Deathly Relics, page 7
“When you first arrived, did you ever imagine you would stay in Rome for thirty years?” Holmes asked.
“Not at all! I came to study theology one autumn when I was only twenty-seven, and somehow I never left.”
“Somewhat like Father Blackwell, I suppose?”
Greene’s eyes showed a faint wariness, even as he smiled. “I must confess that even in my prime I was no young Adonis like Edward.” He hesitated. “Such handsomeness can be something of a burden for a young priest. All the same, he is a very worthy and devout young man.” His look was almost reproachful.
“I do not doubt it,” Holmes said. “And do you think he will stay on for thirty years?”
“No. He wants to be a simple parish priest back home, not an odd jack of all trades like me.”
I had finished my spaghetti, and I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. “What exactly do you do, Monsignor?”
“Whatever the Holy Father tells me! Seriously, though, I am a sort of… investigator, and problem solver. I suppose my work is not unlike yours, Mr. Holmes. When certain difficulties arise, he sends me off to have a look, then to report back and advise him. I just had a stay of a month in Vienna.”
Holmes nodded. “I see. And do you think a red hat may lie in your future?”
“The saints preserve us!” Greene downed his glass of wine, then shook his head again.
I was surprised. “You don’t want a promotion?”
“Not in the least. It has been broached in the past, but I have made it clear that purple is enough for me. I never was partial to red. It does not really go with my pinkish complexion.”
I laughed at this. Greene raised the wine bottle and poured more into my glass, Holmes’s, and finally his own. “We must have another bottle, I think, for the secondi piatti. You will not regret ordering the veal scallopini. It is exquisite here. A vino bianco would be best, perhaps a pino grigio.”
Holmes smiled. “We are in your very good hands, Monsignor.”
“I am certainly glad…” I began, but hesitated.
“Out with it,” Greene said.
“Well, I am glad you are not an ascetic, some fanatic who has no use for the earthly pleasures of fine dining.”
“Ah.” Greene set both hands before him on the tablecloth; the small red buttons of his cassock made a neat vertical row down his chest. “You have noticed my one weakness. I am hardly a Saint Francis—more a Friar Tuck, I fear!”
Again, I laughed.
“In the past, I tried fasting on occasion, but it only seemed to fuel an already unhealthy obsession with food. I do try not to let my appetite get the best of me, but it is difficult in Rome. I hope to retire to England in a few years, and there will certainly be fewer near occasions of sin there.”
Holmes looked thoughtfully at him. “So you would really leave Rome?”
Greene gave a brusque nod. “Oh, yes.”
“And why exactly is that?”
Greene’s brow furrowed, his lips clamping together. He did not speak for a few seconds. “It would be better for my soul if I returned home. Living in Rome, being at the center of things, being always around cardinals and bishops and seeing how they treat one another, all the scheming and struggling…” He sighed. “Let us just say that it is not always an edifying spectacle. Men of God do not always behave like men of God. If one is not careful… one begins to doubt. I have to remind myself that all those people I knew at our little village church, the poor farmers or shopkeepers, were just as much Catholics as all these men in Rome who wear purple or red.”
“I understand you perfectly,” said Holmes. “In my profession I have dealt with the entire span of human society from highest to the lowest. However, the most corrupt always seemed to dwell amidst the upper classes.”
“We do understand one another,” Greene said. He hesitated.
“What is it?” Holmes asked.
“Promise me one thing: promise that you will be gentle with Edward. He is very young. And very innocent—shockingly innocent.”
Holmes nodded. “I promise.”
I eyed the monsignor thoughtfully. “Weren’t you equally innocent at his age?”
Greene sighed. “No, I was not. The difference is that I grew up in a poor family, not a wealthy one. The poor know more about the unsavory side of life, about bad tempers and cruelty, about all the little infidelities which surround us. The children of the rich can grow up in a make-believe world where evil barely exists. But enough of this—we are becoming serious, grim even—which is forbidden at a meal like this!” The waiter arrived with three steaming plates which smelled wonderful and set them before us. “Un’altra bottiglia, cameriere,” Greene said, “qualche vino bianco di buon gusto, per favore.”
Upon my plate, amidst the small slices of browned meat, were pieces of lemon, tiny green capers, and sliced mushrooms. The waiter soon returned with a bottle of wine, quickly broke the seal, and pulled the cork. Another waiter came with three new glasses, which he set before us, even as the first waiter poured out the wine. It was a pale yellow.
When we had all been served, Greene raised his glass. “To England, gentlemen, and especially to its most celebrated detective! Your very good health.”
We all clinked glasses, then sipped the wine. It was cold and delicious.
Chapter Four
After our meal, we lingered at the table awhile sampling Italian digestivi, various strong-tasting liqueurs which were supposed to aid digestion. One was a clear sharp liquid with a liquorish-like base of fennel, while another, concerto, was dark brown, very complex, and almost chocolatey, a mix tasting of many spices.
We agreed to spend much of the next day again with Monsignor Greene. Indeed, he was at our hotel first thing in the morning on Thursday, to join us for breakfast, and since the restaurant catered to English travelers, he was delighted to discover he could order bacon and eggs instead of the usual meager Italian fare. He had brought along a Roman newspaper with a headline about the relic being found. The article mentioned the valuable assistance of il investigatore illustre inglese, the illustrious detective Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes shrugged. “I suppose I should not complain about getting credit even when it is not deserved. It is good for business, after all.”
After eating, we headed off for the other side of the Tiber and the Trastevere district which was south of the Vatican. Monsignor Greene had been eager to show us more churches or, possibly, the Roman catacombs, but I had seen enough gilded altars, swooning saints, and fat cherubs! I wanted to be out of doors if the good weather held, which it did. We wandered for a long while in a botanical garden, making our way gradually uphill to a spot which had a spectacular view of the city and the dome of Saint Peter’s. We descended and visited a mercato, the local market set up along the narrow streets where boisterous vendors sold fruit, vegetables, and nearly every variety of trinket imaginable. I had learned not to try to bargain with the Romans; I was putty in their hands.
By then we had worked up an appetite for lunch, and of course, the monsignor knew of the perfect restaurant nearby! At the market, we had admired huge globes of fresh artichokes heaped in crates, their leaves colored a spectacular purple and green, so Greene ordered side dishes of baked carciofi alla Romana. He also recommended another local Roman specialty dish, tonnarelli con cacio e pepe, a sort of square-shaped spaghetti with flavorful pecorino romano cheese and black pepper. It was delicious, but I reflected that if I continued to eat like this every day, I too would end up as plump as Greene. We walked about the district after lunch, and around four, the monsignor left us to return to the Vatican.
Before parting, his face below the brim of the black saturno showed an unaccustomed gravity. “Is it really necessary that you see Father Blackwell, Holmes? I could keep you occupied, and I am sure he would not be disappointed if you skipped your appointment.”
Holmes slowly drew in his breath. “I need to speak with him, Monsignor.”
Greene shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned to go, then turned back to us. “Remember what I said—he is an innocent. As a matter of doctrine, it is arguable whether one can be too innocent, but as a practical matter in dealing with the world, that can greatly complicate things. Arrivederci, then, and I shall see you tomorrow.”
We found a carriage to take us back across the river and through town to our hotel. Somewhat worn out from all the fresh air and walking, I half-dozed during the ride. Holmes was mostly silent, his slender face staring gravely out the window at the streets of Rome. We arrived well before five, and I yawned as we walked into the main lobby.
“I am half tempted to take a nap. Must I be there when you speak with the priest?”
Holmes gave a curt nod. “Yes, your presence may be helpful.”
I fought off another yawn. “Very well, as you wish.”
Holmes and I had a suite on the top floor of the Eden with a well-furnished sitting room, and promptly at five came a rap at our door. Holmes walked over to open it.
Father Blackwell stepped into the room. His brow was furrowed, his mouth taut. He nodded at me. Alongside Holmes, it was clear that indeed he had an inch or two of height on my cousin. As usual he wore a plain black cassock. His black hair was slightly tousled, and I reflected that his handsome looks—that square jaw, well-defined cheekbones and hazy blue eyes—must prove distracting to some female worshipers, especially the younger ones. I wondered briefly if Signorina Antonelli was immune to his charms, then realized that would be the last thing the poor girl was thinking about during her father’s final illness.
Holmes gestured at a velvet armchair with an elaborate pattern of red and gold. “Please have a seat.”
Blackwell stared gravely at him, as if this was the oddest suggestion he had ever heard and one which demanded deep reflection. At last he sat, but leaning slightly forward in the chair, his forearms poised on its arms, as if ready to spring up at any moment.
Holmes sat on the other end of the sofa from me. “Thank you for coming, Father.”
“You’re welcome.” Blackwell’s eyes were fixed on him, his expression still grim.
Holmes stared back. “I think you know why I wanted to see you.”
Blackwell opened his mouth, then closed it, even as he brusquely shook his head.
“Come, come, Father. We needn’t play games. I promise I mean you no harm.”
I frowned at Holmes, wondering what harm Blackwell could possibly fear from us.
Blackwell hesitated, then lowered his gaze. “I had hoped that your reputation might be exaggerated. What is it…? Why do you want to see me?”
“To discuss the theft of the relic and clear up a few details. You took it, didn’t you?”
Blackwell caught his breath, appearing grimmer still, and in his face, you could see the reflection of a brief inner struggle. “Yes.”
I sat up very straight. “What! Why ever would you do such a thing?”
Blackwell smiled bitterly. “Mr. Holmes?”
“Oh, Henry, isn’t that rather obvious? They hoped for a miracle cure. Given the count’s name, it may have seemed almost divinely preordained.”
“You are talking about Count Antonelli?” I asked. “I don’t see the connection.”
“No, Henry, not his surname, but his first name—Tommaso, the Italian for Thomas. Would San Tommaso not come to the aid of his namesake?”
A brief smile pulled at Blackwell’s mouth. “I see your reputation is not exaggerated in the least.”
“You may have hoped for a cure, but if not a cure, at least… Perhaps the count’s religious faith wavered with the approach of death. He had not only the saint’s name but his temperament: he was also a doubting Thomas.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. Very good indeed.”
“You hoped the relic might give him some spiritual consolation.”
“Yes.”
“Did it?”
Blackwell gave a great sigh, his blue eyes suddenly tormented. “No. Not in the least. To the contrary…” He swallowed, then sagged back into the chair. “We were so certain. We had prayed together for a long while, and Anna had totally convinced herself that it would work. I went to the basilica in the middle of the night. The key to the case was not difficult to find. I knew it was somewhere in the sanctuary, most likely somewhere high up. Monsignor Nardone is not skilled at subterfuge.
“Anna and I took the reliquary to the count in his bedroom. He was so gaunt and pale, hardly the man I knew. And unshaven—I don’t remember when he had last shaved. I had wrapped it up, and she triumphantly pulled away the towel to reveal the reliquary. He stared at it a long while without speaking. We hoped for the best, but soon it became apparent… At last he told us to get it away from him. Somehow it frightened him. He could not really shout, but his voice was hoarse and strained. And then, he whispered…”
Holmes waited a few seconds. “What did he whisper?”
“‘This is what I will soon become. Bones.’” Blackwell put his hand on his forehead. “There could be no greater punishment for my sin.”
“Sin?” I asked.
He let his hand drop and nodded. “I knew it was wrong, deep inside I always knew it was wrong, but I managed to convince myself… It was pride, it was spiritual arrogance, it was…”
“It was because you wanted to help him,” Holmes said. “He was suffering, and you wanted to help him.”
“All the same, I am a priest. I should have known better. Relics are not magical. I of all people should have known that. We could have prayed to Saint Thomas even without the relic. In retrospect, that would have been better—he would not have been so frightened. And the fear seemed to stay with him, to hover always at his side.”
Holmes regarded him closely. “I suspect you also did it for her.”
Blackwell clutched at the chair arms with his big brawny hands. “She had nothing to do with it! The fault is mine—all mine! I should have tried to discourage her. I should have told her—I should have insisted—that it was the wrong thing to do. I see that now.”
An odd variation of Holmes’s sardonic smile briefly pulled at his lips. “It was worth a try.”
Blackwell shook his head again. “No, it was not! And now I must pay for my crime.”
Holmes stared at him. “I told you I meant you no harm. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I have committed a serious crime, and I must suffer the consequences. I shall go to the Vatican constabulary—I shall go this very day!—confess everything and accept my punishment.” His voice had risen in a dramatic crescendo.
I had a sudden memory of Cardinal Cicogno’s face flushed with righteous anger. “You cannot do such a thing!”
“I must,” Blackwell said.
Holmes sat back in the sofa. “That would be most unwise, Father Blackwell. I think you—and the lady—have suffered enough.”
“She will not suffer! I will make it clear that it was all my idea, that I and I only am responsible. How ever?—why ever?—would they want to punish her? No, no, I alone stole the relic, and I alone shall pay the price.”
“And do you know what the price is likely to be?”
“I… perhaps they will simply turn me over to the Roman police. I am willing to spend time in prison if that is their judgment.”
“Are you familiar with the term degradatio, Father? Cardinal Cicogno was telling us what would happen to a priest if one was involved in the theft, and of course the cardinal is the ultimate authority over matters involving saints and relics.”
Blackwell’s lips parted perhaps half an inch, his face going pale. “He said that? Degradatio?”
“You Catholics do not use the term ‘defrocking,’ I believe, but that is what degradation amounts to. Do you really think that is what you deserve?”
Blackwell seemed unable to speak.
“Perhaps you made a mistake, but that is no reason to ruin your life and abandon your vocation. You certainly never meant to keep the relic, did you? You always intended to return it?”
“Certainly! I…” A brief pained smile appeared. “We said—I said—I was only borrowing it. I tried to tell myself that borrowing it for a good cause was not sinful.”
I gave a sharp nod. “And you were right! Don’t be ridiculous. You may have made a mistake, but this was no terrible sin.”
Blackwell bit briefly at his lower lip.
“I would tend to concur with Henry’s appraisal, Father. Confess everything to Monsignor Greene and let him absolve you. Then consider the matter closed and put it all behind you.”
“You… you tempt me.”
“With all that has happened in the last few days,” Holmes said, “I doubt that you can think clearly just now. Don’t do anything rash or foolhardy. Greene seems a sensible man. I suspect he, too, has figured this all out, and you can go to him for advice. But first you must get some rest, see to the funeral of the count, and above all, you must not torment yourself. What is done is done. After all, no one was harmed in any way by the theft. Oh, several people were greatly consternated, but they will get over it—as will you. Get on with your life and be done with it.”
Blackwell’s face sagged, and then an enormous yawn contorted his face, even as his hand rose to cover his mouth. “I am so tired. Could it really be so simple?”
“Sherlock is absolutely right,” I said.
His brow was furrowed. “But is it… is it really the right thing to do? I don’t know if…” His face contorted into a smile. “Are you a good angel offering consolation, or a bad one merely tempting me?”
Holmes smiled. “I am hardly any sort of angel. I am only human. But while I may not be traditionally religious, I do have a strong moral sense. It is imperative in my profession if one is to survive without being corrupted. In this case, I assure you, not pursuing the matter with the authorities is surely the right thing to do.”
I could see in the priest’s face that he was still struggling. “As I said, Sherlock is right—leave well enough alone. I suppose, too, that you haven’t been eating or sleeping normally?”
