“I calculated that you would arrive precisely when you did. Shall we speak now in all candor, Mr. Holmes, with reference to the two Bohèmes?”
“Indeed we must, and as quickly as possible.”
“I assume you compared the works of Puccini and Leoncavallo to mine?”
“Indeed, I did. And I found what I was looking for: in Act III of Andrea Chenier, just before the aria “Nemico della Patria,” there are two modulations to the key of A minor preceded by two mournful notes played by the bassoon that only Puccini and Leoncavallo would be capable writing aside from you. And furthermore, dear Giordano, in your version of Puccini’s La Bohème, the same rare chord appears. Perhaps we should give it a name—say, the Chenier inversion. And it has led me directly to you.”
“Indeed,” said Giordano with a broad smile. “Please tell my friends, Leoncavallo and Puccini, that I have made my point. They may have Murger’s La Bohème, but impress upon them that I have been angered by Pagliacci and Tosca, both of which have large elements of my work embedded in them.”
“I assume, then,” said Holmes, “that you are the gentleman who was to meet Murger.”
“I am, and I told Murger that I was no longer interested in La Bohème. My next opera will be Fedora.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “the novel of Sardou.”
“Indeed,” said Giordano, “I hope you will come to the opening.”
“Ma certo,” said Holmes, and we left.
“Well,” said I as we walked toward Piazza Venezia, “what now? You have made peace in the world of Italian opera, an opera buffa in itself. A remarkable achievement.”
“Thank you, dear fellow.”
Holmes maintained his silence as we walked home. As we approached Piazza Venezia, he stopped suddenly and sat down.
“Have you a pen on you, Watson?”
I pulled out my notebook and pen and gave them to him. He scribbled out a short note, and we resumed our walk home. As we approached the gate of the Villa Orsini, Holmes stopped and handed the note to the guard.
“Watson, it is high time to think about a glass of frascati and a light lunch.”
“Indeed,” said I.
We took a cab to Campo dei Fior, where we lunched sumptuously. We arrived at our quarters at three. Both of us were overcome by the meal. Holmes relaxed with a cigar and I rolled myself a cigarette. I was about to doze when there was a knock at the door and Holmes rushed to open it. It was a courier with a note in answer to his delivered to the Villa Orsini.
“Watson,” said Holmes, “forgive me, but I neglected to tell you that we shall have guests tonight. My note delivered to the guard at the Villa Orsini has received a prompt and positive response. It is Friday, is it not? This note from Raffaele says that he would bring Lucia and her padrone here for a light supper. So enamoured is the padrone of our flower girl that he is ready to cast her in a minor role in his new music drama. This will at least hide her for a time from his wife, who I gather is terribly jealous.”
Holmes turned towards me, a wide grin over his face.
“Who is this mysterious padrone? Do you know?” I asked.
“Yes, I am convinced that he is a musical figure of the greatest accomplishment. He is also a well-known aficionado of the card game scat. I gather that he plays with his friends every Friday. By the bye, Watson, what will you entitle this story when you finally write it out? ‘The Case of the Two Bohèmes’?”
“No, Holmes, I shall call it “The Man in the Blue Coat.” He can only be Richard Strauss in this instance.”
“Good, Watson. He barely appears in the story, remains without a name, yet he is essential to the plot and insures something rare in the world of opera: a happy ending.”
“Very good,” said I.
There was a second loud knock at the door. I opened it this time to find our landlady standing there in the black attire of a butler. Held high overhead was a tray bearing a steaming teapot and a fresh loaf of bread. In her left hand was a white envelope, which I was sure contained the rent bill.
“Monsieur est servi,” said la Signora.
“Capriccio,” said I.
“Good,” said Holmes. “My compliments, dear Watson. You have learned much on our voyage in Italy.”
Our landlady left our tea near the window and, with a flourish, disappeared through the door.
THE CASE OF THE VERMILION FACE
also known as The Sins of Cardinal Corelli
IT WAS, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, THE SEVENTH OF April, 1903, a grey, wet London morning, on which I heard Holmes moving about quietly in our sitting room. When I entered, I found him halfway through breakfast. He was seated in his favourite armchair, staring into the rising flames of the fire he had just prepared. Over his lap he had placed a heavy Afghan blanket, on top of which sat a tray with our teapot and bread and butter.
“Good morning, dear Watson,” he said jovially. “I trust that you slept well. The tea is still drinkable. I shall pour it for you. And here, the paper is quite dull. I am already finished with it. There is only the short notice once again of Cardinal Corelli’s disappearance, more official and complete this time, however.”
I caught a note of deprecation in his voice as he uttered the last sentence, as if he were trying to make light of his interest in the case of the Italian cardinal. I said nothing as he brought my tea and then went to his desk and began to rifle through his papers. I read the following account in the morning Times:In a brief notice this morning, L’Osservatore Romano, the official organ of the Church of Rome, officially announced the sudden disappearance of Archangelo Cardinal Corelli, Secretary of State of the Church, and, after the Pope himself, the most powerful prelate in the Roman hierarchy. The Cardinal disappeared two days ago on Good Friday and has not been seen or heard from since. The Osservatore goes on to say that, although it cannot verify his present whereabouts, it is most probable that the Cardinal is safe and has taken time from his busy schedule to enter a retreat. This has been his wont, the Roman paper noted, since his accession to the Cardinalate, and should be no cause for alarm.Despite the Osservatore’s attempt to calm public fears, the concern for the Cardinal’s whereabouts is rendered even more acute by the Pope’s growing frailty and ill health. It is generally conceded that the present pope, Leo XIII, is nearing the end of his reign and that, at least until his disappearance, Corelli was favored to succeed him. Still relatively young—barely fifty, according to Church officials—the Cardinal is distinguished by the power of his intellect and his deep piety. It is he who is said to have penned the encyclicals De Rerum Novarum and Ejus Mentor, and to have shepherded through the Church the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, promulgated by Leo in 1878.
I put the paper down. Holmes turned and said, “Well, what do you think, Watson, a bit of an embarrassment, eh?”
“Most interesting, Holmes. Either they know more than they are willing to reveal, or they are honestly baffled as to his whereabouts. Indeed, the case has the elements of a major scandal. Who knows? A chance meeting at a village church with a beautiful parishioner, and a prince of the church succumbs. Then he is done in by a vengeful husband or lover,” said I.