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Chapter Text

The Autumn Fundraiser for the Dowager Duchess of Frome's Catholic Women's Charity was always going to be catnip for a certain French master criminal. Not only was the Duchess of Frome the grandmother of Lady Felicia Montague, and therefore sure to bring a certain priest in snaffling pursuit of free food and freer gossip, but the event was the first stop on a whistlestop tour of the great houses of Catholic Britain for the Golden Rabbits Paw of Cardinal William Allen. The paw was being returned to England from the Roman Vaults in celebration of the centenary of the restoration of the English Hierarchy. It was three years late due to an argument between Upcott and St Edmunds about which seminary would permanently house the relic.
Flambeau had, in usual fashion, made a daring and bold escape with his trophy, slipping through the fingers of the Kembleford Constabulary. Which had been quite the feat as the men in blue had pulled an impressive double bluff in their effort to catch Flambeau. They had even taken Father Brown and his merry band of misfits meddling into account. However, at the end of the day their planning and diligence had once again proved to be no match for the sheer pure luck and bravado of the Frenchman. Which is how, hat in distraught hand, DI Sullivan found himself on the steps of Frome Hall watching his Police Wolsey drive away under the control of the French thief.

‘FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK.’ The mantra in Edgar's brain was interrupted by the sound of boots on marble followed by a rough hand bashing him on the shoulder. 
“Come on, Sullivan. Still got the Rolls.” Sidney Carter moved past him, flashing a smile of absolute thrilled exuberance, followed more sedately afterwards by the Priest and then after a beat, Edgar’s own Sergeant.
“Goodfellow?”
“Well sir, Mr. Carter pointed out that we could always catch up with him-” Goodfellow smiled a little shyly. “-and her ladyship did say that we could join them.” Lady Felicia with Mrs. McCarthy following shortly behind her now also came hurrying down the front steps.
“Do hurry, Inspector!” Lady Felicia cried, giggling with excitement, and Edgar found himself assaulted in the shoulder once more, this time by the final member of the party.
“Now, come along, Inspector, or we shall lose him,” Mrs McCarthy scolded him, waking Edgar from his shocked stupor, and he found himself being unceremoniously pulled towards the yellow Rolls Royce.

As he was shoved into the back of the Rolls, Edgar wanted to argue that this wasn’t a place for civilians as Flambeau was an armed and dangerous thief. This kind of danger was not to be underestimated. However, Edgar had little choice really, he had no other way of hoping to get close to recapturing the thief and any arguing would only give Flambeau more of a headstart. Edgar couldn’t even rely on any of his other men, they had been sent off in pursuit of Flambeau’s distraction and he couldn’t call them back, because the radio had been in the car Edgar had arrived in, the car Flambeau was now driving. This truly was his only option.
Obviously Carter was driving, the man was a liability, reckless in almost everything, but Edgar did trust the man’s driving, and Goodfellow had placed himself uniformed and visible in the passenger seat. At least that leant some legitimacy to proceedings. However, this meant there were four of them squeezed into the back seat. 
Some time earlier he and Carter had one of their rare brief, but interesting discussions on their mutual favourite subject of the internal combustion engine. The Chauffeur had mentioned that the Rolls was classed as a 7 seater, but that he had never really worked out how it could be as when the two occasional seats were to be utilised, anyone with actual legs could no longer sit on the bench seat. This meant that Edgar was squeezed between Mrs McCarthy and Father Brown with Lady Felicia mostly sitting on his lap, a position more uncomfortable than he had ever imagined being possible in the back of a Rolls Royce. The possibility of pulling rank on Goodfellow to swap had been swiftly dismissed, they just didn’t have the time.
Carter was driving like a man possessed, and once again Edgar thinks that at least he could trust Carter to go after Flambeau. He wasn’t quite sure of the story, but he knew there is a serious animosity between the pair, the petty criminal does not like the master thief. Perhaps the man had been able to hold on to some sort of sense at some point, but Edgar didn’t really care why out of all of Father Brown's associates, it was the one with the criminal record that liked the art thief the least. Edgar suspected that if he ever asked, he would end up with a headache. 
Even from his less than advantageous spot, Edgar could see the stolen Wolseley getting closer. They were gaining on it despite the age of the car and the number of occupants. The Wolseley is arguably faster and newer and its handling must be better, but the Rolls is closing in on it. A new appreciation for Carter’s driving skills was pushed aside by the hope that was rising within Edgar. If he can manage to catch up with Flambeau, Edgar will never cast aspersions on Sidney Carter’s driving again.

But then he heard the cough.

There was a sharp bang and a stutter after which the Rolls slowed significantly. Carter revved the accelerator and swore as the Wolseley disappeared into the distance. The steering wheel got smacked with Carter’s hat as the man pulled the huge car to the side of the road. Now, instead of the growing size of the Wolseley, Edgar could see smoke rising from the engine cover.

“What’s happened?” Edgar asked as Carter climbed out of the car. As he had been sitting in the middle, Edgar got caught up with the others as they all piled out of the car. He got pushed around a bit before he was able to extract himself from the chaos. While trying to neaten himself up a little, he made his way to the front of the car. Why couldn’t this little gang do anything succinctly and what went wrong in Edgar’s life that he had to put up with it all the time? Carter opened the engine cover to be greeted with a hiss and the smell of cooking oil. Edgar didn’t need to see the engine for himself to know that they were never going to catch the Wolseley now, but at least Lady Felicia was no longer sitting on his lap.
“Sid, can you fix it?” the Countess asked softly, her hand on her Chauffeur’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Lady and the crook would do something that would make Edgar ponder what the true nature of their relationship was.
“Probably. She’ll need to cool down first, and I don’t have the right tools. Needs a proper garage and some parts.” Carter shook his head.
“Does anyone actually know where we are?” Edgar asked. The sky above them was getting very dark all of a sudden. Night fell early now, it was the last day of October after all. The seemingly endless summer had given way to a dark autumn. A Halloween chill was creeping and Edgar could feel it through the thin soles of his shoes.
“I believe,” Father Brown said while pulling a map from the almost mythically deep pockets of his cassock, “we are just South of Chippenham.” He pointed vaguely up the road the Wolseley had disappeared.
“We’d better start walking then.” Sergeant Goodfellow smiled and nodded at the party.
“Surely we could just wait with the car?” Felicia looked dubiously at her heels as she spoke.
“I’ve gotta phone a garage, Milady. They’ll have to pick up the Rolls with a truck, and I ain’t leaving you out here on your own,” Carter told her, carefully closing the car's engine cover.
“Come along, your Ladyship,” Mrs. McCarthy added somewhat sarcastically, “a bit of a walk won’t harm you.” They started out in a rabble up the road, with Edgar walking behind them in a somewhat dejected manner. His mood had soured as he realised that losing Flambeau again was not going to do his promotional chances much good.

After they had walked for perhaps half an hour, the wind had started whipping at them with a ferocious crying howl. It bit deeply into their clothes. As they were dressed for a semi-formal fundraiser, they were unsuited for the now bitter night. Before long the speeding clouds brought a torrential downpour, soaking them completely, and the chill became a deadly concern. Edgar could feel the bitter cold seeping into his bones. He ground his teeth together to keep them from chattering. As the party became aware of the acuteness of their predicament, a huge set of iron gates became visible. Behind those iron gates, all the way at the end of a long drive, a gothic manor stood. It was lit with the sort of carriage lights that were popular in the previous century. It didn’t look particularly inviting, but it was a shelter. They didn’t discuss what to do next. No, without comment they made their way up the drive. The need for a refuge seemed to be their sole collective concern. The silence was only broken when they stood at the precipice of the threshold, just underneath the portico roof. The teeth Edgar had tried to keep quiet refused to keep still, but the noise seemed to be drowned out by the rain and the wind.

“Does anyone recognise this Manor?” Father Brown asked loudly, turning to the others in confusion. Even with his raised voice it was difficult to hear him.
“No?” Lady Felicia tilted her head to one side. “And I thought I’d been bored in every living room from London to Edinburgh.” A beat of silence passed before Carter scoffed, probably, it was impossible to hear. Though he did still give the building a wary look before he spoke. 
“Actually never seen this place in my life? Hey, Mrs. M, you know everybody?”
“Not this house, although we are quite away from Kembleford?” The whole group looked uncertain now, but did they really have any other options? Edgar would’ve voiced this thought if he didn’t fear that no one would be able to understand a word he was saying through his chattering teeth, the howling wind and pouring rain. 
“Well, hopefully they’ll at least have a phone.” Goodfellow smiled and stepped forward to the door.

As he rang the huge bell pull, a great knocking could be heard from the other side of the door. At the same time, Edgar felt a chill that didn’t seem to come from his damp clothes. The door opened, but there was no one waiting for them on the other side. The six of them stepped inside and looked around.
‘This place smells wrong,’ thought Edgar. ‘I hope we’ll be out of here soon.’ It really wasn’t the sort of place he wished to spend the night.

Chapter Text

Lady Felicia was awoken from her slightly fitful sleep by a pain in her chest. With her hand covering the place that hurt, she looked around the room she found herself in. It was the room she had picked for herself earlier in the night. Felicia imagined it must have been the Lady of the house’s boudoir. The bed had blue satin sheets and a matching velvet canopy, but something felt different. Something was off. A blue haze had settled around the room. Things that hadn’t been blue before were now blue too. The blue moonlight shone through the blue curtains. Her evening dress had become blue. No, she was no longer wearing her evening dress, she was wearing a blue nightgown. Her skin also looked blue and she was so cold.

Why could she never have something or someone warm to comfort her in the night? Where were her friends anyway? Why was she alone? Always alone… Cold blue alone… And then she SCREAMED!

Daniel was standing beside his bed,looking down at himself. Curiosity made him study himself. He had woken naked, if naked was the right word. His clothes were all certainly missing, but he wasn’t exactly bare. Instead he was entirely covered in fur. On the bright side he was rather toasty and warm, which was a bit of a relief after the wet cold of earlier in the night. There were certainly worse ways to wake up. It was also a rather long time since he’d had hair, so that was interesting as well. A pat on the top of his head confirmed that he didn’t have a bald spot in his fur there. 

He looked at his hands again. Well, he could no longer really call them hands, could he? What used to be his fingers had become a lot shorter, Daniel would struggle to hold a pen, and his nails had become long silvery claws. Paws would be a more accurate description now, he supposed. As he flipped his paw around he saw soft pads. They didn’t look dissimilar to a dog’s. How lovely. Wait, was he a dog now? No, dogs aren’t this big or quite this colour. He put a paw to his face, oh a muzzle and oh, what lovely ears. He was definitely struggling to stand up straight. His body seemingly wanted to be hunched over, which was rather odd. Neither bi-pedalism or being fully on all fours felt right to him. The posture he ended up with was something in between.

He sniffed the air, there were so many scents, so many smells, layers of smells. There was him, the room, the air inside, the window, the air outside, the old gate and a wet smell he couldn’t quite place. He could even smell Inspector Sullivan in the next room over, his familiar cologne wafting through the thin walls. The two of them had chosen rooms next to one another at the top of the first flight of stairs the night before. The idea had been that they would notice anyone coming up before they could get to any of the other rooms, protecting the others from anything that came in the night. Whatever or whomever had come and turned him into a wolf, they hadn’t expected and clearly neither of them had noticed anyone or anything doing it. He hadn’t done a brilliant job protecting any of their party then. Daniel decided that he should go and check on the others, starting with the inspector.

Daniel realised Sullivan must have had a similar thought, because when he opened his own door the Inspector’s bedroom door was opening as well. The sight of Inspector Sullivan’s outfit confused Daniel. The man always looked so dapper in his suits and ties, but his current wear was something else entirely. Dull coloured strings, puffy medieval clothes and a strange hat with three floppy corners. Daniel supposed whatever mischief had befallen him had also befallen the Inspector, but Sullivan wasn’t furry like him, he was almost wooden?

“Erm, Sir,” Daniel laughed and the Inspector turned in his direction. There was a moment when he could see the Inspector's eyes almost widen, before the man shouted and turned away. This was followed by a sprint down the corridor in the opposite direction, away from the stairs and Daniel. What could the Inspector have seen? Daniel sprinted after him. “Erm, Sir? Sir? Why are we running?”

Daniel’s head didn’t really want to turn far, so he couldn’t see what was behind them and making the Inspector flee. With the kind of running the Inspector was doing, Daniel wasn’t going to risk stopping to look at what it was either. The fact that the Inspector was occasionally looking back, turning his head at a degree Daniel was pretty sure he shouldn’t be capable of, and continuing to run, as well as the terrified look and rictus grin on the Inspector’s face was all Daniel needed to keep running. Daniel could also hear a strange tinkling sound as they ran. It was like the ringing of bells. Somehow whenever Daniel seemed to catch up with the Inspector, the man sprinted away faster. It was infuriating. If only the other man would answer his shouts: What are they running from and where are we going?

Ahead of them Daniel could see a hole in the wall, this place really was quite run down in places. It hadn’t looked this bad the night before. He certainly thought that he would have noticed huge gaping holes in the wall. As Sullivan leapt through the hole, Daniel tried to follow. However, he got caught by the edges, his body is too big. He couldn’t squeeze through and follow his boss. 

He watched as the Inspector picked himself up from the floor in strange jerky movements. His head once again turned around in a way that must be painful. On his face the same mask of rictus terror was still displayed. Sullivan grabbed the ends of his strange hat and kept running, the tinkling noise now gone. ‘How odd,’ Daniel thought, his hat was making that noise. 

Then he realised what was happening. “SIR, Don’t leave me!” he shouted while trying to claw himself through the hole. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how deeply his claws scratched into the wooden floorboards, the wall wouldn’t give. The stubbornly unyielding wall would strike Daniel as odd for the crumbling building, but he was too terrified about the prospect of being left behind to think about it. He couldn’t believe it. Never would he have imagined the Inspector just leaving him to his fate. 

Resigned, Daniel turned to face whatever horror was behind him, terror and confused betrayal still coursing through him, only to find nothing. The corridor behind him was empty. There was the hallway carpet, wooden panelling and heavy swirled ceilings. No living being beside Daniel. How odd… Perhaps the Inspector is unwell? Maybe whatever terror had visited him in the night had done more than change his clothes? Daniel better find another way to him and the others. He’d better check on the others. Who knew what could’ve happened to them? Sniffing the air, he picked up their scents, all of them. He turned back down the hallway in search of his prey.

Edgar stopped and tried to breath which was currently more of a habit than something he actually needed. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen. ‘What the fuck was that?’ his internal monologue screamed at him. That had been the biggest wolf, the biggest creature, Edgar had ever seen and it had chased him, snarling, growling and howling the entire time. 

He had once seen the Lions at London zoo and he had to his shame been rather scared of them. His Father had noticed this and had pushed him in front of the cage just as the alpha male had roared. Edgar would happily make that memory his nightly dream for the rest of his life if it meant he had to never see that wolf-beast again in any form. 

Talking of nightly dreams, what on earth was going on? When he had woken in this mad house his body had no longer been real. No longer was he made of flesh and bone. He was now made of something else: wood. Edgar had left his room to try and ground himself back to some semblance of reality and had immediately been accosted by that monster. Dear God, what was that thing? 

Perhaps he should have never left his room, stayed in the confines of that circus of horrors. However, if he’d done that, then the beast may have come into his room, and he would have had nowhere to run between the hall of mirrors, the ballpit bed and brightly coloured harlequin ceiling. He was sure that the room hadn’t looked like that when he’d agreed to try and sleep within it. He couldn’t imagine any sane person being able to sleep in there.

The benefit, if it could be called that, of his non-body was that he wasn’t able to get out of breath. He was pretty sure he wasn’t breathing at all. No matter how much he tried to gulp at air, there were no lungs to inflate. His body seemed to be made of solid wood, no muscles or flesh to become weak. The dead sprint he had kept up for several minutes hadn’t even tired him. It was odd, considering how used he was to the aches of his body after a workout. It did mean that he could keep running if the beast came for him again. That thought did make Edgar wonder what the beast would even want from him. There was no flesh to tear from his bones, he was fucking Pinnochio.

Edgar looked at the strings on his wrists the best he could. This form lacked the appropriate joints to bend his arms around, so he was only capable of looking at the outsides of his wrists. That was where the strings came out anyway, straight through his wooden arms. At least it didn’t hurt, Edgar imagined that if he had nerves and tendons, he would be screaming in pain right now. Looking down further, he saw the strings coming out of his feet. It was a miracle he hadn’t tripped on them. His feet no longer bent when he ran or walked, instead they hit the floor flatly with a strange slapping. How he could move at all while his strings were unattached and he had no muscles was a mystery. A Mystery his primary school teacher had never answered when he asked in class how Pinocchio moved.

As if being a cursed marionette wasn’t bad enough, he was wearing the get up of a jester. His outfit even had bells on the hat. It smelled old of damp and dust and somehow, despite the lack of flesh or nerves, it itched as if powdered. The memory of his skin crawled at having to wear it. He looked again at his cut strings and then continued to walk along the hallway, nothing looked familiar. Their brief investigations earlier in the night had revealed nothing that looked like this. It was as if the house had taken on completely different dimensions while Edgar had slept. 

He felt that it was ironic he was a free marionette, a being that somehow escaped from the strings controlling him, where in his mind he was still controlled by his father. No matter what he did, Walter Sullivan was controlling him from a distance. If only he could cut those strings, but that would mean leaving his mother as well. Leaving her alone in her own nightmare wasn’t something he could do. He had come to Kembleford to avoid his Father pulling on his strings, but he couldn’t believe that he had actually succeeded in doing so. The strings seemed just as taut as they had been in London. 

Edgar wanted to scream again, and his brain told him to let it out, but then the beast and whatever other monsters might be lurking in this house of horrors may hear him. On top of that he really didn’t like the way his mouth slid open, with his painted lips in a permanent grin. The feeling was all wrong. How was he supposedly screaming without lungs and, assumingly, vocal chords? What kind of creepy marionette had a mouth that opened anyway? He scolded himself, why was he trying to make sense of any of this? What sense could be made when he had demonstrably become a living doll overnight? That in itself should have been impossible.

Felcia watched the enormous wolf that was once Sergeant Goodfellow sniffing the floor. What scent was he trying to track with his new snout? The sergeant was unrecognizable, nothing about the wolf resembled the man he once was. Well, his fur seemed to be a similar colour to the hair the man used to have before going bald. Felicia only recognised him by his essence, something inherently them at their core, beyond their physical forms. No matter how good his nose was now, he wouldn’t be able to smell her. Her incorporeal form had no smell.

‘The good Sergeant is so well named,’ Felicia thought. She knew that even in this bestial form, his wife and children would still adore him, love him unconditionally. His family is so warm and kind, just like him, so resolutely good. 

But Felicia never got to have her own family. She had so many siblings, so many nieces and nephews, more God children than she could remember, and not a single baby of her own. Her inability to carry a child had driven her beloved husband from her arms. Most days she was left all on her own by him. It was unfair, why couldn’t she have a loving family of her own, people to hold in her arms, to be part of? As Goodfellow turned and spotted her, a curious look on his muzzle, she opened her mouth and SCREAMED.

Sid woke up hungry, which wasn’t massively unusual. He was used to feeling hungry, but he’d eaten before they decided to sleep. There had been bread and cheese in the kitchen they’d found because Sullivan had made a fuss about exploring the mansion before sleeping. There had also been apples and other fruits. He’d felt a bit sick from overeating when he’d gone to bed, but now he was ravenous. 

Sid climbed out of the bed, which now smelled weird and earthy. This was odd because he’d been quite happy when he’d found the little cosy room attached to Lady F’s big one. It had been significantly cleaner and cosier than his caravan, but now it was leaving a strange taste in his mouth. 

His uniform buttons caught on the ripped sheets, which was another odd thing because he was sure he took his jacket off with his boots when he went to sleep. In fact, he thought he’d stripped his wet uniform completely. Surely he wouldn’t have slept in this filthy bed in his uniform. 

These thoughts were momentarily pushed from his mind as his stomach grumbled. Hunger pangs like those he had when he was a child let themselves be known. He scratched his ear with long nails he was sure he had trimmed recently and felt gritty. Then Sid looked down at his uniform which had become torn and dirty. His knees and elbows showing, again he remembered being a little kid, a time when his clothes always looked a bit like this. He wondered what could possibly have happened. Lady F was going to kill him. 

Sid looked around and realised he was already in the hallway. There was no memory in his head of leaving the room. The thick carpet under his bare feet felt almost slimy under his toes. This meant that he hadn’t even put his boots on! Returning to his room to get them was not an option, he was too hungry. The wood panelled walls seemed to narrow in at him, narrow like his stomach, his empty stomach. He needed to find food, maybe he could find the kitchen again. Mrs. M always said he was food motivated. Maybe if they refused to feed him at the police station, he wouldn’t get arrested so often. When was the last time he ate again? It couldn’t be mere hours ago. He was so hungry. He felt cavernous, empty, hollow, hungry. 

He had snacks in the Rolls. He always had snacks in the Rolls. Where had they gone? Why hadn’t he eaten them all when they were still by the Rolls? Or he should’ve taken them with him. He was so hungry. 

The stairs seemed to come up towards him, even as he descended. He really was hungry. Everything was becoming distorted like when he was a kid, the nightmares he had on an empty stomach, those clenching clawing pangs. The stairs creaked and cracked like his own empty bones and joints. His stomach caved in like the walls here. Had they been like that the night before? He felt so empty, so hollow.

He found himself at the back of the house. Maybe this was where the servants’ stairs were. Servants’ halls always had snacks, at least they had at the Montague Manor. Wasn’t he looking for the Rolls? That full heavy ladened Rolls? Wouldn’t that be at the front of the house? This was the back. He was in an empty glass room. A huge, empty, hollow glass orangery, cold and empty as he himself. There was an open door and a smell. Something smelled good out there. Sid stepped onto cold, damp, cloying soil, his long toenails burying into the soil. His stomach rolling now in the clear night, the sounds emanating from it were deafening to him. He had to eat. All he could think about was food, food he could smell, so close, nearby. 

He put his hand out to the first thing he could see. It was cold marble, cold, carved marble. A gravestone. This was a graveyard. This wasn’t the friendly, slightly overgrown one by St. Mary's. This place was muddy, dark and overgrown. Green puddled water stagnated between the skeletal headstones and reflected the hungry moon. There was food here. All he had to do was dig. Food at last. Food under the soft wet soil. His knees hit the damp soil.

‘Wait, what? Corpses aren’t food,’ he thought while his claws dug through that soft, cold earth. His breath became ragged as all he thought of was food, hunger. Digging up graves, that's not good for sure, but the hunger was overwhelming. He’s never been this hungry before, even as a kid he’d eat every couple of days. Now he felt like he hadn’t eaten in forever. 

All he could think of was the corpse below him. He couldn’t eat a human. Surely, he has to stop digging up this grave. Eating a person is a terrible sin, worst thing he’s done. His hunger. Need outweighs sin right? There was a difference between stealing a loaf of bread and eating a juicy human finger. His claws brushed the casket, scratching clawing until the old wood split and he could smell the body inside of it.

His hunger reached fever pitch as Sid smashed into the coffin. This was so wrong. He’d rather starve than eat a human corpse, but he already had starved, he was beyond that. This was all the food he had. Bodies need to be complete, that's what Father taught, so that they can rise whole when the end times come. He can’t eat them. He even buried Mr. Croker’s leg so that he could have it back at the end of time. ‘EAT,’ his brain demanded, ‘CONSUME’. The child's body was so small and delicate. Her arms escaping the winding sheet, looking so peaceful and TASTY. Tears mixed with the grime and blood on Sid’s face as he perched inside the casket, hunched over the tiny body. His claws ripped at the arms. ‘It’s rank, it’s disgusting, it’s horrific, it’s delicious,’ he thought as his teeth bit through flesh, bone and cloth. It's decayed, it’s rank, it's all he wants. His head was empty of anything except for hunger and satisfaction.

The room Father Brown had chosen to sleep in had been basic, small and comfortable. A small single bed in an old servants room was all he had really needed. It had had a serviceable sink and a tiny window overlooking the roof. However, the chamber he had awoken in was completely different. He had once been in the Earl’s bedroom at Montague to collect donations for the church poor and this room was at least twice the size. The thick, plush carpet that his feet disappeared into was dark red and the huge fireplace with roaring fire lit the room with flickering flame. The huge crimson damask bed called to Father Brown, come and lie on me, rest in my silken sheets, cover yourself with my heavy brocade, luxuriate, sleep, dream, want, need, LUST? He shook his head, fascinated at where his train of thought had gone. ‘What had been in that cheese?’ he wondered. 

As he walked around the room to study it more, he found himself in front of a huge gold and opulent mirror. The reflection that looked back at him was not the one he had grown used to over the years. His eyes were pitchblack, his skin had taken a rouged teint and tiny red horns had sprung from his temples. Interestingly, his hair, once thinning and grey, was now thick curly and back to being the same red he remembered from his youth. He tugged at it, untousling a curl. Then he released it and watched it spring back. The action brought back memories of his first, innocent girlfriend. She had done the same thing that one summer before the War when they had discovered the joys of kissing each other breathless down by the river instead of attending catechism class. 

His attention shifted down to the cassock he was wearing. It was rather odd that even in this dream he was still dressed like a priest. It didn’t really fit with the whole demonic look. A dark, three piece suit would’ve fitted his now much slimmer waist better. Where had that young man gone, hidden under this cassock all this time?

The little horns at his temples felt rough to the touch. They were curled and curved like those of the goats he’d seen while hiking in Switzerland in between the wars. Father Brown stuck out an experimental tongue to reveal the curved black fork of a snake, how very thorough his subconscious was being. There was even a swish swish behind him from a pointed, scaled tail. 

It was very interesting that his mind had portrayed him as a demon from hell. The psychological process that led to this fascinated Father Brown. Not that it was theologically possible for a human to become a demon, but dreams didn’t need to be theologically possible. Perhaps, if given the choice, he would have followed Lucifer had he been an angel. He did chafe under the thrall of Bishops much like Lucifer had under the Lord Almighty afterall. He’d like to think that under the love of the Lord God Almighty, he would have felt less restricted. That he would have stayed loyal. There was no way to know for sure though. Maybe the lure of freedom and free will, the lure of agency, would have tempted him to Fall. Lucifer’s aim had never been to be evil. He had wanted the power to follow his own path. Wanted God to listen to him, for Him to see Lucifer. The want for respect was something that Father Brown understood in spades.

What he could do if he wielded such power. Even in his little domain of Kembleford so much could change. With power he could get Police Detectives to listen to him before there was even a murder to investigate; his warnings would be heeded.

Perhaps if he had gone to Cambridge as he had wanted to before the War had stripped him of all choice and dignity, things would’ve gone differently. Canon Fox often lauded those credentials over him haughtingly and if Father Brown had had his own, he might’ve gotten further up the church ranks as well. Maybe he would have been a Bishop himself, living lavishly in a Palace. Or perhaps that would just be a gilded cage like this palatial room with no more substance than a pie crust. 

It was the original sin Father Brown always craved. People often misunderstood, Eve’s failing was not to disobey God’s law, but to seek knowledge beyond His ordinance. Perhaps if he were to throw his lot with Lucifer, he could seek knowledge beyond this sceptred isle. He could travel the world to seek out new mysteries to solve. The crimes would have higher stakes. Maybe even with Flambeau at his side. The Master Criminal could provide contacts to the greater underground world. Untied to the Parish, they could help people around the globe. That would bring fame and notoriety with actual credit for the crimes he solved. Newspaper articles would be written about their exploits. Father Brown smiled at himself in the mirror, his cassock now a sharp suit, and gave himself a wink. He would earn actual money and would no longer need to live in a Presbytery that was held together with prayer, luck and whatever Sid could scrounge. 

His thoughts abruptly moved to Sid. Sid, who used to be a tiny, wide eyed, underfed child. The promise Father Brown had made to keep him safe from harm had sadly somewhat been broken. With money he could set him up with a proper job, pay for the education the child never managed to finish and bridge the gap between the boy's talents and resources. With money he could pay back Mrs. McCarthy’s steadfast loyalty and love with a nice long retirement. No longer would she have to break her back trying to help him, if she had other people running around to look after her for a change. All the while he and Flambeau could be showing the world how clever they really were.

Breathe… This wasn’t the real world. Air returned to his lungs as Father Brown shook away the visions of hot Spanish hillsides and stormtossed sailing vessels. That wasn’t how the world is. Father Brown made his vows and he could never leave his flock. He could never leave the people he loved and who depended on him. 

With one last look at himself in the mirror he turned to look at the enormous carved bed with its heavy damask that he had risen from. ‘Maybe one temptation could be taken,’ offered the voice in his head. Could you nap in a dream? Well, there was only one way to find out. The suit Father Brown was wearing turned into satin pajamas as he climbed up into the plush pillows and let himself fall into the soft mattress.

Felicia watched him digging away at the grave with his claws, her Sidney. He had taken the servant’s room adjacent to the room she had chosen, but that was not where he was now. No, he was outside in a graveyard. Even with his face sunken in like those prisoners of war from the German camps, looking like he hadn’t eaten properly in years, he was still recognisable. She had seen him hungry before, watched him devour hors d'oeuvres when he thought she couldn’t see, but this was something else, something grotesque. His Uniform was torn and filthy, hanging from his skeletal frame, and she supposed she should be angry, cross, scold him for that, tut like Mrs. McCarthy when he dragged mud into her kitchen. But how could she when he was usually so fastidious with his uniform? Protective even, it was always so clean. 

Oh, how free that man always seemed, free in mind and body. Every day was a new adventure for him. He might claim to work as her driver, but he was always free to turn down her jobs, not that he did so lightly. She always thought she could rely on him, however unreliable people warned her he was, but he was free to make his own decisions. This was a freedom she had never had. People always judged her and, unlike for Sid, these judgements mattered to her. She wasn’t allowed to marry where she wanted with whomever she wanted, people could and would have objected. Why could she not be free, why was she never allowed to be free? Anger sears through her, welling up inside, and as Sid turns to look at her, he must have seen her coming closer from the corner of his eye, she SCREAMED!

In the dark damp space below the manor stood a cavernous kitchen, whose great stone fireplace could incorporate the entire kitchen of the Kembleford Presbytery. In ancient times gone by, whole lives could be spent inside that fireplace. Boys would turn meat and animals would feed, little girls would sleep and old women would work, whole trees would disappear into the roaring flames and whole castles worth of food would be stored and prepared. Tonight Bridgette stood alone, bent haggard over the bubbling cauldron while stirring with a wave of her gnarled hand. The great ladle glared blankly back at her with human features as if it still held the life once snuffed out of it. 

She couldn’t help cackling, her potion was going perfectly. The power was crinkling, sparkling and crackling under her skin, the magic literally pouring from her fingers. It made her feel powerful in a way she could never remember being. Such agency. The intoxicating feeling that she could do literally anything. With a pointed finger she gave the cauldron a blast of her unadulterated power. The potion flashed with power and a screaming head of steam rose from the pot. A good bit of oompf. Oh, how much easier it was with magic burning through her veins, than trying to add a bit of chilli powder to her stews and pies at the Presbytery just to add flavour to the rationed offerings.

The stone walls running with slime seemed to reflect the very way she was feeling, almost laughing with her. Their ectoplasmic glow bolstered her, if only she always felt like this, powerful, untouchable, free. Shelves around the room contained vials and bottles of ingredients literally dancing for her attention, hoping to be part of her spell. 

With a hand out behind her she could fulfill every wicked desire she had. Not a drop spilled to be cleaned up with an aching back. That annoyance could be removed with a flick of the wrist and an order to the ether. 

A cat with fur as black as night and eyes like the full moon at midnight entwined with her ankles. Mrs. McCreedy, her own fat lazy tabby at home, was a world away from this familiar. Its silky fur made from the same magic that ran through her, its thoughts a mirror of her own. She couldn’t even get Mrs. McCreedy to catch mice, this creature, Anwyn, would even catch the very souls living inside every human if she asked.

Bridgette remembered some of this potion from her own grandmother, the tiny eye of newt she added to her shepherds pie had never failed to tempt Father Brown and Blind worms sting had, unbeknownst to Sid, been added to many of the drinks she had made him after his injuries and falls. These were the country spells every goodwife knows. The more exotic ingredients, however, would really entice children. Adder's Tooth and dragons scale for the sweet perfume to draw them near. The whispers of Queen hives and Mortification Root… Well, Sid could never resist them either. She would fatten them up and what a feast she’d have. 

It had been a sisyphean task to try to get any meat on her boy’s bones, but with this new power she was bound to succeed with any other boy. Without having to contend with rationing, and the ability to keep them from running off into the woods at the slightest sniff of fresh air, fat, succulent children would be just the ticket. Then she could put the little darlings in the enormous range oven and, oh, her mouth almost watered at the thought. She’d never cooked a human before and Bridgette wondered what they would be like. 

Inspector Sullivan was walking so cautiously, his darling little hat in his hands as he held the ends to stop them jingling. Felicia glided along, following him while staying in the corner of his vision. He was dressed as a medieval jester, a harlequin, a fool, but that's not what he was. His arrival is never the lead up to a good laugh. It is quite the opposite really. The man is a crime solver, not a joke maker. Felicia struggles to think of a moment where he wasn’t serious. With a career like his, one must be.

A career was something she was never allowed to have either. No, women of her station were supposed to stay at home, stay pretty, decorative as she had once been accused of being. Art she could dabble in, but a proper job was not something she was allowed to have. A figurehead for local charities, but never the secretary. She was never allowed to be successful at something, unlike the Inspector. He was a successful policeman, young, handsome and with rank. It was unfair, why was she not allowed to shine in some career she chose? Inspector Sullivan finally spotted her, his head turning all the way around as she SCREAMED!

Edgar found himself outside the manor and he didn’t enjoy the series of events that had gotten him there. It had been after another bout of fleeing from the wolf. Everywhere he tried to hide from the creature it would appear as if hunting him down. This time he had escaped by crawling through a small window which, of course, had led outside.

With his continuous struggle to evade the wolf on his mind, Edgar looked up at the blackened and twisted trees that had skeletally bare limbs stretching out towards the house. It really completed the whole horror house look the place was going for. Then a thought popped into his mind: ‘Wolves can’t climb trees right?’ 

He hurried over to the fog bound graveyard, his mission locked in. It was chilling to look at the place, but the Inspector was beyond caring. There it was, a tree that was tall but climbable. The moment Edgar spotted it, he knew that this was his best chance. 

Then he saw something move beside the tree and he realised it was another horrific creature. “Fuck, no,” Edgar cried out before he could catch himself. The creature evidently heard him as it turned to look up. Terror coursed through his non-existent veins and made Edgar freeze. His eyes were fixed on the creature’s hollow cheeks and the look of hunger in its eyes before he realised something. 

“Carter?” The petty crook looked just plain wrong. With horror Edgar noticed that Carter had what appeared to be a bone in his mouth and that the man was standing in a grave. Edgar could see the turned over soil, the broken coffin and the lopsided stone. The implications of what Carter was up to were rather chilling. 

“Is that a human bone?” he asked with morbid curiosity. The monster that was Carter ignored him however. Instead he just went back to the grave, pulling at the mess inside the broken coffin. “Carter?” The reply Edgar got this time was a grunt and nothing else. “Strange night, right?” Edgar tried and received another grunt for his pains. “Carter, what are you doing?”

“Food!” came the mumbled reply. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t comforting, but it was something. Beside everything that was going on, it was also rather unsettling to see the usually chatty man so quiet.

“Why are you eating bones?” Edgar asked, unable to stop himself staring down at the scene.

“Hungry,” Carter replied. Edgar had noticed that the man did look much leaner than he had the night before. The crook had never been a corpulent man, but he was almost skeletal now. His looks were scarily familiar to those poor jews in the German concentration camps. 

Edgar stepped a little closer. The closer he was, the worse the chauffeur looked. What was more important though was that he appeared to be completely unconcerned by Edgar. In fact, he seemed to be disinterested in anything but the remains he was eating. It was horribly disturbing, but it meant that Edgar was in no danger from him. With the climbable tree right next to them, Edgar decided that he would stay with Carter for now. They might have never gotten along and the man was mostly ignoring Edgar, but his presence still made him feel less alone in this nightmare.

“Carter, I’m just going to sit down here,” he tried, but, unsurprisingly, got no response. As he sat between the tree and the fallen gravestone, he tried not to dwell on the scene in front of him.

Daniel was tracking his Inspector. Sniff sniff sniff, his scent was clear and easy to track sandalwood aftershave which had become actual sandalwood. However, Daniel was concerned. Every time he found Sullivan, he ran away screaming. All Daniel wanted to do was help him. It was clear that the inspector was in serious distress. Why wouldn’t he let him help? 

Following the scent to the graveyard, Daniel picked up another scent. This one was corrupted more than the Inspector’s somehow. It sort of smelled like Mr. Carter; Engine Oil and Gold Leaf Tobacco, but also an undercurrent something like the rot of the old sheds on the allotments, or a badger left decomposing on the side of the lane. Certainly a concerning mix of smells. It would be good if the Inspector found Mr. Carter, then they would be together. They should all be herded together, that's safe. In truth, they should probably have shared rooms whenever possible. Why hadn’t he had that thought when they were choosing rooms? Well, the past couldn’t be changed, but Daniel could try to get them together now.

Daniel looked up to see headstones. With another sniff of the air, more rot, he confirmed that the scents had led him to a graveyard. Not that far ahead of him he saw something moving in one of the graves. Getting a little closer, Daniel saw that it was Mr. Carter digging. He knew that Mr. Carter sometimes helped with digging graves at St. Mary’s, but it was the middle of the night. What was he doing there so late? Looking around for more context only revealed the Inspector sitting on the next grave over. Never mind what was going on, he had found them both!

“Hello inspector, Mr. Carter,” Daniel shouted, overjoyed to see them safe. He even raised a paw in greeting. Mr. Carter turned as the Inspector stood, his wooden grin still fixed in place. With a smile Daniel approached, but the reactions he got in response were not what he was expecting. Well, Inspector Sullivan backing away wasn’t entirely surprising as his boss had been avoiding Daniel every time he found him, but the snarl Mr. Carter produced wasn’t something Daniel could’ve predicted. Sidney Carter was always friendly to Daniel, even when being arrested. Why was everyone acting so oddly? Daniel couldn’t make sense of it and it was getting more and more upsetting.

As Daniel got closer still, Mr. Carter climbed out of the grave. The mischief maker used his huge spindly claws to gain purchase on the side of the hole he was in and bared his frighteningly sharp and gory fangs. It was only then that Daniel really saw the changes that had befallen the young man. His head seemed huge on his skeletal frame, his skin was tinged with an unnatural mottle and his usually pristine uniform looked like it had been rotting for a good while. Daniel stopped his approach, these changes didn’t seem like they had done Mr. Carter any good.

“Are you alright, Mr. Carter, Sid?” Right in front of Daniel, Mr. Carter took on a threatening stance. With his body hunched over the grave and his claws and teeth out, he looked ready to attack at any moment.

“Calm down, please. There is no need for this.” Over the years Daniel had seen enough aggressive animals and violent prisoners to know that he would get attacked if he stepped any closer. With that thought in mind, he put his paws out in slight supplication. However, Daniel was at a bit of a loss as to what he was supposed to do now. “Inspector?” Daniel asked, turning his attention to his boss. Disappointingly, Inspector Sullivan didn’t respond, just like every other time Daniel tried to communicate. Instead the man crouched behind Mr. Carter.

Watching the interplay and trying to give a positive spin to the situation, Daniel supposed that at least Inspector Sullivan didn’t seem to be threatened by Mr. Carter. He couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with them both. At least they are together? That was a good thing, right?

‘Perhaps,’ he thought while backing off further, ‘if I can find some of the others, they might be able to help me with the Inspector and Sid.’ In the meantime, he hoped that they would be safe enough in each other's dubious company. He backed away further, knowing that he shouldn’t turn his back on Mr. Carter until he is well out of range of a sudden attack. 

Edgar had watched the wolf and Carter snarl and growl at each other from his perch next to Carter, ready to scramble up the tree at any moment. The confrontation had surprised him, Carter hadn’t reacted to him in the same way as he had done to the wolf. The response to the wolf had been immediate and aggressive. ‘Perhaps,’ he reasoned, ‘I am no longer flesh. Maybe his lack of reaction is related to that?’

What had surprised him even more was that the wolf had just left, walking backwards as if scared of the man in the grave. There had been no actual violence, no fighting at all, just posturing. This implied that the wolf saw itself as weaker than Carter, which meant that monstrous Carter trumped wolf.

Unless it was something else… Perhaps the beast wasn’t even a wolf at all, but something else. It walked a little like a gorilla, there was something apelike about it. Edgar hadn’t noticed this before as he had been too busy being chased to notice much of anything, but now he had had the chance to observe it. Maybe it was a werewolf? Considering he himself was some kind of haunted marionette, a ghastly Pinocchio impersonator, and Carter was, well whatever the creature slobbering over the corpse next to him actually was, a werewolf wasn’t such a strange thought after all.

Carter being able to scare off the werewolf, while seeming to be completely unconcerned by Edgar himself, was an interesting development. Carter was clearly no danger to Edgar, which meant that if he stayed near him, Carter could chase off anything that might want to go after Edgar. The reason why Carter had chased of the wolf and not him still somewhat eluded him, but it wasn’t really important.

He settled back between the tree and gravestone once more, reasoning that being with this weird and disturbing version of Carter is the better of two evils. He really preferred the scary and disturbing Carter who could keep wolves at bay, literally, over having to run from a werewolf over and over again. He had been getting very tired of running for his life. Physically he could keep it up with his lack of muscles that could tire, but getting terrorised constantly was mentally exhausting. This really wasn’t what he imagined spending private time with Sidney Carter outside the station might look like, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Felicia looked down at Father Brown sleeping peacefully in the huge bed. The skin on his face was red, horns sprouted from his temples and a slight sardonic smile curled his lips. How could he be slumbering in such contentment when he no longer looked as he should?

How could he descend into the evil he had dedicated his life to protecting others from and yet be here at rest with himself? How could he be so sure of himself, of who he is that he can sleep without a care in the world? Father Brown always knows who he is, always seems so happy with his life. Unlike Felicia, Felicia was never happy with herself, never looked at herself in the mirror with contentment. She hadn’t in a long time felt anything other than unfinished. Always questioning herself, wondering what could be better, what she could change, what she could hide and mask. Why could she never be content? She stepped closer to the bed reaching for the man in it and then SCREAMED, waking the Father in a shock.

Bridgette was cackling delightedly. Her cauldron bubbled away. The potion was so nearly finished when she heard the door creaking open. She turned, maybe it would be a nice fat juicy child. Now that would be some good luck. 

A large hairy paw and then a fuzzy muzzle appeared. A big bad wolf, not a child. How disappointing. Oh, wait, it’s not just a wolf, it’s a werewolf. She gave it a harsh evil-eye. This wolf she knew she realised. It was Sergeant Goodfellow. No evil intent in any bone of his body, but he’s far too big for her still room. Even in his human form, she’s seen him fall over his big feet. Never mind the kind of clumsy mishaps he could get up to in this form. Such a mishap could not happen now, not at such a crucial moment in her brewing process. Anwyn had his heckles raised now, hissing and spitting at the wolf. 

“Oh hush, you silly cat,” Bridgette shushed. “Sergeant Goodfellow is no threat.” Her statement was immediately followed by a hard look in his direction. “UNLESS HE STEPS ANY FURTHER! STOP RIGHT THERE, SERGEANT” Her voice was hoarse as she shrieked. With a flick of her wrist her broomstick flew across the room and stood, shaking slightly, sentinel at the door. “I can’t have you in here when my potion is so close to completion, Sergeant. I need to attract the kiddies,” she told him, looking up at his slightly confused face. “OH SHOO!” He pulled his head back at her scolding shout. The broom chased the Sergeant out of the room. Bridgette shook her head and went back to her potion.

‘Bone, nice bone, juicy bone.’ he thought as he was nearly done with his most recent chew piece.

“You know, grave robbing is illegal,” said Noisy Stick, “and so is desecrating a body.” The exact meaning of the words were lost on him, but something inside him told him that Noisy Stick wanted him to stop eating.

‘Noisy Stick take food? Like big wolf? BAD NOISY STICK’ He growled at Noisy stick.

”Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.” Noisy Stick moved back to his spot. 

‘Good, Noisy Stick no real danger. Oooh, this bone nice! Yummy.’

Where else would Mrs. M be but hunched over a cauldron when Felcia appeared? Even changed into something monstrous, she was cooking. Felicia can’t cook, Mrs. M mocks her for it all the time. She gently ribs her every chance she gets, tells her she can’t even make a cup of tea. Every Christmas Felicia is relegated to peeling sprouts when even Sid is trusted to boil vegetables. She says nothing about it, but it always stings. 

Felicia was taught to bake at finishing school, and she used to make her and Monty toast in their London Flat during the war. Just because she wasn’t whipping up a shepherd’s pie from nothing didn’t mean she was completely useless. Anyway, she’s good at sports. Why was she never allowed to be self-sufficient? Why does she always have to rely on others? ‘It’s not done for a Lady to be in the kitchen,’ says the nagging voice in the back of her head. It’s not fair. Mrs. McCarthy sees her out of the corner of her eye and turns as if to scold her once again and Felicia SCREAMED!

Daniel followed Father Brown's scent this time. His claws tapped on the polished wooden floor of the hall as he carefully made his way up the carved stone staircase. The manor had lost all architectural style coherency during the night as these stairs seemed more medieval than anything he had seen up to that point. It was easier to walk if he used his front paws as well. Maybe he was getting a little tired, he had been moving around the manor and its grounds all night after all. 

It had been a long night trying to get the Inspector to stop running and then that whole strange scene with Mr. Carter happened. Daniel was also pretty sure that he had spotted Lady Felicia in the corner of his eye before he had heard that loud scream. At least Mrs. McCarthy seemed to be perfectly content on her own. She alone had called him Sergeant, although she also chased him with her broom which was somewhat upsetting. She had seemed much smaller somehow, definitely rounder and greener than he remembered. Having never seen her with her hair down, Daniel had been surprised it fell almost to her waist. Her seemingly happily cooking had bolstered Daniel’s mood slightly as it showed that some things had stayed the same, that not everything was confusing and strange.

As he followed the Father’s scent to the far end of the corridor, away from the room he had slept in, he found a slightly ajar door and he nosed his maw inside. The room was opulent. The beautiful red and mahogany furnishings, gilt mirrors and fittings and other refurbishments made the room absolutely drip with luxury. 

The smell in the room was odd, Father Brown mixed with sulphur. It was also rather warm and toasty. Daniel sniffed the room, trying to locate the man. It was not his nose that revealed where Father Brown was, but his ears. A snore reverberated from the bed where a lump indicated a sleeping body.

“Oh, that's nice.” Father Brown was fast asleep and as Daniel quietly approached he saw the changes that had happened to the priest. It seemed that Daniel wasn’t the only one who had had a hair miracle, ginger hair that had turned white years ago had returned. The priest looked so much younger, but something seemed off about the shade of his skin. The little horns were also new. Oh, he had become a devil, odd. Daniel wondered if any of them had remained unchanged. Lady Felicia had just screamed at him and vanished in a blue haze, not giving Daniel enough time to really study her. 

Maybe he really was tired. Perhaps if he stayed here in the warmth of Father Brown's room, he could guard him. Like a good boy. That sounded like a good plan. He yawned and pawed himself up onto the huge bed, curling around himself below the Father’s feet, head tucked under his paws, and fell asleep.

Hercule had in deference to the sensibilities of the good Father parked the Police Car safely, if somewhat ironically, in the old barns behind the Red Lion Public House where if nothing else he knew one young man who had a habit of sleeping off his worse excesses there. How delightfully funny would it be if Sidney Carter was the one who found the Inspectors stolen car. 

A little wicked chuckle passed Hercule’s lips at that thought as he nonchalantly followed the winding path through the village green and availed himself of the back entrance to the Kembleford Presbytery. Once inside he readied to reveal himself to Father Brown and his cohorts when they arrived. He had the perfect bon mot prepared for the moment he stepped out in his mind. Hopefully he would impress Father Brown. His chosen spot was behind the Father’s desk and he had propped his feet on top of it. The look he was going for was that effortless carelessness that actually took very long to perfect.

They were, however, all taking rather a long time. He had been rather disappointed when they had failed to catch up with him in the Rolls. That turn of events had forced his hand to leave clues en route, but perhaps that was for the best. The Father would have to come back to the Presbytery to think, which meant they could have their ‘confrontation’ without those pesky law enforcers butting in. It was getting rather dark though, which is surprising. It shouldn’t have been taking this long.

His reveries were disturbed by a knocking on the front door of the Presbytery. With paranoia born of years on the run he crept to the small portico window and stared. There was a small child on the doorstep. Curious, Hercule opened the door and stared. “Trick or treat,” the child cried, presenting a small basket to the master criminal. 

There was a moment where the thief stared before his brain caught up: it was Halloween. The tiny trickster was dressed in a green cloak with a mask that was clearly of their own design and creation, more scribble than demonic. Although with consideration, Hercule could see the approximation of horns and a nose. The artistry was actually quite impressive. His own remembrance of fright night was of children in their mothers lipstick and sheets. 

‘Oh shit,’ he thought, he needed to give the child something. “Un moment, ma cherie.” Shooting a smile to the child, he rushed to the kitchen where he grabbed the biscuit tin from the centre of the table. Then he returned and placed a biscuit in the child’s basket. Closing the door, his heart slowed back to normal. His lips curled into a smile, what a predicament. 

The door knocked twice more, revealing small children behind it, before Hercule had a realisation: a parent may very well accompany their little darlings and recognise him. He was going to need a disguise. His mind took a moment before it came to a conclusion. It was Halloween after all. 

The thief jogged up the stairs to where he knew from past adventures Mrs. McCarthy kept the Presbytery spare sheets in the toasty airing cupboard. From that cupboard he grabbed the first sheet on the pile and brought it downstairs. After fiddling in the kitchen drawers for a while, he found a pair of sewing scissors. Perfect. Two careful eyeholes were cut before he donned his frightful costume. A terrifying ghost, complete with delicate flowery trim.

After around an hour of constant door knocking the biscuits were running low which surprised Flambeau. Surely children shouldn’t trick or treat the Presbytery? Although, back when he was a child, the Dance Macabre was celebrated inside his family church. The priest would make marionettes of skeletons to the delight of the children. So, perhaps Father Brown indulged in this older form of Catholicism, or maybe it was just his natural fondness for children.

A number of the little darlings had also said: “Thank you Father.” which meant that his disguise was a success. Hercule had made a run to Father Brown's study and was now reduced to handing out sticky humbugs that the priest kept there.

After another fifteen minutes the humbugs had run out. A panicked search of the kitchen had given the Master Criminal a reason to celebrate though. He had discovered a tin of Mrs McCarthy’s award winning strawberry scones in the pantry. Hercule idly wondered if this discovery was somehow connected to the knocks on the door reaching a fever pitch. It must be, those little darlings couldn’t be conspiring against him. They wouldn’t do such a thing to the man they presumed to be their beloved priest surely. Though he wouldn’t be surprised if some were returning, he’d definitely seen that tall devil with the worryingly realistic tail and hooves two times already.

With the scones down, Hercule found himself cutting up a particularly fragrant dried salami that he had found in the fridge. There was definitely some sarcasm in the thank you’s now and the returning devil actually laughed at him placing the sausage inside with a forked tongue. Perhaps Hercule would’ve stopped in his stride upon seeing this if he wasn’t as stressed as he was. One witch loudly complained she’d only come for a scone. 

Surely, if they had known Halloween would be so busy, they would have put some treats aside for the kids. Mrs. McCarthy was, if anything, a resolute planner. She must have planned for this onslaught. 

Hercule had resorted to windfall apples from a basket by the pantry door before he leaned on the kitchen dresser and spotted the large autumnal decorated bowl covered in a teatowel. 

“Ah,” he said to himself after opening it and finding it full of peppermint creams. “Mon Dieu.” With a shake of his head he picked up the bowl.

Returning to his station by the door, he managed to hand a few of these dark chocolate treats out before, by some mysterious signal, the children stopped coming. The final visitor was the devil once more, who took a peppermint cream and patted Hercule on the shoulder.

“Got there in the end, mon ami,” he consoled before skipping off down Bell lane in a fog of sulphur.

Exhausted and with a false grin that had somehow become stuck on his lips, Hercule took his bowl upstairs. He deserved a nap after all this. All the way up to the attic he climbed to take advantage of the Father’s own bed. It smelled comfortingly of the man himself, and Hercule wished, as he fell into a quiet slumber, that the Priest himself was with him.

Chapter Text

In the weak morning light Bridgette thought everyone seemed to be acting rather oddly. In fact, only she and Father Brown seemed their usual selves at all. Nobody wanted to search for breakfast, not even Sid who could usually be relied on to hunt down food. It was clear nobody had quite a restful night. Sergeant Goodfellow seemed more of himself than perhaps the others, although even the good Sergeant seemed distracted. 
Bridgette couldn’t imagine what had happened to Inspector Suliivan but he was almost visibly quivering, spooked by any sound. He jumped every time someone entered the room. For the war hero policeman this was particularly jarring from his usual stoic demeanor. 
Her Ladyship was another curious case. Although Bridgette had seen her in this mood before, almost on the verge of tears, usually this mood passed as soon as she had an opportunity to play the great lady, or perhaps the little tart. However, this mood seemed far from the usual mercurial. With her make-up undone and her hair barely brushed through, the Countess looked morose. 
Beside her the usual source of her mirth and happiness was, however, a particularly dire case. Sid looked sick. He looked as if at any moment he would pass out or vomit, or both. Bridgette had never seen him look so sick, even when he was a child and ate a bushel of apples from the cellar and spent the whole following day in the bathroom, he’d still been cracking jokes. He couldn’t lift a smile even for Lady Felicia in his current state.
“I think we’d better be moving on,” Goodfellow suddenly announced and, unsurprisingly, they all agreed without further comment. If Bridgette was feeling of a romantic bent, she might say that they had rushed towards the front door. 
On the gravel drive in front of the mansion sat, glinting in the watery November sun, the Montague Rolls Royce. Seeming no worse for wear due to its adventure, it sat pristinely as if waiting for them.
“How the hell?” Sid started and then shook his head, dropping back into silence with a heavy breath.
“Lets check it over,” suggested Inspector Sullivan, “before we pile in. We don’t know why its arrived back here.” A look was thrown at the sweating chauffeur and then Sergeant Goodfellow. “Come on,” he said vaguely to both. Yet he seemed unsurprised when only his Sergeant followed him.
“Perhaps,” Father Brown started, “some kind soul managed to fix the car and brought it here….”
“This place is spooky. It’s so odd,” Lady Felicia added, shaking her head.
“I just want to go home.” A sigh passed Sid’s lips before he finally followed the policemen to the Rolls, propriety over the beautiful machine finally outweighing his desire to disappear into himself. After a few moments of conference, Sid slipped into the driver's seat and started the car. She purred to life and he stepped out again, panting and nodding. “She starts. Lets get out of here.”
“Sid,-” Father Brown came and put a hand to his shoulder. “-you do not look at all well. Do you think you're well enough to drive?”
Bridgette looked over at Lady Felicia who, although looking better than Sid, didn’t look great either. “Your ladyship, what is wrong?”
“I had an awful dream, that's all,” Lady Felicia told her while shaking her head. “Just an awful dream.”
“Oh.” Bridgette smiled. “Well, if that’s all. I had a strange dream as it happened. Although, mine was more whimsical than nightmarish.” A laugh almost escaped from her mouth. “You won’t believe this, but I dreamt I was a fairytale witch. Bubbling cauldron, green skin and even a beautiful, black cat familiar.” Lady Felicia just nodded a little wide eyed. “I really wanted to capture some children and cook them in the oven.” 
It was unfortunate that Sid and Father Brown came back into earshot at this point, because as she said it, Sid made an unholy gurgling noise and vomited liberally all over the gravel. Black cloying blood spilled thickly from his mouth. Bridgette flinched at the scream of horror that came from beside her. Having heard the sound, the policemen came hurrying over. Sid had fallen to his knees, coughing and retching. Silence hung in the air for a little while, even the Father had been stunned by this sudden turn of events.
“Christ,” Inspector Sullivan interjected, “he needs a hospital, straight away. That looks like internal bleeding.” The Inspector went to take the other man's pulse when Sid vomited again. “Goodfellow, you’ll have to drive.” He stopped talking for a moment when he looked at what Sid had regurgitated. “Is that a finger?” They all stared horrified at the mess on the gravel beside Sid.
“I saw him in a grave,” Lady Felicia said quietly. There was a stillness in her voice that sent a chill through them all. “I thought, surely it was a dream, but I saw you Mrs. M, exactly as you described your dream. I saw you as a witch above a bubbling cauldron with a black cat and wild hair.” Once Lady Felicia was done with her chilling revelation, she put her hand to her mouth.
“It was all real?” Inspector Sullivan stood up, shaking his head and taking a gasping gulp of hair as if proving he could. “I sat next to Carter for hours while he was… While he was doing… Well, that.” A single finger extended to point at the mess on the gravel, the actions it implicated too surreal to speak. “It was the only thing I could do to keep myself safe from that horrible wolf.”
“The wolf?” the Sergeant asked gently, “Sir, you were running away from me.”
“You were the wolf?” The Inspector looked confused. “Why were you chasing me?”
“But, Sir, didn’t you hear me talk?”
“I heard you growl and howl at me,” Inspector Sullivan protested. They stood almost face to face, confusion on both their faces. Bridgette also remembered Sergeant Goodfellow visiting her, but she had recognised him with the magic she’d had in that moment. She guessed that whatever transformation the Inspector had gone through, it hadn’t given him the ability to see beyond the physical form.
There was a general noise of agreement, and with Lady Felicia and Bridgette carefully holding Sid between them they carefully got back into the car. Placing Sid into the passenger seat beside Sergeant Goodfellow at his own request: “don’t want to have to clean the back if I vomit again”. Despite this change, the Rolls was almost laden the same as the day before, but this time there was an ominous silence in the vehicle. Nobody seemed interested anymore in how the car had become fixed, or how it had ended up in front of the manor.

As Sergeant Goodfellow drove back into Kembleford, the familiar and welcoming sight of the Red Lion’s swinging sign became visible. “Stop,” Sid said urgently
“Are you going to be sick again Mr. Carter?” Sergeant Goodfellow asked with worry in his voice.
“No, I need a bloody drink.” The car had barely come to a halt before Sid opened the door.
“SIDNEY!” Lady Felicia called as he slipped from the door and hurried with purpose towards the welcoming front door.
“It's alright, your ladyship, I can drive you back to the hall.” Sergeant Goodfellow turned to face her, smiling gently.
“Oh, good,” The Countess murmured, “I really could do with 40 winks. I’m not sure I actually slept at all last night.”
“I’ll send someone to collect you from the Montague manor shortly, Sergeant,” Inspector Sullivan said, shifting uncomfortably. “I really should go back to the Station. I’d forgotten we still had Flambeau on the loose in the area.” Sergeant Goodfellow nodded. Bridgette recognised the look he had on his face from his youth. The good Sergeant often felt the need to be useful and he had probably not been able to do anything about the situation last night. As Bridgette thought about it, he had probably come to check up on her and she had chased him away. The Inspector being scared of him would probably also be upsetting to the gentle giant. Helping Lady Felicia would probably solve the former of these two upsets. “I need to walk by myself.” Inspector Sullivan nodded. He looked desperate to get out of the car and have a moment to himself.

Edgar took a deep breath, Sidney Carter was on his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see the crook chewing on the greeny flesh of the dead child. The sound of crunching bones and the slurping noise that mouth had produced made Edgar want to vomit and shiver at the same time. Somehow it hadn’t been quite as real last night as it was now. Last night Edgar didn’t have a stomach to upset either. 
Sid Carter often ran through the policeman's mind as there was a neverending procession of minor crimes in Kembleford that he always suspected Carter of committing. The other man was always around, somewhere in the village, with his stupid handsome grin everywhere he turned. How was he supposed to face him having seen… that? How could he avoid him? 
Also, however bad Edgar’s night had been, he couldn’t imagine what Carter must be going through. Eating that… and then vomiting that. He had read the man’s criminal file. There had been some stuff in there that had given him pause. After the early life that the file had described, being driven to what he had done last night must also have brought up some old memories.
How was he ever going to sleep again? How were any of them supposed to sleep again? 
Their whole understanding of reality had been fractured beyond repair. They had somehow become creatures of the night, something that should be impossible. How is he supposed to go and keep law and order when nothing makes sense anymore? “Oh Crap.” Edgar still had to try to catch Flambeau. Not that he believed it to be likely, the master thief was probably halfway across the country by now.

The Rolls pulled up outside the Presbytery and Father Brown peered at it. He was happy to see that at least his home had remained untouched by the night's events. There had been an unquiet feeling in his wham that some hellish mischief might have befallen it. 
To keep the others from worrying he plastered on a beatific smile while Mrs. McCarthy fussed over Lady Felicia. He stepped out of the car and held open the door for Mrs. McCarthy to follow him. The Kembleford air seemed clean, fresh and somehow innocent. The light drizzle that was just starting seemed to almost wash away the memories of the Manor.
“I didn’t expect to be away overnight,” Mrs McCarthy fussed next to him as the Rolls drove off. "All those treats I made.”
“Ah, well, Mrs. McCarthy, I’m sure they’ll find a good home,” he said, opening the front door and being slightly surprised to find his hallway not as neat as he’d expected. Walking past him and towards the kitchen, Mrs. McCarthy shrieked in shock. Father Brown nodded and said: “It seems we’ve had a visitor?” By the end of the sentence he had joined her in the kitchen.
“A visitor? We’ve been burgled!” Mrs. McCarthy exclaimed.
“Well, it was Halloween, perhaps this is just some mischief?” Father Brown spoke as he overturned the fruit bowl and put the teapot back on the shelf. “Nothing seems to have been broken?” 
At least he could be sure that this hadn’t been Sid on a hunger induced bender. As the young man was brought to the forefront of his mind, his heart ached slightly. Father Brown shouldn’t have let him go off on his own, not after what he’d been through. However, knowing from experience, Sid could only be helped when he was ready. He was resistant to all help unless necessary. The boy was sometimes as wild as a maverick. 
“All that seems to be missing is food?” Mrs. McCarthy told him, bringing him back to the here and now.
“Um, yes,” he agreed, keeping quiet about the small stash of humbugs that had gone missing from his office. “Maybe we should search the rest of the house, just incase.” Sid was still haunting the back of his mind and thus this being the result of some desperate and hungry individual who might have found a safe space to sleep in the Presbytery was what he presumed had happened. Such visitors were after all why he kept his door open.
“We should go to the police station,” Mrs. McCarthy told him.
“We can wait, Mrs. McCarthy.” Were the soothing words he gave her before he gently opened the door towards the upper part of the Presbytery.
With Mrs. McCarthy at the bottom of the stairs, Father crept up them. He stopped on the landing and listened. From his garrett above he could hear snoring, someone really had spent the night. He crept to the doorway and saw the figure asleep in his bed with a white sheet pulled up over their head. Father Brown stared at the thick souls on the expensive leather brogues peeking out from under the sheet. All tension that had been in Father Brown’s body released when he recognised the shoes. Not some hard up soul then, or cheeky trickster. Well, not really, those shoes belonged to someone he knew very well indeed: Hercule Flambeau.
On closer inspection, the Father noticed that the man was in fact wearing a sheet with eye holes cut in it and delicate flowery embroidery around his ankles. Furthermore, the remains of Mrs McCarthy’s peppermint creams were smeared slightly on the sheets. Poor Hercule he really must have had a night of it if he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. 
Father Brown chuckled lightly, the little darlings of Kembleford were not for the faint hearted at the best of times. At least Flambeau hadn’t had to put up with Sid and his increasingly ridiculous tricks this year. He shook his head and crept back down the stairs to inform Mrs. McCarthy of the unexpected turn up.

Mrs. McCarthy looked down at the French Thief, his blanket slightly pulled away from his face, as Father Brown had gently shown the Parish Secretary that it was indeed the crook, and not some other intruder who had performed a Goldilocks on Halloween.
“But why didn’t he use all the treats I’d put aside in the pantry?” she asked. “He used all that sausage Lady Felicia brought from Mallorca and all the scones I was saving.” Mrs. McCarthy was clearly upset by this and Father Brown couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the loss of those tasty treats himself.
“Ah, I think there is definitely an air of panic around the debris downstairs> I’m not sure he had time to think?”
“But it's November, I won’t see another strawberry till April at the very earliest!”
“Yes, devastating,” Father Brown smiled sadly. Mrs. McCarthy’s loyalty to her scones had evidently blotted out the trauma of last night. “And does he not know how hard it is to find decent biscuits these days? I shall be baking new ones all week!”
“Ah, well, perhaps we can make railroads into Hercules redemption if we can make him rue eating all our biscuits Mrs. McCarthy?”

Sid Carter needed to sleep. He desperately wanted to sleep, but the idea of closing his eyes and seeing that finger made him want to vomit again. Four pints and two shorts swallowed down in an air of desperation, which had Alf Turner temporarily extend his bar tab with the words: “Bloody hell lad you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”, had dulled his senses somewhat thankfully. God, he wished he had just seen a ghost. The thought came back to him again: It had all been real.
Most of Sid’s actual parental guidance while growing up had come from a priest. This meant that though his Catholicism may be nominal, it was deeply rooted. He had seen some horrific things and had no illusion about the state of evil, nor the possibility of the supernatural. Father Brown may always look for the rational and logical, but he was a Catholic Priest, he knew and preached that the supernatural was not only real, but was there to ensnare the unsuspecting soul. However, to have it so sharply brought to him, to feel it in his jaw, that seemed somehow still felt elongated, and under his very fingernails, shook Sid more than his actual actions. He hadn’t been in his right mind, that was clear, but it had definitely been him.
God was omniscient and must know that Sid had tried to fight it. That he hadn’t wanted to do the things he did that night. That his mind had gone so far that he had forgotten his own name. Perhaps he would have to visit Father Brown in confession to be sure, but he felt that he could be forgiven for what he had done. That didn’t take away the guilt though. Those people would be incomplete now. Who had those people been anyhow? People that hadn’t been able to escape the manor?
In a moment of weariness he realised that dragging himself back to his caravan wasn’t going to happen. Although he knew he was never going to feel clean again unless he went back to the Presbytery for a bath, he didn’t want to go there just yet. At the presbytery he would have to face Mrs. M and the Father, who would want to comfort him. He decided that a perfect temporary solution was the old barn behind the Red Lion. There he could have a nap in the warmth and quiet and after he woke up he could decide what he was doing next.

Sid had pulled back the tarpaulin, hoping to use it as a blanket, and had been surprised to find the Police Wolesley. There was a moment when he really considered covering it back over and forgetting he had ever seen it. Then he remembered the man kneeling next to him as he vomited. The man who told them that he had spent all night at Sid’s side. Suddenly he felt a moment of sympathy for the Policeman. He had a moment of thinking, if Sid who had at least the benefits of a Catholic upbringing, was struggling with the night before, how much worse must it be for Kembleford’s resident cynic? The least he could do to repay him was to tell him where he could find his motor.

Edgar, with his sleeves rolled and up stripped of his jacket, had been coming from the file room when the door of the Police Station opened. Who else had to come in than the man he had been determined to avoid? He put an involuntary hand to his head, preempting the tinkling bells he was suddenly expecting. 
Carter certainly looked better than he had the night before, but not by much. The man was pale, sweating and his eyes were red rimmed. Edgar stopped walking. “Carter, are you alright?”
“Mind if I sit?” Carter asked, collapsing onto the bench by the doorway. “Feel a bit…” He put his head between his knees. Edgar cautiously walked over, the smell coming off the man in waves almost made him gag.
“Christ, Carter, we dropped you off less than forty minutes ago. How much have you had to drink?”
Carter smirked despite the poor condition he must be in. “First two pints didn’t touch the side, neither did the shorts to be fair.” The petty thief tried to hold back a belch. “Might have been a mistake.” 
“Yes.” Edgar stepped away slightly horrified. “Did you decide to save me a journey by handing yourself in for drunk and disorderly?"
Carter looked up again and shook his head. “Nah, community service innit? Found your motor stashed behind the pub.”
“Oh…” The paperwork in Edgar’s hand now wouldn’t need to be filled. “Oh, well, thank you.” He put the sheet down on the front desk. “Thats, thank you.” This felt awkward. The two of them were not usually in cordial situations with one another and Edgar didn’t know how to act.
“Yeah, well, after last night.” Carter waved his hand vaguely and shook his head. “Thanks, I mean, you seem to have looked out for me?”
“It was mutual, I was… Well you protected me from wolf” How could his biggest ally in this town have become the most frightening thing to have happened to him? He had spent so much time running from the man who had been so welcoming when he had just arrived in Kembleford.
“Goodfellow…”
“Yes, the wolf also known as Sergeant Goodfellow.” Sullivan sat down beside Carter. “I’m trying not to think. It can’t have been real. There must be a logical solution! People can’t just change into monsters overnight?”
“You think?” Carter asked incredulously. “What about me vomiting human remains? What about us seeing one another?”
“Well, maybe.. I mean… We were at that Manor?” Edgar nodded to himself. “I don’t know… Perhaps it was some sort of chemical in the air?” 
“Yeah,” Carter agreed, “makes sense, I suppose?”
“I’ve been thinking. It played on our worst thoughts about ourselves. I know… Well… I’ve read your file. I know it can’t have been easy for you as a child, the hunger the desolation." Edgar stopped talking, unwilling to bring up the man's past more. “And look at me, a heartless wooden dead thing.” His hand was on his neck before he could stop himself, almost expecting it to swirl around and around like it had done the night before. “Controlled by strings I can’t even see…” The same hand had now moved to his wrist where a string had been.
“Hey, you ain’t heartless,” Carter protested. “You have feelings. Look, you brought me tea and snacks when that MI5 prick had me here, even though I heard him order you to have no contact with me! And when I’m really pissed, you leave the flap open on the cell, and sometimes the whole door, so I can find a decent lav. You’re a peach, you are. I know you like to play all stiff upper lip, but I see you, you have a big heart.”
Edgar smiled despite himself. “Thank you,” he said quietly
“Look, I mean, I’m here with you rather than drowning my sorrows in the Red Lion snug, or sleeping it off somewhere.” Carter laughed. “Me, helping the Police with their enquiries? Well, that doesn’t come out of nothing does it?”
Edgar looked at him, really looked at him. There were definitely bells ringing in his head now and they weren’t coming from his hat.
“Also, what did happen to you? I was so far gone that you were just ‘Noisy Stick’ to me.”

Bridgette stood in her barren garden looking sadly down at her Strawberry beds. Sid had helped her cover them all over with straw for the winter just a few days earlier. Rows and rows of neat straw covered where there once were dark green leaves and bright red fruits. It would be months till the first tiny fruits showed, and she hadn’t even got to taste those last few precious scones. She sniffed and looked up to her kitchen window, where under jam jars the precious few leaves which would form the first spring plants sat in relative warmth. They were her own little bit of magic to have the first strawberries in Kembleford, even before the ones in Lady Felicia’s glasshouse.

MAGIC

Now that was a thought. Perhaps… Perhaps if she just had the magic from the night before, she could grow some more fruit. Bridgette remembered the feeling of power thrumming through her veins, the power to do anything. 
A tingling in her fingers. There it was, the crackling of something powerful. With her hand she reached out to the soil beneath her. It curled it into a clawlike shape as Bridgette imagined the shape of the plant closest to her. She imagined its full potential, the life hidden under the ground. 
Under her watchful eye a tiny green leaf popped out of the straw. It grew larger and larger till it was dark green and fecund. It was followed by another and then another. A small, white flowerbud grew between those leaves and burst open with clean white petals around the bright yellow middle. This yellow middle swelled and elongated before turning from green to white to pink blush and finally to red. A bright red, a blood red.
Bridgette stooped and plucked the dark red fruit. The ripe, fresh flesh burst with juicy flavour as she bit into the fruit. It was so sweet, like sugar and sunlight, the sweetest fruit she had ever tasted. Blood red liquid dripped from her mouth and down her chin. She murmured as she closed her eyes. The secret, yet simple, joy of childlike, innocent, juicy flesh. Her eyes flashed open as around her the strawberry beds burst to life and her irises flamed with a dark indigo glow of pure witchlight. Whatever happened last night, it reached far beyond the mansion itself.

She CACKLED