Sherlock and Brown to Tea (An Imaginative Encounter)

 It was a wet Saturday when I had Father Brown and Mr. Sherlock Holmes to tea at my little house in Ellscote, England. I will not go into details as to how I arranged this extraordinary tea, but suffice it to say I was excited. I polished the tea service painstakingly and read sections of their respective books late into the night before to be sure I knew just the right things to say to both of them.

Mr. Holmes arrived first, tall and gaunt as Dr. Watson described, with an eye that I knew saw straight through me. "Good afternoon, Miss E-," he said courteously as I showed him into the sitting room. I only mumbled something back, completely overwhelmed. A short ring at the doorbell told me my other guest had arrived.

I opened the door to find Father Brown standing in the rain, with his famous umbrella (which I remembered) under his arm. He must have forgotten that he owned the umbrella, for he was sopping wet. Nevertheless, his homely grin told me that Mr. Chesterton had accurately described Father Brown's kind and jovial character. "Come in, come in!" I said, opening the door wide. He thanked me and stumbled into the hall, tipping over the hatstand with the handle of the umbrella as he passed. 

Father Brown took a while to get himself out of his sopping coat and hat, especially since his wide-brimmed clerical hat had a way of tumbling off the hatstand and bumping the umbrella, which in turn set Father Brown to putting it all back again, which in turn precipitated another fall of the hat. By the time I broke this chain of motion and got the good Father into the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes was pacing it with long strides, annoyance on his face. 

Consumed with the jitters and wondering why I had ever invited two such great men to tea, I was glad to escape into my kitchen and get out my best rose-pattern tea set. I got a tray ready with hot buns from the shop down the street, and a nice pot of loose-leaf tea. I took a deep breath, calmed my madly beating heart, and carried the tray sedately into the sitting room.

My guests were regarding each other silently. Mr. Holmes was eyeing Father Brown with amusement, while Father Brown was blushing and absently thumbing in his coat pocket. "Tea time," I said, to break the silence, and we fell to, Holmes paying attention to everything and Brown to nothing.

Mr. Holmes was the first to speak. "I understand that you are a connoisseur of my adventures, Miss E-? Pray tell me what you think of Dr. Watson's accounts."

I was nervous all over. I find it hard to talk to people who are sharper and think more clearly than myself. "I think your adventures very interesting. I don't know them firsthand, but as far as I can tell Dr. Watson is an accurate and sympathetic biographer," I said.

Sherlock Holmes grimaced and changed the subject. "I perceive you have a brother who works on engines and everything run by petrol?"

I was startled. "Y-y-yes, as a matter of fact I do," I said, "However did you find that out?"

"I saw a boy's coat in the hall, with the initials E.E. marked on it, and as you are obviously not a boy, although the initials were the same as yours, I deemed it your brother's. Then there are the dirty boot marks on the skirting board which you have tried to scrub off, but still stick. Those marks are a trademark of grease and petrol. Finally, I have made a special study of mugs and small household items, and the one left so carelessly under the sofa there is commonly issued by working class companies to employees, and to top it all it bears the logo of Firth Motors, Incorporated."

I was flabbergasted. This was entirely too much, even though I knew Holmes's method.

Father Brown spoke for the first time."Well, this town is a nearly perfect place. That little Poplar Avenue is at once foreign and familiar, with our quaint little English cottages and oak trees against a wild moor country. Why, it reminds me of fairyland," said Brown.

"Yes, it does," I agreed quietly.

"Miss E-, tell me how you came to be living here in Poplar Avenue. This is not your normal country of residence, I believe?"

"Why no, I'm an American," I said, a bit confusedly, but with an immediate sense of trust in the priest.

"And you were not content there, I presume?" queried the priest, looking at me with eyes that somehow made me even more uncomfortable than when Mr. Holmes's piercing ones.

"Why do you ask?"

 "I was thinking," answered Father Brown, "A middle-class girl from America who likes to read dreamy and romantic books, as I can judge from your parlor shelves, who finds a fairyland away from home. It sounds to me like a case of discontentment with the home."

"I don't quite follow you," I said, looking down at the carpet. Holmes had taken out his pipe and was smoking and looking at us abstractedly.

"Because," said Brown,"A person who goes to live in a perfect place usually goes there because they believe the place they came from is not perfect. They are unhappy and go to seek contentment like the knights of legends sought fairyland. Miss E-, have you found contentment in this piece of fairyland?"

I looked down into my half-drained teacup of loose-leaf tea. "No," I said, "That's the funny thing. I want to go home now. Somehow I think I found fairyland more when I had to look for it than now, when I live in it."

"Ah," said Father Brown,"You are right. In a way, there is a bit of fairyland everywhere, but the wonder of it comes in finding it, not just having it dropped on your doorstep."

I nodded in agreement and glanced at Mr. Holmes. He was looking bored, and even with my small deductive capabilities, I knew he cared little for fairyland. Somehow, I knew then why I had always loved Father Brown's adventures more than Mr. Holmes's.

Half an hour later, I bade farewell to my distinguished guests, both masters of the art of reasoning, but men of completely different motives and sentiments. I will always remember our uncomfortable tea together with fondness, and I thank God and Father Brown for starting me on the path back home.