Between the Thames and the Tiber

encyclical on the Immaculate Conception, he would not have let her picture remain on the floor behind a bed. No, something else is afoot here.”

Holmes sat with the picture of the Virgin, closely scrutinising it. “Spanish in origin, probably late fifteenth century. A label on the back reads Casamicciola, the town where the Cardinal’s family were killed in the earthquake. This is, then, whatever else, the only tangible connection we know of to his family.”

Holmes took a rule from his pocket and measured the distance from the surface of the bed to the nail holding the crucifix. “The Cardinal is reportedly a tall man. He or someone else hung the picture. But it was removed and the crucifix placed there by a different person.”

Holmes then went to the writing desk and examined the rosary.

“It is broken, Watson, in three places. And the ring is badly bent out of shape. Look at the marks on the table, as if someone had pressed it into the surface in great anger. And finally, Watson, look at the crucifix on the rosary.”

The crucifix was some four inches in length, of pure silver.

“Note the face, Watson.”

“It is bright crimson.”

“Yes, indeed, dear Watson, and now let us open the missal to the marked page. We shall surely come upon something of interest.” He handed me the missal.

“Vexilla Regis prodeunt inferni,” I read. “The banners of the King of Hell go forward.”

“Brilliant, Watson, if I say so myself. Your Latin is still serviceable. The lines are from a famous Easter hymn, but I think slightly changed. Remind me, Watson. A copy of The Inferno may be useful. Well, dear fellow, we do not know where the Cardinal is, but I venture to predict that beneath the quiet revelations found in this small room, one tranquil on the surface, there is a great struggle, a fight for a man’s soul as well as the soul of the Church itself. Let us speak to Suor Angelica before we leave.”

The nun entered slowly, fearful at first, but became more calm as Holmes gently questioned her.

“Suor Angelica, when you were here last, was this crucifix on the wall?”

“No,” she said simply.

“Then who put it there?”

“I do not know,” she replied.

“And the picture?”

“The picture has been on the wall since the Cardinal came to Rome. He has always had it. I know that because I gave it to him.”

“And when was that?”

The nun paused, as if to help her recollection.

“I have worked here at the Vatican since the Cardinal came here. But I have known him since our childhood. I was nine years old and he was five when we met. We shared the terrible event of the earthquake at Casamicciola. At the time his family was visiting. I was born there. When the disaster hit, I was standing near them on a high cliff. The cliff crumbled beneath us. His family was buried and the two of us were thrown towards the beach. I was unhurt, but Arco, for that is what we called him, had a bad blow to the head and was bleeding profusely. I baptized him, thinking that he would die, and ran for help. He was brought to an orphanage and saved by the nurse there. None of his family survived. His parents and younger sister disappeared forever. The picture I found near where they were staying. The Virgin has been with him since that time.”

“Suor Angelica, when you were last in this room, which way was the picture facing?”

The nun hesitated for a moment and said, “The Virgin was facing the wall. The Cardinal’s habit was to turn the picture to the wall on Ash Wednesday and leave it that way until Easter morning. When I asked him why he did that, he said that he did not know.”

“Have you told anyone else what you have told us?”

Suor Angelica avoided Holmes’s eyes as she groped for words.

“I may have mentioned it in passing to Padre Roberto, Cardinal Spontini’s secretary.”

“Thank you, Suora, we shall leave now.”

Holmes rang, and the young priest returned. Holmes asked that the room be once again sealed and that no one be allowed to enter.

“Most interesting, Watson,” he said as we returned to our quarters.

“But Holmes, I must say that all the small things you saw hardly amount to a grand conflict,” said I as we entered our rooms.

“As I have said in the past, Watson, you see but you do not observe. The room, despite its tranquil ambience, has all the signs of conflict. The crucifix I take as a warning to the Cardinal, the broken rosary and bent ring may have been his angry reaction to the invasion of his private chambers. But now, to further the investigation, we must look elsewhere.”

We sat for a time in almost complete silence. Holmes was deep in thought and paid little heed to my questions. There was a sudden knock at the door. Signora Piperno, our landlady, stood there.

“There is a message for Signor Holmes,” she said, “from Inspector Grimaldi.”

Holmes took it from her and we read:Dear Holmes,The body of a dead priest has been retrieved from the Tiber.It is that of the Cardinal. Come at once.Grimaldi

We left without pause, hailed a cab, and went directly to Grimaldi’s office in the Palace of Justice. Grimaldi greeted us and then reported on the discovery.

“Last night, towards dark,” he said, “a young boy fishing in the river noticed a hat near the river’s edge, not far from Castel Sant’Angelo. He tried to retrieve it with his line and only realized when he pulled that his hook was firmly fixed to the head of a corpse. He informed a carabiniere standing nearby, who called for help, and the body was brought here. It is badly decomposed, but it is undoubtedly that of the Cardinal. Cardinal Spontini, the acting chief of the Curia, has made a positive identification and has informed the Pope.”

“And the cause of death?” asked Holmes.

“Suicide by drowning. A despondent Cardinal killed himself for reasons that are still not certain, but highly probable. In his hand he clutched a note in a woman’s hand. The note is illegible, but the woman’s name, Maria Teresa, can be read at the bottom. This is, of course, that name of the woman he has been associated with in rumours among the populace.”

Grimaldi handed Holmes a folder in which the note had been placed. Holmes examined it carefully. A smile broke on his face.

“May we examine the body?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Grimaldi. “Come, the morgue is at the end of the hall.”

“There will be no autopsy,” he said, “without the Church’s permission. We have yet to perform a complete examination, but we shall supply you with a copy once it is performed.”

Grimaldi motioned to the attendant. A drawer was pulled out to reveal the body. It was that of a man in his mid-fifties, dressed in the black habit of a common priest. We watched as the attendant stripped the body of its clothes. The slender but well-muscled body of a man in the prime of life was revealed. There were no wounds on the body.

Holmes made his own examination, carefully observing the head and hands and then the chest and feet. He turned the face upwards. Badly deteriorated, it had been smeared with vermilion. Holmes looked at me but said nothing.

“Please come, Watson, I have seen enough. Signor Grimaldi, vi ringrazio. We shall be in touch.”

Once on the street, Holmes grinned.

“Most interesting, Watson. What did you make of it?”

“A tragedy, the most popular of cardinals dead in his prime.”

“No, Watson, not at all. That is not the body of a cardinal. If the Cardinal is dead, his corpse is yet to be discovered. This is a ruse, clever but not clever enough.”

He paused for a moment in thought and then said, “Or perhaps clever and rather bold, even impertinent. The vermilion face . . . we must find its meaning. Something in memory . . .”

“But Holmes, how do you know it is not the Cardinal?”