The Pope sat near a window through which sunlight flooded the room. He was dressed in the plain clothes of a priest. Pale and unsteady on his feet, he nevertheless motioned calmly with his hand for us to sit in the chairs in front of him. He spoke in French in a soft but clear voice. He dispensed with all ecclesiastical ceremony.
“I begin by welcoming you to Rome,” he said. “You will have our full support in your investigation. You must find Cardinal Corelli at once or learn what has happened to him. He paused for a moment and then said sadly, “He is like a son to me. Messieurs, je vous implore . . .”
“Tell us, Your Holiness, what you can of the cardinal.”
“I met him when he was a small boy of nine. His family had been killed years before in an earthquake in Casamicciola on the island of Ischia. The boy was found wandering alone in the ruins in a state of confusion and amnesia. He was brought to an orphanage, where he recovered his strength, but not his earliest memories. He did not speak until he was seven. As he grew, he became known for the excellence of his studies. I saw him first at the orphanage. Recognizing the light of Divine Inspiration in him, I brought him here to be raised. Then I sent him to Monte Cassino for study. Upon his return, he became my assistant. Four years ago I made him cardinal, the youngest in the Church, and he became Secretary of State. Until his disappearance, I assumed that he would follow me as Pope. But who is to say now?”
“Who are his enemies?” asked Holmes coolly.
“Some of the Curia dislike him, but ‘enemies’ is a harsh word. The members of the Curia, all worthy men and filled with ambition, found his quick rise in the Church disturbing. I do not think anyone would harm him, though they might try to destroy his reputation, or put him in an embarrassing situation. His conduct has been impeccable. I know his habits: he rises at four every morning to say mass, then breakfasts, and works on Church business until nine, when he goes through the day’s agenda with me.”
“Who served him and tended to his needs?”
“Suor Angelica, a nun who comes from the same orphanage as he, though she is somewhat older. She is devoted to him and you may question her at length. She is the only one to have visited his quarters at the time of his disappearance.”
“Have his rooms been examined by anyone?”
“No,” replied the Pope. “As soon as the Cardinal’s absence became known to me, I had his quarters closed with my seal. You can be sure that no one has entered except for a visit by Suor Angelica when the Cardinal first disappeared.”
“Then I should like to begin with a talk with Suor Angelica and a visit to the Cardinal’s rooms.”
The Pope rang. A young priest appeared who was told to take us first to Suor Angelica and then to the Cardinal’s quarters.
“Report to me as often as you wish,” said the Pope, and we left.
We followed the young priest down a long corridor. When we reached its end, the priest asked us to wait. He knocked at a wooden door, and there appeared a nun, of perhaps some fifty years of age, dressed in a white habit. She was introduced to us as Suor Angelica. Despite her age, she was quite youthful, even beautiful in appearance. When she saw us, she grew shy, saying only that she had served the Cardinal since his arrival in Rome, and that she knew nothing of his disappearance. Her eyes teared over as she spoke. Holmes calmed her and asked that she come with us to his room.
When we arrived at the door, the young priest knelt and broke the papal seal. We entered the Cardinal’s room. Suor Angelica waited outside, overcome with emotion. A strong breeze blew through an open window through which one could see the great line of statues of the saints that adorns the colonnade of St. Peter’s.
At first glance there was nothing unusual or disturbing. In its simplicity the room was in marked contrast to the sumptuous halls of the Vatican. A large almirah containing the Cardinal’s priestly habits stood against one wall. A small table served as a writing desk, upon which there lay a missal. Near one corner of the desk rested a rosary and a ring, presumably that of the Cardinalate. A simple cot against the opposite wall served as the Cardinal’s bed. Above it was a large crucifix nailed to the wall, so large that it dominated the room and broke its quiet proportions. The face of Christ appeared as if it had been smeared with some kind of vermilion substance that had trickled down, and gave the image an unforgettable blood-drenched appearance. It was the only disquieting article in the room.
“The tranquil room of a man of the Church,” I said to him.
“But one in which there are all the signs of a struggle.”
I was a bit taken aback by Holmes’s remark, since I saw nothing of a struggle. I went towards the window into the fluttering curtains and turned to watch as he stared at the crucifix. Over and over he walked up to it, then stepped back.
“As usual, you see but do not observe. Note, my dear Watson, the crucifix is a recent addition to the room. On the wall behind it one can make out the outline of something else that came before it, a painting, no doubt. Do you see? Here there is no soot from the candles.”
He moved the crucifix slightly, revealing a jagged hole in the plaster.
“A nail, now gone, held the picture in place.”
With his forefinger he touched the plaster behind the crucifix and what appeared to be long scratches in the plaster below. Talking more to himself than to me, he said, “Note again the rectangle of clean whitewash that is revealed by the picture’s absence. And note, too, the clumsiness of the person taking the picture down, causing these striations. Most interesting, Watson. Now if we just follow those lines down and move the bed—hah!”
There, lying next to the bed, its front to the wall, was what appeared to be a small painting. Holmes turned it over. It was a picture of the Virgin Mary, the front of the frame badly scratched in its slide down the wall.
“The picture, Watson, preceded the crucifix on the wall. It is interesting that Suor Angelica said nothing of this.”
“But what is the significance, Holmes? Perhaps the Cardinal decided to change—”
“Nonsense, Watson. This was a man who led the most regular of lives. Devoted to Mary, having written the encyclical on the Immaculate Conception, he would not have let her picture remain on the floor behind a bed. No, something else is afoot here.”
Holmes sat with the picture of the Virgin, closely scrutinising it. “Spanish in origin, probably late fifteenth century. A label on the back reads Casamicciola, the town where the Cardinal’s family were killed in the earthquake. This is, then, whatever else, the only tangible connection we know of to his family.”
Holmes took a rule from his pocket and measured the distance from the surface of the bed to the nail holding the crucifix. “The Cardinal is reportedly a tall man. He or someone else hung the picture. But it was removed and the crucifix placed there by a different person.”
Holmes then went to the writing desk and examined the rosary.
“It is broken, Watson, in three places. And the ring is badly bent out of shape. Look at the marks on the table, as if someone had pressed it into the surface in great anger. And finally, Watson, look at the crucifix on the rosary.”
The crucifix was some four inches in length, of pure silver.
“Note the face, Watson.”
“It is bright crimson.”
“Yes, indeed, dear Watson, and now let us open the missal to the marked page. We shall surely come upon something of interest.” He handed me the missal.
“Vexilla Regis prodeunt inferni,” I read. “The banners of the King of Hell go forward.”