Between the Thames and the Tiber

jealous.”

Holmes turned towards me, a wide grin over his face.

“Who is this mysterious padrone? Do you know?” I asked.

“Yes, I am convinced that he is a musical figure of the greatest accomplishment. He is also a well-known aficionado of the card game scat. I gather that he plays with his friends every Friday. By the bye, Watson, what will you entitle this story when you finally write it out? ‘The Case of the Two Bohemes’?”

“No, Holmes, I shall call it “The Man in the Blue Coat.” He can only be Richard Strauss in this instance.”

“Good, Watson. He barely appears in the story, remains without a name, yet he is essential to the plot and insures something rare in the world of opera: a happy ending.”

“Very good,” said I.

There was a second loud knock at the door. I opened it this time to find our landlady standing there in the black attire of a butler. Held high overhead was a tray bearing a steaming teapot and a fresh loaf of bread. In her left hand was a white envelope, which I was sure contained the rent bill.

“Monsieur est servi,” said la Signora.

“Capriccio,” said I.

“Good,” said Holmes. “My compliments, dear Watson. You have learned much on our voyage in Italy.”

Our landlady left our tea near the window and, with a flourish, disappeared through the door.

THE CASE OF THE VERMILION FACE

also known as The Sins of Cardinal Corelli

IT WAS, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, THE SEVENTH OF April, 1903, a grey, wet London morning, on which I heard Holmes moving about quietly in our sitting room. When I entered, I found him halfway through breakfast. He was seated in his favourite armchair, staring into the rising flames of the fire he had just prepared. Over his lap he had placed a heavy Afghan blanket, on top of which sat a tray with our teapot and bread and butter.

“Good morning, dear Watson,” he said jovially. “I trust that you slept well. The tea is still drinkable. I shall pour it for you. And here, the paper is quite dull. I am already finished with it. There is only the short notice once again of Cardinal Corelli’s disappearance, more official and complete this time, however.”

I caught a note of deprecation in his voice as he uttered the last sentence, as if he were trying to make light of his interest in the case of the Italian cardinal. I said nothing as he brought my tea and then went to his desk and began to rifle through his papers. I read the following account in the morning Times:In a brief notice this morning, L’Osservatore Romano, the official organ of the Church of Rome, officially announced the sudden disappearance of Archangelo Cardinal Corelli, Secretary of State of the Church, and, after the Pope himself, the most powerful prelate in the Roman hierarchy. The Cardinal disappeared two days ago on Good Friday and has not been seen or heard from since. The Osservatore goes on to say that, although it cannot verify his present whereabouts, it is most probable that the Cardinal is safe and has taken time from his busy schedule to enter a retreat. This has been his wont, the Roman paper noted, since his accession to the Cardinalate, and should be no cause for alarm.Despite the Osservatore’s attempt to calm public fears, the concern for the Cardinal’s whereabouts is rendered even more acute by the Pope’s growing frailty and ill health. It is generally conceded that the present pope, Leo XIII, is nearing the end of his reign and that, at least until his disappearance, Corelli was favored to succeed him. Still relatively young—barely fifty, according to Church officials—the Cardinal is distinguished by the power of his intellect and his deep piety. It is he who is said to have penned the encyclicals De Rerum Novarum and Ejus Mentor, and to have shepherded through the Church the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, promulgated by Leo in 1878.

I put the paper down. Holmes turned and said, “Well, what do you think, Watson, a bit of an embarrassment, eh?”

“Most interesting, Holmes. Either they know more than they are willing to reveal, or they are honestly baffled as to his whereabouts. Indeed, the case has the elements of a major scandal. Who knows? A chance meeting at a village church with a beautiful parishioner, and a prince of the church succumbs. Then he is done in by a vengeful husband or lover,” said I.

“Not bad, Watson, though your proposal presents a rather banal solution,” said he with a smile.

“Banality is a powerful force in our lives,” said I with mock seriousness. “Perhaps I should phrase it differently, my dear Holmes. Italy, shall we say, often presents us with the stereotype of melodrama. Cavalleria and Pagliacci are by no means abstractions.”

“You have spent too many nights at Covent Garden, dear Watson. We should not give much credence to these peasant tales, though they have a certain psychological reality to them. Italy abounds in crimes of passion, but in this it differs little from other countries. One can cite innumerable cases here in London. That of John Greenacre comes to mind immediately. And it is true that the strictures on those devoted to the ascetic life are far more onerous than those that apply to ordinary mortals. But it is rash to speculate at this early juncture. If the crisis continues and the mystery of the Cardinal’s disappearance is not solved one way or another, then the matter may fall into the hands of the Roman police. There are some good minds there: Manzoni is one. He played a major role in the case of Lusoni’s daughter. But the best is Grimaldi—”

Holmes stopped talking in the middle of his sentence, his eye caught by something on his desk, and he said no more. It was only after several days passed that the matter intruded upon us once again. We were seated in the morning at our desks when there was a sudden but familiar knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson announced the arrival of a gentleman from Rome, one Padre Antonio Gasparri.

The person who appeared before us was a young priest of the Church, a thin, almost frail man, who I should judge not to have passed his thirtieth birthday. He was dressed entirely in black, which made his pallor even more dramatic. He had a small, sharp beak of a nose upon which his spectacles were precariously suspended. Despite their thickness, they did not hide his most distinguishing feature, his eyes, dark orbs that radiated an intense light once he began to speak.

“You are Mr. Holmes?” he enquired, addressing my friend in English.

“I am, indeed, and this is my trusted colleague, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him as you would before me. I assume that you come on the grave matter that now concerns the Church.”

“I do,” said the priest. “I assume you are familiar with the public accounts. I wish to inform you that I come directly from the Pope and with his full authority. Our Holy Father knows that he does not have long to live, and that he has little time remaining to him on this earth. Corelli and he are as one person, and the Cardinal’s disappearance has only made the Pope’s last days even more difficult. I have come on the Pontiff’s behalf to ask your aid in solving the mystery of what has befallen Cardinal Corelli.”

He handed Holmes a sealed note. “Mr. Holmes, this is a letter directly from the Holy Father to you asking for your assistance in the matter.” Holmes read it quickly.

“But what of Manzoni and Grimaldi? Surely, they would be of the greatest help.”

“For reasons of state, Mr. Holmes, we would prefer that the Italian police stay out of the matter. Since there is no final evidence as yet that the Cardinal has left the Citta Vaticana or that a crime has been committed on Italian soil, there is no reason for any intervention by the Italian police. And of course we wish to have a solution that is privately presented to us before it is made public.”

“You realize that the solution may have rather unpalatable aspects to it, difficult for the Church, and that I cannot but present the whole truth?”

“The Church has no problem with the truth, Mr. Holmes. The rumours now floating through Italy are probably worse than anything that has happened in actuality. What the Church and Our Holy Father wish for is a thorough and dispassionate investigation. And, if there is no crime, your promise of secrecy.”

“I accede to your wishes, provided that any version of what has transpired is submitted to me for comment before it is made public.”

“I agree,” said the priest. “Then you will help us?”

“Most assuredly. The general circumstances are most interesting, a case with few precedents. I can recall only the case of the Bishop of Liverpool over a century ago, and of course the infamous case of the Reverend Phineas Roberts of Massachusetts. Unfortunately, a solution similar to theirs would bring little benefit to the Church.