all Dunn’s answers were straightforward this was like cutting a football pitch one blade of grass at a time. Was the liver relevant? he wondered, then sighed resignedly “Best to ask.” Just as he was about to speak confusion struck, causing him to pause, his mind grappling to form a coherent chain of events. “Hold on, how did Kenny know it would be liver for dinner?”

Paul frowned, casting his mind back. “He said something about finding a note his mum had left when he’d snuck back home to get the shovel for his hole. He told me his mum had gone off to work so his dad would be cooking and the only thing Alf knows how to make is liver and onions and Kenny hates liver.”

“Right, I see” Edgar said weakly as he struggled to pick the meat from the bones, so to speak.

“So I said to Kenny I’ll be having pork chops, cos I always have chops on a Tuesday, stay here for your tea then I’ll take you home afterwards.” Addressing the Chief Inspector with a serious scowl he said, “Alf Rowland’s got a right temper on him, I didn’t reckon it was a good idea for Kenny to go back home until his mum was there to keep an eye on things.”

Raising a hand to call a halt to proceedings Sullivan sat back to allow his mind to catch up. If Paul Dunn was telling the truth then he’d had Kenny’s best interests at heart: cleaning the boy’s wounds, washing his clothes, ensuring he was fed and, maybe most importantly not sending him home to face the wrath of Alf until Maisie was present to protect him. “Just how clever are you?” he found himself thinking, watching Paul’s beady eyes dart around the room. “Is this all a bluff, are you spinning me a yarn, painting yourself in as good a light as possible, all the while hoping Kenny never recovers from all the drugs you laced him with, hoping he can never contradict your story?”

The bright light hanging above the metal table cast its harsh glare across Paul Dunn’s oddly squashed features. Somehow his expression remained impassive, unreadable. Aside from the occasional yawn there was nothing to indicate how he was feeling.

Ready to resume Chief Inspector Sullivan folded his hands on top of the notepad and attempted to clarify the situation, “You gave Kenny a lift on your van, he fell, you took him to your cottage and cleaned him up then invited him to stay for dinner.”

Paul gave a single nod, “Yes, that is correct.”

“What happened next?” Edgar asked yet again, trying to move things along while letting Dunn control the narrative.

“Well you know what happened next Chief Inspector, and you too Father, you both saw me. I went to Fernsley’s to buy chops for our dinner, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember” Edgar nodded, painfully recalling the encounter, how he’d been too distracted by Alf Rowland’s boorish behaviour to notice Paul’s skittishness. “Mrs Fernsley commented that it wasn’t your usual order.” He cursed himself again, quickly and quietly, for not picking up on the fact at the time. Pushing aside the pangs of guilt he refocussed on the task at hand.

“That is correct, usually I get two chops but I needed an extra one for Kenny. Alma thought I was hungry but the extra chop was for him, not me.”

“And after you left the butchers?”

“I went home and cooked the chops but when I put the plate down in front of Kenny he said he wasn’t hungry. I ate my chops then I told him he had to eat something, but he only had a tiny bit. He said he felt really tired, but it wasn’t even bedtime. He was rubbing his head, where he’d bumped it…”

“Kenny bumped his head!?”

Paul nodded.

“When he fell from your van?”

Another nod. “But he was alright, it was his elbow that was bleeding, there wasn’t even a scratch on his head. But he kept rubbing it, saying he was tired, so I said alright then go and have a lie down next door on Mum’s old bed.”

“And when Kenny lay down, what did you do?”

The question appeared to confuse Paul. “What did I do? I just waited. Kenny said his mum would be back about ten, so I thought I’d wait until then to take him home.”

“So why didn’t you?” Edgar asked, at a complete loss as to how this situation had seemingly snowballed so utterly out of control.

“Because I fell asleep, in the chair in the kitchen.” Looking earnestly at the Chief Inspector he explained with a little whine, “I’d had a busy few days and I’ve not got my mum to do my cooking or look after the place anymore.” Casting an envious eye towards Father Brown he huffed, “It’s alright for you, you’ve got that Brenda girl to look after you.”

Despite themselves all three men sitting around Paul were tempted to smile.

“After my mum died Mrs McCarthy used to bring me corned beef pie once in a while, some of her scones too” Paul remembered fondly. “Father, does Brenda make pies?”

“Not really her forte I’m afraid” Father Brown admitted ruefully.

“Yes, well, back to the matter in hand if you don’t mind” Sullivan said, sarcasm fused with frustration. “Kenny went to sleep in the other room and you fell asleep in the chair, then what?”

In near disbelief Paul declared, “Then the next thing I knew it was just turning light and Sergeant Mayhew was banging on my door! He said Kenny Rowland was missing and he needed to look in my shed. Well I told him, “I don’t know why you’d want to look in there” but he made me open it up anyways.”

The two policemen glanced at each other, conscious of how easily their colleague could’ve settled this whole affair.

“Why didn’t you tell Sergeant Mayhew that Kenny was in fact in your cottage?”

Clasping his hands to his face Paul began clawing at the patchy stubble on his cheeks. “I didn’t tell him because he didn’t ask.” His wavering tone bore a trace of duplicity. “You see I’d just woken up and Sergeant Mayhew was all shouty and he never actually asked me if I knew where Kenny was. In fact, nobody did, not once.”

It was the first thing Dunn had said to anger Sullivan; The man wasn’t that much of a fool, surely once he’d learnt the boy had been reported missing he’d’ve volunteered the information of his whereabouts. It was a pitiful excuse to say he’d never been directly asked if he knew where Kenny Rowland was. Deciding not to challenge him on the point just yet Sullivan sat back and allowed Dunn to continue.

“Sergeant Mayhew told me to get dressed and go to the village to join the search.” Turning to Father Brown he creased his brow, “I was very confused. I knew it made no sense to go looking for Kenny ‘cos I already knew where he was. But my mum used to say if a policeman tells you to do something you should do it.”

Father Brown nodded sympathetically and even Sullivan, though loathed to admit it, could see how somebody so driven by logic, as Dunn seemingly was, might find the two directives difficult to reconcile.

“Sergeant Mayhew scares me” Paul confided to the priest, “He’s always been the same, ever since I was a little boy, always shouting at me for no good reason.” He nodded to the corner of the room, “Not like Sergeant Goodfellow, he’s always kind. Even when he told me I shouldn’t let the children hitch a ride on the back of my van he said it nicely.” Addressing the sergeant directly he admitted regretfully, “I should’ve done like you said, none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t let Kenny ride on the back.”

“Right, let’s get this straight” Edgar asked, fingers pressed to his temples, “You’re telling us that you left Kenny asleep in your cottage while you joined the search with Sergeant Mayhew?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“But you knew full well the search was pointless!” Until now Sullivan had striven to stick to unambiguous questions. As expected Dunn seemed unsure what to do with the sudden statement, staring back blankly at him. “What was your plan Paul?” Sullivan asked impatiently, “When you left Kenny and joined the search, what did you think would happen?”

“Well I thought Kenny would go home and it would all be done and dusted. I gave him a shake before I went out, told him he’d better get back to the village quick-smart or we’d both be for the high-jump. But he didn’t want to get up, he just kept closing his eyes really tight and saying he was tired. Sergeant Mayhew was outside shouting at me to hurry up so what else could I do?” he shrugged, “I did as he told me, came to the village and started helping with the search.”

Consulting the notepad on the table Edgar took a deep breath. “Sergeant Mayhew says you left the search party at around noon on Wednesday, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct” came the mechanical reply.

With a flick of the head the priest gave a metaphorical nudge for him to provide more detail.

“I couldn’t understand why we were all still searching you see. I couldn’t think why Kenny hadn’t got up and gone home like I’d told him, so I thought I’d best go back to check on him.”

With a knot of unease twisting in his stomach Sullivan pressed on, “And when you got home, what did you find?”

Paul gave a stuttering little laugh, “He was still in bed, lazy little blighter!”

“Had you given Kenny your mother’s sleeping medicine?”

“Umm, no, not then I hadn’t.” His expression dropped then he leant across the table towards the policeman. Hesitantly Sullivan did the same, meeting him halfway, trying not to recoil at the vinegary odour filling the small gap between them. Cupping a hand to his mouth Paul whispered, “Kenny’d had an accident in his sleep.” The two men sat back again. “I don’t mean to embarrass him, it’s not his fault, that sort of thing used to happen to me when I was little too.”

“So you’re saying Kenny was still fast asleep, well after noon?” Edgar scowled suspiciously, scribbling on his notepad.

“Oh yes, he was out like a light when I got back. So I took his shorts off him, cleaned him up then put him in some of my pyjamas.”

The inferred intimacy of the act sat uneasily with Sullivan but he didn’t interject.

“Then I made us some lunch but Kenny was still really groggy. I don’t know why, he’d been asleep all night, lazy bones!”

The bemusement Kenny’s lethargy evoked in Dunn seemed genuine leading Sullivan to suspect the man didn’t comprehend the severity of the situation.

Reaching the same conclusion Father Brown attempted to explain, “It sounds as if Kenny may have suffered a concussion.”

“A what?”

“An injury, when he fell from the van and banged his head.”

“Oh no Father, there was nothing wrong with Kenny’s head, not even a bump that I could see. Like I told you, he jumped up fine, it was only his elbow that was really hurt.”

Taking over Edgar tried to spell out the situation, “Kenny may have appeared to be fine but a concussion can take time to develop.” He scrabbled for a simple way to put it, “For example you may knock your arm one day yet the bruise may not show up until the following day. A concussion is like a bruise inside the head and sometimes it’s not immediately obvious.”

Almost scoffing Paul threw his hands up, “Well I couldn’t see inside his head, could I?”

“No, I know that feeling” Edgar thought sullenly, still struggling to gauge just how genuine Dunn was being.

“But I suppose that makes sense” Paul conceded with a frown “‘cos a little while later Kenny started to wake up a bit, wriggling around in the bed and he said he had a sore head. That’s when I gave him some of Mum’s painkillers and he went back to sleep.”

“Painkillers?” Sullivan thought with a panic. Isabel had found the bottle of sleeping draught at the cottage but this was the first they were hearing about painkillers. No wonder poor Kenny was in such a state, the little mite had been fed a concoction of two strong medications. Glances to his sergeant and the priest told him they shared his concern but Kenny was in the care of the doctor’s now. His job, Edgar reminded himself, was to get as full and frank an account as possible from Dunn before he clammed up.

Declining to query why he’d given Kenny a painkiller prescribed to an adult or whether he understood the dangers of doing so he instead asked, “So after Kenny went back to sleep, what did you do next?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do.” There was a shrug and a pause then he cocked his head towards the priest. “I sat and I had a bit of a think, then I remembered that Mum said if I ever needed somebody to talk to I should come to you Father, so that’s what I did, I came to see you, outside the church.”

“You went to visit Father Brown to get advice about the situation with Kenny?” Edgar asked incredulously. He was painfully aware the priest had withheld information from him during previous investigations, but he couldn’t believe he’d’ve remained quiet in this situation.

“Yes, well, that was my plan. But Mr Turvey told me not to interrupt because Mr Rowland was talking to Father Brown and Sergeant Goodfellow. Then the next thing I knew Alf was shouting at me and at Mr Turvey. He was really angry, wasn’t he Sergeant Goodfellow?”

Goodfellow nodded silently in confirmation as he remembered the fracas outside the presbytery.

“Alf called me an idiot” Paul explained looking genuinely upset at the memory, “And then he said nasty things to Mr Turvey which was very rude because Mr Turvey is actually very nice when you get to know him. My mum said people’ll say bad things about anybody they think’s different.”

When Paul Dunn’s normally restless eyes settled intently on his own it was Edgar’s turn to shuffle uncomfortably in his chair.

“People say I’m a bit different Chief Inspector” he declared angrily in a way Edgar found slightly unnerving.

Seated next to Paul, Father Brown shook his head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say something to me after Mr Rowland left? You and I spoke but you never mentioned knowing where Kenny was.”

“I was too scared.”

“Scared? Of me?” the priest asked confusedly.

“No Father, scared of Alf. He said if anybody’d harmed Kenny he’d kill them with his own bare hands. He even swore to God on it, remember?”

While Father Brown nodded his recollection Edgar’s instinct was to twist the statement in search of a crack, “Are you telling us you did do something to hurt Kenny?”

“No, but it was my van he fell off!” Paul whined, “And if you knew Alf you’d know he’d blame me for the accident, he’d say I was too stupid to be driving or something like that. I’m a good driver you know Chief Inspector, it’s not my fault that deer ran out on the road.”

Edgar would’ve killed for a strong black coffee and something to ease his pounding head but he wasn’t going to interrupt the interview while Dunn was still receptive to his questions. Looking at his notepad he brought himself up to speed, “So, let’s see, that would’ve been late Wednesday afternoon when you came back to the village, is that correct?”

From the corner Goodfellow chipped in, “A little while after six, I’d just come back in with the original search party.”

“Alright, so having administered Kenny some painkillers you left him asleep and went to seek Father Brown’s advice?”

“Yes” Paul nodded.

“But then you thought better of it in light of Mr Rowlands… remarks?”

“Like Father Brown said, sometimes it’s best to keep your head down and your mouth shut.”

The priest raised a hand in self-defence for a second time tonight, “Ah, now I think Paul is paraphrasing there…”

Sullivan ignored him, save a dubious glare before making another note against the priest’s name on his pad.

“But then something else Father Brown said gave me a good idea” Paul volunteered with a smile.

The Chief Inspector failed to hide his sarcasm, “It appears Father Brown has had rather a lot to say, hasn’t he?” Shaking his head dejectedly at the thought of just how deeply the cleric had been meddling he asked Paul to explain. “Go on then, tell me what pearl of wisdom Father Brown had to impart? What was this “good idea” of his?”

“He said that the doors to St Mary’s are always open, and Mr Turvey told me all the searches would probably stop when it got dark. It gets dark around eight o’clock you know Chief Inspector.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that thank you.” Edgar’s snarky tone went over Dunn’s head.

Sitting up straight in his chair Paul became animated again, proudly outlining his plan. “So, here’s what I decided to do. I thought I’d go home and wait until after dark when the searchers would be finished, then wait some more until after ten, cos that’s when the Red Lion closes and there’s always fellows about at closing time. And then, when everybody in Kembleford was home for the night I’d put Kenny on the back of my van and take him and put him in the church. That way he’d be nice and safe and Father Brown would find him in the morning.”

Edgar leant forward in disbelief, “You planned on leaving a barely conscious child in the church overnight!?”

Paul nodded. “It was a good plan, don’t you think Father?” he asked confidently.

Father Brown said nothing, hoping his compassionate smile would appease Paul without angering the policeman.

“But you didn’t leave him in the church, did you?” Sullivan asked, voice raised in exasperation. “What happened, did you fall asleep again?” He quickly scolded himself, knowing he should refrain from the derision and keep his questions straightforward no matter how frustrated he felt.

As it was the mocking didn’t register with Paul, “No, I put Kenny on the back of the van like I planned, put some blankets over him to keep him warm, then I drove to the church.”

“You came to St Mary’s on Wednesday night?” Father Brown blurted out, shocked.

“Oh yes Father. I parked beside the presbytery, but there was a policeman there, walking around flashing his torch. He came right up to my van and tapped on the widow with it, so I rolled it down and he asked me what I was doing. Well, I didn’t know what to say so I just kept my mouth shut and he said “be on your way home then.” Luckily he didn’t look in the back or he’d’ve seen Kenny.”

“Luckily?!” Edgar muttered in disbelief. That’s not the word he’d use. “Did you recognise the policeman?” he asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“Yes, it was Constable Hinson.”

Goodfellow winced at the mention of the careless young constable’s name: he’d be for the high jump along with Sergeant Mayhew when the dust settled here.

“And so you went home as Constable Hinson instructed I presume.”

“No actually, that is an incorrect assumption.” Pauls shuffled in his chair, dirty fingernails reaching to claw at his shirt collar, “You see I thought because it was quite late Mr and Mrs Rowland would’ve turned in for the night. So instead of leaving Kenny in the church I thought I could leave him at home.” He formed a weak fist with his hand and chuckled, “Like cherry-knocking, I’d put Kenny on the doorstep, knock, then run away before Alf caught me!” He beamed broadly as his knuckles rapped on an imaginary door between himself and the policeman opposite.

The inappropriate laughter combined with the reference to the childish prank which Edgar had known in his youth as ‘knock-down-ginger’ made him question again if Paul Dunn had any idea of the magnitude of the situation.

“But your plan to leave Kenny on his own doorstep was thwarted too?”

“Pardon?” Paul asked, face screwed up.

Losing patience Edgar snapped, “You didn’t take Kenny home did you? Why not?”

Recoiling at the officer’s raised voice Paul’s eyes started dancing nervously around the room. “Well I did take him home, sort of. But when I got there I saw you and Father Brown coming out of Kenny’s house.” He turned to the priest, brow furrowed in concern, “And that’s when I saw the Chief Inspector shouting at you and then he hit you.”

“Chief Inspector Sullivan has never hit me!” Father Brown protested yet as the words left his lips he understood the root of Paul’s confusion. Wednesday night, outside the Rowlands’ house, he and the Chief Inspector arguing about Maisie’s confession. And when Edgar had become distressed about the lack of progress in the case Father Brown had placed a hand on his shoulder. That’s what Paul Dunn had seen as he watched from his van, Sullivan swatting away the attempt at consolation.

Paul shrugged, unsure whether to believe the priest’s words or his own eyes. “Well, I didn’t want the Chief Inspector to catch sight of me like Constable Hinson did, so I just drove off, took Kenny back to my place again” he explained.

“Wednesday night you took Kenny back to your cottage?” Edgar asked tersely.

“Yes.”

“Which still leaves twenty-four hours unaccounted for.”

“Pardon?”

Temper threatening to boil over Edgar seethed, “The search for Kenny Rowland continued on Thursday, from before sunrise ’til well after dark! What were you doing while half the county was out looking for the boy again?!”

Paul gave the question due consideration then replied quite casually, “I didn’t do much really, I just stayed at home, kept my head down. Kenny started to wake up a bit just before lunch, I gave him some more painkillers ‘cos he said his head was still hurting. I tried to give him something to eat too but he wasn’t interested. Then…”

Suddenly Paul clammed up. Shaking his head rapidly he folded his arms and the interview room fell silent.

Chief Inspector Sullivan waited for Dunn to continue but when no more detail was forthcoming he eventually leant across the table. “Then?!” he demanded harshly.

Gaze flitting between the policeman and the priest Paul narrowed his eyes in thought. “Umm, let me think a moment” he stalled, “Then, umm… nothing.”

“Nothing!?” Edgar roared, jaw clenching as he willed himself to calm down.

Recognising that the Chief Inspector was dangerously close to the edge Father Brown intervened. “Paul, you must explain what happened and you must tell the truth.”

“But if I tell the truth Father I might get into trouble” Paul explained, voice lowered.

Steepling his fingers together the priest drew a deep breath then tried to hold the young man’s ever wandering gaze. “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us”.

Sergeant Goodfellow knew instantly the bible verse was gobbledygook to Paul so he tried a different tack. “What’s done is done Paul” he said softly from his seat in the corner. “You can’t change anything now. Lying, or keeping something from us, isn’t going to help anyone. Best you answer the Chief Inspector’s questions, get this over and done with eh?”

Sullivan gave his sergeant a subtle nod of thanks. It wasn’t often he spoke up during the course of an interview but when he did it was with valid reason.

Arms folded and lower lip protruding Paul relented. “Well then, if you must know, Kenny got upset and said he wanted to go home.”

Every muscle in Edgar’s body tensed at the revelation. “Just to be clear you’re saying Kenny Rowland specifically requested to go home?”

“Yes. I suppose what with him feeling poorly he just wanted his mum.”

Frantically scribbling on the notepad the Chief Inspector tried to deliver his next question calmly, “And what did you do, when Kenny said he wanted to go home?”

Paul’s hands flew to the sides of his head, pressing tightly against his skull as he began rocking back and forth furiously on his chair. “I panicked!” he wailed, turning to the priest. “I didn’t know what to do Father! There’d been cars and vans and army trucks going past the end of the track all morning. In the end I got sick of seeing them, closed the curtains. I knew the village would be busy again. I told Kenny he’d just have to wait til I’d made a plan for how to get him back without us being seen, and I made him promise he wouldn’t tell his dad where he’d been. But he got more and more upset, he just kept saying “I want to go home, I want my mum”. And that made me upset cos I thought if my mum was here she’d know what to do, but I haven’t got my mum now. I’ve not got anyone!”

Such was the level of the young man’s distress that the metal chair legs scraped and clattered on the hard floor in protest to the violent rocking motion. Unsure how Paul would react to an attempt to comfort him Father Brown resisted the urge to place a hand on his shoulder, instead attempting to steady the chair by grabbing it firmly by the backrest.

“I think we ought to take a break Chief Inspector” the priest advised sternly, glowering over the rims of his glasses.

A lump formed in Edgar’s throat at the thought of young Kenny in that squalid little cottage, hurt, confused, crying for his mother. Exerting increasing pressure on either end of his pen he felt the metal barrel flexing, the whole thing in danger of snapping under the tightening force of his grip. Opposite him Paul Dunn continued to whimper and although there were no tears on his cheeks he rubbed the fraying cuff of his tatty shirt across nose, sniffing loudly. It was understandable that the priest should ask for a break on the young man’s behalf but as Edgar weighed the situation up he saw no option but to carry on; There were still too many blanks to fill in, if they paused the interview now who knew when, or if, Paul would be in a robust enough state to talk like this again. A curt shake of his head told the priest his appeal was denied and that the questioning would continue.

“Paul, look at me” Sullivan asked calmly. He knew the request wasn’t as simple as it sounded: whatever difficulties Dunn had, maintaining eye contact was obviously part of it. Though his eyes still danced around Edgar’s face he at least made an attempt to do as he’d been asked. “Alright” Sullivan ploughed on, nodding slightly in encouragement “now, take a deep breath. I still need to ask you a few more questions and it’s very important that you tell me the truth.” He waited a moment. “What did you do when Kenny got upset?”

Sucking raggedy breaths in-and-out through his nose Paul managed to compose himself enough to reply weakly, “I told him “alright, I’ll take you home” but I said first he needed some more medicine for his sore head. But I didn’t give him more painkillers, instead I gave him the stuff mum used to take to make her sleepy.”

Edgar paused and though he tried to remain impassive his next words were more accusation than clarification. “You gave Kenny something to make him sleepy?”

A timid nod of the head, “Yes.”

“Why did you want to make Kenny sleepy?”

“To give me more time to think, to make a new plan.”

Staring unseeingly at the notepad before him Edgar deliberated how best to proceed.

“Do you think it was right or wrong keeping Kenny at your cottage, knowing everybody was worried about him, and given he’d asked to go home?”

Though the question was worded plainly enough Paul squinted and shrugged, “Umm, I’m not really sure.”

Sullivan posed another question, this one delivered so lightly that it sounded almost hypothetical: “Do you think drugging Kenny was the right thing, or the wrong thing to do?”

“I didn’t give him anything bad” Paul protested, “just the stuff Mum used to take.”

Without challenging the flawed argument Sullivan rephrased his query, “Do you think giving Kenny a medicine to make him sleep while telling him it was for his headache was right or wrong?”

“Well, umm, I suppose that was a bit of a fib so…” Dunn squirmed in his chair, his eyes flickering to the corner of the room above the doorway.

“Paul, was it the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do?”

Shoulders slumping in defeat Paul whined, “The wrong thing to do. Sorry. I shouldn’t have given him Mum’s sleeping medicine, I should’ve taken him back home like he wanted.”

With that admission under his belt Sullivan turned his attention back to the twelve hours between Kenny waking on Thursday lunchtime and being discovered at Dunn’s cottage that night.

“Why didn’t you take Kenny home when he asked you to?”

“I didn’t want to get into any trouble, with Alf, or with you.” The final word was accompanied by a scowl.

Ignoring the implied accusation Edgar carried on, “You were worried about the consequences? Worried about returning Kenny, of people discovering he’d been with you all along?”

There was a rapid fear-filled nod but no words.

“So you cared more about the trouble you might be in than Kenny’s well being?” It was more statement than question but Dunn replied in defence of himself.

“I cared about Kenny’s well being! I cleaned up his elbow, got him a chop for his dinner! I was very good to him Chief Inspector, just you ask him when he wakes up.”

Edgar flinched, the word “when” striking fear into him. When he’d left the hospital an hour or so ago Kenny still hadn’t fully regained consciousness, his recovery far from a foregone conclusion. Through gritted teeth he emphasised the danger Kenny had been subjected to, “You gave an eight year old boy a mixture of painkillers and sleeping medication meant for an adult.”

“But I told you I needed more time to think! I was frightened, I panicked!” Annoyance brimmed in Dunn’s voice; In his eyes it was the policeman who failed to comprehend the situation.

“And how long exactly did you plan on keeping Kenny drugged in your mother’s bed?” Sullivan asked curtly.

“Well after dinner time I was listening to the radio and it said: “In a statement from Chief Inspector Sullivan of Kembleford Police it was confirmed that the search for eight year old Kenneth Rowland will continue tomorrow…” and I thought that means they’ll probably be stopping the search again at dark. So my plan was to wait and take Kenny somewhere…”

“The same way you were going to take him home on Tuesday night but fell asleep!? The same way you were going to take him to the church or to his house on Wednesday night but got cold feet?!”

The policeman’s harsh dismissive tone was met by Paul’s own anger, “But I really was going to do it this time! I was going to bring him to the village and leave him I swear! It didn’t matter where, I thought I’d just wrap him in a blanket and lie him down the first place I came to that had nobody hanging around. I even set my alarm o’clock so I’d wake up, I didn’t want to miss my chance again from sleeping too long.”

Edgar closed his eyes, recalling the alarm clock at Dunn’s cottage shrilly signalling midnight while Isabel tended to the unresponsive boy. A shiver ran down his spine as he pictured Kenny so weak he could barely breathe. One more careless dose of medicine or the boy dumped somewhere out of sight and Kembleford could well’ve woken a few hours from now to discover a lifeless bundle abandoned in its midst.

Folding his arms huffily Paul griped, “Well, that was my plan but then you showed up and now Alf Rowland’s going to have my guts for garters!”

“Nobody will hurt you Paul” Father Brown whispered from his side, “I can assure you of that.”

“This fellow truly doesn’t realise it’s not just the wrath of Alf he has to worry about, does he?” Edgar marvelled with a sad shake of his head.

Consulting his notes once more the Chief Inspector asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell me Paul. Anything at all about how Kenny came to be at your cottage, why he came to be in that bed, what happened while he was in your care?”

Paul shook his head, arms still folded.

Bringing a thumb to his temple Sullivan ran his fingers slowly across his brow. There was one more line of questioning to pursue, the one he’d been dreading. Had Paul Dunn’s reason for taking Kenny back to his cottage been as innocent as he claimed? “Do you like Kenny Rowland, Paul?”

“He’s a nice enough sort of a lad I suppose” Paul shrugged.

Finding himself frustratingly unable to pose the direct, unambiguous question he needed to he tapped the nib of his pen lightly on his notepad, asking circumspectly, “Did you enjoy having Kenny at your cottage with you, as company?”

Paul gave a snorting laugh, “Well he wasn’t much company, he was asleep most of the time!”

“But you must get lonely there, since your mother died.”

The indirect question took Paul a little longer to process. A shadow of sadness fell across his strange little face, beady eyes narrowing to pinpricks. “Yes, I do get lonely by myself” he nodded croakily.

Father Brown began to stiffen and prickle, grasping the disturbing line the Chief Inspector was taking.

“Did you perhaps have another reason for wanting to keep Kenny with you Paul? For not returning him home sooner?” the policeman asked.

“Now who’s putting words in his mouth, Chief Inspector?” the priest snarled harshly, thus shutting down the insinuation.

With a final change of tack Sullivan moderated his tone once more, “Did you do anything which may’ve hurt Kenny Rowland?”

“No. I mean just him falling off my van, but that wasn’t my fault. None of this is my fault, I’ve done nothing wrong!” When Paul looked imploringly to the three seated men in turn this time it was their gazes that failed to meet his.

“And everything you’ve told me tonight is the truth?”

“Yes Chief Inspector, I swear.” Turning to Father Brown he pleaded, “I swear to God Father, on Mum’s grave, it happened just like I said, it was all just an accident.”

Gathering up his notepad Sullivan looked directly across the table. “Paul Dunn, I am charging you with the false imprisonment of Kenneth Rowland. Sergeant Goodfellow will take you back to the cells.”

“What does that mean? Charged?” Paul gasped, eyes widening. “I told you, it was an accident. There was a deer, Kenny just fell!”

Sullivan tipped a nod to Goodfellow: “Sergeant.”

“But I don’t want to go back to the cells Sergeant Goodfellow!” Paul protested as the uniformed man unfurled himself from the chair and crossed slowly towards him. “I want to go home! Father, please, tell them to let me go home. I’m honestly very sorry for all the trouble!”

“Don’t worry Paul” Father Brown said reassuringly, “You go with Sergeant Goodfellow and try to get some rest. I’ll call and see you again very soon.”

As Goodfellow led Paul Dunn from the interview room Edgar avoided the priest’s gaze. Though he understood Father Brown’s instinct to comfort the young man he couldn’t afford Dunn any sympathy himself, not until he knew for certain what exactly had happened to Kenny during the days he’d spent drugged in that foetid little cottage. Notepad in hand he turned and stormed out without further discussion.

Chapter Text

“Try and get some rest, I’ll visit you again later” Father Brown uttered reassuringly into the echoing confines of the cell, Goodfellow lingering behind him with a hoop of heavy keys in his hand.

“And anything you need you just give me a shout, I’ll be along at the desk” the sergeant smiled, stepping forward to pull the door gently closed. He turned the key in the lock as softly as possible yet it still issued a disquieting ‘clunk’ before the two men turned and walked away.

Assuming his customary position behind the front desk Sergeant Goodfellow resisted the urge to plant his elbows on the cluttered surface. Even at this ungodly hour and with everything that had gone on he had to maintain some semblance of professionalism. Casting his eyes across the stacks of folders and notes and telephone logs that lay strewn from one end of the desk to the other he stifled a yawn and began, half-heartedly, to bring some order to the chaos.

Father Brown lingered, resting heavily on his trusty umbrella, not quite able to discern the Chief Inspector’s muffled conversation through the office door which stood ever so slightly ajar. When he heard the familiar ‘ting’ of the receiver being replaced in its cradle he chanced a hesitant knock.

“Yes?” Sullivan asked gruffly without looking up from his desk.

Father Brown stepped into the office and stared down at the seated man whose pen was racing across the notepad at a rate of knots. “You’re charging him?” he asked, face twisted in disbelief.

Edgar’s pen paused. He looked up but said nothing. Tugging to straighten his cuff he returned his gaze to the notepad and continued writing furiously.

“Chief Inspector! Paul has given you a thorough and candid statement about the turn of events which led to Kenny being at his cottage and why he remained there so long.”

Without raising his head Edgar cocked an eyebrow. He’d wait until he had all the evidence at his disposal before passing judgement on how honest Dunn’s account had been.

“Don’t you believe his version of events?” the priest asked incredulously. “I for one don’t believe Paul is capable of lying, at least not so comprehensibly.”

“And you, Father, are free to believe whatever you wish. All I know with any certainty is that Dunn has admitted to keeping Kenny Rowland at his cottage against his will, drugging the boy no less. Based on that evidence alone a charge had to be made.”

“But surely you can see Paul is different!”

Slamming his pen onto the notepad Edgar sat back, glaring at the unwelcome visitor. “Yes Father, Dunn is different” he raged, “But he clearly demonstrated the ability to distinguish right from wrong and acknowledged that his actions, even in his irregular mind, were underhand to say the least. Beyond that it is not for me to decide the extent of his mental competency.”

“But is it appropriate to lock him up?” Father Brown snarled.

“Was it appropriate for you to council him to keep his mouth shut?” Edgar spat back.

“Ah, let me explain...”

“Was it appropriate, in the midst of a missing person enquiry, to fail to mention that you’d seen blood on his van?”

“That was from a deer.”

“So Dunn says: I'll wait for the forensics report. Either way, you can’t’ve known for certain it was from a deer, and had we questioned Dunn about it maybe we’d have learned of Kenny’s fall sooner.”

“I just think you ought to…”

“I think you ought to go and shuffle your hymn books Father and leave me to do my job how I see fit!”

Glaring daggers at each other both men realised they’d overstepped a mark. Father Brown closed his eyes, willing himself not to further antagonise the policeman whose nerves were patently hanging by a thread. Sullivan flared his nostrils, breathing heavily, the sound of his grinding teeth threatening to deafen him.

Pressing finger and thumb hard against his blurry eyes Sullivan moderated his tone, “I will make sure that all necessary parties are made aware of Paul’s peculiarities. Any barrister worth his salt will ask to have the case referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions for special consideration: I imagine there’s a good chance the case won’t even go to trial.”

Father Brown let the words sink in, ashamed to have underestimated the Chief Inspector who’d obviously already given due consideration to the matter. “I’m afraid that Paul is unlikely to be able to afford much in the way of legal representation” he said worriedly.

“If that’s the case I will ensure the DPP is made aware of his circumstances.”

“Very good” the priest nodded before both me again fell into an awkward silence.

Sliding open his desk draw Edgar withdrew the bottle with its cream and blue label and decanted two small pills into his palm. Gulping the dregs from yet another cold cup of coffee he swallowed them down and then, in a feeble attempt to rid his desk of some clutter, stood the empty mug in the deep drawer alongside the bottle and pushed it shut. “Out of sight, out of mind” he told himself, though his slovenly short-cut to tidiness immediately rankled with him. His jibe about shuffling hymn books reared up to prick his agitation, he couldn’t wait to return his office to its usual orderly state. Alas, he told himself, eyes scanning over the mountains of mess that remained, he’d have to put up with the current situation a while longer, there were still more pressing matters at hand.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me Father, I need to get to the hospital” Sullivan said pushing himself to his feet, “I want to be there in case Kenny wakes up, see if he can shed any light on what happened.”

“I should head there myself, see how Maisie and Alf are bearing up” Father Brown nodded. With a sheepish grin he tilted his head to the side, “I left my bicycle at Paul’s cottage…”

Rolling his eyes Edgar sighed, “Yes, fine, I’ll give you a lift.”

With a tentative truce called the two men set off into the pitch black night.

Chapter Text

Father Brown sat in his customary chair at the head of the table, cup of tea in hand, mornings paper spread in front of him. “There’s no need for you to do that” he reminded his parish secretary as she stood at the kitchen sink vigorously washing his breakfast dishes.

“Hmm?” Isabel asked distractedly, staring out the window, then when the words belatedly registered she shook her head, “Oh, it’s no trouble. It’ll save Brenda a job when she gets up.” The younger woman’s droning snore could be heard drifting faintly down the stairs.

Isabel’s pale shirt-dress dappled with cherry coloured petals and the matching narrow belt that cinched her waist bore a trace of her customary more exuberant style. Was it a subconscious change, Father Brown wondered, or a deliberate one? Was the tiny splash of colour a sign of burgeoning optimism now that her practical, and dare he say dowdy, outfit of bottle-green trousers and muted top was no longer required?

“Once I’ve finished these I’ve volunteered to take Hercules and round up all the missing cake tins and picnic baskets what were sent out, by all accounts there’re scattered from here to kingdom come.” She paused, instantly recognising Edgar’s knock on the door, his footsteps down the hall however sounding more laboured than usual. Drying her hands on the tea-towel she turned expectantly as her husband emerged into the kitchen doorway.

“I just came from the hospital” he said without preamble, his audience of two hanging on his every word. “Kenny is awake: groggy but awake. He’s dehydrated and the doctors have given him something to help with his breathing.” Removing his hat he mopped his brow with the back of his other hand, eyes fighting to stay open. “They say there should be no long term effects from the drugs and once they are fully out of his system they’ll be better able to determine how severe the concussion is.”

“Well that’s good” Isabel smiled, trying to keep the worry for her husband from her voice. The dark grey bags under his eyes stood stark against his pallid skin, his jaw and chin lined once more with stubble. “Now come and sit down, I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

“Oh no, I can’t stay” Edgar replied, his mouth not quite able to form itself around the words. Reaching out to grip the doorframe his head dipped and bobbed of its own accord. “You should also know the doctors examined Kenny and confirmed there’s no indication that anything, er…” he screwed his eyes tight shut, fighting the drowsiness, labouring to find the right words, “What I mean is it appears nothing inappropriate happened to the boy while he was with Dunn.”

“That is a relief” Isabel sighed while Father Brown sat mute; He’d never believed Paul Dunn capable of the type of crime the policeman feared.

Taking half a step to his right Edgar’s shoulder edged towards the doorframe and he felt the overwhelming urge to lean against it for support, his fingers still tightly gripping the white glossy woodwork. The next words to pass his lips did so without his authorisation, his brain automatically regurgitating the facts, “Kenny himself hasn’t been able to tell us much, but enough to loosely corroborate Dunn’s version of events about hitching a ride on his van, falling off and so on.”

Father Brown and Isabel both narrowed their eyes in concern at Edgar’s dispassionate slurred delivery of the facts.

Eyes lifting to rest blurrily on the blue-backed dresser in the opposite corner of the room Edgar felt the floor beneath him ripple gently. “Let’s get you home eh?” he heard Isabel say.

“No. Have to get back to the station.” Whether he actually articulated the reply he wasn’t quite sure. He watched bemused as the china on the shelves slowly lost shape, circular plates becoming ovals while oval platters drooped at the edges, surrendering their form to a sudden burst of gravity.

Noting his almost imperceptible swaying Isabel stepped around the table towards him, “Edgar, you need to go home and…”

“No, I’ve-got-to-go” he garbled, signalling towards the hallway. The floor beneath him rippled again, more violently this time, its tremors running up his legs, turning his knees to jelly. And then he was sinking, the quicksand of the hardwood floor sucking him downwards, and once his weakened knees flexed forwards the rest of his body followed suit, his eyes widening in surprise as the dresser opposite melted up the wall.

In a flash Father Brown was on his feet, arms thrust forward underneath the Chief Inspector’s armpits as the full weight of the man came topping towards him.

“Fine, I’m fine” Edgar protested against the priest’s shoulder, panting for breath. Yet the harder he battled to pull his feet from the quicksand of the floor the more vehemently it tried to claim him. He hadn’t even the strength to prevent his hat falling from his wilting grasp.

Isabel swung one of the wooden chairs behind him and together she and Father Brown, cheeks reddening under the strain of the younger man’s weight, managed to bundle Edgar’s limp frame into place.

“I’m alright” the slumped figure continued to protest in complete contradiction to his physical state.

Crouching by the chair Isabel worked hurriedly to unbutton his jacket and wrestle it down his non-compliant arms, her fingers shaking unhelpfully. Slackening off his tie she opened his shirt collar while Father Brown retrieved the Chief Inspector’s hat from the floor, dusted it off, then laid it on the table.

Cautiously Isabel encouraged her husband to lean forward until his already drooping head hung slackly between his knees. Father Brown shuffled his own chair closer to the patient’s and with one hand on Edgar's knee and another on his shoulder made sure he stayed in place while Isabel rushed to fling open the kitchen window to allow some air in. There was the sound of gushing water then she reappeared, kneeling at his side with dress pooled around her ankles, pressing a cold damp cloth firmly to his brow.

“I have to go to the station” Edgar stated in a weak whisper.

“I rather think you ought to stay here a little while” Father Brown smiled sympathetically at his guest. “If you try to stand again now we’ll be scraping you from the floor before you reach the front door.”

Stinging tears welling in her eyes Isabel willed her pounding heart to settle. Despite her desperate need to take care of her beloved husband she knew he’d only dismiss her affection the moment he was compos mentis enough to realise what was going on.

The first thing to penetrate Edgar’s slowly returning consciousness was a hissing spitting sound and the occasional cool draft on the back of his neck. Once the scent of fried sausages registered in his brain the sizzling sound made sense. With quite some effort he forced his eyes open and found himself with his face squashed into the pillow of his folded arms atop the cream-coloured tablecloth. Slowly raising his head he turned it to the right and was met by Father Brown’s benevolent smile. His host said nothing but returned his focus to the newspaper laying open before him and when he next turned the page Edgar recognised the pleasant wafting draft of air.

“Oh, I was just about to give you a nudge” Isabel smiled as she slid the fat juicy sausages from the pan onto their bed of buttered bread. Returning the empty pan to the stove she sandwiched the sausages between the two thick slices and cut the whole lot in two, slipping the plate across the table towards her peaky looking husband. “There you go” she said cajolingly, “that’ll do you the world of good.”

Edgar’s stomach churned at the sight of Fernsley’s sausages poking their greasy heads from the edges of the bread. His memory transported him back to his office, Father Brown unfurling a handkerchief full of trinkets and teeth across his desk as they argued over Violet Fernsley’s conviction for murder. How the butchers had remained in business after all that had happened in the dysfunctional Fernsley family was something of a mystery, but with the formidable Alma now in charge the shop appeared to be going from strength to strength. Though he had it on good authority that Alma’s husband had capably taken over running the pig farm on behalf of his dim-witted cousin Archie it still didn’t mean Edgar was happy to eat anything other than the most basic, unadulterated, cuts of meat their establishment had to offer.

“Edgar, eat” Isabel implored, sensing his hesitation.

With the plate pushed closer towards him Edgar found, to his dismay, he hadn’t the strength to argue and so with lip curling reluctantly he brought one half of the sandwich to his mouth. Ivan Fernsley’s ring-adorned finger bone flashed through his mind: the first hint of gristle and he’d be spitting the whole lot out into his handkerchief, manners be damned.

While Isabel busied herself making a pot of tea Edgar chewed each mouthful of sandwich with repetitive tentativeness until, confidence growing, he picked up speed. Before long he was devouring it greedily, wiping the grease from the corner of his mouth with a fingertip. All normal table manners forgotten he bit chunk after chunk from the sandwich so that by the time a cup of tea was placed by his hand he was busy wolfing down the final crust with relish. Stomach growling wildly in thanks for the deposit he had to admit the pork and hop combination was indeed as mouth-watering as the priest had long since told him. Edgar could easily have eaten the sandwich three times over.

“I owe you an apology Father” the dishevelled policeman said humbly, reaching for the steaming cup of tea.

“I don’t believe that is necessary” Father Brown replied magnanimously, setting aside his paper.

Attempting to flatten down his tousled hair Edgar overruled his instinct to shrink into the chair, forcing himself instead to sit upright in order to look the older man square in the eye. “The way I spoke to you these past few days was unprofessional, unwarranted and unacceptable.”

Isabel took Edgar’s empty plate and headed towards the sink, allowing the two men a moment of semi-privacy.

“You were under a great deal of stress, not to mention exhausted” Father Brown reminded him.

“Pressure is part and parcel of the job and no excuse for my behaviour” Edgar shook his head ashamedly. “And I certainly can’t blame my surliness on fatigue. What is this, Friday morning?” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes, it’s Friday.”

“That’s only two days spent searching for Kenny.”

“Plus the full shift you did on Tuesday before he was reported missing” the priest reminded him.

“Alright then, three days.”

“And nights” Isabel chipped in from her place by the sink.

With a humourless chuckle Edgar leant back in his chair, “Three days and nights is still nothing” he sighed, “During Blitz we barely slept a wink for the first two months.” Those dark days seemed like a lifetime ago and he quickly fought to push them back into the past where they belonged. A flush rose in his cheeks despite the breeze from the open window and, to his embarrassment, he noticed damp sweat patches on his crumpled shirt where it clung to his chest and back.

“Adrenalin” Father Brown stated, recalling the darkest moments from his own past. “It’s remarkable how we can keep going full steam ahead until it’s no longer necessary, and then comes the fall.”

Returning to the table Isabel tried not to stare at her husband yet her eyes were intent on appraising him once more. He looked a little red in the cheeks which, on balance, was better than the pasty look he’d worn when he’d first walked through the door. Though he’d had only the briefest of naps while she’d made him the sandwich his eyes had a little more life, if not their usual twinkle to them. She watched them jitter and blink, recognising the way he struggled to process his evolving thoughts.

“What is it love?” she asked, hoping to break him free of his trance.

“Oh, er…” Squeezing his eyes shut tight he fought to formulate his contemplations into words. “Thales’ Well” he declared cryptically.

“Pardon?” she asked, utterly thrown.

Father Brown peered over the rims of his glasses. “Thales was a philosopher who was so busy looking up at the stars that he failed to pay attention to his feet and thus fell down a well.”

Nodding Edgar explained, “I was so fixated on Alf’s temper, Howard Yendle’s desperation over his affair with Maisie, Mr Turvey’s dubious reputation, that I missed the glaringly obvious suspect who’d been right under my nose from the very beginning.”

“I wouldn’t’ve said Paul was an obvious suspect” Isabel refuted.

“But you weren’t there” he shot back, “In the butchers on Tuesday afternoon, I should’ve known something was amiss when he was acting so strangely, and the comment he made to Alma about the three pork chops.”

“Oh love, Paul Dunn always acts strangely. You can hardly blame yourself for not scrutinising fact he bought an extra chop.”

“Then who should I blame?!” Edgar snapped back roughly, “Who should I blame for Kenny lying in that stinking cottage, crying for his mother while she sat at home beside herself with worry?”

The outburst silenced Isabel who dropped her eyes to the table, swallowing at the lump in her throat.

It was Father Brown who spoke next, “I took Paul’s confidence in Kenny’s safe return to be nothing more than wishful thinking. But with hindsight of course Paul knew the boy was safe.” He paused, “Relatively speaking.”

“And I should’ve questioned why Dunn left the search so early on Wednesday and didn’t rejoin the following day” Edgar countered, “Every man, and woman, was out helping if they could, yet Paul Dunn was nowhere to be seen.”

“I put his absence down to him being upset by all the commotion. If only I’d followed through on my intention to call on him. I got waylaid when Alf had his outburst about Mr Turvey being interviewed: visiting Paul slipped down my list of priorities. Then again I should’ve checked on him months ago, should’ve seen he was struggling there alone in the cottage since his mother’s passing.”

Head twisting back and forth Isabel watched the two men play their game of self-blame tennis, each chastising themselves in turn for their perceived failings. “And Sergeant Mayhew should’ve been more observant when he went to Paul’s place on Wednesday morning” she said, aiming to demonstrate that the pair weren’t the only two people in Kembleford who’d played a part in the case, something they were conveniently forgetting as they ruminated over their own shortcomings. “Shouldn’t Sergeant Mayhew have wondered why there were two dinner plates on Paul’s table? And that was obviously a child’s shirt hanging over the fireplace, Kenny’s little shoes in the corner.”

Defensive of his sergeant, Edgar stiffened. “Paul Dunn is quite a small fellow, Mayhew probably didn’t get a good look at the shirt” he said, failing to address the issue of the second plate.

“What about Kenny’s bow and arrow?” Isabel pressed on, intent on making her point. “Paul Dunn is a bit old for toys.”

“Mayhew is a good officer Isabel” Edgar protested, jaw clenched.

“Oh I’m not criticising him Edgar, I’m just trying to make you see that everybody can look back and think they missed something. I dare say Constable Hinson will wish he’d checked Paul’s van when he saw him outside the presbytery that night.”

Shrugging Edgar struggled to justify the constable’s oversight. “Hinson’s known Paul for years apparently, I suppose he didn’t suspect him of being involved.”

“And Sergeant Goodfellow? He knew of Paul’s fondness for giving lifts to the local children. And he failed to spot the blood on Paul’s van on Wednesday afternoon.”

“Yes, but the blood was from a deer…”

“Still, if Goodfellow had been more observant it might’ve been enough to raise his suspicions.” Folding her arms she stared her husband down, determined for him to view the bigger picture instead of revelling in this self-reproach.

“Goodfellow had been out with the search party all night, he was tired. And there was so little blood on the van, it was a minor detail really.” He cast a sideways glance towards Father Brown. Only hours ago he’d berated the priest for failing to mention the very same blood now here he was dismissing it as irrelevant. “Hypocrite” he chastised himself silently.

“Edgar love, they were all minor details” Isabel tried to console him.

“Yes, but it’s my job to put all those little details together to form the bigger picture!” he fumed, finger jabbing at the table.

Throwing her hands up Isabel wished she hadn’t bothered. Instead of making Edgar feel better she’d only succeeded in irking him all the more. “Well, you can’t put the details together if you don’t have them” she huffed. “You weren’t at Paul’s cottage, Mayhew was, you didn’t see the van with blood on it, or see it parked outside here at odd hours, that was Goodfellow and Hinson.”

“But I was in the butchers” he retorted running a hand back through his hair. “Don’t you see? Alma said it herself, Paul Dunn is a creature of habit. Therefore any change at all in his routine should’ve aroused my suspicion.”

“Well now you’re talking nonsense!” Isabel declared, utterly frustrated. “Why would you’ve been suspicious of Paul in Fernsley’s when Kenny hadn’t even been reported missing at that point?”

At last there was a hesitation that signalled her logic was getting though to him. “Well, I er…” Edgar rubbed his temples, “Afterwards, later that evening, when Kenny was reported missing...”

Father Brown chipped in calmly, “You mean when the most logical assumption was that Kenny had strayed too far, got lost, had an accident even? When there was no evidence whatsoever to suggest that another person was involved in his disappearance?”

“I’m supposed to consider all possibilities in the course of an investigation” Edgar replied almost petulantly.

Reaching across the table Isabel made a grab for his wrist. “Oh love...”

Before her words of comfort were complete Edgar pulled himself free of her grasp, scraping his chair back noisily as he pushed himself to his feet. A fleeting moment of lightheadedness passed and head dipped he muttered “I appreciate what you are both trying to do but… “

“Where are you going?” Isabel asked sternly, aware that her tactile gesture had embarrassed him. “Stay and finish your tea.”

Closing his eyes Edgar cursed himself for his overreaction to his wife’s simple touch. It still startled him at times how unabashed she could be in showing him affection in public. With more harshness than he intended he attempted to explain himself to her. “Just because Kenny has been found it doesn’t mean I don’t still have work to do. I’ve a mountain of paperwork to make a start on, the press are camped outside the station waiting for a statement and I don’t think my superior officers will be as magnanimous as either of you two when they hear of my ineptitude in running this investigation.”

Isabel said nothing, turning her face to the window to hide the sadness in her eyes. His unrelenting drive might be a blessing in the face of a crisis, but at this moment it seemed to her to be nothing but a curse.

Snatching his jacket from the back of the chair Edgar picked up his hat, stepping towards the hallway. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting on” he mumbled then turning back added, “Thank you for the sausages.” His grateful nod was directed at the priest even though it was Isabel who’d prepared the sandwich for him.

At the sound of the door closing Isabel got back to her feet and returned to the kitchen sink to resume the washing up.

Peering intently at her turned back Father Brown pondered what best to say. It was obvious that the Chief Inspector wasn’t the only person who’d spent the past few days bottling up their emotions. “He’s had rather a lot on his plate and as he says there is still work for him to do. Try not to take it too personally” he offered sympathetically.

“Too personally!?” Isabel whimpered. “I’m his wife for goodness sake, though it seems to have escaped his attention.” Regretting the bitterness in her voice she sighed. “I don’t mean that. It’s just, I’m just…worried about him.”

“Of course you are, that is completely understandable.” He searched again for words of comfort. “Once things settle down everything will be fine, he will be fine, I’m sure. Just be patient.”

“Yes, you’re right” Isabel nodded with forces breeziness, setting the tea-plate down to drain. “Everything will be back to normal before we know it.”

Sadly the twisting knot in her stomach wasn’t convinced by her claim.

Chapter Text

The instant Isabel heard the front door click open she set aside the half-peeled potato, allowing herself a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t even six o’clock and here Edgar was home for his dinner, much earlier than she’d feared he might be. The slight rustling sound by the coat stand was soon replaced by silence: she waited but her husband didn’t appear. Stepping hesitantly into the hallway she found him standing stock still, jacket and waistcoat in one hand, shirt-sleeved arms hanging limply by his sides.

“There’s some stew in the oven” she said by way of gentle greeting, “I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back but give me half an hour and I’ll have the potatoes boiled up to go with it.”

When he slowly raised his head to look at her Isabel could see that, despite the search for the missing boy being over, there was still no light in Edgar’s bleary eyes. “I’m too tired” he mumbled, “Just really need to sleep.” Looking down at himself he plucked at his shirt buttons, teasing the fabric away from his body, “I should have a bath” he said foggily.

Fingers twitching by her sides Isabel debated edging closer, desperate to reach out to him yet still bruised by the way he’d brushed her aside this morning at the presbytery. “I’m not sure a bath is a good idea” she smiled softly. “For starters I don’t think you’d stay awake long enough to run one.”

“But I haven’t had a proper wash, haven’t changed my clothes since…” he shook his head bewilderedly. Isabel had brought him a clean shirt to the station, but what day had that been? What day was this?

“Don’t worry about that. Have a wash then get yourself to bed.”

Nodding weakly Edgar made his way to the foot of the stairs. With a sigh he raised his right foot from the floor placing it on the bottom tread then, hand gripping the wooden bannister, persuaded a reluctant left foot to find the next step up.

In the kitchen Isabel turned off the oven and put a lid on the pan of peeled potatoes in their salted water. She’d listened to Edgar trudge his way upstairs followed by the sound of the bathroom basin being filled but now the house had fallen quiet. Wiping down the kitchen bench she listened more intently but still couldn’t hear any sounds of movement from above. If she went up to check on him would he gripe about her fussing? Her worry for his well being won out over the fear of being snapped at so, glass of water in hand, she made her way upstairs.

On reaching the landing she paused at the sight of the closed bathroom door, considering her next move. How odd it felt to be this uncomfortable moving around her own home. Stepping into the bedroom she set the glass of water down on Edgar’s bedside table then neatly turned back the bedclothes. Closing the curtains didn’t prevent the early evening light from penetrating the room but she doubted the lack of darkness would keep Edgar from sleep. Preparing herself for possible rebuke she made her way to the bathroom, knocking gingerly on the door. When no reply was forthcoming she put her ear to it, “Edgar love, are you alright in there?” she asked, her throat tightening. Another knock but still no reply. Twisting the handle she eased the door open and was immediately faced with her husband sitting atop the closed lid of the toilet seat, stripped to the waist with a washcloth dangling from his fingers: he was sound asleep.

Picking up the discarded shirt and vest from the floor by his feet she tossed them onto the landing then eased the damp blue cloth from his hand. Edgar didn’t stir, chin drooped to his chest, breathing deep and heavy.

Dipping the washcloth into the basin Isabel soaked it in the tepid water then wrung it almost dry. She managed, without disturbing him, to gently wash first the back of his neck then his shoulders and finally a broad strip down the line of each collar bone. Rinsing the cloth again she was just about to move her attention to his upper arms when he gave a sudden jolt accompanied by a whimper. “Sorry” he whispered, eyes still closed, then said no more. Deciding he needed sleep more than a wash she dropped the cloth next to the taps, pulled the plug from the sink, listening to the water gurgle its way down the hole.

Taking Edgar’s hands firmly in her own Isabel lifted them upwards, “C’mon love” she coaxed tenderly, hoping he’d comply, “C’mon, time for bed.”

Eyes still almost completely closed Edgar pulled one hand free from his wife’s using it to push himself up on the edge of the basin. She led him, mesmerised like a stooge in the old music hall acts, towards the bedroom, bringing him to a halt by his bedside table. He stood passively while she unfastened his trousers and eased them down his legs, all the while looking as though he were fast asleep. Guiding him backwards to sit on the edge of the bed she tussled to free his trousers from around his ankles then plucked the socks from his feet. After a little encouragement he finally swung his legs from the floor up to the mattress allowing Isabel to unfurl the crisp white sheet up across his body, the heavier blankets remaining folded around his shins.

Scuttling around to the other side of the bed Isabel tucked the thin cotton skirt of her shirt-dress around her knees then shuffled to sit back against the headboard.

Edgar slumped onto his side, his body curling slightly as he came to rest facing the middle of the bed. The conflict within him was almost palpable, his body desperate for sleep but his brain still unrelenting. Thought after thought tumbled through his mind: no sooner had one come into focus before it was replaced by the next. “Overtime” he mumbled. How on earth would he set about logging all the overtime the men were due from the past few days, and what of those officers who’d been drafted in from neighbouring forces, would he have to account for their hours too? Then there was the roster. The station would still need to be manned, daily duties taken care of, not to mention the backlog of cases that had been set aside while Kenny’s disappearance had taken priority. How quickly could he organise the men back into regular shift patterns whilst making sure they recovered from their lack of sleep? “They need to rest” he muttered, “I need to sort that.”

“Just relax love” Isabel said gently from beside him. Tentatively she reached down to where his head lay level with her hip and stroked his grey-flecked hair back from his temple. He flinched a little at her touch but then again his whole body was making tiny jerking movements as it struggled towards sleep.

“Fernsley’s” Edgar breathed thinking of the sausages he owed Father Brown from breakfast time.

With no clue as to what was going through her husband’s sleep deprived brain Isabel failed to connect the dots, never assuming that his most pressing concern at this precise moment would be the debt he owed their friend for some food. “You couldn’t have known” she said, assuming he was blaming himself again for failing to pay heed to Paul Dunn’s behaviour in the butchers shop.

Through the fog of fatigue Edgar sensed Isabel’s hand tenderly stroking his hair. Why was she being so kind to him after the way he’d behaved? He tried to shake aside the doubt, his lethargy drawing him closer to her, twisting his body until his face was almost pressed against her thigh. One hand lay curled in the narrow gap between them while the other rested loosely down by his side.

“Sorry” he said, unsure whether the words had made it past his lips. There was so much he wanted to tell her, to explain to her. Yet the harder he searched for a way to articulate himself the greater the struggle became to translate his feelings into words. “Sorry I was so standoffish” he thought sadly, visualising Isabel waiting patiently in his office while he scarcely even made eye contact with her.

Sliding down the bed a little Isabel was better able to reach him, the backs of her fingers brushing against his stubbly cheek. “Shh” she soothed, “Shh”.

“Sorry” he said again, when what he meant was “Sorry I was barely even civil, that I didn’t thank you for the clean shirt, the sandwich you brought to the station…”

Back and forth they went, Edgar’s “sorry”’s punctuated by Isabel’s whispered shushing.

“Sorry”: “Sorry I ordered you around, expected so much of you.”

“Shh love, shh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he moaned, head twisting against the pillow. “Sorry I couldn’t explain to you what I was thinking, what I was feeling. Sorry I’m not the husband you deserve.” The thought of how much he’d upset her caused his breath to come in short shallow pants and once the rhythm set in he couldn’t break it, too tired to take a proper lungful of air to calm himself.

Confident now that her affection wouldn’t be rejected Isabel shuffled further down the mattress until she lay almost face to face with her husband. Despite the warmth of the evening and the sweat glistening on his brow he shivered and when her fingertips pressed against his sheet-shrouded chest she felt his heart racing. For a moment she was minded of Eddie as a baby, hovering deliriously on the brink of sleep when all he needed to do was relax and succumb. “Shh love” she urged him softly but still his brain battled against the rest he so badly needed.

A cruel unseen thumb began leafing through the pages of Edgar’s memory. It paused firstly at Paul Dunn’s cottage, showing himself the angry finger he’d jabbed into Father Brown’s chest, venting all his frustrations at the well-meaning priest. “Sorry” he apologised into the darkness of his mind. More pages were turned, their edges fanning by in a blur, settling next in a cold dark forest. Decaying leaves and mud caked his boots, his arms and legs heavy as concrete: he grabbed the slumped khaki-clad figure by his sodden canvas pack, hauling him backwards across the rough ground, leaning him back against a tree before realising the extent of the poor man’s injuries. “Sorry”. More flicking of pages and the forest was replaced by a darkened alleyway thick with smog, a woman’s desperate screams seeping through the heavy door, himself and another young constable taking it in turns to kick furiously at the lock, the screams falling silent before they could force their way inside. “Sorry.” Failure after failure, regret after regret, silent apology after silent apology.

And then the final page was turned and Edgar found himself standing on a pebbly beach looking out to sea, his earliest childhood memory so long forgotten that it could just as well have been a dream. Edging tentatively towards the water’s grey-blue edge the ripples lapped at his bare toes, spindly white legs wobbling uncertainly as he shuffled further forward. The shock of cold when he found himself first ankle deep then suddenly knee deep caused his breath to catch, another stumbling step brought the waves buffeting around his hips, pale arms spread wide like a bird fighting to maintain his balance as another wave rolled towards him. Without warning harsh words slapped at his ears, a giant’s hand clamped painfully around his tiny wrist yanking him from the water, toes frantically pointing and scrabbling to find purchase on the pebbly shore while he was hoisted further and further up the beach.

Isabel winced as the bony bridge of Edgar’s foot connected painfully with her shin. “Running” she hypothesised sadly, edging her legs away from the rapid thrashing of her husband’s feet beneath the covers. Ronald had done the same thing when plagued by bad dreams; He’d never told her what he was running from in his sleep but he hadn’t needed to, the dreams had only started after his terrible accident with the butterfly bomb.

“Shh, shh” Isabel pleaded, almost certain her words would be lost in the gulf between her lips and Edgar’s consciousness.

Edgar found himself suspended in mid-air, tiny feet kicking wildly, the skin on his wrist burning under the friction of Walter’s vice-like grip. And then he was sitting alone, quivering on the pebbles, arms wound around his shins, chin resting atop his knees. For the first time in his young life Edgar became aware of the rhythm of his own breathing, struck by the realisation that he could, if he concentrated hard enough, control it. Tuning out the world around him he focussed on the lapping of the waves against the shore followed by their whispered retreat back through the bed of rounded stones.

“Shh, shh” Isabel whispered softly, feeling his body tensing beside her.

“Shoosh, shoosh” Edgar timed each exhale with the ebbing of the waves.

“Shh, shh” Isabel continued, her lips mere inches from his.

“Shoosh, shoosh” the grey sea calmed, a warm breeze caressing his rosy tear stained cheeks.

“Shh, shh.” Her breath bathed his face, persuading his features to relax yet his limbs still twitched, unable to give up the fight.

Candles. Suddenly young Edgar found himself surrounded by fat white candles flickering in the sea breeze. He creased his brow; Candles made no sense, not on a beach, yet there was nothing he could do to bring order to the scene.

“Shh, shh.” Isabel stroked his forehead, smiling contentedly at the furrows slowly dissolving beneath her fingertips.

“Shoosh, shoosh.” The waves continued to ebb and flow, the sea-air’s steady breath threatening to extinguish the fluttering flames.

“Shh, shh.”

“Shoosh, shoosh.” The clear summer sky began to darken as one by one the flames tilted then withered on the wick, the steady rumbling of the waves receding into the premature night. Edgar too could feel himself slipping towards the darkness, his little head lolling heavily from side to side as through half-closed eyes he searched for the horizon. Casting his gaze along the dim shoreline he found in the distance the outline of his mother. Though her face was almost lost in the strange twilight he could clearly see the look in her eyes: “Sorry” it seemed to say. While he was too young to comprehend the fallout his reckless behaviour would have on her he clearly saw his father’s angry shadow looming over her even though the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Edgar’s teary eyes reached out along the beach, instinctively reciprocating Grace’s own guilt-ridden apology: “Sorry.”

In a feverish flurry of twitches Edgar’s nerves and muscles began discharging the last of their electrical impulses, the little finger on his left hand fighting valiantly to be last man standing as its neighbours slackened, admitting defeat.

“Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry” Edgar panted in a final barrage of smothered words, body and mind both reaching their limit.

“No more “sorry”’s love” Isabel whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, just relax.”

“Sorry-sorry” he mouthed with barely a sound. “Sorry Izz.”

“Shh, shh” she cooed in reply, and then it happened; The final candle in Edgar’s brain faded and died, the waves ceased their lulling ebb and there was nothing but darkness and sleep.

The mattress sagged under the weight of his exhaustion, his body dragged deep into its soft embrace. Isabel’s own tiredness from the mounting worry of the previous days tempted her to close her eyes and drift off alongside him. Resisting the urge to fuss with his ruffled hair or murmur soft words against his skin she gently cradled an arm around the top of Edgar’s head, stilling herself beside his crumpled form. “Goodnight my love” she breathed, a sob sitting heavy in her chest.

Now that sleep had finally claimed him it was reluctant to let Edgar go. He didn’t stir half an hour later when Isabel tore herself from his side to lock up the house, nor a short while after that when she tiptoed around the bedroom, undressing quietly before slipping under the covers to rejoin him. Nor did he stir in the morning when, after lying contentedly next to his slumbering form, Isabel finally rose and began her day. She’d never been happier, she realised, to see somebody simply sleep.

Saturday

Having pottered in the kitchen for as long and as quietly as she possibly could Isabel relented, creeping upstairs, edging open the bedroom door just enough to allow her to peek inside. The faint squeak of the hinges was enough to penetrate Edgar’s sleepy mind though not enough to fully rouse him. Curling into a foetal position his arm slid across to the empty side of the bed, fingers grasping at the mattress, subconsciously searching for his wife. The instinctive gesture brought a contented smile to Isabel’s face and, persuading herself he wouldn’t want to sleep any later, she kicked off her shoes at the foot of the bed, crawling up over the covers to take her rightful spot beside him. Smoothing out her voluminous daisy-print skirt she lifted Edgar’s limp arm from the mattress then brought it back down to rest across her waist. Edgar held her loosely, the occasional snuffly moan heralding his return to the waking world. He licked his teeth, tongue thick and furry as a result of sleeping, uncharacteristically, with his mouth slightly agape. Slowly he became aware of the daylight streaming into the bedroom then the familiar muted sounds of village life outside. He hadn’t heard the pre-dawn rattle of milk-bottles on the doorstep or the infernal whistling of the postman on his rounds he realised groggily.

Isabel stroked the back of his bruised swollen knuckles wondering if he’d let her bathe and bandage them properly. “Doubtful” she conceded: more than likely he’d be reluctant to draw attention to the self-inflicted injury.

Tightening his grip around Isabel’s waist Edgar coaxed her closer to him, rolling himself to snuggle up against her. Then his arm shot back as though scolded as furiously he began rubbing at his sleep-caked eyes. “What time is it?” he mumbled roughly, then without waiting for an answer peeled open his gritty eyelids, turning to squint at the clock on the bedside table. Panic stricken he pushed himself to sit upright, “I’m late for work!” he gasped.

“Nonsense, it’s Saturday…” Isabel began to argue then saw his eyes close tightly, head drooping, colour draining from his face. “Sat up too quick?” she asked, knowing fine well that was the case.

“Mmhm” Edgar murmured in reply, unable to articulate the spinning in his head and definitely in no mood to nod. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, bringing a hand up to cover them as blood rushed in his ears. “I need to go the station” he claimed weakly.

“You’re going nowhere in this state” Isabel asserted, hand running up and down his spine in part to comfort him, in part to steady him.

“But the timesheets and the roster and the reports and…”

Isabel sat up beside him, “Edgar love, if they needed you at the station they’d’ve called you. I’m sure they’ll’ve shown initiative and sorted themselves out over there, you need to take your time.”

“Oh, sausages!”

The benign blaspheme coupled with the look of alarm in his eyes sent Isabel’s brain into a spin. “Sausages?” she asked, bewildered.

“I owe Father Brown sausages…the sandwich at the presbytery.”

An unrestrained laugh rippled through Isabel’s body at the sincerity in his drowsy voice. “Oh love, Father Brown won’t begrudge you a couple of sausages” she teased.

Reaching towards the bedside table Edgar managed to form his fingers around the shape of the glass bringing it shakily to his mouth. As soon as the water touched his lips he couldn’t help but gulp it down mouthful after mouthful. Setting the empty glass aside he slid the soles of his feet up the mattress, loosely holding the tops of his shins just below the knee. The whisper of a memory came back to him, of last night when Isabel had helped him to bed. “She must think I’m pathetic” he scolded himself, anger and embarrassment welling up. When he half-recalled his pitiful attempt to explain himself to her, to apologise, a cold dark wave of inadequacy crashed down over him.

Hand still stroking up and down his bare back Isabel watched the familiar shadow fall across his face. When he closed his eyes she thought for a moment he was being dragged back down towards the depths of sleep but the weary shake of his head told her it was sadness, not slumber, that was digging it’s claws into him now.

“What is it?” she asked gently, half expecting him to side-step the question.

Trying to ignore the drum banging in his head Edgar forced a smile to his lips. “I’m just thinking what a wonderful job everybody did, how the whole village came together in a heartbeat. Everybody was so unwavering in their resolve, never a word of complaint.” Though the sentiment was genuine it wasn’t, if truth be told, the weightiest matter on Edgar’s mind.

Isabel knew fine well a gloomier thought lay just below the surface but she smiled and played along. “Father Brown said how very proud he was of Brenda for helping with the search the way she did.”

Nodding Edgar added, “Yes, all the women should be proud of the part they played. Not just those out searching, but those helping behind the scenes too, they were invaluable.”

“Oh yes, you can always rely on Kembleford’s ladies to answer a call to arms. They’ll’ve been buttering sandwiches in their sleep last night.”

The joke drew a hint of a smile to Edgar’s lips but before it reached his eyes it dissolved, his features crumpling into a heavy frown. “And…and you” he stuttered. “I haven’t thanked you for your contribution.” Head shaking regretfully he drew a deep breath, “I don’t deserve you Izz.”

Pressing her face against his rough cheek she kissed it with a loud ‘mwah’. “Don’t be silly” she cajoled him, “I ran a few errands, that’s all.”

Shaking his head Edgar strove to give voice to all the things he could only think last night. “When you came back from London I didn’t want you going off with the search, but not just so I could order you about as I would another junior constable. I didn’t want you out there with Brenda and the others because…” he clenched his jaw in frustration, “I don’t know how to explain it, I just wanted to have you close.”

“Oh.” The admission caught Isabel off guard. At the time Edgar had cited having Hercules at his disposal as his reason for wanting her to remain in the village. At best she’d imagined he’d been attempting to shield her from the potential anguish being part of the search might bring, but she hadn’t for a moment imagined it was her presence he actually wanted.

Turning his head to gauge her reaction the confusion on her face prompted his gaze to drift slowly back to the foot of the bed. “I know it probably didn’t seem that way” he admitted, brow furrowed. How could he explain that he wanted her close to him yet couldn’t accept her kindness? “I er…I had to remain focussed on the investigation, to remain professional, that’s why I seemed, that’s why I was so…detached.”

Smiling Isabel caressed the back of his shoulder with her thumb. “It’s fine” she assured him.

“No, it’s not!” Tears pricked his eyes, “Having you there, at the station, it did bring me comfort Izz, even if I didn’t dare show it.” Straightening his back he swallowed hard. “And I owe you an apology, for the way I spoke to you at Paul Dunn’s cottage.” His stomach churned, recalling the way he’d barked at her to concentrate on caring for Kenny after she’d offered words of comfort to a distraught Paul. “You were right to challenge me on my behaviour, the way I shouted at Paul, the abuse I hurled at Father Brown. I am truly sorry for my conduct, that’s not the kind of policeman, kind of man, I want to be.” Winding his arms tighter around his shins Edgar drew his knees up to his chest, suddenly feeling like a chastised three year-old sitting alone on a pebbly beach.

Desperate not to sound trite Isabel could only remind him of the truth, “As Father Brown said you were exhausted not to mention understandably worried about Kenny’s wellbeing.”

“That’s no excuse” he croaked. Forcing himself to look her in the eye he solemnly gave voice to a deeper fear. “I do appreciate how lucky I am to have you, to have a wife who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’ve overstepped the mark.”

Silence settled between them and it took a moment before Isabel registered the hidden significance of his words. “He means not like his parents” she realised unhappily. He was glad they weren’t like Walter and Grace, the overbearing husband caring little for his spouse’s opinion and the wife who’d leant every trick in the book not to upset the applecart. Saddened at the thought Isabel rested her cheek against Edgar’s shoulder.

“I am very lucky” Edgar reiterated, “to have a wife who, despite all my efforts to seemingly push her away still…still…”

“Still loves you?”

Nodding Edgar tried his best to smile but the effort was too much.

Sitting side by side Isabel’s arm dropped down Edgar’s back to coil around his waist. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to help you more” she sighed.

“That’s my fault, not yours. I’m so used to taking care of myself I wasn’t sure how to make room for you when everything became so chaotic.”

Isabel gave him a little nudge. “Coffee and aspirin, is that what you call looking after yourself?” she joked, then added sincerely “It wasn’t nice you know Edgar, watching you run yourself into the ground.”

“I know, I know” he nodded, hunching forward over his raised knees. “Every time you appeared in my office I felt myself on the verge of giving in to your kindness. Whenever I asked you to do something menial such as taking my dirty laundry home it was partly a ploy to distract myself. The truth is I didn’t dare ask you to do the one thing I desperately wanted, and that was for you to put your arms around me, just for a moment.”

Eyes widening at his frankness Isabel sighed, “I’m your wife Edgar, why wouldn’t you ask me to do something as simple as that.”

“I was afraid” he shrugged shyly. “I was worried how I’d react, I couldn’t afford to lose focus, to crumble, not with everything I had to juggle…”

“How about now?” Isabel asked, her affable tone in contrast to the sadness in her husband’s voice.

Edgar’s narrowed eyes asked her to clarify.

“Now can you let me put my arms around you?” she asked with a hesitant smile.

His eyes searched hers for any trace of obligation but found only tenderness in her loving gaze. “Yes” he nodded weakly, “though I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Don’t be daft” she chuckled, slipping her other arm around his stomach. Hugging him as best she could in their awkward seated positions she pressed a kiss to the top of his arm, burying her face against his warm skin.

“Sorry I don’t smell very good” he muttered, still gripping his own knees.

“Not your best” she agreed playfully, “You certainly won’t be getting a proper kiss til you’ve brushed your teeth.” Arms encircling his waist she squeezed him tightly then let go, shuffling herself up the bed. Quickly plumping and arranging the pillows she made a nest against the headboard then reclined back into it. Arms open in invitation she smiled at the sheepish look on his face. “C’mon” she coaxed.

Crawling up towards her Edgar slipped a hand behind the small of her back before allowing himself to fold against her, his face resting on her shoulder, her cheek atop his head.

“This feel better?” she asked.

He nodded in reply, his stubbly chin rough against her skin where the collar of her sunshine-yellow blouse dipped down into a V. “Yes” Edgar thought, heart pounding, “this feels much better.”

“Well then,” she murmured into his hair, “in future try to remember that. While you’re busy doing your job let me do mine: let me take care of you Edgar. Even if you’re in no frame of mind to talk about work let me run you a bath or cook you a proper meal.” With that she peppered the top of his head and his hairline with a flurry of silly little kisses.

The familiarity of their bed with its freshly laundered sheets, the familiarity of her so tender and warm allowed Edgar to relax, his body moulding itself against hers. Isabel was struck by how uncharacteristically heavy he felt, his head like a cannonball on her chest, his limbs leaden. It was as if the weight of burden that had pressed down on him all week had taken up residence in his bones. But the physical discomfort of having him draped across her was nothing when weighed against the relief at being able to cradle him in her arms at last.

But for Edgar the act of letting his guard down meant the old familiar feelings threatened to overwhelm him. He knew from now on he couldn’t just push them aside but had to confront them lest they drag both himself and Isabel into a black pit. “Will you forgive me Isabel?” he asked earnestly.

“There’s nothing to forgive my love” she assured him, hand splaying across his cheek to hold him closer to her beating heart.

Sadly she knew that no matter which way she and Father Brown played through the facts part of Edgar would always blame himself for not finding Kenny Rowland sooner. Similarly, no matter how many times she told him there was nothing he need ask her forgiveness for, he’d continue to berate himself for his recent behaviour. It was a side to his nature she was still trying to fully understand, the perpetually lingering gloom at the edges of his mind. With time, with love, would she be able to dispel that darkness completely or would it always be waiting in the wings, threatening to pounce?

Holding him as tightly and as tenderly as she could Isabel savoured each tiny movement, the occasional shifting of his weight, his hands gently squeezing her, fingers rippling against her flesh, checking she was tangible, real. Eventually, reluctantly, Edgar peeled himself from her embrace, sitting up sluggishly to consult the bedside clock. Shoulders slumping he groaned, “Oh well, I suppose I’d better call the station.” Turning he looked down at his wife, the first time he’d seen her clearly since waking. The first time, in fact, that he’d seen her clearly since she’d returned to Kembleford days ago. “If they’re managing alright, if they don’t need me there right away, I’ll have a bath” he explained, “And I’m well overdue a change of clothes.”

“I can make you breakfast before you go” Isabel suggested hopefully. In reality it was long past breakfast time yet still too early for lunch.

There was a split second while Edgar tallied up just how long a bath plus breakfast would take. “Breakfast would be most appreciated, thank you” he smiled, eyes lingering on her rose pink lips.

Those lips spread into a full beaming smile, delighted by his lack of protest. “I’ve got everything in to do you a full fry-up” she grinned.

Edgar’s stomach growled its approval and he fleetingly wondered if Fernsley’s delicious sausages would be part of the mix. Taking her hand in his Edgar tilted his head, absorbed in her dazzling blue eyes that sparkled with life. “And tonight” he proposed, his thumb stroking the backs of her fingers, toying with her wedding band, “I’ll take you out somewhere special for dinner, to try to make things up to you.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Isabel warned him firmly, gripping his fingers. “All I want is for you to do what’s necessary at the station, come home, sit down and relax and think about something else for a while.”

Trying not to roll his eyes Edgar conceded. “Last nights stew smelt good, maybe you could reheat that for dinner?”

“Good idea.”

“And you could tell me all about your trip to London.”

“It’s a date!” Isabel exclaimed, delighted he was making an effort.

Weight resting on one arm Edgar half closed his eyes, head dipping towards his wife’s, his lips parting in anticipation as they edged towards hers.

“Not so fast mister!” she chuckled, finger pressed firmly to his mouth to halt him. “Brush your teeth first, remember?” Grabbing his face in both hands she planted a soft firm kiss squarely on his brow instead. “Now, get yourself in that bath” she chivvied him, shuffling to hop off the side of the bed. “I’ll go and make a start with breakfast. I’ll begin plating up when I hear you pull the plug out, it’ll be on the table by the time you’re dressed and downstairs.” Slipping on her shoes at the end of the bed she turned and scurried away, cheery daisy-head skirt rustling around her knees.

Hearing her footsteps skipping down the stairs Edgar shook his head in wonder, trying to make sense of her steadfast support. “Everything I’ve done yet still she wants to take care of me” he marvelled.

Despite Isabel’s assurances to the contrary Edgar knew that, while his quest to locate Kenny Rowland was over, his mission to become a good husband was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

The early October morning bore a cool edged breeze though the sky above St Mary’s church was typically clear and bright. Kembleford’s usual calm had returned at last even if the village hadn’t quite shaken off the final vestiges of disquiet surrounding Kenny Rowland’s disappearance. Father Brown stood sentry at the church door, white chasuble gleaming in the sunlight as his parishioners filed out, men replacing their hats while women fussed with gloves and handbags. Drawing a deep breath he listened to the shrill ‘spink-spink-spiroo’ of a lone chaffinch somewhere in the churchyard.

The small wiry figure of Paul Dunn shuffled through the doorway followed closely behind by a lumbering Peter Turvey, both men looking rather less dishevelled than was customary: Paul clean shaven in a freshly ironed shirt, Mr Turvey’s eyebrows miraculously tamed into shape.

“Hello Paul, how are you today?” Father Brown asked, ushering the fidgety young man aside to allow others to pass freely around them.

“I am fine thank you Father. How are you today?” Paul asked mechanically.

“I’m very well thank you, and I’m very glad to see you here at Mass, I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I thought your homily was too long” Paul declared bluntly, Mr Turvey wincing beside him in embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” Father Brown smirked, suppressing a laugh. “But did you understand the message?”

“I think so” Paul shrugged, eyes wandering across the nearby gravestones. “The slave asked his master to forgive him his debt but then he didn’t forgive the other slave his debt.”

“That’s correct.”

“So he was a hypocrite.”

“Yes he was. And more importantly it’s a reminder for us all to acknowledge our own failings and show forgiveness to our fellow man.”

Paul nodded distractedly, “If you’d just said it like that it would’ve been much quicker.” Advice dispensed Paul wandered slowly off up the path towards the gate.

“Sorry Father, Paul’s not much of a one for parables, or metaphors either, he’d rather people expressed themselves more directly” Mr Turvey apologised, though he knew the priest understood Paul’s unorthodox manner better than most. “For what it’s worth I very much enjoyed the service.”

Father Brown twisted his face mischievously, “Can I infer from your presence that you no longer consider yourself ‘lapsed’?”

“We’ll see” Mr Turvey smiled noncommittally, “Though I do think it’s of benefit to Paul to become more involved in the community again.”

“If I may say so you have shown him exceptional kindness” the priest lauded him as together they looked up the path to see Paul rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Swatting aside the compliment Mr Turvey mumbled, “Oh, it was nothing”.

“I disagree. Without your intervention who knows where he’d be now.”

Smoothing down his wisps of silvery-grey hair Turvey shrugged, “Well, luckily I still have a few friends left in the law chambers, was able to call in a favour. While Paul doesn’t meet the criteria to be considered mentally deficient a compelling argument was made on his behalf. Lack of intent, with regard to causing Kenny any harm, plus the boy’s recovery was of course a benefit, and having so many upstanding citizens willing to vouch for him helped immensely. Having demonstrated that Paul’s decision making was hindered due to the overwhelming stress of the situation he found himself in, it was deemed inappropriate to pursue a prosecution.”

“And we were all very relieved to hear that.”

As if on cue Alf and Maisie Rowland with young Kenny in tow slipped from the church, Kenny taking off at a dash towards his little friend Ian milling about by the large yew tree.

“Not everybody was pleased with the outcome” Mr Turvey corrected him, tipping a nod towards Mr Rowland. “I’ve heard a few mutterings around and about, there are those who believe Paul got off too lightly. The same folks who’ll no doubt be raising an eyebrow at our new living arrangements.”

“Your arrangement makes perfect sense to me” Father Brown enthused. “You get a good worker on hand to help around your property while Paul gets somebody to keep an eye on him until he finds his feet again.” He paused, ruminating on how badly he’d overlooked Paul, alone in that sorry little cottage. “I hadn’t realised how much he’d struggled there since his mother died” he added sorrily.

“Well, I’ve tried to explain to Paul, as delicately as possible, that there’ll be some people less inclined to employ him for odd jobs after what happened. Mud sticks as well I know. So working for me may be his best option, for a while at least. Of course the two of us living under one roof is bound to set tongues wagging.”

“I would hope after recent events people in Kembleford wouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions” the priest reflected as Sergeant Goodfellow came to join the conversation.

Mr Turvey nodded in greeting to the off-duty policeman in his brown and beige houndstooth suit then addressed both men. “I have noticed a softening of moods amongst some people, towards myself. At this rate, if I’m lucky, I won’t have to go all the way to Hambleston to run my errands!” he joked lightly.

Goodfellow smiled broadly, “Well, with more time on your hands maybe we could persuade you to join the cricket team? We’re always on the look out for new recruits.”

Patting his portly stomach Mr Turvey groaned, “I’m rather out of shape I’m afraid, not as young as I used to be.”

“Same can be said for half the team!” Goodfellow chuckled. “You’d be more than welcome, I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you Sergeant, maybe next season.”

Whether Peter Turvey decided to take up cricket again or not, the invitation had clearly touched him and nodding their goodbyes to the priest the two men set off down the path discussing Mr Turvey’s credentials as a batsman.

With Father Brown’s attention no longer occupied Alf and Maisie Rowland approached.

“Ah, lovely to see you all here together this morning” the priest greeted them with a warm nod towards their son whose head poked from behind the yew tree. “Kenny appears to be in fine spirits.”

Maisie flashed a broad smile, her voice animated with relief: “He still gets a bit out of puff but the headaches have gotten better, the doctor said he can go back to school tomorrow.”

“Excellent news” Father Brown replied with a smile to match hers.

“Kenny don’t agree” Alf chipped in wryly. “He’s enjoyed being at home, being spoilt rotten. But I’ve told him it’s back to school in the morning and no more bunking off!”

A flurry of “pyew, pyew” sounds rang out, Kenny and Ian chasing each other with guns made of pointed fingers and cocked thumbs. Alf shook his head in exasperation at the sight of his son bounding towards Sergeant Goodfellow, demanding that the officer stick his hands in the air. While the good natured policeman was happy to oblige, Paul Dunn cowered between him and Mr Turvey, perturbed by the boisterous boy’s ruckus.

“Kenny!” Alf hissed, marching off down the path, “This is a churchyard not a playground, and don’t go bothering people like that.” Approaching the group of men he offered a blanket apology for his son’s behaviour, “Sorry gents” he said, nodding cordially to Mr Turvey who replied in kind. Even though Paul Dunn was looking elsewhere Father Brown couldn’t help but notice Alf made an effort to smile in his direction too.

“Has Alf come to terms with what happened?” Father Brown asked, watching the man corral the two young boys back from the path, Kenny pausing by a headstone, wheezing slightly.

“He was angry at first but deep down he knows Paul never meant any harm, that one thing just led to another. And at the end of the day Kenny’s home, that’s what matters.”

“Indeed” Father Brown nodded, looking fondly towards the panting little boy. “Kenny was very lucky.” A plethora of potential devastating outcomes came to mind as he recalled the boy’s concussion not to mention the cocktail of drugs that had left him knocked out in the dingy little cottage.

Grasping at the cross hanging down over her peacock-blue cardigan Maisie’s smile dropped, “Still, I’ll never forgive myself Father. If I hadn’t left early that day to try to see Howard…”

“Please try not to dwell on that” the priest implored. “There are far too many “if”s to focus on a single one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kenny’s disappearance was a tapestry woven of many threads. No doubt Alf still blames himself too for not raising the alarm sooner. Then there is Martin Ludlow, what if the other boys hadn’t ostracised him? What if Martin hadn’t, in turn, taken his frustration out on Kenny? And what if Kenny hadn’t bunked off school that day, hadn’t returned home for the shovel and seen your note about dinner?”

Maisie nodded as his words began to sink in. “Suppose you’re right, lots of little things all just came together.”

“If Paul hadn’t offered Kenny the lend of a spade, if the deer hadn’t run in front of Paul’s truck” Father Brown shrugged, replaying the chain of events for the umpteenth time, “Kenny would never’ve ended up at that cottage. And of course” he said with a cautious smile, “if Alf knew how to cook something other than the fried liver Kenny detests maybe Kenny would’ve returned home sooner!”

The jest at her husband’s expense brought the hint of a smile back to Maisie’s lips. She looked towards Alf playfully fending off Kenny and Ian’s attacks. “He’s been much calmer since Kenny came home” she said fondly, “And he’s not drinking nearly as much, so that’s good.”

“Perhaps it took something of this magnitude to remind Alf what’s really important, and how easily it can all be snatched away.”

Dipping her head towards the priest Maisie lowered her voice. “I still haven’t told him, about me and Howard. D’you think I should?”

Grimacing Father Brown gave the matter some thought. “That is something only you can decide.” While he usually preached honesty as the best policy the late Mrs Dunn’s advice to her son ran through his mind: “sometimes it’s best to keep your head down and your mouth shut.” Heeding the advice himself he said no more.

Fretting Maisie added, “As far as Alf knows the only reason Howard was questioned is because he went to Mr Turvey’s property that day looking for work. I don’t know what’d happen if Alf learned the truth, especially if he heard it from somebody else.”

“Howard and his friend Bill have moved south to the hop harvest. I spoke to Howard, before he left.”

Torn between wanting to know more and wanting to put it all behind her Maisie stood silently, twisting her wedding band around her finger.

“I don’t think Howard will be returning to Kembleford next year” Father Brown informed her gently.

Maisie’s sad nod was accompanied by a sigh that spoke of relief.

“And I can assure you that anybody involved in the investigation can be relied on for their discretion. The choice of whether or not you disclose your transgression to Alf is entirely yours, but may I suggest waiting a while longer, until the dust has settled, before making that sort of decision?”

“Thank you Father” Maisie smiled. “Thank you for everything. I’d’ve gone mad if I hadn’t had you to talk to.” Giving his arm a quick squeeze she set off to join her family.

Father Brown looked around the churchyard, littered with dribs and drabs of people exchanging pleasantries and gossip, and took comfort from the familiar sunny-Sunday sight.

“That’s all the ‘imm books put away” Brenda declared, bustling from the church.

“Thank you ladies” Father Brown smiled, addressing Isabel too as she followed closely behind.

Brenda’s plain bottle green skirt and matching cardigan were dull in contrast to her friend’s calf-length dress, patterned in shades from orange to brown, the flowers and leaves perfectly mirroring the change of season from summer to autumn.

“Oh, how lovely to see them like that” Isabel commented with a tip of the head towards the Rowland family. “Maisie looks so much better, don’t you think?”

Father Brown nodded in agreement. While still a little on the thin side Mrs Rowland’s face no longer looked quite so drawn and he’d noticed a light in her nut-brown eyes today that, on reflection, had been missing for a very long time.

“Alf’s different too a’reckon” Brenda chipped in, “Other mornin’ ‘e said ‘ello an’ that’s never ‘appened before.”

Isabel leant towards Father Brown, the fresh floral bouquet of her perfume mingling with the natural scents of their surroundings, “And I hear he’s not such a frequent visitor to the Red Lion these days” she whispered approvingly.

“Well then, silver linings” the priest smiled. As if on cue his eyes fell on Mr Turvey and Paul saying their goodbyes to Sergeant Goodfellow. Perhaps the companionship between the two misunderstood men was another positive to be taken from the awful events of last month.

Swivelling her wrist Isabel glanced at her watch. “Well, I should be getting home, Edgar’ll think I’ve got lost!”

“You couldn’t persuade him to join us this morning?” Instantly Father Brown felt a pang of guilt at having raised the subject; He knew fine well that even at the best of times the Chief Inspector only attended church when convention compelled him to.

Isabel’s embarrassment at her husband’s continued absence from village life was painfully clear as she tried to make light of the situation, “Oh, don’t take it personally Father, I’ve barely been able to persuade him over the door thresh since…” She left the sentence unfinished.

Brenda took a step to the side, showing a sudden interest in a patch of dandelions lining the grass verge, allowing priest and parish secretary some privacy.

“Truth be told Edgar’s been in the doldrums a little.” As good an actress as Isabel was she couldn’t hide the worry in her voice. While her husband was becoming more talkative again and his bouts of self-recrimination were less frequent it had been a difficult few weeks in the Sullivan household. On paper the incident of the missing child had been wrapped up yet Kembleford’s head of police still blamed himself for not cracking the case sooner and worried others in the village felt the same way too. “All he does is go to the station then come straight back home again.”

“Not today it seems” Father Brown smiled, his eyes gesturing towards the far end of the path.

Turning sharply Isabel’s face broke into a beaming smile as Edgar in his midnight blue suit came into view. Unfortunately the first person he encountered was Paul Dunn who shrank back at the sight of him, Peter Turvey placing a guiding hand on the skittish man’s shoulder to steer him homewards. Catching Alf Rowland from the corner of his eye Edgar tipped his hat politely, the greeting returned with a nod and what, for Alf, passed as a smile.

Fists clenching and unclenching at her sides Isabel waited impatiently as her husband made the torturously lonely journey down the path towards her. Those who offered him greetings were repaid with tight smiles and curt nods of acknowledgement. But Isabel saw past both, to the eyes his smile didn’t reach, the nervous fingertips that darted time and again to his cufflinks. Of all the congregation Sergeant Goodfellow was the sole recipient of a solid, relaxed handshake and a meeting of the eye.

“Chief Inspector, how very nice to see you” Father Brown welcomed him as Brenda too rejoined the group.

“What’s this?” Isabel asked breezily, “Here to chaperone me home?”

Blushing a little Edgar shook his head, “I just thought we could take a stroll before lunch.”

“Sounds lovely!”

Brenda couldn’t help but smirk at how swiftly her friend’s face cracked into a soppy grin. “Well, if ya fancy, we could all take a stroll over t’the presbytery and I’ll put the kettle on” she suggested.

“Care to join us for a cup of tea Chief Inspector?” Father Brown added, hoping for Isabel’s sake as much as Edgar’s that he’d accept the invitation.

Straightening his deep-carmine tie Edgar saw the expectation dancing in his wife’s bright eyes. Fighting the instinct to decline the offer he pasted a smile to his face. “Thank you, that would be lovely” he lied. This was Kembleford, he reminded himself, not London: he couldn’t hide away forever.

As the quartet fell into step towards the presbytery Father Brown struggled to keep the boyish grin from his face. “Perhaps we could interest you in a sandwich to go with your cuppa?” he asked straight faced, “I have some of Fernsley’s pork and hop sausages…”

Stopping dead in his tracks Edgar turned to scowl at the priest. “Don’t push your luck Father!” he warned mockingly. Hell would freeze over before he admitted just how much he’d enjoyed that particular delicacy. In fact he was still trying to persuade himself that, as oppose to being a convert to the succulent bangers, his enjoyment of them that morning in Father Brown’s kitchen had merely been a symptom of his delirium, no different to the china-warping hallucinations he’d experienced.

Gazing at her husband Isabel’s heart fluttered, delighted to see the crows feet crinkling the corners of his twinkly blue eyes. When he reached down and laced his fingers firmly with hers she squeezed his hand tightly in return.

Sauntering along hand in hand as though they hadn’t a care in the world, the happy couple’s smiles were matched by those worn by Brenda and Father Brown, tagging along behind, sharing a knowing wink.

It had taken three long days for Kenny Rowland to be found, Father Brown ruminated, but it had taken three long weeks before the same could be said for Chief Inspector Sullivan who’d remained hidden away inside himself. “But we’ve found him now” he thought optimistically. “And I don’t believe Edgar will ever become quite so lost to us again.”