It was the in the early years of the new century, and the old queen clung grimly to the throne, while her eldest son impatiently rogered his mistress. Sherlock Holmes, in dressing gown and deerstalker hat, was snorting cocaine and playing the violin in his Baker Street lodgings. Oddly enough, he was blowing it like a trumpet.

Sitting in the armchair opposite him, I sighed and laid down the “Times” crossword. “Can’t get fourteen across,” I grumbled. “Body Canal. Ten letters.”

“Alimentary, my dear Watson,” Holmes replied instantly, ceasing for a moment his musical and narcotic peregrinations.

I laughed heartily, and was about to return to the “Times,” when there came the sound of boots running up the stairs outside. They stopped outside of Holmes’ door, shuffled uneasily for a while and then came a single peremptory knock.

“Forty three years old. Served with the army in India but was shipped home after a scandal with a young elephant. Has fallen on hard times, but has hope of returning to his former status. Married twice, the first time to a Filipino waitress, the second time to a packet of cornflakes.” Holmes uttered these words with an affected casualness.

My long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes should have inured me to amazement, yet he never ceased to dumbfound me. I crossed the floor to the door and swung it open.

“It’s the pizza boy,” I called in to Holmes, bringing in two steaming boxes.

Scarcely had I closed the door on the delivery boy, when there came again the sound of boots pounding two at a time up the front stairs. Outside the door the boots stopped, then suddenly performed the tap-dancing routine from the Gene Kelly musical “Gee! She’s a Swell Gal, ain’t she Bob?” followed by several large poundings on the panelled door. I glanced quizzically at my companion, but he was pretending to be engrossed by the mushroom topping on his pizza.

For the second time that evening, I crossed over to the door and proceeded to open it. I was however nearly bowled over by the large, burly figure that crashed into our parlour. He had the wild-eyed look of a foreigner and his hair stuck out like a mad toilet brush. He stopped in the middle of the floor, his head darting crazily between Holmes and myself.

Holmes stopped sprinkling cocaine on his pizza and eyed the foreigner curiously. “You are an old Etonian,” he addressed the stranger. “You prefer haddock to whiting, but you wouldn’t be seen dead with either. You have a dog called Tibbles. You once severed a nostril in an incident in a library, and your name, unless I’m very much mistaken, is Lionel Edward Mentary.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!” I ejaculated. “How could you possibly know that?”

“L.E. Mentary, my dear Watson. I went to school with him when I was a boy. A time, dear friend, that I have often maintained, is the best one for going to school.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” interjected the stranger. “But you must be confusing me with somebody else. My name is Oliver Byrne. You may have heard of me. I used to drink with David Johansson.”

Holmes snorted loudly and reached for the leather bound copy of “Who’s Who” on the bureau shelf. Flicking impatiently through the pages, he came at last to the desired page. “Here we are,” he said. “Byrne, Oliver, football…Shelbourne…cigarettes..Johansson, David.”

“Rugger?” I exclaimed hopefully.

“Association Football,” remarked Holmes deflatedly. “A minority sport practised by ruffians, I believe.” He turned to our visitor. “Well, Mr. Byrne,” he said coldly, indicating a seat, “What brings you to London?”

Oliver Byrne sat down heavily in the proffered chair and wiped his brow profusely. He was a large, burly man, one who might have been considered handsome, but for the fact that he wasn’t. He glanced towards me nervously.

“Watson is my oldest and most faithful friend, Mr. Byrne,” interjected Holmes, seeing the other’s distress. “As well as being the father of my children. You may speak in complete confidence before him.”

“Oh, Mister Holmes,” began the other, “I have travelled this very day from Ireland to visit you” – here I saw Holmes reaching for the atlas – “about a matter that has tormented me for a considerable period of time. It all began several months ago. As you know, I run a very large and profitable association football club in Dublin. That is in Ireland, Mister Holmes. This club is called Shelbourne.

In this city of Dublin, I have numerous rivals, but the greatest of these is a large, portly chap named Dolan. To say that he is the bane of my life is an understatement. He runs a rival football club, named St. Patrick’s…”

“After the saint?” I ventured.

“Indeed verily,” he answered, “but let me assure you, Mister Watson, there is nothing saintly about this football club. A bigger gang of ruffians you never saw in your life. Dolan is the mastermind. Everything goes through him. Oh, but he is very clever, Mister Holmes. He keeps his nose clean at all times.”

“How so, Mister Byrne?” questioned Holmes sharply.

“Well, with a hanky mostly,” replied Byrne. “But lately, there have been tales of dark deeds coming out of his organisation. One of his minions was caught without registration. There were stiff penalties imposed on St. Patrick’s. But Dolan has power. He controls people. He got the penalties rescinded by people more powerful than himself. I have been vilified in the press in Ireland. I have even..” and here he began to sob uncontrollably, “I have even been criticised.”

“I fail to see your problem, Mister Byrne,” purred Holmes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Mister Holmes, Dolan is an evil man. He threatens to take over my organisation. If I could only find the letter he purported to send….”

“Letter?” said Holmes suddenly, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “Did you say letter?”

“I did, Mister Holmes. Is it significant?”

“Not really,” replied Holmes. “I just had a piece of tomato in my ear and couldn’t hear you properly. Pray continue.”

“Dolan claims the letter was sent by ordinary post. The recipients said they never received it. The only explanation is….”

“That it was lost by the Post Office?” I scoffed. “Come now, that’s hardly very likely, is it?”

“Preposterous,” added Holmes.

“My feelings exactly,” cried Byrne. “Yet, here is the mystery. Dolan has produced a receipt for the letter!”

I stood up quickly. “What a bounder this fellow Dolan must be,” I stated. “How dare he malign such a venerable organisation as the Post Office?”

“He has a hard neck,” replied Byrne sorrowfully, “though the rest of his body is quite soft.” He turned to my companion, “Mister Holmes, will you help me?”

“Watson!” commanded Holmes with a smile. “It seems that we travel to Dublin this very night. Pack a valise for me, there’s a good chap. Make sure you pack my nightie. The peach one with the lacey bits.”

Forward to Part II