Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

“I wonder if His Majesty knows what his good subjects of Ireland are already calling him?” She smiled grimly at the troubled faces of the Lord Mayor MacDermott and Father Taafe. “I learnt the Irish from my maid. Seamus an Chaca - James the Shit! Methinks my sister, Sarah, the Lady Marlborough, is right when she agreed with her husband that these realms will be better off without such a petty, devious and faint-hearted man as James Stuart on the throne.”

Conte Salvatore Volpe of the Ordo Equester Nobile de Nostro Signore, the Papal bodyguard, paused for a moment outside the tall ornate doors with their gilt covered carvings and brass fixtures. He adjusted his sword and raised a hand to ensure his cravat was in place. Then he nodded to the nervous looking sacredotti who stood ready. The young trainee priest smote the door twice and then opened it and announced in a whispering tone to the occupant:

“Count Volpe, prefect commander of the Order of the Noble Knights of Our Lord.”

Volpe strode into an antechamber and then halted in momentary surprise. He had been expecting to be greeted by the elderly Cardinal York of Frascati but a ruddy-faced man with dark hair and clothes that bespoke more of a man of fashion and elegance greeted him. He was fair of skin and his features seemed to identify him as a foreigner but he greeted Volpe in fluent courtly Italian as one born to the language.

“I have surprised you, count,” the man observed. “I am sorry but it is necessary to have a word with you before you are received by my master. I am…”

“The Marchese Glenbuchat.” Volpe had difficulty pronouncing the Scottish name.

“You are well informed, Conte.”

“It is my duty to be so, Marchese, for I am placed in charge of the safety of all the Cardinal princes of Holy Mother Church who are gathering here.”

“Then you may also know, who my master is? I want to tell you, before you speak with him, that I have met with great reluctance from him in allowing you privy to a matter, which is of the greatest gravity to him and his cause. He does not want this matter to be voiced abroad. So I must hear from you that you are willing to treat it in utmost secrecy.”

“Without knowing the nature of the matter, I cannot take such an oath,” replied Volpe. “But if it does not offend the holy office that I hold sacred, I will treat the matter with discretion. Perhaps I can be told the nature of this problem that your master wishes to consult me about?”

Lord Glenbuchat hesitated.

“I will leave that to him.”

He crossed to a door and knocked on it discreetly, opened it and announced Volpe’s presence.

Count Volpe crossed the marble tiled floor to the chair by an ornate fire carved in the same stone. The slight figure of the elderly man in the robes of a Cardinal was seated to receive him. Volpe came to a halt and bent to kiss the ring of the frail hand that the Cardinal had reached out towards him.

He wondered how he should address someone whom many recognized as the rightful King of England, Scotland and Ireland, but who was Bishop of Frascati and known to his fellow prelates as Cardinal York.

“Eminence,” he managed to mutter as he bent over the bishop’s ring. He paused a moment and then straightened looking into the pale face and dark haunted eyes of Henry Benedict Maria Clement Stuart, grandson and only surviving legitimate heir of James II who had fled his kingdoms to a life of exile over a century before. Since the death of his elder brother, Prince Charles Edward in 1788, the Cardinal had been hailed as Henry IX of England and I of Scotland. The last of the Stuart claimants to the throne.

“How may I serve your Eminence?” Volpe said, taking the regulatory step backwards from the Cardinal’s chair. He was aware that Lord Glenbuchat was standing anxiously behind him.

The old man sighed deeply, raising his tired eyes to gaze on the commander of the Pontifical Guard.

“You are acquainted with my family’s sad history?” he asked.

“Eminence.” Volpe made the word an affirmation, feeling sorry for this apparently exhausted old man. However, these were times of hardship for everyone. The armies of revolutionary France were scouring the Italian countryside, looting and plundering, and with Pius VI recently dead in Valence, after a mere six months in office, and the godless French agents suspected of complicity in his death, the Cardinals had been unable to find a sanctuary to meet to elect a new Holy Father. They had even been driven from Rome by the French invasion. Volpe was uncomfortably reminded that the old man before him had also had to flee from his villa at Frascati, when it had been attacked and sacked by the French army. Now the Cardinals were gathering on this little island in Venice, in the old Benedictine Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, to enter into the conclave in the hope of electing a new Holy Father.

Count Volpe had only recently been appointed to command the old aristocratic bodyguard of the Papal successors. He was a young man and conscious of his office.

Cardinal York spoke in a tired tone.

“A thief has broken into these apartments and made off with jewellery worth a great fortune.”

Volpe’s eyes widened but he said nothing. After a moment, the Cardinal continued.

“The jewellery was my personal property, family property, bequeathed to me by my brother, Charles.”

Volpe knew well of the dissolute and drunken Prince Charles Edward, pretender to the English throne who had died of apoplexy in Rome some ten years before.

“Eminence, what manner of jewellery has gone missing?”

“The wealth of over three centuries of my family’s history as Kings of Scotland and then of England and Ireland,” replied the old Cardinal. “Among them, the great Stuart Sapphire. I brought them safely from Frascati, as my grandfather had also brought them safely when he was forced to flee into exile. Before that my great-uncle had hidden them safely when his father was executed by his subjects.”

Volpe tried to restrain a grim smile.

“Eminence, your family have borne many misfortunes,” he remarked with what he hoped was sympathy.

“The Stuart Crown Jewels are beyond mere commercial wealth,” intervened Lord Glenbuchat. “They are the symbols of His Majesty’s rightful claims to the throne that has been usurped by the family of the Duke of Brunswick-Lúneberg-Celle, the so-called House of Hanover. The jewels must be found and the culprit punished.”

“Eminence, I shall do my utmost to bring this matter to a satisfactory and immediate conclusion,” Volpe assured the old Cardinal, addressing him rather than turning to Lord Glenbuchat.

The old man sighed and waved his hand to the Marquess.

“I have had my chamberlain, Lord Glenbuchat, make out a list of the items that are missing.”

“You say that these apartments were broken into?” Volpe queried. “May I see where the entrance was forced?”

Cardinal York coughed nervously.

“I did not mean to be taken literally,” he said as if in bad temper. “There was no sign of anyone actually breaking into these chambers, was there, Glenbuchat?”

The Marchese shook his head.

“No doors nor windows bore signs of forced entry nor even the secret cabinet in which the jewels were kept for safety.”

Volpe frowned.

“I presume that the doors to these apartments are locked when there is no one present?”

“Of course, though there is usually myself or my chamberlain here. If we are not, there is my bodyguard, Colonel O’Sullivan, and my manservant, Iain.”

“These have access to the chamber where the jewels were kept?”

The Cardinal nodded.

“No one else?”

“None that have free access to these rooms.”