by Ted Riccardi
“I know this man,” said Vasquez, “he is the man I followed to London and have been searchin’ for. His real name is Angelo Vetri.”
He turned to Holmes. “There’s one person left to find now, Sherlock.”
“The acolyte,” said Holmes simply.
“A.I. 4,” said Vasquez.
That portion of the Gulf of Salerno that lies between the ancient citadels of Paestum and Agropoli contains, rising above the confines of its narrow shore, a number of uninterrupted rocky cliffs, unassailable were it not for the steep paths worn into the rock by the feet of peasants and animals over countless centuries. No more than the crudest of tracks, these trails are neither for the foolhardy nor the faint of heart. Only the local inhabitants are wont to use them, and many of these, whether fishermen living on the shore or farmers living above the cliffs, prefer to take a more circuitous but less laborious route that leads down a gentle slope north near Torre Greco, the promontory that forms the northern arm of the gulf.
The sea and the cliffs along this coast are among the most beautiful sights of Italy, by common consent a country where natural beauty is everywhere. But few from outside venture into the interior of these southern precincts. The mountainous district above the cliffs, known locally as Cilento, is considered even by more adventurous Italians to be among the wildest and most dangerous parts of the whole peninsula. Here, they say, all is thievery, vendetta, and black magic. The power of the curse, the evil eye, and all the many superstitions of an impoverished and ignorant peasantry reign supreme, in conspiracy with brigands and secret societies. None of Italy’s many rulers, neither monarch nor pope, Habsburg nor Bourbon, has ever ventured to penetrate its isolation. Only their minions have entered and quickly left, leaving behind a ravaged and pillaged people, one vilified as well for its active resistance to oppression.
Yet, to the casual visitor courageous enough to confront the reputation of this ancient land, there would appear to be nothing remarkable here, particularly on the bright, unfilled mornings that are common in the southern regions. The life he observed would conform in general to what he might see elsewhere in the Italian peninsula, or in Europe for that matter. The land is tilled by industrious men and boys, their skin made leathery by the heat of the sun. The women, aided by their children, tend the animals and cook the simple meals that sustain the men in their labours.
If there is nothing unusual in the conduct of these people, our observer might still note, were he interested in such things, that the people appeared to be poorer than most. The soil is dry and rocky, the rain insufficient and unpredictable, and the sun relentless. Meals are perforce simple, a minestra, or soup, and the local bread, which is as hard and sharp as glass. The houses are of stone, often adjoining each other, and in many cases, attached to the hillsides in order to take advantage of caves and other natural openings in the hills. The people are rough hewn, the men in peasant garb, the women often dressed entirely in black in mourning for the dead.
Hearing their earthy language, our observer would rightly conclude that it is far from the language of Dante, incomprehensible to all but those of the region and the learned philologist. In this language, the people refer to themselves, as well as all other human beings, as cristiani, or “Christians,” for, there being no other religion within their experience, the name of their own has become a universal appellation. In hard times, however, there is a tendency to remove themselves from this category and designate themselves as disgraziati, “fallen from grace,” and living in a place where even Christ has chosen not to set foot.
It was towards sunset one evening in July in the year 1865 that our observer would have noticed, should he have bothered to look out to sea, a small boat leave a large fishing vessel farther out in the gulf and move smoothly and almost silently through the calm waters towards the temple at Paestum. Once arrived, three men jumped ashore, bidding good-bye to a fourth, who, as soon as the three had alighted, began his return to the fishing boat.
The three were robust and strong, in their early thirties at most, and resembled each other rather strongly. Indeed, two of them were brothers, Alessandro and Gaetano Vetri, and the third, a first cousin, Giacomo Santucci.
A small shower of rocks from above caused the three men to look up, where they saw at the top of the cliff a young boy motioning to them to climb the ancient stair that descended to the shore. Each carrying a large bundle on his back, the men laboriously climbed the steep cliff and arrived at the top, where the boy motioned to them to follow. In a few minutes, they were ensconced in the house of Francesco Gramsci, a native of Sardinia who had come several years before to Cilento as a schoolmaster. Gramsci greeted the men in a friendly manner and, after his wife served them a simple meal, he began to explain to them the nature of their mission.
The three could not but help stare at Gramsci, for he was a diminutive figure, made even shorter by a severely hunched back which contorted all of his body, making his round head look even larger than it was. Gramsci, however, moved and spoke as if he were oblivious to his physical condition. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with such authority that the listener too soon forgot his physical appearance.
“You are about to go on a long journey,” he said gravely, sipping from a glass of wine, “to participate in a mission essential to the formation of the new state of Italy. You have been chosen because of your bravery in action and your loyalty to the cause. As you know, the Neapolitan authorities are not at all kindly disposed to our movement, and will do all that they can to prevent you from succeeding. Should you be apprehended, you must do all that you can to avoid telling them anything. You are hereby advised to take this quick poison should you be caught.”
Gramsci handed each man a small vial, which they placed among their belongings.
“Fortunately for you,” continued Gramsci, “since most of your mission lies abroad, in America, your chances of avoiding the police are excellent. Now: to explain. You are probably aware that the nationalist movement badly needs money for its army and the latest weaponry. Much of the needed help lies in the pockets of those many Italians who have become rich in America. We have a list of the richest of them living in the cities of New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago. You are to convince them, by any means at your disposal, to contribute to the army fund. The details of your voyage are enclosed in each of these packets. Once you separate, your disguise as a traveler and your route will be unknown to the others. This is for your protection. You will not meet again until you arrive in the United States. Upon your arrival, you will be met and told how you will reunite and coordinate your efforts. Once there, you will be readily safe from the hands of either the Bourbons or the Papacy. But America houses its own hazards and you must be on your guard at all times. You will sleep here tonight, and tomorrow morning, before dawn, you will be taken to the first destination on your voyage. From then on, you will be on your own. Time is of the essence. Follow your instructions closely. They were carefully prepared. Make no mistakes in their execution, for the powers that oppose us are well aware of our financial plight and the possible ways that we might seek to improve it. And their agents and collaborators are everywhere. Please ask now any remaining questions.”
The men remained silent, and Gramsci then directed them to their rooms. In the morning, at dawn, they left, each on his own path.
Two of them, Alessandro Vetri and his cousin Giacomo Santucci, left on ships from Italy, one from Naples, the other from Genoa. A third, Gaetano Vetri, the brother of Alessandro, traveled to Marseilles, where, after a wait of three days, he boarded an American steamship bound for New York. His disguise was that of a Catholic priest and his new name was Padre Giovanni Agostini. He was pleased with himself. The character of a priest came easy to him, for he had been an acolyte for many years and had been destined by his family to the seminary. He would have none of it, ran away, and joined Garibaldi’s army. He fought all over Italy, knew Garibaldi personally, and had been highly decorated as
a soldier. He sat smugly on his berth, alone now, for the other passengers had not yet arrived. Ben fatto, he said to himself, well done. He was lost to the world now. Who would have thought that he would finally become a priest?
He fell into a pleasant doze for a few hours. He was awakened suddenly by the motion of the boat. It was leaving. But there were no other passengers in his cabin. Rosary in hand, he opened the door and climbed to the lowest deck. He heard a few passengers on the deck above him, but none where he was. It was dusk. He watched as Marseilles drifted behind into the darkness. He smiled, content with his mission and the adventure that lay before him. He repeated his Hail Marys instinctively, hypnotically, fingering the rosary as if in a trance. So at peace was he for the moment that he was unaware of the figure that had emerged wet and naked from the sea, now behind him, who grAbbéd him with all his strength at the neck, twisting it, killing him instantly. The killer pulled the priest’s body into the deep shadows, donned his clothes, and as quickly as he could, threw the naked body overboard. He watched as it disappeared into the wake of the ship. He quickly found the key to the cabin in the right-hand pocket of the priest’s frock and went below. The boarding pass found in the same pocket gave him the priest’s name. Only one other passenger was to take his place in the same cabin, a well-dressed man who introduced himself subsequently as Mr. Carlos Romero of the town of Las Vegas in the territory of New Mexico and a recent pilgrim to Lourdes. The killer responded with a smile: “I am Padre Giovanni Agostini. I am from Italy.”
On the first night on board, as the ship entered Spanish waters as it pressed toward the Strait of Gibraltar, a diminutive figure, naked except for a loin cloth, came forth from the darkness and, bending over, reached for a plate of food that had been left there for him. The man was extremely muscular but small, dark-haired, his skin a kind of yellow that almost glowed in the dark. His eyes had within them the simple look of a child. Hungrily, he stuffed the food into his mouth, gorging, as if his hunger had become almost uncontrollable. When he had finished, he left the plate where he had found it and disappeared into a dark corner of the ship, where he was safe from view, covered by a tarpaulin stored near the lower deck.
If the upright Mr. Romero had harbored any suspicions concerning the priest with whom he shared a cabin, he would have noted that the priest prepared such a plate of food every evening and took it outside and placed it on the deck, usually just after dusk, like food for a dog or cat. Mr. Romero, however, saw nothing out of place and indeed was awed by his cabin mate, for he grown up to have the highest respect for the clergy. The priest, receiving no question from his cabin mate, mumbled some remark in explanation, something about the Christian duty to feed the animals, as did St. Francis, in this case some pelicans that had decided to travel to America with the ship.
It did not take the killer long to learn more about his new identity. The dead man’s small valise contained the information that he eventually deciphered. He felt no remorse. For him it was survival that came first. And who worries about killing such a man? he thought as he went through the various articles in the bag. He learned that “Agostini” was an Italian agent instead of a holy man, bound for America in order to raise funds for Garibaldi. His instructions noted that he would be met by agents of the Italian revolution at Baltimore when they docked. And so the killer learned that he would have to leave the ship before they landed. Luckily, he was told that they would be docking in the dark in the early morning.
Except for Mr. Romero, the priest kept his distance from the other passengers. He spoke to no one, pretending to spend most of his time in religious meditation. This impressed Mr. Romero, who was a good, religious man himself. Indeed, so impressed did our New Mexican traveler become with his priestly roommate that he suggested one day shortly before they arrived that the priest journey to New Mexico.
“It is a magnificent place, barren and empty, most of the people are honest and hard working. A few are bad, and they could use another priest or two,” said Romero between Hail Marys on his rosary. “Why don’t you come?”
The priest explained that he was in spirit a monk, not a priest who served, but a Religious hermit, who practised austerities and wished to do that in a lonely place atop a mountain somewhere. Were there such places in America?
“Well,” said Romero, “I got the most beautiful mountain on my land. The locals call it Tecolote. You’ll love it. Nobody there. My place is called El Porbenir.”
The priest agreed. He told Romero, however, that he had to meet some old friends in Baltimore and that the captain had given him permission to leave early.
The night the ship docked, Agostini, having bid good-bye to Romero, disappeared into the waters of Baltimore Harbor followed closely by his diminutive companion. It was a short swim, and they reached the shore undetected.
The two Italian agents who had come to meet him were surprised to find that Agostini was not there. They did not think to question Romero, but rushed back to their commander to report the disappearance.
As they had arranged, after two months, the priest met Romero in Kansas City, from where they continued their journey together to New Mexico by stage coach. It was a long and arduous trip, for the caravan was often beset by sudden storms and the threat of Indian attacks. When they reached Colorado, reports from Fort Union said that in order to avoid the Apache warriors in the vicinity they should take the northern trail through the mountains and descend into New Mexico through the Raton Pass. There a contingent of the American army would meet them and escort the party to Las Vegas.
The trip through the mountains was uneventful, and as they descended into New Mexico, they were met by Captain Knox of Fort Union and his men, who saw them to their destination.
A few miles out of Las Vegas, Romero pointed to the western horizon.
“Look,” he said to the priest, “there is Tecolote, your home.”
The priest looked in the direction Romero had indicated. There on the horizon, like some great purple whale, stood the mountain that would be the priest’s sanctuary for many years.
That evening we convened at our quarters at Holmes’s suggestion. Shinwell Johnson and Bobbie Neary sat on the floor near the door listening to every word. Holmes and I, together with Vasquez and Lestrade, sat in various places in the room. Even Jones, the forensic examiner, was there.
Holmes sat, weighted down by a large tome that Jones had brought from Scotland Yard. It was the volume on prisoners in the Andamans for which Holmes had made a special request. He had spent an hour perusing the appropriate entries. At a certain point, he looked up and said: “Gentlemen, we should begin our discussion, though one of our difficulties is the many points of entry possible from where we might begin. Let me start, however, with what we learn from this heavy tome. At least then I can rid myself of it once we have reviewed the facts.”
Holmes opened the volume to its beginning. “I shall briefly summarize its contents rather than read everything to you. The entry we are concerned with primarily is A.I. 3 and, as it turns out, A.I. 4 as a secondary matter. The real name of A.I. 3 is Ranjit, a man born in Motihari, India, in 1840, son of an untouchable worker in the early indigo plantations. From the beginning he seems to have had a religious bent, encouraged by his father, and he planned to devote much of his life to Hindu religious practise. He was raised in the household of the plantation owners, an English family by the name of Blair. The boy was accepted by the family, and he learned to speak English well. One day, when the boy was about fourteen, Mr. Blair, reacting to the threat of a workman’s strike, or hartal as they call it, had several villagers’ huts burned, among them that of Ranjit’s family. All were lost in the fire, father, mother, and sister. Ranjit left the Blair household, swearing eternal enmity to the British. He became attached to a number of violent revolutionary groups, and in 1857 participated in the Cawnpore massacre, where he personally is said to have killed over ten people. He was caught, tried, and sentenced to life imprisonment at the new jail i
n Port Blair, Andaman Islands. His behaviour there was initially most cooperative, at least on the surface. One day, eight or nine years after his arrival, he participated in an attack on Lord Mayo, the visiting Vice-Roy. Mayo was killed in the fracas and Ranjit disappeared into the hills, presumably protected by some of the natives, who had no liking for our invasion of their territory. He escaped with an accomplice, A.I. 4, a member of the Santal tribe of Bihar by the name of Sujat, caught also at Cawnpore and again a member of the assassination plot to kill the Vice-Roy.”
Holmes stopped at this point and placed the great tome on the floor. “At this point we are on our own, for there is no longer an official record of either of these men. Somehow they must have made their way out of the Andamans to the mainland, probably as stowaways. Then, either by land or by sea, most likely the latter, they arrived in Europe. They chose to escape to America, and here let Inspector Vasquez pick up the thread.”
“What I say, of course, is at this moment is based on the available evidence, but may change as we talk. Let us see how far we can go . . .” continued the American detective.
“The two arrive in France, at the port of Marseilles, where one of them, possibly both, sneak aboard an American ship destined for New York and Baltimore. On the ship is one Gaetano Vetri, an Italian revolutionary disguised as a priest, Giovanni Agostini. He is one of three brothers on their way to the United States on different vessels to raise funds for Garibaldi’s army. Unfortunately for Garibaldi, Roberto is immediately killed and thrown overboard by Ranjit, who, bein’ roughly of the same stature and looks, replaces him immediately and becomes Padre Agostini. It bein’ the very beginnin’ of the voyage, Agostini is known to none. The number of passengers remains the same, the replacement is unnoticed. Ranjit, of course, is unaware at first that Agostini himself is in disguise. He befriends a wealthy New Mexican returnin’ home from a trip to Lourdes and Rome. He is one Carlos Romero, who offers Ranjit sanctuary in a distant place. It is a perfect place to hide for a time, even possibly for ever and to begin a new life without the danger of the British ever findin’ him. Agostini goes to New Mexico unaware that he was supposed to meet his brothers and engage in political activities for Italian unification. His companion, Sujat, accompanies him, but is rarely seen. He lurks in the shadows, his master’s faithful companion. The survivin’ brothers, of course, miss their compatriot and begin an inquiry. It takes them a long time to trace the priest, and they trace him to his lair, now called Hermit’s Peak. One of them, Roberto, gets there just as Agostini leaves. He follows him and finally catches up with him in Las Cruces. There Ranjit murders Vetri and does his second impersonation. In disguise as Roberto, he goes to New York, uses keys in Roberto’s clothes to get his money—almost fifty thousand dollars—and decides to create a new identity for himself. He must act quickly since he is only a step ahead of the Italian agents in America. He shaves his head close, removes his beard, and buys the most expensive clothes he can find, goes to London, and begins to move among the great of England. He establishes a new bank with his newly acquired wealth and the help of some interested business men. He is in the clear. No one know who he is. Only one man is looking for him: the third Italian brother, the one who lies dead today in London.”
