Deathly Relics, page 19
The surface of the desk could not be seen beneath the layer of papers. Behind it sat a rotund, balding priest in a worn black soutane with its row of tiny buttons (the third one down undone) and white Roman collar round his vast second chin. He held a big cigar in his right hand, and the room reeked of it. I realized I had never seen a priest smoke before.
“Signori, buongiorno.” He did not stand up.
Greene again introduced us and said we were acting on behalf of the Holy Father in search of missing relics.
“I am Father Giorgio, signori, master of this bricked domain and its splendors. How can I help you?”
“Tell me, Father, did you have any deliveries on Monday?”
“Certainly. Mondays are always busiest. Three or four, as I recall.”
“Any large wooden crates?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And was any one of them brought in by a tall priest and a smaller lay person?”
Father Giorgio had a broad hand with massive fingers; he knocked cigar ash off into a glass ashtray. “Yes, I think so. As I recall… he would not stop talking.”
Holmes stood up taller, a glint in his eyes, black pupils swollen in the dimly lit room. “That is our man!”
“Let me see.” He turned to a stack of papers on his desk, then leafed through them, finally raising one sheet. “Yes, it was this one, I’m sure. He had a crate of ancient, blessed chalices from the Holy Land, and he wanted a receipt, Father…” He gazed on the paper. “Father Angelo Nero.”
Holmes gave a sharp laugh, glanced at Greene and me. “Angelo Nero—Black Angel. Very good! Did you notice if the priest had a scar on his right ear?”
Father Giorgio laughed. “I don’t make a habit of staring at people’s ears.”
“We must have a look at that crate. Do you know where it might be?”
“Not off hand.” He gave a weary sigh, drew in on his cigar, then knocked off more ash. “Let’s have a look.” Getting out of the chair seemed to require a Herculean effort.
He lumbered forward, and we followed him to a door and stepped through the portal into a vast cave. Massive wooden beams and an occasional skylight loomed overhead; the warehouse was filled with rows and rows and rows of tall shelves stacked with boxes and crates as well every conceivable religious or artistic object imaginable.
“Good Heavens,” I murmured in dismay.
Father Giorgio smiled at us. “It’s out here somewhere.”
Holmes’s dark eyebrows had come together. “Have you no filing system?”
“No. I have something better than that.” He looked around, then shouted, “Antonio! Antonio! Vieni qui!” He took another draw on his half-smoked cigar.
At the end of a row a thin man in a worn brown suit appeared and strode quickly toward us. His eyes had an odd gleam in them, a strange fiery intensity, and his mouth curved upward oddly on one side. His Adam’s apple was huge, his neck scrawny, and he had wild brown hair with a great cowlick shot with gray drooping over his left temple. He raised his thin bony hand in almost a salute. “Si, padre padrone, si.”
“These gentlemen want to look at that crate the tall priest brought in on Monday.”
Carlo nodded. “Yes. Chalices from the Holy Land. Row GH, second shelf up.”
“Very good,” Father Giorgio said. “Show us.”
Antonio wheeled about dramatically and shot off at a rapid pace. Holmes was right behind him, I next, with the two heavier priests in the rear. We followed an odd sort of zigzag path amidst the towering shelves stuffed with various contents, which rose on either side of us. As we walked, shafts of sunlight intermittently lit up Antonio and Holmes’s backs and a square of the concrete floor, then the two were swallowed in shadow.
I shook my head, murmured, “And I thought the Papal Palace was a maze.”
Holmes looked over his shoulder, smiling. “Perhaps the Minotaur lies somewhere at the heart of this labyrinth.”
We turned another corner, went about twenty feet, and Antonio stopped so abruptly that Holmes almost ran into him. “Here, that’s the one,” Antonio said, pointing to a wooden crate perhaps five feet long and two feet wide resting on the second wooden shelf a couple feet off the ground. A smaller wooden crate was on the floor, and on the shelf above were some dusty golden chalices, and various gold and silver reliquaries which looked to be empty.
Holmes gave me another smile, his delight obvious enough. “Let’s have a look. Help me with this, Henry.”
Antonio joined in our effort, and we had the crate lowered to the floor by the time the two priests caught up to us. Holmes raised his hand toward Antonio. “Might I borrow your crowbar?” It was hooked onto a leather tool belt round his waist. Antonio pulled it out and handed it to Holmes, who eagerly began prying up one of the cross pieces. We all crowded round in anticipation. I helped Holmes raise one of the boards. Inside, dirty beige cotton wool and crumpled newspapers hid the contents.
Holmes reached inside, felt about, then using both hands, he strained to withdraw some massive object wrapped in a blanket. He knelt to set it on the floor, then quickly unrolled the blanket, revealing a tall ornate golden cross atop a heavy square base, two small, sculpted silver angels with golden spears on either side of the base. I drew in my breath sharply, then smiled.
“Dio mio,” Father Giorgio muttered with the cigar still in his mouth.
“The fragment of the true cross!” Monsignor Greene exclaimed in English. “By George, you’ve done it, Holmes! Very good indeed. So Rafaello was actually telling the truth. We won’t have to pay him those jewels, after all.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Holmes said. “And indeed, we have hardly counted all our chicks yet. I suspect…”
He pulled out another, much smaller, object wrapped in a torn square of blanket. This was the mostly silver reliquary with a sculpted, circular ring of thorns, and in the center, the two, supposed actual thorns. Next came the reliquaries with the rectangular titulum, a fragment of the sign nailed to the cross, then the one containing the nail, and finally a dome-like one with a cross on top. Each glittered of smoothly polished gold and silver.
“Which one is that?” I murmured, not recognizing the final one.
“That has the fragment of the scourging pillar,” Greene said, “and possibly a piece from the crib of Jesus, too.”
I shook my head but said nothing. Crib of Jesus, indeed! I thought.
Holmes rooted about in the wool and newspapers but found nothing more. “That, I believe, is it.”
“Bravo, Holmes!” Greene exclaimed. “You have indeed done it!”
Holmes smiled at him, as he slowly rose to his feet. “Your arithmetic is off, Monsignor. We are missing one.”
“Are we?” I asked. “Which one?”
Holmes shook his head. “Henry, Henry—which relic were we looking for in the first place?”
I drew in my breath, aware suddenly of the missing one. “Saint Thomas’s finger. That ghastly gray piece of bone.”
“Exactly.”
“And you are sure it is not there?”
“I am, which makes perfect sense. Rafaello was willing to give up some of the relics as part of the game, but not everything, and Saint Thomas’s finger is still worth a ransom in jewels.”
Monsignor Greene was scowling. “It seems as if he should at least reduce the price!”
Holmes laughed, genuinely amused. “Ah, Monsignor! But you forget—as the Holy Father told us, they are all priceless.” He turned to Father Giorgio who had been watching in amazement and occasionally taking a draw on his cigar. “You are sure this was the only thing that the priest brought?”
Giorgio only turned to Antonio and squinted slightly. Antonio’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. “Si, signore—this is all.”
Holmes nodded. “Well, that is the bulk of them, anyway, even if each one is invaluable. We had best pack these back up. They will eventually need to go back to Santa Croce, Father Giorgio, but not just now.”
Monsignor Greene’s smile had returned. “Well, we’ve certainly earned a good lunch today!”
We soon left the warehouse, and the monsignor took us to a small nearby restaurant. He recommended the spinach and ricotta ravioli. “They are perhaps the best in Rome,” he assured us. First, however, the waiter brought us a plate with various salami and cheeses, along with a basket of bread with a thick, crispy crust and a bottle of Apulia wine.
Monsignor Greene poured wine into each of our glasses, then raised his for a toast. “Well, we have five of the six relics back, so we have gone full circle and returned to the same point where we were when we first met. All the same, with Holmes on the case, there can be no doubt as to the ultimate outcome. Your health, gentlemen.”
We clicked glasses and drank. I spoke first. “Regardless of the ultimate outcome, what happens next?”
Holmes turned his glass ever so slightly, letting the light illuminate the dark red liquid. “I fear I am not so confident as to the end result. To use Rafaello’s metaphor, we have made our move and captured a few pawns. The next move now is his: we wait for another note from Signor Pozzolo, which should not be long in coming.”
I was aware of a faint scowl pulling at my face. “And then we just hand over the jewels?”
Holmes shrugged. “I am not, as I have repeatedly said, a miracle worker.” He smiled at the monsignor. “Again, miracles are more in your line of business than mine. However…” His gray eyes had a grave expression. “We shall see. I do not like to give up without a struggle. Nevertheless, I think it is time I took possession of the ransom jewels, so as to have them ready.”
Greene nodded. “Very well. They have been prepared for you. We can fetch them after lunch. But are you sure you want to carry them about Rome?”
“I have a hidden pocket in my frock coat. They should be secure enough there for a brief time.”
Greene took a bite of bread and some yellow cheese. His eyes shifted to mine. “What is your wife doing today, Dr. Vernier?”
“She is with Anna.” I hesitated, unsure how much to say.
“Ah. Father Blackwell came to see me yesterday. I suspect he and Anna are equally miserable.” Greene shook his head. “It’s enough to make me wish… If I had not introduced him to the Antonelli family, none of this would have ever happened. All the same, I don’t know how she would ever have made it through her father’s final illness without Edward at her side.”
I opened my mouth once, closed it, then repeated both actions. He smiled faintly at me. “What is on your mind, Doctor?”
“They seem made for one another.”
Greene set down his bread, raised his plump right hand and briefly massaged his temples. He looked out the window, then at me. “I know. God help me, I know. Frequently one is tempted to do things which are clearly wicked. But this kind of temptation…”
“What did you say to him?”
“What he needed to hear: that he was a priest who had taken his final vows, and as such, romantic love and marriage are forever out of the question.”
Holmes was watching him closely. “Do you truly believe that, Monsignor?”
His expression grew even more pained. “Don’t ask me that question, Holmes. I… I care too much for them both. Encouraging false hopes would be cruel.”
Holmes’s smile was faintly bitter. “Life plays curious tricks on us. It mocks our certainties, our vows, our assumptions.” He shrugged. “It keeps us humble, I suppose.”
Greene gave a fierce nod. “Amen to that! And now, let us give our meal the full attention it deserves. Pondering imponderables makes for indigestion.”
Holmes laughed. “Well put! I don’t know how Henry and I would have ever gotten by here in Rome without you. Truly you have been like Virgil to Dante, his guide to the celestial realm, the Paradiso of Roman cuisine!”
Greene smiled broadly. “Thank you very much. However, there is a flaw in your description.”
Holmes frowned briefly, then smiled again. “Ah yes, Virgil was Dante’s guide in Hell and Purgatory, but Beatrice took over for Heaven.”
“Very good, Holmes!” He was still smiling. “I fear, however, that I have little in common with Beatrice.”
After we had eaten, we lingered over our small cups of dark strong Italian coffee, then left for the Papal Palace. Greene led us hither and yonder, finally ending up at a small office on the second floor, where yet another Vatican bureaucrat, a thin man with neatly combed hair, in a dark suit, sat behind a spotless desk. He rose, greeted us, then led us to the big black safe in the corner. In large letters across the front was written FACCHELLI.
“Ah,” Holmes said, “the same Milanese manufacturer who made Monsignor Nardone’s impressive padlock at Santa Croce.”
I stared at him. “How do you remember such things?”
“It is a talent, which, like any other, can be cultivated.”
The clerk carefully turned the dial twice in each direction, finding the requisite numbers, then used the big metal handle to open the massive steel door. From the top shelf he took a small tan leather pouch and handed it to Monsignor Greene.
“Shall we have a look?” Greene said.
Holmes raised his slender hand. “Let’s put them on the desk. We don’t want any falling on the floor.”
“Good idea,” Greene said.
We all went to the desk, and the monsignor loosened the strings, then poured out the contents.
“My heavens,” the clerk murmured.
I shook my head. “They are beautiful.”
“Indeed they are,” Holmes said. He began to separate them; there were eight red rubies, eight green emeralds and nine diamonds, each gem perhaps three-quarters of an inch across, their facets sparkling under the light of the nearby lamp.
“They must be worth hundreds of pounds,” I said.
Holmes picked up a ruby, held it closer to the light and turned it slowly. “More likely thousands—far more than a consulting detective, a monsignor, or a physician would earn in several lifetimes. I must admit to a certain fondness for rubies.”
“And all for a piece of small gray bone,” I murmured.
Holmes glanced at me. He did not speak, but his mouth formed a familiar sardonic smile. “Few things have intrinsic value, Henry: it is always about what one is willing to pay.” He opened the pouch, then put the jewels back in. “Well, all twenty-five are here. I suspect Rafaello will want to count them.”
He reached inside his black frock coat with his right hand, moved his fingers about, no doubt opening up the hidden pocket, then placed the bag inside. He patted his chest. “Safely stowed.”
He nodded politely at the clerk, “Grazie, signore,” then turned to Greene. “We must be on our way, Monsignor. Thank you for your assistance this morning, and for another superb meal.”
Greene seemed strangely subdued. “I hope… I hope that monster does not get to keep those jewels.”
Holmes shrugged. “What will be, will be.”
* * *
Holmes and I spent the afternoon wandering about Rome. We made a stop at Santa Croce to give Monsignor Nardone the good news about the found relics, and he was clearly delighted. He said he would continue to pray for the recovery of Saint Thomas’s finger. We returned to the hotel around six.
Seated on the big leather sofa near a tall palm in a three-foot high Chinese vase, were Michelle and Anna. They rose to greet us. As before, Michelle’s height and robust frame, imposing in a green silk, made Anna appear waif-like. The black of Anna’s mourning garb also added to her melancholy appearance. She did not appear distraught like she had been last time, but a certain restraint, a certain sadness, showed in her brown eyes and the set of her lips.
“There you are at last,” Michelle said. “What came of your search?”
We told them of the recovery of the relics. Michelle set a gloved hand on Holmes’s arm. “Oh very good, Sherlock!”
He shrugged. “Unfortunately I am certain it will not reduce the ransom required.”
Michelle frowned. “Well, it hardly seems fair that you would have to pay the same amount for one relic as for six!”
I laughed. “You and Monsignor Greene think alike! I’m afraid fairness has nothing to do with it, not for this scoundrel Rafaello.”
Holmes was staring gravely at Anna. “Did you and Dr. Doudet-Vernier discuss your leaving Rome?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you decide?”
“That I shall accompany her back to England the day after tomorrow.” Anna raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. “It no longer much matters where I stay. All the same, it is very kind of you to invite me, Dr. Doudet-Vernier.” She glanced at me, her smile rather sad. “And you, too, Dr. Vernier. Your kindness is much appreciated, especially now.”
“It is our pleasure,” I said, but I felt a pang of disappointment. I had known this was likely, and it did indeed make sense. All the same, I had wanted so badly to spend some time alone with Michelle in Rome.
Holmes’s brow was furrowed. “Could you not leave tomorrow?”
Michelle shook her head. “Come now, traveling does take a certain amount of preparation, Sherlock! Besides, while she is packing tomorrow, that should allow me some time with Henry.”
Holmes still looked severe. “We shall see.”
Again Michelle touched Holmes lightly on the arm. “I promise you we shall leave bright and early on Friday morning. You can officially see us off on the train.”
Holmes’s eyes were fixed on Anna, but she was not really looking at any of us. That sense of energy, of vitality, I had seen in her before was spent. I wished with all my heart that somehow she were going to England as Edward Blackwell’s wife.
“Thank you for obliging me in this matter, Signorina Antonelli,” Holmes said. “The sooner you are out of harm’s way, the better.”
Chapter Ten
That evening, a smoky haze again billowed out from under the door to Holmes’s room, but by morning, it had mostly dissipated, so we knew he must not have stayed up too late. Indeed, he was waiting for us there in the sitting room, dressed in a suit of a heavy gray tweed. His lean cheeks appeared freshly shaven, and the brownish clot of a small nick was on his right jawbone.
