The Three Tools of Death

Both by calling and conviction Father Brown knew better than most of us, that every man is dignified when he is dead.

But even he felt a pang of incongruity when he was knocked up at daybreak and told that Sir Aaron Armstrong had been murdered.

There was something absurd and unseemly about secret violence in connection with so entirely entertaining and popular a figure.

For Sir Aaron Armstrong was entertaining to the point of being comic; and popular in such a manner as to be almost legendary.

It was like hearing that Sunny Jim had hanged himself; or that Mr. Pickwick had died in Hanwell.

For though Sir Aaron was a philanthropist, and thus dealt with the darker side of our society, he prided himself on dealing with it in the brightest possible style.

His political and social speeches were cataracts of anecdotes and “loud laughter”; his bodily health was of a bursting sort; his ethics were all optimism; and he dealt with the Drink problem (his favourite topic) with that immortal or even monotonous gaiety which is so often a mark of the prosperous total abstainer.

The established story of his conversion was familiar on the more puritanic platforms and pulpits, how he had been, when only a boy, drawn away from Scotch theology to Scotch whisky, and how he had risen out of both and become (as he modestly put it) what he was.

Yet his wide white beard, cherubic face, and sparkling spectacles, at the numberless dinners and congresses where they appeared, made it hard to believe, somehow, that he had ever been anything so morbid as either a dram-drinker or a Calvinist.

He was, one felt, the most seriously merry of all the sons of men.

He had lived on the rural skirt of Hampstead in a handsome house, high but not broad, a modern and prosaic tower.

The narrowest of its narrow sides overhung the steep green bank of a railway, and was shaken by passing trains.