It was a wonder that the very walls of Kembleford Station did not shiver as the determined Mrs McCarthy marched through, her handbag held as a weapon that would make even the fiercest soldier quake in their boots.
Goodfellow saw her coming, and the moment he saw her face, he felt a paralysing shiver run down his spine. She slammed the handbag down on the desk, and he was suddenly developed a strong inclination to hide under the table.
He gulped, and attempted a smile. "Mrs McCarthy, what can I do for you?"
"I am here to speak to Inspector Sullivan," She announced, in a voice that made his blood run cold.
It made Sullivan's blood run baltic as he overheard it. He grabbed his jacket and attempted to bolt for the door, but his way was barred.
Barred by the most formidable parish secretary he had ever laid eyes on.
"Sit down."
He stumbled back behind the desk and fell back into his seat, heart racing.
Mrs McCarthy threw down her handbag, and surveyed Sullivan with a face that would make a giant tremble.
"Right," she began, "I think I've held my tongue long enough. Its about time someone held you to account for your actions- you selfish, arrogant, fool."
Sullivan was shaking, and put his hand over his mouth.
"Oh, not so brave now, are you? Not when you're faced with somebody who isn't afraid to tell you what they really think of you. Father Brown seems to respect you, and at any other time in history they way you behave towards him would have got you shot."
"Mrs McCarthy-" Sullivan desperately tried to interject.
"I'm not finished yet! You should learn to listen every once in a while, because despite the fact you haven't an ounce of respect for anybody around you you ought to know that you're not the only person in the world with a brain, even though you don't seem to have a heart. You act like you're the best man to ever join the police force, and look at what it's done for you. I don't see many friends or family queing up to see you- suppose you've drove those away as well. And what would your parents think of-"
Mrs McCarthy halted in shock. Sullivan was crying, head bowed, tears dripping onto the desk, sobbing brokenly.
"I'm sorry," He choked, "Honestly, I am. I'm really, really-" His sobs overwrought his speech.
"Oh," Mrs McCarthy exclaimed, hurryjng around the table, placing a maternal hand on the crying man's shoulder, "Inspector- I apologise- I didn't-"
"You're right," Sullivan gulped, between heavy sobs, "About everything. I'm sorry- I just- " He carried on weeping.
Mrs McCarthy quickly produced a freshly laundered handkerchief from the depths of her handbag, and Sullivan attempted to dry his eyes- with the same success of trying to stop a rampaging bull with a sheet of paper.
"I don't know why I'm like this," He sniffed, "I know it's wrong-" He sniffed again, the handkerchief clenched in his fist already soaked, "But I just can't stop myself."
He looked off into the corner of the office. The old Irishwoman sank down into a chair beside him, and watched in slight despair.
"I'm sorry for those things I said," She confided, "Some of those remarks were far too personal."
Sullivan seemed to exert a half laugh, and scratched at the feather-like scar on his cheek, the one reminder of the ashtray that he'd never be able to shake off.
"Well," he said bitterly, finger hovering over the scar for a few seconds too long, "You know what my father thinks of me."
"Oh no," Mrs McCarthy breathed in horror, "But surely your mother-"
"Dead," he said bluntly.
"I'm so sorry," Mrs MCarthy said, automatically blessing herself.
"She was a catholic too - very devout one. You'd have thought God would have saved her." Sullivan scoffed bitterly.
Mrs McCarthy, for perhaps the first time, was speechless.
Sullivan rubbed at his eyes again, suddenly looking very young and scared.
"Sorry, that's just- I shouldn't have said that. That doesn't matter right now."
"Inspector-"
"No, it doesn't. I was wrong, like I always am and now-" His crying sped up again, "Everyone hates me- and I don't know what to do and I have to say sorry but I'm just so scared and Sid hates me and, and, and and -" He ran out of breath, and buried his face in his arms on the desk.
"Well that's a bit of an over-exaggeration." Mrs McCarthy soothed, offering him another starched handkerchief. "Nobody hates you, and there's no point in getting so, so..."
She racked her brain for the right word. Upset-too weak. Hysterical- fitting, but too strong."So cut up about it all. Besides, why are you worried about what Sid thinks of you?"
Sullivan was, at this point, what a medical professional would class as hysterical. His mind was plagued by guilt and regret, and with the first friendly ear he'd had in a long time beside him, it all came gushing out.
Way too much of it, blurted out at one hundred miles an hour.
"I kissed him one night outside the Red Lion and then we started sleeping together and he was always at my house and then he answered the phone to my dad and he figured out what was going and then he appeared- then Goodfellow landed in to try and arrest him and Sid saw my face and started crying and I just didn't know what to do, I never know what to do when people are crying! And after I got sick he kept arriving with food because you told him that I was too thin and he said he was worried about me even though I do eat and I can cook for myself and we started having dinner together and then we'd go look at magazines and then he was just staying the night- but for no reason because we weren't having sex that night and then we were making fun of each other's pyjamas and talking about our childhoods and I told him stuff I never told anyone else and then at the army barracks that bloody Anthony kept flirting with him and I got really, really angry and I don't why because I don't own him! He doesn't belong to me! He shouldn't even have stuck around as long as he did because he's friendly and kind and really gorgeous and I'm just a freak who doesn't know what to do around other people and then I got arrested for murder and you all helped me out and I got scared that no one would listen to me anymore amd I felt weak and stupid and I wanted to say something to somebody and you were all just there and then Sid yelled at me and called me a bastard and said a load more things that were really true and then he said he was sick of me so I yelled at him to get out and now I can't sleep or focus on anything because I miss him so much, even though he wasn't mine in the first place, and I can't even try to get him back because he hates me so much..." Sullivan finally eased off into gulping sobs, and then glanced at Mrs McCarthy.
Who was frozen in shock, and who's eyes closely resembled saucers.
"And I shouldn't have told you any of that!" He shrieked in panic.
Mrs McCarthy nodded slowly. "Well," She breathed, "That does explain a few things alright."
Sullivan blew his nose.
"Please don't-" He started thickly.
"I won't tell anyone." Mrs McCarthy promised. "Though I'm sure it'll do you a great deal of good to get it off your chest, and I'm glad you did."
Sullivan's lip trembled again. "Do you really mean that?"
"Yea of course I do. Now," She returned to her businesslike manner, "If you really do want to fix it all, there are a few things you ought to do. And I'm pretty sure you know what they are."
Sullivan nodded.
Owing to the wintry weather, the candles in St Mary's fought off shadows as the night grew darker outside. Father Brown, still robed after evening mass, was slowly painstakingly gathering up the hymn books- a job he always completed himself, everyone else had better things to do in the gloom of the evenings, and it was a tranquil period that helped him think.
The church was empty, except for himself and a the mice and other peaceful, unobtrusive creatures he always granted sanctuary to. His glasses glinted in the flickering candlelight.
The tapping of footsteps echoed through the cavernous room, and the priest looked up.
Inspector Sullivan was walking cautiously towards him, hat held in his hands nervously. He immediately noticed the redness of the other man's eyes, and the chewed lip, and the obvious demeanour of somebody who had been crying.
''Inspector,'' He greeted softly, trying to prevent the echos, ''How can I help?''
The younger man shifted awkwardly from one foot to another.
''I came to apologise,'' He began.
''What for?'' The priest enquired.
Sullivan looked deeply uncomfortable. ''Everything, really. For what I said at Albert's funeral, and the way I treated you when you were helping me, and the way I talked to you at all the crime scenes and-''
He sniffed, before continuing.
''I'm sorry. For all of it. I'm really sorry.'' His voice was thick with sorrow.
Father Brown watched him, his face unreadable as ever.
''I know it's wrong,'' Sullivan hand was clenched on the brim of his hat, trying desperately to keep his voice steady, ''I don't know why I do it- I just can't stop myself.''
''Sit down.'' Father Brown said quietly, gesturing to the pew.
Sullivan eyed the wooden seat with unease.
''Don't worry - I won't try to convert you.'' The priest reassured, with a hint of humour.
The Inspector sat. Father Brown slumped into the pew beside him.
''How have you been keeping?'' He asked, ''I felt it unwise to enquire following the incident at the church.''
Sullivan felt a pain in his already aching chest.
''Inspector?''
Sullivan bit his lip. Breaking down in tears in front of Mrs McCarthy was bad enough; if he done it in front of Father Brown as well...
''Confessional rules can apply, if you understand the way they work.'' Father Brown offered.
''I understand,'' Sullivan said in a very quiet voice, staring at the worn floorboards beneath his feet, ''And that would be nice.''
Father Brown sat back in the chair. ''So, how have you been?''
''Not great,'' Sullivan confessed, already tearing up.
''I am sorry to hear that,'' The priest began, ''But I must admit I'm not surprised.''
Sullivan looked at him in shock.
''Well, following your wrongful arrest, and days on the run, and of course, finding poor DC Albert-''
''But I got away!'' Sullivan protested, ''They let me go, because I didn't do it.''
''I know. But you still had a very traumatic experience, piled on top of an exceptionally stressful job. You must be feeling exhausted.''
Sullivan stayed quiet.
''Is there anything else you wish to talk about?''
''Why are you so good at this?'' Sullivan asked, ''Talking to people, understanding why they do certain things, being able to comfort them?'' He shuffled around in his seat to look the Father in the eye, ''How do you do it? You can talk to people, and stop them crying, and-and peopleact so differently around you and you never lose your cool or shout or snap or insult them - I mean, how can you do it?''
Father Brown was in deep thought. ''The Lord entrusted me with such gifts, as he set a slightly harder road for you.''
''Yeah but why did He- oi, you said no conversion!''
Father Brown chuckled. ''Can't blame a chap for trying, especially when he doesn't have all the answers.''
''So you say God made you like that, and made me like this?'' Sullivan asked with a hint of disgust.
''That is my belief, yes.'' Father Brown answered.
''And so he made me into someone he would hate?''
''God doesn't hate you, Inspector.'' Brown said in a quiet yet firm voice, ''Nobody in Kembleford hates you. And we are all children of God.''
Sullivan gazed upwards, eyes fixed on the crucified Christ that hung by the alter, eerily lit in the candlelight.
''Have you always felt like this?'' Father Brown asked. ''Different? Unsure of how you act around people?''
''Long as I can remember.'' Sullivan shrugged.
''Then, if you don't mind me asking,'' the priest asked, very carefully, ''Why did you join the police force? It seems a curious choice for somebody with an introverted nature.''
''I wasn't brave enough to do anything else, and I liked solving puzzles.'' Sullivan said sadly. ''Even though I'm not very good at it. You'd make a much better detective than me.''
''You are very good - how else could be a detective inspector at such a young age?'' Father Brown reasoned.
''Beause there was no one else available?'' Sullivan offered.
''Not true.''
''Because I can order people about and fight quite well?'' Sullivan answered back.
''You are quite the self-critic, Inspector.''
''That's my job- finding fault in people, finding motives.'' He shifted in his seat.
"I just- I don't know what to do anymore. I've fell out with everyone, I can't focus on anything, no one trusts me anymore and I'm just so tired..."
He stared at the candle flickering in front of him. What else was there to say?
"They say that if you can't get to sleep at night, it's a sign that God wants to talk to you."
"Well tell him to stop it - I just want to sleep."
Father Brown chuckled again.
"Is there anyone else you feel you need to talk to? In order to make you feel more at peace?" He asked.
"You already know about what happened with Mrs McCarthy." Sullivan cringed slightly.
"No," Father Brown revealed.
"Seriously?" Sullivan was shocked, "She didn't tell you what I said to her?"
The priest shook his head. "Despite her reputation, Mrs McCarthy is a very loyal confidant. She knows when to hold her tongue."
Sullivan sat back, feeling very startled.
He definitely didn't expect that revelation, but he didn't expect to be sitting talking to Father Brown like this either.
Sid crossed his mind again. He knew he had to talk to him. But he also knew that Sid didn't want to hear.
"Have you any family?"Father Brown suggested" It's just that in times of trial, many people turn to their loved ones for support."
The Inspector shook his head.
"Just my father, but he..." He stopped himself. No one knew about his father, and if even one person knew...
The temptation was there though - somebody who he knew wouldn't spill his secret.
"What's your first name, Inspector?" Father Brown asked.
Sullivan considered for a moment.
"Edgar." He said very quietly. "It's awful, I know."
"No its not," The priest attempted to console him, "Very regal. A popular name among Anglo-Saxon aristocracy. Very regal."
"I grew up with it, I know how bad it is." Sullivan had lived with the name for over thirty years, nothing Father Brown said was going to change his opinion of it.
Father Brown bit his lip. Edgar was really a very strange name to give to your child.
"Your father," He asked in his lowest voice, "Was he the reason behind your facial injuries?'
Sullivan couldn't talk, too afraid that his voice might shake. He nodded.
"Oh." Father Brown sounded appalled, "I'm so sorry Edgar."
Sullivan was crying again - silently this time, tear dropping onto the polished wood.
"But why?" The priest asked, sounding as if he couldn't imagine a reason why any father would do that to his child.
"Because," Sullivan gulped, "He found out about me..."
Father Brown was waiting for the whole explanation. "What about you?"
"About me, liking men." Sullivan crouched forward, refusing to look Father Brown in the face after his revelation.
"I'd better go, I've said too much." He stood up, ready to be thrown out for his confession.
A calm hand landed on his shoulder.
"Please, stay a moment. Look at me."
Sullivan looked at the old clergyman man, eyes blurred with tears.
"Your father is a fool," He said, "To drive away his only son in such a way, and you deserve better from a man who's duty it was to look after you, comfort you, and protect you."
Sullivan sank back into the seat, feeling like all the air had gone out of his lungs.
"Has he ever acted like that before?"
"He... After mum died, it was like I was never good enough for him and I never will be, especially now, but I just - I never understood how he could convince people to like him, and the way he made everyone look up to him - why couldn't I do that? Why do I have to be so different?" Sullivan was sobbing harder, his face stinging at another onslaught of tears.
"You are different, Edgar," Father Brown said quietly, "Because you genuinely care about your work, and you do your best even though you find it hard to deal with people, but you manage. You worry about it all because you are a good man. Your father ought to have taught you that, but he did not. He lied and convinced you that people were against you, but they are not. He failed you."
He stopped for a moment, and glanced at a mouse scuttling across the ancient tiles, it's tiny paws tapping a quiet rhythm, breaking the silent spell of the evening.
"Sid still hates me." Sullivan mumbled.
"I'll have a word with Sid." The priest said quietly. "In the meantime, I will pray for you."
After a few minutes, he made his apologies and left. Sullivan stayed, staring transfixed at the light dancing across the holy fixtures.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, his mind seemed to be at peace.
