Between the Thames and the Tiber

The Bishop turned out to be a philanderer and Phineas Roberts a notorious poisoner of orphans.”

There was silence for a few moments. The priest remained calm, but his expression betrayed his fear at what Holmes might uncover.

“I have one last request,” said Holmes, “and that is that I have full access to all persons associated closely with the Cardinal, including the Pope himself if necessary, and to the Cardinal’s quarters and his place of work.”

“I can agree to all of your stipulations, Mr. Holmes,” said the priest. “With regard to the Pope, there are certain restrictions. Before my departure, our Holy Father expressed clearly his fervent wish to meet with you and to give you every aid in your investigation. He is, however, increasingly weak and no one knows how long he will live. Here his doctors will have a say in the matter.”

“I see no difficulty,” Holmes responded. “I should like to visit the Pope immediately upon my arrival. But tell me yourself what you can of the Cardinal and anything that might enlighten us as to his fate.”

“I myself,” said the priest, “have known him for only three years. He is a man of the greatest intellect and piety who has seen his entire life as service to the Church. A person of regular habits, he sleeps little, however, always retiring at ten, and rising at three or four in the morning to work. He always took simple meals prepared by his housemaid, Suor Angelica, and ventured forth from the Vatican only to say Mass at the cathedral of San Paolo Fuori le Mura, his own parish.”

“What of his family?”

“Little if anything at all is known with certainty, for his early years were spent in a foundling home in Naples. Because of his intelligence, he was taken by the head of the home and placed with a wealthy friend, who gave the boy every advantage. At some early point in his life, the Pope met him and was so impressed that he brought the boy to live at the Vatican. It became clear as he grew that he had a vocation, and he entered the monastery in Monte Cassino. There, before he was twenty, he became known for his theological and philosophical lectures and disputations. Among the Dominicans, he was regarded as another St. Thomas. He came to the attention of the Archbishop of Naples, who brought him back to the city. Shortly thereafter, he was called to Rome as secretary to the Pope, where his rise in the Church was rapid. Four years ago, he was appointed secretary of state, a post he kept until his disappearance.”

“A most interesting account, but there is little unusual except for his meteoric rise, shall we say. Surely, there must be more?”

“Only one personal indulgence, which I noticed. Perhaps once every fortnight, he would don the attire of a common priest and after dark leave the Vatican and venture into the life of the common people. In this guise, he was known as Padre Giovanni, for he never identified himself to those he met, though he made no elaborate attempt to hide it. He was by no means always alone when he did this. On several occasions, he invited me to go along.”

“And what, pray tell, did you do on these occasions?”

“We walked through the old parts of the city, talking of sin and morality, crossing into Trastevere and then walking back along the Tiber. At about eight, we would part company and he would go alone to a small osteria that he enjoyed and have a simple meal and a glass of wine. This was as close to self indulgence that the Cardinal ever came. In this osteria he said that he joked with the proprietor and his wife, and many times they would prepare special foods for him. He loved the cucina contadina that he had as a child. And of course, his identity was unknown to the proprietor and his wife.”

“And no one survives from his family?”

“No one. He has Suor Angelica and myself, that is all. We are his family,” said the priest softly.

“My dear Padre, I shall be most happy to help in any way I can. I shall leave for Rome the day after tomorrow. And I should like Dr. Watson to accompany me.”

“I shall cable Rome of your acquiescence. In anticipation of your acceptance, we have arranged lodging for you not far from the Vatican. My deepest thanks to you, and the prayers of the Holy Father for your mission.”

The priest bowed and Holmes showed him to the door.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?” Holmes asked when the priest had departed.

“A most interesting case, dear Holmes. I shall accompany you with the greatest pleasure. Luckily, Redfern will cover my practise.”

“Good, Watson, then let us ready ourselves for the trip. I shall wire Inspector Grimaldi of the Roman police of our assignment and arrival. I trust he will meet us and let us know what he can.”

Two days later, we were joyfully on our way to Rome. It was my first trip to Italy since those melancholic and unhappy days when I thought Holmes to be dead. This time we were together as we had been so often in the past.

“The note from Gasparri indicates that we will be staying in a pensione near the Spanish Steps. On Via Gregoriana, also near the Cafe Greco, where we may take our meals. We shall be staying in one of the most beautiful parts of the city, courtesy of the Pope himself, I gather. The Curia seems to be less sanguine about our visit.”

We arrived on schedule at the train station and took a cab to Via Gregoriana. At the very end, just above the Spanish Steps, lay our pensione. Our rooms were large, and the sun poured through the windows. I felt immediate relief from the effects of a long journey.

“Not bad, Holmes,” I said as I looked out from our new quarters.

“A good change from London, Watson. Now rest for a few moments while I record some notes, and we shall be off to the cafe, a favorite of old Goethe.”

It was but a five-minute walk to the cafe, down the steps to the piazza and then into Via Condotti. Holmes chose a table far in the back, well away from the eyes and ears of the small crowd that began to enter the cafe.

“Since I know your taste, Watson, let me order for both of us.”

“Thank you, Holmes. My Italian is most rusty, almost gone. And I find the few words of Pushto that remain in my head, the relics of my days in Afghanistan, curiously rising to my lips, stopping words of any other language from issuing.”

Holmes smiled. “A rather common experience, Watson. Languages struggle for supremacy in the brain. In yours, where English reigns unopposed, the remnants of a language studied twenty years ago in Candahar vie with the more recently acquired Italian. No matter, I trust that your Italian will recover and that your French will come back. The latter is most useful here, particularly with church officials and the Roman police.”

Holmes poured the white wine that he had ordered into my glass and then filled his own.“You will remember that the Cardinal disappeared on Good Friday. Next week is Whitsunday, which will mark fifty days since he is gone.”

“A long time . . .”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, “and I fear that it may be impossible to trace him. Still, one hopes. Ah, here comes Grimaldi.”

Grimaldi was not a totally unknown figure to me. He had kindly provided help during the period in which Holmes was supposedly gone from this world. He was a slender but powerful man, of average height, who wore the clothes of an Italian gentleman, including the fedora, which covered his almost completely bald head.

“Benvenuti a Roma,” he said jovially as he sat down with us.

Holmes poured him a glass of wine and immediately began his questioning.

“What have you learned, ispettore, even though the problem is beyond your authority?”

“It falls without our authority of course, but we must be prepared. So as far as we can, we have begun our own study of the case.”

Sipping his wine, Grimaldi informed us of what he had learned. When the Cardinal did not appear on Good Friday, he said, the housemaid Suor Angelica notified her superiors, who informed the Pope and the Curia. An inquiry was begun, though his rooms were not entered for several days in honour of the long-standing church practise that a cardinal’s private domain remain untouched until his death. On the fourth day of his disappearance, his room was unlocked and only Suor Angelica was allowed to enter. She returned saying that the Cardinal was not there, dead or alive. The room was sealed and has remained closed since. After many days, when the Cardinal had neither appeared nor communicated with anyone, the Roman Curia issued the brief statement that we had read in