Kembleford was a small place, and nearly every residents' favourite pastime was gossip; or to put it more kindly, community wisdom.

Mrs McCarthy brought it into the presbytery at quarter to nine in the morning while the Father hummed along to the tune of the porridge brewing on the hob. Sid bore witness, distractedly, propped up on the corner chair deciding which horse would make him his first million.

"Well you'll never belive what I'm after hearing." She bustled into the kitchen breathlessly, heavily burdened with the bubbling gossip.

"Good morning Mrs McCarthy." Father Brown boomed cheerily. "I hope its good news." He added, stirring the porridge enthusiasticly.

"Well, I don't know what you'd call it." The Irish woman began, hands already gesturing as she began bustling around the kitchen. "I was walking up Preston Lane when I met Gemma Paverston coming running up from Haydon Street-"

"Sorry, who?" Father Brown asked, still focused on the pot.

"Gemma Paverston! Oh, you know, the one who wears that outrageous yellow jacket to mass-"

"Oh yes!" Father Brown realised excitedly, "I've often complimented her on that coat, it's a wonderful way of brightening up St Mary's. I told her last week that it's like having a beacon of sunlight among the pews."

Mrs McCarthy rolled her eyes in desperation, but regained the story.

"Well, she was coming running up Haydon Street swinging a basket, looking like something you'd see in a circus-"

Sid was about to ask how many circuses had basket-swingers at the top of the bill, but after a warning look, decided against it.

"So naturally I asked her where she was going in such a hurry-"

Sid snorted and stifled his laughter after a quenching look from the parish secretary.

"And it turns out her Duncan-"

"Who?"

"Oh for heavens sake! Constable Duncan Paverston!"

"Oh! Do carry on!"

"And she was having to bring him breakfast as he's working an extra shift at the station. Apparently, the place is all in sixes and sevens."

Father Brown frowned into his oatmeal.

"Yes, I'm sure the Amenhotep case is causing quite a stir."

"That's not the half of it!" Mrs McCarthy exclaimed. "The main reason for all the chaos is that Inspector Sullivan, is off sick!"

Sid flung down the newspaper and sat up, surveying Mrs McCarthy worriedly.

"Sullivan's off sick?" He repeated grimly.

"That's very unlike him," Father Brown agreed, "I don't belive he's ever missed a day's work before."

"What's wrong with him?" Sid asked, trying to mask his concern. Sullivan's work was his life- there must be something seriously wrong.

"Gemma didn't know," Mrs McCarthy concluded, "But I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it wasn't his antics yesterday that caused it. He must have been splashing about that lake for nearly twenty minutes, and only in his vest and trousers. He was chilled to the bone by the time they'd got him out off there, shakimg like a leaf."

"A brave man." Father Brown muttered gravely. "It must have been horrific." He blessed himself quietly, remembering Hubble's grim demise.

Sid stayed silent. Father Brown had been casting glances over his shoulder and he worried he'd said too much.

"Well I must say I've never been very fond of the man," Mrs McCarthy announced, arranging a pile of plates on the sideboard, "He's always struck me as very rude and uncourteous."

"Inspector Sullivan does not have an easy job to do," Father Brown reasoned quietly, "And there is a good man underneath all that fear and uncertainty-- a lonely, scared one."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Mrs McCarthy asked sarcastically, "I mistook it for arrogance."

"Heavy lies the burden of responsability," Father Brown told his porridge in a low voice, "He knows the damage one little mistake can cause. And let's not forget, Kembleford is not where he grew up, nor where his family is." He prodded worryingly at the mixture with his wooden spoon.

The sympathy of Mrs M had been won over. "I suppose it must have been hard," She agreed, "leaving a family to come down here, especially when he fell ill." She paused for a moment amongst her rearranging. "Though I'm not overly surprised that he has got sick."

Father Brown looked very confused.

"He seemed to be fighting fit to me."

Sid shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Yes he would seem to be, but I saw him properly yesterday after he got out off that lake, nothing on but his vest and trousers, and the man is nothing but skin and bone! I don't think he takes very good care of himself, and we all know he's no one else to look after him." Mrs McCarthy speculated as she clattered the crockery on the dresser.

Sid thought back to the last night at the cottage, weighing up Mrs McCarthy's observation.

He guiltily realised how the sharp corners he'd complained about showed how thin the man was; fragile and delicate in Sid's strong arms.

Sullivan was all alone. There was no one to make him dinner in the evenings, and no one to take care of him when he fell ill. He, Sid, was the only person who even knew his first name.

He was snapped out of his trance by Mrs McCarthy's shocked tones.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph- what have you done with that?"

Father Brown guiltily held up the spoon of the porridge pot, stained with some unusual substance. He looked like little boy about to get a grand telling off.

"I was walking home yesterday when I noticed the last of the blackberries on that bush outside the gate, so I thought they might make a welcome addition to my breakfast. Then I started to get a little more experimental, but as you can see-"

Mrs M peeked into the pot again and shuddered in revulsion.

"It hasn't quite gone to plan, I'm afraid."

She gasped in horror at the contents.

"It looks like a witch's cauldron!"


Sid was in a quandary. He was pretty sure that Sullivan didn't want to see him if he was ill, but at the same time he was very worried about him. The other problem was that Father Brown seemed to possess some quiet knowledge about the connection between him and Sullivan.

Whatever that was.

He knew that going to visit a man he supposedly hated would raise questions, but he really wanted to see him. Last night, he'd just seemed so distant (though that wasn't unusual, he often seemed to disappear into his own head) but when he'd gave him that quick peck in passing his skin seemed unusually warm.

What if he had a temperature?

What if he had a fever?

Where those things serious?

However, a very strange solution soon presented itself to him.

"Right Sidney, hold this- we're heading to the station." He was broke out of his brooding by Mrs McCarthy shoving a huge bundle wrapped in greaseproof into his arms.

"What's this?"

"A pot of my dumplings, clinically proven to cure most illnesses."

Sid looked at her blankly.

"I'm not ill Mrs M."

She made her signature exasperated noise.

"But Inspector Sullivan is." She told him calmly.

She began pulling on her coat, while Sid stood there dumbfounded.

"You're bringing dumplings to Inspector Sullivan? Who you dislike?"

She shook her head in a lofty manner.

"It is my Christian duty to look after the vulnerable of the parish."

Sid burst out laughing.

"He's not been to mass once! How is he a member of the parish?"

"Well he is an integral part of the safety of the residents of the parish. Now, we may go to the station to find out where he lives."

"He lives in that cottage around the corner of Donaldson Road."

Sid blurted out without thinking.

Mrs McCarthy paused on her righteous crusade and fixed Sid with an interrogating look.

"And how do you know that?"

Sid felt his face burn under Mrs McCarthy's glare.

"Err... Overheard it at the station." He stammered.

Mrs McCarthy was not convinced, but continued on, beckoning Sid to follow.


When Sullivan was woken by a pounding coming from somewhere downstairs, he initially assumed it was burglars.

Eyes blurred by his shocking headache, he crawled out of bed and began feeling his way cautiously downstairs.

The racket transpired to be a hammering on the front door. He felt a slight wave of panic but opened it nonetheless.

He immediately assumed he was hallucinating.

"Sustinence." Announced Mrs McCarthy, gesturing to a large package wrapped in greaseproof paper and his stomach flipped at the thought of what gigantic meal was concealed within. Or perhaps at the sight of the blushing Sid holding said package.

He was deathly pale, and shivering in tatty pyjamas and bare feet. Mrs McCarthy was talking again.

"Sorry to wake you, but I'm sure you'll feel much better after this. Now get yourself back to bed and only eat this when you feel up to it."

The package was in his arms.

"Thank you," He croaked.

She waved off his thanks. "None of that, it's the least I could do. We can't have the head of Kembleford's constabulary lying ailing, now can we? Not after his bravery yesterday."

Sid had by now retreated up the garden path. Mrs McCarthy, however remained. She gave him a look that cut through him.

"A fit young man like yourself should be fighting fit again in no time, but you're not invincible, and don't go doing anything stupid. Look after yourself now, and drink plenty of water."

Sullivan gulped at the last statement. That was a knowing look, and he feared she may have caught a whiff of the stale drink from last night.

He nodded bashfully, feeling like a young boy being warned off by a kindly yet formidable matron.

After a slightly kinder smile, Mrs McCarthy turned on her heel and marched off, swinging her handbag determinedly.