by David Marcum
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “You are a wonder.”
“I know,” she said. “Just because he ignores food doesn’t mean you have to.”
Holmes appeared at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Watson, let us away. This promises to be an eventful day.”
Thirty minutes later, delayed by traffic that seemed to be growing worse by the day, we arrived at the back of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“I must admit,” I said to Holmes, “that of all the places I could think of to visit in this most Catholic of mysteries, Wren’s house would have been low on the list.”
“You are aware,” said Holmes, “of the movement of several high church Anglicans in the last few decades to the Roman church.”
“Somewhat,” I replied. “Cardinal Manning was one of them. He was married and at one point the Archdeacon of Chichester. His conversion was one of the most famous.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow in query. “Mary dabbles in religious matters,” I said. “I may have glanced at some of her newspapers from time to time. Er, who are we here to meet?”
“Even though some left the church, they did not leave their friends.” The voice, rich and plummy, came from a tall, sallow man. He looked as though a sharp breeze would bowl him over, but there was no mistaking his authority. Canon William Church, in his position as Dean of St Pauls’ Cathedral, was one of the highest ranked members of the Anglican hierarchy in the land. “Sherlock, I hope you are well. And this must be your friend, Doctor Watson. Do come through. Your cousin is resting in the antechamber.”
My surprise was complete when we went into the room. Even though he was dressed in none of the finery of his two fellow Princes the day before, it was still an incongruous sight to see a Cardinal under the roof of the Anglican Bishop of London. All three men must have seen my surprise.
“Poor Doctor Watson, Holmes has told you nothing,” said Reverend Church. “You were right to say so, John. Sherlock is a rapscallion of the highest order. Permit me then. Doctor John Watson, please meet my friend and Mister Holmes’s cousin...”
“Cardinal John Newman,” I said. “As I live and breathe. My word, sir. It is indeed an honour.”
And it was. Newman was a giant of the century. A poet spoken of in the same breath as Keats or Byron, a philosopher, a theologian, a man of letters. His reach was vast and his intellect as keen as any in history.
“This man,” I said to Holmes, “this giant of a man - is your cousin? And you never thought to mention it?”
“We are distant cousins only, my dear Doctor Watson, through our French antecedents.” Cardinal Newman’s voice was reedy and thin. It made one want to lean closer to hear what he had to say. He also looked unhealthy, with a thin face and long bony fingers. Either asceticism was a hard road or the sanctified life was not without its trials, for it seemed every high ranking church member I had recently met was on a short road to meet their maker.
Holmes looked around the antechamber. It was quietly resplendent, a room fit for a Prince. “If you are visiting here, do you know any of what is happening with your fellow Princes? The Vatican Cameos.”
“I know, since I first mentioned them to you some weeks past, that they have been sent here, shrouded in secrecy, as a sop to the British Government. As if sharing secrets will make us all great chums.” Newman gestured as if conducting grand affairs of state. “It will not. It was a mistake to send the cameos, and Tosca may yet pay for the missing one with his career, such as it is.”
“Why did Tosca allow Pecci to become Pope, when he had it in his hands?” asked Holmes.
“I was not there,” said Cardinal. “If you already know that much about what went on in a secret conclave, then I suspect you and Mycroft have better sources than I. However, I believe that, when faced with the possibility of the chair of St. Peter, Tosca stepped back for the good of his church. He is an honest though weak man, and I think he realized, for once in his life, how much of his career had been created by others who used him. Stepping away from the most powerful position in Christendom defined his goodness, but also marked him for vengeance. His former backers have long memories. They wanted to control the church through him, have access to the church finances, and try to reclaim portions of the Papal States lost in 1870. Pecci, Leo XIII, is a tougher nut to crack.
“So it is about more than church politics,” I said.
“It must be,” said Newman. “The cameos are about more than revenge on Cardinal Tosca. That is not the Italian way. If it was important for Tosca to be punished, he would have been found hanging from a bridge over the Tiber. No, this is about something far weightier, I fear.”
“What do you know of these enemies of his?” said Holmes.
“That they have motives far beyond the spiritual, and that Tosca is naïve,” said Newman. “Manning as well. When a thing is too good to be true, it almost always is.”
He sighed and lent back in his chair. “The French cameo depicts a point in history that allowed historians to conclude certain things about that time. To commission a cameo was a long and expensive business, so great care and much consultation would have gone into its characterization. It is therefore deemed to be more historically accurate than any other form or depiction of the times. They were also fragile, so any that survived are assumed to have been well protected - not just as art, but as a sign of the times.”
“So where have the Vatican Cameos been for the last two-thousand years?” asked Holmes.
“Exactly,” said Newman. “What do they depict that has left them hidden for so long? What is their message, and why have they appeared now?” He paused to sip some water, which had the effect of strengthening what he had to say. “Europe and the world have been sitting on a powder keg since Napoleon. There are at least five major powers wrestling for the conquest of the globe, and the might of America will also feature in that struggle sooner rather than later. All it will take is one incident, a death at the wrong time or even a diplomatic disagreement, and that powder keg will start burning.”
“And you fear the cameos and their historical context,” said Holmes.
“I pray I am wrong,” said Newman. “I fear I am right.”
Holmes used the Dean’s servant to send some messages. We waited for the replies. I could see that Holmes was restless. The Cardinal left for his room to rest.
“He is in the habit of staying here among friends when he comes to London,” said Holmes. “He finds the machinations of Manning tiring.”
The servant returned with the replies. “It is as I thought,” said Holmes. “My brother is now showing an interest. He will meet us at the Pro-Cathedral, as will their Eminences Cardinal Tosca and Manning.”
The ride across the city would normally have been pleasant. The driver took the direct route and we passed by much of what marked London at the height of its worth. Holmes, however, was preoccupied. As we rode down the Mall and passed Buckingham Palace, I asked him, “What could possibly be so important in those cameos?”
“Superstition,” he said, before retreating into his thoughts.
Epicurus met us just inside the church. “No one has been in or out the room.”
I looked around. There was no easy observation point in the church of the storeroom door. “How can you be so sure?” I asked.
Epicurus looked puzzled, as if the question demeaned his word. “I stood in front of it. Wouldn’t let them, until now.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, and we went inside.
They were all gathered in the storeroom, except for Stoutbridge, whose dim presence was no longer needed. There were extra chairs now so the dramatis personae could all be seated. Everyone had separated. Mycroft to the left, Manning in the middle, Tosca to the right, with Della Chiesa behind him. I took a seat near the elder Holmes. He turned and smiled, a rare occasion.
�
�Doctor Watson. Glad to see you. Whenever you are near, I feel my brother is better behaved.”
If Sherlock Holmes heard the exchange, he chose to ignore it.
“I believe we are here only because of Cardinal Manning. If he had not chanced upon Cardinal Tosca and the missing cameo so soon after the discovery, we would not be here. Cardinal Tosca was in the process of covering up the story of the cameo and another few moments leeway would have meant none of this would have happened.”
He paused for a second and looked at Tosca. “You would do well to dismiss your assistant. This will not aid his career in the church. He is better off not knowing.”
“You know?” said Tosca. “But how could you?”
“I suspected,” said Holmes. “Now I know.”
Mycroft harrumphed. “Monsignor Giacomo Della Chiesa is being trained for higher roles.” He said. “I believe he is leaving here soon to be the personal assistant to Cardinal Rampolla, the Secretary of State.” He saw the surprise - and then momentary delight - on the young man’s face before he resumed his diplomatic mien. “You didn’t know,” said Mycroft. “No matter, the announcement will be in three days. They are grooming you for high office, young man. Whatever sins are hidden here will be a lesson for you as well. Let him stay.”
“Continuing,” said Holmes. “Cardinal Tosca was sent here to get him away from Rome, where he had many enemies. Then he was offered this diplomatic coup, to mend fences with the British people by sharing an exciting new secret from the Vatican Archives. What he didn’t realize is that very often a secret is hidden for a reason. Have you looked at the other two cameos?”
“Yes,” said Della Chiesa. “They are similar style to the Grand Camée de France, except of a slightly later period. The French one shows the family and important officials of Tiberius Caesar. The two that I have seen here this morning would seem to be similar in design. The first is of Caligula. He was the successor to Tiberius and it is unfinished, although there was room for the horse. It is likely incomplete because he was mad and only lasted three years as Emperor. The other one may refer to the time of Claudius Caesar and it is complete, which points to his thirteen years as Emperor.”
“Va bene,” said Tosca. “We are finished here. The third one was stolen. The exhibition is over, and we shall return these two back to Rome.” He stood up as if to leave until Holmes’s voice stopped him.
“There was no theft,” he said. “No locked room mystery and no crime committed.” He walked over to the shelves and moved away parcels of cleaning cloths and solvent. Then he picked up a rectangular parcel and placed it on the table.
“You had no time to hide it and when you tried to come back, you were stopped by Epicurus. You must have known then couldn’t get away with it. Had you been innocent, you would have protested such treatment. You didn’t, which confirmed my suspicions. Whatever is on this cameo is so frightening that you felt you had to hide it, and when Cardinal Manning insisted on calling for an investigation, your story became more unwieldy.”
“Please,” said Cardinal Tosca. “I beg of you. Do not unwrap it. There were only supposed to be three, which is why I started to look at them. When I saw it, Madre di Dio, I did not know what to do. The scandal it will cause!”
But Holmes would not be stopped. He unwrapped the third cameo, leaned over it and looked closely at the depictions. Mycroft joined him.
“I see,” Mycroft said.
“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “This is now more within your realm than mine. I bid you good day. Watson, with me.”
“But?” I said.
“Now, please. We must leave at once.”
I was seething with anger, curiosity, and frustration. Being Holmes’s friend was often interesting and seldom quiet, but it could also be tiresome.
Before I could say anything, Holmes spoke.
“Please, my friend. Give me this ride to think of all the possibilities. I have just made a monumental decision and I need to reconcile myself with my actions. Let us return to the rooms at Baker Street. It is early enough, but I think it will be time for a glass of port when we arrive, and I shall tell you all.”
I honoured his request, as disgruntled as I felt. We went straight up the stairs, and Holmes waved at the cabinet. There was a fine bottle of malt whisky gathering dust and I chose that instead for both of us. I don’t think that Holmes noticed.
“What if you discovered a piece of information so terrifying that you truly could not even envision the consequences?” he asked. “A cameo so divisive it could create the war to end all wars, could set brother against brother, nation against nation, continent against continent.”
“Holmes, whatever you saw could not possibly be that bad. You glanced at it for barely a moment.”
“Watson, I am no expert in the iconography of early civilization, but what I saw, if true, would change the world.”
I waited, dreading his answer.
“The last cameo appears to follow the sequence. It is from the time of Emperor Nero and it is the reason why the entire set was hidden. Like the others it can be dated, and it shows the Emperor standing next to a figure with holes in his hands and a crown of thorns. There is a woman with him and a child, and the scroll above their heads says Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum.”
“ ‘Jesus, the Nazarene, King of the Jews’,” I said. “Oh my word.” I moved away from the fireplace and sat down, trying to comprehend the implications. “It must be a forgery.”
“Think of the provenance,” said Holmes. “Even if it is eventually proven to be fraudulent, the story will be out there that the church hid it for two-thousand years, unwilling to test the core beliefs of their religion. And what if it is not a forgery? What if that cameo is taken as proof that Jesus had a family and children, and didn’t die? The date marking on that cameo shows it to be in the ninth year of the reign of Nero. That would be around about 64 A.D.
“Thirty years after the crucifixion,” I said. “It would mean that all of Christianity would be a lie.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “And that is why, despite my better judgement that the truth must always win out, I took us away and left it to my brother to resolve. This was never about revenge on Cardinal Tosca. Cardinal Newman was right. This way is not the Italian way. This was about the destruction of society. Whoever did this wanted to change the world, and didn’t care how many people died to make it happen.”
“Surely it wouldn’t be that bad?” I said.
For perhaps the only time in my life, I heard my friend utter these words: “I don’t know.” Then, “But when you have all these raging empires ready to go to war, and possibly the only thing holding them back is their professed faith in a religion that has sustained society for two millennia...”
“What happens if you take that away?”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And in this incendiary political climate no one needs to find out.”
“What about Cardinal Newman? Will you tell him?”
Holmes drank again from the whisky glass. It did not seem to be relaxing him. “John Henry Newman has spent a lifetime justifying the cause of Christian faith. He has not long to live, and I am not the person to ruin what is left of his life for him. There are times, Watson, when the truth is too terrifying to be told.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” I said.
“Neither did I, my friend. Neither did I.”
POSTSCRIPT
Cardinal John Newman died later that year, on 11 August, 1890, thankfully never knowing the truth about the matter which would have shaken the Church to which he’d devoted his life
Two weeks after the events described here, there was a small announcement in The Times of the cancellation of a display of church artifacts at the British Museum, as the ship that was transporting them had sunk with seventy-two souls on board.
Mycroft had taken a disaster already extant and used it to bury the truth of the Vatican Cameos.
In 1914, many years after the events in this story, Giacomo Della Chiesa was elected Pope. As Benedict XV, he watched from the sidelines of St. Peter’s in Rome as every Christian country in the world tried to rend civilization asunder. His diplomatic and humanitarian efforts, though largely fruitless, drew praise from all who met and knew him. He died in 1922, having seen Christianity fail, and like all who knew the truth of the cameos, wondering if it ever existed at all.
Signed: Doctor John H. Watson
... I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases.
Sherlock Holmes - The Hound of the Baskervilles
The Case of the Gila Monster
by Stephen Herczeg
During my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I have, on numerous occasions, found myself over-awed by the breadth of knowledge that resides behind those aquiline features, and also been humbled by his immense understanding of all things medical. At times I have been left mouth agape in surprise as some esoteric piece of information springs forth from that immense intelligence.
These incidents have been quite frequent and ego shattering, but none so much as the time Holmes solved the mystery surrounding a death from the bite of a Gila Monster.
It was a wonderful spring day and I was enjoying a late afternoon cup of tea in the back garden behind my Kensington practice. I had seen numerous patients all day and rewarded myself with some peace and quiet. The serenity was sadly broken by the appearance of my beautiful wife, Mary, at the rear door.
“Sorry to bother you, John, but we’ve received a late patient. I suggested that she return in the morning, but her manner was ever so compelling that I thought it best if you see her now,” she said.
