by Ted Riccardi
“I am here not because of events in Rome, which have given me a sleepless night,” he said, “but because I have received word from Inspector Niccolini of the Naples police. They are baffled by a case and wish to enlist your help, particularly since several of the principals seem to be British now domiciled in Italy. Because you have often mentioned your desire to travel south, I thought that this would be a good time, anzi un momento perfetto.”
“Let us hear, dear Grimaldi, what the matter concerns,” said Holmes.
“I can relate to you only what I know from Niccolini. On the face of it, it is a rather trivial matter that Niccolini alone might have resolved there in Ravello, but because the matter concerns British citizens as well as Italians, he has felt that your presence might prove useful. It is one of those mysteries that the police often refer to as il mostro nella soffita, the monster in the attic. This may be one of the more interesting cases of its type, though I leave that to you to judge.”
Grimaldi leaned forward to sip his coffee. “Dunque,” he continued, “according to Niccolini, living near the town of Amalfi is an Englishwoman, who is known locally as la Signora Indiana, the Indian lady. She is so called because she is married to Sir Jaswant Singh, an Indian gentleman who is, according to reports, one of the richest men in England. Sir Jaswant owns a villa not far from the centre of Ravello, in the hills east of the town, where he and his wife spend a few months in the spring and early summer. Three weeks ago, Sir Jaswant and his wife arrived for their usual stay. But Sir Jaswant, sometime after his arrival, was suddenly called to Switzerland on business. His wife remained behind to ready the villa and await his return. Feeling safe even without her husband in their home, Lady Singh did not ask for a guard but said she would rely on the servants, who were nearby, in case she needed help. In any event, her husband left and reminded her that his factotum, Habib, would arrive with the rest of their baggage before him himself returned.
“One week ago, la Signora was awakened by what she described to Niccolini as the sound of a wounded animal, a kind of moaning accompanied by growls. She said they appeared to emanate from within the villa, perhaps from the large vacant attic. Frightened, she rang for the servants. They came promptly, but none of them had heard anything, understandably since they sleep in a small building separate from the main residence. The servants searched the house but found nothing. Habib, who had arrived the day before, appeared only later, after the search, apparently unaware of anything strange that had transpired in the house itself. The rumours of what had happened rapidly spread among the contadini of Ravello, Positano, and Amalfi, and those living in the surrounding villages. By the time they reached Niccolini, they had been amply embroidered. Some said that a large tiger had been sighted, others that the English lady had seen a ghost and gone mad in the night. In any case, Lady Singh insisted that a guard be hired, but only one old fearless Amalfitano, one Giuseppe Amendola, was willing to stay at the villa with la Signora.
“Two nights ago, the same sounds occurred. Lady Singh called for old Amendola, but he did not appear. She then went to the landing. From there she saw the old man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Aroused by her screams for help, the servants rushed to their aid. They found the guard still alive, but bleeding profusely from a sharp wound on the left side of his neck. They stanched the bleeding and sent for medical help. They also notified Niccolini, who arrived that evening with several carabinieri. They questioned the guard, who said that he had seen nothing. He heard the strange noises, which appeared to him to have come from the top of the staircase, but saw nothing. Then in the dark, he first felt something soft then something sharp touch him just below the ear and he began to gush blood. He fell into a swoon.”
“Most interesting,” said Holmes happily. “No need to continue. I should be happy to meet with Niccolini as soon as possible. The singular circumstances more than justify a trip to the Mezzogiorno.”
“Benissimo,” said Grimaldi. “I shall wire your agreement and the details of your arrival to him immediately. There is a train to Naples in two hours.”
“We shall be on it,” said Holmes.
Grimaldi left, and Holmes and I each packed a small valise and took a cab to the train station. Grimaldi was there with our tickets and we waved to him as the train departed. Three hours later we were in Naples station sitting aboard the train south, talking to Fausto Niccolini, chief inspector of the Neapolitan police.
“A very strange business, Signore,” said Niccolini, as the train departed.
“Stranissima davvero,” said Holmes, and the conversation continued in Italian with occasional lapses into French.
“Yesterday, we searched the entire villa from top to bottom. There is nothing. No sign of entry, no hidden rooms, no sign of a wild animal. And there is no clear motive why any one should want to frighten the poor lady.”
“What is the history of the house?”
“You ask that question, Mr. Holmes,” said Niccolini with a smile, “con leggerezza, with too light a heart. History in Italy is a madness from which each Italian suffers, a labyrinth in which we walk all our lives. The villa? Well, it was built by one of Naples’s first families, the Alessandrini, in the early eighteenth century. By the end of the century, it had become part of the booty of the French. It became most famous perhaps for the trees that the Alessandrini planted. Now well over a century later, the trees, mainly huge Roman pines and oaks, provide a grove incomparable in the estates of Campania. Napoleon himself stayed there on several occasions, wandering deep into the forests till he came to the cliffs and the sea. After his defeat, the villa reverted to the Alessandrini, who, in a state of near destitution, sold it some ten years ago, in 1891 to be exact, to the Anglo-Indian banker Jaswant Singh. He has used it as a retreat and hunting lodge and has spent several million lire on its restoration. It was not until he married, however, that he began to use it more often, and except for recent events, nothing untoward has happened. The Alessandrini were popular here, for they were, unlike so many of their class of latifundisti, generous to the peasantry who lived on the land, and so the house has been safe from intrusions of any kind, including il malocchio, the evil eye. There is no ghost of the Alessandrini.”
“And where is la Signora at present?”
“She is nearby but away from the house, in a convent watched over by a few nuns. She would not stay another night in the villa. She has sent for her sister, who is to arrive from Pienza tomorrow.”
“And her husband Sir Jaswant?”
“He is on his way, but will not reach here for several days.”
“And the factotum?”
“He is there and awaits his master. Singh has ordered him to watch over the Lady. He is Sir Jaswant’s oldest friend. He has been employed by the banker for many years, and he is completely loyal to him. He is a bit antipatico, a stout man, one who runs slowly and perspires a lot, but of great energy.”
Niccolini leaned back in his seat as the train raced forwards and said, “I must tell you that I do not trust this Habib. I am a local policeman, Signor Holmes. I have traveled little outside this place, my native Campania. I have seen deeply, not widely. And yet, despite this limitation, I can read the human soul through the face, the eyes, the gestures. I know when a man is lying to me or when he has done something wrong. We Italians are an antique people, one with long experience and, therefore, one that has a certain intuition as well. Il signor Habib is lying. There is something that he knows that he refuses to reveal. Signor Holmes, I must tell you that your countrymen and their retinues who have sought to retire here have brought a certain problematica, a tension per modo di dire, shall we say, to the region. The local peasantry is at once attracted by their wealth, but repelled by their habits.”
It was just after noon when we reached Amalfi, a rather squalid little town on the sea. Niccolini had arranged our accommodations in a small hotel, the Albergo Santa Croce, in nearby Ravello and far nearer to the Villa Alessandrini, he himself staying
with a cousin in Amalfi, the better to learn what he could from the observations of the local population.
“I will learn much from the rumours in town,” he said with a smile as he bargained for a cab to take us up the steep hill. Once arrived, we found two excellent rooms awaiting us. From the windows, we could see the Villa Alessandrini resting on the top of a hill not far from us. Peach in color, its olive groves and its magnificent green forest extended behind it upwards into the Apennine Mountains and down towards the sea below. The gardens in front were English, no doubt created by Lady Singh. They were in full bloom, filled with masses of wildflowers, and in the fields to the left thousands of red poppies seemed to dance in the air.
“Come, Watson, let us see what the villa holds.”
Holmes lost no time. A rocky foot path led from the hotel to the villa, about a half mile away. As we approached, I saw Niccolini wave to us.
“Benvenuti,” he said halfmockingly. “You may examine the villa at your leisure. I hope that your luck is better than ours.”
He sat under one of the great trees, writing in a small notebook.
“Habib will guide you,” he said with the merest irony in his voice.
We nodded to him and walked to the entrance, where Sir Jaswant’s servant awaited us. Habib was as described to us, a fat man, with a disheveled appearance, somewhat obsequious in behaviour. His eyes darted constantly as if he were permanently on guard. I disliked him immediately.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked.
“The house is very large and there is no need to go through the whole building at once. I would like to see Lady Singh’s quarters and the place where the guard was attacked,” said Holmes. Habib nodded in assent.
If the villa on the outside was a delight to the eye, the mood on the inside was one of unrelieved gloom. Sir Jaswant’s vaunted millions had barely begun the changes necessary to a happier atmosphere. The baroque ceilings of the great halls and public rooms were covered with a century of soot and dust, the walls burdened with portraits of the Alessandrini in the style of the Neapolitan painter Ildebrando Rosa. Little light entered through the windows, for the surrounding trees blocked it. The feeling was one of unrelieved foreboding.
We followed Habib to the second floor. Just at the top of the stairs he pointed out the place where old Amendola had been attacked. The blood had been thoroughly cleaned. Holmes studied the spots that remained with his glass, but said nothing. His gaze took in every detail.
The Singhs’ own quarters were sumptuous indeed, and were presumably the result of Lady Singh’s efforts to redeem the villa from its past. Here there was light, and the Alessandrini were banished from the walls. Holmes paid little attention to the rooms themselves but examined carefully the large windows, the veranda on the north side of the house, and the branches of the trees that grew close by.
“The house has been swept clean since the incident in question,” he said pointedly to Habib. “A pity.”
“We did as we were told by Lady Singh,” said Habib in reply.
“No matter, I have already seen enough. Let us go to the roof. Is there a way?”
“Yes,” said Habib, “follow me.”
There were four stories to the villa. The highest was uninhabited and was filled with old Renaissance furniture and other dust-covered remnants. At first Holmes paid closest attention to the windows, then to a door that led out to a small porch. He spent several minutes in thought as he studied the door and its relation to the stairwell, walking back and forth between the two, his finger tips together. Then he got down on all fours, like a bloodhound, looking for what we could neither see nor yet divine. He arose expressionless and then went outside, and while Habib and I waited on the veranda, he climbed to the roof. I watched him as he stared intently below, gradually adjusting his gaze until it arrived at the roof itself and the trees that grew nearby, particularly those that were higher than the villa itself. As he re-entered, he took one last look at the trees.
“Very well, then, I have seen enough,” he said. “While there is still time, let us question the old guard.”
We descended to the ground floor. There waiting for us was Amendola, the old man who had been attacked by whatever it was that had come into the house.
He spoke quickly in his local dialect, Cylinder, as they called it. Holmes questioned him with Niccolini’s help.
“Ajja paura,” he said, “non ajja mai avudd ’na paura cumma ghesta”
“He says that he is afraid and that he was never as frightened as when he felt the presence of this creature.”
Amendola pointed to the bandage over his wound.
“Ask him,” said Holmes, “if he has any idea as to what it was.”
Once started, the poor man could only babble on without stopping. Holmes recorded his very words in order to examine them thoroughly later.
“Nullo saccio, era ‘bbastanza grande, cumma se fosse nu cane, o forse na specie da ’attu, o magara na gatta da muntagna. Da golora neru, o forsa brunnu. capedda’ morbida, cumma nu ucedd. M’a morso achi, e poi s’e na scapadda.” (I don’t know, it was fairly big, like a dog, or maybe a cat, or maybe a mountain cat. Black, or maybe brown. Soft fur, like bird feathers maybe. It bit me here, and then ran away.)
“Io su nadu qui, ajju passadu la vida mia indera da rachhenna, ma vi digo che io non va chhiu da sola fuora la sera, eppura la famiglia resta a casa e non va fuora. Ghistu paes non e cumma era primu. E non sara mai cumma era. Adessu, lu Diavolu se stessu s’e messu fra noi e Diu. Sima tudda disgraziad’, non sima mangha cristian’. Lu malocch’ e benuda cu’ ghista genda schifosa indian’. Bisogna che se na andassa da chi. So’ cumma i zingara.” (I was born here, I have passed my entire life here, but I tell you that I no longer go out at night, and my family also stays home and doesn’t go out. This place is no longer the way it was. And it will never be the way it was. The devil has put himself between us and God. We are all unfortunates, we are not even Christians any more. The evil eye has come with these Indian people. They have to go away from here. They’re like the Gypsies.”)
Amendola suddenly became silent. Holmes thanked him for his words and then said: “Despite your fears, I intend to visit the forest tonight. Will you come with me?”
“No, mai. Se matt cumma tuda sti ingles.” (No, never. You are crazy like all these English.”)
The conversation ended abruptly when the old man said he wanted to answer no further questions, Holmes and I took our leave and together with Niccolini began the walk back to the hotel. I noted that Habib left without a word.
It was by now late afternoon. As we entered, Niccolini was handed a note by the door man.
“Some troubling news,” he said. “I have learned in the market in Amalfi that among the baggage brought by Habib was a large box that apparently contained something live, either a large bird of prey, or perhaps a large dog. And a message from Grimaldi that Sir Jaswant did not go to Switzerland at all, but after receiving an urgent message from Habib, went to the French-Italian border where the police were ready to seize a large black box. I gather that the local French douanes submitted to temptation and allowed the box through, as did the Italians for presumably the same fee. Because of his position and power, neither police demanded to know from Singh what was in the crate but let it pass. Habib then arrived with the box and without further incident.”
Holmes smiled and said, “Troubling, but helpful, caro Niccolini, I think that the thought that Habib may be covering up for his master has occurred to all of us. But let us now visit Lady Singh herself.”
The convent lay about a mile down the long hill from Ravello, off the main road and down a dirt path. It appeared more Moorish than Italian in appearance, perhaps originally an old fort. The nuns were of a pious meditative order and found the presence of three men most difficult until they discovered that we wished to see Lady Singh. We were not allowed beyond the gate and were asked to wait outside in the garden, where the lady appeared almost immediately.
She was a tall woman, handsome rather than beautiful, of considerable dignity, whose anxious expression spoke eloquently of the tension under which she had been since the terrible incidents at her villa had begun. She greeted us with warmth, however, obviously trying to control her fears as she spoke.
“Welcome, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I am greatly relieved that you have chosen to come. Mr. Holmes, I have heard much about you from my sister, Lady Maxwell.”
I saw a look of surprise move over Holmes’s face.
“I did not know that she was your sister. Indeed, I have often wondered how she fared after the terrible incidents in Calcutta.”
“She is well, and will be here shortly. She has left England and is residing in the Val d’Orcia near Pienza, just a few hours from Rome. But she will explain all to you herself. Tell me Mr. Holmes, have you discovered what the monster is?”
“No, my lady, but I have several theories. Perhaps you could relate to me your experience, however distasteful that may be.”
“I have told all to the police, but it may help if I repeat what I remember,” she began. “Sir Jaswant and I arrived here three weeks ago. We began our usual schedule, staying at the albergo while the house was readied for us. My husband in retrospect seemed preoccupied with his bank. About a week after our arrival, he informed me that Habib had wired saying that questions had arisen in Switzerland and that he would have to go to Zurich. I was disappointed of course, but I was buoyed by his belief that it would be a short trip. Nothing occurred until a week after his departure. Habib arrived with more of our belongings a few days after Jaswant left and told me that my husband would be further delayed. I was again disappointed but glad to see Habib and the safe arrival of our belongings.”
“It was just over a week ago when I heard the terrible sounds. It must have been around three in the morning when they began, low growls, moans if you will, coming from some unknown place. At first I thought they were the growls of a dog or a cat, but they soon took on the eerie sound of something I had not heard before. Terrified, I rang the bell. No one came at first. I screamed in terror, and finally the servants came. Habib was nowhere to be found. When he appeared a while later, he said that he had fallen into a deep sleep and had heard nothing.