Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

IN THE WINTER OF 1899, MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND I found ourselves still happily ensconced in our flat in Rome but compelled to endure a fortnight of snow-filled days; indeed, an unexpected blizzard so bitterly cold that it threatened to reverse our long-held convictions concerning the respective merits of cold, foggy London as opposed to sunny Rome. The meager silver light of these short December days in the dead of winter faded quickly into the dark Roman night, and the usually animated city fell silent and still by early evening, as if uninhabited.

“Just remember, old fellow, that in London they talk of heat stroke or even sunstroke on days such as these,” said my friend with unusually good humour.

“Quite right, but I shall not move until our landlady recognises how cold her establishment is, and that one of her boarders is about to expire from cold stroke,” I replied.

Indeed, our landlady, la signora Manfredini, had done nothing, once we had moved in, to alleviate our sufferings, despite our increasingly vociferous remonstrances. Windows throughout her large establishment remained broken, letting in freezing drafts of icy-cold air. The fireplace, after two days of intense labour on our part, produced only a few sputters and then settled into permanent inactivity. Blocked by countless swallows and their nests, which I had tried in vain to dislodge with the point of my umbrella, the chimney merely produced a dark grey smoke that finally forced us to open the windows, thereby augmenting the long unrelenting chill that blew in and destroyed what was left of our thoroughly diminished comfort.

In addition to her refusal to hear our pleas, La Signora, as we referred to her, took the outlandish action of storing the remaining firewood and kindling in a locked valise which she attempted to hide behind the kitchen stove. When she realised that Holmes could open the valise easily, she hid it in her bedroom, leading us to throw the broken legs of an old chair into the remaining embers of our dwindling fire.

Despite our failure, Holmes kept searching the long halls of the Manfredini residence for things to burn in the hope that he would eventually succeed. I myself moved less and less within our quarters, covering myself with the musty moth-eaten blankets provided to us. They were our only refuge until by chance Holmes found in one of the dark corners of the flat an old metal bucket filled with chunks of coal and kindling with which he produced a small fire.

“My gratitude knows no bounds, Holmes. I doubt that I would have survived the last few minutes without your serendipitous find.”

“We are almost warm in this room now, dear Watson, and, with any luck at all, the icy rain and snow will soon abate, and we will again go about our business without frozen fingers and toes. The city appears to be iced over, like some strange glacier. We are not missing anything by staying inside.”

I was about to agree, when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for one of us to open, in strode our strange and wondrous landlady, attired in a way most odd even for her, and seemingly impervious to the cold. Her hair was covered in a thick white towel and her face glistened with some brownish oil. The rest of her was covered in a heavy green robe from which large puddles of water dripped onto the floor around her feet.

“ Mi dispiace, signori ,” she said sternly, “but I need the bucket for my bath, to heat the water.”

“ Purtroppo ,” said I, “we need it as well. And may I point out to La Signora that the bucket has not been used in months,” I replied brusquely.

I could see that my words angered her, but she did not press us further. She walked away, her robe still dripping, and entered her quarters.

“We have won a small battle, old fellow,” said Holmes, “but not the war.” He looked at his watch and said, “Dear Watson, in light of our difficulties and the approaching evening, I propose that I pay a visit to the local grog shop to buy some wine and brandy—and some cheese and bread. The salumeria on Via Spontini may still be open. If all goes well, we should be pleasantly comatose in a few minutes and asleep when the hour strikes eight. Che pensi ?”

“Good idea, old fellow, and buy enough for friend Gabriel and company. It will be Christmas in just a week and I invited them over for a drink this evening.” Holmes left, and I fell almost immediately into a doze. Through it, however, I heard our doorbell ring several times. I got up and, throwing the dusty blankets onto the floor, I opened our door to find Gabriel and friends standing there. We greeted each other warmly, and they rushed in and put their bundles down on the table. They were frozen over with snow and ice but recovered a bit in front of our fire. Holmes returned shortly after their arrival. Among his purchases was a hot soup that we consumed in great gulps. We had now enough wine and food for a sumptuous evening, and the mood changed markedly.

These three young friends had come into our lives in Rome because Holmes had wisely decided that he would need a number of allies comparable to the Baker Street Irregulars in London. Instead of the awkward word irregolari , he dubbed them I Soliti Ignoti, “the usual suspects,” and so far they had been of the greatest help to him in his investigations. The three of them were in their early twenties and had lived most of their lives in the streets with only intermittent contact with their families. Curiously enough, each bore the name of an archangel: Gabriel, Michael, and Raffael.

It was just about half past ten that evening when our companions invited us to continue our merry-making at the Café Momus, a popular establishment near Piazza Cavour. Holmes agreed to go and said that he would follow in a few minutes. I declined, however, having decided to retire. True to his word, Holmes left after about a quarter of an hour.

Alone, but now warm, I decided to read for a while. I was therefore surprised when I heard the doorbell ring again. By now, it was close to midnight. “ Chi è la? ” I asked. It was a woman’s voice that I heard.

“Please, vi prego , an old man has fallen in the snow and I cannot carry him alone. He is very ill. I need your help. I am your neighbor.”

I opened at once. A young woman, no more than twenty, stood there soaked with rain and snow. I recognized her as the young woman Lucia, who sold paper flowers on the corner of Via Palestrina. I stopped only to put on my shoes and my overcoat and to collect a few blankets.

“Where is he?”

“Follow me,” she said, “I am afraid that he will be trampled by a buggy passing in the night.”

We fairly flew down the stairs, and once on the street I saw a diminutive figure sitting in the snow, motionless. I put my arms around him and dragged him into our courtyard, out of the icy winds. He was alive but barely. I removed his coat and wrapped him in one of the dry blankets.

“We shall need help in carrying him up the stairs.”

I tried once more to get him to stand, but to no avail. I suddenly saw Holmes’s most welcome figure emerge from out of the blizzard.

“Hallo, Watson, I’m afraid that I find the Café Momus a bore. And what are you up to?” said the familiar voice.

“Holmes! Thank God you’re here. The poor devil is at death’s door. No time to waste. Let’s carry him up the stairs, if we can. He can barely walk, and his toes may be frost-bitten.”

“We can, Watson. Never say die. Come on, old fellow, help me scoop him up. And walk close by in case I lose my balance. Ah, he’s heavier than I thought.” Holmes handed over a newly acquired bottle of brandy to the flower girl to hold. In no time at all he had the old man up the stairs and seated on our couch. He was a short man, but stout, heavier than one would have anticipated, and more torso than legs.