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At some moment in time, Father Brown's life became rich with events. It happened once in a while, days temporarily turning into series of unusual acquaintances, encounters with faux supernatural, particularly morally difficult "cases" (as some insisted on calling them), and something that the following narration will be about: adventures.
Father often thought about himself as a little silly. He would play with children in elation, get stuck in musings in front of the window of a confectionery shop, laugh at incoherent anecdotes of people in the inns of his parish (the tales were notable for exaggeration and rather different in their fabulosity from their versions repeated the following Sunday in the confession booth). The latter was frowned upon by Brown's especially pious colleagues, since it wasn't considered proper for a cleric to even visits such places of debauchery, but it wasn't how he himself saw his mission.
And when the random circumstances brought the priest's unbecoming silliness to its peak through the above-mentioned adventures – in the sense of thrilling, intense situations – he felt rather happy.
It wouldn't be pleasant at all, however, had he not had a fellow adventurer in the person of his long-time friend Flambeau, a man designed for the challenges adventures may present. He would be able to swing on a vine among jungle trees like a French Tarzan, or swim across a river boiling with heavy rain, or do any other physical things Brown simply couldn't do. Having left behind the risk-filled lives of crime and crime-fighting, he was often bored with what his current life presented him with, and when the random circumstances brought him to the edge of a literal snake pit and urgent duty to save Father Brown from the imminent death, he felt even happier that his companion.
"I don't like saying that," the savee said, tidying his soutane with shaking hands, "but some people are cruel indeed."
"Vicious is a more accurate term, in my opinion," Flambeau grunted, frowning, while his hands entertained themselves with vain efforts to resurrect Brown's hopelessly destroyed hat. "You have to admit that some are beyond the point of saving, especially those who almost drove your life beyond the point of saving."
Father Brown pursed his lips and didn't respond.
On their way to the nearest populated place, the friends discussed several questions of great import. The list, which they both wished was shorter or empty at all, included their current location, the strangest way the pair arrived there, the miracle of the rescue and possible ways to leave this place and never come back.
For the sake of clarity of the story, here are the elaborations. The current location was unknown, and the only fact they could use to deduce it from was the existence of snakes, which with high probability excluded Ireland from the options (Father Brown learnt with a surprise that Flambeau wasn't familiar with the legend of Saint Patrick – why, Flambeau himself was surprised (as well as irritated) and with this vacancy in his knowledge too). The conundrum was born from the method of the arrival: hands and legs tied, heads adorned with effectively obscuring sacks, dignity not respected. The only reason the unexpected victims had been rescued at all was that they hadn't been kidnapped at the same time, and Flambeau, delivered later, had brought with him a trail of two policemen. He knew not why he had been followed, and it was yet another thing to worry about, but the weary friends decided to postpone it to the better time, if such could even be possible when police pursue of a former, yet notorious criminal was a an impending threat. They only lost the law enforcers because they had to arrest two very not-former criminals, and it was too hard of a job for a single person. And now the friends, naturally and understandably, wanted to leave the place where all of this happened, and coming back was, to put it lightly, not an appealing idea.
Through luck and logic, the reluctant travellers promptly found a road, and even though there was only a guaranty it would eventually lead them to Rome, they had high hopes to reach at least a modest settlement first. They also hoped that the settlement would turn out to be situated in England, since the policemen were from this country, otherwise it would only create another mystery (what if not a mystery would be encountering bobbies in the countryside of Spain or Italy?).
They reached the destination barely before their relief would be weaker than exhaustion, and found an inn, expecting to find a shelter from the upcoming nighttime (this instance of visiting such an establishment would, most likely, justifiable enough for the higher-ups of the Church).
To the tourists' only slight regret, there was only one free room with only one bed. Something like this happened before, and the friends began mentally preparing themselves for a familiar, somewhat heated discussion of who should take the bedstead (either defending an unexpected candidate – the other and not himself), when the priest froze. This was even more unexpected, because there was the other type of heat – very much material. A second later, they smelled a distinct and unpleasant aroma of smoke.
"Mon Dieu," Flambeau hid his tired face in his giant hands. "Will this ever stop?"
After that, he wasted not a moment before shattering the glass with the same hands, seizing the priest and jumping out of the window (a calculated risk, even considering they were on the first floor, at least fifteen feet above the ground). Bushes broke their fall, preventing breaking of bones, and they had enough time to scramble away from the action.
"You had experience in extinguishing fires, didn't you?" Flambeau asked Brown, shaking off leaves and twigs, seemingly unaffected by imminent scratches and cuts.
"Not without preparation," the priest half-sighed, half-gasped, short of breath. "We must make sure the help has been called for and leave the extinguishing to professionals. I'm afraid I will only be an inconvenience in this case."
"Go there, then," Flambeau pointed at a spot farther away, conveniently barren of flora and anything else flammable. "Stay at least twenty yards from here."
The potential inconvenience didn't argue, instead nodded shortly, gripped his faithful umbrella that for some reason still was in his hand and, by force of habit, raised the other hand to his head to protect his hat from being blown away. He forgot, however, that the hat wasn't there, being abandoned earlier at the scene of the crime, but there was no time to mourn it now.
He quickly noticed that Flambeau abandoned the tactic formulated only a minute ago, now rushing and dashing hither and thither, helping by carrying and emptying barrels of water, since it wouldn't be wise to waste his enormous strength on single buckets.
In other circumstances, Father Brown would have gladly enjoyed this excellent display, but after the fire started to subside, his attention was captured by the sight of three policemen.
It wouldn't be fair to say that the cleric hated the police, but it wouldn't be exactly a lie either. The reasons for that were the time-cultivated solidarity with the lower of his flock and aversion to the abuse of authority, no matter who granted it, the secular arm or even higher power. There are many ways to use your position for ill, and Brown knew that perfectly, himself being also a sort of enforcer of the Law.
This time, aside his general attitude, seeing the policemen awoke another anxiety in him. He immediately broke Flambeau's bidding (which was only fair because Flambeau did the same to his) and ran towards the building, despite exhaustion finally taking its toll on his already short enough legs.
"My Father," frowned the Frenchman at his sleeve being pulled, "I told you to stay—"
"We can't stay," was the objection. "You don't want to meet triplets dressed in picotee."
"Why the riddles all off the sud—" and then it dawned on him. "We should indeed go."
The pursuers were talking to the inn owner, urgently gesturing and demonstrating, apparently, the height of two persons, the ratio of which suspiciously reminded Father Brown and Flambeau of their own.
The fugitives retreated to the part of the scene that wasn't busy with people who didn't care for the law being executed right there and now, and carried on dealing with the fire and its consequences, and also had more – or just enough – flora to help them hide: Father Brown chose a size-appropriate bush, and Flambeau a young oak.
It was the moment to devise a plan, and it wasn't easy in the state of their nerves. They even considered disguising themselves as a bush and a tree since hiding behind ones already proved an effective cover, and only renounced this idea because the static wouldn't provide them with protection in case they would have to move, and they were rather certain they would, eventually.
"Let's go as far away as we can first," Flambeau whispered with a flair of his past coming back to him, which both terrified and excited Father Brown.
The obvious way to travel with this goal in mind would be running, and Flambeau could easily run very fast and very far, but the situation called for discreetness foremost, so the friends had to find the most optimal average between speed and inconspicuousness.
Due to the successful result of these calculations (no one noticed them), several minutes after they once again found themselves in a place with no soul around, namely on a road next to a barley field.
"I propose we hide here until morning," said Flambeau competently.
"I would like to refuse," the priest grunted politely, entertaining no hope for encountering Ruth and her geniality. "I don't want to get lost in grass after all today's events."
"Fair," hummed the ex-criminal. "And I think I have a better idea."
"How come it is still not the craziest day of my entire life," Brown was muttering next, trotting along his friend and holding in place his new hat.
It was acquired – to put their minds more or less at rest, they decided on the word "borrowed" – from a scarecrow, along with the current disguise of Flambeau that consisted of the rest of the scarecrow's attire, including a sack on his head. It wasn't a pleasant experience, for he was in quite a similar situation mere hours ago, but it's not like they had another choice.
A moving crop-protecting implement would naturally capture the attention of anyone who'd see it, but the conspirators incorporated it in their plan. When the police patrol car passed them, they only saw a small farmer dressed in all black, save a straw hat (no sign of a cross or white collar, obviously, for it was, again, just a farmer), vigorously carrying a giant scarecrow. Why he was doing it at this time of day – night, rather, the policemen, busy with their social duty, didn't care at all.
"We still aren't safe," Flambeau said, watching the automobile disappear over the horizon. "We should leave, fast."
"We can try and ask for a ride," the make-believe farmer suggested, removing the hat and returning to his real persona. "I can see a cart or something like it approaching from where we came from."
"Splendid," the make-believe scarecrow agreed, throwing off his disguise too.
They waved at the wagon as soon as it was near, and leaped into it like Robin Hood's band into a carriage of a noble.
"What do you think about a short trip to London?" Flambeau asked rudely and intimidatingly, pushing the driver to the side of his seat and grabbing the reins.
The threatened man mumbled something that sound positive enough for Flambeau to take it as consent, and the Frenchman skilfully nudged the horses.
"Does it count as a theft, my Father?" he yelled so he could be heard at the back of the cart.
The priest, still lying prostrate on the bottom of their new transport, didn't reply right away.
"It definitely deserves some penance, but I think you will forgive me not being able to come up with it now."
Flambeau barked and urged the horses more.
"I'm sorry, sir, erm, monsieur," the farmer nervously interrupted the race at some point. "London is the other way."
"Thank you," said the current driver almost joyfully, and promptly turned around.
"Would you agree to help us if we simply asked you?" Father Brown inquired.
"Why, of course, Father," nodded the owner of the vehicle. "The city's not that far."