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It was a long day for Father Brown – even the most abiding flock on the most benevolent pasture can sometimes go wayward. He never disliked hearing confessions – maybe, even liked it too much due to his innate curiosity (not that it ever rose to a level unbecoming to a man of God), but that day he heard too much of them to just listen. He treated his mission too seriously to simply routinely convert the words into absolutions, so, unfortunately, his mind forced him to process further all the words that were said withing those hours, and Father was sitting in a park in his parish, admiring God's handiwork and pondering over the work of human hands.
Finally, after some indeterminate amount of time, the priest came back to reality, which now included a material object that wasn't there before.
A black but undoubtedly new umbrella was lying next to the priest on the bench. As if to vanquish potential suspicion and to convince it wasn't stolen, it still had a shop label and even a receipt attached – which, on their own, though, didn't really prove anything: nothing can stop you from robbing a happy shopper of their new acquisition if you are already notorious for having little respect for worldly possessions.
Father Brown blinked rapidly four or five times, coming to terms that, apparently, he had a new umbrella now, since it was obvious that it was, however awkward, but a gift for him nonetheless, and murmured something unintelligible even for himself.
A gust of wind threatened to blow his hat off his head, but he held it in place just in time and shivered with horror, imagining that life – in the person of Flambeau (who else would the mystery benefactor be?) – might present him with a new hat as well, and it wasn't a change he would ever be prepared for.
The umbrella kept looking at him with that imaginary prideful and annoyed gaze of an expensive object not fully appreciated from the very first second. The priest put his old umbrella next to it as if he wanted to compare them, and the old one would win by far, no matter what the objective parameters for evaluation would be (there wouldn't be any).
"Wait here," he said to his things vacantly, accidentally animating them further, and stood up to inspect the grass around the bench in a vain effort to urge his mind into any sort of cognitive state. He told himself that he was going to look for footsteps, and footsteps he found, but they weren't a revealing or incriminating clue, but rather a signature, a respectful nod – or a wink, a reference or an inside joke. Brown sighed, contemplating it and its private message, gathered, absent-mindedly, his usual belongings and stumbled away, deep in his thoughts again, hoping that walking would have a positive effect on his concentration.
The new umbrella, in all its splendour, still lay there, alone and abandoned – even though not on purpose, and the bushes behind the bench gave out a suspiciously human-like sigh.