without enthusiasm. In fact, Gallagher found Holmes’s involvement quite objectionable. He seemed to claim authority over the medical experts and leaned over the corpse, using a large magnifying glass as he examined it.
He suddenly let out a hiss of breath and turned to his companions. “Do you not remark on the slight bruising on this neck vein,” he remarked, pointing dramatically, like one who has discovered something unique.
“I did so remark on it, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Thomson replied patiently. The coroner was clearly displeased.
“If you will read my report, that matter was made clear…,” he began, but Holmes actually waved him into silence.
“But what of the puncture wound which is discernible under my glass. What of that, sir?” he demanded of the doctor.
“I found it irrelevant,” replied Thomson. “A bite of some sort, that is all.”
Holmes turned to his crony, the sycophantic Watson. “Watson, please observe this mark and bear in mind that I have brought it to the attention of these… gentlemen.”
Gallagher thought that he was being quite insulting, and so did Dr. Thomson and the coroner, who waited with unconcealed impatience for Holmes to complete his study.
Finally, Holmes turned to Gallagher and demanded to see the clothes that had been found with His Eminence’s body.
“Is there any question that these clothes found by the body belong to the cardinal?” he asked as the parcel was handed to him.
“None whatsoever,” he was assured. “Father Michael himself examined and identified them.”
The cardinal’s pocketbook, rosary, and pocket missal were all contained in the package.
“I presume that none of this material has been removed or tampered with?” queried Holmes.
Gallagher flushed with mortification. “Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes, is not in the habit of removing or altering evidence, as you well know.”
Holmes seemed oblivious of his insults, and he searched through the pocket book, which contained some banknotes in both French and English currencies and little else apart from two pasteboard visiting cards. They bore the name “T W. Tone” on them and a little harp device surmounted by a crown. Holmes showed them to Watson and said quietly, “Note these well, Watson, old friend.” It was as if Gallagher was not supposed to hear, but he did so and duly reported the fact to me.
Holmes then frowned and peered closely at the bundle of clothes.
“Wasn’t the cardinal supposed to be wearing a nightshirt? Pray, where is that?”
“It was wrapped separately from the other clothing,” Gallagher assured him, producing it. “As this was what the body was clad in, it was considered that it should be kept separate in case it provided any clues.”
The insufferable Holmes took out the nightshirt and started to examine it. A curious expression crossed his features as he sniffed at it. Turning, he picked up the other clothing and sniffed at that. He spent so long smelling each item alternatively that Gallagher thought him mad.
“Where have these been stored during these last several days?”
“They have been placed in sacking and stored in a cupboard here in case they were needed as evidence.”
“In a damp cupboard?”
“Of course not. They have been kept in a dry place.”
Half an hour later saw them at Father Michael’s presbytery, where His Eminence had last been seen alive. He treated the poor priest in the same brusque manner as he had the doctor and coroner. His opening remarks were, apparently, exceedingly offensive.
“Did the cardinal take narcotics, according to your knowledge?” he demanded.
Father Michael looked astounded, so shocked that he could say nothing for a moment and then, having regained control of his sensibilities, after Holmes’s brutal affront, shook his head.
“He was not in the habit of using a needle to inject himself with any noxious substance?” Holmes went on, oblivious of the outrage he had caused.
“He was not-”
“-to your knowledge?” Holmes smiled insultingly. “Did the cardinal receive any letters or messages while he was here?”
Father Michael admitted no knowledge on the matter, but, at Holmes’s insistence, he summoned the housekeeper. She recalled that a man had presented himself at the door of the presbytery demanding to see His Eminence. Furthermore, the housekeeper said the man was well muffled, with hat pulled down and coat collar pulled up, thus presenting no possibility of identification. She did remember that he had spoken with an Irish accent. He had presented a card with a name on it. The housekeeper could not remember the name but recalled that the card had a small device embossed on it, which she thought was a harp.
Gallagher could not forbear to point out that Scotland Yard had asked these questions prior to Holmes’s involvement.
“Except the question of narcotics,” replied Holmes, a patronizing expression on his face.
Holmes then demanded to see the bedroom where Father Michael had bade good night to His Eminence. He carefully examined it.
“I perceive this room is on the third floor of the house. That is irritating in the extreme.”
Father Michael, Gallagher, and even Watson exchanged a puzzled glance with one another as Holmes went darting around the bedroom. In particular, he went through Cardinal Tosca’s remaining clothing, sniffing at it like some dog trying to find a scent.
Holmes then spent a good half an hour examining the presbytery from the outside, much to the irritation of Gallagher and the bemusement of Watson.
From Soho they took a hansom cab to Sir Gibson Glassford’s house in Gayfere Street. Glassford was apparently close to tears when he greeted them in his study.
“My dear Holmes,” he said, holding the Great Detective’s hand as if he were afraid to let go of it. “Holmes, you must help me. No one will believe me; even my wife now thinks that I am not telling her all I know. Truly, Holmes, I never saw this prelate until Hogan showed me the dead body in the room. What does it mean, Holmes? What does it mean? I would resign my office, if that would do any good, but I fear it would not. How can this strange mystery be resolved?”
Holmes extracted his hand with studied care and removed himself to the far side of the room. “Patience, Minister. Patience. I can proceed only when I have facts. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. True, the circumstances of this matter are strange, but they only retain their mystery until the facts are explained. Watson, you know my methods. The grand thing is to be able to reason backward.”
Watson nodded, as if he understood, but he looked unhappy. Inspector Gallagher was pretty certain that the bumbling doctor had not a clue of what the arrogant man was saying. Glassford looked equally bewildered and had the courage to say so.
“Facts, my dear sir!” snapped Holmes. “I have no facts yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has facts. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
He made Glassford, his wife, and all the servants go through the evidence they had already given to the police and then demanded to see the bedchamber in which His Eminence had been
