by Ted Riccardi
The news passed through the crowd that the royal limousine was well on its way. In minutes we heard its motor and then saw the ornate automobile, its flags flying around the faces of its royal occupants. For a moment, Holmes’s glance caught that of the Archduke and a look of puzzlement and fear crossed the Duke’s face. He stood up as the car slowed. Holmes stood frozen, staring in disdain at the Austrian.
At that moment, a man and a woman came forth from the back of the crowd and pointed their guns at the royal vehicle. Shots were heard, and the Archduke fell over the side of his car as if from a tree. His wife slumped in her seat, fatally wounded. Kurtz, who was sitting in the front seat, tried to protect his master, but it was too late. He received a bullet directly to the head. I rushed to the vehicle to do what I could, but it was clear to me that the Archduke and Kurtz were dead. Sophie was alive for only a few minutes before she succumbed to the attackers’ bullets.
The crowd began to go mad and Holmes motioned that we should leave quickly. We barely made it back to our rooms when we heard the police firing into what had become an unruly mob. That evening we learned that Prinzip and his wife had been apprehended and were to be tried for murder.
It was several days before we returned to London. We consulted several times with the Viennese police, Holmes revealing all that he then knew There is no need to recount the events that took place in the aftermath of the assassination, for we are living through them now.
“Well, Watson, without Mycroft, the Foreign Office has behaved as incompetently as one might have feared,” said Holmes handing me the paper. “We shall be at war soon. Those who have a lust for blood shall have a surfeit of it this time.”
Holmes took his violin from its case and began tuning it slowly. It was late July, a month after the Archduke’s death, and Holmes’s prediction was soon to become true. For my good friend, there was to be no respite. He responded to his country’s needs with courage and determination. He had no illusions, however, about the dreadful events that were to begin shortly.
THE CASE OF THE PLANGENT COLONEL
IT WAS ON AN UNUSUALLY WARM DAY IN LATE APRIL of 1898 that the incidents alluded to below first came to notice. Holmes had left a note saying that a minor matter had taken him to Castel Gondolfo and that he would return in the afternoon. Having no special tasks to which to attend, I determined to put my solitude to good use by taking a long morning stroll in the Villa Borghese. I spent the better part of an hour in the museum with Canova’s celebrated statue of Madame Recamier, and after my walk, I sat on a bench in the cool shade of the Roman pines, studying, with great pleasure, the wide variety of Romans who passed by. I then took a light meal at one of my favorite trattorie on Via Palestrina, and reached our quarters shortly before two.
The city was already quiet with the siesta, that afternoon restorative nap which characterises so strongly the life of the Italian. I too felt that sweet lethargy to which the Roman air, coupled with a few glasses of cool frascati, inevitably leads one. As I began the climb to our quarters, I was suddenly met on the first landing by a young woman hurriedly running down the staircase. She addressed me instantly in English.
“Please forgive me, but might you be Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am not,” I answered, “but I know him well. Is he not there?”
“The landlady let me knock on his door, but there was no answer.”
“Hallo, Watson, and whom have we here?” said a voice suddenly from below.
I turned to see Holmes, a smile on his face, obviously satisfied with his trip.
“This young woman is looking for you, Holmes.”
“Then let us make the climb together. I trust that la signora Manfredini will prepare a cup of tea for us.”
The young woman smiled with relief, turned on the stair, and led the way up. I directed her to our sitting room where we began our conversation.
“I take it that you are English?” Holmes inquired.
“Yes,” she said, “from London.”
As she took her tea from our landlady, I observed her for a moment. Young, perhaps no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, almost pretty, she was dressed in a dark blue dress, a straw Italian bonnet over her chestnut hair. There was a look of strength and determination in her green eyes, but she appeared to be quite tense, her fingers moving nervously on her lap and then fingering a silver locket that she wore around her neck.
“I come to you with a matter of the greatest concern to me, Mr. Holmes. I must speak to you in all candor. I trust that this gentleman is as trustworthy as—”
“I myself am. Quite correct. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him as you would to me. You are a pianist, I see?”
I could sense her wonder as Holmes began to ply his tricks.
“Indeed, I am, but how could you know that?”
“It is simplicity itself. I noted as you took your seat that your bag contains a common edition of some music. Noting the letters—ven protruding from the top, I assumed the name of Beethoven. Judging from the thickness of the volume and its well-worn look, I was sure that it was a volume of his sonatas, obviously among the commonplaces of the pianist’s trade. Add to that your posture, which speaks eloquently of hours at the piano, and your well-developed hands and fingers.”
“It is with reason that you have the reputation that you have,” she said admiringly.
“But there is more, dear lady. You have been practising with great assiduity a particular piece—the piano concerto in D minor of Anton Rubinstein.”
At this a look of disbelief crossed her face, and she became almost angry as she answered, “That is unfair, Mr. Holmes. You are correct, of course, but I feel now that someone has told you of me and that you are engaged in some kind of deception, to what end I do not know.”
“Forgive me,” said Holmes, with a smile, “I can assure you that I have not spoken to anyone about you—I do not even know your name—and that so obvious are the clues to me that I often forget how mysterious their explanation may be to the untrained eye. Among other things, I am a student of the human hand. Because of its wide use in our work and activity, it can be even more important in revealing a life than the face itself. Thus while la Signora Manfredini was pouring your tea, I observed your hands as they moved unconsciously on your lap and then stretched as you toyed with your locket. Noting the span between the fingers, particularly between thumb and forefinger, I surmised what was almost assuredly a D minor chord. The rhythm and repetitions brought me to the melody and cadence of the Rubinstein piece, now the rage in Europe among pianists. But tell me what I do not know, to wit your name, and why you are here.”
The young woman appeared relieved by Holmes’s explanation, and said: “You are most amazing, Mr. Holmes. I shall not forget easily these illustrations of your methods. I hope they can be used to help me. My name is Alice Morel, and I am indeed a musician. I have trained at the Royal Conservatory in London, and was selected to take part in the piano competition soon to take place here in Rome under the auspices of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia.”
“A singular honor,” said Holmes. “And a rather nerve-wracking one, I would imagine.”
“It is, Mr. Holmes. It means all-day practise, little sleep, and the anxious feeling that comes over one when one knows that the leading pianists of the world are the judges. Rubinstein himself is coming. Winning means a year’s study with him. And rumours are rife that Busoni and Theodor Leszhitisky will also attend.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “But, while the excitement must be great, there is something else that is producing a certain agitation in you. What is it?”
“Let me tell you how it came about. I won the preliminary competition in London two months ago, and was told to prepare for my immediate departure for Italy. Once arrived, I was to spend the next three months in preparation for the competition, which is to take place at the end of this coming August. It was made clear to me by our director that my performance would mean much to
the national honour since whatever our accomplishments abroad we were not known in Europe or America as a musical nation.”
“’Tis true indeed, we English are not considered musical, a not unjust opinion of us in some ways, but not totally true on the other hand. Pray continue, Miss Morel.”
“On my arrival in Rome I was met by the British vice consul, Mr. Herbert Spenser, who helped me settle in and also to find a suitable piano on which to practise. Through the officials at the Academy he helped me find a flat on Via Ezio, off the Via Crescenzio. According to the notice, the flat was fully furnished, and I was told that it was the property of a Colonel Santoro, a military man of some note in Italy and recently retired. He seemed kind and friendly in our first meeting and showed me through the flat. Despite the disappointment in Italy at its armies’ defeat at Adowa, Santoro was one of its few heroes, and he showed me many photographs of himself and his various medals. “The flat was furnished with heavy wooden furniture from the Carpathians, somewhere in Hungary or Austria, I think, hardly to my taste, but I did not complain. Indeed, when I saw what was in the study I was overjoyed. It was a large concert grand piano, originally given to his daughter, he said, but hardly used. The piano, a Vulsin from Graz in Austria, was all I could ask for. I touched the keys and I heard the sweetest tone emanate from it. Mr. Anzio, the music publisher, had supplied it instead of offering it to some foreign potentate. Mr. Spenser had done very well by me, and I thanked him and the Colonel profusely for their help. It was precisely then that Mr. Spenser gave me this locket as a good-luck charm.”
“A Maria Theresa thaler, if I am not mistaken,” said Holmes. “May I see it?”
She handed the locket over, and Holmes examined it closely while Miss Morel continued her tale.
“With this start in my Italian adventure, I was filled with optimism and practised long and hard each day, knowing that if my work continued at that level, I surely should have a chance at first place in the competition. Then my luck began to change.”
Tears formed in her eyes, and she drew a handkerchief from her bag. She kept her composure, however, and Holmes conforted her with a soft, “Pray continue, Miss Morel, we are ready to help you.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes; it has been a nightmare that perhaps only a musician could understand.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “I am well aware of the strictures that the musical life puts upon one. I am a violinist of sorts and know well the tensions of such a career.”
Miss Morel smiled wanly at us, and continued her account.
“The first thing was the piano. About ten days ago, after a long hard practise one morning, I went out to walk in a nearby square not far from the Tiber. I returned after but an hour and sat down at the piano eagerly without even removing my coat. Suddenly my valued friend had changed. The piano had gone badly out of tune and half of the keys in the middle register were stuck. Perplexed, I lifted the lid to see what was wrong. Like most pianists, Mr. Holmes, I know little beyond the basics of piano construction. I could see nothing amiss. The rest of the day was spent finding a piano tuner. Colonel Santoro found one who finally came that evening and restored the sound of the piano. He attributed the problem to a change in temperature and left.
“For two days, I played constantly, always fearful that if I ventured out, I would find the piano again in unplayable condition. But one day, I returned after a visit to the Academy to find two strings broken. The tuner came, and replaced them, saying that the strings appeared to have been cut by someone.”
Holmes listened with increasing interest to the young woman’s story. His expression became more serious as she spoke. He leaned forward and returned the locket to her. As he did so, he wiped his hands with a handkerchief.
“Pray, continue, Miss Morel,” he said quietly.
“After the tuner left, I sat down to play, but after a few minutes, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. I opened and found an older woman standing there, elegantly dressed, accompanied by a much younger man.
“’Scusi,’” she said in Italian, ‘sono la Signora Santoro e quest’è il mio avocato, Giorgio.’”
“I understood what she said, but impressed upon her as intelligibly as I could that I spoke little Italian. She then continued haltingly in English. I invited them in and the signora explained to me why they had come: She and the Colonel no longer lived as husband and wife but were separated, though not divorced, however, since divorce was not possible in Italy. A court had awarded her the flat. The Colonel was allowed to live in it but was not permitted to rent it to anyone. She told me that I would be served and asked to appear in court as a witness to the Colonel’s breach of their agreement. She went to great lengths, and so did her lawyer, to explain to me that they bore me no ill will but that I would have to move immediately, the sooner the better. She also asked to see the piano that the colonel had given to me for practise. She became quietly furious as she walked around it. She then stormed out, shouting that the piano too was hers. The lawyer handed me what appeared to be a summons and left.
“When they had gone, I realized that circumstances were conspiring to make the practise necessary for the competition almost impossible. To add to the matter, and even worse, an hour or so later, the Colonel appeared at the door. No sooner had he entered than he was down on his knees, pleading with me, crying and sobbing, saying, if I understood correctly, that he would be ruined if I testified in court against him.
“‘Please,’ he cried, tears running profusely down his cheeks, ‘leave as quickly as possible. I will help you.’
“I told him that I would certainly not testify against him in court and that I would be resident there for only a few more weeks. He agreed, though not without many more tears, to allow me to stay a while longer. I realised, however, that I might have made a grave error. He left, and I tried to compose myself. Exhausted, I decided to retire early.”
Holmes filled Miss Morel’s cup and asked her to continue.
“The following day was even worse. I arose and dressed and walked into the living room. There I found the Colonel sound asleep on the floor near the window. I must have uttered a cry, for he suddenly awoke and again began his soulful wailing. He asked my forgiveness for his intrusion into my privacy, but he was there because his wife had arranged it so that he could not return to his lodging. He complained bitterly about the fact that he was a war hero but in spite of that, he had to live in the gutter.
“Still quite frightened by his unexpected presence, I ordered him to go, which he did, not again without tearfully beseeching me on his knees to leave at once.
“When he had gone, I went to the study. I sat down at the piano and sensed that something was terribly wrong again. I opened the lid and saw that the keys had been damaged and several hammers broken. The piano was now unplayable and perhaps it never would be playable again.”
As Miss Morel’s story progressed, the expression on Holmes’s face moved from one of amused benevolence to one of deeper concern.
“Please continue, Miss Morel,” he said gravely. Your story is far more interesting and the circumstances more dangerous than I would have thought at first.”
“There is little left to tell . . . except that I found these in one corner of the room.”
She took from her bag three piano hammers and gave them to Holmes.
“I found these behind the door to the study as I was leaving. They are badly damaged,” she said.
“Broken, the felt partially removed. Miss Morel, I very much want to help you, but you must take my immediate advice not to return to your flat. La signora Manfredini has several empty rooms here. I suggest that you take one and move another piano in. In the meantime, there is not a moment to lose. I would like to visit your flat before any more time passes. And if you trust us, we will arrange for one of Mrs. Manfredini’s maids to pack your things.”
Miss Morel readily assented to the scheme. She seemed completely relieved that she would not have to return to her flat
, and quickly handed the keys over to Holmes. As we left, she was engaged with Signora Manfredini over which room to take. Maria, a strong servant girl from the Abruzzi, left with us.
“One final matter, Miss Morel. How might we find Colonel Santoro?”
“Mr. Spenser knows him quite well. He should be able to help you,” she replied.
The trip along the Via Crescenzio was a short one. The spring rains had muddied the streets, however, and the continuous travel of countless coaches had created deep ruts. It was over an hour later when our cab turned into the Via Ezio and we entered the foyer of numero 27, and then interno dodici, or flat number 12.
“Keep the maid with you here, Watson. I wish to take a preliminary look myself, to make sure that nothing untoward has happened.”
I held back with the maid as Holmes entered. In the half light, I saw that we had entered a large and well-furnished flat. Nothing seemed out of order until I noticed what appeared to be a human figure in military attire, resting on its knees, its arms as if in abject supplication to some unseen deity, its head attached to a long wire hanging from the ceiling. The figure appeared dead, motionless, except for a slight spin from the long wire. Holmes rushed over to cut the body down. As he did so, he laughed.
“Clever, Watson, eh?”
I rushed over in the hope that some life might be left in the man.
“Don’t touch, Watson. It’s not quite what you think it is.”
He grinned, as he pointed to two pillows stuffed inside the soldier’s uniform, which had given the whole the thick look of a rather stout human figure. The wire was hooked onto the back of the coat collar just below where a large ball of white wool acted as a head. A military cap hid most of the latter.
