by David Marcum
“Which of ye jintlemen will be Misther Holmes, sor?”
“This is Mr. Holmes,” I said. “Do you want him?”
“It’s protecshin I want, sor - protecshin! I spake to the polis, an’ they laff at me, begob. Foive days have I lived in London, an’ ’tis nothin’ but battle, murdher, an’ suddhen death for me here all day an’ ivery day! An’ the polis say I’m dhrunk!”
He gesticulated wildly, and to me it seemed just possible that the police might be right.
“They say I’m drunk, sor,” he continued, “but, begob, I b’lieve they think I’m mad. An’ me being thracked an’ folleyed an’ dogged an’ waylaid an’ poisoned an’ blandandhered an’ kidnapped an’ murdhered, an’ for why I do not know!”
“And who’s doing all this?’
“Sthrangers, sor - sthrangers. ’Tis a sthranger here I am mesilf, an’ fwy they do it bates me, onless I do be so like the Prince av Wales or other crowned head they thry to slaughter me. They’re layin’ for me in the sthreet now, I misdoubt not, and fwat they may thry next I can tell no more than the Lord Mayor. An’ the polis won’t listen to me!”
This, I thought, must be one of the very common cases of mental hallucination which one hears of every day - the belief of the sufferer that he is surrounded by enemies and followed by spies. It is probably the most usual delusion of the harmless lunatic.
“But what have these people done?” Holmes asked, looking rather interested, although amused. “What actual assaults have they committed, and when? And who told you to come here?”
“Who towld me, is ut? Who but the payler outside - in the street below! I explained to ’um, an’ sez he: ‘Ah, you go an’ take a slape,’ sez he; ‘you go an’ take a good slape, an’ they’ll be all gone whin ye wake up.’ ‘But they’ll murdher me,’ sez I. ‘Oh, no!’ sez he, smilin’ behind av his ugly face. ‘Oh, no, they won’t; you take ut aisy, me frind, an’ go home!’ ‘Take it aisy, is ut, an’ go home!’ sez I; ‘why, that’s just where they’ve been last, a-ruinationin’ an’ a-turnin’ av the place upside down, an’ me strook on the head onsensible a mile away. Take ut aisy, is ut, ye say, whin all the demons in this unholy place is jumpin’ on me every minut in places promiscuous till I can’t tell where to turn, descendin’ an’ vanishin’ marvelious an’ onaccountable? Take ut aisy, is ut?’ sez I. ‘Well, me frind,’ sez he, ‘I can’t help ye; that’s the marvelious an’ onaccountable departmint up the stairs forninst ye. Misther Holmes ut is,’ sez he, ‘that attinds to the onaccountable departmint, him as wint by a minut ago. You go an’ bother him.’ That’s how I was towld, sor.”
Holmes smiled.
“Very good,” he said; “and now what are these extraordinary troubles of yours? Don’t declaim,” he added, as the Irishman raised his hand and opened his mouth, preparatory to another torrent of complaint; “just say in ten words, if you can, what they’ve done to you.”
“I will, sor. Wan day had I been in London, sor - wan day only, an’ a low scutt thried to poison me dhrink; next day some udther thief av sin shoved me off av a railway platform undher a train, malicious and purposeful; glory be, he didn’t kill me! but the very docther that felt me bones thried to pick me pockut, I du b’lieve. Sunday night I was grabbed outrageous in a darrk turnin’, rowled on the groun’, half strangled, an’ me pockuts nigh ripped out av me trousies. An’ this very blessed mornin’ av light I was strook onsensible an’ left a livin’ corpse, an’ my lodgin’s penethrated an’ all the thruck mishandled an’ bruk up behind me back. Is that a panjandhery for the polis to laff at, sor?”
Had Holmes not been there I think I should have done my best to quiet the poor fellow with a few soothing words and to persuade him to go home to his friends. His excited and rather confused manner, his fantastic story of a sort of general conspiracy to kill him, and the absurd reference to the doctor who tried to pick his pocket seemed to me plainly to confirm my first impression that he was insane. But Holmes appeared strangely interested.
“Did they steal anything?” he asked.
“Divil a shtick but me door-key, an’ that they tuk home an’ lift in the door.”
Holmes opened his office door.
“Come in,” he said, “and tell me all about this. You come, too, Brett.”
The Irishman and I followed him into his rooms, where, shutting the door, Holmes suddenly turned on the Irishman and exclaimed sharply: “Then you’ve still got it?”
He looked keenly in the man’s eyes, but the only expression there was one of surprise.
“Got ut?” said the Irishman. “Got fwhat, sor? Is ut you’re thinkin’ I’ve got the horrors, as well as the polis?”
Holmes’s gaze relaxed. “Sit down, sit down!” he said. “You’ve still got your watch and money, I suppose, since you weren’t robbed?”
“Oh, that? Glory be, I have ut still! though for how long - or me own head, for that matter - in this state of besiegement, I can not say.”
“Now,” said Holmes, “I want a full, true, and particular account of yourself and your doings for the last week. First, your name?”
“Leamy’s my name, sor - Michael Leamy.”
“Lately from Ireland?”
“Over from Dublin this last blessed Wednesday, and a crooil bad poundherin’ tit was in the boat, too - shpakin’av that same.”
“Looking for work?”
“That is my purshuit at prisint, sor.”
“Did anything noticeable happen before these troubles of yours began - anything here in London or on the journey?”
“Sure,” the Irishman smiled, “part av the way I thraveled first-class by favor av the gyard, an’ I got a small job before I lift the train.”
“How was that? Why did you travel first-class part of the way?”
“There was a station fwhere we shtopped afther a long run, an’ I got down to take the cramp out av me joints, an’ take a taste av dhrink. I over-shtayed somehow, an’, whin I got to the train, begob, it was on the move. There was a first-class carr’ge door opin right forninst me, an’ into that the gyard crams me holus-bolus. There was a juce of a foine jintleman sittin’ there, an’ he stares at me umbrageous, but I was not dishcommoded, bein’ onbashful by natur’. We thravelled along a heap av miles more, till we came near London. Afther we had shtopped at a station where they tuk tickets we wint ahead again, an’ prisintly, as we rips through some udther station, up jumps the jintleman opposite, swearin’ hard undher his tongue, an’ looks out at the windy. ‘I thought this train shtopped here,’ sez he.”
“Chalk Farm,” observed Holmes, with a nod.
“The name I do not know, sor, but that’s fwhat he said. Then he looks at me onaisy for a little, an’ at last he sez: ‘Wud ye loike a small job, me good man, well paid?’
“ ‘Faith,’ sez I, ‘’tis that will suit me well.’
“ ‘Then, see here,’ sez he, ‘I should have got out at that station, havin’ particular business; havin’ missed, I must sen’ a telegrammer from Euston. Now, here’s a bag,’ sez he, ‘a bag full of imporrtant papers for my solicitor - imporrtant to me, ye ondershtand, not worth the shine av a brass farden to a sowl else - an’ I want ’em tuk on to him. Take you this bag,’ he sez, ‘an’ go you straight out wid it at Euston an’ get a cab. I shall stay in the station a bit to see to the telegrammer. Dhrive out av the station, across the road outside, an’ wait there five minuts by the clock. Ye ondershtand? Wait five minuts, an, maybe I’ll come an’ join ye. If I don’t ’twill be bekase I’m detained onexpected, an’ then ye’ll dhrive to my solicitor straight. Here’s his address, if ye can read writin’,’ an’ he put ut on a piece av paper. He gave me half-a-crown for the cab, an’ I tuk his bag.”
“One moment - have you the paper with the address now?”
“I have not, sor. I missed ut afther the blayguards overset me
yesterday; but the solicitor’s name was Hollams, an’ a liberal jintleman wid his money he was, too, by that same token.”
“What was his address?”
“’Twas in Chelsea, and ’twas Gold or Golden something, which I know by the good token av fwhat he gave me; but the number I misremember.”
Holmes turned to his directory. “Gold Street is the place, probably,” he said, “and it seems to be a street chiefly of private houses. You would be able to point out the house if you were taken there, I suppose?”
“I should that, sor; indade, I was thinkin’ av goin’ there an’ tellin’ Misther Hollams all my throubles, him havin’ been so kind.”
“Now tell me exactly what instructions the man in the train gave you, and what happened?”
“He sez: ‘You ask for Misther Hollams, an’ see nobody else. Tell him ye’ve brought the sparks from Misther W.’ ”
I fancied I could see a sudden twinkle in Holmes’s eye, but he made no other sign, and the Irishman proceeded.
“ ‘Sparks?’ sez I. ‘Yes, sparks,’ sez he. ‘Misther Hollams will know; ’tis our jokin’ word for ’em; sometimes papers is sparks when they set a lawsuit ablaze,’ and he laffed. ‘But be sure ye say the sparks from Misther W.,’ he sez again, ‘bekase then he’ll know ye’re jinuine an’ he’ll pay ye han’some. Say Misther W. sez you’re to have your reg’lars, if ye like. D’ye mind that?’
“ ‘Ay,’ sez I, ‘that I’m to have my reg’lars.’
“Well, sor, I tuk the bag and wint out of the station, tuk the cab, an’ did all as he towld me. I waited the foive minuts, but he niver came, so off I druv to Misther Hollams, and he threated me han’some, sor.”
“Yes, but tell me exactly all he did.”
“ ‘Misther Hollams, sor?’ sez I. ‘Who are ye?’ sez he. ‘Mick Leamy, sor,’ sez I, ‘from Misther W. wid the sparks.’ ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘thin come in.’ I wint in. ‘They’re in here, are they?’ sez he, takin’ the bag. ‘They are, sor,’ sez I, ‘an’ Misther W. sez I’m to have me reg’lars.’ ‘You shall,’ sez he. ‘What shall we say, now - afinnip?’ ‘Fwhat’s that, sor?’ sez I. ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I s’pose ye’re a new hand; five quid - ondershtand that?’ ”
“Begob, I did ondershtand it, an’ moighty plazed I was to have come to a place where they pay five-pun’ notes for carryin’ bags. So whin he asked me was I new to London an’ shud I kape in the same line av business, I towld him I shud for certin, or any thin’ else payin’ like it. ‘Right,’ sez he; ‘let me know whin ye’ve got any thin’ - ye’ll find me all right.’ An’ he winked frindly. ‘Faith, that I know I shall, sor,’ sez I, wid the money safe in me pockut; an’ I winked him back, conjanial. ‘I’ve a smart family about me,’ sez he, ‘an’ I treat ’em all fair an’ liberal.’ An’, saints, I thought it likely his family ’ud have all they wanted, seein’ he was so free-handed wid a stranger. Thin he asked me where I was a livin’ in London, and, when I towld him nowhere, he towld me av a room in Musson Street, here by Drury Lane, that was to let, in a house his fam’ly knew very well, an’ I wint straight there an’ tuk ut, an’ there I do be stayin’ still, sor.”
I hadn’t understood at first why Holmes took so much interest in the Irishman’s narrative, but the latter part of it opened my eyes a little. It seemed likely that Leamy had, in his innocence, been made a conveyer of stolen property. I knew enough of thieves’ slang to know that “sparks” meant diamonds or other jewels; that “regulars” was the term used for a payment made to a brother thief who gave assistance in some small way, such as carrying the booty; and that the “family” was the time-honored expression for a gang of thieves.
“This was all on Wednesday, I understand,” said Holmes. “Now tell me what happened on Thursday - the poisoning, or drugging, you know?”
“Well, sor, I was walking out, an’ toward the evenin’ I lost mesilf. Up comes a man, seemin’ly a sthranger, and shmacks me on the showldher. ‘Why, Mick!’ sez he; ‘it’s Mick Leamy, I du b’lieve!’
“ ‘I am that,’ sez I, ‘but you I do not know.’
“ ‘Not know me?’ sez he. ‘Why, I wint to school wid ye.’ An’ wid that he hauls me off to a bar, blarneyin’ and minowdherin’, an’ orders dhrinks.
“Can ye rache me a poipe-loight?’ sez he, an’ I turned to get ut, but, lookin’ back suddent, there was that onblushin’ thief av the warl’ tippin’ a paperful of phowder stuff into me glass.”
“What did you do?” Holmes asked.
“I knocked the dhirty face av him, sor, an’ can ye blame me? A mane scutt, thryin’ for to poison a well-manin’ sthranger. I knocked the face av him, an’ got away home.”
“Now the next misfortune?”
“Faith, that was av a sort likely to turn out the last of all misfortunes. I wint that day to the Crystial Palace, bein’ dishposed for a little sphort, seein’ as I was new to London. Comin’ home at night, there was a juce av a crowd on the station platform, consekins of a late thrain. Sthandin’ by the edge av the platform at the fore end, just as thrain came in, some onvisible murdherer gives me a stupenjus drive in the back, and over I wint on the line, mid-betwixt the rails. The engine came up an’ wint half over me widout givin’ me a scratch, bekase av my centraleous situation, an’ then the porther-men pulled me out, nigh sick wid fright, sor, as ye may guess. A jintleman in the crowd sings out: ‘I’m a medical man!’ an’ they tuk me in the waitin’-room, an’ he investigated me, havin’ turned everybody else out av the room. There wuz no bones bruk, glory be! and the docthor-man he was tellin’ me so, after feelin’ me over, whin I felt his hand in me waistcoat pockut.
“ ‘An’ fwhat’s this, sor?’ sez I. ‘Do you be lookin’ for your fee that thief’s way?’
“He laffed, and said: ‘I want no fee from ye, me man, an’ I did but feel your ribs,’ though on me conscience he had done that undher me waistcoat already. An’ so I came home.”
“What did they do to you on Saturday?”
“Saturday, sor, they gave me a whole holiday, and I began to think less of things; but on Saturday night, in a dark place, two blayguards tuk me throat from behind, nigh choked me, flung me down, an’ wint through all me pockuts in about a quarter av a minut.”
“And they took nothing, you say?”
“Nothing, sor. But this mornin’ I got my worst dose. I was trapesing along distreshful an’ moighty sore, in a street just away off the Strand there, when I obsarved the docthor-man that was at the Crystial Palace station a-smilin’ an’ beckonin’ at me from a door.
“ ‘How are ye now?’ sez he. ‘Well,’ sez I, ‘I’m moighty sore an’ sad bruised,’ sez I. ‘Is that so?’ sez he. ‘Sthep in here.’ So I sthepped in, an’ before I could wink there dhropped a crack on the back av me head that sent me off as unknowledgable as a corrpse. I knew no more for a while, sor, whether half an hour or an hour, an’ thin I got up in a room av the place, marked ‘To Let.’ ’Twas a house full av offices, by the same token. There was a sore bad lump on me head - see ut, sor? - an’ the whole warl’ was shpinnin’ roun’ rampageous. The things out av me pockuts were lyin’ on the flure by me - all barrin’ the key av me room. So that the demons had been through me posseshins again, bad luck to ’em.”
“You are quite sure, are you, that everything was there except the key?” Holmes asked.
“Certin, sor? Well, I got along to me room, sick an’ sorry enough, an’ doubtsome whether I might get in wid no key. But there was the key in the open door, an’, by this an’ that, all the shtuff in the room - chair, table, bed, an’ all - was shtandin’ on their heads twisty-ways, an’ the bedclothes an’ every thin’ else; such a disgraceful stramash av conglomerated thruck as ye niver dhreamt av. The chist av drawers was lyin’ on uts face, wid all the dhrawers out an’ emptied on the flure. ’Twas as though an arrmy had been lootin’, sor!”
“Bu
t still nothing was gone?”
“Nothin’, so far as I investigated, sor. But I didn’t shtay. I came out to spake to the polis, an’ two av them laffed at me - wan afther another!”
“It has certainly been no laughing matter for you. Now, tell me - have you anything in your possession - documents, or valuables, or anything - that any other person, to your knowledge, is anxious to get hold of!”
“I have not, sor - divil a document! As to valuables, thim an’ me is the cowldest av sthrangers.”
“Just call to mind, now, the face of the man who tried to put powder in your drink, and that of the doctor who attended to you in the railway station. Were they at all alike, or was either like anybody you have seen before?”
Leamy puckered his forehead and thought.
“Faith,” he said presently, “they were a bit alike, though one had a beard an’ the udther whiskers only.”
“Neither happened to look like Mr. Hollams, for instance?”
Leamy started. “Begob, but they did! They’d ha’ been mortal like him if they’d been shaved.” Then, after a pause, he suddenly added: “Holy saints! is ut the fam’ly he talked av?”
Holmes laughed. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “Now, as to the man who sent you with the bag. Was it an old bag?”
“Bran’ cracklin’ new - a brown leather bag.”
“Locked?”
“That I niver thried, sor. It was not my consarn.”
“True. Now, as to this Mr. W. himself.” Holmes had been rummaging for some few minutes in a portfolio, and finally produced a photograph, and held it before the Irishman’s eye. “Is that like him?” he asked.
“Shure it’s the man himself! Is he a friend av yours, sor?”
