Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  “Who then are left? I must say that I can barely keep their names straight.”

  “Don’t bother, Watson. Follow my reasoning, not the names of the composers. What I want, dear fellow, is your critique of the argument. Shall I go on?”

  “Please do, Holmes.”

  “If I am correct, the remaining composers are still under consideration: Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano. In my judgement, these three are the equal of Puccini and Leoncavallo. Their output is small, but the quality is high. In the coming years, the works of the first group will disappear from the stage, their main arias being the only portion to be widely remembered. Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano, however, will be performed increasingly.”

  “I say, Holmes, I am still troubled by the absence of the greatest of all operatic composers, to wit, Giuseppe Verdi. Surely, he deserves a place in your reasoning.”

  “Thank you, dear Watson. No doubt, he deserves a place on historical grounds, but the old man is now an eighty-year-old Orpheus hard at work on Falstaff, his greatest masterpiece. His transition to a late style has evoked much talk, particularly his use of orchestral textures reminiscent of the verismo school. More to the point, he has never had any interest in the rivalries of composers. Quite the contrary not even Wagner troubled him in the least.”

  I detected a pinch of pomposity in Holmes’s tone and said no more. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “I am sure my enthusiasm is a bit difficult to take, but hear me out.”

  “I am listening with the greatest interest.”

  “Good. We may dispose of Boito immediately. He is now working as a librettist for Verdi. He has no time for the machinations of other composers. That leaves two finalists: Ponchielli and Giordano. Despite the greatness of some of his music, Amilcare Ponchielli is uneven as a composer, and his chief work, La Gioconda, is marred by deep dramatic faults, the notorious “Dance of the Hours” being the most reprehensible. That leaves Umberto Giordano, a native of the city of Foggia and perhaps Italy’s greatest operatic composer of the present generation. A brilliant melodist, orchestrator, and dramatist, his opera Andrea Chenier is the high point of all the scores I have examined.”

  “I must say, Holmes, that my ignorance is profound in his respect: I have never heard his name before.”

  “You will hear it more and more. Lombroso knows him well and so it should be easy to find him. I think there is someone at the door. Probably a courier with a message from Lombroso with Giordano’s address.”

  I took the message from the courier and handed it to Holmes.

  Via Orlando di Lasso 45, interno 12. È a casa proprio addesso. Lombroso

  “Come, Watson, let us go and meet Umberto Giordano. Let us see if my reasoning proves correct.”

  I perused a map of Rome that Holmes had tacked to the back of our front door. “It is nearby,” I said, “just off Via Palestrina. It is no more than a ten-minute walk.”

  The walk was indeed a short one, for Via Orlando di Lasso crossed Via Palestrina only two streets north of our residence. Interno 12 was on the first floor. The door opened as soon as Holmes rang the bell.

  “Signor Giordano?” asked Holmes.

  “Son’ io,” replied Giordano with a grin.

  “Ma io non son la mamma morta,” replied Holmes with a broad smile.

  “Certamente no. Infatti, io aspettavo il famoso nemico del male umano, il Signor Sherlock Holmes. Credo, se non mi sbaglio, sia lui chi sta in fronte a me. E Lei, dovrebbe essere il famoso dottore Watson. Dunque avanti, signori, entrate senza lasciar indietro la speranza.”

  I beg the reader’s indulgence here, for he can quickly see from the above that the converstion between Giordano and Holmes went far over my head with its witticisms, its references to Dante and other poets, and its plays on words. I sat silently with a bemused expression on my face, waiting for Holmes to come to the point. It was Giordano who first spoke with reference to the reason for our visit.

  “I calculated that you would arrive precisely when you did. Shall we speak now in all candor, Mr. Holmes, with reference to the two Bohèmes?”

  “Indeed we must, and as quickly as possible.”

  “I assume you compared the works of Puccini and Leoncavallo to mine?”

  “Indeed, I did. And I found what I was looking for: in Act III of Andrea Chenier, just before the aria “Nemico della Patria,” there are two modulations to the key of A minor preceded by two mournful notes played by the bassoon that only Puccini and Leoncavallo would be capable writing aside from you. And furthermore, dear Giordano, in your version of Puccini’s La Bohème, the same rare chord appears. Perhaps we should give it a name—say, the Chenier inversion. And it has led me directly to you.”

  “Indeed,” said Giordano with a broad smile. “Please tell my friends, Leoncavallo and Puccini, that I have made my point. They may have Murger’s La Bohème, but impress upon them that I have been angered by Pagliacci and Tosca, both of which have large elements of my work embedded in them.”

  “I assume, then,” said Holmes, “that you are the gentleman who was to meet Murger.”

  “I am, and I told Murger that I was no longer interested in La Bohème. My next opera will be Fedora.”

  “Ah,” said Holmes, “the novel of Sardou.”

  “Indeed,” said Giordano, “I hope you will come to the opening.”

  “Ma certo,” said Holmes, and we left.

  “Well,” said I as we walked toward Piazza Venezia, “what now? You have made peace in the world of Italian opera, an opera buffa in itself. A remarkable achievement.”

  “Thank you, dear fellow.”

  Holmes maintained his silence as we walked home. As we approached Piazza Venezia, he stopped suddenly and sat down.

  “Have you a pen on you, Watson?”

  I pulled out my notebook and pen and gave them to him. He scribbled out a short note, and we resumed our walk home. As we approached the gate of the Villa Orsini, Holmes stopped and handed the note to the guard.

  “Watson, it is high time to think about a glass of frascati and a light lunch.”

  “Indeed,” said I.

  We took a cab to Campo dei Fior, where we lunched sumptuously. We arrived at our quarters at three. Both of us were overcome by the meal. Holmes relaxed with a cigar and I rolled myself a cigarette. I was about to doze when there was a knock at the door and Holmes rushed to open it. It was a courier with a note in answer to his delivered to the Villa Orsini.

  “Watson,” said Holmes, “forgive me, but I neglected to tell you that we shall have guests tonight. My note delivered to the guard at the Villa Orsini has received a prompt and positive response. It is Friday, is it not? This note from Raffaele says that he would bring Lucia and her padrone here for a light supper. So enamoured is the padrone of our flower girl that he is ready to cast her in a minor role in his new music drama. This will at least hide her for a time from his wife, who I gather is terribly 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 Bohèmes’?”

  “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.

&nbs
p; “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 Città 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. 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.”