The Death of Cardinal Tosca (The Dispatch Box of John H Watson, MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “I take it that you will wish me to make my way to Ledbury Hall, and view the scene of the crime?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And will I be permitted to view the body?”

  “The Cardinal’s body is still in the place where it was discovered. Everything is as it was when Mahoney discovered it.”

  Sherlock Holmes looked at his brother in amazement. “Do you mean to tell me, Mycroft, that you have allowed a dead body to remain in that room for now,” he pulled out his watch and examined it, “somewhat in excess of thirty-six hours?”

  Mycroft Holmes inclined his great head. “That is correct,” he confirmed.

  “Then why in the name of all that is holy did you not contact me yesterday?”

  “I was awaiting instructions from Rome,” replied his brother. “After searching for the missing paper, my first action was to send a telegram to the Vatican, explaining the situation, and requesting some guidance on the course of action that they felt would be most beneficial to all parties concerned. The answer came within two hours, and bore the name of His Holiness himself, requesting that you would be assigned to the case. Your reputation, thanks to Watson here, has obviously extended to the Holy See.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I understand,” he said. “Very well, it seems that I have little choice in this matter. Let us start immediately.”

  “Before you start, Sherlock, there are one or two things that I wish to discuss with you in private. I mean no offence to you, Monsignor, but I would prefer it if you were to wait outside while I inform my brother of these matters. Please make your way to Ledbury Hall and inform his Lordship of my brother’s imminent arrival.”

  “I will do that, and rest assured that there is no offence taken, believe me. I recognise that you, like myself, have secrets that are not for all ears,” replied the cleric as he rose to his feet. He said these words with an expression that appeared almost to be gloating, and opened the door to leave the room. I likewise rose to depart, but Mycroft Holmes waved me back to my seat.

  “You may stay, Doctor,” he told me. When the door had closed behind Mahoney, and Sherlock Holmes had discreetly verified that the priest was at a safe distance, by opening the door and peering out before closing it again, Mycroft Holmes rested his head in his hands and slowly looked up at his brother. For the first time I noticed the fatigue in his face. “Sherlock, I did not want to provide all the details in front of that Roman Irishman, but a grave constitutional crisis hangs on this case.”

  “So you said before. What is its nature?”

  “It concerns the Royal personage who was mentioned earlier. I have certain knowledge that this person has already converted to Roman Catholicism. This is an indisputable fact, and it is causing great concern in the present Government, I can tell you. Mahoney was being disingenuous at best when he told you of the purpose of Tosca’s visit to this country. The Cardinal’s mission to England was to seek to persuade the Royal personage to make a public declaration of his beliefs. You need not ask how I discovered this, but I was aware that this was Tosca’s aim before he even set out from Rome. I was deputed by the Prime Minister to manage the affair, and you may imagine that I was not anxious that Tosca should succeed. Abhorrent as it may appear to you, I confess to feeling some relief regarding the death of the Cardinal at this point.”

  “I take it that this is the Royal individual concerned?” said his brother, scribbling a name on a piece of paper torn from his notebook, and passing it to Mycroft, who glanced at it and nodded before passing it to me. I read the name with a sense of astonishment, and passed the paper back to my friend, who flicked it into the fire, where it was instantly consumed by the flames.

  “This person has converted, as I say, and in the event of his succeeding to the Throne, I have it on the best of authorities that he would seek to abolish the Church of England, and place it under Rome once more, as it was in the days before Henry VIII. He would surrender his place as head of the Church of England, and that institution, as we know and understand it, would cease to exist. It is quite conceivable that the effect would also affect the Empire. There might be some rejoicing among the Irish element in Australia, but other than that...”

  “This is a monstrous business!” I exclaimed. “If what you describe were to come to pass, there would be civil war or some such thing throughout the land.”

  “It is not likely that he will succeed, though,” remarked Sherlock Holmes. “It seems a most improbable eventuality.”

  “There is more chance of its occurring than you might imagine,” his brother said, shaking his head sadly. “The Heir is not in good health, it is reported, and is in any case not as young as he was. There is also the possibility that some anarchist or other madman might make an attempt on his life which would place him of whom we speak in direct succession.”

  We considered this in silence for some moments. “You make the situation sound grave,” I said to Mycroft.

  “It is grave.”

  “Surely he can be prevented from making such a move?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “Even if he is one of the Royal family, he could be prevented from making an announcement, especially since the Cardinal is no longer around to persuade him.”

  “There is worse. The paper that was described as missing is a letter from His Grace to His Holiness, written some months back, and promising faithfully that in the event of his taking the Throne, the Church of England will cease to be. Even if he were never to succeed, the public knowledge of this letter would be a catastrophe.”

  “Pooh. Denounce it as a forgery.”

  “It would seem easy to make such a move, but consider it as I have done. By doing as you suggest, we would impugn the credibility of the Roman church—a move which would hardly endear us to the indigenous Irish population, who are fractious enough as it is. And the word of a politician against one of the Royal family? Even if the statesman were to be believed by the majority, there would still be many who would remain sceptical. No, Sherlock, the discovery and publication of this letter are risks that the nation can ill afford. I fear that Mahoney’s motives in this matter are the same as those of his late master, whatever personal differences he may have had with him, and he would seek any opportunity to weaken the British government. You must ensure that the letter does not fall into his hands, Sherlock, or if it has, you must find a way to relieve him of it.”

  Editor’s note: Watson is careful not to name this Royal personage, but it can be none other than George, Duke of York, the eldest surviving son of the Prince of Wales (Edward VII), who eventually succeeded his father as George V. His elder brother, Albert Victor, had died some years earlier. There is some support for this deduction, as is shown by his rejection of the older form of the Accession Declaration to be made at his coronation, a part of which read in the original form, “ there is not any Transubstantiation of the elements of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ at or after the consecration thereof by any person whatsoever: and that the invocation or adoration of the Virgin Mary or any other Saint, and the Sacrifice of the Mass, as they are now used in the Church of Rome, are superstitious and idolatrous”.

  “Recovery of the letter is more important than discovery of the identity of the killer?”

  “One may well lead you to the other.”

  “Indeed so. And Watson here is permitted to accompany me to Ledbury Hall?”

  “I would expect nothing less,” said his brother. “Doctor Watson has proved his patriotism and his discretion in so many cases, that I trust him as I trust you in these matters. The opinion of a medical man of such ability regarding the cause of death may also prove to be of interest—indeed of value.”

  I was gratified by these words, for I knew Mycroft Holmes to be a reticent, almost cold, man who was not in the habit of bestowing compliments lightly.

  “Excellent. We will be off, then, to Ledbury. Allow me time to collect some of my apparatus” (by which Holmes referred to his lenses and the small tool
-kit that he carried on such occasions) “from Baker-street, and we will make our way to Hertfordshire.”

  “Do so with all speed. Report back to me by telegram on any points of interest. The usual cypher. Remember that the fate of this nation may rest in your hands.”

  Lord Ledbury –Ledbury Hall

  “Are you acquainted with Lord Ledbury?” Holmes asked me as we took our seats in the train to Hertfordshire.

  “I have not yet had the pleasure,” I told him.

  “Oh, it was no great pleasure when I last encountered him, I assure you. At that time he was a junior Cabinet Minister, but since he left the Government some years ago, he may be a little less acerbic in his manner, and be slightly more welcoming. Admittedly, the circumstances of our last meeting were somewhat less than favourable. He was one of those peripherally involved in the business with Eduardo Lucas. I fear that on that occasion, he felt that I was overstepping the bounds of my authority, despite the fact that the Prime Minister himself had commissioned me to look into the matter. I am unsure as to how he will regard my appointment in this case.”

  Editor’s note: Holmes here refers to the adventure recounted in the Second Stain.

  “At any event, Holmes, I trust that you will use all the diplomatic skill of which I know you to be capable. If what your brother has told you is true, this business could provoke chaos and anarchy in our streets.”

  Holmes smiled his thin smile. “Very well, I will endeavour to behave myself as you request.” He leaned back and drew meditatively on his pipe. “What did you make of our Monsignor, by the by?”

  “His story seemed thin to me at times.”

  “To me, also. But he did not strike me as an unintelligent man. What did you make of his remarks concerning the Spanish butler?”

  “I would expect a priest, with his understanding of human nature, which you must assume a priest would acquire in the course of his duties, to be a fair judge of character. Quite possibly there is some truth in the matter.”

  “That is true, I suppose. If he were to invent a story, I would expect it to be one with more subtlety and perhaps a touch more plausibility. That leads me to believe for now that unlikely and improbable as his story may be, it may nonetheless be substantially the truth. But there is another matter that gives me concern, and that is the phrase that Monsignor Mahoney used when he left us. Do you recall it?”

  “It was something regarding secrets, if I remember correctly.”

  “Indeed. He told us that he had his secrets. Now what in the world could he signify by that?”

  “I took it to mean little more than what he had learned in the confessional. Romish priests seem absurdly proud of that particular aspect of their calling.”

  “More than some doctors?” Holmes laughed.

  “Touché,” I admitted. “But you must confess that it seems a likely explanation.”

  “Indeed I do, and you may well be correct. He could, of course, be referring to the missing letter, possibly unaware of the fact that brother Mycroft was fully cognisant of its contents. However, I am more inclined to your theory. Is it not common practice for a senior prelate to confess to a more junior, his personal chaplain?”

  “I believe that is the case, yes.”

  “And often the chaplain will also serve as the prelate’s secretary?”

  “I begin to catch your drift. If Mahoney was in possession of some secret which was previously known only to the late Cardinal, and which had been revealed to him in confession, then that would account for his manner, would it not?”

  “Aye, that it would. But the nature of such a secret eludes me for the present. We must keep our ears open, and listen for anything that may lead us to discover it. I fear such clues will be few and far between, however.” He flung himself back in his seat, and seemed to become lost in thought. A notion appeared to cross his brow, and he addressed himself to me once more. “Do you believe that my brother’s gloomy prognostications are somewhat overdone?” he asked me. “Do you really credit the notion that this nation could come to blows with itself over a matter of religion such as this?”

  “I do,” I answered him. “There are many in this country who take their belief in these things much more seriously than do you. There are still those who will happily burn the Pope in effigy on November 5, and consider themselves as good patriotic Englishmen for doing so. It is sad, I agree, that there is so much hatred and intolerance in this country of ours, but it is a fact.” I considered the matter a little more. “And there is another side to the coin. There is, as you know, a considerable number of Irishmen who wish home rule, or even complete political independence from England, for their country. The vast majority of these are of the Catholic faith, and were it to be made public that His Grace shared their belief, there is no knowing what might be the result of this.”

  “You are my touchstone in these things, Watson,” he told me. “I live a life so divorced from such matters that I could not begin to pronounce on them with any pretence to authority, and it gave me a start when my brother professed himself to be so convinced of the ruin that would ensue. But when you and Mycroft agree, then I am tempted to assume the worst.”

  “You talk of assuming the worst. Let us assume for now that this particular outcome will not occur. One event that I am personally dreading, however, is the thought of examining a body that has remained untouched in a house for nearly two days. It is far from being an attractive proposition. It is true that I have encountered worse on the battlefield, but I had rashly assumed that those days were behind me.”

  “I confess that I cannot condone Mycroft’s decision to leave the scene of the murder in its original state. It is true, of course, that any disturbance in such circumstances is to be deplored from the point of view of the scientific investigator, but even so...”

  “I am surprised that Mahoney permitted it,” I ventured.

  Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Mycroft can be extraordinarily persuasive at times. I have many memories from my youth of those powers of his. I do not think that Mahoney may have had much freedom in the matter.”

  “In any event, it is not an event that I anticipate with any degree of pleasure.” As I spoke, the train started to slow as we arrived at the station closest to Ledbury Hall, and Holmes and I alighted. We were greeted at the station by a trap, driven by a man who introduced himself as one of Lord Ledbury’s grooms.

  “His Lordship sent me down to meet you gentleman. The priest has gone before. He arrived on the previous train, and told us you were coming. You’re a doctor, sir?” he enquired of Holmes. “It’s a bad business, with the old gentleman—that is to say the Italian gentleman who’s been staying here—struck down as he has been. There’s talk he may not live for much longer.”

  “I am the doctor,” I corrected him, but said no more. It was obvious that the news of the Cardinal’s death, or even certain knowledge of his identity, had not spread to the stable-yard, at any event.

  The drive proceeded in silence. Neither Holmes nor myself wished to discuss the purpose of our visit in front of the coachman, and for my part, I was content to close my eyes and compose my nerves a little in preparation for what I was sure would be an ordeal on my part.

  On arrival at the Hall, a servant arrived to carry Holmes’ and my luggage, but I maintained my grip on my doctor’s bag, and Holmes retained the Gladstone bag containing the tools peculiar to his trade. On our stepping into the hallway, we were greeted by a man who was obviously from his bearing the butler, Alvarez, who had been mentioned as the servant who had attended Cardinal Tosca and his secretary. His Spanish blood was evident in the set of his face and in the proud bearing with which he carried himself, and there was a look in his eyes that bespoke a considerable intelligence. However, remembering the description of his character that had been given to us earlier, there seemed to be something shifty, almost furtive, about his bearing and general demeanour.

  “His Lordship will see you now,” he said to us, and ushere
d us into a spacious drawing-room.

  Lord Ledbury was a man of about sixty years of age, obviously still possessed of considerable energy and vitality. He advanced on Holmes and myself with his hand outstretched.

  “Well, well, my dear fellow,” he addressed Holmes. “It seems that we are fated to meet again in another complicated set of circumstances, are we not? I fear that on the last occasion I rather resented your intrusion. Rest assured, though, that on this occasion I am delighted to see you. Since that last time, I have been following the cases in which you have been described by your friend John Watson—and you must be he,” he broke off, advancing on me and wringing my hand warmly. “I must confess a sincere admiration for your methods. I was also unaware at that time of your connection with the other Holmes—by which I mean your brother Mycroft, of course—and I really must apologise for what must have seemed to you at the time to be insufferable rudeness. I do hope that you will be able to get to the bottom of this ghastly affair. Naturally, you will be staying as my guests until this whole horrible business has been cleared up.”

  The speech was delivered in the warmest possible tones, and appeared to me to be completely sincere. I was pleased to see that Sherlock Holmes received these sentiments most graciously, and expressed his pleasure at renewing the acquaintance of our host, and his gratitude for the hospitality that had been offered. I was relieved by this, as I knew that Holmes could at times neglect the social graces when engaged on a case; he had unwittingly been the cause of hurt feelings in the past—and it had been my thankless task to soothe those ruffled feathers.

  “Before we investigate the scene, may I ask you a few questions?” he asked Lord Ledbury.

  “Indeed you may. I was expecting something along those lines.” He broke off. “Ah, our tea,” as a tray made its appearance. He waited until the servant had withdrawn. “Now, what is it that you wish to know?”

  “Firstly, where is Monsignor Mahoney at this moment?”