The fetid odor of hot cat invaded Inspector Sullivan's nose almost as soon as the scene of the crime came into view. He stopped the car two houses down and sat for a moment, trying to grow used to the awful smell. It was a pointless effort; the aroma kept making subtle shifts, all singed hair one minute and scorched tuna the next. Choking back the urge to gag, he finally stepped out and made his slow, unwilling way up to the gate of Bastet Cottage.

That was as far as he could bring himself to go. He paused with one hand on the latch and made a show of looking over the whole setting. It was difficult to see much with his eyes stinging, but a few details were so obvious that they couldn't be missed.

First was the fact that the second floor of the strangely-named domicile had all but collapsed. The fire was out now, but anything resembling a normal roofline had vanished. Charred beams stuck up here and there, ensuring that passersby would know what had happened even after the last remnants of smoke cleared. The black and withered rose bushes that had been allowed to run wild under the windows attested to the heat of the flames. It was shocking, Sullivan thought, that this was only an arson investigation, and not manslaughter or murder.

Next were the cats. They were simply everywhere. One cat was too many, in Sullivan's opinion, and there were far too many too manies cleaning themselves and nursing singed paws on the far side of the gate. Small cats, big cats, oranges, tabbies, a rather imperious-looking Siamese... He shuddered. No question about it, he was staying out here in the street. Sergeant Goodfellow would just have to tell him about any evidence that turned up on the back side of the house.

Finally, there was the woman. Her dress had once been butter-colored, but even from a distance it was clear that this morning's conflagration was not the only reason it no longer was. She shuffled back and forth through the reclining clowder of felines, stopping to pick up and murmur to each individual creature as she came to it. Sullivan rolled his eyes skyward and asked plaintively, "Why me?"

"Like to know the same answer myself."

The voice that had spoken those words was raspy but familiar. Frowning, Sullivan dared to lean forward over the gate and look down. A reddened, soot-streaked face – human, thank goodness, although Sullivan wouldn't be surprised if the fumes soon started giving him hallucinations about talking cats – peered back up at him. "You?" His frown deepened. "But what...? ...And at this-? Why...?"

"What's the matter, Inspector?" Sid Carter prodded with a pained grin. "Cat got your tongue?"

This little joke set off a racking series of coughs that left the chauffeur doubled over. Had he not been sitting with his back against Bastet Cottage's shoulder-high garden wall, Sullivan was certain he would have fallen over completely. "A cat does not have my tongue," he replied tersely when Sid had stopped hacking. They might have had his eyes and his nasal passages, which for once he was glad had congested themselves, but he could speak well enough to make an arrest. "I expect one might get yours, though, when I tell you that I'm taking you in on a charge of arson."

Outrage inspired more coughing. "Is that," Sid managed between gasps, "what I get for doing a good deed? Arrested by Inspector Fraidy Cat?"

While Sullivan would personally consider the dismantling of an unauthorized cattery like this one a good deed – even, he allowed begrudgingly, if the person doing the dismantling was Sidney Carter – he couldn't condone arson as a method. More importantly, though... "Inspector Fraidy Cat?" he repeated in a dangerous tone.

"You're 'fraid of them, aren't you? Standing out there where they can't get you."

"I am not afraid of cats." Sullivan's watering eyes chose that exact moment to overflow, splashing tears down his cheeks. He swiped angrily at his face. "Damn it..."

"Oh...ah...I was only joking. No need to...you know. Be upset."

There was something close to contrition in Sid's voice, but that only made Sullivan angrier. "I am allergic to cats, Carter," he snarled. "And the only thing I'm upset about is that your antics have caused me to be standing on a street that reeks of them at eight o'clock in the morning." Bending further over the gate, he latched onto Sid's elbow. "So, as I said before," he went on, dragging the chauffeur to his feet, "you're under arrest."

"Inspector!"

"Really?!" Sullivan couldn't contain an exclamation as he whirled around. Of course more of Kembleford's troublemaking squad had shown up. He should have known that this was coming, really, but he'd dared to hope that he might get some small concession to make up for every other inconvenience that had already crowded into this single day. "What business can you possibly have here this early, Father Brown?"

The priest drew to a halt a few feet away from him. "We heard about Mrs. Gore's fire," he replied evenly, "and came to see if we could offer any assistance to her." His gaze followed Sullivan's arm to where it still held tight to its quarry. Concern immediately shadowed his brow.

"I didn't do it," Carter croaked.

Father Brown turned back to Sullivan, an aggravatingly pleasant little smile on his face. "Would you please be so kind as to release Sid, Inspector? Immediately?"

"You're not getting him off so easily this time," Sullivan refused. He paused to sniffle – the last thing he needed was to have both snot and tears all over his face while he was trying to be authoritative – then went on. "Not when the charge is arson."

Father Brown's expression flickered briefly. "I don't think you have to worry that he'll run away. He looks more likely to fall down."

Sullivan spared a glance for his captive. Now that he'd been hauled up into the daylight, Carter did look rather wan. His free hand, which the Inspector couldn't help but notice bore a fresh burn and several long scratches, clutched at the edge of the garden wall. As if he'd noticed all the attention, he went into a fresh fit of coughing.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. McCarthy – ah yes, Father Brown had said 'we,' hadn't he? Joy of joys – hustled around the priest and lifted the latch on the gate. Sullivan shifted over to let it swing open, but his grip on Sid didn't loosen until the parish secretary smacked his wrist with her oversized pocketbook. "Can't you see," she lectured as Father Brown stepped in to help Sid slide back down to the ground, this time on the outside of the garden wall, "that he's unwell?"

"In my experience, Mrs. McCarthy, arsonists generally are unwell, yes."

"I didn't," the chauffeur insisted wheezily, "do it."

"You know that isn't what I meant, Inspector! Just look at him!"

"I am looking at him," Sullivan rebutted, "and he has clearly been playing with fire."

"Clear now," Sid puffed out, "but not when I'm choking to death. That's nice."

Mrs. McCarthy crossed her arms and gave a sharp nod of agreement. Teamed-up against, Sullivan bristled. "Carter, I swear-"

A shriek cut him off. He looked towards the source of the sound to find the cat lady stomping across the garden towards them. Her wide, smoke-reddened stare, dirty clothing, and the grey (normally, Sullivan suspected, white) cat cradled in her arms gave her an aura of burgeoning insanity. "Where's my Miggsy?! They're all here," she shouted as she reached the mercifully re-closed gate, "except for Miggsy!"

Her wild gaze touched each of them in turn. Sullivan took a half-step backward when she got to him. He wasn't afraid of the cats, but it seemed prudent to use caution around their owner. "You!" she squealed when she spotted Sid. "You did it!" She shifted her load onto one elbow and jabbed one finger forward into the air. "You took my Miggsy!"

Sid just shook his head wearily, then let it rest against the wall. "Crazy," he whispered to Father Brown, who was still crouched beside him.

The priest had been examining Sid's forearms while the others argued. Now, his smile returned. "Don't worry about it, Sid. I know exactly what happened."

"So do I," Sullivan countered. How anyone could not see what had happened was astonishing. A known – no, a self-acknowledged – criminal had been found at the scene. He was injured in a way that was consistent with the illegal activity in question. The victim was literally pointing an accusatory finger at him. Motive was still unverified, yes, but Sullivan had an idea about that, too.

"The fire was just supposed to be a ruse, wasn't it, Carter? Something to smoke the place up and scare the occupants outside." It wasn't a common tactic, but he'd heard of it being used in the city and on heists at large estates before. He didn't put it beyond the chauffeur's mental capabilities to come up with the idea of applying the method for himself. "You nip in during the confusion, grab the first few things of value you come across, and skip back out again with your pockets full."

He was warming up now, certain that he was on the right track. He had to sniffle again before he could continue, but when he went on he did so with a confident smirk. "But it got out of hand. Was this the first time you'd tried a smoke-out? I think it was, and that's why you couldn't control it. The fire escaped you and ruined this poor woman's house, and now you've been caught red-handed."

Father Brown rose. "So he has, Inspector," he concurred. "Been caught red-handed, I mean."

Sullivan nearly staggered. "You agree with me?"

"Yes. I do."

"Oi, what?" Sid protested weakly.

"Father!" cried Mrs. McCarthy. "Are you sure? I mean, Sid is...well, Sid...but arson? Someone might have been killed!"

"Me, for one," came a mutter from the man on the ground.

"I am sure, Mrs. McCarthy." Father Brown looked at her, then at Sid. Sullivan didn't like the way the priest's forehead twitched when he glanced downward; it made him think there had been a wink hidden by the slope of his nose. "I agree with Inspector Sullivan. In a metaphorical manner."

Sullivan glared. "You must be joking."

"I'm not joking, Inspector. Sid, would you show us your hands, please?"

Everyone stared at Father Brown for a long second. Then Sid grinned and did as he'd been asked. Angry blisters were rising on every finger, and sections of his palms were raw. "They're red, alright," Sid chuckled hoarsely.

"Oh, my," Mrs. McCarthy tutted. "Now, Sidney, you just keep them up and open like that while I find..." She began to paw through her pocketbook. "I'm sure I have something...there must be...oh, bother..."

"You realize, Father Brown," said Sullivan, "that this is more evidence in favor of his guilt?"

"It could be taken that way," Father Brown nodded. "But the claw marks can't be."

Sid flipped his hands towards himself and exposed the backs of his forearms to the morning sun. Intricate, angry-looking roadmaps had been etched in his skin, dozens of straight lines intersecting each other at every possible angle.

"No fire," Mrs. McCarthy ruled, "has ever left marks like that before, Inspector."

"It must have been Miggsy," proclaimed Mrs. Gore. She'd stopped pointing at Sid, but he was still subject to her disdainful glares. "He's a fighter, my Miggsy. He probably did all that when you stole him away."

Sid opened his mouth as if to argue despite his obvious exhaustion. Then he let his arms fall back into his lap and jerked his chin towards Father Brown. "Sid didn't steal Miggsy, Mrs. Gore," the priest explained. "I'm afraid that Miggsy was likely a casualty of the fire. The sole casualty, in fact, and that is entirely thanks to Sid's efforts. This all could have been much worse were it not for him."

Mrs. Gore had cocked her head to one side and was peering bemusedly down at Sid. "Are you the one who kept carrying me outside?" Sid's look said everything. "But I was trying to get my cats out! You stopped me three times! It is your fault Miggsy's missing! I could have gotten him if you-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Gore," Sullivan cut in. "...Thank you. Fine, Carter. I'll give credit where credit is due. The fire got out of hand, you realized the extent of the situation, and you pulled Mrs. Gore – and apparently a rather large number of her pet cats – out of the flames. While that was...noble...of you," – especially, thought the Inspector reluctantly, if he really had pulled the old bat out three separate times – "it doesn't make up for the fact that there wouldn't have been a fire if you hadn't set one!"

"Sid didn't start the fire," Father Brown stated firmly. "But I think Sergeant Goodfellow may be about to tell us who did."

Sullivan followed the priest's glance to find that the sergeant had just swung around the corner of the house. Something small and metallic dangled from his fingers, glinting dully as it swung in time with his steps. The lead weight that only plagued Sullivan in Gloucestershire dropped into his stomach. "What is this?" he asked the priest suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Let's hear what the sergeant has to say," suggested Father Brown. "Hello, Sergeant."

"Hello, Father Brown," Sergeant Goodfellow nodded back. "Mrs. McCarthy. Good morning, Inspector, sir. Sir..." The sergeant started to extend the hand in which he held the mystery object. Then he paused and pulled it back. "Hold on. Where's Mr. Carter gone?"

"Down here," Sid answered with a small wave and a short cough.

"Oh." Goodfellow's brow knit as he looked down. "Should we call him a doctor, sir?" he stage-whispered to Sullivan. "He looks worse than he did when I got here. And he didn't look good then."

"I'm sure the Inspector will be happy to give Sid a ride to the hospital once he knows there's no reason to arrest him," Father Brown assured the sergeant. "What's that you've found?"

"Oh. Well..." Sergeant Goodfellow sent a sidewise glance towards Mrs. Gore. "I could be wrong, but...it looks to me like a collar."

Mrs. Gore gasped when the sergeant revealed a small circlet of steel. "That's my Miggsy's! You've found him! Where is he?"

"Ah...well..."

Father Brown stepped smoothly into the sergeant's uncertainty. "What I believe has happened," he began, "is that Miggsy found an exposed piece of wire near the ground at the back of your home, Mrs. Gore. My understanding is that when the houses on this street were wired for electricity they ran a central line from top to bottom at the rear of each residence. This allowed the installers to supply power all the way into the basement without draping wire all over inside or trying to make paths through the old brick walls.

"Most of these homes have been re-wired since then. Having been in Mrs. Gore's rear garden on several occasions in the past, I can attest that hers has not been. She still has, or had, the decorative wood trim that was often put on over top of the wires and painted to blend into the brick." He paused. "...I can also state that the last time I visited there were some dead branches around the rose bushes nearby."

"Some people say it looks bad," Mrs. Gore interjected, "but my babies like the bushes wild. They can always find a mouse to play with out back."

"And that may be what Miggsy thought he was playing with this morning," Father Brown went on. "Unfortunately, what Miggsy was batting about – chewing on, perhaps – was a wire. It would have been very easy for a spark to catch the dry wood of the bushes and spread from there. After that...well, as I said earlier, for Miggsy's to be the only life lost in this fire was extraordinary."

"A miracle, it seems," contributed Mrs. McCarthy.

"Is it, though?" Mrs. Gore's voice had become very small. She took the collar from Sergeant Goodfellow's hand and tried to rub a bit of staining off with her thumb. Her lower lip began to pooch out. "My poor Miggsy. He was a good cat. He kept his whiskers clean."

Feeling like a colossal nincompoop, Sullivan massaged his temples. "Why was this reported to me as arson, sergeant?"

"First constable on the scene reported that it looked that way, sir. That, and..." His eyes slid to Mrs. Gore again.

"Well, why would I think one of my darlings had done it by accident? I know people don't like my having so many cats. The neighbors complain. But someone has to love them, even when they go and burn the house down." Mrs. Gore stroked the cat that was still resting quietly in her arms. "Poor, poor Miggsy...I miss him already."

Sullivan swallowed a groan. "Find somewhere for her, sergeant," he ordered. "...And then tell that constable to go to my office and wait."

"Until when, sir?"

"Until I tell him to stop."

"...Yes, Inspector. C'mon, Mrs. Gore," said Sergeant Goodfellow, offering the old lady his elbow. "Mrs. Stewart across the street said she'd put you up until your daughter can get here. Why don't we go see if she's ready for you?"

"All right...she doesn't complain, at least. But I must be able to bring Mr. Tibbles. I'd rather sleep outside than be without my dear Mr. Tibbles..."

They all watched the sergeant lead Mrs. Gore and Mr. Tibbles across the street. "She shouldn't have been living alone," Mrs. McCarthy judged. "Not for some time now, judging from all of this."

"It can be difficult to convince someone to rely on others when they've relied on themselves for so long," Father Brown said. "She always told me that she didn't want to be a burden on her daughter. Hopefully this experience will make it easier for her to ask for help."

"I still call it a miracle," stated Mrs. McCarthy. "A miracle, too," she directed at Sid, "that you weren't lost yourself. Running in and out of a house on fire three times, and more. Why didn't you stop once Mrs. Gore was safe, for goodness sake?"

"She wouldn't quit, would she?" Sid rasped.

"Until the cats were out, no," Father Brown replied. "You were right about that, Sid. So long as she thought there were any of them left inside, she would have kept trying to go back in. Getting enough cats into the garden that she had to start counting them to be sure of who was missing was the only way to distract her from her rescue mission."

"I don't see why he couldn't have just restrained her," Mrs. McCarthy objected. "Look at the state of him! It was pure foolishness, Sidney, to go back into a fire after cats. Even if it did end up keeping Mrs. Gore outside."

Sid eyed Mrs. McCarthy's pocketbook, which she was holding with a worrying tightness. "...No need to back up that lesson, Mrs. M.," he half-promised, half-pleaded. "Really."

The parish secretary observed him for a silent second. Then she sighed, and her shoulders relaxed. "Well, I suppose not," she smiled. "So long as you don't do it again."

"Never. Scout's honor."

Sullivan snorted. As if Sid Carter had ever been a Boy Scout.

"Right," said Father Brown, clapping his hands together before tensions could rise again. "Now, then, Inspector; I believe we were about to take Sid to the hospital, yes?"

There was that blasted 'we' again. "Oh, now we're all going?" Not that Sullivan relished the idea of alone time with Carter, but still, the presumption was a bit much. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised, either about Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy's tagging along or about the fact that he wasn't even going to try and argue that he wasn't an ambulance service. It was all just part of the weird way that things worked in Kembleford.

And regardless of how little he liked the mechanics of it, as he helped Father Brown hoist Sid to his feet he had to admit that Kembleford did work. That was what was simultaneously fascinating and frustrating about the place. A criminal who hung around with a crime-solving priest, a parish secretary whose day accessories ought to have been registered as bludgeons, a local Countess who rubbed chummily (or chummily enough, at least) along with all of them...it shouldn't have been legal.

But it was, somehow, and even though Inspector Sullivan wanted nothing more than to put Sid Carter in the dock, keep Father Brown out of his policework, and be frankly honest with both Mrs. McCarthy and Lady Felicia about the particular ways in which they respectively annoyed him, he thought he might be pretty close to starting to maybe, almost, sort-of-kind-of like it here.