The Death of Cardinal Tosca (The Dispatch Box of John H Watson, MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  I did so, and instantly leaped back in amazement, dropping the screwdriver, as a bright flash lit the room, and a crackling spark leapt between the push and the plate surrounding it.

  “You are not hurt, I trust?” Holmes asked me.

  My heart was pounding in my breast as I answered him. To my astonishment, I found I was short of breath as I spoke. “I am not physically hurt, but I am shocked in my mind.”

  “And if you had pressed the push with your finger, you would have been shocked in your body also,” he commented. “Your finger would have suffered burns, and I am certain that your heart would have likewise been adversely affected.”

  “I have seen in the journals that in America, some criminals are now executed using electricity. You think that this is how Cardinal Tosca met his end?”

  “I am certain of it. The burns on his fingers, the expression on his face, what else could it be but death by electricity?”

  “And the dagger? Or rather, the paper-knife, as we seem to agree that it was not capable of causing death?”

  “Let me reconstruct the scene for you. Before the meal began, Mahoney found some occasion to enter the room where the meal was to be served, and carried out the alteration that I performed just now. You saw for yourself that it took me a very short time indeed to carry out the work, and I have no reason to believe that Mahoney would have taken much longer. Once the meal had been served, the two prelates ate together, and it is quite possible that they were arguing during the course of the repast. We could ask Alvarez to confirm this, if we wished, but I see little point in our doing so, even if he is willing to speak, which I doubt. Mahoney was probably aware that Tosca would wish to work after the meal, and had laid his plans accordingly. As expected, he was asked to bring down papers, while Tosca waited here. He deliberately left some documents upstairs, and when Tosca noticed they were missing, he was sent upstairs, after words had passed between the two men. Note, however, that there is an inconsistency in the story that Mahoney told us in London.”

  “That being?”

  “He informed us that he was reprimanded by Tosca in front of Alvarez.”

  I cast my mind back. “He did indeed. But Alvarez has not confirmed this story.”

  “Indeed he has not, and it is Alvarez’ version of events that I believe. If I were to be generous toward Mahoney—not a state of mind I feel inclined to adopt, I may say—I could assume that his reprimand in front of the servant took place on another occasion, quite possibly on the same evening. Being generous, let us say that his mind may have been confused on this point. So, let us assume that the coffee had been brought in before Tosca remarked the fact that the documents were missing, as we were informed.

  “Mahoney than leaves the room, knowing that Tosca will finish the coffee and will ring for more, as he has done in the past. My guess is that he waited on the stairs for the sound of the electric bell, and the Cardinal’s shocked cry, before placing himself in a location from where he could be seen clearly by Alvarez entering the butler’s pantry.”

  “Thereby ensuring that he had an independent witness to verify that he was not in the room, should the Cardinal’s screams be heard?”

  “Precisely that. Alvarez has just told us that a matter of a mere five minutes elapsed before the extra coffee was prepared and he brought it to the dining-room. You saw earlier how I went upstairs and came down again. Let us say that it takes one minute for Mahoney to make his way from the room where he was searching for papers back to the dining-room. This would mean that he spent all of four minutes searching for the missing paper before abandoning his quest. Less, if you consider that he also supposedly spent time in search of other papers.”

  “That is not a long time.”

  “Indeed it is not. I find it hard to believe that he would not have spent longer looking for that paper, especially following an expression of anger on the part of the Cardinal such as he described to us, should we choose to believe his story.

  “The Cardinal was probably not killed outright, but made his way to the chair. We can never be certain of this, given the fact that the body has been moved. In any event, this was probably the Cardinal’s last action before he slipped into unconsciousness or even death. Mahoney brought down the papers, in order to add verisimilitude to his story, and discovered his master, shocked into unconsciousness, if not actually dead, as I say. We may make further enquiries if we choose, but I would be reasonably certain that Tosca suffered from a weak heart. Especially if he was in the habit of fasting, it is reasonably certain that the shock administered by the electric bell would be sufficient to incapacitate him permanently. I have no doubt that Mahoney knew of the Cardinal’s weakness and arranged matters accordingly. He is almost certainly the prime mover behind the Cardinal’s death. In any event, with the documents he brought with him from downstairs, he also brought the paper-knife, which he plunged into the Cardinal’s lifeless body in an attempt to divert investigation from the true cause of his death.”

  I shuddered. “Holmes, this is horrible to think of.”

  My friend nodded in agreement. “I fear we are dealing with a man who is somewhat deranged. I think it is fair to assume that if the Cardinal was not dead at this point, the shock of the stabbing would deliver the coup de grâce, though as you point out, the wound itself would be insufficient to cause death. Having ensured the Cardinal’s death, it would be a simple matter for him to keep Alvarez from entering the room, and to restore the bell to its former state. As you saw, however, it was obvious to an attentive observer that there had been some tampering carried out.”

  “Obvious to you, maybe, Holmes,” I said, “but I doubt if there is another man in the nation who would have remarked it.”

  “Be that as it may, the fact of his being a priest gave Mahoney the opportunity to sit alone and to remove all traces of suspicion from the room until Ledbury’s return. Who knows what awful thoughts went through his mind in those hours? If Tosca was not dead, the waiting for the final gasp must have been appalling and nerve-racking in the extreme.”

  “It is almost impossible for me to believe that one who is supposedly a man of God, could have committed such a foul act!” I exclaimed.

  “They are human, like the rest of us frail mortals,” my friend remarked, shaking his head. “Mahoney gave us a motive for his act, did he not, when he described his humiliations at the hands of the Cardinal.”

  “It seems so—so petty,” I said.

  “Most murders are committed for the most trifling of reasons. Murders for grand motives which you or I might consider to be worthy of the crime, if I may put it that way, are few and far between, relatively speaking.”

  As he finished speaking, we heard the noise of the dinner-gong.

  “We should at least wash,” I said to Holmes, “even though we have been instructed not to dress for dinner.”

  “Very well,” he agreed, and we left the fatal chamber.

  Mycroft Holmes – Whitehall, London

  On our arrival in the dining-room, we discovered Lord Ledbury standing by the sideboard, a glass of sherry in his hand.

  “I do realise that the circumstances are somewhat out of the ordinary, he said to us by way of greeting, but that is no reason to dispense with the usual trappings of a civilised life. A glass for you gentlemen while we await Monsignor Mahoney?”

  We both accepted, and we returned the toast of our host. While I sipped my wine, I was concerned with how we would be able to exchange civil conversation and break bread with a man whom Holmes had determined to be a cold-blooded murderer. Lord Ledbury was pleasant enough in making small talk with Holmes and myself, but it appeared that he was impatient for the arrival of his other guest. At length he pulled out his watch, and frowned at it.

  “The man must be asleep,” he grumbled, reaching for the bell. A minute later, Alvarez entered. “Please inform Monsignor Mahoney that we await his company,” Ledbury instructed the butler. He turned to us. “Another glass while we wait?�
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  He replenished our glasses from the decanter, but we were fated never to taste our drinks. Alvarez came into the room, red-faced and panting.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Ledbury, “but there's no sign of the Monsignor. He is not in any of the rooms upstairs, and it seems as though some of his luggage has gone from his room.”

  Holmes let out an exclamation of annoyance, and Lord Ledbury turned to look at him.

  “You may go, Alvarez,” Holmes told him, and when he had gone, addressed Lord Ledbury. “Pardon me, sir, for my abrupt dismissal of your servant, but I did not wish to discuss this matter in front of him.”

  “You intrigue me, Holmes. This is becoming a house of mysteries, is it not?”

  “One mystery is solved, I feel,” Holmes told him, and proceeded to lay out his deductions regarding the death of Cardinal Tosca. Lord Ledbury listened in near silence, interrupting with an occasional question that showed he was following the account with complete attention.

  “So a murderer has flown the coop, has he? Well, he cannot have gone far. I can call the local constabulary, and they will watch every railway station, visit every inn and public house where he may choose to stay. We will soon have the man, do not fear.”

  Holmes shook his head sadly. “I hope you are correct, but I fear you may be mistaken there. We should summon the servants and question them as to whether any of them witnessed his departure. Dinner must wait.”

  After the indoor servants had been questioned, to no avail, those of the outdoor servants who had not departed for the night were summoned. To our amazement, the groom who had driven Holmes and myself from the station calmly stated that he had carried Mahoney to the station.

  “He told me that he had received a telegram from London and he had to catch the next train.”

  “What was he carrying?” Holmes asked.

  “A small Gladstone and a case for documents. He was hanging on tight to the document case all the way to the station. He seemed nervous, and he kept asking me to hurry up.”

  “And did you see which train he caught?”

  “Yes, sir, it was the 5:25 express to King's Cross.”

  Holmes and Ledbury looked at each other with an air of disappointment. “Thank you, Fergus,” said Ledbury.

  “Our pigeon is well and truly flown,” remarked Holmes with an air of dejection. “There would seem to be little use in your calling out the constabulary, I fear. There is no reason for us to blame that coachman, though. He had no reason, after all, to suspect that anything was amiss. However, I must contact brother Mycroft at the Diogenes and inform him of events. At least, locating a Monsignor should be a simple matter, even in the metropolis, after Mycroft has passed the word to the appropriate authorities.”

  “Provided always that Mahoney continues to wear the insignia of his calling,” added Lord Ledbury dourly. Of the two men, he seemed the more downcast by events. “Do you assume, he asked Holmes, that he has the letter with him?”

  “I can assume nothing else,” answered Sherlock Holmes. “If the letter is not here, and Mahoney is also absent, then it would seem logical to deduce, would it not, that the letter is in his possession. Come, let us use the telephone to speak with brother Mycroft.”

  Editor’s note: It has been a minor mystery to many Sherlockians why Sherlock Holmes failed to avail himself of the telephone, given his enthusiastic adoption of other forms of technology that made their appearance during the period of his activity. As we know, he preferred the telegram, but Watson records no reason for his disdain for the more modern method of communication. Maybe this riddle will be clarified and solved in some later adventure yet to be discovered in the deed box or dispatch-box.

  Following Lord Ledbury's performance of those rites which seemed necessary to establish communication with the Diogenes Club, he handed the instrument to Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to enter conversation with one of the Club servants. At length, with an expression of disgust, he handed back the instrument to Ledbury.

  “It appears that Mycroft is not at the Club,” he told us. “Can you connect us to his Whitehall office?”

  The peer shook his head. “At this time of night, the employee who operates the telephones will have left the building. There will be no way of making such a connection.”

  “In which case, sir, Watson and I must forego dinner here—a circumstance which affords me no pleasure, I can assure you—and return to London by the earliest possible train. If you would be kind enough to request the groom to harness the trap, it would be much appreciated.”

  “I will do that,” answered Lord Ledbury, reaching for the bell, “and I will also order that sandwiches or some such refreshment be prepared for your journey. I am sorry to be deprived of your company tonight.”

  Holmes smiled. “I am sure that we will return soon,” he assured Ledbury.

  The trap was soon harnessed and we were lucky to find an express train leaving for London within ten minutes of our arrival at the local station. Seated alone in our first-class compartment, and devouring the sandwiches that had been provided for us, Holmes turned to me with a worried expression.

  “I have failed badly here, Watson,” he confessed to me.

  “You appeared to be less concerned when we were at Ledbury Hall.”

  “Alas, that was for outward show alone. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, is it not? With you, Watson, I can reveal my inner self to an extent that has not been possible for me in the past. You have the air sympathique, as our French cousins would have it, which makes it a positive pleasure to set forth my inner feelings.”

  I was flattered that Holmes should consider my company to be of such value to him, and settled back with a glass of the excellent Burgundy, a half-bottle of which had been packed along with the sandwiches.

  “I have failed, Watson,” Holmes repeated to me. “It is not merely a question of the damage to my personal pride, though I confess that is perhaps more of a blow than it should perhaps be, but also the fact that so much hangs on the successful resolution of this case. On a national level, this could be a disaster for the country should the letter be made public, and the contents be as explosive as we have been led to believe. Also, and I will freely agree that this is of lesser national consequence, there is the matter of my relationship with my brother.”

  “That being?”

  “As you can see, he is my elder, and I freely recognise his superiority in certain matters. However, I am highly conscious of the fact that he has depended on me to solve this problem. Future relations between us could become strained, I fear, if this matter is not settled.”

  It was rare for Holmes to unburden himself in this manner, and I was sensible of the fact as I endeavoured to reassure him. “There can be no doubt that you will discover the answer,” I told him.

  “It is not the discovery of the answer that worries me. The merest beginner in the craft could have discovered what I have done. It is the fact that Mycroft depends on me to be the actor, rather than the thinker in our family. And in this case I have failed him. I should have foreseen that Mahoney would divine our purposes, and would attempt to evade us. The fact that I failed to do so is inexcusable in my own eyes and will, I fear, be inexcusable in his as well.” With this, he threw himself back into his seat, and placed his unlit pipe between his teeth. I started to reply, but he waved his hand in my direction. “Do not speak, Watson. Your silence is a consolation in itself.” So saying, he closed his eyes, and remained motionless for at least ten minutes, during which time I applied myself to the wine.

  Suddenly he addressed me, without, however, opening his eyes. “There is, however, something which gives me considerable pause for thought, and which may well lead us to a successful conclusion.”

  “Are you referring to the discrepancy that we noted earlier between Lord Ledbury’s account of the acquisition of the letter, and that of Alvarez?”

  Sherlock Holmes’ face, which hitherto had assumed an expression of despondency, too
k on a new animation at these words, and he sat up and opened his eyes. “Precisely, Watson. You have hit the spot with unerring accuracy. Either Lord Ledbury or his butler has not told us the truth regarding this matter. The questions we must ask ourselves are firstly, which one has given us the true account, and secondly, to what end is the other one providing us with false information?”

  “Is it likely that the confusion is the result of an honest mistake on the part of one of the parties involved?” I suggested.

  “I think this to be improbable, given the importance of the matter, but it is obviously a possibility that we cannot entirely discard. We are nearly there,” he added, after a glance out of the train window.

  I packed away the remainder of our rough dinner, and as the train came to a halt in the London terminus, followed Holmes through the fog to the cab rank, where we hailed a hansom to take us to the Diogenes Club. “Even if he was not there earlier, I cannot imagine that he will miss his nightly visit there,” Holmes told me, referring to his brother Mycroft.

  He was proved correct when, on arrival at the Diogenes Club and giving our names to the porter, we were admitted to the presence of Mycroft Holmes, whose face was set in stern lines.

  “Well, Sherlock,” he said to my friend in tones that matched his countenance. “What brings you here? I had imagined you to be still at Ledbury. Have you solved the case so quickly?”

  “I fear not,” said his brother, in abashed tones. He related what we had discovered regarding the movement of the body, and the almost certain fact that the Cardinal had been killed through the electric bell, rather than the dagger that had been discovered. He then passed to the letter, and the two different accounts that we had received of its retrieval, followed by its disappearance, and the flight of Mahoney. As he proceeded, Mycroft Holmes’ face took on a dark expression. At the end of Sherlock Holmes’ recital of the events, there was a ponderous silence, which lasted for a good two or three minutes. At length Mycroft Holmes heaved himself to his feet, towering over his seated brother, and spoke.