Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  Aber abseits, wer ist’s?

  Im Gebusch verliert sich

  sein Pfad;

  hinter ihm schlagen

  die Sträuche zusammen,

  das Gras steht wieder auf,

  die Öde verschlingt ihn.

  A CASE OF CRIMINAL MADNESS

  IT WAS IN THE SPRING OF 1901 THAT SHERLOCK HOLMES received formal notice that he had been elected to the Accademia dei Lincei, one of the oldest and most prestigious of the scientific academies of Europe. He beamed with pride, unable to conceal his pleasure, as he handed the ornate letter of appointment over to me.

  “My compliments, old boy, you certainly are deserving of it.”

  “Without doubt, Watson,” he said self-mockingly, “and you will note that the letter states that I am one of only three Englishmen to receive the honour since it was bestowed upon Newton himself.”

  “The letter says that you are to deliver a lecture at the Accademia within the next three months,” said I, running my fingers over the embossed letters.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have already chosen the topic: The Master Criminal.”

  Holmes worked furiously on the paper, and delivered it to great acclaim in Rome, in October of that year. In a short time, it became justly famous for its brilliant analysis of the criminal mind. In it, Holmes argued that crime of the common kind is almost entirely the result of the influence of society. The common pickpocket, the petty burgler, the swindler, even the angry murderer, are all part of the intricate social web in which we live. They are simply the prisoners of society and the victims of its many cruelties.

  The master criminal, however, differs considerably. He is mentally free of social influences, often transcends their bonds, and with a logic impenetrable to the ordinary observer, creates continual havoc, thereby reducing an unsuspecting society to fear and trembling, one without the will to fight. The master criminal, often born to privilege, can cause catastrophes well beyond those that are normally considered to be at the limits of human evil. Indeed, it is no wonder, wrote Holmes, with great insight, that crime and politics go hand in hand. What, after all, is the tyrant but a criminal politician gone insane?

  “The criminal genius is a rare bird, however,” said Homes one afternoon as he read through the piles of congratulatory letters that reached our flat every day. “In fact,” he said with a smile, “my paper has so annoyed the world’s criminal geniuses—there are but five who are left—that three have already made fatal errors, of which I have taken full advantage to put them behind bars. The two who remain are a rather odd couple who will pool their resources in order to do me in—”

  With these last words scarcely out of his mouth, Holmes leaped into the air, throwing a large white envelope across the room with all the strength he could muster.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I asked in fear.

  “You know the poison called upas? The deadliest gift one human being can give to another? The faint sweet odor reminiscent of cardamom is the immediate clue. That letter you see lying there could kill everyone living within a kilometre of our sitting room had I opened it and allowed its contents to circulate in the air. It is not alive, Watson, but we must treat it as if it were some dangerous animal. Luckily, I know it well.”

  Holmes put on a thick pair of gloves and placed the offending envelope in a container that he had lined with lead for use in cases such as this one. He twisted the lid as tight as he could, and put it behind a set of Scott’s novels where it would remain until he could dispose of it.

  “There now, Watson. Enough of these letters for a while. God only knows what horrors may still lurk in them. Perhaps I shall ask Lestrade to give them over to the laboratory at Scotland Yard for preliminary examination. I hope they can do it without killing us all,” he murmured as he lit his pipe.

  “But what do we do for the long run?” I asked with concern. “Surely, the two remaining geniuses as you call them will eventually do you in. We must take some precautions for your safety.”

  “Quite so, my dear fellow. That poisoned epistle shows clearly that they will not stop until they have destroyed me—and you as well.”

  I smiled. “Let them try, then. And who are they?

  Holmes puffed slowly on his pipe. “A singular duo, Watson, of the greatest criminal intelligence, but distorted for reasons only partially known to me as yet, though I have some evidence that they prepared under Moriarty himself. Protected by their highly placed acolytes, they move wherever they wish in Europe, amassing untold wealth and power. Their chief theatre of operations has been France until recently, but now they have begun to shift here to London. I am sure the poisoned envelope was meant not only as a declaration of war, but also as an announcement to me of their arrival in the high society of London. One of their underlings has twice served as a colonial officer on the island of Macassar, and has a specialized knowledge of tropical poisons.”

  “And where are they from, these criminals? And what do they call themselves?”

  “They are by name René and Jeanne Rouxmont.”

  “And what are their special interests in crime?”

  “Almost everything. They have amassed the world’s largest collections of paintings, particularly Renaissance Italian painting of the Caravaggio school. All of this is now stored in one of their large Medici palaces near Florence, the most splendid of which has become their latest abode. They were present at my talk at the Accademia and were infuriated by my remarks. I must say in all modesty, old boy, that it is possible that I am the reason for their change to London.”

  “Curious,” said I, “but I don’t recall any reference to them in your paper.”

  “I could not refer to them directly, Watson, since they were seated in the front row, very elegantly and appropriately attired and accompanied by a veritable retinue of criminal admirers. They are a talented and vicious lot. Remember too that there exists always the problem of evidence sufficient to convict. Without such evidence, any attempt to expose them is met with incredulity by the police as well as the demi-monde in which they live. They are, to say the least, an odd couple, but their oddity only adds to their unbounded appetites. It is true too that at this fin de siècle period what they are matters not in the least. It is what they do that must be addressed, for it is an ever widening nightmare for all of those who should be unfortunate enough to come within their purview.”

  Holmes went over to his scrapbooks where he kept files on all the criminal horrors referred to in print.

  “Here, Watson, is one of the few photographs of them that exists,” he said, handing me one of his scrapbooks.

  I saw a woman who towered over her companion and who looked twice his age.

  “They are most odd,” I said, “and rather unattractive to boot.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “She is tall and thin, frighteningly pale, her face puckered with wrinkles caused by a powerful acid thrown at her in childhood by an angry relation. The image of her that I carry around with me is not that of a human being but of a high-backed chair, one with wooden arms and legs and tattered upholstery at the top. He, on the other hand, is more human, but in appearance only. He is a rather stout man of half her height. In real life he has a broad face, pinkish in color, half bald, the only clue to his brain being his cruel grey eyes. He is an excellent shot and carries a weapon at all times, but uses it only in moments of crisis. As with all master criminals, the Rouxmonts require that the crime itself be committed by one of their henchmen. They themselves are the leaders of the gang. They plan and conceive, but do not execute. In this way, they maintain the appearance as well as a certain distance from their foul deeds. As chief disciples, they of course revere the memory of the late Professor James Moriarty.”

  Holmes became silent for a moment as he paced back and forth, his pipe firmly between his teeth.

  “Their weaknesses? There are two. They are brilliant in conception but irregular, even lax, in the execution of their crimes. To put it bluntly, they do not pr
epare well. Second, they believe erroneously in their own invincibility. Another blunder. They remind one of a playwright, who writes the play and delivers it to the director, who hires the actors to perform it. Having conceived of the play, the odd couple then purchase tickets, so to speak, and sit in the audience watching it as if it is the work of others. It is only at the very end of the chain that they have created that they become active again. At this juncture they evaluate the loot and take their share, which I have been told sometimes reaches a staggering ninety per cent. To defeat them I have a plan, of which you will be the chief executor. After me, of course.”

  “And what is it, Holmes?”

  “First, you must announce my retirement. Preposterous, you say? Not at all, dear Watson. The time will come when we both think of retirement as a necessity. Even at this early moment, however, it is plausible that I remove myself from the fray. We must make it completely believable if I am to succeed in destroying this strange couple. Do you recall that small cottage in Sussex where we stayed for a few weeks? I think it might be the perfect spot in which to disappear for a time. As I recall, it is isolated but not far from an old Norman ruin still inhabited by friendly people. Let us go there this afternoon and see if it is available to us. I shall reveal to you more of my plans once we are on the train. Come along, old fellow. In time you will see your friend disappear into a number of disguises.”

  That afternoon we investigated the cottage. The owner, Major Potter, told us that it had been vacant for some months, and that he welcomed our interest. We found it still to our liking, and upon our return to Baker Street, I called The Times and announced Holmes’s retirement and the end of his active pursuit of the world’s criminals. He would place such endeavors in the capable hands of Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson and the other brave men of Scotland Yard. Later, he stated emphatically in public interviews that he wished only to keep bees and pursue his interests in other subjects, the chief of which would be the motets of Orlando di Lasso. He refused to comment when asked about his memoirs.

  A short time later, Holmes moved to the cottage in Sussex. I accompanied him. The world largely ignored the move, but it was vaguely understood from published reports that he would divide his retirement between London and somewhere in Sussex, where he would spend the greater portion of his time. Both the Foreign Office and Scotland Yard posted unobtrusive guards at Baker Street, and I felt largely free of any danger, somewhat foolishly perhaps. A guard was also posted at the cottage. Except for an occasional suspicious incident and near misses such as falling flower pots and runaway horses in the city, we felt safe and scarcely aware of the guard that protected us in our daily lives.

  Holmes spent much of his time in the country, cultivating his bees and playing the violin. The suspicious incidents, he assured me, the work of the Rouxmonts, would last only a few weeks. Once they no longer occurred he would begin to put in place the last part of his plan. He counseled patience on my part and said that he was sure that the Rouxmonts would show their hand in time for him to thwart them.

  And so, for a precious while, the world at large forgot Sherlock Holmes, convinced that he was no longer active in the world of crime. The underworld of London and Rome no longer had to fear him. Indeed, I gathered from Lestrade that the younger criminals now active had never heard of him, even though his retirement had commenced only a few months before.

  I visited Holmes often, and the two of us took our long walks together through the still, thick forests of Sussex. Holmes usually had a list of periodicals that he required, and I did my best to find them when I returned to the city. It was through them and reports from Scotland Yard that he kept in touch with the world in which he had lived and worked for so long. Far too often for my nerves, however, he still returned to London, solving several cases that baffled the police, but only Lestrade was made aware of these activities. Holmes’s so-called “retirement” continued without untoward incident, and his mind was sharper than ever.

  On our walks, he spoke of his plans for the Rouxmonts, but did not reveal them to me until he had been in Sussex for almost six months. During that time he often disappeared for long periods. He refused to let me know what he had been doing or where he had been.

  “Patience,” he proclaimed softly, continuing in the same low voice. “The time has come, old boy, for us to act. I have just learned from one of my many sources that the Rouxmonts are on their way to Italy, after waiting for a time to see if I were about to re-enter the world of crime. I am told that their henchmen are gorging themselves on the recently discovered treasures of Sybaris, a city justly famous as one of the richest of the ancient world. It is their intention to remove all of Sybaris that can be moved and sell it to the highest bidder. The Rouxmont gang have been working tirelessly to have the site closed. ‘Closed’ not by the Italian government but by the Rouxmonts themselves, of course. One of the odd couple, René, has got himself appointed as assistant superintendent of the excavation. At night, the odd couple unleash their archaeological ants that dig as fast as they can and carry their loot to a small village somewhere in Lucania where it is packed carefully for sale. You can imagine the joyful greed now passing through the hearts of the richest of Europe and America as the rumours grow. The prize? Sybaris, the ancient centre of world hedonism, now for sale down to the last sherd.

  “From Italy, they will transport their booty by ship to the Moroccan coast. There they will meet with their prospective buyers, Americans presumably, who have succeeded in having one of their own henchmen appointed as head of the American legation in Tangiers. Once inside the legation, it being the diplomatic equivalent of an embassy, the treasure is beyond our reach.”

  Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, but I could feel his enthusiasm as he continued.

  “After you return to Baker Street today, you are not to visit Sussex again. I have hired two actors to replace us. They will travel regularly as we have between London and our cottage. They are quite good at impersonations and might fool even Mrs. Hudson. Look out there, old boy, and tell me what you see,” he said, pointing to the window.

  I did as he asked and saw to my amazement Holmes and me strolling slowly towards the house, apparently conversing in our voices as well.

  “I’m not sure who we are, Holmes. They are very good indeed.”

  “I would have you meet them, but we haven’t the time. Here are your instructions in this small envelope. Memorise them, and then destroy the paper as soon as you reach Baker Street. Tomorrow morning at eight, you must be on the train from London to Rome. You will travel in the costume of an English monk, by name Friar Odoric. Your disguise is in this valise. Everything you will need for the trip is in there. Talk to no one, concentrate on your Latin prayers. I assume that you can still mumble convincingly.”

  “And where will you be?” I asked.

  “Not far away, old fellow, at least for the time being. Do not concern yourself. If I am correct, the gang will not notice you. Do not forget: they want me, not you, but are content for the moment for me to be a retired bee keeper in Sussex. Take the valise, Watson, and return to Baker Street. Quickly, old boy, your double is about to enter the room. If all goes well, humanity will be rid of the odd couple just as we meet again.”

  I returned to Baker Street as Holmes had instructed. His note was terse and to the point:

  Meet me 23 May I Sassi 24 at 12 noon. Come armed. Inform Grimaldi.

  I was puzzled by the note, particularly by the phrase “I Sassi,” but I found it quickly in one of Holmes’s indices: the phrase means “The Rocks” and refers to some ancient caves carved in the side of a cliff in the town of Matera in Italy. A strange place for us to meet, but there it was. I must say that I was more than a little unnerved by the note. Why such an out-of-the-way place? Surely, the odd couple must have had a strong reason to travel so far from London. Then I recalled Holmes’s reference to the ancient city of Sybaris and the Rouxmonts’ desire to pillage it.

  That morning
I left on schedule. I met Grimaldi in Rome, informed him of what was about to transpire and left for Matera. The train went through Potenza, the capital of Lucania. From there, the ride to Matera was magnificent, passing through miles of vigorous yellow wheat in the fields. Beyond them the rugged mountains of southern Italy loomed in the distance. It was just before noon on 23 May. I was on schedule.

  I walked the short distance to the railroad hotel, hoping to see Holmes before our scheduled meeting. But I had learned that once a plan of his was accepted, unless there was a large enough reason, it should not be changed. Holmes was fond of saying that his precautions were so carefully executed that change could be suicidal.

  I continued in the role of an English friar, and inquired in my poor French as to where number 24 would be among I Sassi. The woman behind the desk gave me a small map and I was off.

  Lo sasso 24 was not far. Once I arrived there, I saw what made the place so justly famous. I Sassi consisted of a gigantic cliff in the side of which there were innumerable caves, carved either by men or nature, I could not tell which. Number 24 had a large wooden door which swung open for me as I arrived. An old crone stood there babbling in the local dialect which sounded nothing like the language that I was accustomed to hearing in Rome.

  “Benga inda, caru fradu miu, lamigo sta inda la casa ncoppa,” she said pulling at my frock. I followed her up the stairs. In the dark I could make out a familiar figure.

  “Well done, Watson, you are on schedule. Come, we haven’t a moment to lose. We are to meet Grimaldi within the hour.”

  Holmes too was dressed as a monk. “This disguise is one of the most effective I know. I have been within a few feet of the odd couple as they ate in a local trattoria, and they took no notice of me—that is, until I identified myself to them. They were astonished to learn that I knew their plans down to the last detail. Let us go, old boy, to our meeting with the odd couple.”