The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Deathly Relics E-Book

Sam Siciliano

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 378

Beschreibung

An atmospheric, intricately plotted new mystery in which Sherlock Holmes and Henry Vernier race to catch a villainous murderer at large in the Vatican and Rome.While Sherlock Holmes and his cousin, Henry Vernier, are in Rome on a diplomatic mission involving the Vatican, the Pope asks the world's greatest detective to help find a stolen relic: the missing forefinger of "doubting" Saint Thomas.When the relic is quickly and mysteriously returned, all seems to be resolved. But events are turned upside down when the relic disappears again.With fresh blood spilled, Holmes and Vernier must follow the trail of a sacrilegious murderer through the streest of Rome, the halls of the Vatican, and beyond.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available now from Titan Books The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE DEVIL’S PROMISE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE’S CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY

Carole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR

Sam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH

David Stuart Davies

THE MARTIAN MENACE

Eric Brown

THE VENERABLE TIGER

Sam Siciliano

THE CRUSADER’S CURSE

Stuart Douglas

THE GREAT WAR

Simon Guerrier

REVENGE FROM THE GRAVE

David Stuart Davies

LEAVE US A REVIEW

We hope you enjoy this book – if you did we would really appreciate it if you can write a short review. Your ratings really make a difference for the authors, helping the books you love reach more people.

You can rate this book, or leave a short review here:

Amazon.com,

Amazon.co.uk,

Goodreads,

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

DEATHLY RELICS

Print edition ISBN: 9781803361840

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361857

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: January 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Sam Siciliano 2023. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To L. Frank Baum, Walter R. Brooks, Robert Heinlein, Edgar Rice Burroughs and the other authors who provided me with a refuge from all the trials and tribulations of my youth.

The story in this novel takes place before that of The Devil and the Four.

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes took off his top hat, and the brilliant April sun shone down upon his long sloping forehead, his prominent nose and slicked-back black hair, glossy with pomade. He wore a fine black frock coat, a guide book forming a bulge in its side pocket, and held a silver-headed stick in his hand. The shrunken pupils of his gray-blue eyes looked thoughtfully down upon the skeletal circular ruin of the Roman Colosseum.

Formed of travertine, crumbling brick and concrete, the Colosseum was all reddish-brown and gray, mixed with the greens of moss, grasses and other plants. A sand-covered wooden floor had once formed the circular arena where the spectacles and combats took place, but it was long gone, revealing fragments of pillars and theatrical mechanisms in uneven rows. Gone too were the rows of seats, although two stories of stone with gaping black arches still formed great circles above. The highest level had partly broken off, and only about half still stood, a semicircle set against the bright blue sky, the rectangles of its vacant windows revealing that same blue sky. In the very center of the Colosseum, a glaring anachronism had been erected, a tall black cross which commemorated the Christians martyred there.

A cool breeze touched our faces; the temperature must have been in the mid-sixties. Holmes eased out his breath in a long sigh. “One cannot help but contemplate mortality and the swift passage of time in Rome. Everywhere there are reminders of the brevity of life and of empires, and none is more representative than this vast ruin.”

“Yes,” I said, “but it is not so much a monument to glory as to barbarism. Perhaps there has been a rough sort of progress, after all, in two thousand years. At least we no longer gather in great crowds to watch animals and people be ruthlessly slaughtered.”

Holmes’s narrow lips curved upward, his ironic smile rather gentle. “Bravo, Henry! You have found a silver lining to this particular cloud. Still, the weight of history is heavy here in Rome. Every street has some reminder—if not an actual Roman structure, then a newer edifice built with materials scavenged from the past.”

Scattered about the two curving circular floors of the Colosseum, I could see the tourists, men in dark suits or frock coats, all wearing hats, and women in red, green, blue, or purple, their colors vivid against the dreary ruins. Some were kneeling at the stations of the cross set up around the perimeter of the arena. “It makes you wonder what London will be like in a millennium or two,” I said. “And that in turn makes you recall London wasn’t much of a place when this grand monstrosity was constructed.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes. But regardless of what remains of London in the future, you and I will be long forgotten.”

I smiled. “Your fame as a detective is likely to outlast your lifetime.”

“Perhaps. But two thousand years?” A bark of laughter slipped from his lips. “I think not. A few decades at best.”

“I don’t know. Watson’s writings have given you a certain literary notoriety.”

“‘Literary’ is the key word there, as in ‘fictional.’ Regardless, the only fictional, or semi-historical characters who have lived on for more than two millennia are those from the epics: Aeneas, Odysseus, Achilles. I would hardly compare the feeble efforts of Watson and myself with the great heroes of the epic poets.”

I was still smiling. “I suppose not.”

Holmes put his hat back on. “I think I have had enough of the Colosseum and melancholy reflections on the transience of all things for one day. Shall we have a look at the Arch of Constantine? It stands right next door, so to speak. The Etruscans and the Romans were the first to perfect the arch. According to my guide book, that of Constantine dates from about AD 350, while the Colosseum was completed earlier, around AD 80.”

“I am ready to move on.” I glanced a last time at the ruins before us. “This would have been quite a sight in AD 80. It’s hard to imagine how it must have appeared all new and filled with thousands of shouting people.”

“All of them long dead, and most reduced to dust. Sic transit gloria mundi.”

“Tempus fugit.” I smiled. Time flies was one of the few Latin phrases I could recall.

Holmes nodded. “A pity I cannot quite quote Shelley’s poem ‘Ozymandias.’ All I recall is ‘look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’” We stared gravely at one another, and then, as if on cue, we both laughed. “Enough of this nonsensical morbidity! A quick look at the arch, and then I think it will be time to find a small trattoria and drown all such gloomy reflections in some good red wine accompanied by a plate of spaghetti.”

“Now there is something which has lasted even more than two thousand years, and undoubtedly will endure as long as humans walk the earth!”

“Spaghetti?” He spoke with mock gravity.

“No, wine! It is surely a gift of the gods!” I exclaimed.

“Bacchus, to be exact.” Holmes started for the arched entranceway which led to a stairway down to the exit.

I followed. “And soon, I hope, you will at last tell me the object of our visit, the person whom we are going to see.”

“If you wish, but would you not rather wait and be surprised at the last moment?”

“When I agreed to accompany you to Italy, you swore that this would be a minor diplomatic mission and that, unlike nearly all of our other trips, dead bodies would not begin to pile up.”

“Have a guess,” he said.

We had reached the shadowy interior which was much cooler. “Well, if it’s diplomatic, the British ambassador to the Italian state would be the obvious suspect.”

“Obvious, but wrong.”

“Perhaps someone not British, but rather, a representative of the Italian government, possibly the prime minister.”

“You are on the right track, but higher still.”

I was frowning. “You can’t mean King Umberto himself?”

“Warmer still, but a potentate of a different sort, one with a more universal realm.”

My lips parted in both surprise and dismay. I seized his arm and stared at him. “You cannot mean…?”

The corners of his lips rose in a quicksilver smile.

* * *

Two Swiss Guards in their outlandish, archaic regalia—baggy pantaloons and tight jackets with broad stripes of yellow and blue, silver cuirasses and helmets topped with scarlet plumes—led us through a labyrinth of marble corridors with high ceilings and colorful paintings of cherubs and saints. Finally, they stopped before two towering doors with an elaborate bas-relief pattern carved into the oak. One of them rapped lightly, and a moment later the door swung inward.

A short, stout man stood before us. His black soutane had purple trim, and the sash about his waist was also purple, marking him as a monsignor in the Catholic Church. He had a round face and thick spectacles which slightly shrank his dark brown eyes. “Entrate, signori.” We went through the doorway, and the two guards followed us.

The room had a high ceiling with more celestial beings painted there, towering windows along one wall which let in the bright sunlight, and many tall bookshelves lined with fat tomes. At the end of the room near a desk stood a small slight man dressed all in white: white cassock with a row of tiny white buttons, white skull cap—orzucchetto, as it was called in Italian—and a white sash round his waist, the band cincture with golden fringe at the hanging bottom. The toes of the red slippers that peeped out from under the white skirts of the soutane provided a jarring contrast. A jeweled pectoral cross on its chain hung almost to his waist. He raised his two hands with fingers open by way of greeting and smiled at us.

Holmes strode boldly forward, paused to bow, and then shook the man’s hand. “Santo Padre, è un grande onore. Mi chiamo Sherlock Holmes, e questo è il mio cugino ed amico, Dottore Henry Vernier.”

The pope gave me a curious look. “Vernier e non Watson?” Italians rarely use the consonant w, and when they do, it is generally pronounced as an English v, so he said “Vatson.”

“Vernier,” I said firmly, and then I also bowed. We had discussed beforehand whether I should kiss the ring. Holmes was not Catholic, so he needn’t, but I had been baptized and confirmed in the Church. However, I had long since stopped attending Mass regularly and no longer thought of myself as much of a Catholic, so I had decided I would follow Holmes’s lead. Thus, I also shook the pope’s hand. Both Holmes and I towered over him; he must have been only three or four inches over five feet.

“Anche un grande onore per me, Santo Padre,” I said.

“Benvenuto, gentiluomini. Prefereste parlare in italiano o francese? Sfortunamente non parlo inglese.” He gave us the choice of Italian or French since he didn’t speak English.

Holmes spoke Italian fairly well, I, less so, but Holmes’s French was excellent. As for me, having been raised in France by an English mother and a French father, both English and French were my mother tongues.

“Francese, per favore,” Holmes said.

The pope nodded. “Comme vous voulez.” The conversation which followed was all in French, and we soon discovered that the pontiff spoke the language almost like a native Parisian. He gestured toward the priest who had followed us in. “This is my secretary, Monsignor Arnone.” Holmes and I also shook hands with him. “And now, I believe you have something for me, Mr. Holmes.”

“I do indeed—for you, and you alone.”

Holmes withdrew a large bluish envelope from his inside coat pocket and handed it over. On it was the circle of a red wax seal. The pope broke the seal, set the envelope on the desk, and unfolded the contents. He put on some spectacles, read briefly, noted the signature at the end, then gave the papers to the monsignor, who put them back in their envelope. The pope set down his spectacles of thin gold wire with their thick lenses. He gave Holmes an appreciative nod.

“You have saved both your government and the Holy See a great deal of embarrassment in recovering this document. You have my thanks.”

Holmes bowed slightly. “It was an honor to be able to assist both you and her majesty.”

The pope smiled faintly. The former Cardinal Vincenzo Pecci of Perugia had become Pope Leo XIII in 1878 at the age of sixty-seven, so that put him in his early eighties. Still, he seemed quite spry, almost gnomish even, if a trifle bent at the waist. On either side of the zucchetto, thick white hair swept back hid the tops of his long ears. His wide mouth, lips thin with age, was perpendicular to a long, slender, prominent nose. His piercing dark brown eyes provided striking contrast, and the few dark hairs in his eyebrows were a reminder of hair that must have once been black.

“I may wish to send something back to England with you, Monsieur Holmes. Where in Rome are you staying, should we need to contact you?”

“I am at the Hotel Eden near the Villa Borghese gardens.”

“Ah, an establishment of high repute.” He sat down in a massive throne-like chair near the desk, then gestured toward us. His fingers were elegant and graceful. “Seat yourselves, messieurs. I wish to speak with you briefly.” It had more the tone of a command than a request. He nodded toward Arnone and the two tall guardsmen behind us. “Leave us.” They trooped out even as Holmes and I sat in two more modest chairs near the dais.

A certain hesitancy showed in the pontiff’s dark eyes. “Have you worked in Rome in the past, Monsieur Holmes?”

“I have, Saint Père. Certain cases have brought me here before.”

“And have you any contacts in the Roman police?”

Holmes eyed him cautiously. “A few.”

The pope’s lips pursed briefly. “Your reputation is not unknown to me. Monsignor Arnone also told me something of your accomplishments. Le Avventure di Sherlock Holmes was recently published in Italy.”

Holmes eased out a slow sigh. “I hope he didn’t believe everything in the book. It is a work of fiction over which I have no control.”

“Even so… youare the world’s foremost consulting detective.” He used the words détective conseil, a rather literal translation.

Holmes’s lips curved upward slightly; he was not immune to a certain vanity. “Perhaps.”

The pope raised his hand to touch the knuckles of his right hand lightly to his lips, then lowered it. “And you frequently find lost things—things like that document which you brought me?”

“Yes.”

“Something has gone missing, something of inestimable value.” He sank back into his chair. “As you may know, relations are strained between the Italian state and the Holy See. Ever since 1870 when the Italian soldiers marched in and took over Rome, the Holy Father has been, so to speak, a prisoner here. Since that date, neither my predecessor Pius nor I have left the shelter of the Vatican, and we have made our displeasure at the theft of our lands and properties known to the government and to the Italian people.” His voice had become quite stern.

Holmes nodded. “So I have heard.”

“All the same, since so many of our churches, convents and shrines remain in Rome, we must often work with the Roman police, especially when it comes to criminal matters. In this case, we contacted them immediately, but they have been of no help. Regrettably, too, our loss was reported in the newspapers.”

Holmes’s eyes were curious. “What is missing?”

The pope inhaled slowly through his nostrils, lips tightly compressed. “The forefinger of Saint Thomas.”

Holmes’s eyes widened, even as one corner of his mouth rose in what was obviously the beginning of a smile. He struggled for control even as his eyes shifted briefly to mine. I was equally puzzled. It must be a joke—but it could not be! Surely the supreme pontiff would not jest about such a thing.

Holmes managed to look grave. “The finger of Saint Thomas. How exactly…?”

“It is one of the most precious of all relics, the small bone from the tip of the blessed apostle’s finger. You are not a Catholic, Monsieur Holmes, but surely you must know the story of Saint Thomas from the Gospel?”

“Certainly—‘doubting Thomas.’ The other Apostles told him that the risen Christ had appeared while he was absent, but he would not believe them. Not until I can put my finger in his wounds and feel them myself, he said. And when Christ next appeared, he had Thomas touch his wounds. Thomas did so and said, ‘My Lord and my God.’ And Jesus said, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.’”

The pope was clearly relieved that even members of the Protestant opposition knew something of scripture. “Exactly so. And the very finger with which Thomas touched the wounds is one of Christendom’s most precious relics. It was kept along with five other relics from the crucifixion in a chapel at Santa Croce in Gerusalemme: pieces of wood from the true cross, other wood from the scourging post, a nail from the cross, two thorns from the crown of thorns, and the titulus crucis, the rectangle of wood with ‘Jesus, the Nazarene King of the Jews’ inscribed upon it. Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine, brought them to Rome from the Holy Land in the fourth century. Do either of you know the church of Santa Croce? It is not far from the main train station of Rome.”

Holmes and I both shook our heads.

“A pity. It is a beautiful church, and with its relics…”

I was frowning. “Who would have possibly stolen such a thing?”

“Certainly not a devout member of the Church,” the pope said. “He would know that this is not mere thievery, but sacrilege as well, and as such, a doubly grievous mortal sin. A true Catholic would realize he was condemning himself to Hell.”

Holmes’s forehead had creased. “I suppose there must be some market for precious relics.”

“Not among faithful Catholics.” The pope’s voice was again stern.

I knew Holmes well enough to see a faint skepticism in his gray eyes. “When did this happen?”

“Five days ago. The rector of the church, Monsignor Nardone, discovered it was missing first thing in the morning. It must have been taken overnight.”

“I assume the relics are secured?”

“They are kept in a locked case with a thick plate glass in front. There were six beautiful golden and silver reliquaries containing the sacred objects. The one with the finger was gone, even though the padlock was in place and appeared untouched. Its key was also in its usual place.”

“So, someone took Thomas’s relic, but left the other five behind?”

“Exactly so. Monsignor Nardone was alarmed, and he immediately checked the other reliquaries. They and their contents were still there.”

“How odd,” I murmured. “Was the relic of Thomas more valuable than the other ones?”

The pope stared gravely at me. “One cannot put a cost on sacred objects. They are all equally valuable—all are invaluable.”

Holmes placed the tips of his fingers briefly together. “Henry does have a point. Why would someone choose that relic over the other five? Interesting.” He nodded mechanically. Again, I knew him well enough to see that he was uneasy about something.

The pope’s dark brown eyes were piercing. “Monsieur Holmes, you are not a Catholic, so I cannot command you. All the same, I would be most grateful if you could help restore this precious object to us. Naturally, too, we would see that you are financially compensated for your efforts.”

Holmes frowned. “Money is not a consideration. In this case I might offer my services gratis, but all the same… there are other grave matters which occupy me at the present time, matters I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“Nothing can be graver than this theft. At least not to my mind.” The pope sighed softly. “But I suppose I cannot expect you to share my feelings.”

“I doubt, too, that I would be the best person to pursue the thief. Although certain intrigues have brought me to Rome, I have never actually had a case originate here. I have only a passing familiarity with the city, and then there is the language barrier. My Italian is passable, but little more.”

“That had occurred to me. There is a certain prelate that works here in the Vatican. Originally from England, he has been in Rome for thirty years. He is something of a polyglot, and speaks Italian like a native. I could assign him to you and let him assist you in your efforts.”

Holmes slowly eased out his breath. “I am grateful for the honor you do me, Saint Père. All the same, I do have other commitments at this time. I shall see if certain matters may be rescheduled, but I do not wish to encourage false hope. Most likely I shall be occupied, and I must also depart for England early next week.”

The pope shook his head. “A pity.”

I knew of no such grave matters occupying Holmes. Either he hadn’t told me, or more likely, he simply did not want to take on this particular case.

The pope grasped the ring on the finger of his right hand and began to turn it back and forth. It was made of gold, a square setting with what must be a round red ruby in its center. His eyes peered off into the distance. Despite his diminutive size, he had an overwhelming aura of command and authority. Finally, he sighed and lowered his hand.

“Regrettable. All the same, if you can reschedule your affairs, write me at once, and I shall have Monsignor Greene summoned— he is the English priest I mentioned. I would also provide you with a papal letter commanding all Catholics, laity and clergy alike, to assist you in your efforts.”

“I shall see what I can do, Saint Père.” Holmes’s tone of voice was not encouraging.

The pope nodded. “I shall hope for the best, and perhaps… Sometimes God works in mysterious ways.” He smiled faintly. “It would be curious indeed if our Lord sent a Protestant to help us find Saint Thomas’s precious relic.”

He rose, indicating our audience was finished, and Holmes and I quickly stood as well. He started for the grand baroque doors, and we followed. “I shall hope to see you again, Monsieur Holmes, but if not I must thank you once more for your help in recovering the documents. You have done the Holy See and your country a great service.”

“I am glad I could have been of help.”

We paused before the doors. “The guards will show you the way out.” The pope hesitated. “Might I give you my blessing?”

“We would be honored.” Holmes knelt, and I did the same.

The pope murmured some words in Latin, ending with “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” even as his hand made two passes through the air shaping a cross.

Holmes bowed his head, then rose. “Thank you, Saint Père.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

“You are most welcome.” His dark eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Arrivederci.”

Holmes opened the door, let me leave first, then followed. Monsignor Arnone and the two Swiss Guards were waiting. Arnone nodded at us, then went back into the room, while Holmes and I started down the vast corridor after the guards. I had the sense of being in a vast elaborate maze, everywhere decorated with ornate cornices and friezes, the walls and ceilings teeming with paintings of cherubs, angels, and saints, all adorned with golden halos.

Soon we stepped out into the bright sunshine and started for Saint Peter’s Square, where cabs would be waiting close by. Holmes had put on his top hat, and the ferrule of his stick made regular taps as it struck the strip of the pavement.

“All right,” I said, “what is the serious business that so occupies you? I thought we were to be idle tourists for a week. Michelle is coming next week, and you were to leave on Wednesday.”

Michelle, my wife, was also a physician, a very popular and busy one, but she had arranged for some holiday time with me in Rome. Sherlock would be with us briefly, and then just the two of us were to spend another week together in Italy. She had joked that she wanted Holmes to leave promptly because she, too, was worried about corpses accumulating.

Holmes smiled at me. “You do not consider my company and our visits to the sights of Rome an urgent undertaking?”

“Ah, I suspected as much. You did not want to take the case.”

“Even so, Henry.”

“And why not?”

He gave an odd sort of laugh. “Must I explain? Is it not rather obvious? Seeking out an ancient fragment of bone which almost certainly does not come from the historical Saint Thomas is hardly my line of work. Although I am no longer a frequent churchgoer and although my inclination is agnostic rather than religious, I was raised an Anglican, and as such, this Roman Catholic fascination with relics confounds me—as does their gullibility! Pieces of the true cross, thorns from the crown of thorns, bones from various apostles… Simple logic says that after nearly two thousand years, they must have crumbled to dust! Worse still is their inclination to divide the remains of the saints. As I recall, Saint Thomas’s finger is here in Rome, but the rest of him is somewhere else! And the cathedral at Siena has the distinction of having Saint Catherine’s mummified head while other pieces of her… Have you seen that head, by the way?”

“No, I have not.”

“I have—unfortunately! I found it a truly disgusting sight. The human body is a sacred object, and its remains should rest whole and undisturbed in the earth, not put on ghoulish display all encased in gold and jewels. It does verge on idolatry.”

“I absolutely agree with you. I may have been raised a Roman Catholic at my father’s insistence, but something of my mother’s Anglican mistrust remains. Then, too, ever since the Enlightenment, the French have been split between the forces of reason and skepticism, and those of the Catholic Church. In my case, that French skepticism has largely triumphed.”

“The idea of searching for some old bone which probably came from the skeleton of a poor beggar in a mass grave strikes me as absurd. Of course, I could not say that to the Holy Father, nor could I simply refuse outright.”

I laughed. “No, I suppose not. Although… surely even he cannot think that every relic on display is genuine? Someone, I believe, once made a joke about how all the fragments of the true cross would be enough to create a forest.”

We had passed through the arched north entranceway into the immense square of Saint Peter’s, the great white pillars curving around in a row on either side of us, Bernini’s sculptured figures staring down from their perches on high, the many saints set against the blue sky.

“I suppose we should be more charitable, Henry. As a practical matter, if it gives comfort to believers, it cannot be all bad.” He smiled. “Nevertheless, chasing after lost relics is hardly a fit occupation for Sherlock Holmes.”

“It is an interesting sort of mystery, though. Why would anyone steal relics? And that one in particular?”

“The first question is more easily answered than the second. There must be a lucrative black market for stolen relics. I suspect there may be some Roman Catholics who somehow convince themselves that the benefit of the relic outweighs the sinfulness of the theft. Such a person might not much concern himself with notions of sacrilege. In the past, competing monasteries, and also cities, vied over certain saintly relics and would often steal them back and forth from one another. Perhaps some devout person wants to return the finger to its original resting place.” His voice was faintly ironic.

I smiled but shook my head. “How nonsensical! Well, if you were to take the case, where on earth would you begin?”

“Isn’t that obvious? With Monsignor Nardone.”

“Do you actually think he might have done it? Isn’t that a little too obvious?”

“Yes, but it must be someone who knew where the key was kept. Nardone could tell me who else had knowledge and access to it.”

“Well, it almost certainly cannot have been a priest: he would know the gravity and the sacrilegious nature of a such a crime.”

Holmes shrugged, smiling slightly. “I doubt we shall ever know the answer.” He paused and looked around the vast square, which on a map had been revealed as more keyhole-shaped than square: a round circle, with a flared rectangle opening onto the steps up to the basilica. He raised his stick and pointed at the tall obelisk in the exact center of the circle. “It’s hard to believe that monument came from Egypt and has actually been moved two or three times. Caligula had it brought to Rome, and its last move was to that spot there in the sixteenth century when the basilica was completed. Moving it would have been quite a feat of engineering in itself.”

“Its original creators in ancient Egypt could have never imagined such a fate.”

Holmes smiled. “So, we return to the folly of empires. I wonder where it will be a thousand years from now.”

I shrugged. “The Catholic Church may not have the legions of soldiers the Romans did, but I suspect it may last for at least another millennium or two.”

“Yes, perhaps so, but you are wrong about the legions—Rome swarms with papal troops.”

“What do you mean? The Swiss Guard? There aren’t that many of them.”

“No, no, not the Swiss Guard. These warriors do not wear armor or helmets—although they have various standard headgear—and their uniforms are black, the officers with colored piping.”

I smiled. “Ah, I see: the clerics. Sometimes their uniforms are gray, though.” A tonsured friar passed us, probably a Franciscan, in a gray hooded robe and sandals, a corded rope tied round his waist.

It was late afternoon, and the bright sun bathed most of the square, one curving side in blue-gray shadow. Many well-dressed pilgrims, both men and women, were scattered about the square, taking in Bernini’s statues up on high or Saint Peter’s great facade and ornate dome. Mingled among them in more ragged clothing were beggars cadging alms, mostly children or the elderly.

There was also a throng of priests and sisters in every variety of habit. A proud monsignor strode by in full regalia: a black cassock with purplish piping and buttons, a red pompom on the oddly shaped hat, the biretta with its three blades, and a flamboyant reddish-purple cape which matched the banded sash round his waist. A flash of purple stocking showed between his black pant cuff and shoe as he walked. Two short, stout priests in black cassocks and wide-brimmed black hats were speaking Italian and eagerly waving their hands about. Some nuns had the all-white “butterfly” headwear, while others wore various black veils over white cloths which hid all their head and neck, leaving only the ovals of their faces exposed.

I shook my head. “You are right about the legions. There are even female soldiers with their own distinctive uniforms. Not even Notre-Dame de Paris had this many religious in the square before it.”

“Little wonder. Rome is far smaller than London, only four hundred thousand inhabitants, or so I believe, and even in Italy, Naples and Milan are far more populous. However, the greatest concentration of priests and nuns in the world must be here at the Church’s capital and spiritual center.” The brim of his top hat hid his eyes in shadow as he gazed slowly round about us. Finally, he shrugged. “It is curious, Henry. Theirs is a world unknown to me, a society completely apart from that which surrounds us in England. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of these devotees. That is another reason the case of the missing forefinger did not appeal to me. I cannot fathom their inner lives, their private thoughts, their motives.”

“Nor can I, exactly, and I was raised a member of the Church. I especially cannot understand…” My voice faded away.

Holmes looked at me more closely. “Cannot understand what?”

“Well, if you must know… I cannot understand celibacy.”

Holmes laughed softly.

“I wonder if…” I began. “Priests do stray, you know. There was a scandal once in our parish.”

Holmes’s smile was rather humorless. “I know something of celibacy—not so much by choice, as by… accident. All the same, even though it may be my fate to pass my life alone—”

“You will never convince me of that!” I exclaimed.

“All the same, I could never swear such an oath. Perhaps, again, it is my Anglican upbringing once more rearing its head, but it seems inhuman. To cut oneself off from love and affection, the most basic of human needs…”

I gave a fierce nod. “We agree on this.”

Holmes was staring at the two Italian priests talking. “As I said, it is all a mystery to me, although I suppose… for these priests the situation must be similar to those adolescent school days away from home when one dwells only with other boys and has all men for teachers, and the only women about are maids and the cook, and one’s mother is far, far away.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but you are right. Hopefully most men outgrow that suffocating stage and find a woman to love and cherish.”

His smile was rather forlorn. “That is indeed the hope. And that is why I could never swear a vow of perpetual chastity. But enough philosophizing! Rome, ancient and modern, does bring forth these ponderous thoughts and reflections. May the bizarre universe of Leo XIII and the papal legions remain a mystery to this particular stalwart Englishman!—and may investigating the theft of lost relics go to someone far more suitable. It is time, instead, to ponder that most delightful of questions: where shall our next Roman dinner take place and what new delights shall we sample?”

“I liked the restaurant very much where we ate last night.”

“Then return to it with Michelle, you must! But in the meantime, I demand that we keep with the holiday spirit of adventure and try someplace new!”

I smiled. “As you wish. The choice shall be yours.”

* * *

We found a small unpretentious trattoria near our hotel, and Holmes, to my horror, ordered one of their specialties, trippa alla romana, tripe Roman style. The mere sight of the dish with its chunks of honeycombed cow stomach in a spicy red sauce made my own stomach lurch. Normally I would taste almost anything, but not that particular dish. Instead, I went with the lamb shank in a tasty brown gravy. We accompanied our dish with a bottle of Apulian red wine made with the primitivo grape, and both of us were well satisfied with our choices.

Afterwards we strolled the Roman streets for a while before returning to the hotel. The man behind the desk saw us come in and raised his hand. “Signor Holmes. Is something for you.”

He handed Holmes an envelope.

“Grazie mille,” Holmes said, even as he opened the envelope.

He unfolded the letter as he stepped into the lobby and then began to read. A smile pulled at his mouth, then suddenly an explosive sound burst forth, something between a laugh and a snort. “Oh, very droll,” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is from the British ambassador to Italy, Lord William Humphrey. He and I are old acquaintances. He mentions the delicate balancing act the crown must negotiate between the Italian government and the Holy See, the necessity of trying to keep on good terms with the two antagonistic parties. He received an emissary from the pope asking if he could facilitate my assistance in the case of the missing relic of Saint Thomas.”

I gave my head a shake. “So, the Holy Father will not take no for an answer. But what is so amusing?”

“Lord William assures me that if I take it on, ‘The Case of Doubting Thomas’s Digit’ will surely become one of my most celebrated adventures.”

I smiled. “Very good! Perhaps ‘The Case of Doubting Thomas’s Disappearing Digit.’”

“Please, Henry—do not pursue this jest any further!”

“Well, what will you do? I must admit that my selfish desire to have you visit the sights of Rome with me outweighs my patriotic feelings as an Englishman.”

“I shall try to steer a middle ground. Let us go ahead tomorrow with our planned excursion to Tivoli—after all, we have our train tickets—but I shall write to the pope and tell him we shall be at the Vatican the following day at nine ready to investigate this business for a day or two. I suspect it may not really be very complicated, but unfortunately, that does not necessarily mean it will be easy to solve. Then, too, it promises to be quite… original, very different from anything I have done before. Who knows?” His smile was ironic. “Perhaps it will become one of my most celebrated adventures.”

He put one hand over his mouth, stifling a yawn. “It has been a busy day, and I am ready to turn in. We must be up early to catch our train. It will be agreeable to breathe the fresh air of the countryside and be away from Rome for a day. There is a certain gloom and decay which hangs about this ancient city of ruins and monuments.”

Chapter Two

Tuesday, we had a splendid day in nearby Tivoli, but Wednesday morning at nine, we stood before the Papal Palace in the Vatican. Soon we were following the Swiss Guards through the labyrinth of ornate corridors and stairways, this time to a more formal, more ornate, reception room. Dressed all in white, as before, the pope stood before a tall window, and at his side were two contrasting figures in black soutanes, one the short rotund Monsignor Arnone with his thick-lensed spectacles and wide reddish-purple sash round his belly.

The other man was tall, thin—gaunt, even, his cheeks sunken under high prominent cheekbones—and those features, along with his glaring black eyes, gave him the appearance of some haunted saint from an El Greco portrait. The bright red zucchetto above his high bald crown, as well as the red piping on his soutane and the red band cincture were emblems of his rank as cardinal. We had not yet met, but somehow our mere presence seemed to inflame him; anger smoldered in his eyes and stiffened his narrow mouth and thin lips.

Holmes and I bowed and shook hands with the pope. He nodded toward the tall man. “Messieurs, this is Cardinal Cicogno. He is head of the Congregation of Rites, one of the administrative departments in the Roman Curia, the governing body of the Church. Among his many duties is the care and authentication of relics.”

Holmes bowed formally and murmured, “Eminenza.” Again, I followed his lead.

The pope gestured with his long fingers. “This is Monsieur Sherlock Holmes, of whom we have been speaking, and his companion is…” He stopped and gave me a questioning look.

“Vernier,” I said. “Dr. Henry Vernier.”

“Thank you, Dr. Vernier. My memory for names is not what it used to be. Cardinal Cicogno and I were just discussing the theft of the relics.”

Cicogno shook his head savagely. “The theft of holy relics is the most blasphemous and sacrilegious of crimes.” His dark eyebrows had scrunched together over his long, curiously twisted nose.

The pope sighed. “As the guardian of holy objects, the cardinal is most upset—as are we all. And he is correct: this is a very grave matter.” He set his hand lightly on the cardinal’s arm. “Carlo, we shall discuss this further later.”

“As you wish.” As Cicogno spoke, he seemed to snap ferociously at the very air. His eyes shifted again to Holmes and me. “I do not particularly approve of nonbelievers meddling in the affairs of the Church, especially since diabolical influences may well be at work.”

“As I said, Carlo, we shall speak of this later.” The pope did not raise his voice, but his authoritative tone made it clear who was in charge.

The cardinal bowed slightly, then turned and strode across the multi-colored marble floor toward the tall oaken doors. One of the guards opened a door for him, then closed it behind him.

The pope gave us an apologetic smile. “Cardinal Cicogno is distraught. Given the uncertain political situation with the Italian government, he has been worried about the relics in Rome for many years, and now his worst fears seem to be coming true.” He glanced at the monsignor. “Would you fetch Monsignor Greene and send him in? And have the guards wait outside.”

“Certo, Santo Padre.” Arnone nodded to us. “Arrivederci, signori.” He headed for the door, and soon we were left alone with the pope.

He gave a weary sigh. “Monsieur Holmes, I thank you for rearranging your schedule to assist us in our investigation of this crime. If anyone can restore the missing relic, it is you.”

“Thank you, Saint Père. I shall do my best, but you must not expect too much from me. My time is, unfortunately, limited, and I am not, after all, a miracle worker.” A flicker of a smile came and went. “That would be more in your department than mine.”

The pope took a white envelope from a nearby desk and offered it to Holmes. “I have prepared the letter I spoke of before. It states that you are acting on my behalf and that all those of the Catholic faith should help you in any way possible.”

Holmes took the envelope and slipped it into the inside pocket of his frock coat. “Thank you. I am certain it will prove useful.”

The far doors opened, and we turned to see another monsignor approaching in his black cassock and reddish-purple sash. Like Arnone, he was on the heavy side, but instead of the dark olive skin and brown eyes of a southern Italian, Greene had pale skin and the ruddy cheeks so typically English. His eyes were a vivid blue, and his hair—what remained of it—was a sandy reddish-brown. He extended a plump freckled hand, his smile both enthusiastic and genuine.

“I am Monsignor Richard Greene.” He shook Holmes’s hand eagerly. “You are, of course, Sherlock Holmes.” Next it was my turn. His grip was impressive. “And you must be the mysterious and little-known Dr. Vernier.” He gave me a mock serious frown. “It must be difficult always living in Watson’s shadow.”

“You don’t know the half of it!” I exclaimed.

He smiled, then turned, knelt before the pope and kissed his ring. He switched from English to perfect French: “Holy Father, I thank you again for your trust. I know this is a serious business, but all the same, for me it is the chance of lifetime—to actually work with Sherlock Holmes! I could never have imagined such an opportunity.”

The pope nodded. “You were the obvious choice, Monsignor.” He turned to us. “And now, messieurs, other duties require my time. I shall leave you in Monsignor Greene’s good hands. He has a full report on the theft and can either assist you directly or contact any necessary parties. However, before we part, let me give you my blessing.”

Holmes, Greene, and I knelt. The pope raised his thin graceful right hand. “Heavenly Father, bless these men and their undertaking. Watch over them, protect them from harm, and help them to bring the holy relic of your Apostle Thomas back to your Church.” He made a vertical and horizontal pass in the shape of a cross. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”