Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  “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 Café 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 café, a favorite of old Goethe.”

  It was but a five-minute walk to the café, 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 café.

  “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 the London papers. The Curia, however, was far more concerned than the brief announcement would indicate. As the youngest and most brilliant of the Italian Cardinalate, Corelli was an ardent spokesman for reform in the Church. This was well known. Unfortunately, he had been frustrated in his efforts by the rest of the Curia—all in their late seventies—and an indecisive and failing pontiff. Because of the disagreements, there had been a concerted effort by the Curia to remove him from his powerful position, but his favored position with the Pope, whom he had known since his youth, could not be broken, and he remained at his post, frustrated but dogged in his attempts to outwit the aged hierarchy that opposed him.

  “The Curia, under their leader Cardinal Spontini,” Grimaldi continued, “are apparently elated at their stroke of good luck and would be most happy if Corelli were never to return. Spontini made the suggestion that Corelli be removed from his position as Secretary of State until his fate had been determined. Again the Pope refused. It was then that he notified the papal nuncio in London that the services of Sherlock Holmes should be enlisted and ordered Gasparri to England to present the case. In this way, the Pope thwarted any investigation by the Curia itself or the involvement of the Roman police. Since Italian unification in 1872, the Pope has closed himself up in the Vatican and has refused to have anything to do with the Italian government.

  “So much for the Curia for now,” said Grimaldi, “though I must say they bear watching. As to those who know the Cardinal best, I have spoken to his housemaid. She had little to contribute. She is from the south of Italy, from Cilento, and has worked in the Church since she was a child and for Corelli since he became a cardinal. She corroborated the notion of a man who sought to know the people. On those occasions when he visited places in town, he would return by ten, work at his desk until midnight, and sleep until six, when she brought him his simple breakfast. On the night before his disappearance, she said that he had gone out at seven and that she had turned down his bed at nine thirty. The following morning she knocked on his door but there was no answer. She waited, and then, when no respon
se was forthcoming, she opened the door to find the room empty and the bed not slept in. She notified her superiors, who went directly to the Pope. His room was sealed and she has sat at his door waiting for his return. Ma, amici, I am going on and on and you have a meeting with Il Papa himself.”

  Grimaldi went ahead of us to hail a cab and we were soon on our way. It was not long before we were rushing through the lanes in front of St. Peter’s. Alert to our impending arrival, the Swiss Guard at the side entrance led us through the grand halls to the inner quarters of the Vatican, and we were ushered into a small audience chamber.

  The Pope sat near a window through which sunlight flooded the room. He was dressed in the plain clothes of a priest. Pale and unsteady on his feet, he nevertheless motioned calmly with his hand for us to sit in the chairs in front of him. He spoke in French in a soft but clear voice. He dispensed with all ecclesiastical ceremony.

  “I begin by welcoming you to Rome,” he said. “You will have our full support in your investigation. You must find Cardinal Corelli at once or learn what has happened to him. He paused for a moment and then said sadly, “He is like a son to me. Messieurs, je vous implore . . .”

  “Tell us, Your Holiness, what you can of the cardinal.”

  “I met him when he was a small boy of nine. His family had been killed years before in an earthquake in Casamicciola on the island of Ischia. The boy was found wandering alone in the ruins in a state of confusion and amnesia. He was brought to an orphanage, where he recovered his strength, but not his earliest memories. He did not speak until he was seven. As he grew, he became known for the excellence of his studies. I saw him first at the orphanage. Recognizing the light of Divine Inspiration in him, I brought him here to be raised. Then I sent him to Monte Cassino for study. Upon his return, he became my assistant. Four years ago I made him cardinal, the youngest in the Church, and he became Secretary of State. Until his disappearance, I assumed that he would follow me as Pope. But who is to say now?”

  “Who are his enemies?” asked Holmes coolly.

  “Some of the Curia dislike him, but ‘enemies’ is a harsh word. The members of the Curia, all worthy men and filled with ambition, found his quick rise in the Church disturbing. I do not think anyone would harm him, though they might try to destroy his reputation, or put him in an embarrassing situation. His conduct has been impeccable. I know his habits: he rises at four every morning to say mass, then breakfasts, and works on Church business until nine, when he goes through the day’s agenda with me.”

  “Who served him and tended to his needs?”

  “Suor Angelica, a nun who comes from the same orphanage as he, though she is somewhat older. She is devoted to him and you may question her at length. She is the only one to have visited his quarters at the time of his disappearance.”

  “Have his rooms been examined by anyone?”

  “No,” replied the Pope. “As soon as the Cardinal’s absence became known to me, I had his quarters closed with my seal. You can be sure that no one has entered except for a visit by Suor Angelica when the Cardinal first disappeared.”

  “Then I should like to begin with a talk with Suor Angelica and a visit to the Cardinal’s rooms.”

  The Pope rang. A young priest appeared who was told to take us first to Suor Angelica and then to the Cardinal’s quarters.

  “Report to me as often as you wish,” said the Pope, and we left.

  We followed the young priest down a long corridor. When we reached its end, the priest asked us to wait. He knocked at a wooden door, and there appeared a nun, of perhaps some fifty years of age, dressed in a white habit. She was introduced to us as Suor Angelica. Despite her age, she was quite youthful, even beautiful in appearance. When she saw us, she grew shy, saying only that she had served the Cardinal since his arrival in Rome, and that she knew nothing of his disappearance. Her eyes teared over as she spoke. Holmes calmed her and asked that she come with us to his room.

  When we arrived at the door, the young priest knelt and broke the papal seal. We entered the Cardinal’s room. Suor Angelica waited outside, overcome with emotion. A strong breeze blew through an open window through which one could see the great line of statues of the saints that adorns the colonnade of St. Peter’s.

  At first glance there was nothing unusual or disturbing. In its simplicity the room was in marked contrast to the sumptuous halls of the Vatican. A large almirah containing the Cardinal’s priestly habits stood against one wall. A small table served as a writing desk, upon which there lay a missal. Near one corner of the desk rested a rosary and a ring, presumably that of the Cardinalate. A simple cot against the opposite wall served as the Cardinal’s bed. Above it was a large crucifix nailed to the wall, so large that it dominated the room and broke its quiet proportions. The face of Christ appeared as if it had been smeared with some kind of vermilion substance that had trickled down, and gave the image an unforgettable blood-drenched appearance. It was the only disquieting article in the room.

  “The tranquil room of a man of the Church,” I said to him.

  “But one in which there are all the signs of a struggle.”

  I was a bit taken aback by Holmes’s remark, since I saw nothing of a struggle. I went towards the window into the fluttering curtains and turned to watch as he stared at the crucifix. Over and over he walked up to it, then stepped back.

  “As usual, you see but do not observe. Note, my dear Watson, the crucifix is a recent addition to the room. On the wall behind it one can make out the outline of something else that came before it, a painting, no doubt. Do you see? Here there is no soot from the candles.”

  He moved the crucifix slightly, revealing a jagged hole in the plaster.

  “A nail, now gone, held the picture in place.”

  With his forefinger he touched the plaster behind the crucifix and what appeared to be long scratches in the plaster below. Talking more to himself than to me, he said, “Note again the rectangle of clean whitewash that is revealed by the picture’s absence. And note, too, the clumsiness of the person taking the picture down, causing these striations. Most interesting, Watson. Now if we just follow those lines down and move the bed—hah!”

  There, lying next to the bed, its front to the wall, was what appeared to be a small painting. Holmes turned it over. It was a picture of the Virgin Mary, the front of the frame badly scratched in its slide down the wall.

  “The picture, Watson, preceded the crucifix on the wall. It is interesting that Suor Angelica said nothing of this.”

  “But what is the significance, Holmes? Perhaps the Cardinal decided to change—”

  “Nonsense, Watson. This was a man who led the most regular of lives. Devoted to Mary, having written the 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 someth
ing 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.”