“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 response 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.