Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Rudraksa,” said Holmes from across the room, “the beads of Shiva, a common enough devise in India.”

“But not in New Mexico, and yet they are remarkably similar to what I found in the hands of Agostini’s corpse. Look . . .”

There was total silence in the room as Vasquez pulled from his pocket a set of beads precisely like the one found on Sir Jaswant.

“Gentlemen,” said Holmes grimly, “I sense the shrinking of the world around us, that what appears far away and unrelated is all part of a web, made possible by a new world in which nothing is unrelated and nothing is as it seems. Lestrade, do you have here at the Yard the records of our prisons abroad?

“We do, indeed, Holmes,” said the inspector.

“Then let us look up A.I. 3.”

“And what may that be?”

“Very simple, Lestrade, and obvious as soon as one directs one’s attention to it. A.I., unless I am mistaken, refers to the Andaman Islands and our prison at Port Blair. The numeral “3” means the third prisoner placed there. As you may be aware, the prison in the Andamans was opened shortly after the Mutiny in 1857 as the place where the most dangerous prisoners would be housed. Unless I am again mistaken, Sir Jaswant, or whatever his name was at the time, was placed there shortly after the Mutiny itself, considering the low numeral three. Surely hundreds of prisoners have been housed there by now. Let us see, then, if the records of Port Blair show who he was and when he escaped. Then we shall be more able to piece together his later career, in particular how he arrived.”

“In New Mexico,” said Vasquez almost inaudibly.

“Precisely,” said Holmes, staring at Vasquez meaningfully. “Welcome again, Vasquez. I trust that your long obsession may be approaching its fruitful conclusion.”

I must say that at that moment my head was reeling with the quick series of revelations and conclusions that had just presented themselves. Who was Sir Jaswant? I stared at the dead man, his eyes closed now, and wondered what he might have told us had he been so inclined. My confused reverie did not last long, however, for an orderly burst in followed by a frantic Shinwell Johnson.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said Shinwell breathlessly, “the man you asked us to watch, sir, he’s been shot. He’s dead. Neary is with him.”

We were out of there in a flash. Lestrade ordered an armed guard to clear the way before us. Shinwell rode with the guard and we followed through the narrow streets of Soho. There in a filthy narrow alley was a small boardinghouse, filled with migrants from across the empire and elsewhere. Our man was in a basement room, dead in his bed. He had been shot in the head and, judging from the wound, possibly by a weapon similar to that which had killed Sir Jaswant. Neary had allowed no one in until our arrival.

“I know this man,” said Vasquez, “he is the man I followed to London and have been searchin’ for. His real name is Angelo Vetri.”

He turned to Holmes. “There’s one person left to find now, Sherlock.”

“The acolyte,” said Holmes simply.

“A.I. 4,” said Vasquez.

That portion of the Gulf of Salerno that lies between the ancient citadels of Paestum and Agropoli contains, rising above the confines of its narrow shore, a number of uninterrupted rocky cliffs, unassailable were it not for the steep paths worn into the rock by the feet of peasants and animals over countless centuries. No more than the crudest of tracks, these trails are neither for the foolhardy nor the faint of heart. Only the local inhabitants are wont to use them, and many of these, whether fishermen living on the shore or farmers living above the cliffs, prefer to take a more circuitous but less laborious route that leads down a gentle slope north near Torre Greco, the promontory that forms the northern arm of the gulf.

The sea and the cliffs along this coast are among the most beautiful sights of Italy, by common consent a country where natural beauty is everywhere. But few from outside venture into the interior of these southern precincts. The mountainous district above the cliffs, known locally as Cilento, is considered even by more adventurous Italians to be among the wildest and most dangerous parts of the whole peninsula. Here, they say, all is thievery, vendetta, and black magic. The power of the curse, the evil eye, and all the many superstitions of an impoverished and ignorant peasantry reign supreme, in conspiracy with brigands and secret societies. None of Italy’s many rulers, neither monarch nor pope, Habsburg nor Bourbon, has ever ventured to penetrate its isolation. Only their minions have entered and quickly left, leaving behind a ravaged and pillaged people, one vilified as well for its active resistance to oppression.

Yet, to the casual visitor courageous enough to confront the reputation of this ancient land, there would appear to be nothing remarkable here, particularly on the bright, unfilled mornings that are common in the southern regions. The life he observed would conform in general to what he might see elsewhere in the Italian peninsula, or in Europe for that matter. The land is tilled by industrious men and boys, their skin made leathery by the heat of the sun. The women, aided by their children, tend the animals and cook the simple meals that sustain the men in their labours.

If there is nothing unusual in the conduct of these people, our observer might still note, were he interested in such things, that the people appeared to be poorer than most. The soil is dry and rocky, the rain insufficient and unpredictable, and the sun relentless. Meals are perforce simple, a minestra, or soup, and the local bread, which is as hard and sharp as glass. The houses are of stone, often adjoining each other, and in many cases, attached to the hillsides in order to take advantage of caves and other natural openings in the hills. The people are rough hewn, the men in peasant garb, the women often dressed entirely in black in mourning for the dead.

Hearing their earthy language, our observer would rightly conclude that it is far from the language of Dante, incomprehensible to all but those of the region and the learned philologist. In this language, the people refer to themselves, as well as all other human beings, as cristiani, or “Christians,” for, there being no other religion within their experience, the name of their own has become a universal appellation. In hard times, however, there is a tendency to remove themselves from this category and designate themselves as disgraziati, “fallen from grace,” and living in a place where even Christ has chosen not to set foot.

It was towards sunset one evening in July in the year 1865 that our observer would have noticed, should he have bothered to look out to sea, a small boat leave a large fishing vessel farther out in the gulf and move smoothly and almost silently through the calm waters towards the temple at Paestum. Once arrived, three men jumped ashore, bidding good-bye to a fourth, who, as soon as the three had alighted, began his return to the fishing boat.

The three were robust and strong, in their early thirties at most, and resembled each other rather strongly. Indeed, two of them were brothers, Alessandro and Gaetano Vetri, and the third, a first cousin, Giacomo Santucci.

A small shower of rocks from above caused the three men to look up, where they saw at the top of the cliff a young boy motioning to them to climb the ancient stair that descended to the shore. Each carrying a large bundle on his back, the men laboriously climbed the steep cliff and arrived at the top, where the boy motioned to them to follow. In a few minutes, they were ensconced in the house of Francesco Gramsci, a native of Sardinia who had come several years before to Cilento as a schoolmaster. Gramsci greeted the men in a friendly manner and, after his wife served them a simple meal, he began to explain to them the nature of their mission.