Author's Note: Why are there no stories for Father Brown? There are dozens for Christie and Holmes, yet none for their acclaimed alumni, the little Catholic priest and unlikely sly sleuth from Essex. I know Chesterton's prose is intimidating to emulate, but all the same...

Not. One. Story.

So here is one. It's not going to be as good as the original, since the man was a genius. But here is my humble offering. I don't know enough about society to provide a proper social commentary, as Chesterton would have done; indeed, pre-war England is not my native society, though I am perhaps just as ignorant of it as I am of my own.

Nevertheless, I try. Please enjoy - and please, if you are a fan, write a story. Father Brown and Flambeau rather deserve it.

The Temptation of Eve

Chapter One

Back when they had first met, Flambeau had asked, in a voice stricken with a dread-tinged sense of awe: "How in blazes do you know all these horrors?"

And Father Brown had replied in his simple, good-natured sort of way (though not without a little sarcasm): "Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose."

It was indeed questionable what Father Brown's opinion on women was. He certainly wasn't so much a Puritan that he induced himself to huff and harrumph at the merest glance of a dainty lace-edged shawl, or an inch of silk stocking (which, as the times became decidedly more modern, was the least – or perhaps, the most – that a principled gentleman could expect to see in the street). He was not so bull-headedly self-righteous as that; he knew that not only had God created Eve, but that she had as much right as Adam to her creation, whatever unfortunate consequences her existence may have thereafter brought upon humanity. Whilst Adam and Eve may have grown from roots planted in the Garden of Eden, the men and women of today were the flora that thrived in the gardens of Earth. Mean and hard though the soil there might be, humanity bloomed all over it like a tangle of voracious wild flowers, and though hardly heavenly, they were beautiful in their own way.

Father Brown was certainly amicable enough towards women – but then, he was just as amicable with everyone else. He could pass the time of day just as easily with a bubble-headed debutante or a prim, stern-faced secretary; neither a fur-draped heiress, nor a shabbily-dressed charwoman, could claim to find him lacking as a conversant.

Perhaps the fact that he could wag his rounded, somewhat ponderous chin with practically everyone was proven by the rather animated discussion he had on the train with a former thief. Flambeau, though he admired his friend's method in a professional sense (not that detecting was Father Brown's true profession), was too French, with a Frenchman's keen sense of cynicism, to agree with his views on theology; also, he was too French, and therefore too romantic, to follow his example and abstain from an association with the fair sex which extended beyond politely and impersonally asking for the time of day. Flambeau was, as well as a former thief, a former artistic thief, and so he appreciated a beautiful woman the same way he appreciated a luminous jewel – he appreciated the atmosphere and ambience around her, the halo of feminine charm which a true female could effortlessly exude. He could, at times, feel an almost rapturous admiration for the fair maiden, fresh and demure as the newly-opened bud. He could feel a tender pity for the mature woman, like a partially-faded flower nearing the elapse of its seasonal beauty. The only time his romanticism failed was when faced with the mawkish, disjointed bouquet of the common low-bred, loud and tiresome woman which seemed to spring up like a noxious weed, usually emitting a toneless, tumultuous stream of ignorances and crowned with an over-trimmed hat; more often than not accompanied by a fuzzy, pastel-hued cardigan and a garishly-printed cambric dress with a cheap tuppenny handkerchief dangling from a sleeve. It is impossible to think a thistle into a hyacinth, even with a romantic French mind. It is possible that such a specimen was just too truly feminine – with all a female's gravest deficiencies – for a romantic man to ever appreciate. Flambeau liked his women not so much actually feminine, but rather styled in a feminine way, a way which makes considerations for the preferences of menfolk.

However, it was not women that Flambeau had in mind as the train he and his companion travelled on pulled into Cheltershire Station; not at first, anyway. It was Flambeau's second trip across the Dover Strait, but his first as an amateur detective rather than a veteran thief. He had arrived in England to set himself up in his new profession, since the sound of his name still ringing with tales of his notoriety in his homeland, had by this time faded to mere distant echoes closer to London. Indeed, the capital was his intended destination, yet he and Father Brown did not reach it quite as they had intended.

One would think that a convicted criminal could teach a fluffy old priest a thing or two about the deeper, murkier currents upon which the niceties of life floated, like a delicate leaf hovering at the lip of an immense waterfall. However, Flambeau found that it was he who learnt many valuable things from their conversation; in the imagery of Father Brown's cheery, chatty tone, he glimpsed pools and puddles which ran far deeper, and were far murkier, than any he had ever happened to tread in. So absorbing was their discussion that they did not notice how long the train remained stationary, instead of continuing its headlong hurtle along its track towards the greater city; however, at some point they heard a third throat being cleared politely in their compartment, and looked up to find a shame-faced conductor standing before them.

The weather had been bitterly cold of late, and the tracks were not only blocked by snow, but had actually frozen over with a thick covering of sleet and ice, making it far too dangerous to proceed. The conductor apologized long and profusely, as though he himself had personally neglected some duty, carelessly allowing the snow to fall excessively and so grievously inconvenience his passengers. In fact, Father Brown and Flambeau were not all that grieved. Flambeau laughed about it being an excellent opportunity to view more of the esteemed British snow he had heard so much about, and followed by his stumpy companion, who dwaddled somewhat, pausing to laboriously gather his brown paper parcels and his battered old umbrella, they went into the station tearoom to warm themselves by the cheery charcoal fire and hear the prognosis for the rest of the trip.

The outlook certainly wasn't sunny. It would take days for a special engine with a plough attached to come and clear their way; and it would take just as long for qualified engineers to carefully unfreeze a good quarter-mile of track with lime and salted water. The rail company was to provide a cavalcade of cars which would carry passengers along a road higher up in the hills, where the drifts were not so deep and the roads more stable, thereby reaching London only a few hours short of their intended arrival. The only other alternative was to wait until the tracks were unfrozen and another train passed along the line, since the train they had been on was to return the way it had come, due at Dover by the evening of the following day. The line was not a regularly frequent one, so the wait could be several days long. However, the cars were already quite crowded, and Flambeau, with his sensitive French nature, found the sight of the white winter countryside slowly filling up with snow, like a white ceramic vessel slowly filling with clotted cream, so simply and coquettishly charming that he decided then and there, on the merest whim, to stay and wait out the freeze in the snowbound little village. He asked Father Brown if he would not prefer to go with the others by motor, but the little priest did not mind; he had no pressing business in London, save to witness his friend's establishment on the right side of the law. A sojourn in the snowy countryside would not weigh too heavily on his time.

And so, the two friends soon found themselves installed by the fireside at a cosy cottage in Cheltershire.