THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND
By ROSAMOND LANGBRIDGE
(From The Manchester Guardian)
Patrick Deasey described himself as a "philosopher, psychologist, and
humorist." It was partly because Patrick delighted in long words, and
partly to excuse himself for being full of the sour cream of an inhuman
curiosity. His curiosity, however, did not extend itself to science and
belles lettres; it concerned itself wholly with the affairs of other
people. At first, when Deasey retired from the police force with a
pension and an heiress with three hundred pounds, and time hung heavy
on his hands, he would try to satisfy this craving through the medium
of a host of small flirtations with everybody's maid. In this way he
could inform himself exactly how many loaves were taken by the Sweeneys
for a week's consumption, as compared with those which were devoured by
all the Cassidys; for whom the bottles at the Presbytery went in by the
back door; and what was the real cause of the quarrel between the twin
But these were but blackbird-scratchings, as it were, upon the deep
soil of the human heart. What Deasey cared about was what he called
"the secrets of the soul."
"Never met a man," he was wont to say, "with no backstairs to his mind!
And the quieter, decenter, respectabler, innocenter a man looked—like
enough!—the darker those backstairs!"
It was up these stairs he craved to go. To ring at the front door of
ordinary intercourse was not enough for him. When Deasey invested his
wife's money in a public-house he developed a better plan. It was the
plan which made him ultimately describe himself as a humorist. He would
wait until the bar was deserted by all but the one lingering victim
whom his trained eye had picked out. Then, rolling that same eye about
him, as though to make quite sure no other living creature was in
sight, he would gently close the door of the bar-parlour, pick up a
tumbler, breathe on it, polish the breath, lean one elbow on the bar,
look round him once again, and, setting the whisky-bottle betwixt his
customer and himself, with a nod which said "Help yourself," he would
lean forward, with the soft indulgent grin of the human
man-of-the-world, and begin:
"Now, don't distress yourself, me dear man, but as between frien's,
certain delicate little—facts—in your past life have come
inadvertently to me hearing."
Sometimes he would allude to a "certain document," or "incriminating
facts," or "certain letters"—he would ring the changes on these three,
according to the sex and temperament with which he had to deal. But
always, whatever the words, whatever the nature or sex, the shot would
tell. First came the little start, the straightened figure, the pallor
or flush, the shamed and suddenly-lit eyes, and then—
"Who told you, Mr. Deasey, sir?" Or "Where did you get the letter?"
"Ah, now, that would be telling!" Deasey would make reply. "But 'twas
from a certain person whom, perhaps, we need not name!" Then the
whiskey-bottle would move forward, like a pawn in chess, and the next
soothing words would be, "Help yourself now—don't be shy, me dear man!
And—your secret is safe with me!"
Forthwith the little skeleton in that man's cupboard would lean forward
and press upon the door, until at last the door flew open and a bone or
two, and sometimes the whole skeleton, would rattle out upon the floor.
He had played this game so often, that, almost at first sight he could
classify his dupes under the three heads into which he had divided
them: Those who demanded with violent threats—(which melted like snow
before the sunshine of John Jamieson) the letter, or the name of the
informant; those who asked, after a gentle sip or two how the letter
had come into his hands, and those who asked immediately if the letter
hadn't been destroyed. As a rule, from the type that demanded the
letter back, he only caught sight of the tip of the secret's ears. From
those—they were nearly always the women—who swiftly asked if he
hadn't destroyed the letters, he caught shame-faced gleams of the
But those who asked between pensive sips, how the facts or the letter
had come his way, these were the ones who yielded Deasey the richest
harvest of rattling skeleton bones.
Indeed, it was curiously instructive how John Jamieson laid down a
causeway of gleaming stepping-stones, so that Deasey might cross
lightly over the turgid waters of his victims' souls. At the words,
accompanied by John Jamieson—"A certain dark page of your past
history—help yourself, me boy!—has been inadvertently revealed to me,
but is for ever sacred in me breast!"—it was strange to see how, from
the underworld of the man's mind, there would trip out the company of
misshapen hobgoblins and gnomes which had been locked away in darkness,
maybe, this many a year.
"Well—how would I get the time to clane the childer and to wash their
heads, and I working all the day at curing stinkin' hides! 'Twas
Herself should have got it, and Herself alone!"…
"No, I never done it, for all me own mother sworn I did. I only give
the man a little push—that way!—and he fell over on the side, and
busted all his veins!"
"Well, an' wouldn't you draw two pinsions yourself, Mr. Deasey, if
you'd a wife with two han's like a sieve for yellow gold!"
But there were some confessions, haltingly patchy and inadequate, but
hauntingly suggestive, which Deasey could neither piece out on the
spot, nor yet unravel in the small hours of the night. There was one of
this nature which troubled his rest long:
"Well, the way of it was, you see, he put it up the chimbley, but when
the chimbley-sweepers come he transferred it in his weskit to my place,
and I dropped it down the well. They found it when they let the bucket
down, but I wasn't his accomplice at all, 'twas only connivance with
When he had spoken of the chimney and the well Deasey concluded at once
it was a foully murdered corpse. But then, again, you could not well
conceal a corpse in someone's waistcoat; and gold coins would melt or
be mislaid amongst the loose bricks of a sooty chimney. Deasey had
craved for corpses, but nothing so grim as that had risen to his
whisky-bait until he tried the same old game on Mrs. Geraghty. What
subtle instinct was it that had prompted him to add to the first
unvarying words: "But all that is now past and over, and safe beneath
the mouldering clay!"
At these last words, the Widow Geraghty knew well, the barrier was down
that fences off one human soul from another; all the same, she shook
her trembling head when Deasey drew the cork. At her refusal Deasey was
struck with the most respectful compassion; until that hour he had
never known one single lacerated soul decline this consolation.
"And to look at me!" she wept forthwith, "would you think I could shed
a drop of ruddy gore?"
"No, ma'am," returned Deasey. "To look at you, ye'd think ma'am ye
could never kill a fly!"
And respectfully he passed the peppermints.
"Sometimes," the widow muttered, "I hears it, and it bawling in me
dreams o' night. And the two bright eyes of it, and the little clay
cold feet!" Deasey knew what was coming now, and he twitched in every
vein. And she so white-haired and so regular at church: and the black
bonnet on the head of her, an' all! "It was the only little one she
had," went on the widow, bowed almost to the bar by shame, "and it
always perched up on her knee, and taking food from her mouth, and she
nursing it agin her face. But I had bad teeth in me head, and I
couldn't get my rest, with the jaws aching, and all the whiles it
screeching with the croup. 'Twould madden you!"
"All the same," Deasey whispered, "maybe it wasn't your fault: 'twas
maybe your man egged you on to do the shameful deed——"
"It was so," said the widow. "'Let you get up and cut its throat,' says
he, 'and then we will be shut of the domned screechin' thing.'" "Then
you got the knife, ma'am," prompted Deasey. "It was the bread-knife,"
she answered, "with the ugly notches in the blade,—and I stole in the
back way to her place in the dead hours of the night—and I had me
apron handy for to quench the cries; and when I c'ot it be the throat
didn't it look up at me with the two bright, innocent eyes!"
"And what'd you do with the body?" he asked.
"I dug a grave in the shine of the moon," she answered. "And I put it
in by the two little cold grey feet——"
This touch of the grey feet laid a spell on Deasey's hankering
"What turned the feet grey?" he whispered.
"Nature, I s'pose!" replied the white-haired widow. She drew her shawl
about her shrinking form before she turned away.
"'Twas never found out, from that hour to this, who done it!" muttered
the Widow Geraghty, "but, may the Divvle skelp me if I touch one drop
of chucken-tea again!"