Between the Thames and the Tiber

our accommodations in a small hotel, the Albergo Santa Croce, in nearby Ravello and far nearer to the Villa Alessandrini, he himself staying with a cousin in Amalfi, the better to learn what he could from the observations of the local population.

“I will learn much from the rumours in town,” he said with a smile as he bargained for a cab to take us up the steep hill. Once arrived, we found two excellent rooms awaiting us. From the windows, we could see the Villa Alessandrini resting on the top of a hill not far from us. Peach in color, its olive groves and its magnificent green forest extended behind it upwards into the Apennine Mountains and down towards the sea below. The gardens in front were English, no doubt created by Lady Singh. They were in full bloom, filled with masses of wildflowers, and in the fields to the left thousands of red poppies seemed to dance in the air.

“Come, Watson, let us see what the villa holds.”

Holmes lost no time. A rocky foot path led from the hotel to the villa, about a half mile away. As we approached, I saw Niccolini wave to us.

“Benvenuti,” he said halfmockingly. “You may examine the villa at your leisure. I hope that your luck is better than ours.”

He sat under one of the great trees, writing in a small notebook.

“Habib will guide you,” he said with the merest irony in his voice.

We nodded to him and walked to the entrance, where Sir Jaswant’s servant awaited us. Habib was as described to us, a fat man, with a disheveled appearance, somewhat obsequious in behaviour. His eyes darted constantly as if he were permanently on guard. I disliked him immediately.

“Where shall we begin?” he asked.

“The house is very large and there is no need to go through the whole building at once. I would like to see Lady Singh’s quarters and the place where the guard was attacked,” said Holmes. Habib nodded in assent.

If the villa on the outside was a delight to the eye, the mood on the inside was one of unrelieved gloom. Sir Jaswant’s vaunted millions had barely begun the changes necessary to a happier atmosphere. The baroque ceilings of the great halls and public rooms were covered with a century of soot and dust, the walls burdened with portraits of the Alessandrini in the style of the Neapolitan painter Ildebrando Rosa. Little light entered through the windows, for the surrounding trees blocked it. The feeling was one of unrelieved foreboding.

We followed Habib to the second floor. Just at the top of the stairs he pointed out the place where old Amendola had been attacked. The blood had been thoroughly cleaned. Holmes studied the spots that remained with his glass, but said nothing. His gaze took in every detail.

The Singhs’ own quarters were sumptuous indeed, and were presumably the result of Lady Singh’s efforts to redeem the villa from its past. Here there was light, and the Alessandrini were banished from the walls. Holmes paid little attention to the rooms themselves but examined carefully the large windows, the veranda on the north side of the house, and the branches of the trees that grew close by.

“The house has been swept clean since the incident in question,” he said pointedly to Habib. “A pity.”

“We did as we were told by Lady Singh,” said Habib in reply.

“No matter, I have already seen enough. Let us go to the roof. Is there a way?”

“Yes,” said Habib, “follow me.”

There were four stories to the villa. The highest was uninhabited and was filled with old Renaissance furniture and other dust-covered remnants. At first Holmes paid closest attention to the windows, then to a door that led out to a small porch. He spent several minutes in thought as he studied the door and its relation to the stairwell, walking back and forth between the two, his finger tips together. Then he got down on all fours, like a bloodhound, looking for what we could neither see nor yet divine. He arose expressionless and then went outside, and while Habib and I waited on the veranda, he climbed to the roof. I watched him as he stared intently below, gradually adjusting his gaze until it arrived at the roof itself and the trees that grew nearby, particularly those that were higher than the villa itself. As he re-entered, he took one last look at the trees.

“Very well, then, I have seen enough,” he said. “While there is still time, let us question the old guard.”

We descended to the ground floor. There waiting for us was Amendola, the old man who had been attacked by whatever it was that had come into the house.

He spoke quickly in his local dialect, Cylinder, as they called it. Holmes questioned him with Niccolini’s help.

“Ajja paura,” he said, “non ajja mai avudd ’na paura cumma ghesta”

“He says that he is afraid and that he was never as frightened as when he felt the presence of this creature.”

Amendola pointed to the bandage over his wound.

“Ask him,” said Holmes, “if he has any idea as to what it was.”

Once started, the poor man could only babble on without stopping. Holmes recorded his very words in order to examine them thoroughly later.

“Nullo saccio, era ‘bbastanza grande, cumma se fosse nu cane, o forse na specie da ’attu, o magara na gatta da muntagna. Da golora neru, o forsa brunnu. capedda’ morbida, cumma nu ucedd. M’a morso achi, e poi s’e na scapadda.” (I don’t know, it was fairly big, like a dog, or maybe a cat, or maybe a mountain cat. Black, or maybe brown. Soft fur, like bird feathers maybe. It bit me here, and then ran away.)

“Io su nadu qui, ajju passadu la vida mia indera da rachhenna, ma vi digo che io non va chhiu da sola fuora la sera, eppura la famiglia resta a casa e non va fuora. Ghistu paes non e cumma era primu. E non sara mai cumma era. Adessu, lu Diavolu se stessu s’e messu fra noi e Diu. Sima tudda disgraziad’, non sima mangha cristian’. Lu malocch’ e benuda cu’ ghista genda schifosa indian’. Bisogna che se na andassa da chi. So’ cumma i zingara.” (I was born here, I have passed my entire life here, but I tell you that I no longer go out at night, and my family also stays home and doesn’t go out. This place is no longer the way it was. And it will never be the way it was. The devil has put himself between us and God. We are all unfortunates, we are not even Christians any more. The evil eye has come with these Indian people. They have to go away from here. They’re like the Gypsies.”)

Amendola suddenly became silent. Holmes thanked him for his words and then said: “Despite your fears, I intend to visit the forest tonight. Will you come with me?”

“No, mai. Se matt cumma tuda sti ingles.” (No, never. You are crazy like all these English.”)

The conversation ended abruptly when the old man said he wanted to answer no further questions, Holmes and I took our leave and together with Niccolini began the walk back to the hotel. I noted that Habib left without a word.

It was by now late afternoon. As we entered, Niccolini was handed a note by the door man.

“Some troubling news,” he said. “I have learned in the market in Amalfi that among the baggage brought by Habib was a large box that apparently contained something live, either a large bird of prey, or perhaps a large dog. And a message from Grimaldi that Sir Jaswant did not go to Switzerland at all, but after receiving an urgent message from Habib, went to the French-Italian border where the police were ready to seize a large black box. I gather that the local French douanes submitted to temptation and allowed the box through, as did the Italians for presumably the same fee. Because of his position and power, neither police demanded to know from Singh what was in the crate but let it pass. Habib then arrived with the box and without further incident.”

Holmes smiled and said, “Troubling, but helpful, caro Niccolini, I think that the thought that Habib may be covering up for his master has occurred to all of us. But let us now visit Lady Singh herself.”

The convent lay about a mile down the long hill from Ravello, off the main road and down a dirt path. It appeared more Moorish than Italian in appearance, perhaps originally an old fort. The nuns were of a pious meditative order and found the presence of three men most difficult until they discovered that we wished to see Lady Singh. We were not allowed beyond the gate and were asked to wait outside in the garden, where the lady appeared almost immediately. She was a tall woman, handsome rather than beautiful, of considerable dignity, whose anxious expression spoke eloquently of the tension under which she had been since the terrible incidents at her villa had begun. She greeted us with warmth, however, obviously trying to control her fears as she spoke.

“Welcome, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I am greatly relieved that you have chosen to come. Mr. Holmes, I