Matera in Italy. A strange place for us to meet, but there it was. I must say that I was more than a little unnerved by the note. Why such an out-of-the-way place? Surely, the odd couple must have had a strong reason to travel so far from London. Then I recalled Holmes’s reference to the ancient city of Sybaris and the Rouxmonts’ desire to pillage it.
That morning I left on schedule. I met Grimaldi in Rome, informed him of what was about to transpire and left for Matera. The train went through Potenza, the capital of Lucania. From there, the ride to Matera was magnificent, passing through miles of vigorous yellow wheat in the fields. Beyond them the rugged mountains of southern Italy loomed in the distance. It was just before noon on 23 May. I was on schedule.
I walked the short distance to the railroad hotel, hoping to see Holmes before our scheduled meeting. But I had learned that once a plan of his was accepted, unless there was a large enough reason, it should not be changed. Holmes was fond of saying that his precautions were so carefully executed that change could be suicidal.
I continued in the role of an English friar, and inquired in my poor French as to where number 24 would be among I Sassi. The woman behind the desk gave me a small map and I was off.
Lo sasso 24 was not far. Once I arrived there, I saw what made the place so justly famous. I Sassi consisted of a gigantic cliff in the side of which there were innumerable caves, carved either by men or nature, I could not tell which. Number 24 had a large wooden door which swung open for me as I arrived. An old crone stood there babbling in the local dialect which sounded nothing like the language that I was accustomed to hearing in Rome.
“Well done, Watson, you are on schedule. Come, we haven’t a moment to lose. We are to meet Grimaldi within the hour.”
Holmes too was dressed as a monk. “This disguise is one of the most effective I know. I have been within a few feet of the odd couple as they ate in a local
Once outside, Holmes hailed a cab and we were on our way, he said, to the village of Marsico Vetere. It was in this remote village that the Rouxmonts had decided to receive the great treasure removed the night before from the site of Sybaris, and it was in this remote corner of Italy that Holmes had spent his absence from Sussex.
The dirt road went east, and in about twenty minutes we arrived at the edge of the village where our coach could go no further. The village of Marsico sat on a low hill. The walk was steep, however, and as we approached I saw that much of the town was in ruins. Holmes indicated to me that a strong earthquake had struck a few months before. It was empty now of its inhabitants. The central piazza and the church were rubble and only the low buildings remained standing. Holmes took me to what had been his abode for the last few months, a small stone house indistinguishable from the others except for the garden of flowers at its front.
“Watch that you do not step on the flowers, Watson, they are my pride and joy.”
The house was totally empty except for a few chairs and a small table. As I closed the door behind us, I caught a glimpse of our elegant friend, Grimaldi.
“They are on their way, Holmes. They have hidden the treasure in the next house. They are on schedule and hope to be in Lecce by early tomorrow morning when they set sail for Tunis. We have to stop them—either here or in Lecce.”
“We are three against their five.”
“Reinforcements should be here within the hour,” said Grimaldi.
“Then let me change into the peasant clothes I borrowed from the owner of this house. This disguise won’t fool them for very long, but I will not need much time if all goes as planned.”
Holmes went out and sat on an old bench and lit his Italian pipe. Grimaldi and I sat waiting as the first signs of dusk hit the village. It was just at sunset when we heard the sound of horses and the wheels of a large coach. They had arrived.
Grimaldi and I peered through the window. Holmes had not moved. He was still sitting on the bench, staring intently at the trail that we had ascended.
Three men dismounted from their horses. One of them opened the door to the coach. The odd couple jumped out and quickly examined their surroundings, like two wild animals sniffing the air after too long a confinement. They climbed the hill together. By now we could hear their voices.
“Where have you put it all?” asked Rene.
“There, in the largest house,” said his henchman, “the one next to where the farmer is sitting. He is known as old man Battaglia, the only resident who has returned after the earthquake. He’s no trouble. We have kept him happy with a few liras.”
“Peters, you are far more of a fool than I thought you were,” said Jeanne, “but we have come prepared.”
She turned and addressed the old man.
“Hello, Holmes,” she said, “we expected more of you than a mere ambush. Call off your men, including anyone in the house. You have your men and their guns, but we have this, enough to kill all of us.”
She reached into her purse and produced a large white envelope and tore it open.
“Come now, my dear Jeanne. We are only three against your five. If released in the air, the powder will kill you and your gang as well. I venture to say the obvious,” said Holmes, taking the pipe from his mouth, “that you have hardly come to this remote part of the world to commit suicide. As in all of your plans, you have left a few loose ends to make your lives more interesting: a little risk to prove your criminal courage, your master criminality, shall we say? Even you have to justify your existence. Killing me and Watson would destroy that last opportunity to test your invincibility with opponents you deem worthy. Come, let me show you your booty. It is all there, in good order, every artifact, every last piece of pottery. Your henchmen have done a commendable job.”
The two walked over to the other house, opened the door, squealed with delight at what they saw, and returned to Holmes.
“Thank you for guarding the treasure. And you who are still in Signor Battaglia’s house, please join us.”
Grimaldi and I came out of the house and stood near Holmes. Jeanne Rouxmont moved not at all as she spoke. She was speaking to three men whom she considered to be already dead.
“’Tis a pity, dear Sherlock, that we cannot take you and your friends with us. But you are on the wrong side. There is nothing to be done.”
“Perhaps not, dear
As he spoke, Holmes suddenly began to jump up and down furiously on his flowers, destroying the neat beds that he had planted with infinite care. Rene pointed his gun at Holmes, but it was too late.
“Quick, inside both of you,” cried Holmes.
A strange noise, of countless transparent wings, filled my ears. As I peered through the window I saw that the odd couple and their three henchmen were covered with dark swarms of the great wasp that lives in the soil of Lucania. The huge wasps brought them screaming first to their knees and then to the ground.
I looked in terror at the unmoving bodies among the flowers.
“Holmes,” I cried, “they are all dead.”
“Unfortunately, Watson, they are dead, for which I am truly sorry. My plan for them worked out in every particular. It is the angry riposte of a very tired bee keeper. These bees are a rare Australian species that have survived in the remote areas of Lucania. The breed emits a deadly acid that destroys the skin. I should dub it Vespe Lucaniane, a poor joke, no doubt. Grimaldi, I trust that your men are on their way and can dispose of—ah, our coachman has waited for us. Come, Watson old boy, I feel the need to return to England, where we shall find, perhaps, that things are a bit easier.”
Holmes and I returned to Matera that night. In the morning we were well on our way back to Rome. Holmes barely spoke until we arrived in London. It was there that I heard him utter quietly as if to himself the immortal words of the great poet:
THE DEATH OF MYCROFT HOLMES
