The Italian Sherlock Holmes

Reginald Hill

Halloa! What's this,' said Sherlock Holmes, studying the sheet of paper he had just removed from a thick white envelope heavily embossed with a crest I did not recognise. 'I don't suppose you have ever attended an execution, Watson?'

'Indeed I have,' I replied, not displeased to be able for once to surprise my friend. 'As duty medical officer at a hanging in Afghanistan. Not my happiest memory of army life. Why do you ask?'

He tossed the sheet of paper to me.

'These Italians are an original race,' he said. 'This is surely the rarest Christmas entertainment a man was ever invited to!'

The news that Sherlock Holmes was wintering in Rome had spread through the British community like wildfire, almost eclipsing the rumour that the Prince of Wales, incognito, was dallying with an opera singer at Ostia. Had we so desired, we could have dined at the best tables in the city every night of Advent. But it was not for the social round that we had paused in Rome on our way north from Naples. I have met with few men capable of greater physical and mental exertion than my friend Holmes, but frequently once the occasion of such exertions has passed, a period of deep lassitude ensues in which that most brilliant of minds fades to the merest glimmer of consciousness in an all but moribund shell. For a few days after the conclusion of the affair of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife, which had taken us from the foetid cellars of the Camorra's Neapolitan stronghold to the smoking rim of Mount Vesuvius, I had hoped that the surge of energy success always brings would carry him safe across Europe to the healing solace of Mrs Hudson's traditional Yuletide cheer in Baker Street. But as we entered Rome he had suffered an almost complete nervous collapse and there had been nothing for it but to take rooms in a respectable pensione and bide out time till a quiet atmosphere and healthy diet should have worked their repairs.

Alas, in Italy the one is almost as hard to find as the other, and once the news of his presence had spread, I was hard pressed for at least ten hours of each day turning visitors from our door.

The written invitations, however, I admitted in the hope that something in them might spark an interest. But up till now they had all fluttered from his hand after the most cursory of glances. So to see him react with something of his old alertness to this latest invitation at first made my spirits rise. When however I reread the elegantly penned missive, my pleasure diminished somewhat.

My dear Holmes,

My delight at hearing from my good friend the British ambassador that you are presently in Rome was naturally tempered by learning of the reasons for your stay. May I join with all the honest men of Europe in wishing you a speedy return to health?

But even out of evil may come good, and though you may set it down to mere Romish superstition, forgive me if I see the hand of God in this (I hope) temporary indisposition of yours. How else am I to interpret your unforseeable presence in my city on the very day which sees the culmination of my first poor efforts to emulate your unique methods? I refer of course to the tragic case of the murder of my beloved uncle, Count Leonardo Montesecco. Tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, the foul assassin, Giuseppe Strepponi, will meet his richly deserved fate on the scaffold in the Piazza San Cassiano. I and a few interested friends will be gathering to witness this triumphant vindication of the laws of God and man, and I would be honoured if, health permitting, you and your companion, Dr Watson, would care to join us. If so, my carriage will collect you at eight of the clock.

With deepest respect from one who is honoured to inscribe himself your disciple and colleague,

The signature was a hieroglyph too elegant to be called a scrawl but too ornate for legibility.

'So what do you make of it, Watson?' asked Holmes.

'To invite us to watch some poor devil being put to death on the Eve of our Saviour's birth is such a monstrous piece of impiety,' I replied indignantly, 'that I can only hope the missive is a fraud.'

'No fraud,' he replied with a lively smile which cheered my heart. 'I know the coat of arms of the Montesecco family, and from what I recall of the hand and signature of Bruno Montesecco, the present count, the letter bears none of the inevitable telltales of forgery.'

'In that case,' I replied, 'it is an impudence as well as an impiety. I am sorry that such an ancient family has finally forgotten its manners. Will you dictate our refusal or shall I pen it myself?'

Now Holmes threw back his head and let out that characteristic cackle of laughter which I had not heard for many days and, despite my indignation, my heart grew lighter still.

'I think, dear fellow, in your present state of mind,' he said, 'that any reply from you is likely to be read as an invitation to pistols at dawn, or more probably a stiletto at night in view of your plebeian origins. No, I shall write myself and what is more, I shall accept the invitation with pleasure. When in Rome, Watson! But first ring the bell and summon up Signora Grillo to order some luncheon. Also I have some telegrams I would like to send.'

As he spoke he leapt to his feet in search of his neglected pipe, and the heavy shawls in which his narrow frame had been swathed, even though a roaring sea-coal fire turned the room into an oven, fell away. And with them fell the greater part of my resentment at Count Montesecco's invitation.

'Tell me, Holmes,' I said as we sat over luncheon, which I was pleased to note he wolfed down, 'how is it you came acquainted with this Count Montesecco? And why should he think the fate of this poor devil Strepponi should be of interest to you? And is it the custom of this country to treat executions as an occasion of social festivity? And does ... ?'

'Stay, stay, my dear Watson,' he cried. 'Let me finish this excellent cutlet and I shall gladly try to answer your questions.'

Later as we sat before the fire, adding the sweet smoke of my Arcadia mixture to that of the coals, he began his explanation.

'I have never met the count in person, but he began writing to me early this year, before he had succeeded to his murdered uncle's title. From the style and manner of his writing, I put him down as the kind of young aristocrat who is rich enough to be idle but a little too intelligent to be satisfied with the customary recreations of his class. His restless enquiring mind, in search of some pastime which might satisfy his desire for activity without demeaning his self-esteem, chanced upon some of those infernal scribblings of yours about my cases, and having made his first deduction, which was that in England where we still set the standards for such things, it is possible to be a consultant detective without ceasing to be a gentleman, he decided to follow my example.'

'He must have a pretty large conceit of himself,' I observed.

'I think there can be little doubt of that,' replied my friend dryly. 'I think that in his very first letter he pointed out a couple of apparent deficiencies in my deductive processes which he very handsomely laid at the door of my inefficient chronicler rather than my inefficient technique.'

'The impudent puppy!' I snorted.

'Youth must be given its head, Watson,' said Holmes. 'I replied politely but coolly, not so much because of anything I found offensive in his manner, though I was always left aware, despite the flattering tone of his letters, that he was an aristocrat and I was not, but rather because I am sensible that my methods misapplied are as capable of causing serious damage as a surgeon's scalpel in the hands of a schoolboy.'

'But he persisted in the correspondence?'

'Indeed. A snub must be very blatant to penetrate the complacence of such an innate conviction of social superiority,' said Holmes. 'And I saw no reason to descend to rudeness. Then late in the summer I received a letter which was so full of the sheer excitement of investigation that it almost forgot to patronize! After bemoaning in previous letters the lack of such challenging crimes as seemed to be the commonplace of my life, he found himself actually present at the scene, indeed almost the occasion of one of Rome's most sensational murders. The fact that the victim was his uncle, the head of his own noble family, seemed almost inconsequential when set against the opportunity afforded him to investigate. Or perhaps he did not think it seemly to share a private grief with a stranger.'

'But from the sound of it, his investigation of the crime has met with some success?'

'So it would appear. His first letter on the subject, written the day after the murder, told me of a few preliminary deductions he had made and forecast complete success within twenty-four hours. I must confess I found his confidence smacked somewhat of arrogance.'

I concealed a smile. When it comes to an arrogant assumption of his own infallibility, Holmes can on occasion make the Holy Father ex cathedra sound like a bashful tyro.

'The next letter came hot on the heels of the first and proclaimed absolute triumph. The murderer was caught and all on account of Montesecco's insights. By now rather than asking advice, I felt he was with difficulty restraining himself from giving it. I sent a polite letter of congratulation. Since coming to Italy I have twice noted his name in the papers in connection with other investigations. They are calling him the Italian Sherlock Holmes! But as you know I have been too busy for more than a cursory interest. Now, however, fate has brought us close and I find I have a fancy to meet this prodigy. Who knows, Watson, he may be able to teach this old dog some new tricks, hey?'

'He would need to get up very early in the morning to do that,' I said loyally.

'From the sound of his invitation, that is one trick he has learned already,' said Holmes so merrily that I went to bed that night feeling more comfortable in my mood than for many a day.

Precisely on the stroke of eight on the morning of Christmas Eve the bell of out pensione was rung with a most imperious hand and a moment later Signora Grillo, our padrona, appeared to me in a state of great excitement to announce the presence of the Count Montesecco's coach. I summoned Holmes and was a little taken aback when on seeing me he burst into laughter and said, 'I hope the kernel is a little more fashionably shaped than the husk, Watson.'

Uncertain what local custom decreed was the acceptable garb for an execution, I had opted for comfort and was wearing my heavy Abercrombie with my long plaid scarf wound three times round my neck, my earflapped travelling hat pulled firmly on my head, and my legs cased in my stoutest boots. Holmes by contrast was clad in a light jacket and silk shirt, with a thin cloak thrown over his shoulders.

I said sternly, 'I may not know much about fashion, Holmes, but I have stood on more parade grounds than you and I think this wind which has rattled our panes all night will strike as cold in a Roman piazza as it would on Horseguards. I would advise you at the very least to change into your twill trousers.'

He looked a touch disconcerted and replied, 'You may be right, but it is too late to change now. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings. Hurry, or else we shall be late!'

I told him rather testily as we bowled along that as the execution was fixed for nine-thirty and nothing in this country ever seemed to start on time anyway, there was little need for haste.

'Indeed,' I concluded, I cannot imagine why Montesecco should request our presence so far in advance of his main entertainment/

'Come now, Watson,' he said. 'Surely you know that it is not the execution but our presence which is the main entertainment.'

I brooded on this till, as we neared the Piazza San Cassiano, our progress became noticeably slower. Looking from the window, I became aware that we were not the only people drawn out on a raw Christmas Eve by the prospect of witnessing a man's death. There were many other carriages and also men on horseback, but the greater part of those flocking to the square were pedestrians with every conceivable variety of citizen represented, from sober, suited businessmen to the rag, tag and bobtail. The chill winter wind was pulling at hats and tousling hair and I said to Holmes, 'Now you may see why our presence was required so early. From the look of it, no latecomer will get to see more than the top of the scaffold.'

He did not reply but I saw him shiver and, reproaching myself for my triumphant tone, I started to remove my coat, saying, 'Here, Holmes, take this. You've only just risen from your sick bed and your lungs could easily take an infection from this raw, dank air.'

He smiled at me with real affection and said, 'Watson, you are more good-hearted than I deserve. Thank you, dear fellow, but I do not think that after all your sacrifice will be necessary.'

I looked out of the window and saw that we had passed the narrow entrance to the Piazza San Cassiano and were coming to a halt outside a haberdashery before which a liveried flunkey was waiting to bow us out of the coach, after which he bowed us through the shop doorway, down a passageway, across a mean and shadowy courtyard, through another door, up several flights of stairs, and finally, with his deepest bow of all, ushered us into a spacious room across which advanced a tall, handsome, moustachioed man in his mid-twenties, showing dazzling white teeth in a wide smile.

'Mr Holmes!' he cried. 'Welcome. After so many letters between us, I am delighted at last to make your acquaintance in the flesh.'

'And I yours, Count,' said Holmes, taking his hand. 'May I present my dear friend and colleague, Dr John Watson.'

'Delighted,' I said gruffly. To tell the truth I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. There were many other people in the room, of both sexes, all dressed most elegantly. The room was heated by a large stove and already I was beginning to feel overwarm, but my main discomfiture rose from my knowledge that I had seen no reason to wear beneath my topcoat anything other than a pair of balding moleskin trousers and the leather-patched Norfolk jacket which has accompanied me on so many outdoor expeditions.

'Dr Watson, the Boswell of the great detective!' cried Montesecco, wringing my hand warmly. 'It was through your writings that I first became acquainted with Mr Holmes's talents. You are the Vergil who has led me safe through the labyrinths of his mind.'

I cannot say I cared much for the flowery style of the Italian Sherlock Holmes and thought of pointing out that Vergil did most of his ciceroning in the circles of Hell. But Holmes, alert to both my mental distaste and my physical discomfort, took my arm and urged me towards a window which opened onto a broad metal balcony, saying, 'I see we must brave the elements after all, Watson. Once again you have demonstrated that while I may lay some claim to superiority of insight, in matters of foresight, you are the master. The rest of us must shiver while you stay snug and warm.'

'I have provided cloaks for everybody,' said the count petulantly.

'Then we shall all be comfortable together,' said Holmes, stepping out onto the balcony.

All concern about my comfort or discomfort vanished as I took in the scene spread out below.

The house we were in stood at one end of the long and narrow Piazza San Cassiano, directly opposite the church of San Cassiano at the other end, some six hundred feet away. Already the square was full of people though not yet so crowded that they could not move freely about. It was a scene that an artist with our vantage point might have used as a model for a panorama of Bartholemew Fair. Hawkers hawked, tumblers tumbled, beggars begged, and the citizens of Rome strolled around in topcoats and tailcoats and long cloaks and short cloaks and some in no cloaks at all, wearing barely sufficient rags to cover their modesty. But all had that complacent air which says as clearly now as it must have done in Caesar's time, 'We are true Romans and may not be touched by any law but our own.'

At the very centre of the square stood the instrument of that law. Over the trough of a dry fountain had been erected the scaffold, a ramshackle jerry-built platform of uneven, unpainted planks some eight feet high, with a rickety ladder leaning against it, the ascent of which looked perilous enough to despatch a condemned man without troubling the waiting axe, which gleamed sinisterly, high in its towering frame. The polished and, I hoped, finely honed blade contrasted powerfully with the ponderous rusting mass of metal attached above to provide the motivating force necessary to drive the cutting edge through the bone and sinew of a man's neck.

The scaffold was ringed with foot soldiers, and a double line of them showed the route from the church by which the condemned man would be brought to his doom. The soldiers were stood at ease, which command is taken much more literally here than it would be by a similar escort from a British regiment. The men slouched, scratched, chatted with their neighbours, and even laid their weapons on the ground to stretch their arms in huge weary yawns, while their officers strolled around, smoking cigarillos and occasionally exchanging banter with some of the ladies of the town.

'Tell me, Mr Holmes,' said the count, who had followed us onto the balcony, 'have you ever had the pleasure of following one of your cases to this last extremity?'

'No, Count,' said Holmes. 'I am glad to say that in my country we have abandoned the practice of turning some poor devil's death into a sideshow.'

'You are indeed a people of great restraint,' murmured the count, not making it sound like a compliment. 'But there is a certain completeness, a roundness if you like, in seeing a matter out to the bitter end, particularly when, as in this case, the investigator was present from the very beginning.'

'Ah, you actually witnessed Strepponi committing the murder, then?' said Holmes. 'I should have thought that would have rendered my deductive methods somewhat redundant.'

Someone laughed behind us. The count turned and the laughter stopped. This was clearly a man who did not care for contradiction.

'I forget my manners,' he said. 'Come and meet my other guests.'

He and Holmes stepped back inside. I remained on the balcony, partly for comfort, partly because from this vantage I could take close note of the room and its inmates without my being noted.

It did not need my friend's sharp perception to remark that, though the room was elegantly furnished and made gay by the beribboned icons and silk-draped religious pictures with which these Papists mark the season of Christmas, its basic fabric was in an advanced state of dilapidation. I guessed that the count had hired the apartment purely as a vantage point for the execution and commanded his people to make it temporarily fit for fashionable society.

The first guest in line was in something of the same condition as the room. In his sixties, cadaverous of face and skeletal of frame, he was clothed in colourful silk and mohair and his long bony fingers were banded with diamonds and gold.

'No need for introduction,' said Holmes, offering his hand. 'Who could work within the law and not be acquainted with the famous Judge Pinelli? I trust Your Honour's respiration has improved from your recent voyage to the Holy Land on Count Montesecco's yacht?¹

The man's jaw dropped like Marley's when he unwound his scarf in the famous Christmas story. Recovering, he said in fair English, 'I see the count has given you my curriculum vitae, Mr Holmes.'

'Not in the least,' replied my friend, smiling. 'As the principal trial judge, your likeness was in the newspaper cuttings which the count was kind enough to send me. As for the rest, your lip and jaw are slightly paler than the rest of your face, suggesting that you recently grew a moustache and beard during a period of exposure to wind and warm weather. From this I deduced a long voyage on a private rather than a public vessel, permitting you to indulge in not shaving without provoking the interest of other travellers. The count's evident gratitude to you for your conduct of the trial provoked me to guess that the vessel was his private yacht. And the enamelled medal you are wearing of Our Lady of the Rocks looks new enough to suggest recent visit to that particular shrine.'

'And the respiratory problem, Mr Holmes?' asked a handsome blonde woman of about forty, clad in the kind of loose flowing garment ladies are wont to wear when they become self-conscious about their spreading figures.

'Elementary, my dear Signora Masina,' said Holmes. 'I have heard the learned judge cough dryly several times since I entered the room. My good friend Dr Watson could have diagnosed much more precisely. But your pain at losing such a very dear friend is beyond mere medical remedy, and I think you are wise to have decided to go and live with your sister in America.'

As he spoke, he bowed in the direction of another woman, dark and slim and wearing a long grey dress of rather old-fashioned cut.

For a second Signora Masina looked disconcerted. Then she rallied and said, 'Now this is first rate, Mr Holmes. I daresay my likeness too appeared in the papers, but as for my sister and my debate about joining her in the United States, only a wizard could know of that. And don't tell me there's a family resemblance. As your proverb puts it, we are chalk and cheese!'

'The dark and the bright, two different kinds of beauty,' said Holmes with greater gallantry than I had suspected he possessed. 'The accent of your English suggests a period already spent in America. This lady's dress is of a style more popular just now in New York than in Rome. She wears a brooch and you a ring which look to have been set by the same hand perhaps fifty years ago. It could be that you have a common jeweller, but it's more likely that these are part of a set of jewellery divided on inheritance, and a mother is the most likely source of such a bequest. What would be more probable than that a sister should rush to your side at your time of grief and offer you a permanent home in the bosom of her family.'

'In other words, these deductions of yours are mere guesses, and your fame depends largely on folk tending to recall the few instances when you hit the mark and forget the many where you are wide.'

This came from the lady in grey who spoke English with a very pronounced Yankee drawl and had a cynical eye to match.

I waited to see how my friend's gallantry would survive this attack but the count came smoothly in.

'I think, Mrs Jardine, that the occasion of our meeting here today shows that there is rather more to our methods than mere guesswork,' he murmured. 'Mr Holmes, would you like to make a further display of your powers with regard to any other of my guests?'

This was clever, I thought. Our methods implied an equality of standing with Holmes while a further display of your powers suggested that such vulgar exhibitionism was Holmes's alone.

Holmes glanced at me ruefully. Perhaps the count had hit a nerve. Or perhaps he had recollected the solemnity of the occasion.

The introductions continued, confirming my impression that most of those present had some close connection with the murder of the last Count Montesecco. As well as Signora Masina and her sister, Mrs Jardine, there were present the family lawyer, Signor Randone; Captain Zardi, who had been in charge of the official investigation; Dr Provenzale, the attending medical officer; and a very beautiful young woman called Claudia Medioli, who stood in an ambiguous relationship to the count.

Even the trio of servants who were constantly on hand with hot chocolate, cold champagne and a variety of little sweetmeats, turned out to have been in the employ of the dead man and present in his house at the time of his murder. There were two maids, Violetta and Susi, and in charge of them Serge Rosi, who had been the old count's and was now the new count's major-domo.

Finally there was a group of some half dozen men standing a little apart who turned out to be representatives of the Italian press. Just as the introductions were completed, the door burst open and a young man of about the count's age entered. From his long unkempt hair, tied back in the peasant style, and his rather shabby suit, which stood out against the general elegance of the assemblage, I at first took him for another servant. But he came forward boldly, seizing a glass of champagne en route, letting his bright brown eyes run lightly over the other guests with a faintly mocking smile as he said in Italian, 'Sorry to be late, Montesecco, on such an illustrious occasion.' Then, switching to an accented but very correct English, he went on, 'And this must be the famous British Sherlock Holmes. How proud you must be that your influence now helps men to die in countries other than your own!'

Even allowing for the fact that he spoke a foreign language, this came close to being offensive, but Holmes merely held out his hand and said, 'I find no man's death an occasion for pride, Signor Chiari. Like yours, my interest is solely in la verita, the truth.'

For a moment the young man looked disconcerted, then the mocking smile returned and he said. 'So the count has warned you I am coming! Or are you going to claim it is the printers' ink on my fingers or the paper dust in my hair that helped you to make your conclusion?'

'I could hardly warn Mr Holmes of your arrival, as you were not invited,' said Montesecco coldly. 'But now you are here I will not deprive you of this chance to see how real justice works.'

Chiari bowed satirically. Holmes said nothing, but for once I needed no elucidation. It has long been his habit to study not only the English newspapers but also those of the main European capitals. 'The train and the steamship have made crime international, Watson,' he would tell me. 'It is no longer enough to know only what is going on in your own parish.' La Verita was an Italian weekly journal which I had often noticed lying around our chambers in Baker Street. All I knew of it was that its politics were radical, its style sensational, and its proprietor and principal reporter was Endo Chiari. I presume the magazine had at some time printed a picture of him, and of course Holmes never forgot a face.

Chiari now turned away from the circle that had formed around Holmes and the count and began a flirtatious conversation with Susi, the prettier of the two maids, till Rosi, the major-domo, sternly commanded her to go and fetch more refreshment. Outside in the square there was a sudden blare of a trumpet and everyone hurried out onto the balcony in case this signalled that events were going to start early. How anyone could spend a day in this country. let alone be a native of it, and still believe this was possible, I do not know! The trumpeter turned out to be some enterprising showman eager to attract customers to enter and view what he claimed to be the mummified and pickled remains of previous executed felons. The chill wind soon drove the others back indoors, but when they had retreated I found that Chiari remained. Perhaps his shabby suit was made of sturdier cloth than their finery, but he showed no sign of feeling the cold and leaned on the rail of the balcony, looking down at the growing crowd below with a mixture of sorrow and disgust.

'So, Dr Watson,' he said, 'and how shall you write of this spectacle you are to see here today?'

'I do not know that I shall write of it, sir,' I said shortly.

He turned his mocking gaze on and said, 'But surely you are the chronicler of all Mr Holmes's triumphs?'

'Whether this be a triumph or no, sir, is not for me to say. But it is certainly not one of Mr Holmes's.'

'You say so? The count certainly gives him a portion of credit. The name Montesecco does not yet have quite the same power to make the virtuous bow and the criminal tremble, and though it must irk him, for the time being at least he is content to pull in the same yoke as your master and let himself be called the Italian Holmes.'

I drew myself up and replied, 'Sir, you may say what you like about your fellow countryman, though as he is your host and it is his champagne you are drinking, I should have thought common decency demanded some restraint. But I would have you know that Mr Sherlock Holmes is not my master, he is my close and trusted friend, and I will greatly resent any further slurs on his character.'

He frowned and said, 'Is the truth then a slur in England?'

'On the contrary, sir. It is our lodestone,' I declared.

'Then let us without quarrelling about slurs accept this truth,' he said. 'The count has used your friend's reputation to help secure his own, and by his presence here today, Mr Holmes seems to confirm the close connection.'

I naturally resented the implication but when I peered back into the room and saw how Holmes, like all the others, seemed to be hanging on every word the count said as he described the course of his investigation, I began to wonder whether my friend's recent nervous debility had temporarily impaired his fine judgement.

This was the tale that we heard.

The murder had been committed early on the last day of August in the Montesecco palazzo on the Via di Monserrato. At eleven o' clock in the morning a terrible scream (like the sound of a pig being butchered,' averred the maid, Susi, who came from country stock) was heard throughout the palace, bringing all who heard it rushing towards its apparent source on the first floor. Here they found Giuseppe Strepponi struggling to force open the door of Count Leonardo's study, which seemed to be locked on the inside. Rosi, the major-domo, was one of the first on the scene. He quickly produced his set of household keys, unlocked the door and he and Strepponi burst in to discover the count lying across his desk with his throat cut from ear to ear. The weapon, still lying on the desk, appeared to be an ornamental dagger honed to a razor edge, which the count used as a paper knife. Strepponi attempted to administer first aid, but it was far too late and the only significant result of his efforts was to cover himself with blood. Dr Provenzale was summoned and he confirmed what was evident to all present, that the old count was dead. The authorities were informed and Captain Zardi began his investigation.

Zardi, a laconic man with an upright military bearing, here took up the story. The key to the study was found on a marble plinth supporting a statue of Marcus Aurelius just inside the door. The central of the three windows was wide open and on the sill was the print of a bloody hand. The window opened onto the inner court of the palace, which was laid out as a formal garden. Up the wall grew an ancient vine, its thick, gnarled branches easily capable of bearing a man's weight.

From the courtyard garden there were many doorways and passages providing a wide choice of exits. Zardi immediately ordered a thorough search of the palace, but no fugitive was found, nor could any of the inmates recall seeing any stranger on the premises that morning.

Zardi now questioned Strepponi, who told him that the count had sent him away when he reported for duty at his usual time of ten a.m., saying that he would not require his services for another hour at least, as he was expecting his lawyer, Randone. Strepponi retired to his room on the upper floor. At five to eleven he came down and was just approaching the study door when he heard the scream from within. He rushed forward and tried to enter but found the door locked. He could hear sounds of movement from within but of course by the time Rosi arrived and unlocked the door, the room was empty, save for the dying old man.

Now Zardi applied all his energy to discovering who the visitor might have been. Everyone in the household had to account for his or her movements and very few of them, even among the servants, could produce witnesses to their movements in the half hour before the death. Only the young count, who had been with Signorina Medioli in the chamber immediately below his uncle's study, had a real alibi. On hearing the scream, he had rushed upstairs just in time to see his uncle dying in Strepponi's arms.

'I was naturally too stricken with grief for rational thought in the first hours after this tragic loss,' he said gravely. 'But once the flood tide of emotion had begun to ebb and I started to examine my new responsibilities as head of an ancient family, I knew that first and most urgent among them was to track down and deliver to punishment this foul assassin. I put myself, my wealth and my little store of wisdom at Captain Zardi's disposal. Naturally as a professional officer of the law, he received my offer of help courteously but coldly.'

He smiled at the captain, who gave a somewhat ambiguous shrug.

'But when I told him that I was a student of and in close correspondence with the famous Sherlock Holmes, whose services the experts of Scotland Yard are not ashamed to call upon, he showed the other side of his professionalism and immediately admitted me to the penetralia of his thought.'

'No fool, is he?' murmured Chiari in my ear. 'He learned quickly from your friend's experience that there is little advantage to be gained from making the police look like idiots!'

'You assume a great knowledge of Mr Holmes's mind,' I said frostily.

'Only what I have learned from your books,' he retorted. 'Listen and you will see how the count can triumph without appearing triumphant.'

'Captain Zardi had done all the groundwork,' said Montesecco modestly. 'All I was able to bring to the investigation were the reflexions of a quiet mind and a burning personal desire to see my dear uncle avenged. First I examined closely what it was that the captain had found outside and beneath the study window. This was most significant.'

He paused and right on cue, reminding me of myself, Holmes said, 'And what did these findings consist of?'

Montesecco paused for a perfectly judged beat of time, then, with a casual drama worthy of Holmes himself, said, 'Nothing. Absolutely nothing.'

Holmes nodded in approval.

'And of course you asked yourself, could a bloodstained man have climbed down the vine without leaving some traces on the leaves?'

'Precisely.'

'Perhaps he jumped,' said Holmes.

'There was no sign of anyone having landed on the ground with the kind of force such a leap would have entailed,' said the count. 'Also you will recall that I myself was in the room below with la Signorina Medioli. I am sure that one or both of us would have noticed the sudden descent of a human form past our window.'

'A fair deduction,' admitted Holmes. 'So where did your reasoning take you next. Count?'

'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,' said this young pup with a nod in Holmes's direction which acknowledged the source of the maxim to those who already knew it without admitting it wasn't his own coining to those who didn't. 'If the murderer cannot have escaped via the window, then he must still have been in the room.'

'But the room was empty save for the murdered man.'

'On the contrary. From their own testimony, Rosi here and Strepponi did not pause on the threshold and take a quiet stock of what they saw. No, they rushed straight into the study. My uncle was dying but not yet dead. Rosi reached him first—is that not so, Serge?'

'Yes, Count,' said the major-domo. 'I flung open the door and for a moment we stood frozen on the threshold. There, silhouetted in the bright beam of sunlight which poured through the open window sat your uncle, the old count, his lifeblood streaming from his throat. Now I rushed forward with Strepponi close behind, and as I stood over your uncle, debating how best to proceed, the monstrous assassin pushed by me and took his victim in his arms, cradling his head on his chest and calling to me to summon the physician.'

It was clearly a speech he had made many times. I could imagine how very boring his friends and family probably found it after such frequent repetition!

Montesecco smiled at him approvingly and said, 'So you see, Mr Holmes, given that a man is not murdered until he is dead, there were two others in the study with the murdered man.'

This seemed to me so much chop-logic but Holmes appeared rapt.

'Continue, Count,' he said. 'This is quite fascinating.'

'See how the good teacher shares in his pupil's progress,' murmured Chiari.

'I suggest you wait a little,' I said with more confidence than I felt. 'The jails of England are filled with men who believed they could read the direction of Holmes's thought.'

'So. A miracle worker. And when he says, "That is the man!" are there any who quarrel?'

'It would take a very foolish or a very brilliant man to dispute the reasoning of Sherlock Holmes,' I said with some fervour.

'Such a reputation is like the Gorgon's gaze. You must be careful where you turn it,¹ he said enigmatically.

There was no time to examine his point. Montesecco was reaching the climax of his tale.

'I spoke to the doctor now and asked him if a man would scream after he had his throat cut. The doctor said he thought it unlikely that in such a circumstance a man would be able to produce the kind of noise that was heard throughout the household. I then examined the handle of the door on the outside and found traces of blood there. My suspicions were now thoroughly roused. I examined the key found by the statue of Marcus Aurelius and sure enough there were dried flakes of blood on it also. I asked myself if a man who had just committed a murder in the course of which his victim had screamed so loud that the alarm must have been raised would have been so composed that he would rush to the door, lock it, and place the key carefully where it was found, before escaping. Surely, even if he did have the presence of mind to lock the door, he would have left the key in the lock?'

'Perhaps,' objected Holmes, 'the door was locked before rather than after the murder.'

Montesecco looked at Holmes with just the expression of long-suffering exasperation I have seen on my friend's face when some plodding policeman is slow to take a point.

'Then why should there be blood on the key?' he said. 'No, everything was leading to the sole explanation which took account of all the facts. Question: why was there blood on the key? Answer: because the murderer had touched it after the murder. Question: why was there blood on the outer door handle? Answer: the same, because the murderer had touched it after the murder. Question: who had let out the terrible scream which roused the house? Answer: the murderer! You see his ingenuity. Strepponi, having slain my uncle, sees that his hands and cuffs are covered with blood. He rushes to the window, leaving a print there, then realising that it is going to be almost impossible to escape by that route undetected, he goes instead to the door, unlocks it, checks to be sure there is no one close outside, steps out, locks the door behind him, lets out that terrible scream, and starts rattling the door handle as if he is desperate to get in. Rosi appears, unlocks the door and rushes in. Behind him, Strepponi places the key by the statue, then rushes to his victim and takes him in his arms, partly to give himself a reason for being covered in blood, partly to prevent anyone else administering any aid which might have delayed my uncle's death. I immediately placed my findings in the hands of Captain Zardi, who then performed his duties with the vigour for which he is renowned.'

'Again, the sop to Cerberus,' murmured Chiari.

The captain nodded his appreciation and said in his bluff military manner, 'I meanwhile had interviewed all present in the palace, including Signor Randone, who told me he had just arrived for his appointment with the old count.'

'And I could not see how Strepponi should have imagined my appointment was earlier in view of the fact that it was arranged by himself in conjunction with my clerk,' interposed the lawyer.

'With this in mind, and after due consideration of the Count Montesecco's investigations,' resumed Zardi, 'I took the suspected man, Strepponi, into custody and searched his room. There I found correspondence of a threatening nature from Giulio Tebaldo, a well-known usurer, requiring immediate repayment of a large loan. When confronted, Strepponi admitted he had gone deeply into debt in order to purchase gifts for a certain lady with whom he had become deeply infatuated but without his feelings being reciprocated. Tebaldo, when interviewed, admitted that the evening prior to the murder he had sent a messenger round to talk to Strepponi. By messenger I understood him to mean thug. The messenger had returned with some items of jewellery on account, and a promise that Strepponi would be in a position to repay the balance within twenty-four hours.'

'And do we know the name of this lady?' enquired Holmes.

There was a silence. Then Claudia Medioli said, 'It was I. At first it was amusing, then he became a nuisance. Of course I returned his gifts but he kept sending more.'

'And did you tell your friend, the count?'

'No,' she said, her fine brown eyes downcast. 'His sense of honour would have required that he secured Strepponi's dismissal from his uncle's service. I was weak, and wished the young man no ill. How I wish now that I had spoken earlier!'

She wiped away a tear. Beside me, Chiari snorted derisively.

The count touched her arm comfortingly, then said, 'So now we had a motive. Strepponi approached my uncle for money. My uncle was a kind man, but he despised any weakling who let himself fall into the hands of the usurers.'

'Can't have had much time for his nephew, then,' muttered Chiari.

'But if my uncle could not help him living, Strepponi knew he could help him dead. In his will there was a generous legacy, token of my uncle's misplaced regard and more than enough to help him from his present troubles. Strepponi denied knowing of this, but Signor Randone was able to confirm that a copy of the will lay among my uncle's papers to which Strepponi as secretary had ready access. Perhaps my uncle in his disgust now threatened to remove him from his will.'

'This is possible,' said Randone. 'It was on a matter of his will that the old count had summoned me to see him.'

Montesecco frowned a little at this interruption, then resumed, 'So this egregious villain, finding himself in a desperate situation, did not hesitate to put his own security above the life of his noble benefactor, and slew him like a dog.'

There was a moment's pause, during which all the company save Holmes, myself and Endo Chiari showed signs of deep emotion. In some cases it looked likely to have burst out in the kind of loud lamentation these Latins are prone to, had it not been interrupted by a huge cry, half-welcoming, half-contumelious, from the mob in the square. Instantly all the guests crowded out onto the balcony, which creaked and groaned so much that I felt there was a real risk that we would all be precipitated to join the crowd below.

The cause of the uproar was the approach to the scaffold of a tightly bunched squad of foot soldiers, bayonets flashing in the wintry sunlight. In their midst, crouched low as if to conceal himself from the noisy mob, was a thin, shaven-headed man with a furtive, frightened expression whom at first I took to be the condemned prisoner.

'Why is he not manacled?' I enquired of Chiari.

The journalist laughed and said, 'You are mistaken, my friend. This is not Strepponi. This is the executioner who is held in such low esteem by the common people that they would subject him to his own foul craft if he dared appear without his armed guard.'

I glanced at my pocket watch. It gave ten minutes to the appointed hour. Gould it be that in this matter alone, the Italians were untypically punctual?

Someone coughed. A small sound against the chatter of the guests and the tumult from the mob below as the executioner ascended his deadly machine. But it reduced all those on the balcony to silence as I had seen it reduce many other assemblages to silence during our long association, and every eye turned towards Sherlock Holmes.

'My dear count,' he said. 'My felicitations. To solve any murder requires the keenest of intellects, the finest of judgements. To solve a case with which you personally are so closely and painfully involved requires a dedication and a will almost superhuman.'

There was another huge roar from the crowd, mingled with a fanfare of trumpets. In the square the officers mounted their horses and unsheathed their sabres. The hundred or so foot soldiers lounging around seized their arms, fixed bayonets and cleared the corridor from the church, which in the relaxed atmosphere of the previous hour had been encroached upon by strolling pedestrians and pedlars of sweetmeats and cigar merchants. Then the bay of the mob suddenly declined to a single mighty gasp of superstitious awe, and many of them sank on one knee as out of the church emerged a macabre procession of priest and monks, some carrying banners, others, reliquaries, with at their centre two who bore above their cowled heads a huge, brightly painted crucifix on which hung an effigy of Christ, all draped in black hessian.

Holmes continued as if there had been no disturbance.

'Our art, Count, as you so clearly understand, is to select the single truth out of a wide array of erroneous possibilities, to refine what might be into what is. Above all we must not let ourselves be diverted from our purpose. A lesser man might for instance have wondered why, if Strepponi knew the lawyer's appointment was for eleven, he chose to include that particular lie in his story.

Or why, having had all of his expensive gifts returned from the signorina, he did not return them whence they came, getting the most part of his money refunded and thus clearing his debts. A lesser man, needing to confirm to himself that the death cry could not have emanated from the dying man, might have wasted his and the doctor's time by checking whether in cutting the jugular vein, the killer had struck so deep as to sever the vocal cords also.... '

He glanced interrogatively at Dr. Provenzale, who looked confused.

'I presume also,' continued Holmes, 'that it was possible to tell from the direction of the death stroke whether the murderer was right or left handed

Another glance at Provenzale, another look of confusion.

'... and of course this information will no doubt have been cross-checked with the handedness of any suspected person.'

Outside there was another huge roar and all the kneeling spectators were back on their feet, craning to glimpse the last and most important player to arrive on this ghastly stage. As Holmes's long-time companion it has been my fate to see many murderers, so I know better than most that there is no distinguishing mark. But the pale-faced, slim, handsome young man who walked with his head held high at the centre of a squad of armed soldiers looked as little like one of the breed as any I have seen.

Chiari spoke, sounding puzzled.

'It seems to me, Mr Holmes, you are suggesting that perhaps the murderer might indeed have been in the locked room and made his escape through the open window as we all thought in the beginning.'

'Good lord, no,' said Holmes indignantly. 'How could I suggest such a thing when the count has proved it impossible? To climb down the vine without leaving traces of blood on the foliage defies belief. And while it might be argued that a man could leap down onto the hard-baked earth without leaving an impression, fortunately the count himself, and Signorina Medioli, were in the room below. And still more fortunately, despite the fact that the full blast of the sun's heat must have been on their window (for was it not pouring directly into the study above?), they had broken with the custom of the country and had the protective shutters wide open.'

I saw several of the journalists exchange speculative glances at this juncture. What was Holmes up to? I wondered.

'And the blood on the key? And on the outer door handle?' said Chiari eagerly. 'Are you equally well persuaded of the accuracy of your pupil's deductions?'

'Naturally. That any other of the people entering the room in the hustle and bustle of those dreadful minutes after the discovery might have unknowingly become stained with the old count's blood and inadvertently transferred it to either the key or the handle is a possibility incapable of proof and therefore to be discounted.'

'That it is incapable of proof surely means it is also incapable of disproof,' said Chiari.

'Come, come, Signor Chiari, one pupil among your countrymen is quite enough for me to take on at a time,' murmured Holmes.

Below, a huge cheer signalled that the condemned man had successfully negotiated the perilous ladder to the scaffold platform. The black-draped Christ had been brought to a halt directly before him and his eyes were steadfastly fixed on the effigy. To a non-Papist it seems a tasteless pantomime, but 1 found myself praying it brought the young man some comfort.

'So you have no doubt that this poor fellow about to lose his head is guilty?' demanded Chiari.

'His guilt is between his judge on earth, who is here with us, and his judge in heaven, who I also believe is here with us,' said Holmes solemnly. 'All we can know for certain is that a good man on the brink of a new life with the lady of his choice has suffered a most terrible wrong which not only deprived him of his future happiness but also robbed the son he perhaps hoped to have of a name and a role, perhaps even of a country.'

Suddenly everyone was looking at Signora Masina, who was flushing tremendously while her sister was staring at Holmes with pale anger.

'But happily no act however foul is without good as well as evil consequences, and this particular deed has brought earlier than was dreamt possible a new, young heir to his title and fortune with many years ahead in which to prove how much he merits them.'

He bowed towards the count, who looked uncertain how he should react to this somewhat ambiguous compliment. But he was saved the trouble of reply by a deathly silence falling on the square, which drew all our attention as much as the previous noise.

Strepponi was kneeling beneath the knife. His head rested in a hole in a cross plank. Another plank with a matching half circle removed from it was fitted over his neck. A priest made the sign of the cross over him. The executioner bent to a lever. And the next moment with a rattle like the passage of a metal-rimmed wheel over a cobbled street, the knife descended and the severed head fell forward into a leather basket. From this the executioner plucked it and, holding it by the hair, displayed it to the mob, prior to fixing it on a pole to be left as a target for the crows and a warning to the criminals of this great city.

It was all over in a few seconds and immediately the crowd began to disperse, save for some morbid souls eager to take a closer look at the headless body.

Our party all streamed back from the balcony to the room where fresh bottles of champagne awaited. Signora Masina and her sister did not pause but left immediately. I saw the judge and Zardi and Falcone and the doctor in a close group, deep in conversation. The count and Signorina Medioli stood close together but exchanged no words. And all the journalists were crowding around Sherlock Holmes, who raised his hand to command silence and said, 'Gentlemen, please. You have your own Italian Sherlock Holmes to question. And in Signor Chiari I believe you may have your own Italian Dr Watson to chronicle his exploits.'

He smiled at Chiari, who glanced at me with an expression eloquent of apology, then turned back to Holmes, who pulled on his cloak and said, 'As for me, I am too fatigued to talk. And besides, my good friend Watson and I have a train to catch.'

This was the first I had heard of this and at first I took it for a mere excuse to make a rapid departure. But half an hour later, with scarcely time to draw a breath let alone use one in idle conversation, I found myself seated in plush comfort in one of the most ornately decorated railway coaches I had ever seen, rattling northwards out of Rome.

'But our luggage, Holmes!¹ I had gasped as I was hurried aboard.

'All taken care of,' he said with that air of knowing far more of things than I do which I find so insufferable. I determined not to feed his complacence by asking questions about our travel plans. Instead as we relaxed and lit our pipes, I turned back to our morning's adventure, about which I was still greatly curious.

'Holmes, what you implied, most ungallantly I may observe, about the Signora Masina, that she was ... enceinte, do you believe it true?'

'I should have thought a medical man could tell at a glance,' he replied. 'Sixteen to twenty weeks, I should have said.'

'And you believe this to have been the old count's child?'

'I would hope so. But no need to worry about her. She is going to America, where no doubt she will be presented as a grieving widow. And I do not doubt the new count has been most generous in making a settlement to take care of the upbringing of his bastard nephew.'

'Who would, if the old count had lived to marry, have been the legitimate heir,' I said slowly.

'Indeed,' said Holmes.

'And it is almost entirely as a result of young Montesecco's investigation including the evidence of his own inamorata that Giuseppe Strepponi was condemned?'

'Evidently.'

'Holmes,' I said, horrified. 'What have we done?'

'Explain yourself, my dear chap,' he said, affecting puzzlement.

'Everything you said towards the end of our visit seemed to me to imply a possible refutation of the count's logic. Now you seem to be suggesting that he more than anyone had an excellent motive for killing his uncle.'

'I cannot argue with you there,' said Holmes complacently.

'Then how can it not trouble you that even as you made your comments, that poor young fellow, Strepponi, was being hauled up onto a scaffold and executed within your very sight?'

Now Holmes threw back his head and laughed, a sound which would have struck me as callous had it been emitted by any other man.

'My dear Watson, rest easy. I cannot say how much the unfortunate secretary may have been egged on to the murder by his connection with Claudia Medioli. That is for Zardi and perhaps the Roman press to discover. But I can assure you that Strepponi was guilty, and probably committed the crime very much as the count worked out.'

'But how can you be sure after the way you undermined his deductions?'

'Oh, never doubt it, his deductions deserved to be undermined, but his conclusion was I believe correct. Partly because, (a) he probably knew that Strepponi was the killer from the start, and (b) if it had not been correct, he would not have dared involve me. But principally because the execution took place on time.'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand. I know these Latins are sadly deficient in their timekeeping, but I do not see how you draw such a remarkable conclusion from a single instance of punctuality!'

'Then you must learn to understand as well as pity and patronise these poor benighted foreigners, Watson. To these Romans, death by execution for no matter how foul a crime does not mean eternal punishment for the criminal. No, even the vilest creature may, after serving his time in Purgatory, be admitted to the grace of God, which passeth all understanding, even mine. But not if he goes to his death unconfessed and unshriven. Wherefore the young man Strepponi was taken into the church of San Cassiano on his way to the scaffold. Had he refused to make his confession, the execution would have been delayed until sunset, so determined are these merciful priests that the condemned man should have every chance of grace. So when the execution of one who was reputed to be a devout young man takes place on time, it may be assumed that he has made a full and free confession of his guilt.'

'And had he not confessed?'

'Then the case would have been altered,' said Holmes grimly. 'So a guilty man has been sent to his Maker. All that I wished to ensure was that this mountebank of a would-be detective should not be able by misuse of my reputation to send other, perhaps less guilty men to their dooms. I believe there are at least two already languishing in jail as a result of his so-called deductions. I trust once our friend Chiari, and some of the other pressmen also, have their say, these will be released, and any other attempt by the count to interfere with justice will be greeted by indignation and derision!'

'Holmes, you are a marvel,' I said. 'And not the least marvellous thing is that we should be sitting on this train heading heaven knows where.'

'Why, where else should a man head at this time of year but home?' my friend replied. 'We shall travel nonstop across the face of Europe and not stop until we are safe in Baker Street. I have telegraphed Mrs Hudson that we are coming, so, though you may eat it late, you will not after all be deprived of her famous goose, which I know you value so much.'

'But, Holmes,' I said. 'Nonstop, you say? How may that be?'

'Because this is a Special,' he said.

'A Special? All the way to England? But that must be costing us a king's ransom!' I said alarmed.

'Possibly. Fortunately we have a king, or one who will be a king, to pay for it. It is not our Special but His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. You may recall I was able to do him a trifling foolish service some years ago, and he said if ever he could be of use to me, I had only to let him know. Hearing that he was at Ostia, and guessing that he would not disoblige Her Majesty, his mama, by spending the whole of Christmas out of the country, I telegraphed him via the embassy. He is not the man to forget a promise. So rouse yourself, Watson. We are to take lunch with the prince in half an hour, and I hardly think you will want to appear looking like a municipal rat catcher! One thing you may neglect to take with you, however.'

'What's that?' I asked.

'That infernal notebook of yours. This part of the tale you will not be able to tell for a hundred years!'