Between the Thames and the Tiber (6 page)

“From Italy, they will transport their booty by ship to the Moroccan coast. There they will meet with their prospective buyers, Americans presumably, who have succeeded in having one of their own henchmen appointed as head of the American legation in Tangiers. Once inside the legation, it being the diplomatic equivalent of an embassy, the treasure is beyond our reach.”

Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, but I could feel his enthusiasm as he continued.

“After you return to Baker Street today, you are not to visit Sussex again. I have hired two actors to replace us. They will travel regularly as we have between London and our cottage. They are quite good at impersonations and might fool even Mrs. Hudson. Look out there, old boy, and tell me what you see,” he said, pointing to the window.

I did as he asked and saw to my amazement Holmes and me strolling slowly towards the house, apparently conversing in our voices as well.

“I’m not sure who we are, Holmes. They are very good indeed.”

“I would have you meet them, but we haven’t the time. Here are your instructions in this small envelope. Memorise them, and then destroy the paper as soon as you reach Baker Street. Tomorrow morning at eight, you must be on the train from London to Rome. You will travel in the costume of an English monk, by name Friar Odoric. Your disguise is in this valise. Everything you will need for the trip is in there. Talk to no one, concentrate on your Latin prayers. I assume that you can still mumble convincingly.”

“And where will you be?” I asked.

“Not far away, old fellow, at least for the time being. Do not concern yourself. If I am correct, the gang will not notice you. Do not forget: they want me, not you, but are content for the moment for me to be a retired bee keeper in Sussex. Take the valise, Watson, and return to Baker Street. Quickly, old boy, your double is about to enter the room. If all goes well, humanity will be rid of the odd couple just as we meet again.”

I returned to Baker Street as Holmes had instructed. His note was terse and to the point:

Meet me 23 May I Sassi 24 at 12 noon. Come armed. Inform Grimaldi.

I was puzzled by the note, particularly by the phrase “I Sassi,” but I found it quickly in one of Holmes’s indices: the phrase means “The Rocks” and refers to some ancient caves carved in the side of a cliff in the town of Matera in Italy. A strange place for us to meet, but there it was. I must say that I was more than a little unnerved by the note. Why such an out-of-the-way place? Surely, the odd couple must have had a strong reason to travel so far from London. Then I recalled Holmes’s reference to the ancient city of Sybaris and the Rouxmonts’ desire to pillage it.

That morning I left on schedule. I met Grimaldi in Rome, informed him of what was about to transpire and left for Matera. The train went through Potenza, the capital of Lucania. From there, the ride to Matera was magnificent, passing through miles of vigorous yellow wheat in the fields. Beyond them the rugged mountains of southern Italy loomed in the distance. It was just before noon on 23 May. I was on schedule.

I walked the short distance to the railroad hotel, hoping to see Holmes before our scheduled meeting. But I had learned that once a plan of his was accepted, unless there was a large enough reason, it should not be changed. Holmes was fond of saying that his precautions were so carefully executed that change could be suicidal.

I continued in the role of an English friar, and inquired in my poor French as to where number 24 would be among I Sassi. The woman behind the desk gave me a small map and I was off.

Lo sasso 24 was not far. Once I arrived there, I saw what made the place so justly famous. I Sassi consisted of a gigantic cliff in the side of which there were innumerable caves, carved either by men or nature, I could not tell which. Number 24 had a large wooden door which swung open for me as I arrived. An old crone stood there babbling in the local dialect which sounded nothing like the language that I was accustomed to hearing in Rome.

“Benga inda, caru fradu miu, lamigo sta inda la casa ncoppa,”
she said pulling at my frock. I followed her up the stairs. In the dark I could make out a familiar figure.

“Well done, Watson, you are on schedule. Come, we haven’t a moment to lose. We are to meet Grimaldi within the hour.”

Holmes too was dressed as a monk. “This disguise is one of the most effective I know. I have been within a few feet of the odd couple as they ate in a local
trattoria
, and they took no notice of me—that is, until I identified myself to them. They were astonished to learn that I knew their plans down to the last detail. Let us go, old boy, to our meeting with the odd couple.”

Once outside, Holmes hailed a cab and we were on our way, he said, to the village of Marsico Vetere. It was in this remote village that the Rouxmonts had decided to receive the great treasure removed the night before from the site of Sybaris, and it was in this remote corner of Italy that Holmes had spent his absence from Sussex.

The dirt road went east, and in about twenty minutes we arrived at the edge of the village where our coach could go no further. The village of Marsico sat on a low hill. The walk was steep, however, and as we approached I saw that much of the town was in ruins. Holmes indicated to me that a strong earthquake had struck a few months before. It was empty now of its inhabitants. The central piazza and the church were rubble and only the low buildings remained standing. Holmes took me to what had been his abode for the last few months, a small stone house indistinguishable from the others except for the garden of flowers at its front.

“Watch that you do not step on the flowers, Watson, they are my pride and joy.”

The house was totally empty except for a few chairs and a small table. As I closed the door behind us, I caught a glimpse of our elegant friend, Grimaldi.

“They are on their way, Holmes. They have hidden the treasure in the next house. They are on schedule and hope to be in Lecce by early tomorrow morning when they set sail for Tunis. We have to stop them—either here or in Lecce.”

“We are three against their five.”

“Reinforcements should be here within the hour,” said Grimaldi.

“Then let me change into the peasant clothes I borrowed from the owner of this house. This disguise won’t fool them for very long, but I will not need much time if all goes as planned.”

Holmes went out and sat on an old bench and lit his Italian pipe. Grimaldi and I sat waiting as the first signs of dusk hit the village. It was just at sunset when we heard the sound of horses and the wheels of a large coach. They had arrived.

Grimaldi and I peered through the window. Holmes had not moved. He was still sitting on the bench, staring intently at the trail that we had ascended.

Three men dismounted from their horses. One of them opened the door to the coach. The odd couple jumped out and quickly examined their surroundings, like two wild animals sniffing the air after too long a confinement. They climbed the hill together. By now we could hear their voices.

“Where have you put it all?” asked René.

“There, in the largest house,” said his henchman, “the one next to where the farmer is sitting. He is known as old man Battaglia, the only resident who has returned after the earthquake. He’s no trouble. We have kept him happy with a few liras.”

“Peters, you are far more of a fool than I thought you were,” said Jeanne, “but we have come prepared.”

She turned and addressed the old man.

“Hello, Holmes,” she said, “we expected more of you than a mere ambush. Call off your men, including anyone in the house. You have your men and their guns, but we have this, enough to kill all of us.”

She reached into her purse and produced a large white envelope and tore it open.

“Come now, my dear Jeanne. We are only three against your five. If released in the air, the powder will kill you and your gang as well. I venture to say the obvious,” said Holmes, taking the pipe from his mouth, “that you have hardly come to this remote part of the world to commit suicide. As in all of your plans, you have left a few loose ends to make your lives more interesting: a little risk to prove your criminal courage, your master criminality, shall we say? Even you have to justify your existence. Killing me and Watson would destroy that last opportunity to test your invincibility with opponents you deem worthy. Come, let me show you your booty. It is all there, in good order, every artifact, every last piece of pottery. Your henchmen have done a commendable job.”

The two walked over to the other house, opened the door, squealed with delight at what they saw, and returned to Holmes.

“Thank you for guarding the treasure. And you who are still in Signor Battaglia’s house, please join us.”

Grimaldi and I came out of the house and stood near Holmes. Jeanne Rouxmont moved not at all as she spoke. She was speaking to three men whom she considered to be already dead.

“’Tis a pity, dear Sherlock, that we cannot take you and your friends with us. But you are on the wrong side. There is nothing to be done.”

“Perhaps not, dear
René et Jeanne
, one never knows what will happen in this unpredictable world of ours.”

As he spoke, Holmes suddenly began to jump up and down furiously on his flowers, destroying the neat beds that he had planted with infinite care. René pointed his gun at Holmes, but it was too late.

“Quick, inside both of you,” cried Holmes.

A strange noise, of countless transparent wings, filled my ears. As I peered through the window I saw that the odd couple and their three henchmen were covered with dark swarms of the great wasp that lives in the soil of Lucania. The huge wasps brought them screaming first to their knees and then to the ground.

I looked in terror at the unmoving bodies among the flowers.

“Holmes,” I cried, “they are all dead.”

“Unfortunately, Watson, they are dead, for which I am truly sorry. My plan for them worked out in every particular. It is the angry riposte of a very tired bee keeper. These bees are a rare Australian species that have survived in the remote areas of Lucania. The breed emits a deadly acid that destroys the skin. I should dub it Vespe Lucaniane, a poor joke, no doubt. Grimaldi, I trust that your men are on their way and can dispose of—ah, our coachman has waited for us. Come, Watson old boy, I feel the need to return to England, where we shall find, perhaps, that things are a bit easier.”

Holmes and I returned to Matera that night. In the morning we were well on our way back to Rome. Holmes barely spoke until we arrived in London. It was there that I heard him utter quietly as if to himself the immortal words of the great poet:

Così si fa il contrapasso.

I
N THE FATEFUL SUMMER OF 1914,
M
YCROFT
H
OLMES
, the brother of my friend Sherlock Holmes, older than he by almost eight years, passed away quietly at the Diogenes Club in London, the eccentric institution which had been his tranquil abode for over thirty years. He was in his seventy-third year and had shown no sign of illness. There was little doubt, however, in the minds of those who knew him that his extreme corpulence had contributed to his untimely end.

The news of his death was conveyed by the heartbroken Sidgwick, Mycroft’s lifelong assistant and confidant. Sidgwick had found him lifeless in his chair, facing towards the window. His clear blue eyes were fully open, and Sidgwick proffered that their intense gaze recorded the deep concentration in which he had been immersed for days. To him at least, Mycroft, under the great strain of an intractable problem, appeared to have died of a sudden massive stroke, for he had uttered neither a word for help nor a cry of pain.

“A great loss, Watson,” said Holmes as we left for the club. “Mycroft’s role in the affairs of our Government will never be told in full now that he is gone, but I can assure you that it was great, so great that we shall soon see in coming days the inevitable deterioration of Government, particularly of the Foreign Office.”

Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact way. He had as yet displayed no emotion with regard to his brother’s death. Only his eyes occasionally showed the fraternal sorrow that he concealed beneath a cloak of calm and resignation.

Once we arrived, Holmes quickly identified the body and notified those few who had been Mycroft’s friends of the quiet funeral that would follow. Mycroft had stipulated the most modest of services in his will, one to take place in Yorkshire, far from the Government in London. So esteemed was he in Whitehall, however, that the crowd of ministers and diplomats that came to pay its respects not only filled the small church but also mobbed the narrow village lanes on that humid rainy day.

In the fortnight immediately following the funeral, as executor of his brother’s small estate, Holmes took possession of Mycroft’s papers. These were few, for Mycroft did not keep extensive records. His brain was far too large for that. He simply committed to memory what he wished to preserve and burned the rest. The long story of his role in the British Government and his negotiations with foreign powers, therefore, died with him.

Mycroft had often told Holmes that his disdain for note keeping was part of his physical laziness.

“On some days, my dear Sherlock, I lack even the energy to pull open a drawer in my desk. The brain, however, remains active. What better solution, then, could there be than to commit to memory the papers to which I must refer in the future?”

Holmes smiled as he recalled his brother’s words. “There was one inconsistency in my brother’s habits, however,” he said.

“And what was that?” I asked.

“He kept a day book of his thoughts on current problems, often speculating in it on possible solutions. When the book was full, he destroyed it after committing to memory what he wished. Sometimes he procrastinated indefinitely before he burned it. He left the latest one on his desk untouched. It contains, amidst a jumble of thoughts and scribblings, a rather disquieting note: ‘Branko Vrukonovic Die Tote Stadt in London. Extreme danger to us. Must warn Sherlock of impending catastrophe. . . .’ Here the writing grows weak and turns into an old man’s illegible scribble.”