by Ted Riccardi
“By recommendation of the apothecary for whom I worked, I was apprenticed at Windisch and Company as one who mixed the inks and had them dispatched to select customers. Because I was known to have a family relation with him—I was still known as his wife’s sister—Wagner’s orders to the firm were quickly put in my personal charge. His instructions to Herr Windisch were characteristically precise and firm: two packages per month to arrive on the tenth and twentieth, no matter where he was. It became part of my task to know his travels and whereabouts. This was done through one of the domestic servants whom Wagner instructed to notify Windisch of his plans. I myself was never in direct communication with Wagner, nor did he nor anyone in his household know that I was employed at Windisch and Company. And so, my task began. I experimented at first—”
“Strychnine, belladonna, and arsenic are obvious, but there are others,” Holmes interjected.
“There are several others, including curare, and, of course, for the last six months, the deadliest, a mixture of curare and sugar of lead.”
“Well done, Frau Planer, the last explains the sweet taste of the ink that he mentioned to me.”
“Indeed, I made it known in special instructions that the ink was even safe for him to drink in small quantities. I knew that he would drink it, because he was one of those individuals who could not resist chemicals of any kind.”
At that moment, Holmes realised that on the morning of his death, Wagner, feeling better for the first time in many days, attributed his well-being to what was indeed killing him, and probably took a small drink made from the latest shipment, the shipment of 10 February 1883, a final drink that caused his death.
“Frau Planer,” said Holmes grimly “I am not here to judge your actions, nor to report your account to anyone but my client.”
“It is all immaterial to me,” she said firmly, “for I have not acted against Wagner alone, but that he and I should enter a new life. You see, Richard and I are bound together by birth and rebirth. He is my Ananda and I his Savitri. I do not intend to live much beyond today. Over the last few months I have been giving myself the same poisons that I gave him, and I shall soon join him. . . . free from Sansara, in Nirvana!”
At this moment, Nathalie Planer, the bitter old woman, became transfigured. A strange light appeared in her eyes and she gazed into a far distance that was not contained by the walls of her small room, a trance, induced only in part, by the poisons, probably the belladonna.
We decided not to question her further. Holmes examined the room quickly. My eye was immediately caught by the photograph of a young girl on the wall, one aged about fifteen. Judging by the resemblance to her parents, I knew that it must be of her daughter by Richard Wagner. As we left, I glanced out the window, and noticed that a cab had just drawn up to the entrance of the house. Alighting from it was Mrs. Burrell of Philadelphia. We left unseen.
The following evening Holmes explained all to Liszt, who had arrived from Bayreuth after the burial at Wahnfried. He listened in rapt attention to Holmes’s account of the deeds of Richard Wagner and of the revenge of Nathalie Planer.
“How strange a tale, Monsieur Holmes. I assure you I knew nothing of this. Nathalie Planer was a mere child when I met her, and I saw her but once. Wagner never mentioned her to me.”
“We must leave Nathalie to her fate, to her karma, as she would put it,” Holmes replied, “and keep the story to ourselves. It would do no good at this point to reveal it.”
“Così si fa il contrapasso, Monsieur Holmes. I do not understand Buddhist doctrine. It is one of the things that has separated me from my daughter. I remain a firm Christian, and my authority for retribution remains the Christian doctrine so beautifully enunciated by Dante. Cosima knows nothing of Wagner’s relation with Frau Planer, of course, and I wish to keep all of this from her. She has sworn never to appear in public again. I saw her only briefly, and I still feel that she may try to take her own life. I must tell you that Cosima once entered a ‘nirvana’ suicide pact with a friend, Karl Ritter. They were both unhappy for different reasons, she because of her marriage to von Bülow, he . . . well, he for his own reasons. They decided to drown themselves together in a nearby lake. Luckily, they were talked out of it.”
“All the more reason for us to remain silent.”
“Yes, let us keep it to ourselves.”
We said our farewells, and in two days Holmes and I were back in London.
“Remarkable,” said I as we sat in our living room. “The more I think about it the more remarkable a story it becomes. Who would have thought—”
“And it is not quite finished, Watson. Here,” said Holmes, holding out a letter.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I write you because you and I are among the very few who share the same knowledge. I spoke with Nathalie Planer shortly after you did.
You can understand how surprised I was to find my own picture as a young girl hanging in her room. When she saw me, she broke down in tears, and she told me everything, including her intention to kill herself.
Luckily, I was able to dissuade her. She has decided that it is more important for her to continue to live since I wanted it so, but her health is seriously impaired, and she may not live long. I spent several weeks with her, trying to live with the idea of my real parentage. Upon my return to Philadelphia, my American parents confirmed the fact that Nathalie Planer was my real mother. They still do not know who my father was, and I have let it remain so for the time being. Nathalie entrusted to me all of the documents that she had concerning Richard Wagner. These were left to her by her sister, Minna, Wagner’s first wife. I hope to employ these in a biography concerning the early life of Richard Wagner, my father. If it is ever printed, I shall send you a copy.
As a token of gratitude, I include a photograph of you, Dr. Watson, Franz Liszt, and Richard Wagner standing in front of the Palazzo Vendramin.
Sincerely,
(Mrs.) Mary Burrell
As I glanced up, I saw that Holmes had already buried himself in the day’s agony column. I stared at the photograph for a time, wondering how long it would take the young lady to write the life of Wagner.
THE CASE OF THE TWO BOHÈMES
IN THE WINTER OF 1899, MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND I found ourselves still happily ensconced in our flat in Rome but compelled to endure a fortnight of snow-filled days; indeed, an unexpected blizzard so bitterly cold that it threatened to reverse our long-held convictions concerning the respective merits of cold, foggy London as opposed to sunny Rome. The meager silver light of these short December days in the dead of winter faded quickly into the dark Roman night, and the usually animated city fell silent and still by early evening, as if uninhabited.
“Just remember, old fellow, that in London they talk of heat stroke or even sunstroke on days such as these,” said my friend with unusually good humour.
“Quite right, but I shall not move until our landlady recognises how cold her establishment is, and that one of her boarders is about to expire from cold stroke,” I replied.
Indeed, our landlady, la signora Manfredini, had done nothing, once we had moved in, to alleviate our sufferings, despite our increasingly vociferous remonstrances. Windows throughout her large establishment remained broken, letting in freezing drafts of icy-cold air. The fireplace, after two days of intense labour on our part, produced only a few sputters and then settled into permanent inactivity. Blocked by countless swallows and their nests, which I had tried in vain to dislodge with the point of my umbrella, the chimney merely produced a dark grey smoke that finally forced us to open the windows, thereby augmenting the long unrelenting chill that blew in and destroyed what was left of our thoroughly diminished comfort.
In addition to her refusal to hear our pleas, La Signora, as we referred to her, took the outlandish action of storing the remaining firewood and kindling in a locked valise which she attempted to hide behind the kitchen stove. When she realised that Holmes could open the valise easily,
she hid it in her bedroom, leading us to throw the broken legs of an old chair into the remaining embers of our dwindling fire.
Despite our failure, Holmes kept searching the long halls of the Manfredini residence for things to burn in the hope that he would eventually succeed. I myself moved less and less within our quarters, covering myself with the musty moth-eaten blankets provided to us. They were our only refuge until by chance Holmes found in one of the dark corners of the flat an old metal bucket filled with chunks of coal and kindling with which he produced a small fire.
“My gratitude knows no bounds, Holmes. I doubt that I would have survived the last few minutes without your serendipitous find.”
“We are almost warm in this room now, dear Watson, and, with any luck at all, the icy rain and snow will soon abate, and we will again go about our business without frozen fingers and toes. The city appears to be iced over, like some strange glacier. We are not missing anything by staying inside.”
I was about to agree, when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for one of us to open, in strode our strange and wondrous landlady, attired in a way most odd even for her, and seemingly impervious to the cold. Her hair was covered in a thick white towel and her face glistened with some brownish oil. The rest of her was covered in a heavy green robe from which large puddles of water dripped onto the floor around her feet.
“Mi dispiace, signori,” she said sternly, “but I need the bucket for my bath, to heat the water.”
“Purtroppo,” said I, “we need it as well. And may I point out to La Signora that the bucket has not been used in months,” I replied brusquely.
I could see that my words angered her, but she did not press us further. She walked away, her robe still dripping, and entered her quarters.
“We have won a small battle, old fellow,” said Holmes, “but not the war.” He looked at his watch and said, “Dear Watson, in light of our difficulties and the approaching evening, I propose that I pay a visit to the local grog shop to buy some wine and brandy—and some cheese and bread. The salumeria on Via Spontini may still be open. If all goes well, we should be pleasantly comatose in a few minutes and asleep when the hour strikes eight. Che pensi?”
“Good idea, old fellow, and buy enough for friend Gabriel and company. It will be Christmas in just a week and I invited them over for a drink this evening.” Holmes left, and I fell almost immediately into a doze. Through it, however, I heard our doorbell ring several times. I got up and, throwing the dusty blankets onto the floor, I opened our door to find Gabriel and friends standing there. We greeted each other warmly, and they rushed in and put their bundles down on the table. They were frozen over with snow and ice but recovered a bit in front of our fire. Holmes returned shortly after their arrival. Among his purchases was a hot soup that we consumed in great gulps. We had now enough wine and food for a sumptuous evening, and the mood changed markedly.
These three young friends had come into our lives in Rome because Holmes had wisely decided that he would need a number of allies comparable to the Baker Street Irregulars in London. Instead of the awkward word irregolari, he dubbed them I Soliti Ignoti, “the usual suspects,” and so far they had been of the greatest help to him in his investigations. The three of them were in their early twenties and had lived most of their lives in the streets with only intermittent contact with their families. Curiously enough, each bore the name of an archangel: Gabriel, Michael, and Raffael.
It was just about half past ten that evening when our companions invited us to continue our merry-making at the Café Momus, a popular establishment near Piazza Cavour. Holmes agreed to go and said that he would follow in a few minutes. I declined, however, having decided to retire. True to his word, Holmes left after about a quarter of an hour.
Alone, but now warm, I decided to read for a while. I was therefore surprised when I heard the doorbell ring again. By now, it was close to midnight. “Chi è la?” I asked. It was a woman’s voice that I heard.
“Please, vi prego, an old man has fallen in the snow and I cannot carry him alone. He is very ill. I need your help. I am your neighbor.”
I opened at once. A young woman, no more than twenty, stood there soaked with rain and snow. I recognized her as the young woman Lucia, who sold paper flowers on the corner of Via Palestrina. I stopped only to put on my shoes and my overcoat and to collect a few blankets.
“Where is he?”
“Follow me,” she said, “I am afraid that he will be trampled by a buggy passing in the night.”
We fairly flew down the stairs, and once on the street I saw a diminutive figure sitting in the snow, motionless. I put my arms around him and dragged him into our courtyard, out of the icy winds. He was alive but barely. I removed his coat and wrapped him in one of the dry blankets.
“We shall need help in carrying him up the stairs.”
I tried once more to get him to stand, but to no avail. I suddenly saw Holmes’s most welcome figure emerge from out of the blizzard.
“Hallo, Watson, I’m afraid that I find the Café Momus a bore. And what are you up to?” said the familiar voice.
“Holmes! Thank God you’re here. The poor devil is at death’s door. No time to waste. Let’s carry him up the stairs, if we can. He can barely walk, and his toes may be frost-bitten.”
“We can, Watson. Never say die. Come on, old fellow, help me scoop him up. And walk close by in case I lose my balance. Ah, he’s heavier than I thought.” Holmes handed over a newly acquired bottle of brandy to the flower girl to hold. In no time at all he had the old man up the stairs and seated on our couch. He was a short man, but stout, heavier than one would have anticipated, and more torso than legs.
Holmes and I removed his wet clothing and again threw blankets around him. A few drops of brandy to his lips and he began to revive. I called for the young woman to heat the soup that was left for her father, when I noticed that without a word she was gone, the bottle of brandy placed on the floor near the door.
“She left as we put down our charge on the couch, Watson. Perhaps she will return. Well, we have enough to feed the old man, if he survives his ordeal.”
“How odd, Holmes. She has disappered and left him to us, complete strangers.”
“I am from Paris,” said our frozen guest in a weak voice. “She saw me slip on the ice and tried to help me up, I was too heavy. I shall always be grateful to her and to you gentlemen.”
“Do not concern yourself, Mr.—”
“Murger, Henri Murger of Paris. I am here to meet with Mr. Sherlock Homes who, if I am not mistaken, may live in this very building.”
“He does indeed live here,” said Holmes. “I know him well and will take you to him. But first, a short sleep for all of us. It is very late and we would all benefit by some rest. Monsieur Murger, please make yourself comfortable on the couch and we will see you in the morning,” said Holmes.
We left our guest in our sitting room, and I soon heard his rhythmic breathing through the partially open door. I wondered what had befallen the flower girl. It was she with whom our Gabriel had become enamoured. She, however, while she claimed to love him as well, was often seen with other, richer men. Gabriel was deeply concerned because she was ill with pneumonia but still tried to sell her flowers even in the snow.
Holmes was the first up in the morning, and I heard him as he made our tea and breakfast. Murger was sound asleep still at eight.
“Watson,” said he as he handed me a cup of tea, “I was unable to tell you last night that I am expecting two clients in just a few moments. The rain and snow have stopped and so I assume that they will not be detained. To talk with them in Murger’s presence, for reasons that I shall make clearer later, would be most awkward. And so I will use the kitchen. Our landlady is already gone for the day and will not return until late. We must be grateful for small things. Ah, there is the bell. Watson, please direct them to the kitchen where I shall hear their difficulties to them and feed them un po’ di mascarpone e
una tazza di caffè.”
Holmes had told me nothing of Murger or of his two clients. I was in the dark but did as he asked. Two elegant Italian gentlemen were already at our door.
“Prego, Dottore, noi cerchiamo Sherlock Holmes. Are you by any chance the famous Dr. Watson?”
“I am. And who shall I say is here?”
“Messrs. Puccini and Leoncavallo.”
I did not recognize their names, but led them to the kitchen where Holmes was sitting, reading the local newspaper. Holmes rose as they introduced themselves.
“Mr. Holmes,” said the taller of the two men, “sono Puccini Giacomo e vi presento Leoncavallo Ruggiero.”
“Molto lieto. Vi prego, please have some cheese and coffee. It is all that I have to offer you.”
The two men sat down at the old green table. I moved my chair closer so that I could hear what transpired. Puccini spoke first. He was a somewhat stout man, tall, impeccably tailored, his face carrying what appeared to be a permanent look of disdain that made him somewhat unpleasant to look at.
“You perhaps, Mr. Holmes, have heard the news or perhaps rumours concerning me and my friend, Ruggiero, who so kindly accompanied me here in order to explain his side of our problem.”
