Between the Thames and the Tiber

transient existence, dividing the year between the banks of the Thames and the shores of the Mediterranean. It would be of great interest, when there is a break in the work here, to travel south to see what we might make of our compatriots settled in the Mezzogiorno.”

The break that Holmes looked forward to was far longer in coming than either of us would have surmised. Indeed, it was work rather than leisure that finally took us to the Italian south. The winter had been one of constant effort for Holmes. The case of the violin forgeries in Cremona as well as the case that ended bloodily one night in Hadrian’s tomb preoccupied him through the cold damp months of January and February. It was only in the middle of March, when Holmes thought himself free at last, that Inspector Grimaldi, of the Roman police, appeared in the very early morning at our quarters. He was, as usual, elegant, both in dress and demeanour, but he looked tired, as if he had not slept. Holmes offered him coffee, which he gratefully accepted.

“I am here not because of events in Rome, which have given me a sleepless night,” he said, “but because I have received word from Inspector Niccolini of the Naples police. They are baffled by a case and wish to enlist your help, particularly since several of the principals seem to be British now domiciled in Italy. Because you have often mentioned your desire to travel south, I thought that this would be a good time, anzi un momento perfetto.”

“Let us hear, dear Grimaldi, what the matter concerns,” said Holmes.

“I can relate to you only what I know from Niccolini. On the face of it, it is a rather trivial matter that Niccolini alone might have resolved there in Ravello, but because the matter concerns British citizens as well as Italians, he has felt that your presence might prove useful. It is one of those mysteries that the police often refer to as il mostro nella soffita, the monster in the attic. This may be one of the more interesting cases of its type, though I leave that to you to judge.”

Grimaldi leaned forward to sip his coffee. “Dunque,” he continued, “according to Niccolini, living near the town of Amalfi is an Englishwoman, who is known locally as la Signora Indiana, the Indian lady. She is so called because she is married to Sir Jaswant Singh, an Indian gentleman who is, according to reports, one of the richest men in England. Sir Jaswant owns a villa not far from the centre of Ravello, in the hills east of the town, where he and his wife spend a few months in the spring and early summer. Three weeks ago, Sir Jaswant and his wife arrived for their usual stay. But Sir Jaswant, sometime after his arrival, was suddenly called to Switzerland on business. His wife remained behind to ready the villa and await his return. Feeling safe even without her husband in their home, Lady Singh did not ask for a guard but said she would rely on the servants, who were nearby, in case she needed help. In any event, her husband left and reminded her that his factotum, Habib, would arrive with the rest of their baggage before him himself returned.

“One week ago, la Signora was awakened by what she described to Niccolini as the sound of a wounded animal, a kind of moaning accompanied by growls. She said they appeared to emanate from within the villa, perhaps from the large vacant attic. Frightened, she rang for the servants. They came promptly, but none of them had heard anything, understandably since they sleep in a small building separate from the main residence. The servants searched the house but found nothing. Habib, who had arrived the day before, appeared only later, after the search, apparently unaware of anything strange that had transpired in the house itself. The rumours of what had happened rapidly spread among the contadini of Ravello, Positano, and Amalfi, and those living in the surrounding villages. By the time they reached Niccolini, they had been amply embroidered. Some said that a large tiger had been sighted, others that the English lady had seen a ghost and gone mad in the night. In any case, Lady Singh insisted that a guard be hired, but only one old fearless Amalfitano, one Giuseppe Amendola, was willing to stay at the villa with la Signora.

“Two nights ago, the same sounds occurred. Lady Singh called for old Amendola, but he did not appear. She then went to the landing. From there she saw the old man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Aroused by her screams for help, the servants rushed to their aid. They found the guard still alive, but bleeding profusely from a sharp wound on the left side of his neck. They stanched the bleeding and sent for medical help. They also notified Niccolini, who arrived that evening with several carabinieri. They questioned the guard, who said that he had seen nothing. He heard the strange noises, which appeared to him to have come from the top of the staircase, but saw nothing. Then in the dark, he first felt something soft then something sharp touch him just below the ear and he began to gush blood. He fell into a swoon.”

“Most interesting,” said Holmes happily. “No need to continue. I should be happy to meet with Niccolini as soon as possible. The singular circumstances more than justify a trip to the Mezzogiorno.”

“Benissimo,” said Grimaldi. “I shall wire your agreement and the details of your arrival to him immediately. There is a train to Naples in two hours.”

“We shall be on it,” said Holmes.

Grimaldi left, and Holmes and I each packed a small valise and took a cab to the train station. Grimaldi was there with our tickets and we waved to him as the train departed. Three hours later we were in Naples station sitting aboard the train south, talking to Fausto Niccolini, chief inspector of the Neapolitan police.

“A very strange business, Signore,” said Niccolini, as the train departed.

“Stranissima davvero,” said Holmes, and the conversation continued in Italian with occasional lapses into French.

“Yesterday, we searched the entire villa from top to bottom. There is nothing. No sign of entry, no hidden rooms, no sign of a wild animal. And there is no clear motive why any one should want to frighten the poor lady.”

“What is the history of the house?”

“You ask that question, Mr. Holmes,” said Niccolini with a smile, “con leggerezza, with too light a heart. History in Italy is a madness from which each Italian suffers, a labyrinth in which we walk all our lives. The villa? Well, it was built by one of Naples’s first families, the Alessandrini, in the early eighteenth century. By the end of the century, it had become part of the booty of the French. It became most famous perhaps for the trees that the Alessandrini planted. Now well over a century later, the trees, mainly huge Roman pines and oaks, provide a grove incomparable in the estates of Campania. Napoleon himself stayed there on several occasions, wandering deep into the forests till he came to the cliffs and the sea. After his defeat, the villa reverted to the Alessandrini, who, in a state of near destitution, sold it some ten years ago, in 1891 to be exact, to the Anglo-Indian banker Jaswant Singh. He has used it as a retreat and hunting lodge and has spent several million lire on its restoration. It was not until he married, however, that he began to use it more often, and except for recent events, nothing untoward has happened. The Alessandrini were popular here, for they were, unlike so many of their class of latifundisti, generous to the peasantry who lived on the land, and so the house has been safe from intrusions of any kind, including il malocchio, the evil eye. There is no ghost of the Alessandrini.”

“And where is la Signora at present?”

“She is nearby but away from the house, in a convent watched over by a few nuns. She would not stay another night in the villa. She has sent for her sister, who is to arrive from Pienza tomorrow.”

“And her husband Sir Jaswant?”

“He is on his way, but will not reach here for several days.”

“And the factotum?”

“He is there and awaits his master. Singh has ordered him to watch over the Lady. He is Sir Jaswant’s oldest friend. He has been employed by the banker for many years, and he is completely loyal to him. He is a bit antipatico, a stout man, one who runs slowly and perspires a lot, but of great energy.”

Niccolini leaned back in his seat as the train raced forwards and said, “I must tell you that I do not trust this Habib. I am a local policeman, Signor Holmes. I have traveled little outside this place, my native Campania. I have seen deeply, not widely. And yet, despite this limitation, I can read the human soul through the face, the eyes, the gestures. I know when a man is lying to me or when he has done something wrong. We Italians are an antique people, one with long experience and, therefore, one that has a certain intuition as well. Il signor Habib is lying. There is something that he knows that he refuses to reveal. Signor Holmes, I must tell you that your countrymen and their retinues who have sought to retire here have brought a certain problematica, a tension per modo di dire, shall we say, to the region. The local peasantry is at once attracted by their wealth, but repelled by their habits.”

It was just after noon when we reached Amalfi, a rather squalid little town on the sea. Niccolini had arranged