The alarums that followed this announcement were extraordinary. The popular press demanded to know whether this meant the papal nuncio was murdered. More important, both Tory and Liberal newspapers were demanding a statement from government on whether the nuncio had been an intermediary in some political deal being negotiated with Ireland’s Catholics.
What was Cardinal Tosca doing in the house of the Conservative government Minister Sir Gibson Glassford? More speculation was thrown on the fire of rumor and scandal when it was revealed that Glassford was a cousin, albeit distant, of the Earl of Zetland, the Viceroy in Dublin. Moreover, Glassford was known to represent the moderate wing of the Tories and not unsympathetic to the cause of Irish Home Rule.
Was there some Tory plot to give the Irish self-government in spite of all their assurances of support for the Unionists? All the Tory leaders, Lord Salisbury, Arthur Balfour, Lord Hartington, and Joseph Chamberlain among them, had sworn themselves to the Union and made many visits to Ireland declaring that Union would never be severed. Yet here was a cardinal found dead in the house of a Tory minister known to have connections with Ireland. It came as a tremendous shock to the political world.
Catholic bishops in England denied any knowledge of Cardinal Tosca being in the country. The Vatican responded by telegraph also denying that they knew that Cardinal Tosca was in England. Such denials merely fueled more speculation of clandestine negotiations.
As for Sir Gibson Glassford himself-what had he to say to all this? Well this was the truly amusing and bizarre part of the story.
Glassford denied all knowledge of the presence of Cardinal Tosca in his house. Not only the press but also the police found this hard to believe.
In fact, the Liberal press greeted the minister’s statement with derision, and editorials claimed that the government was covering up some dark secret. There were calls for Glassford to resign immediately. Lord Salisbury began to distance himself from his junior minister.
Glassford stated that he and his household had retired to bed at their usual hour in the evening. The household consisted of Glassford himself, his wife, two young children, a nanny, a butler called Hogan, a cook, and two housemaids. They all swore that there had been no guests staying in the house that night and certainly not His Eminence.
In the morning, one of the housemaids, descending from her room in the attic, noticed the door of the guest’s room ajar and the glow of a lamp still burning. An attention to her duties prompted her to enter to extinguish the light, and then she saw Cardinal Tosca. His clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, his boots placed carefully under the dressing table chair. He lay in the bed clad in his nightshirt. His face was pale and his eyes wide open.
The maid was about to apologize and leave the room, thinking this was a guest whose late arrival was unknown to her, when she perceived the unnatural stillness of the body and the glazed stare of the eyes. She turned from the room and raised the butler, Hogan, who, ascertaining the man was dead, informed his master, after which the police were called.
It was not long before the clothing and a pocketbook led to the identification of His Eminence.
The household was questioned strenuously, but no one admitted ever seeing Cardinal Tosca on the previous night or on any other night; no one had admitted him into the house. Glassford was adamant that he and his wife had never met the cardinal, or even heard of him, let alone extended an invitation to him to be entertained as a guest in their house.
Inquiries into the Catholic community in London discovered that Cardinal Tosca had arrived in the city incognito two days before and was staying with Father Michael, one of the priests at St. Patrick’s Church in Soho Square. This was the first public Catholic Church to be opened in England since the Reformation. It had been consecrated in 1792. But Father Michael maintained that he did not know the purpose of Cardinal Tosca’s visit. The Cardinal had simply told him that he had arrived from Paris by the boat train at Victoria and intended to spend two days in important meetings. He exhorted Father Michael not to mention his presence to anyone, not even to his own bishop.
Now, and this was the point that troubled the police the most, according to Father Michael, the cardinal had retired to his room in the presbytery, that is the priest’s house, in Sutton Street, Soho, at ten o’clock in the evening. Father Michael had looked in on His Eminence because the cardinal had left his missal in the library and the priest thought he might like to have it before retiring. So he saw the cardinal in bed in his night attire and he was looking well and fit. At seven o’clock the next morning, Cardinal Tosca was found dead by the housemaid a mile and a half away in Sir Gibson Glassford’s house in Gayfere Street, Westminster.
The press redoubled their calk for Glassford to resign, and the Liberal press started to call on Lord Salisbury’s entire government to offer their resignation. Riots had burst out in Belfast instigated by Unionists, and various factions of the Orange Order, the sectarian Unionist movement, were on the march, and the thundering of their intimidating lambeg drums was resounding through the streets of the Catholic ghettoes.
The police confessed that they had no clue at all. They did, however, treat the butler, poor Hogan, to a very vigorous scrutiny and interrogation, and it was discovered that he had some tenuous links to the Irish Party, having some cousin in membership of the party. Glassford, a man of principle, felt he should stand by his butler and so added to the fuel of speculation.
The police admitted that they were unsure of how the cardinal came by his death, let alone why, and were unable to charge anyone with having a hand in it.
Because of the suspicion of an Irish connection, which was mere prejudice on the part of the authorities due to the Catholic connection, the case was handed over to the Special Irish Branch, which is now more popularly referred to as the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. The Police Commissioner James Monro had formed this ten years before to fight the Irish Republican terrorism. The head of the Special Branch was Chief Inspector John G. Littlechild. And it was through the private reports of Detective Inspector Gallagher that I was able to observe, in some comfort, the events that now unfolded.
It was some seven days after the revelation of Cardinal Tosca’s death that Chief Inspector Littlechild received a visit from Mycroft Holmes. This was a singular event, as Mycroft Holmes, being a senior government official in Whitehall, was not given to making calls on his juniors. With Mycroft Holmes came his insufferable younger brother, Sherlock. My friend Gallagher, who had the information as to what had transpired directly from Littlechild himself told me about this meeting. Littlechild had been handed an embossed envelope bearing a crest. No word was said. He opened it and found a letter entirely in Latin, a language of which he had no knowledge. It showed the arrogance of the Holmes Brothers that they did not offer a translation until the Chief Inspector made the request for one.
It was a letter from none other than Gioacchino Pecci, who for thirteen years had sat on the papal throne in Rome as Leo XIII. The letter requested that the police allow Sherlock Holmes to investigate the circumstances of the death of the papal nuncio and provide whatever support was required. Mycroft Holmes added that the prime minister had himself sanctioned the request, presenting a note from Lord Salisbury to that effect.
I was told that Littlechild had an intense dislike of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had not endeared himself to Littlechild, because he had often insulted some of Scotland Yard’s best men-Inspector Lestrade, for example. Inspector Tobias Gregson and Inspector Stanley Hopkins had also been held up to public ridicule by Holmes’s caustic tongue. But what could Littlechild do in such circumstances but accept Holmes’s involvement with as good a grace as he could muster?
Holmes and his insufferable and bumbling companion, Watson, were to have carte blanche to question Sir Gibson Glassford’s household and make any other inquiries he liked. Littlechild had thankfully made one condition, which was to come in handy for me. Detective Inspector Gallagher was to accomp
any Holmes at all times so that the matter would remain an official Scotland Yard inquiry. Thus it was that I was kept in touch with everything that the so-called Great Detective was doing while he was entirely unaware of my part in the game.
This is the part of the story that my friend Gallagher narrated to me.
The first thing that Holmes informed Gallagher of was that he had telegraphed Cardinal Tosca’s secretary in Paris. The secretary confirmed that Cardinal Tosca had caught the boat train to London, promising to return within forty-eight hours. The journey had been prompted by the arrival of a stranger at Cardinal Tosca’s residence in Paris late one night. The secretary had the impression that the visitor was an American by the way he spoke English with an accent. When asked his business, the man presented a small pasteboard that had a name and a symbol on it. The secretary could not remember the name but was sure that the device was harp-shaped. The man spent a few minutes with the cardinal, and the next morning the cardinal caught the boat train. Moreover, the cardinal insisted on traveling alone, which was highly unusual.
Inspector Gallagher pointed out that had Holmes consulted him, he would have been informed that this information was already in police hands, having consulted the cardinals secretary. Holmes was too conceited to be abashed by the fact. He believed that nothing was achieved unless he personally achieved it.
Gallagher accompanied Holmes and Watson in a hansom cab to their first port of call: the local mortuary where the body of the cardinal was being preserved, much to the outcry of the Catholic Church, who felt it scandalous that His Eminence was thus prevented a lying in state and burial according to their practices.
Holmes insisted that he and Watson should examine the body, and this was done, after much argument, in the company of the original examining doctor, Thomson, and the coroner, with Gallagher looking on without enthusiasm. In fact, Gallagher found Holmes’s involvement quite objectionable. He seemed to claim authority over the medical experts and leaned over the corpse, using a large magnifying glass as he examined it.
He suddenly let out a hiss of breath and turned to his companions. “Do you not remark on the slight bruising on this neck vein,” he remarked, pointing dramatically, like one who has discovered something unique.
“I did so remark on it, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Thomson replied patiently. The coroner was clearly displeased.
“If you will read my report, that matter was made clear…,” he began, but Holmes actually waved him into silence.
“But what of the puncture wound which is discernible under my glass. What of that, sir?” he demanded of the doctor.
“I found it irrelevant,” replied Thomson. “A bite of some sort, that is all.”
Holmes turned to his crony, the sycophantic Watson. “Watson, please observe this mark and bear in mind that I have brought it to the attention of these… gentlemen.”
Gallagher thought that he was being quite insulting, and so did Dr. Thomson and the coroner, who waited with unconcealed impatience for Holmes to complete his study.
Finally, Holmes turned to Gallagher and demanded to see the clothes that had been found with His Eminence’s body.
“Is there any question that these clothes found by the body belong to the cardinal?” he asked as the parcel was handed to him.
“None whatsoever,” he was assured. “Father Michael himself examined and identified them.”
The cardinal’s pocketbook, rosary, and pocket missal were all contained in the package.
“I presume that none of this material has been removed or tampered with?” queried Holmes.
Gallagher flushed with mortification. “Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes, is not in the habit of removing or altering evidence, as you well know.”
Holmes seemed oblivious of his insults, and he searched through the pocket book, which contained some banknotes in both French and English currencies and little else apart from two pasteboard visiting cards. They bore the name “T W. Tone” on them and a little harp device surmounted by a crown. Holmes showed them to Watson and said quietly, “Note these well, Watson, old friend.” It was as if Gallagher was not supposed to hear, but he did so and duly reported the fact to me.
Holmes then frowned and peered closely at the bundle of clothes.
“Wasn’t the cardinal supposed to be wearing a nightshirt? Pray, where is that?”
“It was wrapped separately from the other clothing,” Gallagher assured him, producing it. “As this was what the body was clad in, it was considered that it should be kept separate in case it provided any clues.”
The insufferable Holmes took out the nightshirt and started to examine it. A curious expression crossed his features as he sniffed at it. Turning, he picked up the other clothing and sniffed at that. He spent so long smelling each item alternatively that Gallagher thought him mad.
“Where have these been stored during these last several days?”
“They have been placed in sacking and stored in a cupboard here in case they were needed as evidence.”
“In a damp cupboard?”
“Of course not. They have been kept in a dry place.”
Half an hour later saw them at Father Michael’s presbytery, where His Eminence had last been seen alive. He treated the poor priest in the same brusque manner as he had the doctor and coroner. His opening remarks were, apparently, exceedingly offensive.
“Did the cardinal take narcotics, according to your knowledge?” he demanded.
Father Michael looked astounded, so shocked that he could say nothing for a moment and then, having regained control of his sensibilities, after Holmes’s brutal affront, shook his head.
“He was not in the habit of using a needle to inject himself with any noxious substance?” Holmes went on, oblivious of the outrage he had caused.
“He was not-”
“-to your knowledge?” Holmes smiled insultingly. “Did the cardinal receive any letters or messages while he was here?”
Father Michael admitted no knowledge on the matter, but, at Holmes’s insistence, he summoned the housekeeper. She recalled that a man had presented himself at the door of the presbytery demanding to see His Eminence. Furthermore, the housekeeper said the man was well muffled, with hat pulled down and coat collar pulled up, thus presenting no possibility of identification. She did remember that he had spoken with an Irish accent. He had presented a card with a name on it. The housekeeper could not remember the name but recalled that the card had a small device embossed on it, which she thought was a harp.
Gallagher could not forbear to point out that Scotland Yard had asked these questions prior to Holmes’s involvement.
“Except the question of narcotics,” replied Holmes, a patronizing expression on his face.
Holmes then demanded to see the bedroom where Father Michael had bade good night to His Eminence. He carefully examined it.
“I perceive this room is on the third floor of the house. That is irritating in the extreme.”
Father Michael, Gallagher, and even Watson exchanged a puzzled glance with one another as Holmes went darting around the bedroom. In particular, he went through Cardinal Tosca’s remaining clothing, sniffing at it like some dog trying to find a scent.
Holmes then spent a good half an hour examining the presbytery from the outside, much to the irritation of Gallagher and the bemusement of Watson.
From Soho they took a hansom cab to Sir Gibson Glassford’s house in Gayfere Street. Glassford was apparently close to tears when he greeted them in his study.
“My dear Holmes,” he said, holding the Great Detective’s hand as if he were afraid to let go of it. “Holmes, you must help me. No one will believe me; even my wife now thinks that I am not telling her all I know. Truly, Holmes, I never saw this prelate until Hogan showed me the dead body in the room. What does it mean, Holmes? What does it mean? I would resign my office, if that would do any good, but I fear it would not. How can this strange mystery be resolved?”
Holmes extracted his h
and with studied care and removed himself to the far side of the room. “Patience, Minister. Patience. I can proceed only when I have facts. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. True, the circumstances of this matter are strange, but they only retain their mystery until the facts are explained. Watson, you know my methods. The grand thing is to be able to reason backward.”
Watson nodded, as if he understood, but he looked unhappy. Inspector Gallagher was pretty certain that the bumbling doctor had not a clue of what the arrogant man was saying. Glassford looked equally bewildered and had the courage to say so.
“Facts, my dear sir!” snapped Holmes. “I have no facts yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has facts. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
He made Glassford, his wife, and all the servants go through the evidence they had already given to the police and then demanded to see the bedchamber in which His Eminence had been found.
“I observe this bedroom is on the fourth floor of your house. How tiresome!”
Once again, he wandered around the bedroom, paying particular attention to the carpeting, exclaiming once or twice as he did so.
“Seven days. I suppose it would have been an impossibility to think anything would have remained undisturbed.”
The note of accusation caused Detective Inspector Gallagher to flush in annoyance. “We did our best to secure the evidence, Mr. Holmes,” he began.
“And your best was to destroy whatever evidence there was,” snapped Holmes conceitedly.
He then led the way outside the house and stood peering around as if searching for something. But he seemed to give up with a shake of his head. He was turning away when his eyes alighted on two men on the opposite side of the road who were peering down an open manhole. From the steps of the house, an elderly woman, clutching a Pekingese dog in her arms, was observing their toil, or rather lack of it, with disapproval.
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 25