Chapter One

London, 1901

“Two weeks, Watson! We have been two full weeks without a case!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. “Is the entire criminal underworld so in awe of my abilities that its members have given up their nefarious enterprises? Does the world no longer need Sherlock Holmes?”

He cast a surreptitious glance at the mantel where he had once kept his syringe and a vial of cocaine.

“Well here’s one criminal who appears to be going about his business as usual,” I remarked.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Police discovered the body of a teenage Asian boy floating in the Thames yesterday,” I said, referring to an article in the Guardian. “His hands were tied and his face had been disfigured with some sort of sharp instrument.”

“Let me see,” Holmes exclaimed, snatching the paper from my grasp. Throwing himself into his chair, he began perusing the report. As the minutes passed, I could only assume that he was reading the article several times over.

Finally throwing the paper aside, he remarked, “This is not a case for us, Watson.”

“What do you mean? A young boy murdered and mutilated and you have no interest? I must say, I am rather surprised - and disappointed - at you Holmes.”

“Lestrade stopped by earlier while you were out. In addition to his face, the young man’s stomach had been cut open, a fact either ignored or omitted by the Guardian’s reporter. Obviously, the boy had smuggled something into this country, concealing it by swallowing it. Whoever he was working for wanted the goods immediately, and the young man paid dearly for his criminal tendencies. The good inspector informed me that the Yard has a pretty fair idea of who is running the smuggling operation, and they are merely crossing their I’s and dotting their T’s before making an arrest. So I say again, this is not a case for us, Watson.”

As Holmes resumed his pacing and I retrieved the paper and returned to my reading, there was a knock on our door. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, poked her head in. “Mr. Holmes, you have a caller. Shall I show him up?”

“By all means, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, “and please be quick about it. We don’t want to keep our visitor waiting.”

I could hear our caller long before I saw him. Heavy footfalls on the stairs indicated a large man had come to see us, and the fact that he took several minutes to ascend the single flight indicated to me, at least, that our visitor was not in the best of physical health.

I felt vindicated when I answered the knock on our door and was greeted by a small mountain of a man. He stood around five-foot-seven and was quite corpulent. He wore a black morning coat, a beaver hat and was clean-shaven with a rather dark complexion.

Having been proven right about his physical condition, I thought to myself, after taking in his well-tailored clothes and glistening boots, this must be a banker or some captain of industry come to call on Holmes for assistance.

He looked at me with clear blue eyes and then fixed his gaze on Holmes, who had risen from his chair as the man entered.

“Good morning, Your Eminence. How may I be of assistance?” asked Holmes.

“Have we met?” asked the man incredulously. He spoke nearly perfect English, but I could discern a slight Mediterranean accent.

“Not that I can recall,” smiled Holmes amiably, delighted by the effect he had achieved.

“Then how on earth could you know that I am a prince of the church?”

Holmes smiled. “If you are going to dress like a layman, in an effort to travel incognito, may I suggest that in the future you wear something slightly heavier than those linen gloves. I am sure even Watson can see the rather distinctive outline of your ring through the material. Barring that, you might consider removing it altogether.”

Looking over, I could discern quite clearly the oblate shape of a cross on the man’s ring finger of his left hand.

“Also, your shirt appears tighter than it should which tells me you are not used to wearing garments of that ilk. Exacerbating the condition is the fact that beneath the shirt, you are no doubt wearing your pectoral cross, which renders the garment even more constricting.

Finally, your skin while generally tan is quite a bit lighter for about an inch above the collar. I can only assume that your usual attire has a much higher neck - perhaps a Roman collar?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I must say that if first impressions are any indication, I think I have come to the right man for assistance.”

“Would you like some tea, Cardinal ...,” Holmes left the sentence unfinished.

“It’s Cardinal Oreglia, Gaetano Oreglia. Tea would be fine. Although I must admit that I would much prefer coffee.”

Holmes went to the door and yelled down, “Mrs. Hudson, please put the kettle on, and if you would, try your hand at a pot of coffee as well.”

“Won’t you be seated, Your Eminence?” said Holmes gesturing to a chair.

As Cardinal Oreglia sat, I started to follow suit, only to receive a reproving glance from Holmes. “I can vouch for the tea,” Holmes said pleasantly, “but as for the coffee, well that’s anyone’s guess. We are in England, after all.”

The cardinal smiled and, noticing my indecision, he laughed - a deep, rich laugh. “Mr. Holmes, please, let’s not stand on formality. After all, I am here as a supplicant to seek your assistance. Please be seated, gentlemen. I think you’ll want to be sitting when you hear what I have to say anyway.”

“I am the camerlengo to His Holiness, Pope Leo. In that position, my primary responsibility is to look after the finances of the Vatican. I was here in London to discuss some rather delicate fiscal affairs with several of your bankers.”

“This morning I received a rather cryptic telegram from His Holiness. It said simply, ‘Egeo auxiliante amico platea pistorum.’.”

Holmes smiled, “I must confess that Mr. Samuel Johnson’s description of the Bard as a man of ‘small Latin and less Greek’ might be applied to me as well. Although I have been working on my Virgil as of late.”

“Watson, care to venture a guess?” asked Holmes.

“I believe I see the word ‘plate’ there in platea,” I ventured.

Holmes smiled again, “Watson, not quite. Platea is not a cognate for our word plate. I think in this case, we must translate platea as ‘street’ rather than ‘plate.’ So, unless I am badly mistaken, the telegram reads, ‘I need the help of our friend in Baker Street.”

“You have it exactly,” Mister Holmes said Cardinal Oreglia.

“Did His Holiness say anything else?” asked Holmes.

“Just one other word - prudentes.”

“Be discreet,” said Holmes aloud. “Well, that would explain the layman’s garb employed by Your Eminence.”

“As you might expect, given my position, the pope and I are old friends,” said Cardinal Oreglia. “He has dispatched me here to request your assistance in a matter of what I can only assume must be extreme delicacy, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes said, “I am flattered. Still, surely, there are others far closer to home who might have rendered a service similar to mine.”

“Mr. Holmes, you have been of enormous service to our Holy Father in the past. He still marvels at the ease with which you discovered the causes behind the death of Cardinal Tosca. I believe that he is hopeful that you can bring this assignment to a swift and discrete resolution as well.”

Looking at Holmes, I thought my friend was as close to blushing as I had ever seen him. Nothing could get to the man so thoroughly as an earnest compliment from someone he respected.

“I shall do my very best,” Holmes promised.

“Before we continue, I have a small admission to make,” the cardinal said. “Shortly after the first telegram arrived. I received a second.”

“And what did that one say?” asked Holmes.

“Just two words - cameos furatus.”

“Stolen cameos?” asked Holmes.

The cardinal gazed at me, and before I could speak, Holmes said, “Your Eminence, you may rest assured that anything you say to me, you may share with Dr. Watson.”

Cardinal Oreglia nodded. “May I ask you a question Mr. Holmes?

Holmes nodded.

“Have you ever heard of the Vatican cameos?”

“I must confess that I have not. May I ask about them?”

“There is not much that I can tell you except that legend has it that these cameos were handcrafted by the artist Michelangelo and that they have the potential to do enormous harm to the Church.”

“Are they the cameos to which the pope alludes so cryptically?”

“I cannot say for certain, but I believe they are. I am aware of no others, and although I myself know very little about them, I can tell you one other thing Mr. Holmes.

Through the years, the cameos have become associated with Pope Alexander VI. Are you familiar with him?”

Holmes nodded, “Alexander VI, better known as Rodrigo Borgia, was the second and last of the Borgias to be elected pope. He served at the end of the 15th and the beginning of the 16th centuries, did he not?”

I was astounded at Holmes’ knowledge of the papacy. After all, the man was neither religious nor intrigued by history - except as it served his needs.

The cardinal nodded. “Those years are some of the darkest in the history of the Church. Ruling from 1492 to 1503, Rodrigo is said to have reveled in every vice imaginable. If you believe the worst about him, his sins ranged from avarice and simony to incest and murder. Although centuries have passed, he remains a blot on the papacy.”

He continued, “As for the cameos, the only person ever permitted to look upon them is the pope.”

“I also know that His Holiness has weighed destroying them, but the fact that they were created by the same man who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and sculpted the Pieta has prompted him to exercise due caution, and thus far given him pause. Now, I am afraid that ambivalence appears to have manifested itself in a very real threat to the papacy and the church as a whole.”

Holmes exhaled, and I could see the light in his eyes as he anticipated a contest of wits with an as-yet-unknown adversary.

“As you know, you will be well compensated for your labors,” said Cardinal Oreglia, “but I also must insist that if you do accept this commission, you bear in mind the need for absolute secrecy. Even the hint of a scandal could cause irreparable damage to everything His Holiness is trying to accomplish.”

“I understand your concerns, Your Eminence, and you may place your trust in both Watson and me,” Holmes replied.

The cardinal heaved a sigh of relief and said, “I hope you do not mind, but I have taken the liberty of arranging passage for you and Dr. Watson to Rome. I shall be returning with you.”

“As it happens, I am quite free at the moment, Your Eminence. Watson, can you clear your calendar?”

Before I could answer, Mrs. Hudson knocked and then entered with a tray containing two cups of tea and assorted biscuits. “Your coffee will be along presently, sir,” she said to the cardinal, and then she was gone as suddenly as she had appeared.

“Let us savor the fruits of Mrs. Hudson’s labors,” Holmes said to me. Smiling at the cardinal and then at me, he added, “It may be quite some time before we are able to relax with a proper cup of English tea.”

Mrs. Hudson reappeared a few moments later, carrying a steaming cup of coffee on a small tray with lemon twists, cream and a bowl of lump sugar.

The cardinal looked at the tray, appreciating the aroma of the coffee and then smiled at Mrs. Hudson gratefully.

“I hope you approve of the coffee,” she said, curtseying and then she was gone again.

“Gentlemen,” the cardinal said, “we just have time to enjoy this and then we must be on our way. I am sure you will want to get to the Vatican as quickly as possible, Mr. Holmes. I have a first-class compartment booked on a train leaving Victoria for Dover in,” he pulled out a heavy gold timepiece from his vest and glanced at the face, “just 90 minutes.”

“Well then let us be quick about it. Watson, pack a bag, and we shall procure anything else we may need along the way.”

As I headed to my room, Holmes looked at me, and without the cardinal seeing, mouthed the words, “Bring your pistol.”

I nodded and then proceeded to pack, putting my sidearm in the bottom of a carpet bag, and covering it with shirts and various other garments.

As I readied for our journey, I could hear Holmes and the cardinal speaking. A few minutes later, I returned to the sitting room, and Holmes left to pack his bag.

Within 10 minutes, we were standing in Baker Street and Holmes was hailing a hansom cab.

“Victoria Station, and there’s an extra pound in it for you if you get us there quickly,” Holmes said.

“Righto, guv’nor” replied the driver and we were off.