Father Brown and the Lord’s Earwax
A Father Brown Story
Author’s Note: The Father Brown series, by G.K. Chesterton, is a favorite of mine. Father Brown is a quiet, unassuming Catholic priest with a profound understanding of human nature. Unlike other fictional detectives, he relies on his insight into people's minds and motivations, often solving mysteries through empathy and moral reasoning rather than physical evidence.
Father Brown believes in the supernatural, but Chesterton’s stories never really contain a supernatural element. I considered how Father Brown might respond to something truly and cosmically horrific.
G.K. Chesterton died in 1936, bringing Father Brown into the public domain. I owe him an undischargeable debt for this story.
Father Brown and the Lord’s Earwax
Father Brown entered the candlelit study and took a moment to adjust to the peculiar scene. He expected many things when visiting an aristocratic estate—after all, one must always expect the unexpected—but finding the Lord of the house resembling a waxwork exhibit was particularly avant garde, even to his seasoned sensibilities.
Charles Worthington III stood in the center of the room, his form unusually still. Beside him was Dr. Aurelia Lobes, her earrings catching the light and casting a golden glow that danced on the walls like the shadows of Plato's cave.
The detective priest’s footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet as he approached them. He noted the faint scent of beeswax permeating the air, the sweet, cloying aroma clinging to the back of his throat.
Father Brown inspected the Dutch masters lining the wall, grounding himself in the soft carpet beneath his feet.
"Pardon the intrusion, I've come to retrieve a book I lent to Lord Worthington."
Neither Charles nor Dr. Lobes acknowledged his presence. They were lost in their own world, gazes fixed somewhere beyond Father Brown’s perception.
He pondered the depths of their reverie, approaching with a scholar’s caution. Spider web patterns wove themselves between the two figures. The dripping strands shimmered in the glistening candlelight.
The priest turned away in his modest innocence, focusing instead on the bookshelves that lined the far wall. He noted the works of Mathers. Of Burgoyne. Of Blavatsky, Levi, and Crowley, the golden triad of fin de siecle esotericism. He scanned the titles carefully, his fingers trailing over the well-worn spines until he found the volume he had entrusted to the Lord of the house.
Reaching for the book, he heard a soft sigh escape from Charles's lips. Glancing over his shoulder, the clerical sleuth spied a thin stream of golden wax trickling from the man's slightly parted mouth. It flowed down his chin, pooling on the floor at his feet.
Dr. Lobes, her eyes glittering in the half-light, raised her arms in supplication. The wax that dripped from her ears writhed in midair, the very serpentine locks that once adorned a Gorgon's head, poised to lull the titan Ophion into his eternal slumber.
Father Brown's fingers closed around the book. He tucked it beneath his arm and turned to leave, his footsteps steady and unhurried.
As he reached the threshold of the study, he paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. The room behind him was silent, save for the faint crackle of the candles, the slurping drip of wax, and the soft moans escaping from Lord Worthington.
"I might suggest there are better ways to address the young master's earwax, Dr. Lobes. Perhaps one that doesn't involve turning the poor fellow into a human candle. But far be it from me to question the judgment of your esteemed profession."
Father Brown stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. The scent of beeswax clung to his clothes like honey on a child's fingers, sweet and sticky.
As he made his way down the corridor, Father Brown considered what he had seen. The enigma of the human soul, where the ordinary and the eternal often meet in the most unexpected places, concealed from those who do not seek with humble eyes. There was a beauty there, to be sure, but it was tinged with something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t name—ancient, unknowable, and perhaps, for today, best left undisturbed.
After all, one does not discuss another’s earwax in polite company.