Favorite Father Brown Stories

By G. K. Chesterton

Critic, author, and debunker extraordinaire, G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) delighted in probing the ambiguities of Christian theology. A number of his most successful attempts at combining first-rate fiction with acute social observation appear in this original selection from his best detective stories featuring the priest-sleuth Father Brown.
A Chestertonian version of Sherlock Holmes, this little cleric from Essex — with "a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling" and "eyes as empty as the North Sea" — appears in six suspenseful, well-plotted tales: "The Blue Cross," "The Sins of Prince Saradine," "The Sign of the Broken Sword," "The Man in the Passage," "The Perishing of the Pendragons," and "The Salad of Colonel Cray."
An essential item in any mystery collection, these delightful works offer a particular treat for lovers of vintage detective stories and will engage any reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780486115221

G. K. Chesterton

G.K. Chesterton (1874–1936) was an English writer, philosopher and critic known for his creative wordplay. Born in London, Chesterton attended St. Paul’s School before enrolling in the Slade School of Fine Art at University College. His professional writing career began as a freelance critic where he focused on art and literature. He then ventured into fiction with his novels The Napoleon of Notting Hill and The Man Who Was Thursday as well as a series of stories featuring Father Brown.

Book preview

The Blue Cross

BETWEEN THE SILVER ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of sea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies, among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous—nor wished to be. There was nothing notable about him, except a slight contrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes and the official gravity of his face. His clothes included a slight, pale grey jacket, a white waistcoat, and a silver straw hat with a grey-blue ribbon. His lean face was dark by contrast, and ended in a curt black beard that looked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan ruff. He was smoking a cigarette with the seriousness of an idler. There was nothing about him to indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver, that the white waistcoat covered a police card, or that the straw hat covered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe. For this was Valentin himself, the head of the Paris police and the most famous investigator of the world; and he was coming from Brussels to London to make the greatest arrest of the century.

Flambeau was in England. The police of three countries had tracked the great criminal at last from Ghent to Brussels, from Brussels to the Hook of Holland; and it was conjectured that he would take some advantage of the unfamiliarity and confusion of the Eucharistic Congress, then taking place in London. Probably he would travel as some minor clerk or secretary connected with it; but, of course, Valentin could not be certain; nobody could be certain about Flambeau.

It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceased keeping the world in a turmoil; and when he ceased, as they said after the death of Roland, there was a great quiet upon the earth. But in his best days (I mean, of course, his worst) Flambeau was a figure as statuesque and international as the Kaiser. Almost every morning the daily paper announced that he had escaped the consequences of one extraordinary crime by committing another. He was a Gascon of gigantic stature and bodily daring; and the wildest tales were told of his outbursts of athletic humour; how he turned the juge d‘instruction upside down and stood him on his head, to clear his mind; how he ran down the Rue de Rivoli with a policeman under each arm. It is due to him to say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed in such bloodless though undignified scenes; his real crimes were chiefly those of ingenious and wholesale robbery. But each of his thefts was almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ran the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers. These he served by the simple operation of moving the little milk-cans outside peoples doors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept up an unaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose whole letter-bag was intercepted, by the extraordinary trick of photographing his messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. A sweeping simplicity, however, marked many of his experiments. It is said he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night merely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is quite certain that he invented a portable pillar-box, which he put up at corners in quiet suburbs on the chance of strangers dropping postal orders into it. Lastly he was known to be a startling acrobat; despite his huge figure, he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the treetops like a monkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, was perfectly well aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him.

But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin’s ideas were still in process of settlement.

There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentin’s quick eye had caught a tall apple-woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerably tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. But all along his train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than a cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he had already satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on the journey limited themselves with certainty to six. There was a short railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short market-gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats: he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown-paper parcels which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver with blue stones in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at Stratford with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above it.

He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure that he had not missed the criminal so far. He then went to Scotland Yard to regularize his position and arrange for help in case of need; he then lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in the streets of London. As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, he paused suddenly and stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical of London, full of an accidental stillness. The tall, flat houses round looked at once prosperous and uninhabited; the square of shrubbery in the centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific islet. One of the four sides was much higher than the rest, like a dais; and the line of this side was broken by one of London’s admirable accidents—a restaurant that looked as if it had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonably attractive object, with dwarf plants in pots and long, striped blinds of lemon yellow and white. It stood specially high above the street, and in the usual patchwork way of London, a flight of steps from the street ran up to meet the front door almost as a fire-escape might run up to a first-floor window. Valentin stood and smoked in front of the yellow-white blinds and considered them long.

The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. A few clouds in heaven do come together into the staring shape of one human eye. A tree does stand up in the landscape of a doubtful journey in the exact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation. I have seen both these things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in the instant of victory; and a man named Williams does quite accidentally murder a man named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide. In short, there is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss. As it has been well expressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen.

Aristide Valentin was unfathomably French; and the French intelligence is intelligence specially and solely. He was not a thinking machine; for that is a brainless phrase of modern fatalism and materialism. A machine only is a machine because it cannot think. But he was a thinking man, and a plain man at the same time. All his wonderful successes, that looked like conjuring, had been gained by plodding logic, by clear and commonplace French thought. The French electrify the world not by starting any paradox, they electrify it by carrying out a truism. They carry a truism so far—as in the French Revolution. But exactly because Valentin understood reason, he understood the limits of reason. Only a man who knows nothing of motors talks of motoring without petrol; only a man who knows nothing of reason talks of reasoning without strong, undisputed first principles. Here he had no strong first principles. Flambeau had been missed at Harwich; and if he was in London at all, he might be anything from a tall tramp on Wimbledon Common to a tall toastmaster at the Hotel Métropole. In such a naked state of nescience, Valentin had a view and a method of his own.

In such cases he reckoned on the unforeseen. In such cases, when he could not follow the train of the reasonable, he coldly and carefully followed the train of the unreasonable. Instead of going to the right places—banks, police-stations, rendezvous—he systematically went to the wrong places; knocked at every empty house, turned down every cul de sac, went up every lane blocked with rubbish, went round every crescent that led him uselessly out of the way. He defended this crazy course quite logically. He said that if one had a clue this was the worst way; but if one had no clue at all it was the best, because there was just the chance that any oddity that caught the eye of the pursuer might be the same that had caught the eye of the pursued. Somewhere a man must begin, and it had better be just where another man might stop. Something about that flight of steps up to the shop, something about the quietude and quaintness of the restaurant, roused all the detectives rare romantic fancy and made him resolve to strike at random. He went up the steps, and sitting down by the window, asked for a cup of black coffee.

It was half-way through the morning, and he had not breakfasted; the slight litter of other breakfasts stood about on the table to remind him of his hunger; and adding a poached egg to his order, he proceeded musingly to shake some white sugar into his coffee, thinking all the time about Flambeau. He remembered how Flambeau had escaped, once by a pair of nail scissors, and once by a house on fire; once by having to pay for an unstamped letter, and once by getting people to look through a telescope at a comet that might destroy the world. He thought his detective brain as good as the criminal’s, which was true. But he fully realized the disadvantage. The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic, he said with a sour smile, and lifted his coffee cup to his lips slowly, and put it down very quickly. He had put salt in it.

He looked at the vessel from which the silvery powder had come; it was certainly a sugar-basin; as unmistakably meant for sugar as a champagne-bottle for champagne. He wondered why they should keep salt in it. He looked to see if there were any more orthodox vessels. Yes, there were two salt-cellars quite full. Perhaps there was some speciality in the condiment in the salt-cellars. He tasted it; it was sugar. Then he looked round at the

Reviews for Favorite Father Brown Stories

[kaitanya64 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I generally don't read a lot of short stories, but these short mysteries are beautifully crafted and address similar issues as those raised in other mystery/sci fi/ religion/ethics writers of the time. That is what fascinates me, I think, that writers of this era saw literature not as a means to waste "beach time," but as a serious examination of moral principles and the structure of society. Also, they were in the midst of great theological upheaval and they were well-educated and widely read themselves. Superb. I would note that I discovered these are much better if you take them one or two at a time rather than trying to read the book clear through. The stories are in some ways rather similar and too many in a row can get tiresome.

[sasham-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Gee, it must be nice to live in a world where, when confronted, the criminal confesses all the details of a crime and everything is wrapped up neatly half an hour after the body is found.
This book is a little odd because we do not see the crime from the view of the investigator or the criminal or even the victim but by various 3rd party views. I ended up feeling disengaged by this style. There is no emotional connnection. But I did find the characters and settings are very descriptive and interesting and the stories themselves are quick and to the point.
However this book was written in the 1800's and it shows when anyone who is not caucasian-english is part of the story; very much a product of its time - it is not racist, so much as insulting to anyone who is not male, white and catholic. But what do I know? I'm just an "empty headed atheist".

[swampygirl-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I've been listening to the stories most of my life, but mostly random bits when I was falling asleep/sick, so this is the first time I've ever listened to this book straight from start to finish.

Anyway, some of the stories I liked, some of them I didn't. I've always found the robots one extremely creepy, but mostly I just find the absurdity of the stories rather amusing. It is a product of its time, and far from perfect, but the language is beautiful to listen to.

[figgles_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I noticed that there is a new TV adaptation of Chesterton's Father Brown (though it seems to be only related by names and titles rather than any actual detail from the originals) which encouraged me to re-read the originals. Here Chesterton introduces the outwardly simple Father Brown who again and again proves that his knowledge of human nature (gained from the confessional) and his theologically inspired belief in the rational over the supernatural give him the advantage over the more credulous unbelievers when it comes to solving crime.

[sueincyprus · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Short stories about the brilliant Catholic priest, mostly involving his friend Flambeau who is a reformed thief.

Some clever plots, some rather convoluted and obscure. Some rather nasty murders and some light humour. Great for reading aloud to teenagers.

[gpaisley_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Ok. Good thinking material, but not so great as mysteries.

[sundowneruk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Quaint little stories that are very much of their time (first published in 1911) but easy enough to read and enjoy

[jjmcgaffey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hmmm. Well, I discovered that almost all my favorite (as in memorable) Father Brown stories are in this, the first book; I also discovered that I don't like even all the stories in here. The first couple - Father Brown's introduction, Valentin's end, the one with the diamonds, the one with the waiters, a couple more - are very good. Father Brown determines what's going on by noticing what's actually happening and figuring out what it means. Then there's a couple where he gets ridiculously mystical - stares off into the distance declaring that something is WRONG here, and solves the mystery by confession extracted by a piercing gaze. Bleah. Prince Sarandine annoyed me the most, I think - Flambeau's investigation never turned up his name? Really? And very convenient timing. Really silly. Not to mention the woman's role, or lack of same. The last few are better, though still a little mystical - the general, the hammer, the sun-god, the cheerful man... And he never deals with anyone - a couple confess after he (privately) explains to them what they're doing. Flambeau eventually repents. But that doctor - he says he feels remorse, but a second kill is much easier than a first one. And in the sun-god story, they both leave untouched. So, having read Father Brown for the first time in ages, I find I don't like him nearly as much as I thought I did. I think I'll read the other books too, and see if they're worth keeping at all.

[leslie398 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Uneven quality -- Some of the short stories were too "atmospheric" for my taste while some were excellent.

[mausergem_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Father Brown is a short, inconspicuous, meek Catholic priest who is present at all the right places at the right time. He and his friend Flambeau (a former thief now a private detective courtesy Father Brown) in this set of twelve short stories solve many crimes. Father Brown does not believe in handing over the criminal to the authorities but instead he makes him realize his folly and take the right step.GK Chesterton is truely a masterful story teller.

[cyderry · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

A classic collection of Father Brown mysteries. The French master criminal Flambeau is repeatedly beaten by this unremarkable priest, before he decides to join Father Brown in solving a series of perplexing mysteries. I won't say this was the greatest, but with my track record with classics, this was okay.

[sr_moreno · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An entertaining collection of Father Brown mysteries. The dastardly French master criminal Flambeau is foiled time and again by the unassuming priest, before he finally gives up and joins Father Brown in solving a series of perplexing conundrums. It's difficult not to have a big grin on your face as Father Brown explains how the inexplicable could have occurred. Great fun.

[marsap_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

The Innocence of Father Brown is a series of short stories featuring the detective skills of Father Brown. Father Brown as a short, stumpy Roman Catholic priest, with shapeless clothes and a large umbrella, and an uncanny ?insight into human evil." I found this set of stories dated, boring and difficult to get through. I ended my ?torture? about half way through the collection. 0 out of 5 stars.

[bookwyrmm_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Good collection for those who like thinking detectives.

[isabelx_21 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

He was one of the great humanitarian French freethinkers; and the only thing wrong with them is that they make mercy even colder than justice.I remember reading some Father Brown stories at least 20 years ago, but possibly as long as 30 years ago. All I remembered was the solution to two of the stories, "The Invisible Man" from this collection, and another story in which people had been seeing monsters at a theatre. I had entirely forgotten about Father Brown's friend Flambeau, and one thing that did seem odd is that in the first few stories where Flambeau is still a criminal, neither he nor Father Brown nor the narrator even hinted that Father Brown and Flambeau had ever met before, or might have recognised each other. Father Brown is a Miss Marple type of detective, someone that no-one expects to be any help in investigating a murder, but who comes up with insights based on their own life experience. The murders aren't all that involved, some of them are very easy to solve. Father Brown manages to get some religious philosophising into every story, and the identity of some of the murderers make it clear where the author's religious sympathies lie.What I do like a lot, is the scene-setting. This can often be quite minimal in short stories due to the need to hurry the plot along, but Chesterton's descriptions of people, places, weather and time of day are strongly visual, and give the reader a vivid mental picture of events.Between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of sea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies, among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous?nor wished to be.

[wealhtheowwylfing · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Really awful Christian propaganda posing as murder mysteries. I was poised to like Chesterton, based solely on a few of his quotes I?d stumbled upon and Neil Gaiman?s good opinion. It?s true that the mysteries themselves are quite interesting. Unfortunately, Chesterton has a narrowness of view. In the first story of the collection, the clever police chief Valentin is the main character. I quite liked him, and looked forward to more interactions between him (an atheist) and Father Brown (a saintly priest). Unfortunately, Chesterton had no intention of writing a debate of any kind?in the very next story, Father Brown says,?Valentin is an honest man, if being mad for an arguable cause is honesty. But did you never see in that cold, grey eye of his that he is mad! He would do anything, anything, to break what he calls the superstition of the Cross. He has fought for it and starved for it, and now he has murdered for it.? And thence, Valentin kills himself, unable to deal with The Truth of Christianity. Father Brown?s incessant saintliness in all the stories is bad enough, but a few stories later he meets a "Hindoo." This conversation ensues,

?"It's very beautiful," said the priest in a low, dreaming voice; "the colours are very beautiful. But it's the wrong shape."
"What for?" asked Flambeau, staring.
"For anything. It's the wrong shape in the abstract. Don't you ever feel that about Eastern art? The colours are intoxicatingly lovely; but the shapes are mean and bad-- deliberately mean and bad. I have seen wicked things in a Turkey carpet."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Flambeau, laughing.
"They are letters and symbols in a language I don't know; but I know they stand for evil words," went on the priest, his voice growing lower and lower. "The lines go wrong on purpose?like serpents doubling to escape."
"What the devil are you talking about?" said the doctor with a loud laugh.
Flambeau spoke quietly to him in answer. "The Father sometimes gets this mystic's cloud on him," he said; "but I give you fair warning that I have never known him to have it except when there was some evil quite near."
"Oh, rats!" said the scientist.
"Why, look at it," cried Father Brown, holding out the crooked knife at arm's length, as if it were some glittering snake.
"Don't you see it is the wrong shape? Don't you see that it has no hearty and plain purpose? It does not point like a spear. It does not sweep like a scythe. It does not look like a weapon. It looks like an instrument of torture."?

And if *that?s* not bad enough, shortly thereafter the ?scientist? is proven to be a murderer, and commits suicide, complete with a suicide note that says Father Brown and Christianity were right about everything all along.

The author pounds home the Anglo Christians=good, everyone else=bad message pretty hard. Not a story goes by without religion playing a major part, and there?s racism every single time a character of color pops up. (Note that the Asian man-servant has a ?hacking? and ?dreadful? accent, and ?his slits of eyes almost faded from his face in one fat Chinese sneer.? The other characters feel an instinctive revulsion against him, ?Merton felt an almost bodily sickness at the sight of him; and he muttered to Gilder: "Surely you would take Miss Armstrong's word against his?"? A better person might have leavened his character?s racism with an authorial tone that condemned or mocked their stance; instead, Chesterton clearly agrees.)

Dear Chesterton: I have better things to do with my life than read your bigotry.

[fdholt · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Favorite Father Brown stories is a slim volume with six stories from the many written by G. K. Chesterton in the early part of the twentieth century. These are well plotted mysteries that are logical and delightful. Father Brown, a Catholic parish priest, solves each one with acute observational skills and a knack for fading into the background. He outwits Flambeau, the greatest criminal mind of the time, who, after his retirement, becomes a close friend and is involved in some of Father Brown’s further adventures. The editor of this work compares these stories favorably to those written by Chesterton’s contemporary, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This book only whets the appetite to read more of Father Brown and perhaps to enjoy the TV series that has had a recent re-airing on PBS.

[carmenere_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First, let me say, I probably would not have chosen this book by its cover nor its title. Father Brown?! Surely, it would be about some religious figure who expounds boring doctrine night and day. Wrong!!!Father Brown is a humble and astute priest who owns a high level of observation and a quick mind and Chesterton's six short stories in this volume have the reader on high alert to figure out the mystery or murder before Father Brown is able to do so.The series of stories in this book opens with Father Brown making the acquaintance of reknowned thief, Flambeau. After their first unpleasent meeting, the included stories shift to the unlikely friendship which has developed between Brown and Flambeau. Together they travel throughout the United Kingdom and often become happenstance crime solvers.This book offers clever and wholesome mysteries proving that one can read suspenseful stories without all the gore, sex and language that is common today in books of this genre. I found it to be very refreshing.

[cbl_tn · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Father Brown will never be my favorite detective, but I enjoyed getting to know him in this collection of 12 short stories. His physical description reminds me of Hercule Poirot, while his methods remind me just a bit of Sherlock Holmes. If you're the type of reader who enjoys trying to piece together clues to solve the crime before the solution is revealed, the Father Brown stories probably aren't for you. Chesterton doesn't share everything that Father Brown observes until the final summation. Several of the stories have elements of the fantastic, so it might be a good choice for fantasy readers looking for a change.The first story, ?The Blue Cross?, is my favorite, and it's a great introduction to the subsequent stories. The most memorable passage in the story explains why Father Brown makes such a good detective. When the cornered culprit expresses surprise that Father Brown knows so much about crime and criminals, Father Brown replies: Has it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men's real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil?

[ajbraithwaite_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book was a series of surprises for me, all stemming from my own ignorance. To begin with, I wasn't expecting it to be a series of short stories. I had also somehow assumed that G. K. Chesterton was an American writer, so was startled to find that he was British.

But having got over those two hurdles of the unexpected, I enjoyed the stories. They're straight-forward lateral-thinking-style murder mysteries. Some more believable than others. In some ways I found them hard to date - some seemed more old-fashioned, some more modern. Which is probably symptomatic of the era in which they were written (published in 1911).

[endersreads · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the second of Chesterton's works that I've read. I can only describe it as I might Father Brown - quirky genius. Here printed are 12 short tales of murder and mystery, loosely interwoven. "The Blue Cross" was one of my favorites. The simple inconspicuous deep cunning of Father Brown was most blatantly exhibited for us here. It was like witnessing a feather render an anvil unto powder. Here we first meet our two most important reoccurring characters - the brilliantly creative criminal Flambeau, and the relatively short lived head of the Paris Police, Valentin. A most satisfying tale. I loved the bizarre market scenes which led us helter skelter to the conclusion.Next, "The Secret Garden". I liked the quaint closed-house dinner party murder, though this one did spill out onto the street for a bit. I was somewhat taken aback by the violent nature of the crime. Chesterton seems to enjoy a bit of light gore. We were just coming to know the atheist intellect of Paris' finest investigator - that of Valentin. Ironically, the fellow falls from his office. Why? He was another atheist who could not get the Church off his mind - it drove him to murder. Chesterton tells us that "on the blind face of the suicide was more than the pride of Cato"."The Queer Feet" was one of Chesterton's queerer tales, which is always a good thing. Chesterton seems obsessed with clubs and secret societies. This is a tale of one such fishy society, and their expensive dinner ware. The criminal Monsieur Flambeau is once again at work here. Again also, Father Brown so far outwits the witty Flambeau that Flambeau surrenders and repents; whereas in the first story, he only surrendered. This marks the turning point for Flambeau, as the last story marked the dark turning point for Valentin, which I find ethically paradoxical."The Flying Stars" is a Dickensian Christmas tale, as it so proclaims itself. Chesterton must have liked Dickens, as a later story references Mr. Pickwick. Again we are shown the artistic criminal ingenuity of Flambeau; and the greater critical thinking and deductive reasoning of Father Brown. These two are constantly locked in battles of the mind. Here Flambeau is shown by Father Brown that crime always creates victimization. Again, being an honorable criminal, Flambeau repents. His sin-nature is now in its death throes; he has seen the Light, and obtained the knowledge of the error of his ways by means of Father Brown - Father Brown saw Flambeau and understood him. Flambeau could not hide from Father Brown, nor could he deceive Father Brown. He does the only logical thing - submits to what he knows within himself to be right."The Invisible Man" finds Flambeau diametrically metamorphosed into?what!, yes!?a detective! It really was his most natural occupational choice as a man who had turned from an ingenious criminal to become a man respectable. The line is thin between the two fields; and as Chesterton has shown us?not only with Flambeau, but also with Valentin?the fields often transpose and become interpolated. Ironically, in one's case this is always good; in the case of the other, always damnable. And yet, here, we do not even encounter Flambeau or Father Brown until nearly the end of the story, which is not a story of a love triangle, but a story of a love trapezoid, having four very unequal sides. Poor Angus. I might note that to find humanoid robots in the story was a delightful surprise."The Honour of Israel Gow" was a nice Scottish gothic tale of honour that I'm not sure I fully understood. It seems there was no crime, though certainly some strangeness of events. I enjoyed the scenery, the piles of snuff, the skull in the potato garden, and the digressions of Father Brown and Flambeau."The Wrong Shape" was about an opium addict poet, his miserable wife, his live-in Indian guru and his doctor. A surprise ending, very memorable. Don't trust the doc for your health."The Sins of Prince Saradine" was highly entertaining. Old bloodlines, dark secrets, duels... It was a bit maddening that Flambeau did no more than fish throughout the story. I really don't see how Prince Saradine could live with himself, much less, laugh at the ending of it all; and gads! how much more of a deranged creature was the woman, the mother, the co-murderer of not only her husband to whom she was unfaithful, but the Prince's brother and her own son who will quietly hang!"The Hammer of God" was interesting in that it dealt with piety that had to live alongside impiety. The pious Bohun brother didn't handle it too well. Just think of Father Brown - he is the epitomical high man in low places. By the grace of God he is not tainted."The Eye of Apollo" was a strange story of paganism and neopaganism, and greed. Blinding is the sun and blind was Miss Pauline. Interesting that here Chesterton referenced another lover of paradox, Nietzsche."The Sign of the Broken Sword" was a military story which shows us that what we glorify may not at all be that which is glorious. "The Three Tools of Death" was fun, because, of course, it took place on a train, mostly!I'll definitely be searching the bookstores for more of Chesterton and more of Father Brown! Excellent!

[cecilturtle · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Having read other Chesterton stories and Arthur Conan Doyle, I found that this series was more of the same. Beyond the mist, dark castles and clever deductions made from tenuous clues, there is not much. I yet have to read the story where Father Brown and Flambeau, the master criminal, became friends - it seems unlikely. Good reading but the stories have lost their originality.

[benfulton · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A lightweight series of six short stories. I don't believe I've read any Father Brown mysteries, and there was something of a jarring disconnect between the first and second ones that made me wish I had more available so I could keep up to pace. The individual stories wear well, although I don't believe Chesterton's fabled barbed wit and sarcasm show up here; Father Brown is handled gently and the emphasis is certainly on the stories rather than any sort of philosophy.The stories are good, solid turn-of-the-century mystery stories; fun and straightforward to read but with bizarrely complicated alibis. This book might be a light way of introducing yourself to Father Brown, but if I was going to buy a Chesterton I'd buy something with a little more depth. This Dover Thrift Edition isn't going to stop a bullet for you.