McSWEENY AND THE MAGIC JEWELS.A kick from a brute having iron toe-plates on his boots had placed me on the sick, or rather the lame, list, and so the scientific gentleman, with his strange story of robbery, was referred to McSweeny. The gentleman, who was well known as an author and student, and whom I may here name Mr Hew Stafford, insisted that none but the very cleverest and most acute detective on the staff could properly follow and understand the almost supernatural events connected with the robbery of the jewels, and as my chum’s opinion has always been that he answers to that description, and every one else was busy, he was allowed to take the case in hand.“I’m Detective McSweeny, at your service, sur,” he said, bowing stiffly, as the old gentleman blinked at him through his spectacles. “I daresay you’ll have read my experiences? They are published in books, and that’s how some call me the great McSweeny.”“No, I have not had that pleasure,” politely responded Mr Stafford. “I never heard the name before.”“Ah, I know how that is,” returned McSweeny, with alacrity. “It’s because a kind of assistant of mine puts his name to the books. Ye see, sur, I’m troubled wid a kind of stiffness in me right hand, and writin’s bothersome to me, so I let him do it. His name’s McGovan, and he gets all the praise and all the money for the books, which I wouldn’t mind at all, at all, if he didn’t try to make me look as small as possible. If ye believe him, I can’t do a dacent job without him. For a story-teller, I’ll back him agin all the world.”“Yes, I think I have heard his name, but I never look at that kind of literature,” wearily answered Mr Stafford.“An’, good for you, sur; for the lies that’s in it—especially about me—no wan knows better than meself; but it’s no use me saying anything, for paiple believe every word he writes. He drives his own carriage, while I’ve to walk on futt. Never moind! I’ve the pull on him in cleverness. Give me your difficult job, and see if I don’t run down the thafe better than a dozen McGovans rolled into wan.”“I understand—you mean that he is but a lame detective?”“He is that,” said McSweeny, with a twinkle in his eye, as he thought of the kick which had laid me up. “If there’s a lame detective annywhere in the world this minit, it’s him.”“Then I am delighted to have met you instead,” exclaimed the innocent Mr Stafford, “for of all the mysteries that ever were brought here to unravel, none could be more incomprehensible than the robbery which has brought me here. You can understand how valuables might go where there are hands to take them,—servants or professional thieves,—but for jewels to vanish before one’s eyes in a locked room, with windows fastened, and not a living creature near, seems as nearly impossible as anything I can imagine, yet that is exactly the case which I have brought to you.”“Nothing at all—nothing at all to us,” said McSweeny, with the most unbounded confidence in himself. “Just go over the whole story, and I’ll soon put it all to rights.”“Well, I am, as you probably know, a bachelor, and live out at Newington in a self-contained house of my own. My servants are a housekeeper, a kitchen-maid, and good-for-nothing page—a boy of thirteen, who eats his own weight of food every day, and torments the life out of me generally. I must tell you at once, however, that it is quite impossible that any of these three servants can be the thief.”McSweeny smiled knowingly to himself, but made no remark. He had already decided that the good-for-nothing page-boy was the thief.“You will understand how it is impossible that the servants could be involved, when you learn the circumstances,” pursued Mr Stafford. “A young relative of mine is getting married, and, as I am not exactly a poor man, I decided upon giving her a handsome present. I said nothing about my intention to anyone, but went to the bank and drew £200.”“£200,” said McSweeny, gravely noting down the facts, with a severe official frown on his brow, in imitation of some peculiarity of my own.“With that money in my pocket I went over to Princes Street, and bought, in a first-class jeweller’s, a necklace, brooch, and ear-rings. They were set with diamonds and pearls, and, I believe, full value for the money I paid for them, which was only a pound or two less than I had drawn from the bank. They were very pretty trinkets, and, though no admirer of such things generally, I could not help looking more than once at these. I mention these facts just to let you understand that they werebona-fidejewels, paid for at the highest price, and bought from a man above suspicion, and no trick affairs made up in some magic way to deceive the eyes or fingers, and then vanish into gas or air before one’s eyes. After I had paid for the jewels they were put into a small casket covered with morocco and lined with velvet, and this casket, wrapped in paper, was placed in my own hands, and carried by me to my own home. I still said nothing of my purchase to anyone. The page-boy was in the hall as I entered, but the casket was at that moment in my coat pocket, and he could not possibly have guessed that I carried anything uncommon. I left my hat, and umbrella, and boots in the hall, and went straight up to my study. This room is always closed with a check-lock, and no one can enter it during my absence. There is no furniture in the room which could screen any person from sight. When you enter the room you see at a glance all that is in it—my book-case, my writing-table, and a sofa and four chairs. There is a fire and fire-place, of course, but no one could conceal himself there, as the grate is a small register one, and the fire was blazing up when the magical disappearance took place. I always light the fire and trim it myself, and the page never gets further than the outside of the door when he fills and brings up the coal scuttle. The floor is covered with one piece of wax-cloth, so there are no crevices or holes into which any small trinket could drop or roll. You are following me clearly, I hope?”“Yes, sur—as clear as day,” answered McSweeny, with rather less confidence in his tones.“Well, on entering the room, I knocked up the fire, put on fresh coals, and then seated myself before my writing-table, directly in front of the fire. I took out the casket of jewels and placed it on the table before me. The door, you will remember, was shut, and cannot be opened from the outside except by me, who carry the only key. I could see all the room, and both door and window, and am certain no human being but myself was in that room. I thought I should like to have another look at the trinkets, and opened the casket and laid them out, one by one, on the writing-table before me. I felt them—touched them—turned them over, and in every possible manner was convinced that they were exactly as I had received them from the maker. Now listen. After I had admired them for some little time, I replaced them in the case, which was fitted with grooves to hold them. I did not close the case, but began to reflect on the possible weal or woe which might await the young girl who was to receive them. While thus reflecting, my eyes left the table for a few minutes, and rested on the window and the distant green hills and clear sky. I was in what is called a brown study for perhaps five minutes. When I awoke from that reverie, and brought my eyes back to the table, the jewels were gone!”“Gone?” echoed McSweeny, incredulously.“Yes, gone—casket, and necklace, and brooch, and ear-rings had vanished bodily, leaving not a trace of their existence before me on the mahogany table.”“You’d drapped them on the flure, mebbe?” suggested McSweeny, whose hair was beginning to rise on end.“Not at all, though, like you, I thought at first that that was possible,” calmly continued Mr Stafford. “I looked at my feet, over the table, under the table, and into every drawer and cranny about the table. I did not find them. I tried the door; it was firmly closed. The window the same. I felt every pocket. All in vain. The jewels and the case were gone.”“Ay, but how? There must have been some greedy fingers to take them,” said McSweeny, who seemed to instinctively guess the suggestion that was coming.“Perhaps not,” said the old gentleman, as calmly; “a spirit hath not flesh or bones. Did you never hear of evil spirits?”McSweeny almost jumped to his feet, and fumbled apprehensively with his red scalp.“Faith have I,” he answered, with a shudder, thinking probably of the “Spirit Rappers” described in “Strange Clues.” “If it’s a good healthy ghost of the owld-fashioned kind your going to mintion, it’s all right, but your table-rapping ones I’ll have nothing to do with.”“I don’t profess to say what kind of spirit took them,” solemnly replied Mr Stafford, “but it must have been a covetous spirit. I’ve told you all I know of the affair. The jewels are gone, and that’s exactly how they vanished. I could not ask the servants about them, for they never saw them, and were not near me at the time. I don’t feel inclined to lose them, yet I am certain that no human hand took them.”“Rats, mebbe?” hopefully suggested McSweeny.“No; there is not a hole in the room.”“A jackdaw then—it might have come down the chimney.”“Impossible. I must have heard it, and seen it. No; the jewels disappeared right under my nose, without a sound. I leave you to solve the mystery and recover the property.”McSweeny had asked for a difficult case, and now that he had got one he was bound to express himself highly elated at the apparently unsolvable mystery. He volubly promised the robbed gentleman not only that he would speedily lay the thief by the heels, but that, spirit or no spirit, he would recover the property as well. His inward resolve, of course, was that if he found himself making no progress with the case, he would shove the finishing of it on me, while, if by some rare stroke of good luck he did succeed, the greater renown would attach to his efforts on account of his emphatic declarations. Full of these assurances, he accompanied Mr Stafford out to that gentleman’s house at the South Side, and was taken up to the room in which the jewels had so magically disappeared. He got Mr Stafford to sit down in the exact spot and attitude he had occupied when the robbery took place. When this had been done, and every part of the room examined, McSweeny was more puzzled than ever. His reason told him most emphatically that the valuables could not have gone without hands, and yet he could not suggest even to himself how fingers could have got at them. There was not a crevice in the room—the house was a modern one, and therefore could not have any invisible stairs, doors, or passages in the walls; and even if these had existed, he could not conceive it possible for anyone to enter the room and remove the jewels before the owner’s eyes, and he sitting there wide awake, looking straight before him. However, he had promised great things, and by his confident looks, and winks, and nods hinted at greater, so all he could now do was to take refuge in a little boldness. In entering the house he had got his eye on the page-boy, who was in the act of stuffing something out of sight into one of his pockets. As McSweeny reached the boy’s side a whiff of the page’s breath ascended to his nostrils, and seemed to point to the cause of the hurried act of concealment.“Tobacco, the young spalpeen!” was McSweeny’s mental exclamation. “The boy that can smoke is fit for anything. Just wait a minit, my jewel, and I’ll frighten the very sowl out of ye.”Having inspected Mr Stafford’s study, and made nothing of the work, McSweeny had no difficulty in working himself up into a fit of rage against the page.“Just ring the bell, plase, for that boy in the tight jacket and buttons,” he said to Mr Stafford when they had returned to the sitting-room. The bell was rung, and the page appeared, when McSweeny grandly requested to be left alone with the quaking boy. Mr Stafford accordingly withdrew, when McSweeny elaborately took from his pocket first a note-book and pencil, and then a pair of handcuffs, which he clanked noisily down on the table before the boy’s eyes.“Now, you boy—your name?” he sternly began.“William Lister, sir,” said the page, visibly alarmed.“Well, William, I’m the great detective McSweeny, and I’ve come here on a great case. You know what I can do to you, I suppose?”“Ye—ye—yes, sir,” stammered the page, nearly crying, and shaking on his legs.“Now look me in the face, sur,” and McSweeny grabbed the boy suddenly by the arm, and forced him down on his knees—no very difficult task—while he chained him with his fierce eyes. “Now, sur! you’ve been robbing your master!”“No—no—no—sir!” cried the boy, clasping his hands in an agony of terror, and beginning to howl.“You tuck them; I can see it in your eye,” sternly returned McSweeny. “Now, where have ye hid them? Out with it, or off to jail ye go!”More abject howling and protesting, and then the boy blubberedout—“It was for my mother I took them.”“Your mother, ye villin. She’s fond o’ them things, I s’pose?” derisively returned McSweeny.“Ye—ye—yes, sir.”“And she’s got them now, eh!”“Yes—oo! hoo! hoo!”“And where does she live?”“Bu—bu—bu—ccleuch Street, sir.”“Then we’ll go there now,” sternly observed McSweeny, highly elated with the success of his bold measures; “and luck here now, if ye try to escape I’ll shoot you—shoot you! with a double-barrelled poker.”The terror-stricken culprit rose and got his cap; and they were moving out of the lobby when Mr Stafford appeared.“It’s all right, sur,” whispered McSweeny, with a significant wink; “you’ll have them here for identification in an hour.”“But how was it done?” cried the gentleman in amazement.“Done? What trick is there that’s too difficult or dirty for an idle vagabone of a boy?” responded McSweeny with a wise look. “I knew what a scamp he was the minit I smelt tobacco on him,” and McSweeny got out his own pipe ready for lighting when he should be outside the door.The boy, all the way to his home, was tremulously asking what would be done to him, but his captor smoked away in dignified silence, more terrible to the prisoner than the most voluble of threats. At length the great oracle spoke, and gave the boy to understand that the nature and duration of his punishment would depend very much upon himself—if he agreed to tell how the robbery had been accomplished, and all other particulars, his punishment would probably be extremely light. This gracious concession gave great comfort to the boy, who instantly promised to keep back nothing. They had then arrived at the house in Buccleuch Street.It was a poor hovel of a room, both damp and dark, being on the ground floor. A woman who opened the door was promptly introduced to McSweeny as the boy’s mother. The boy whispered to her for a moment, and then led McSweeny to the fireplace. A small fire burned in the grate, and on that fire was a pot of broth. The boy lifted down the pot on to the hearth, and, handing an old ladle to McSweeny, told him to “take them out.”“What a hiding-place!” was McSweeny’s inward comment. “The young scoundrel’s as clever as if he had been wan of my bairns all his life. To think of him making broth of jewels!—begorra, he deserves a prize for fine cookery.”As he made these comments McSweeny began to rake up the contents of the pot, but found no trace of the magic jewels.“What do ye mane, ye young spalpeen?” he cried at last, in terrible tones, to the boy and his quaking mother. “Didn’t you say they were here, in the pot?”“Yes—that’s them,” said the boy, stopping his whimpering to point to a heap of beef bones, with some shreds of meat still adhering to them, which McSweeny had removed one by one from the pot.“What?” The thought was too humiliating—too horrifying; and McSweeny could find voice for only the one word.“That’s them,” repeated the boy, touching the steaming bones, “and I’d never have taken them, only the servant said they were no use.”“It’s jewels I’m after!” shouted McSweeny in a great rage. “Jewels! £200 worth of jewels!”“Jewels? I never saw them,” cried the boy, drying up his tears with marvellous alacrity. “You said bones, I thought—at least it was the only thing I ever took, and thought you meant them.”All this was dreadful to McSweeny, and yet it was so simply and naturally spoken, that he could not for a moment doubt the truthfulness of either. With a great show of bluster and official activity he searched the whole of the little hovel, but, of course, found no trace of jewellery of any kind; indeed, the page-boy protested loudly that he had never seen his master with jewellery in his possession, and so could not possibly have stolen it.The return to Mr Stafford’s house was not quite such a triumphal procession as McSweeny had expected, and when there he had nothing but utter failure to recount. He went over the whole house, and questioned the other servants, with a like result. He was not a step nearer the solution than when he began. There remained then but one slender hope—that the thief might attempt to dispose of the jewels, so McSweeny finished his work by taking a minute description of these valuables, and having them inserted in our printed lists sent round to all dealers and pawnbrokers. A tour round the most of these produced no better result. No one had offered such articles either for sale or pledge. At the end of a week, when I was beginning to “hirple” about again, we were in one of these dealers’ places, when I suggested that the description of the jewels was rather vague for the pawnbrokers, and that we might go along to the jeweller who had sold them to Mr Stafford, and have it made fuller and more complete. A reference to the scribbles which McSweeny called notes revealed the fact that no such name was recorded. I sent McSweeny out to the South Side to have the omission rectified, not being able to walk as far myself, and on his return learned that Mr Stafford had had some difficulty in remembering the name himself. However, on McSweeny naming two or three of the principal ones in Princes Street, he at length spotted one as the right one. In the evening I chanced to be in Princes Street, and went into the shop to get the description. To my surprise, the jeweller and all his assistants declared that no such purchase had been made in the shop. Back I sent McSweeny to Mr Stafford, when that gentleman at once smiled out knowingly, andsaid—“I think I understand that statement of the jeweller. It is all a plot between him and my servants—he is to swear that he never sold them, and they are to declare that they never took them. The jeweller will thus get them back, and they will divide the spoil.”McSweeny scratched his red pow, looked up at the ceiling, and then down at the carpet, and finally confessed that he did not exactly catch the drift of the gentleman’s reasoning.“I will explain—I will confide in you as a friend,” said Mr Stafford, waxing warm. “I am a lonely man, without wife or children to look after my interests and protect me from designing persons. The consequence is that I am continually being persecuted, robbed, and cheated. One of my acquaintances, whom I never injured by thought or deed, carried this torture to such an extent that I was forced to leave the city.”“Could you not have got the protection of the police?” suggested McSweeny.“Useless. How could I prove the persecution? I fled to London; the wretch followed me there; I took the first train from the place; it landed me at one of their pleasure gardens—the grounds of the Crystal Palace, I think. I enjoyed myself there; when all at once my fiend—my tormentor—as I must call him—appeared before me. I ran from the spot; a balloon was just starting; I leaped in, cut the rope, and shot up into the air, laughing in triumph at the chagrin of my persecutor.”“That was a neat escape,” observed McSweeny; “but how did ye get down again?”“The most awful part of the adventure was to come,” pursued Mr Stafford. “When I had got up a certain distance I got freezing cold, and thought to warm myself with a smoke. In striking a light some of the gas escaping from the balloon must have touched and exploded, for the next moment the whole thing was in shreds and flames, and I was flying towards earth with the speed of a cannon ball.”“And ye was kilt? Smashed to atoms?” exclaimed McSweeny in earnest horror, with his hands raised, and his eyes almost starting from their sockets.“No; fortunately I fell into the water, and, being an excellent swimmer, I managed to save myself. I returned to Edinburgh, but my tormentor was soon upon my track again, and even yet he continues his persecutions upon every occasion when there is no chance of being seen. Possibly he is at the bottom of this mysterious robbery.”McSweeny asked the name of this persecutor, and after a good deal of demur on the part of Mr Stafford, the name was given, when it proved to be that of an eminent professor, as renowned for his learning as for his goodness. McSweeny was a good deal staggered, but took leave, saying he would make inquiry into the matter, and see that Mr Stafford was annoyed no longer.When he came to me with his report I laughed outright, andsaid—“Why, the man’s mad! I wonder you did not see it in him before.”“What man? The Professor?” inquired McSweeny, with great simplicity.“No, this Mr Stafford.”McSweeny would not believe it, and I suggested that we should ascertain if he had really drawn £200 from the bank on the day of the alleged purchase of the jewels. I did not believe that he had, but was surprised at the bank to find that he had really drawn that sum. We then went over every jeweller’s in Princes Street, but could not discover one who had sold to any one on that day the jewels described as stolen so magically. After thinking over these discoveries for a little, I formed in my mind a theory, which proved pretty sound in the end, and which I proceeded to test, by going out to Mr Stafford’s house in company with McSweeny, and having a talk with that gentleman upon general topics. When done, I felt slightly disappointed. I could find no trace of insanity about the man, but then I ought to have remembered that my profession is not to detect lunacy, but thieves. Still, acting on my theory, I requested permission, and Mr Stafford’s assistance, to search the whole house. This was given with the greatest alacrity. We went over every room and closet, but Mr Stafford’s study, without discovering anything. Then we came to that room, and I promptly asked for his keys. The request appeared to stagger him, but was granted, and I turned out all the drawers in his writing-table. At the bottom of one of them was an envelope or thick packet, which I took up, but which he as hastily tried to take from me,saying—“That’s only some bank notes—some money of mine.”Very impolitely, as it may seem, I retained the envelope, turned out the contents, and found, on counting the notes, that they amounted to £200 exactly. I then handed them to the owner without a comment, and searched no more. With a shrewd suspicion of what I might expect, I went to the Professor whom Mr Stafford had named as his persecutor, and from him learned Mr Stafford had, on a former occasion, been unfortunate enough to injure his brain by over-study, and was by the Professor’s advice removed to an asylum for the insane. That gentleman, who evinced the liveliest friendship for Mr Stafford, agreed to see his friend at once, and report on his mental condition. The result was, that Mr Stafford was proved to be not exactly insane, but in a condition of mental derangement which threatened to become more pronounced, and it was decided that he had better have an experienced attendant from one of the asylums. This was arranged quietly, and with very little demur on the part of the patient, but his condition became more grave, and eventually he had to be removed to an asylum, in which, with one brief interval, he has remained ever since. His mind, however, has taken firm hold of the story of the magic jewels, and the development which that incident has now assumed is that I, the writer of these sketches, was the robber of the jewels, and that, in fear of detection, I smuggled the money I had received for them into his drawer. He also asserts that I declared him insane only to protect myself from the consequences of the crime, and that if I could be removed from power his liberation would at once follow. Poor, suffering humanity! who shall minister to a mind diseased?
A kick from a brute having iron toe-plates on his boots had placed me on the sick, or rather the lame, list, and so the scientific gentleman, with his strange story of robbery, was referred to McSweeny. The gentleman, who was well known as an author and student, and whom I may here name Mr Hew Stafford, insisted that none but the very cleverest and most acute detective on the staff could properly follow and understand the almost supernatural events connected with the robbery of the jewels, and as my chum’s opinion has always been that he answers to that description, and every one else was busy, he was allowed to take the case in hand.
“I’m Detective McSweeny, at your service, sur,” he said, bowing stiffly, as the old gentleman blinked at him through his spectacles. “I daresay you’ll have read my experiences? They are published in books, and that’s how some call me the great McSweeny.”
“No, I have not had that pleasure,” politely responded Mr Stafford. “I never heard the name before.”
“Ah, I know how that is,” returned McSweeny, with alacrity. “It’s because a kind of assistant of mine puts his name to the books. Ye see, sur, I’m troubled wid a kind of stiffness in me right hand, and writin’s bothersome to me, so I let him do it. His name’s McGovan, and he gets all the praise and all the money for the books, which I wouldn’t mind at all, at all, if he didn’t try to make me look as small as possible. If ye believe him, I can’t do a dacent job without him. For a story-teller, I’ll back him agin all the world.”
“Yes, I think I have heard his name, but I never look at that kind of literature,” wearily answered Mr Stafford.
“An’, good for you, sur; for the lies that’s in it—especially about me—no wan knows better than meself; but it’s no use me saying anything, for paiple believe every word he writes. He drives his own carriage, while I’ve to walk on futt. Never moind! I’ve the pull on him in cleverness. Give me your difficult job, and see if I don’t run down the thafe better than a dozen McGovans rolled into wan.”
“I understand—you mean that he is but a lame detective?”
“He is that,” said McSweeny, with a twinkle in his eye, as he thought of the kick which had laid me up. “If there’s a lame detective annywhere in the world this minit, it’s him.”
“Then I am delighted to have met you instead,” exclaimed the innocent Mr Stafford, “for of all the mysteries that ever were brought here to unravel, none could be more incomprehensible than the robbery which has brought me here. You can understand how valuables might go where there are hands to take them,—servants or professional thieves,—but for jewels to vanish before one’s eyes in a locked room, with windows fastened, and not a living creature near, seems as nearly impossible as anything I can imagine, yet that is exactly the case which I have brought to you.”
“Nothing at all—nothing at all to us,” said McSweeny, with the most unbounded confidence in himself. “Just go over the whole story, and I’ll soon put it all to rights.”
“Well, I am, as you probably know, a bachelor, and live out at Newington in a self-contained house of my own. My servants are a housekeeper, a kitchen-maid, and good-for-nothing page—a boy of thirteen, who eats his own weight of food every day, and torments the life out of me generally. I must tell you at once, however, that it is quite impossible that any of these three servants can be the thief.”
McSweeny smiled knowingly to himself, but made no remark. He had already decided that the good-for-nothing page-boy was the thief.
“You will understand how it is impossible that the servants could be involved, when you learn the circumstances,” pursued Mr Stafford. “A young relative of mine is getting married, and, as I am not exactly a poor man, I decided upon giving her a handsome present. I said nothing about my intention to anyone, but went to the bank and drew £200.”
“£200,” said McSweeny, gravely noting down the facts, with a severe official frown on his brow, in imitation of some peculiarity of my own.
“With that money in my pocket I went over to Princes Street, and bought, in a first-class jeweller’s, a necklace, brooch, and ear-rings. They were set with diamonds and pearls, and, I believe, full value for the money I paid for them, which was only a pound or two less than I had drawn from the bank. They were very pretty trinkets, and, though no admirer of such things generally, I could not help looking more than once at these. I mention these facts just to let you understand that they werebona-fidejewels, paid for at the highest price, and bought from a man above suspicion, and no trick affairs made up in some magic way to deceive the eyes or fingers, and then vanish into gas or air before one’s eyes. After I had paid for the jewels they were put into a small casket covered with morocco and lined with velvet, and this casket, wrapped in paper, was placed in my own hands, and carried by me to my own home. I still said nothing of my purchase to anyone. The page-boy was in the hall as I entered, but the casket was at that moment in my coat pocket, and he could not possibly have guessed that I carried anything uncommon. I left my hat, and umbrella, and boots in the hall, and went straight up to my study. This room is always closed with a check-lock, and no one can enter it during my absence. There is no furniture in the room which could screen any person from sight. When you enter the room you see at a glance all that is in it—my book-case, my writing-table, and a sofa and four chairs. There is a fire and fire-place, of course, but no one could conceal himself there, as the grate is a small register one, and the fire was blazing up when the magical disappearance took place. I always light the fire and trim it myself, and the page never gets further than the outside of the door when he fills and brings up the coal scuttle. The floor is covered with one piece of wax-cloth, so there are no crevices or holes into which any small trinket could drop or roll. You are following me clearly, I hope?”
“Yes, sur—as clear as day,” answered McSweeny, with rather less confidence in his tones.
“Well, on entering the room, I knocked up the fire, put on fresh coals, and then seated myself before my writing-table, directly in front of the fire. I took out the casket of jewels and placed it on the table before me. The door, you will remember, was shut, and cannot be opened from the outside except by me, who carry the only key. I could see all the room, and both door and window, and am certain no human being but myself was in that room. I thought I should like to have another look at the trinkets, and opened the casket and laid them out, one by one, on the writing-table before me. I felt them—touched them—turned them over, and in every possible manner was convinced that they were exactly as I had received them from the maker. Now listen. After I had admired them for some little time, I replaced them in the case, which was fitted with grooves to hold them. I did not close the case, but began to reflect on the possible weal or woe which might await the young girl who was to receive them. While thus reflecting, my eyes left the table for a few minutes, and rested on the window and the distant green hills and clear sky. I was in what is called a brown study for perhaps five minutes. When I awoke from that reverie, and brought my eyes back to the table, the jewels were gone!”
“Gone?” echoed McSweeny, incredulously.
“Yes, gone—casket, and necklace, and brooch, and ear-rings had vanished bodily, leaving not a trace of their existence before me on the mahogany table.”
“You’d drapped them on the flure, mebbe?” suggested McSweeny, whose hair was beginning to rise on end.
“Not at all, though, like you, I thought at first that that was possible,” calmly continued Mr Stafford. “I looked at my feet, over the table, under the table, and into every drawer and cranny about the table. I did not find them. I tried the door; it was firmly closed. The window the same. I felt every pocket. All in vain. The jewels and the case were gone.”
“Ay, but how? There must have been some greedy fingers to take them,” said McSweeny, who seemed to instinctively guess the suggestion that was coming.
“Perhaps not,” said the old gentleman, as calmly; “a spirit hath not flesh or bones. Did you never hear of evil spirits?”
McSweeny almost jumped to his feet, and fumbled apprehensively with his red scalp.
“Faith have I,” he answered, with a shudder, thinking probably of the “Spirit Rappers” described in “Strange Clues.” “If it’s a good healthy ghost of the owld-fashioned kind your going to mintion, it’s all right, but your table-rapping ones I’ll have nothing to do with.”
“I don’t profess to say what kind of spirit took them,” solemnly replied Mr Stafford, “but it must have been a covetous spirit. I’ve told you all I know of the affair. The jewels are gone, and that’s exactly how they vanished. I could not ask the servants about them, for they never saw them, and were not near me at the time. I don’t feel inclined to lose them, yet I am certain that no human hand took them.”
“Rats, mebbe?” hopefully suggested McSweeny.
“No; there is not a hole in the room.”
“A jackdaw then—it might have come down the chimney.”
“Impossible. I must have heard it, and seen it. No; the jewels disappeared right under my nose, without a sound. I leave you to solve the mystery and recover the property.”
McSweeny had asked for a difficult case, and now that he had got one he was bound to express himself highly elated at the apparently unsolvable mystery. He volubly promised the robbed gentleman not only that he would speedily lay the thief by the heels, but that, spirit or no spirit, he would recover the property as well. His inward resolve, of course, was that if he found himself making no progress with the case, he would shove the finishing of it on me, while, if by some rare stroke of good luck he did succeed, the greater renown would attach to his efforts on account of his emphatic declarations. Full of these assurances, he accompanied Mr Stafford out to that gentleman’s house at the South Side, and was taken up to the room in which the jewels had so magically disappeared. He got Mr Stafford to sit down in the exact spot and attitude he had occupied when the robbery took place. When this had been done, and every part of the room examined, McSweeny was more puzzled than ever. His reason told him most emphatically that the valuables could not have gone without hands, and yet he could not suggest even to himself how fingers could have got at them. There was not a crevice in the room—the house was a modern one, and therefore could not have any invisible stairs, doors, or passages in the walls; and even if these had existed, he could not conceive it possible for anyone to enter the room and remove the jewels before the owner’s eyes, and he sitting there wide awake, looking straight before him. However, he had promised great things, and by his confident looks, and winks, and nods hinted at greater, so all he could now do was to take refuge in a little boldness. In entering the house he had got his eye on the page-boy, who was in the act of stuffing something out of sight into one of his pockets. As McSweeny reached the boy’s side a whiff of the page’s breath ascended to his nostrils, and seemed to point to the cause of the hurried act of concealment.
“Tobacco, the young spalpeen!” was McSweeny’s mental exclamation. “The boy that can smoke is fit for anything. Just wait a minit, my jewel, and I’ll frighten the very sowl out of ye.”
Having inspected Mr Stafford’s study, and made nothing of the work, McSweeny had no difficulty in working himself up into a fit of rage against the page.
“Just ring the bell, plase, for that boy in the tight jacket and buttons,” he said to Mr Stafford when they had returned to the sitting-room. The bell was rung, and the page appeared, when McSweeny grandly requested to be left alone with the quaking boy. Mr Stafford accordingly withdrew, when McSweeny elaborately took from his pocket first a note-book and pencil, and then a pair of handcuffs, which he clanked noisily down on the table before the boy’s eyes.
“Now, you boy—your name?” he sternly began.
“William Lister, sir,” said the page, visibly alarmed.
“Well, William, I’m the great detective McSweeny, and I’ve come here on a great case. You know what I can do to you, I suppose?”
“Ye—ye—yes, sir,” stammered the page, nearly crying, and shaking on his legs.
“Now look me in the face, sur,” and McSweeny grabbed the boy suddenly by the arm, and forced him down on his knees—no very difficult task—while he chained him with his fierce eyes. “Now, sur! you’ve been robbing your master!”
“No—no—no—sir!” cried the boy, clasping his hands in an agony of terror, and beginning to howl.
“You tuck them; I can see it in your eye,” sternly returned McSweeny. “Now, where have ye hid them? Out with it, or off to jail ye go!”
More abject howling and protesting, and then the boy blubberedout—
“It was for my mother I took them.”
“Your mother, ye villin. She’s fond o’ them things, I s’pose?” derisively returned McSweeny.
“Ye—ye—yes, sir.”
“And she’s got them now, eh!”
“Yes—oo! hoo! hoo!”
“And where does she live?”
“Bu—bu—bu—ccleuch Street, sir.”
“Then we’ll go there now,” sternly observed McSweeny, highly elated with the success of his bold measures; “and luck here now, if ye try to escape I’ll shoot you—shoot you! with a double-barrelled poker.”
The terror-stricken culprit rose and got his cap; and they were moving out of the lobby when Mr Stafford appeared.
“It’s all right, sur,” whispered McSweeny, with a significant wink; “you’ll have them here for identification in an hour.”
“But how was it done?” cried the gentleman in amazement.
“Done? What trick is there that’s too difficult or dirty for an idle vagabone of a boy?” responded McSweeny with a wise look. “I knew what a scamp he was the minit I smelt tobacco on him,” and McSweeny got out his own pipe ready for lighting when he should be outside the door.
The boy, all the way to his home, was tremulously asking what would be done to him, but his captor smoked away in dignified silence, more terrible to the prisoner than the most voluble of threats. At length the great oracle spoke, and gave the boy to understand that the nature and duration of his punishment would depend very much upon himself—if he agreed to tell how the robbery had been accomplished, and all other particulars, his punishment would probably be extremely light. This gracious concession gave great comfort to the boy, who instantly promised to keep back nothing. They had then arrived at the house in Buccleuch Street.
It was a poor hovel of a room, both damp and dark, being on the ground floor. A woman who opened the door was promptly introduced to McSweeny as the boy’s mother. The boy whispered to her for a moment, and then led McSweeny to the fireplace. A small fire burned in the grate, and on that fire was a pot of broth. The boy lifted down the pot on to the hearth, and, handing an old ladle to McSweeny, told him to “take them out.”
“What a hiding-place!” was McSweeny’s inward comment. “The young scoundrel’s as clever as if he had been wan of my bairns all his life. To think of him making broth of jewels!—begorra, he deserves a prize for fine cookery.”
As he made these comments McSweeny began to rake up the contents of the pot, but found no trace of the magic jewels.
“What do ye mane, ye young spalpeen?” he cried at last, in terrible tones, to the boy and his quaking mother. “Didn’t you say they were here, in the pot?”
“Yes—that’s them,” said the boy, stopping his whimpering to point to a heap of beef bones, with some shreds of meat still adhering to them, which McSweeny had removed one by one from the pot.
“What?” The thought was too humiliating—too horrifying; and McSweeny could find voice for only the one word.
“That’s them,” repeated the boy, touching the steaming bones, “and I’d never have taken them, only the servant said they were no use.”
“It’s jewels I’m after!” shouted McSweeny in a great rage. “Jewels! £200 worth of jewels!”
“Jewels? I never saw them,” cried the boy, drying up his tears with marvellous alacrity. “You said bones, I thought—at least it was the only thing I ever took, and thought you meant them.”
All this was dreadful to McSweeny, and yet it was so simply and naturally spoken, that he could not for a moment doubt the truthfulness of either. With a great show of bluster and official activity he searched the whole of the little hovel, but, of course, found no trace of jewellery of any kind; indeed, the page-boy protested loudly that he had never seen his master with jewellery in his possession, and so could not possibly have stolen it.
The return to Mr Stafford’s house was not quite such a triumphal procession as McSweeny had expected, and when there he had nothing but utter failure to recount. He went over the whole house, and questioned the other servants, with a like result. He was not a step nearer the solution than when he began. There remained then but one slender hope—that the thief might attempt to dispose of the jewels, so McSweeny finished his work by taking a minute description of these valuables, and having them inserted in our printed lists sent round to all dealers and pawnbrokers. A tour round the most of these produced no better result. No one had offered such articles either for sale or pledge. At the end of a week, when I was beginning to “hirple” about again, we were in one of these dealers’ places, when I suggested that the description of the jewels was rather vague for the pawnbrokers, and that we might go along to the jeweller who had sold them to Mr Stafford, and have it made fuller and more complete. A reference to the scribbles which McSweeny called notes revealed the fact that no such name was recorded. I sent McSweeny out to the South Side to have the omission rectified, not being able to walk as far myself, and on his return learned that Mr Stafford had had some difficulty in remembering the name himself. However, on McSweeny naming two or three of the principal ones in Princes Street, he at length spotted one as the right one. In the evening I chanced to be in Princes Street, and went into the shop to get the description. To my surprise, the jeweller and all his assistants declared that no such purchase had been made in the shop. Back I sent McSweeny to Mr Stafford, when that gentleman at once smiled out knowingly, andsaid—
“I think I understand that statement of the jeweller. It is all a plot between him and my servants—he is to swear that he never sold them, and they are to declare that they never took them. The jeweller will thus get them back, and they will divide the spoil.”
McSweeny scratched his red pow, looked up at the ceiling, and then down at the carpet, and finally confessed that he did not exactly catch the drift of the gentleman’s reasoning.
“I will explain—I will confide in you as a friend,” said Mr Stafford, waxing warm. “I am a lonely man, without wife or children to look after my interests and protect me from designing persons. The consequence is that I am continually being persecuted, robbed, and cheated. One of my acquaintances, whom I never injured by thought or deed, carried this torture to such an extent that I was forced to leave the city.”
“Could you not have got the protection of the police?” suggested McSweeny.
“Useless. How could I prove the persecution? I fled to London; the wretch followed me there; I took the first train from the place; it landed me at one of their pleasure gardens—the grounds of the Crystal Palace, I think. I enjoyed myself there; when all at once my fiend—my tormentor—as I must call him—appeared before me. I ran from the spot; a balloon was just starting; I leaped in, cut the rope, and shot up into the air, laughing in triumph at the chagrin of my persecutor.”
“That was a neat escape,” observed McSweeny; “but how did ye get down again?”
“The most awful part of the adventure was to come,” pursued Mr Stafford. “When I had got up a certain distance I got freezing cold, and thought to warm myself with a smoke. In striking a light some of the gas escaping from the balloon must have touched and exploded, for the next moment the whole thing was in shreds and flames, and I was flying towards earth with the speed of a cannon ball.”
“And ye was kilt? Smashed to atoms?” exclaimed McSweeny in earnest horror, with his hands raised, and his eyes almost starting from their sockets.
“No; fortunately I fell into the water, and, being an excellent swimmer, I managed to save myself. I returned to Edinburgh, but my tormentor was soon upon my track again, and even yet he continues his persecutions upon every occasion when there is no chance of being seen. Possibly he is at the bottom of this mysterious robbery.”
McSweeny asked the name of this persecutor, and after a good deal of demur on the part of Mr Stafford, the name was given, when it proved to be that of an eminent professor, as renowned for his learning as for his goodness. McSweeny was a good deal staggered, but took leave, saying he would make inquiry into the matter, and see that Mr Stafford was annoyed no longer.
When he came to me with his report I laughed outright, andsaid—
“Why, the man’s mad! I wonder you did not see it in him before.”
“What man? The Professor?” inquired McSweeny, with great simplicity.
“No, this Mr Stafford.”
McSweeny would not believe it, and I suggested that we should ascertain if he had really drawn £200 from the bank on the day of the alleged purchase of the jewels. I did not believe that he had, but was surprised at the bank to find that he had really drawn that sum. We then went over every jeweller’s in Princes Street, but could not discover one who had sold to any one on that day the jewels described as stolen so magically. After thinking over these discoveries for a little, I formed in my mind a theory, which proved pretty sound in the end, and which I proceeded to test, by going out to Mr Stafford’s house in company with McSweeny, and having a talk with that gentleman upon general topics. When done, I felt slightly disappointed. I could find no trace of insanity about the man, but then I ought to have remembered that my profession is not to detect lunacy, but thieves. Still, acting on my theory, I requested permission, and Mr Stafford’s assistance, to search the whole house. This was given with the greatest alacrity. We went over every room and closet, but Mr Stafford’s study, without discovering anything. Then we came to that room, and I promptly asked for his keys. The request appeared to stagger him, but was granted, and I turned out all the drawers in his writing-table. At the bottom of one of them was an envelope or thick packet, which I took up, but which he as hastily tried to take from me,saying—
“That’s only some bank notes—some money of mine.”
Very impolitely, as it may seem, I retained the envelope, turned out the contents, and found, on counting the notes, that they amounted to £200 exactly. I then handed them to the owner without a comment, and searched no more. With a shrewd suspicion of what I might expect, I went to the Professor whom Mr Stafford had named as his persecutor, and from him learned Mr Stafford had, on a former occasion, been unfortunate enough to injure his brain by over-study, and was by the Professor’s advice removed to an asylum for the insane. That gentleman, who evinced the liveliest friendship for Mr Stafford, agreed to see his friend at once, and report on his mental condition. The result was, that Mr Stafford was proved to be not exactly insane, but in a condition of mental derangement which threatened to become more pronounced, and it was decided that he had better have an experienced attendant from one of the asylums. This was arranged quietly, and with very little demur on the part of the patient, but his condition became more grave, and eventually he had to be removed to an asylum, in which, with one brief interval, he has remained ever since. His mind, however, has taken firm hold of the story of the magic jewels, and the development which that incident has now assumed is that I, the writer of these sketches, was the robber of the jewels, and that, in fear of detection, I smuggled the money I had received for them into his drawer. He also asserts that I declared him insane only to protect myself from the consequences of the crime, and that if I could be removed from power his liberation would at once follow. Poor, suffering humanity! who shall minister to a mind diseased?