This one got wordy.
Sullivan's first order of business, once he knew someone was likely to be awake by then, was to call Lady Felicia. She answered, sounding a little hung over, and he wondered if she would be heading off to Mass or sleeping something off.
"Lady Felicia, someone broke into the Princess von Altburg's home last night and did a bit of damage to her library wall. Have you heard from her this morning?"
There was a long pause, some sniffling, and finally she asked, "Someone what?"
"Someone. Broke. Into. The Princess's. House."
"Dear God! What time is it?"
"It's eight-thirty, Lady Felicia."
"Oh. Right. Yes. Well… erm… no, I have not heard from her. She's in London. Staying at the Savoy."
"Ah. Very good."
"Wait… did they… did they steal anything?"
"I am only calling to confirm her whereabouts. Good morning, Lady Felicia, and thank you." He hung up and put on his coat and hat. Goodfellow greeted him with a folder, which he knew was regarding the Ridgley dogs. "Let Wells handle it—he likes dogs. I have some… er… something to do. Meanwhile, get some constables over to Applecross and have them check the library and the rest of the house for any evidence, and dust for fingerprints. I suspect those two sledgehammer-wielding burglars were locals."
"Yes, sir. Uh… where are you going, sir?"
He paused, staring across the street at the little curio shop. "To collect the princess and bring her back home."
"Ah. Very good sir." He saw Sullivan's eyes narrow and gulped. "Sorry, sir. Shutting up!"
India woke up feeling as though all of Sherman's wretched army of arsonists was marching across her brain. Her eyes were burning, as though someone had been scratching them with steel wool. Her tongue seemed to have grown hair overnight, and on top of that, some horribly ill creature had crawled into her mouth and died.
Then she realized where she was, and her misery only intensified. She rolled over and covered her head with the pillow, moaning in horror and humiliation and nausea unlike anything she had experienced since morning sickness.
"Oh, dear God. What did I do?" she whispered, and even her own voice sounded as if though someone was banging cymbals right by her ear.
She had gotten drunk, that's what. Smashed, schnockered, plastered, three sheets to the wind, knee-walking, toilet-hugging drunk. On champagne and copious amounts of third-rate wine from Umbria. She had done something with a plate of unhappy chicken that had gotten the waiter rather upset. She had insulted her dining companion, but could not for the life of her remember who she had eaten with or even what he looked like, though she was sure he didn't have dark hair, hazel-green eyes and an air of command Patton would envy. And even worse…
Even worse…
She looked around the room and saw a dozen pink roses in a vase on the bedside table. Cautiously, terrified of what she might see, she lifted the blanket and looked down, and was both puzzled and relieved to see she was still wearing the dress she had worn to the theatre last night. Whoever had put her to bed had not undressed her, even just down to her skivvies. Her feet were bare, at least, but she was still wearing her silk stockings. So maybe she hadn't done what she thought she had done, and if she hadn't, then just being hungover would be the worst thing to go through today. Scrambled eggs, coffee, a few chocolate mints, a great deal of self-flagellation, profuse apologies and a long train ride back to Kembleford, and she would be all right. By Tuesday morning she would be able to collect her sons and try to get on with her life and avoid Alexander Sullivan, town gossips be damned.
Oh, who was she kidding? She would sell Applecross and flee back to the States, move into the old house at Buchanan and live alone after her boys graduated from school and moved away. She would shrivel up and collect cats (no better form of punishment there) and become known as 'that crazy old Cat Lady' and wear black, like a proper widow.
Head pounding, India managed to crawl out of bed without falling down, then stumbled across the room to the closet. She had only brought two changes of clothes, one for today (Sunday? Was it still Sunday?) and one for travelling back home tomorrow. If she had any sense or nerve, she would hire a taxi out to Turnbridge Wells to attend worship, but she wasn't sure she would be able to sit up straight long enough to even take communion. While she knew many of the members of that little congregation and loved them dearly, she wasn't sure she could endure trying to talk to them now. They would ask her questions, out of genuine kindness and concern, and she wasn't sure she could answer, and attempting to sing a hymn right now might well kill her, however much good it might do for her soul.
The hotel at least provided a fine silk bathrobe, and she snatched it up and managed to get into the bathroom and turn the shower on—oh, how she loved showers over baths at a time like this! It took only a few moments for the water to get suitably hot and she clambered in, clutching at the wall like a frightened palmetto bug to keep her balance. The hot water made her yelp, but it revived her spirits at least a little and helped her think a little more clearly.
She washed her hair, too, and pulled it back into a ponytail when she got out of the shower, and methodically dried herself and fought her way into the robe, finding the armholes very difficult to locate. After that, she stumbled back into the sitting room and plopped onto the sofa, trying to gather up pieces of whatever she could of her activities of the night before. There was a television set, but she barely knew how to turn it on and had never found one thing worth watching anyway. She still preferred the radio—Arthur Godfrey and the Grand Ole Opry at home, and The Goon Show in England.
Giving in to just whining, she curled up on the couch and moaned, trying to snatch up bits and pieces of last night's dreadful festivities. She remembered going to a musical. Or at least she had been somewhere where people had started dancing about and singing, without provocation, and that didn't generally happen in real life. She had been with someone, but he seemed very grey—completely colorless, and however she tried to conjure up his face, it was blank. It certainly couldn't have been Alexander, as he had kicked her to the proverbial kerb. The meal had been dreadful, and drinking a lot of champagne and wine on an empty stomach was a tad unwise.
Okay, it was dumb. Stupid. Idiotic, even. If she had slept with whoever she had been out with last night, it would indicate she might require a stay at Bedlam, but at least she hadn't done that. Or she was pretty sure hadn't. Usually, after sex, she felt a kind of pleasant muzziness, and she certainly wasn't feeling that, and she had gotten a bit tipsy with Fritz a few times. In fact, Sebastian was the result of her drinking one too many glasses of potent Trockenbeerenauslese-variety wine, which she hadn't been able to pronounce when sober, and while drunk it became a bad comedy skit.
Trying to remember who she had been with was giving her a headache, however, and so finally she just gave up, took off the robe and climbed, naked, back into bed, not giving a flying fig any more. Like that silly fool Scarlett O'Hara had said, she would think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.
"I'm looking for the Princess von Altburg," Sullivan said.
The concierge eyed Sullivan coolly and gave him one of those condescending smiles that only concierges could give—the kind that was best answered with a rap in the mouth.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we do not reveal the names of our guests, nor do we call any of them down to the front desk to be confronted by… " he eyed Sullivan for a moment, lifting his nose just a bit. "Just anyone."
Sullivan clenched his fists for a moment. "I am with the Kembleford, Gloucestershire police and I need to speak with Her Highness about a break-in at her home."
The concierge didn't bat an eye. "The Princess will be informed of your visit here, Constable… "
"Detective Inspector Sullivan."
The concierge only looked down his long nose at him, and Sullivan figured he had been hired because of that nose, because it couldn't have been because of any kind of egalitarian attitude, plus the stuck-up wally had a French accent, so good manners were not on the menu. The phone rang and the tuxedoed toff answered with a rich "Good morning, you have reached the Savoy Hotel Concierge Desk. How might I assist you?"
Sullivan snatched the phone from the man, smacking it back down on its cradle. The man glared at him, offended.
"Do you see that bell?" Sullivan asked mildly, nodding toward the richly embossed gold call bell.
"Of course I do, sir."
"Do you want to spend a very unpleasant time, a day or so from now, attempting to pass that bell?"
That broke the concierge's nerve, and he blinked. "Her Serene Highness is in suite 510. Fifth floor."
"Thank you. I commend you for your excellent service." Sullivan touched the brim of his hat and headed to the lift.
"Your Highness? Please, might I come in? I believe I lost a cufflink in your room last night."
India sat up in the bed, momentarily terrified, then mortified because she still had no idea who she had been with last night, and for that matter, she was naked. Her headache was somewhat less horrible, but she still had a dreadful taste in her mouth, and she decided that once whoever this was left, she would call down for some breakfast (or… actually, lunch) and some good strong coffee. Miserably, she climbed out of bed, scrambled about on the sofa for the robe, tied her flyaway hair back with a ribbon, and went out to the door, making sure her robe was properly closed. She cautiously opened the door, and stared out at a rather thin, weedy man in a nice suit.
"Good morning, Your Highness. I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you, as I'm sure you're not feeling particularly well. But I think I lost a cufflink and I must return home tonight… "
"Oh. Lord… Edgert—Edgemo—Edgefield! Yes. That's it. Edgefield. The Earl of Edgefield. Ivor! Ivor Bramleigh, Earl of Edgefield. Sixth Earl. Um… feel free to look around… er… wherever."
He smiled and stepped in, going into the bedroom first. India leaned against the wall, eyes closed and wishing she could just die right now—he had been in the bedroom with her?! Some things were coming back to her, and in brilliantly well-colored, appalling detail… particularly the word 'schtupping' and something about England expecting all good men to do their duty, and…
Had she said something about bat spit?
What the bloody hell had she done last night? For all she knew, she might have fell out a window and landed on the awning outside, or gone out and stolen the left shoe of everyone in London, or rustled horses out of the Royal Mews. But not even that would have been as horrible as sleeping with a man she barely knew and felt nothing for aside from polite indifference.
She closed the door and made it to the sofa, sitting down, still clutching her robe tightly at her chest. She let herself sit back on the cushions, though, because her head was starting to throb a little, and she heard another knock at the door. Wearily, she rose and went to answer, opening the door just as Lord Edgefield came out of the bedroom, holding up the gold, engraved cufflink. "I must say, I seem to have gotten lucky!"
India couldn't move as she stared at Sullivan, who stared back at her, eyes wide with shock, and then he looked at Lord Edgefield, who initially smiled broadly, but his smile faded at the look on the detective's face.
"Oh, you must be from room service. I'm sure Her Highness would greatly appreciate some coffee… where's the cart?"
"I am not with room service. I'm with the Kembleford Police and I need to take Indi—… the Princess von Altburg back to her home. Someone broke into Applecross last night and did a good bit of damage to a wall in your library."
"A break-in?" Lord Edgefield looked bewildered. "Good heavens!"
"Yes," Sullivan said tightly.
"Oh, yes… Sullivan, was it? Edgefield." He held out his hand, but Sullivan did not take it.
"I'll be waiting for you downstairs, Your Highness." He looked up and down at her state of undress, then at the Earl, who was still holding the cufflink up, turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him, the noise ricocheting through her head like a bullet and making her need to sit down again. She covered her face with her hands and let out a shriek of rage, frustration and utter humiliation.
Felicia called Father Brown as soon as her head stopped aching, and begged him to meet her at Applecross after Mass. "I take it you will not be in attendance?" he asked her, and she sensed disapproval in his voice.
"Erm… we had a late night out. Just need to… uh… recover. We can meet there after lunch."
"Has something happened to the princess?"
"Not to her, but someone apparently did some damage to a wall in her library. Very curious indeed."
There was a long pause. "I'll be there."
The Earl was very nice about the whole debacle. India apologized to him from inside the bathroom, where she was dressing as quickly as she could. When she finally emerged, dressed in pair of warm trousers and a silk blouse under a denim jacket, she searched around frantically for her shoes until she remembered they were in the closet.
"So he's the one, hm?"
India found the shoes at last and hurriedly stuffed her feet into them, then began searching for her day-to-day purse (a small leather saddlebag) and finally located it under the bed. She got the dresses out of the closet and zipped them back into their bags.
"I'm sorry… I don't… "
"That detective. You mentioned last night that you couldn't stop loving someone. He's the one?"
India gasped and sat down on the chest at the foot of the bed, and the Earl only looked sympathetic.
"He doesn't want me," she finally said, desperate to finally pour her heart out to someone. "He said as much."
"Well, then he's a bloody fool… but from the way he looked at you, I don't think that's quite the problem. Different worlds, different backgrounds, maybe a bit of pride getting in the way on both your parts, right? Souls knit together forever, regardless, and in those cases, you can't stop it any more than you can stop a tsunami."
She stood and dashed around the room, gathering up her belongings as quickly as she could and stuffing them into her suitcase. She had always traveled light, having no need for huge trunks and hatboxes and makeup kits (thus delighting ship stewards). A brush, a comb, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small toiletry kit, hand lotion, perfume, her favorite peppermint candy, a small alarm clock, a sleep mask, a secret stash of money for emergencies, shampoo, clean underwear, a pair of denim trousers, a comfortable pullover shirt and some penny loafers completed the contents of the suitcase, and she soon had everything gathered. She shoved the spare shoes into one of the dress bags and zipped it closed again.
"Call room service, Your Highness, and they will carry your things for you."
"This is it," she said, looking around. She sighed and looked around the elegant room and the dozen pink roses. "I'm so sorry about… well, everything."
"Stop apologizing. At least now I know why you got so… um… inebriated."
"You mean pissed as a newt," she muttered. "I really should be going… "
"Allow me to offer a bit of advice, Your Highness. Firstly, I think you should have it out with Inspector Sullivan. Regardless of the outcome, things have not been settled between you two yet. Secondly, your shoes should match."
She stared at him, bewildered. "They should match my purse?"
"They should match each other."
He was seething.
It had taken one day for her to…
One day, and she was shacking up with that weedy git? Had she lost her bloody mind? Sullivan was certain he was losing his, and the past twenty-four hours had been hell for him, and yet here she was, at the Savoy, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and looking… debauched, with the Earl of Edgefield coming out of the bathroom holding a cufflink and looking quite pleased with himself and saying he had gotten lucky.
Of course he had been pleased with himself. Who wouldn't be?
It was impossible to sit. He paced up and down in the one of the little lounge areas of the hotel, smelling expensive leather and Cuban cigars. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to maintain any degree of self-control, but he wasn't sure just how much longer he could hold himself together. In the past, with the very few women he had let himself get involved with, when it had been over, it had been over and he had been able to walk away (and so had she), with no hard feelings and no regrets, but when it came to India it was a different matter all together.
The concierge was eyeing him, but so far was keeping his trap shut. Sullivan took his hat off and wished to God he had his sketchpad with him—he could draw a picture of himself stabbing that weedy little ponce to death with a meat fork. The idea of that man in bed with India… it didn't bear thinking about.
God help him, it was all he could think about, and it was driving him mad.
"Inspector Sullivan."
She was standing there, looking lovely, if a little green around the gills, and he exhaled.
"Your Highness."
"I assume we will be traveling by train."
He had to give her marks for standing up straight and looking him right in the eye. She had inherited a great deal of class and hauteur from her blue-blooded ancestors, but he suspected she was calling on her finger-consuming great-grandfather for strength right now.
"Yes. The three-fifteen," he finally said.
"Very well."
She had a small suitcase at her feet, and was carrying two dress bags. Sullivan took the suitcase and bags before she could object and stalked out of the hotel lobby and outside into the bracing cold. She followed, and found him waiting beside a taxi. The driver quickly took the bags and the suitcase and put them in the boot, then held the door for her. Sullivan went around the other side and got in, and sat staring straight ahead, jaw locked.
"And good morning to you, too, Inspector," she said, once she was settled in and the taxi moved into traffic.
"I am not here for pleasantries, ma'am. I only came to take you back to Applecross, then there will be a few questions and you'll need to look through your property to see if anything has been taken. After that, the Kembleford police will conduct a thorough investigation and the men who broke into your home will be captured, tried and convicted."
She said nothing more. He closed his eyes and called himself every name he could think of, then started making up a few new, particularly vile terms.
The train was five minutes late, which irritated Sullivan immensely. India sat on a bench on the platform, subdued and pale, her little suitcase at her side and her dress bags across her lap. She tried to think of anything that could settle her nerves and make her stomach stop doing flips. Finally, she let her mind drift a bit to warm, sunny days along the Llano River, helping her brothers run tro't lines and laughing at them while they tried to 'noodle' catfish. She had cut her proverbial teeth at learning to fish there, and had brought down a 10-point buck one crisp November day near the northwest shore of Lake Buchanan, on her great-grandfather's land. It had been a long time since she had been able to go hunting, though she had been the one to take Maximillian on his first wild hog hunt. Her brothers had been proud of the boy for doing so well (a two-hundred pound boar!), but had been prouder of her for teaching him about safety, accuracy and humane treatment of even a garden-ruining wild pig. The boy's bullet had killed the boar instantly…
The train finally came screaming into the station, and Sullivan grabbed her bags, making her jump.
"It's time to go."
"Yes. Right." She picked up her little saddle bag and watched him climb aboard, setting her bags down and then holding his hand out for her to grab. She grabbed a handrail instead and hauled herself in. He snatched up her bags again and carried them through the narrow passage until he found an empty compartment and shoved the doors open and let her pass. She sat down, looking out the window at the people getting on and off. There were warm embraces and kisses exchanged by people leaving and arriving, and her eyes stung with tears.
Sullivan sat down across from her, and picked up a newspaper someone had left behind. "How are you?" he finally asked her, his icy reserve slipping just a tiny bit, and she saw real concern in his eyes.
She blushed and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together. She pried them apart. "I'm fine. And you?"
"Fine." He shook the paper irritably. "Probably not doing as well as Lord Edgefield, though."
She bristled immediately. "And what is that supposed to mean, Inspector?"
He began reading. India, however, was not so easily put off. She snatched it away from him and threw it down beside her. "What. Do. You. Mean?"
"I mean that he was saying that he had been lucky. And he said that as he was coming out of the bedroom, and you were standing there wearing nothing but a silk wrap," he answered in a low growl.
She pursed her lips together tightly and clenched her fists and called on her great-grandfather's fierce Scots-Irish blood and her mother's elegant, beautifully-bred Hungarian steel to finally give him what-for. "Think whatever you wish, you cold-hearted, unfeeling, sanctimonious prig. But as you do not own me, and in fact intimated to me two nights ago that you have no interest in me whatsoever, your opinion is neither here nor there, and besides which, while I appreciate you coming to collect me, I can only hope that at best you might get a cool place in hell, Alexander James Sullivan!"
He snatched the newspaper away from her, opened it again and began reading. India growing fury wasn't going to cool by his ignoring her, however. She snatched the paper away again, leaving pieces in his hand. He crumbled up the torn pieces and for a moment she thought he might throw them at her, but he was fighting for control, and for a moment, she felt a frisson of sympathy for him. His eyes were blazing, however, and had she been a man she knew she would no longer be conscious. She lifted her chin and got ready for a fight nonetheless.
The door to the compartment opened suddenly and a tiny old man and his even tinier wife came in. Sullivan politely got up and moved over to sit beside India, giving the old woman a polite nod and touching the brim of his hat. India, years of careful training at her mother's knee kicking in, smiled kindly at the couple. Frankly, she was grateful for their presence—it meant she could ignore Sullivan and plot his murder later.
"Good afternoon. Spending Christmas outside the City?"
"Yes. We're going out to Brocklesby to visit our grandchildren for the holidays."
"Oh, that's lovely," India said. "Do you have very many grandchildren?"
"Four in Brocklesby and six more in London," the old woman said, beaming and blinking rather myopically. "The whole family is gathering there, in fact."
"How nice. I was recently in Brockelsby, and though it a very charming little town. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time there, and I hope you can stay warm. It's been such a cold winter, but the snow is quite beautiful, isn't it?"
The old woman looked pleased, and the old man looked back and forth between Sullivan and India. "How long have you two been together?"
Sullivan picked up the torn newspaper and made a derisive snort.
"We are not a couple," India said, looking out the window. The train was moving now, making its way out of the City and meandering northwest toward Gloucestershire, passing snowy fields and idyllic little snow-covered villages.
"Oh. Well, you look like a couple," the old woman said, looking Sullivan over carefully, amused. "A quarreling couple, anyway."
India glanced at Sullivan, who was still reading the newspaper, but she could tell he wasn't really reading at all. His hands had formed into fists as he gripped the paper, and his knee had begun to bounce.
"What are your names?" India asked kindly.
"Harriet and Harvey Fielding. And what is your name, Miss?" Harriet asked.
"India Collins. Now… shall I call the steward and request he get a warm blanket for you, Mrs. Fielding? It's rather chilly in here."
Sullivan turned the pages, and tried to smooth out the crumpled edges that he had been gripping so tightly. The old woman admitted her feet were cold, and India started to get up, but Sullivan folded the paper and opened the door. A steward soon appeared, and Sullivan spoke briefly with him. A few moments later, he returned and gave Mrs. Fielding a thick wool blanket. India helped spread the blanket out and saw to it that it was covering the old woman's legs. "There now. Is that better?"
"Very much, Miss. You're very kind. You're an American?"
"I am. Well… one quarter. One quarter English and half Hungarian, but I was raised in Texas, for the most part."
The old man looked at Sullivan, who was still hidden behind the open newspaper and seemed to realize that conversation with him was out of the question.
"In which part of London do you live?" India asked, needing to discuss anything, as it would soothe her nerves.
They told her they were from Waterloo Quarter, and began asking her questions about her native country, about which they had the usual misconceptions. They showed her pictures of their children and grandchildren, and she told them about the Texas Hill Country and described fried catfish, barbecue and chicken fried steak, which had them both more than a little intrigued. As usual, India's natural charm and friendliness had cast a spell, but when they left, she took her seat across from Sullivan again and neatly folded the blanket, having regained control of her emotions, at least a little.
"And they'd never know they talked for all this time with a princess," Sullivan said from behind the newspaper. "Of course, Lord Edgefield is likely telling everyone he knows that he spent an evening with a princess."
That did it. She got up and snatched the paper out of his hands, leaving larger portions of it in his fists. He shot to his feet, furious. "Stop doing that, India!"
"You are such a jackass!" she snarled at him, squaring off against him like a little bantam hen taking on a full-sized cockerel.
"That's a lot coming from you!" he snapped back. "You hop into bed with the first toffy-nosed ponce who buys you dinner and yet I'm the jackass!"
She slapped him, hard, and he recoiled, a red handprint already forming on his cheek. He stepped forward, growling, and she went to slap him again, he caught her arm, and her gaze dropped to his mouth, her heart racing, and she gasped when he pulled her a little closer. The compartment door opened suddenly and Sullivan released her, stepping back and sitting down again, opening the paper with much more vigor than necessary and resuming the act of pretending to read.
India bit off a scream of rage and frustration and sat down again, crossing her knees and sliding closer to the window. The plump businessman entering the compartment looked back and forth between them and took a step back, alarmed, but India gave him a warm, if somewhat tense, smile.
"Please sir, sit down. Are you on your way to Kembleford too?"
"Um… "
"And we'll be passing the historic and elegant home of the Earl of Edgefield—Boxwood Mansion—soon," Sullivan said coldly. "I'm sure the Princess von Altburg there can tell you all about it." He gave up on the newspaper and put it down. It had been crumpled and torn so badly that it was impossible to read anyway.
India's fists clenched and she was glad she didn't have a stick or a gun.
"Pr—rincess?" the man said, looking at her in utter astonishment. "Oh… I… " He looked at Sullivan, who was still and silent, arms folded and looking at anything he could except her. The train passed Boxwood Mansion, a large, elegant house, its original brick coloring long ago faded to a soft pink-sandstone color, and it reflected perfectly in the icy pond in front, its Palladian windows glinting in the fading afternoon sunshine.
India didn't say another word until they pulled into Kembleford station. When the train stopped, she took her suitcase and bags, forced a polite smile for the businessman and slid the door open, stepping out into the narrow passage. The little man stood, still looking shocked, and Sullivan followed her out, hands in his pockets and struggling to regain his composure. On the platform, India waited for him, her blue eyes violet with anger, and followed him out to the car. She got in on her own, and he climbed in, starting up the engine.
"I'm not sure that you're even human!" she hissed, still refusing to look at him.
He rested his elbow against the door glass, rubbing his temples and drove her home without saying another word.
A policeman answered the door and had no objection to letting him in, and so Father Brown examined the ruined plaster in the library. He noted that the two burglars had apparently not done a lot of pulling on the broken plaster, but had just slammed away at it with the two sledgehammers. Even more, they hadn't exactly attacked just one area of the wall, as though they knew something would be found in one specific place. Instead, they had just gone at the wall willy-nilly, in no pattern whatsoever. Whatever plaster had fallen had done so as the sledgehammers had pulled back for another hit, while the rest was either crushed into the bricks or had crumbled into the space between. Holes of varying sizes had been made in the plaster from beside the fireplace all the way to the curio cabinet built into the corner.
Obviously, the two men had known the Princess was out for the evening and had probably broken into the house shortly after dark. However, they had not taken much effort to conceal their presence in the house, as they had shone flashlights in the room. The noise they had made would have alerted anyone in the house, but as yet the Princess had not hired any servants, so there had been no one inside at all—thank goodness for neighbors, then, to have raised the alarm. Had they not, the burglars might have done even more damage.
But why? Why not go after every room in the house? Why not steal everything not nailed down?
He looked around. There were still boxes left to unpack, stacked in a corner. Only a few books lined the built-in shelves, and they were mainly hardback novels, a dictionary, a very nice and obviously well-read Bible and even some commentaries that Brown found fascinating (particularly a two-volume set of Johnson's Commentary of the Old and New Testaments) but did not touch. There was a silver statuette of a racehorse on a little sideboard, and he peered at it, smiling at the name of the horse: Battleship—America's own tough little Aintree Grand National winner of 1938. No curios were in the cabinets yet, save a small hand-carved plaque showing a coat of arms, black and yellow, in relief, and under it was the name 'Keeler', with the family motto of Vos can non magis quam Dei. Brown pondered a moment, and raised his eyebrows. It translated to 'You cannot outgive God', and there was certainly no truer phrase than that.
A blotter, some postage stamps, a waxing candle and seal (of the von Altburg family coat of arms) were set neatly in the rolltop, along with a few outgoing cheques, written in the Princess's elegant hand. Among the papers were bills, an unfinished letter to a friend in Baltimore, and a copy of… he peered down and grinned, liking the Princess even more: Blood-Horse, America's premier journal of Thoroughbred racing and breeding, and it was open to an article about 1954's Horse of the Year, Native Dancer. He used his pen to move the magazine aside, and he saw ticket stubs and even a few betting slips and programmes from Saratoga, Belmont Park, Churchill Downs and Pimlico, aside from Ascot and Newmarket.
So she was a racing fan, God bless her!
He searched around the room, not touching anything but peering at the handsome secretary next, admiring it a great deal—it was magnificent, with fine detailing and expert carving. No papers on the desktop had been disturbed. A cheque book was sitting on the desktop, with the Princess's account number on display, but it, too, had not been touched. Using his own lock-picking file, he gingerly opened a drawer and saw a stack of American dollars. He closed the drawer and put his kit back into his pocket when he heard the front door opening.
He stepped out into the elegant foyer and stood still. India entered first, looking as lovely as ever but it was obvious she had a terrible headache and was quite upset by something besides just the break-in. Inspector Sullivan followed, his expression guarded at first, then annoyed when he saw the priest.
"Let me guess, Father. You've sussed out who did this."
"Actually, no. It's quite bewildering."
India managed a polite greeting for Father Brown and went into the library. Sullivan followed her, and Father Brown stood in the doorway, watching them both carefully, becoming increasingly concerned. She looked terribly strained, and her eyes were violet, instead of their usual sweet blue, and Sullivan looked shell-shocked, and there was hand-print shaped red mark on his cheek.
The detective took out his notepad and cleared his throat. "Is anything missing?" he asked India.
She was looking around the room, clearly distressed. "I… no. No, there's nothing in here to steal." She spotted her chequebook and looked through it, then opened the drawer and checked the stack of bills. "The only valuable thing in here is this old secretary—it's almost priceless. Oh, and those chairs… they're from the plantation my great-grandmother's family owned in Georgia. All ten of them are still here, and I should have put them in the dining room." She looked at Sullivan, then at Father Brown. "I would find it hard to believe that any common burglar would be up on antique American plantation chairs, and it would be hard to get a New England-made Chippendale secretary out of any house, during the night, without the neighbors noticing. It took six big men to get it in here to begin with, and they entertained everyone just by trying to park the delivery truck… er… lorry."
"And the neighbors did notice. They called about seeing flashlights," Sullivan said, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "And God knows they still had plenty of time to go through the whole house and snatch up anything they wanted. But instead, they broke down the plaster in this wall, which would still only have opened out into the loggia on the other side."
"Quite puzzling," Father Brown said, earning a sharp look from Sullivan. The man was clearly in a bad temper, and Brown suspected asking him about it might result in a good bit of mayhem. He looked at India again, noting that her eyes were red-rimmed and she seemed vaguely… ill. He ducked out of the room and gestured to Sullivan. The detective, studying the ruined plaster wall, put his notepad away and went out into the foyer again, suddenly pulling his hat off and setting it on the exquisite mahogany carving of Cupid and Psyche that topped the handrail fitting at the foot of the stairs
"Yes?"
"Is the Princess all right? She looks a little… erm …under the weather."
"She has a hangover."
"Oh. Dear."
"That would sum it up."
"She was… in London last night?"
"Yes. She was with the Earl of Edgefield at the Savoy. Any more questions, Father?"
"Oh, I see, I'm… wait, she was with the Earl of Edgefield?"
"Yes."
"That is… "
"Father Brown, am I to assume Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy are on their way?" India asked from the library door. Sullivan turned, grabbed his hat and went back outside, and the young woman clasped her hands neatly at her waist, the picture of calm, but Brown could tell she was extremely upset.
"Yes. They are. Are you all right, ma'am? You seem very… "
"Upset. Yes. Well, someone broke into my home. I've only been in it… what, three days? Must be a new record. I'm just glad my babies are at their uncle's—this would upset them so much." She seemed to be having trouble stringing her words together.
"I suppose so. But… um… are you feeling well?"
"Oh, I'm just peachy, sir. Excuse me, but I think I need to lie down… I have a terrible headache."
"Of course. Yes, that's a good idea. You look like you need some rest, ma'am. Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy are on their way over, and I will have Mrs. McCarthy bring up some tea, if you'd like."
She looked over Father Brown's shoulder at Inspector Sullivan, who had come back inside, and for a moment their gazes locked. Finally, she lifted her chin and nodded politely to the priest. "Yes, thank, sir. I appreciate your kindness and courtesy." She looked at Sullivan again, who turned away to look out the front door. She managed to smile at Brown, but it did not touch her eyes. She went upstairs and quietly closed her bedroom door.
"I understand her children are staying with her brother at Errington Castle." Father Brown said, studying Sullivan carefully and seeing widening cracks in the man's ice when he turned around again. At Sullivan's curt nod, Brown stepped a little closer. "Are you all right?"
"Why are you asking me that?" Sullivan snapped.
"Because you look rather… shaken."
"Neither shaken nor stirred, thank you." Sullivan put his hat back on and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He almost collided with Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy. "Oh, good, the hens are here. She's upstairs, nursing a hangover. Good day to you both." He climbed into his car and started the engine. "When she is ready, she can come to the station to give a statement to Sergeant Goodfellow after she assesses the house for any further damage or missing items. I'm going home." He slammed the door shut, and Father Brown heard him say "To dive into a bottle of whisky" and drove away.
Mrs. McCarthy knocked on the door, and India called for her to come in. The Irishwoman stepped carefully into the room, which was as yet undecorated save the bed, a chest of drawers, a vanity and an armoire. Mrs. McCarthy was carrying a tray containing a teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer, and she set it on the vanity.
India was lying on the bed, curled up in a ball and hugging a pillow. She was staring out the window, and Mrs. McCarthy had not seen a sadder sight in her life.
"Poor little thing. Have a touch of tea, sweetheart, and you'll feel a bit better."
"Yes. Tea. Cures all, doesn't it, from sniffles to severed limb. I'm hungover," India said, sounding disconsolate. "My head is killing me."
"Oh. Well." Mrs. McCarthy sighed and sat down on the bed, knowing the poor creature was as miserable as a body could be.
"What's wrong with me?" India asked, her voice trembling. "There has to be something wrong with me. Something… repulsive, right? Is it my accent, or the fact that I married a German, or… there has to be some reason… " She wiped tears from her eyes. "He treats me like Typhoid Mary and I just… and now he thinks I... but I didn't! I know I didn't! I was as pissed as a newt, yes, but I didn't!"
"Now you listen here," Mrs. McCarthy said. "There's nothin' wrong you at all. It's that Inspector Sullivan who has all the problems, and there's the truth. He's hardly well known for being warm and friendly, for all his dashing good looks, and if he's rejected you, well then he can wallow in his own misery and deserve it, too, and will regret it in the end. You're young and as pretty as a rose—soon you'll be squired around by the handsomest young men in Gloucestershire and moving on with your life. Mark my words—you'll be over him before the New Year."
India sniffled, shook her head, and let Mrs. McCarthy pour her a cup of tea. She drank gratefully, holding the cup with both hands, like a child, and took the ribbon out of her hair.
"Oh, God, I didn't even brush my hair," she said, noting it was tangled and a mess of unruly curls.
The older woman fluffed her pillows and took the empty cup away. "Never mind about that. Now, you lie down here and get a bit of sleep. I'll prepare some dinner for you and will bring it up to you later."
Oh, dear God, India thought as she lay down again, clutching the pillow. Don't let it be Yorkshire Pudding. That will kill me long before a broken heart will.
"Fingerprints didn't bring up anything, sir," Goodfellow said, handing the file to Sullivan, who had arrived at the station Tuesday morning looking rather grey and very, very tired, and he had a very interesting handprint on his cheek that no one dared mention. "We're sending them on to London. We're sure that'll bring up a match."
Sullivan nodded, refusing to show that every sound in the room was amplified to immense, agonizing levels. He had consumed half a bottle of whisky last night, ate a box of chocolate biscuits and fell asleep in his chair again. He was stiff, sore and his temper was fraying at both ends, but his head hurt too much to start yelling at anyone, as that would have put him in hospital for sure.
He rubbed his face. "Has the princess come by yet with any information on stolen items?"
"Not yet, sir, but it's early."
Sullivan nodded vaguely and exhaled, rubbing his stinging eyes. "I'm going out for… er… some breakfast," he finally said, standing up and watching the world spin for a moment before regaining his wits.
"Yes, sir." Goodfellow watched his boss leave, noting that he wasn't exactly steady on his feet. He shook his head and went to consult with Wells about the Ridgley dognapping.
Mrs. McCarthy was searching through India's cabinets and the iceboxes, amazed at the variety of American items present and the lack of British-made things. "Where is the Bovril?" she asked Father Brown, who only shrugged. "Oh well. I'm sure I can do something with this roast… I'll put some water on to boil."
They had all come back to Applecross before lunchtime, to check on the princess and do a bit more on-site pondering. Plus, both women were determined to help India do a bit of unpacking, and Lady Felicia was very keen to see what sort of taste India had. Father Brown paced through the first floor of the house again, and went out into the loggia, peering around and noting that someone had stuffed some cloth into the tiny hole the burglar/vandals had made in the bricks, to seal it from cold air. He went out on to the terrace from the dining room and looked around the fields, noting the lines of trees forming the property boundaries, and came back into the house as puzzled as before. It would take a long time to search through the entire property, and it was so bitterly cold. Someone young, with a strong constitution, would be needed for that job. The police could only do so much, and they had plenty of other work to do, bless them...
India appeared in the doorway just as Brown came back in. "I need to cook." She looked fairly well refreshed, and her cheeks were rosy. She had her hair back in a simple ponytail, and she was wearing a simple white blouse and smashing hot pink trousers.
"Now, ma'am, you hardly look to be in any condition… " Mrs. McCarthy said.
"Cooking will make me feel better. Please, sit down, Mrs. McCarthy. You're in my home, anyway. I can't let you work for me."
Father Brown and Lady Felicia both looked very eager as India examined the roast. "Hm. This would be better for Sunday dinner. I think I'll fry up some catfish. Have y'all ever had that?"
"Catfish? What on earth… " Mrs. McCarthy said, looking bewildered.
"Mrs. McCarthy, catfish is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." She got packages of corn flour and cornmeal out of the pantry, along with a tiny jar of something called 'McIlhenny Tabasco Sauce', flour, salt, black and red pepper and garlic powder, and a bottle of peanut oil. She went to the rack over the center island and selected a large frying skillet, turned on the burner, and got a bottle of buttermilk out of the refrigerator. A bit of rattling about in the lower cabinets yielded two medium-sized mixing bowls, and India arranged everything neatly on the countertop by the burners. By that time, everyone had sat down to watch a true artist at work.
"Oh dear God… "
Father Brown made the Sign of the Cross and closed his eyes, having never eaten fish like this before. It was beyond delicious plain, but when India produced little bottles of lemon juice and squirted some on his fillets, he tasted the fish and sighed happily—the fish had a wonderfully mild flavor, unlike the usual haddock of any fish'n'chips shop, and had been fried in a glorious cornmeal and buttermilk batter. No vinegar was added, and she included no chips (or French fries, as she called them) but instead made hushpuppies and cole slaw.
He dipped a golden, slightly crusty hushpuppy into his puddle of ketchup and popped the little ball of fried cornbread into his mouth, lost in the utter wonder of it. He was going to have to go to America one day, to try all the regional cuisines, though he knew he would spend most of his time eating his way across the South.
Warm pinto beans completed the meal, and they were utterly magnificent—they were just slightly spicy, but India claimed they weren't quite right and had actually apologized for them as they all gaped at her in stupefied wonder.
By that time, India had pulled a lemon meringue pie out of the oven and put it on the table. Lady Felicia eagerly cut into it and divided out slices for everyone. Mrs. McCarthy, in a dreamlike state, took a bite, sighed, and put her fork down. The phone rang, and India went into the lounge to answer.
Mrs. McCarthy shook herself out of her trance and leaned forward. "She's a witch, I tell you! A… a food witch!"
"I don't care," Father Brown said, eating another hushpuppy before taking another bite of delicious, slightly sweet cole slaw.
He took a piece of pie, ate a bite, and looked like he might begin to weep. "And I daresay she's not a witch. More like the angel of cooking. An artist. A… a Titian of cuisine. A Da Vinci of catfish. A Rembrandt of roasted beef and potatoes. A… a Michaelangelo of meringue... this lemon pie is beyond description! It's sweet and tastes like lemons, but it's not bitter! How does she do that?!"
Lady Felicia, standing at the kitchen aisle, chewing on pie with her eyes closed, sighed happily and her expression rapturous.
"Oh, God… if this pie was a man, I'd get naked and make love to him."
"Lady Felicia!" Mrs. McCarthy said, but she couldn't keep from eating her pie too and moaned as though she were experiencing religious ecstasy. "Oh, dear God… she is a witch, I say! A witch! Give me another piece! She must put a magic potion in her food... we'll all be like the Lotus Eaters!"
"No! It's mine!" Felicia said, and Father Brown wondered if he might have to break up a fight.
India came back in. "My brothers are on their way out from London. I had totally forgotten they were coming… I'm sure they'll have plenty to say about the mess in the library."
Her three dazed guests stared at her, unable to speak through their collective haze of catfish and lemon pie.
"I suppose it's good they'll be here. I'll have protection, in case the burglars come back and… are y'all okay?" she asked, brow furrowing. "You all look… good heavens, you're not getting sick are you? I know this isn't something you're used to… those pinto beans just wouldn't come out right."
"Sick? Good Lord, no." Mrs. McCarthy managed, swallowing. "Your Highness, I wonder if you would be interested in joining the Women's Institute in Kembleford. I would be… be very happy to sponsor your membership."
"Is that like the Junior League?" India asked, looking a little puzzled.
"Um… I'm not sure, but you'd have no trouble getting in. We have a fair every year, and… we have competitions at… at baking."
"Oh. Well, that would be very nice, Mrs. McCarthy, though I can't see myself winning anything. Particularly if my baking goes up against your strawberry scones."
Lady Felicia dug back into the pie, and growled at Mrs. McCarthy when she moved closer.
"When will your brothers be here?" Father Brown asked, reluctantly pushing his plate away. If he ate any more, he would explode. It would be a happy explosion, but he had to be reasonable.
"Um… in an hour or so. Their names are Duncan and Lachlan. They're both nice young men, though they can be a bit rowdy. I'll need to fry up some more catfish, because if they smell it and see I didn't make them any, I'll have an insurrection on my hands." She went to the refrigerator and got more fillets out. "Mrs. McCarthy, I'll be happy to show you how to make lemon meringue pie, if you like. It's so easy, even I was able to get it right after a few tries." She smiled, looking much less stressed, about which Father Brown was very relieved, amused at how artfully she could make Mrs. McCarthy maintain her sense of culinary superiority, but he was still concerned about her situation. Not only had her home been invaded and damaged, but the matter of Inspector Sullivan still had yet to be resolved.
"Oh… thank you, ma'am. I'm always happy to learn new things." She glared at Lady Felicia, who was tucking into another piece of lemon meringue pie.
September 1945
The flat was so small that it was almost impossible for it to become untidy, but Sullivan still went through it carefully, making sure all was squared away. The dishes (one coffee cup, one teacup and saucer, two plates, two glasses, two bowls and a set of cutlery) were cleaned and put away. He saw to it that his hair was neat and he shaved carefully, knowing India wasn't fond of stubble, much less beards.
He opened the little box and studied the tiny ring, with its even tinier diamond setting, and snapped it shut again. He suspected that a duke's daughter would expect a larger stone, but then again India cared little for such things, preferring to wear that black and silver enameled dragon necklace and that old silver bracelet. She had told him that the bracelet was made from the bullets her great-great-grandmother had used to kill a Yankee soldier who had broken into her home in Georgia and attempted to rape her.
All he could do now was wait. He had taken the day off, to give himself time to figure out what exactly he should say and how to say it. God knew he was not good at expressing his emotions very well, but he knew how he felt about her. Enough, even, to be tempted to contact his father and tell him of his plans, but his anger towards the man still kept him from picking up the telephone and calling. So far, he had told no one. If she accepted, he would have to tell his superiors and finally insist that he meet her parents. So far, she had put him off on that issue, and he understood why, but it was making him uneasy now.
He settled in his chair, stretching his legs out and trying to tamp down his nervousness. She had never been to his flat before, but he had been in her kitchen in Pimlico, while her parents were out, and had sampled some of her astounding cooking—one day, she had made him something called 'meat loaf' that had been the clincher on whether or not he wanted to marry this woman. She had all the right qualities, for sure, but to come home to not only her bright, sunny smile but also to sit down to eat such food would never be anything to think about. He would never head out to a pub after work again, either.
There was a knock at his door, and he stuffed the box in his pocket and opened the door, expecting India, though she was a bit early, and he froze.
An elegant woman in a light mauve dress, silver fox collar, pillbox hat and veil was standing there. He paused, uncertain, and wondered if she had come to the wrong place. Of course, considering how well-dressed she was, he couldn't imagine what business she would have with anyone in this part of town. "Can I help you?" he finally asked.
"Are you Constable Alexander Sullivan?"
"Er… yes."
"Might I come in? I need to discuss a matter of some import with you."
"If you need to contact the police, I'm sure you… "
"I'm not contacting the police. I'm contacting you."
She had a slight Eastern European accent, but he couldn't quite place it. He stepped aside and she walked in, looking around the small flat, but what surprised him was that she didn't look down her nose at him or the flat. When he closed the door, she turned back and faced him. He swallowed and raised his eyebrows, totally at a loss.
"I understand you have been seeing my daughter. Lady India Collins."
He drew in his breath, half expecting her to begin to belabor him with her purse. But instead, she only waited.
"Um… yes. I… "
"I have made inquiries about your character, and thus far no one has ever said that you were anything but completely honourable in all your dealings, and that you are an exemplary police officer with a bright future ahead."
"Oh. Well… thank you."
"You are quite welcome. But as for my daughter… " She paused, looking around the room. "I'm sure you are aware that she is the daughter of the Duke of Errington, and is the scion of not only some of the finest families in Britain, but also of Hungary and the United States. My mother was related to Her Majesty Queen Mary, and she is descended from no less than four signers of the Declaration of Independence, four Governors of Virginia, and of George Washington's own aunt and of the Lee family."
"Yes, she… "
"She is accustomed to a certain way of life. By no means do I mean to imply that you would not do your utmost to provide a safe, comfortable life for her, but I believe we both are aware of the class distinctions that are still the rule in this country, however unfair they might often seem."
Sullivan bristled slightly, but she raised her hand.
"I am not saying you are of unfit character, Mr. Sullivan."
"Then what are you saying?" he finally asked tightly.
"My daughter is sixteen years old and far too young for… this… "she said, looking him up down. "Not that I can truly blame her for being attracted to you."
He felt his heart drop from his chest and down to his feet. "Si—sixteen?" he asked, hoping he had misheard.
"Sixteen." The Duchess sighed and looked around. "May I sit?"
He was too dumbfounded to answer, and she took a chair at the kitchen table. Despite being barely able to breathe, he managed to get to a chair and sat down opposite her.
"You can be very sure, Constable, that I took no pleasure whatsoever in having my daughter followed, nor do I relish the thought of separating two young people who are clearly very devoted to one another. The detective who followed you on your… outings with India reported that your behavior was utterly respectful… " She paused. "Well, as respectful as one could expect of a healthy young man and a pretty young… woman. Even then, I can do nothing but commend you for treating her properly."
"Separating… " he said, barely able to regain control of his scattered emotions. All he could hear, in his head, was someone screaming "Sixteen years old!" over and over again, and when he closed his eyes he saw his father's cold, hard glare of disapproval.
The Duchess put her hands on the table. "If you feel for my daughter as I believe you do, then I think you would agree that she deserves only the very best possible degree of comfort. By that I mean a lifestyle and accommodations to which she is already accustomed, and an income that would provide her with the freedom she requires." She leveled her calm blue gaze at him, and his hands clenched into fists, his head still ringing and his heart breaking into a thousand pieces. The Duchess reached out and covered his hands with hers, expression kind rather than angry or condescending.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sullivan. But a mother must do what is best for her children, and regardless of the regard I do have for you, I cannot allow this… mésalliance to continue. She would take it far better from you, however, and it would be less damaging to her heart if she did not know I visited you. I suspect she is on her way here tonight?"
He jerked his hands away from her and stood, his knees wobbly, and went to the sink. He splashed water on his face and stood, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles were white. The Duchess slowly stood up.
"I cannot tell you how sorry I am. Were this a different world, I would have no objections, save that I would insist on a chaperone to attend you until she turned eighteen, and then I would inform her father and he would, I'm certain, approve. He is, after all, an American by birth and outlook and would have no qualms whatsoever about… you."
It took a long time, before he finally turned and faced her. "So I'm that bad for her, am I? Poor Irish East Ender without a pedigree… "
"I never said that. Besides, the Sullivans were kings in Ireland, and you have the bearing of someone with a good dash of noble blood, though frankly I suspect it's more your... virile good looks that my daughter likes, over your venerable ancestors, and your good character to boot. But it isn't your pedigree that concerns me. You know in your heart of hearts that you could never enter her world, and she could never live comfortably in yours, and eventually you would begin to resent each other. You would end up in constant battle, and whatever children you might have would be scarred by those battles even more than yourselves. Would you want to bring up your babies in a house of strife?"
He rubbed his face, the rightness of her statement making his chest hurt.
"But… I… I do… love her," he finally said.
"I know you do. That's very obvious, and that indicates you have excellent taste. But in the past few years, we have learned that sometimes, love just isn't enough. Love did not prevent the war, it did not prevent millions from dying on the Continent and in Asia, and it did not heal the wounds of the Great War, either. In fact, the world has years to go before it can heal, and love likely won't be what is needed to bring that about, what with Stalin still breathing—his kind of poison will spread 'round the globe, and kill millions more."
He collapsed back into the chair, and she studied him for several moments, expression sad and surprisingly compassionate.
"I'll go now. Please be aware that I am not unsympathetic, and I do not relish causing you pain. When I was a young girl, I fell in love with a… " She paused. "It is no matter now. He died in the Great War. But I know, to some degree, what you are feeling, and what India will feel. Be absolutely certain that I will see that whoever she marries will be of the very best type of character and she will never know a moment of unkindness from him or he'll have her father and brothers to answer to, as well as myself. In all other respects, I wish you all imaginable success and happiness."
She exhaled, bowed her head ever so slightly, and left as Sullivan's world came crashing down around him.
Sullivan woke with a gasp of pain, and struggled to his feet. He had gone home for breakfast, eaten a fried egg and some toast and fell asleep, too exhausted and hung over to care. It was three in the afternoon now, and he didn't feel like eating. He didn't feel like doing anything. Instead, he staggered into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, seeing a haggard thirty-five-year old man with no prospects of any kind of life. He had a career, and was considered a rising star in the field of criminal investigation, but that was nothing. He had no one to talk to, no one to sleep next to, and no one he could truly trust with his troubles.
Father Brown would say that he might consider turning to God, but Sullivan had been angry at God since childhood. His father had played at piety in church, but at home he had been a cruel, unfeeling martinet. His mother had died of what they called 'childbed fever' just days after giving birth to him, and by all accounts she had been a loving, devout woman. Sullivan knew enough about psychology to know that one's first notion of God, for better or worse, came from their relationship with their father—it was no wonder, then, that he balked at talking to his Creator, when his earthly creator had been less than loving. Of course, what was odd that in the past few years, his anger at God had faded a good bit, and though he didn't like admitting it, that had to do with Father Brown's patient, non-judgemental behavior towards him. Sullivan often regretted some of the things he said to the priest, but his own arrogance tripped him up. He just wasn't sure how to go about apologizing.
His father had 'toughened' his only son, berating him for any deviation from perfection, and while he was never physically abusive, the damage had been done just the same. He had derided his son's talent for drawing and other artistic skills, and pushed him into playing rugby and cricket. Sullivan hated rugby, but did well at it, as it was a good means of working out his anger, and he excelled at cricket but was damned if he could explain the blasted game to anyone sober or sane.
"Run-away at fifteen," he told his empty whisky bottle. "Army at seventeen. Shot in the knee at nineteen. A year learning to walk again. Metropolitan Police at twenty-one. Commendations galore by twenty-three. A wreck at twenty-four, and constantly angry through it all." He opened his tiny refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of beer. He sat down in his chair again, turned on the wireless to Beethoven's Ode to Joy and made a mock toast to himself. "Yes, you've really made it, Sullivan, my boy."
India's brothers arrived after lunch, and Father Brown was impressed with them both. They were charming, easy-going, and friendly, and soon had everyone at the table laughing with their stories. India served them catfish, which they praised to the skies, and after eating they studied the ruined wall in the library, and they were both baffled.
"Some couple of thieves," Duncan said. "What could have been hidden in this wall? All I see is old newspapers they used as insultation." He picked one up. "Huh. That poor Chamberlain chap sure got duped, didn't he?"
"Exactly," Father Brown said, nodding. Lord Duncan and Lord Lachlan Collins were both tall, well-muscled and had the same arresting blue eyes as India, and they were both concerned for their sister's safety. "That is, they didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. The damage seems to have been… deliberately random."
"Well, I think a proper tour of this property is in order, Dunk," Lachlan said. "And we should call in the head of the local constabulary, too, to make sure we don't step on any toes. I'd hate to get thrown into a local gaol for butting into their business."
Father Brown's mouth quirked. "Yes. Well, I admit he does get somewhat… testy about that."
When Inspector Sullivan arrived back at Applecross, he didn't look quite right to Father Brown, but he held his tongue. The man had clearly had to drag himself out of bed, and he looked a little bleary-eyed and exhausted, and to Brown's thinking, that was a perfect time to attack—when his defenses were low.
India barely said a word to him and went right into the kitchen as soon as she made introductions. Lady Felicia, in a catfish and lemon pie haze, managed to stagger out as India went in. "Oh, Inspector Sullivan. So nice to see you again. Bitten any heads off today?"
"Day's still young," he answered shortly. He sniffed the air and looked around. "Catfish?" Everyone stared at him, and he looked a little embarrassed. "Erm… anyway, I take it you two are here to see that the Princess remains safe, and to add your two cents to the investigation?"
The Collins brothers looked Sullivan up and down, considering him carefully. Finally, Lord Duncan spoke up. "We're going to take a tour around the estate, on horseback. Just to check things out, if you don't mind. A pair of fresh eyes can sometimes pick up on something, and that's no knock against you or your men, Inspector. Care to join us?"
Sullivan shook his head.
"We promise to report anything we see that looks out of place." Duncan said, and turned as India came into the room, looking subdued and not looking at Sullivan at all. "Indigo, you've brought old Flash in the Pan and Doc Bumper out here, right?"
"Yes. All the way from Texas. They still don't know what to make of all that white stuff on the ground, but they do need some exercise. Be careful with Flash, though-he's not a colt any more, even if he still thinks he can outrun Doc Bumper."
"Very good." Duncan looked between his sister and Sullivan, brow furrowing. "You two know each other?"
"Doc Bumper?" Sullivan asked.
"Er… yeah. Probably the first Quarter Horse anybody's seen in these parts. Damned good cow horse—the best in all of central Texas. His sire was named Doc, and his dam was named Bumpy, so… Doc Bumper. We always go for logic, don't we Indigo," Lachlan said, winking at his sister, who only managed a tight little smile in reply.
"I see." Sullivan took his hat off and settled it on the carving of Cupid and Psyche.
"So you two are… acquainted?" Lachlan asked. He was the younger of the two brothers, and built like a bull, though without an ounce of extra fat on him. Duncan was leaner and looked deceptively lazy, but there was a cool, almost calculating look in his eye that indicated he was as canny and quick on his feet as any cow pony.
"Somewhat," Sullivan answered shortly. India wouldn't look at him. The brothers studied them both, expressions quizzical, but they didn't press the issue. They put on warm wool-lined leather coats, searched through the luggage for their leather boots, and went out into the cold afternoon, heading for the stables.
"Well, ma'am, I think we should all be going," Father Brown said suddenly. Lady Felicia raised her eyebrows but immediately went in search of her coat and purse. Mrs. McCarthy looked a little concerned, but she did not argue and gathered up her belongings (including a hand-written recipe for lemon meringue pie) and scuttled out onto the front portico.
"Inspector Sullivan," Father Brown said, glancing at the kitchen door. "You need to cast aside your pride and talk to her. Now."
The younger man flinched slightly. "We have nothing to talk about."
"Good Lord, sometimes I just want to beat you about the head with my brolly!" Brown said, getting irritated. "Stop being an arrogant prat and go talk to her! A woman like that comes along only once in a hundred years and you're just going to throw it all away because of your pride? Remember that pride goeth before a fall, Inspector, and you have already fallen!" The priest put on his hat, straightened the chain hanging from his neck and stalked out the front door. Lady Felicia was already in the Rolls, having to do the driving as Sid was at home nursing a broken nose. He looked up at Sullivan, who was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, and gave him a stern look and a smile before getting in the car and riding away.
