Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Rose now has more than he can handle. The doctors have grown suspicious of these strangely embalmed cadavers. Rose needs a confederate, and he enlists our friend McHugh as his colleague in the gruesome work. McHugh, desperate for money, agrees to do the digging and hire help; but they are an unnatural pair. Rose is meticulous and McHugh is not. Rose’s use of two small telescopes, for instance, and two candles in windows on the square was timed so that the bobby on duty would be at the far end of the square when Rose entered and exited. McHugh several times failed to put out his candle, causing the bobby to try to open the door. Luckily for them, the bobby does not pursue the matter. The bodies continue to arrive at the medical schools in a steady flow. There is no gold found, however, and despite his investigations that support a contrary conclusion, Rose is convinced that gold is still interred with the bones of the members of the Brotherhood. He cannot relinquish the idea, so attractive to a greedy individual is it. Think of it, gentlemen, the individual fortunes of several hundred dead, conveniently changed into gold bullion, lying there in wait for those willing to take the trouble to dig it up.”

‘Never heard the likes of it before,” said Lestrade. “How did you figure all of this, Holmes? It is still beyond anything of its kind that I have heard of before.”

“Rose realizes that he must act immediately. For him, it is all a matter of time. He recruits a few of his cronies to join McHugh and his group. And he chooses this very night to dig out the cemetery because there is no moon. It is the perfect night. He cannot wait another month. At a meeting behind the Pepys house he explains to the men what is at stake. Most naturally, they are ready and able.”

“Let us go back to the suitcases left and not picked up,” said I.

“Indeed, Watson. And here the crime committed is far greater than housebreaking. You must change the charge, Lestrade, to include murder in the first degree.”

I must say that I was stunned when I heard Holmes’s words. And then I realized what he meant.

“Rose, if I am not mistaken, killed Dumond Davies in cold blood. He did this in order to silence him before he brought the cemetery and its contents to public attention. It was indeed Davies who first learned of the strange cemetery and shared what he knew with Rose early in their friendship. Rose became a model of stealth and deceit with Davies, and concluded that he must move quickly. The houses built over the cemetery had been vacant for decades, forgotten by the family, priest, and sect, everyone unaware now of the treasure that lay in that dark chamber, a few feet below the street. Rose had to have it.

“On the day fateful to him, Davies had invited the younger man home to meet his wife. Completely alone with his host, Rose dared not forgo the opportunity. He watched carefully as Davies began to repair an old lamp. Rose looked for a weapon. He saw the shovel in the Davies garden. Dumond was now kneeling on the floor concentrating on putting some wires together. A heavy blow to the back of the head caused Davies to fall forward. A few sparks and it was all over. Rose left unseen with his weapon, fearful that somehow it would be found and traced to him. When he decided to move he cleaned it thoroughly and broke it in two pieces to fit in his valises.”

“But why did he not return and take the valises with him?” I asked.

“Here,” said Holmes, “I can only conjecture. Perhaps he asked McHugh to retrieve them. Barbara surely would have let him have them.”

I looked up as the first silver signs of morning appeared in the sky. I heard someone singing.

“And why did we and Tanner not see the blow to Davies’s head?” I asked.

“ Nessun dorma ,” said Holmes. “Let no one sleep. Listen.”

THE MOUNTAIN OF FEAR

N.B. The reader of the following story will note, as he progresses into the text, a certain inconsistency in style, particularly at the beginning of the second section. Holmes himself pointed it out to me, and I enter a note of explanation here. Although I have used the same technique in other chronicles, particularly in “The Valley of Fear,” Holmes has convinced me that a word of comment would not be amiss.

Some time ago, on one of our long journeys between London and Rome, Holmes settled himself quickly in his seat and barely spoke, having immersed himself in a very long novel from which he refused to be distracted.“My apologies, Watson, but as soon as I finish with this I shall hand it over to you.”It was on the following morning, if I recall correctly, that he read through the final pages and with a flourish, handed me the large tome.“Here,” he said, “is one of the finest novels I have ever read. I recommend it to you with great enthusiasm.”I took the book from him and read on its cover: The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni. I confess that I had never heard of either before. I began reading, and once past the first few pages, I was enthralled by the subject as well as its style. Holmes must have found me tiresome as I marveled constantly at the writer’s skill. I finished the volume after we reached Rome and could not rid myself of its beauty. In homage to the great writer, I have followed his style in a few places in the following story. I beg the indulgence of the reader of these meager fables for the seeming but unintentional impertinence.John Watson, M.D.

IT WAS A TIME OF GRAVE CONCERN IN THE HISTORY OF Britain. The year was 1901, the sixty-fourth year of Her Majesty’s reign. The Queen lay dying, and the world waited with the greatest apprehension for the announcement, now deemed inevitable, that the longest reign in English history had come to an end. Edward, Prince of Wales, stood by, manfully aware of the awful burden that was about to descend upon his shoulders.

During this period, I had seen little of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, the national melancholy seemed to have affected him severely. He offered almost nothing beyond rather curt greetings when we met, and appeared to be completely absorbed, possibly in a case of great importance and intricacy. At least so I judged, for I had lived with him long enough to have become familiar with his most peculiar ways. He was as he had always been, only more so during this period, or so it seemed to me. He came and went at all hours, often in disguise, rarely as himself. On these particular occasions, he had a preference for members of the working class. A carpenter, a housepainter, and several varieties of maid were among the figures that came and went from our quarters, almost on a daily basis.

Once at home, he would sit silently or immerse himself in a strange assortment of books. I noted at the time a number of old tomes strewn across the floor in front of his easy chair: Mackey’s Extraordinary Delusions and The Madness of Crowds , van Noltke’s British Heraldry , Wright’s recent biography of Nana Sahib, Prescott’s History of the Tattoo , and Lombroso’s After Death—What? , the latter a most singular choice considering Holmes’s strong views on such matters. I must confess that I could make neither head nor tail of this odd assortment, strange even for Holmes’ peculiar tastes.

It was towards eleven one night, a cold, rainy one in early January, if memory serves, that the mystery in which Holmes was engrossed began to show the first grim fragments of its still rather shadowy outline. I sat alone in our quarters on Baker Street. Holmes had not appeared for dinner, as he had promised in a rare moment of affability. I supped alone, therefore, and then lit a fire and sat reading, warmed by its flames. I must have dozed off for a time, for I remember being startled awake by the rapid opening and closing of our front door. I jumped up to find an old woman, her hair and clothes dripping from the rain, standing on the threshold, shaking and closing her umbrella.