“If you are so inclined, I would be pleased if you, Tuck, Sister Carolina, and Sergeant Sprüngli would do so. Tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
The next morning after a breakfast of Sister Ugolin’s volcanic coffee and hard rolls, we climbed into a brougham sent by the Vatican and made our way through the streets of Rome toward the titanic enclosure of St. Peter’s. Holmes, at last devoid of make-up, wore a respectable cutaway, waistcoat, and top hat. I had invested in a new starched collar, while Sister Carolina required us to stop at a leather shop in the Piazza Barberini so she could choose some new gloves. She returned with several pair.
“You have dropped your disguise,” I observed to Holmes as we crossed the Sant’ Angelo Bridge.
“I shall not again enter the presence of the Supreme Pontiff in fancy dress. Besides, there is no reason for it now,” he replied. “The pope is safe and his guards are highly vigilant. Stepnyak is surely on his way back to Russia and out of reach—that is, if he values his life. Our master criminal does not tolerate failure.”
“Who is this ‘master criminal,’ Holmes?” I asked.
“We’ll talk of him later,” Holmes cut me off, looking askance at Sister Carolina. “We’ve nearly arrived.”
Gazing up through the window, I saw the colonnade of St. Peter’s square coming into view and was stunned at the grandeur of it all. The façade of the basilica was far larger than I had imagined, a grand golden frieze shadowed with dust in the morning sunlight. We were met at the entry by Sergeant Sprüngli, whose face was no longer so jolly. His mustaches were drooping.
“Herr Holmes, please come with me. I have news.”
We descended, waited several minutes while Sprüngli whispered to Holmes in German, then I approached them. “What news?” I asked.
“There has been in the Vatican museum a robbery, and the Shamrock has steamed away. But we are due in the audience rooms, so let us go.”
Sprüngli, looking trim in his modern blue uniform, led the way for us. The next hour was a towering experience—to meet and be embraced by the Holy Father himself, although I had done nothing to qualify for such a moment—well, it felt as if I were entering heaven.
My feelings did not compare to those of Sister Carolina, however, who disintegrated in tears as the Holy Father took her hand and lifted her from her knees.
Holmes, on the other hand, was formal, bowing firmly as he was presented. He murmured a low apology for allowing the would-be assassin to escape and failing to anticipate the rifling of the museum. The pope dismissed all of this with a shake of his head. Congratulating Holmes on foiling the assassination attempt, he raised his hand to bless my friend and placed a small box in his hand. Holmes trembled slightly, but was his unyielding self again in an instant as he backed correctly away from this august personage.
Afterwards, Sprüngli kindly led us on a visit to the Vatican museum. Resplendent in their Renaissance dress of gold and purple, the Swiss Guards were everywhere, saluting Sprüngli as he passed.
“We take more care now. Guards must watch, watch. Was eine Schande,” he muttered.
“’What a shame,’” Holmes whispered in my ear, and it was not just a translation.
I prevailed on him to open the box the pope had given him, in which lay a medal, an eight-pointed ivory cross with golden sunbursts between the arms. At the apex of the cross was carved a cavalier’s tiny spur, its rowel etched with dozens of delicate barbs.
A gasp came from Sister Carolina. “Why, it’s lovely. What is it?”
I explained, “It’s the Order of the Golden Spur, an award for meritorious service to the Church.” I did not go on to say that it was one of the most common of Catholic medals, handed out by the bushel to just about anyone who had money or influential friends. Holmes apparently knew this as well, for he sniffed and pocketed it without comment.
At length we came upon the scene of the robbery. Guards stood at attention round a massive glass case with its lid lying open. Among a lovely set of cameos, there were empty spaces with handwritten labels now attached to nothing but torn threads. A tonsured librarian was bending over the case and taking notes.
“A tremendous failure,” Holmes said, mostly to himself. I could tell he was in acute distress.
The librarian looked up and, to our surprise, replied in English with a Yorkshire tinge. “Indeed. It all happened yesterday. The guards in this room were distracted by a noise of gunfire and ran to the garden. When they returned, this case had been rifled. The guards have been severely disciplined.”
“You’re English?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, excuse me. I am Dom Beazley. I came here a number of years ago from Ampleforth Abbey to assist the Vatican librarian.”
We introduced ourselves. “What has happened here?” Holmes spoke up. The Dom looked at Sprüngli, who nodded his assent.
“This case contained a number of priceless antique cameos, including a magnificent onyx depicting Bacchus and Ariadne, as well as the famous Gonzaga Cameo portraying the Pharaoh Ptolemy from the fourth century before Christ. It is a profound loss,” the Dom shook his head sorrowfully and went back to his notes.
“I’ve been blind,” Holmes said as we walked away. “In my anxiety to oblige the pope, I completely overlooked the likelihood that our friend from Piccadilly would have more than one aim in mind.”
“How could he have anticipated that the guards would leave their posts in that way?” I asked. “Surely it was some opportunist taking advantage of their absence.”
“No, no. Only the most valuable cameos were taken, which indicates premeditation by an art expert. And our diminutive London friend is nothing if not an expert.”
“You mean the short man who spoke to Sprüngli …?” Now I understood.
Holmes was vehement. “He counted on me to produce the distraction. He foresaw my every move, calculated that the assassination attempt would draw the guards away, and that under cover of the chaos he could lever that case open and come away unnoticed with some of the incomparable treasures of the Vatican.” Holmes was actually grating his teeth. “I am a pastime for him, a diversion—a sport!” He smacked his cane against the marble floor and strode away smarting.
We lunched at a small outdoor trattoria near the Tiber. Mounds of pasta with cheese and huge bowls of ripe apricots and peaches lifted my spirits, although Holmes remained in a funk. Sister Carolina still radiated from her encounter with the pope and had little appetite. I made up for both of them. Smoking like a locomotive, Holmes touched only his cup of the foaming Vesuvian coffee I had learned to love in Rome. It was so much more substantial than the warmish bilge I had become used to in America.
“Man shall not live on tobacco and coffee alone,” I admonished him, picking up a copy of the Vatican newspaper. I had enough Latin to read it quite easily and ran across an item that made me laugh out loud.
“Listen to this, Holmes. Ab heri et a voce magna in hortis Vaticanis … Oh, I’m sorry.” My two companions were staring at me uncomprehendingly. Sister knew only the Latin of prayer. Holmes had picked up some of six living languages in his youthful travels round Europe with his parents, but, like Shakespeare, “small Latin and less Greek.” Latin had been obligatory at our school, which is why Holmes never learned it.
“Allow me to translate.” I read: “‘Yesterday a loud noise of gunfire was heard from the Vatican gardens at about 10 o’clock in the morning. It caused considerable alarm throughout the City, until it was explained that a groundskeeper had used a shotgun to frighten away birds that were eating the grapes in the vineyard.’ What a splendid joke. I shall never believe a newspaper again.”
“They are rarely to be trusted,” Holmes said absently, as if talking to himself. “The Shamrock is surely in international waters by now. The assassin Stepnyak has disappeared behind the great forest wall of Russia, a world of its own. We shall not see him again. E
veryone has escaped my grasp.” Then he shook his head as if to clear it and looked intently at Sister Carolina: “But now we turn to the problem of your three honorable men whose murder we must solve.”
Sister Carolina came out of her reverie. “Murder? Then you believe the Tarleton brothers were murdered after all? Not just casualties of war?”
“I do indeed, Sister. It was cold, deliberate murder. That is beyond question. I am even fairly sure I know who did it. The next question for us now is, how and why was it done? Sister Carolina, my interest in your problem is more than eager—I must pursue it if I have to go to the ends of the earth.”
“But you were so dismissive before …”
“Yes, before. But now … now a light has begun to shine in the darkness. Perhaps it is the holy influence of our morning’s encounter with the Vicar of Christ, but I begin to see the remotest chance that we might solve more than one problem by pursuing this case. I hope that you will permit me to do so, both of you—and that you will accompany me.”
“Gladly,” I said, and the Sister echoed me. Her feelings toward Holmes had relaxed somewhat as she watched the Supreme Pontiff paying honor to him.
“I must warn you,” Holmes said after a moment’s hesitation. “This is a dark business. The point of light I see in the distance may turn out to be a furious fire that could consume us all. You must know that we are entering a zone of danger, and I cannot guarantee the result will be a favorable one.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Sister replied soberly, “I am about to leave this world behind. Before I do, I will see justice done. If I leave the world one way or another, it makes little difference to me.”
“In this case, and after so long a time, justice is lame, and she must lean on me.” Holmes stood after downing his coffee. “Now we must be off. I hope you will not mind cutting your Roman pilgrimage short … .”
“Back to America,” I sighed, dreading just a bit crossing the ocean once again.
“No. At least not yet. For now, we re-direct our pilgrimage to London.”
Chapter 6
It was no easy task to get passage, as the trains were crowded with tourists on their way to the world’s fair in Paris, but Sergeant Sprüngli used his most officious manner to obtain places in a compartment for us. He was nearly in tears when it came time for us to say goodbye, and he waved at us from the platform until we lost sight of him.
The other passengers in the compartment were also English—Colonel Wurmston, an intolerably loud old gentleman in an old frock coat, old medals, and thick old whiskers, and his wife, brave in baubles, whose scorn for Catholics was demonstrated by her cold silence toward us. She made a show of sweeping her monumental dress out of the way to accommodate Sister Carolina and then turned her face from her for the rest of the day.
Her husband complained endlessly about Rome. “Never beheld such folly in me life … The Corso is impossible for quiet respectable people … silly Italians so given up to pleasures … a great annoyance, a very great annoyance … I ask you, where are the authorities?”
Desperate to change the subject, I said, “So you must be looking forward to Paris.”
Then came a volley of attacks on the French.
At that point, a smart blonde woman in an amazingly tight-waisted dress looked through the window and swept the door open. “Is this place free?” she asked, her hand out to the seat next to mine.
“It is,” I replied, and she fluidly made herself at home. A golden slide chain and locket gleamed on her breast. Her striking frock, sans bustle and crinoline, was light against her body and cut a bit too low for the time of day. It contrasted pleasantly with the bed furnishings that enveloped the Colonel’s lady, who grunted her disapproval.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your party,” the newcomer said. “I am Mrs. Katherine Wells, on my way to London to rejoin my husband.” Holmes, who had been napping in the corner with his pipe, gave her a brief diagnostic look with one eye.
I was about to introduce ourselves and explain that we too were on our way to London when Holmes started from sleep and threw hot ash from his pipe over my knees. “I’m so sorry, my dear Padre,” he cried, flicking the ash off of my trousers with his handkerchief. “How clumsy of me!” I glared at him in surprise.
“Excuse me, dear lady,” he now said to Mrs. Wells. “I am Captain Basil, accompanying my cousin and his sister to the Paris Exposition. I wonder if you have seen it. It is said to be a spectacle unequaled.”
“I have seen it, and you are right. It is unequaled. You shall enjoy it, I’m sure.”
“Your husband must be in shipping, as you are from Liverpool, I take it?”
Mrs. Wells smiled. “My speech gives me away, doesn’t it? The lilt of Merseyside? I am originally from Liverpool, although I have lived for some years in Paris and London. But no, Mr. Wells is an independent gentleman.”
“An American, I presume.”
This time, the lady looked just a bit startled. “Why yes, from New York. How did you know?”
“Your necklace. It is Tiffany and Company, isn’t it? The famous New York jeweler?”
“You have a keen eye, Captain Basil.”
Colonel Wurmston then fired a broadside against America until his wife silenced him with a sharp command.
“Are you interested in jewels, Captain?” Mrs. Wells asked.
He looked out the window as the train chugged along the seashore. “An obsession of mine, Mrs. Wells. I have a particular interest in antique cameos,” he said, turning back to face her.
“And what brought you to Rome?” Her question was almost bland.
“Every Catholic longs to see Rome before he dies, isn’t that so, Padre?” Holmes addressed me.
“Yes, of course,” I nodded, bewildered at Holmes’s stream of lies.
Mrs. Wells gave me a terse smile, then looked past me at Holmes. “I thought that old saying referred to Naples.”
“’See Naples and die.’ They do say that. In our case, we were able to see Rome without dying. Perhaps we shall see Naples someday. But not on this journey.”
Gesturing at my pocket watch, Mrs. Wells consulted me for the time and then announced she was going for tea. As quickly as she came, she was gone.
“Saucy parvenue,” sniffed Mrs. Colonel Wurmston. “Flitting from one compartment to another, showing herself to men and talking of jewelry.” She held her hand over her voluminous necklaces. “She’s probably a jewel thief herself.”
Holmes said, “If she is, you’ll attract none of her interest. Your ornaments are all paste, Madam.”
“Paste! You dare … you … he’s insulted me!” she babbled at her husband.
“Scoundrel!” the Colonel shouted. “You impertinent … I’ll meet you outside!”
“You won’t. You know as well as I that your wife is not worth a box. She has nearly bankrupted you. Look at your boots. And your tweeds are disintegrating while she luxuriates in yards of silk. You will not fight for this elderly social-climbing bigot who deigns to cut my cousins dead—fine religious folk who have dedicated their lives to the service of God.”
“I will not stand for this. I am a gentleman. I hold the Queen’s commission!” Wurmston growled.
“Which you purchased, and then sat drinking port behind the Crimean lines while thousands of infantrymen shed their blood and lost life and limb. You flaunt your Crimea medal on your lapel as a symbol of your armchair courage, but like so many amateur officers in that disastrous war you are a contemptible old coward.” Holmes’s voice was cold and calm.
“You will not fight? You are the coward!”
Holmes chuckled. “No, I will not fight you. But the Padre here … well, you have no doubt heard that Catholic priests are often superb boxers.”
I choked with surprise, then smiled apologetically.
The Colonel winced. “Your betters shall
hear of this!”
“Sir, my betters do not jockey for spaces in a second-class railroad car.”
The wife glared at Holmes as if she would spit at him. At last she hissed, “Papists!”
Holmes threw his head back and laughed.
The Wurmstons rose and blustered out of the compartment. “We will hear no more! Swine!”
Ruefully, I said, “Holmes, you’ve wounded them.”
“’The wound is the place light enters you,’ says the great poet of Persia. Perhaps they will begin to see themselves more clearly for what they are, and be the better for it.”
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully. Holmes and I dozed while Sister, as patient and untiring as the spinner of destiny, wove another rosary in the darkness.
Many hours later we descended at Paris. Holmes hurried us across the capital to catch the Paris-Calais express. I couldn’t help but notice the many Parisian woman in the station wearing natural frocks like the one Mrs. Wells wore. Whatever else she was, her sense of fashion was très au courant.
Arriving at the train early, we came across a compartment with only one passenger, a woman in rusty brocade with a scarf flaring like a sunset round her neck. She nodded smartly at us as we entered and continued reading her newspaper, Le Figaro.
“A compatriot of yours, I’d say, Sister Carolina,” Holmes smiled at the lady as he sat down.
The passenger glanced up at Holmes. “Do you refer to me, sir?” she said, with an unmistakable American accent.
“Pardon me, ma’am, but it is a little hobby of mine to guess at the provenance of strangers.”
“Oh?” she replied, intrigued, “What do you make of my ‘provenance,’ as you put it?”
“You are an American lady who has lived in France for some time, unmarried, a professional painter in pastels and oils. Your work has recently been rejected because it is deemed to be unconventional, but you have not lost confidence in your artistic philosophy. Although you belong to a family of some means, you are determined to live from the proceeds of your paintings.”
The Tarleton Murders Page 4