The Vatican Cameos

by Kevin P. Thornton

Although I no longer shared lodgings with my friend Sherlock Holmes. I tried to stop in and see him at least two or three times a week. When he was busy he was less a worry to me. As long as his brain was occupied, he would not lapse into some of his more laggard ways. I also conspired with Mrs. Hudson to try to make an event of at least one of those visits. For all that Holmes was disinterested in whatever form of nourishment was placed in front of him, he had eminent connections in the countryside, and quite often I would be informed of the arrival of a treat - one time there was a basket of oysters, another a leg of venison.

So it was that evening. It was the beginning of the year, with the cold nights setting in. The fog of the city settled around one as a vaporous cloak and the bite in the air made a hansom cab the preferred means of travel. We had dined on two well-hung end-of-season grouse, gamy and tender, accompanied by a pot of stored root vegetables: Potatoes, turnips, and carrots with onions. The entire repast was washed down with some excellent Riesling from the Hochheim region that Holmes seemed able to obtain at will.

I was reluctant to leave, though I knew I should get home to my wife. It had been a while since adventure had taken me away from her as in the early days, and I was a little wistful of those more carefree times. Holmes may very well have read my mind, for as I was shrugging into my coat and hat he called me to the window.

“Pray tell me,” he said. “What do you make of that man across the road?”

“He is dressed in quality clothing,” I said. “Obviously well-to-do. I would guess his attire to be Savile Row. Maybe out for a stroll after a repast such as ours. He may even be coming from the Park.”

“Really, Watson, you amaze me. Your eyes see what mine see, but your mind and the grey matter therein does not connect in the same way. About all that you had correct was that he is well-dressed, which tells me that he is a servant at an establishment where they place much standing on propriety. He is not, as you suggested, a gentleman out for a stroll. He is not dressed for the cold or an extended walk in this weather. No, this is a man sent to us in a hurry by cab. There is adventure in the air. Do you think you can send a message home to say you may be some time yet?”

I nodded my assent. “Dash it all, Holmes. How do you know all this about the man? You barely glanced at him.”

“Ah. Well that is because I recognize him. His real name is Sergeant Jontellier Barkoven, formerly of the 5th Brigade, Royal Artillery, but you must never call him such. To the few who know him, he is the front door guard and gatekeeper of the Diogenes Club, and as such he goes by the name ‘Epicurus’.”

I looked at my friend in astonishment. “Holmes, did you just play a joke on me?” My answer was his continued smile, which I had put down at first to the hock. “Your good humour has to do with where Epicurus works. Whatever message he brings comes from Mycroft, and his puzzles are always intriguing.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And he has not even entrusted it to a message by wire. My brother is obsessive about secrecy, but he is also parsimonious, so this presupposes derring-do and intrigue. This adventure will be a challenge, Watson, you mark my words.” He rubbed his hands together in delight.

“Barkoven,” I said. “It is an unusual name. I remember him from when it was gazetted. He won the Victoria Cross at Isandlwana. He’s a brave man, and lucky. Most who win that august honour do so posthumously.”

We were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, showing in our visitor. Now that he was closer, I could see that he was not a gentleman, but far more. He came from that special breed of men that are the backbone of the Empire. Tough, resolute, and convinced of his role in life. I had served with such men in the Army, and there are none finer. Epicurus was in his early thirties and was lightly scarred about the face, as if he had fallen prey to sharp weapons. He was solid and had hard, working hands. Wordlessly, he handed a message to Holmes, who read it quickly and passed it to me. “ ‘Go immediately to Our Lady of Victories, Kensington’.” And it was signed ‘Mycroft’.

“We must depart,” said Holmes. “Did you ask you cab driver to wait?” Epicurus nodded, and without further discussion we left.

“Do you know this church, Holmes?”

“I do. It is the Pro-Cathedral for the Archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Manning, and the London base of the unofficial yet influential Papal Envoy, Cardinal Luigi Antonio Tosca. Tosca was sent here twelve years ago after Cardinal Pecci was elected Pope Leo, for his own safety I believe.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Tosca needed to be protected from his friends. There is a story from the conclave that Tosca was Papabile, likely to be voted the next Pope, until he ceded his support to Pecci. His supporters felt betrayed. They saw Tosca, who was from a high-ranking family, as the man who could help them reclaim their lands lost with the Papal States. When he failed them, as they saw it, they were unhappy and threats were made. Pecci, on becoming Pope Leo XIII, moved him to London.”

Holmes must have seen the look on my face. “Is there something wrong, Watson?”

“In all the years I have been your friend, I never knew of your interest in Papist politics. Indeed, rarely have I ever known you to be interested in anything not relevant to the most immediate matters at hand. It is as if you have been hiding an entire facet of yourself from me.” I tried not to sound regretful, but sometimes being the great man’s confidante was trying, and to find that there was a part of his life closed off from me was irksome.

If Holmes noted I was vexed, he said naught. He turned to Epicurus. “My brother told you to go with us. Do you know why?”

Epicurus shook his head.

“No matter,” said Holmes. “Doubtless he thought your indomitable nature would be an asset.”

“And his conversational skills,” I said. “The man has not said a word since we met. Is this more of the Diogenes Club? I know they place great value on silence, but surely they cannot restrict their staff outside their place of work.”

“They don’t. Just as the club itself is named after Diogenes the cynic, whose philosophy is replicated by the curmudgeons within the walls of their club, the position of Epicurus is so named because, as one of the outward facing members of staff, he is expected to converse with the outside world. In comparison with the members, Epicurus is a chatterbox.”

“But Epicurus was a philosopher of joy and bonhomie,” I said.

“I suspect it may be the only time the Diogenes Club has ever attempted anything humorous,” said Holmes. Epicurus sat, rocklike, as we rode through Hyde Park towards the Kensington High Street. If Holmes knew why his brother had sent him with us, he did not say, and indeed the mystery of why we were going to the church seemed to envelop us in the back of the cab.

We were met at the door by a man of the cloth and a man in a suit of good cloth.

“Stoutbridge,” he said. “Foreign Office. This is Monsignor Della Chiesa. Please come in.”

The Monsignor looked ascetically Italian. In a different light he may have been mistaken for a relative of Holmes, until he spoke, whereupon his accent marked his Latinate origin. He looked worried. Stoutbridge on the other hand seemed impatient, until my friend stepped into the light.

“Why, Mister Holmes,” he said. “I was not made aware of your impending arrival.”

“Arrival into what precisely?” I asked.

“Patience, Watson,” said Holmes and he made towards the back of the church as if he knew where he was going.

There were two rooms behind the altar. To the left lay the sacristy, the room where the vestments and accoutrements of the church where stored and where the celebrants prepared for service.

The other room was much larger. Like the sacristy, it had the strong outer walls of the church on two sides and a high, vaulted ceiling which extended back from the church. The other two walls were interior, one shared with the sacristy, the other with the interior of the church. It was ungainly in size, too big to be a room of comfort, too small for a meeting room. It felt like a shop storeroom, and it had clearly been used to keep leftover material from the church construction. Ominous statues lurked in one dim corner, and there were boxes stacked in several places and a shelf laden with supplies.

There was a table in the middle, and on it a sturdy wooden packing box. It had leather handles attached, as if the maker knew the contents would be heavy and wanted to make the burden easier.

There was a chair next to the table, and a short rotund man sat there. He wore a fiery red cassock and sash, with black shoes and socks. He had a red zucchetto on top of his bald head as well as a wide-brimmed galero next to him on the table. His complexion matched his dress, and I thought briefly that he looked ready to explode from pressure, so red was his face. Monsignor Della Chiesa rushed to his side.

“Eminence, you look unwell.” The Monsignor turned to us and clicked his fingers. “Fetch some water.”

Nobody moved. Holmes walked over to the stone wall and examined it. “Stoutbridge,” he said. “Give Cardinal Tosca some of your brandy. Come, come. There is a flask inside your jacket. It will be more useful than the Monsignor’s request.”

Stoutbridge did as he was asked. The Cardinal took a decent swallow and it seemed to do him some good.

“Now, your Eminence,” said Holmes, “pray tell us why we are here.”

Cardinal Tosca held up his hand, motioning for some more time, and Holmes replied, “No, I’m referring to Cardinal Manning. You may leave the safety of your dim corner sir, and come and join us in the light.”

There was a moment’s hesitation and then one of the dim statues moved, revealing itself to be the scrawny figure of the Archbishop of Westminster. This once-rugged man, who had played cricket for Harrow and Balliol in his youth, was a shadow of the healthy sportsman he had been. One needed no medical degree to deduce that Cardinal Manning had been unwell for a while, and he did himself no favour with his fashion sense. Unlike the flamboyant scarlet of the Italian prelate, Manning wore a plain black cassock and sash, and the only indicator of his rank as a Prince of the Church was some delicate red piping on the sleeves and hems. The darkness of his cloth seemed to consume him, as did the hollowness of his gaunt face. His eyes, however blazed briefly with anger and colour before a more Christian-like demeanour came over him.

“Your brother speaks highly of your talent for intrusiveness,” he said. “Despite Cardinal Tosca’s protestations, I insisted they send someone to get to the bottom of this.”

“Yet you wanted nothing official,” said Holmes. “There are no police here. Indeed, the only government presence is Stoutbridge, who is no high flyer at the foreign office.” As if to prove the point, the comment sailed over the Whitehall man’s head.

Manning said nothing, gazing evenly at the gathering.

Holmes gazed at Tosca. “Very well, then. What is missing?”

“Dio Mio! How do you know it is something missing?” said Tosca. “It has only recently happened. And nobody else knows.”

“There are two reasons why people hire me in dark of night. Murder or theft. There is no dead body, ergo quod erat demonstrandum. As to knowledge of the event, at least eight people know so far. Stoutbridge, Della Chiesa, Epicurus, Cardinals one and two, Watson, Mycroft, and me. This will spread the longer we wait and whatever you want kept secret will be impossible to contain. If no one will tell me what is missing, I’m afraid that I can’t help.” He walked over to the crate and looked in briefly. “My word,” he said. “Are these the cameos?”

Even Manning was surprised. “What could you possibly know of them?”

“That is of no consequence,” said Holmes. Pointing at the gap in the box, he said, “Is there only one missing, or are there other surprises lurking?”

“I’m impressed, Mister Holmes,” said Cardinal Manning. “Even knowing of your distant relative in the church, I am still intrigued by your ability to render something out of nothing.” He gestured towards the crate as if blessing the room and paced gently back and forth. “These are cameos like no other ever seen. Unlike the oval charms that some ladies purchase while visiting the Riviera, these are historical renditions of history rendered nearly two-thousand years ago.”

“Like the Grand Camée de France,” said Holmes.

“Indeed,” Manning replied. “Until these were recently found in the vaults in Rome, the Grand Camée was considered the best example of its type. It celebrates a point in Tiberius Caesar’s reign when the dynasty seemed established, as the young Nero is a prominent part of the artwork.”

“And what do these cameos display?” asked Holmes.

“We don’t know,” said Manning. “At least not with any certainty. They were undiscovered until a year back, when they were found by a monk in an obscure part of the Vatican archives. Normally they would be studied with great intent and diligence for many years before they would ever see the light of day, and while our own scholars have some theories, they are not definite as to what exactly is depicted.”

“Then why are they here?” I said.

“They are an act of good faith,” said Cardinal Tosca. “Once they were discovered, I was able to prevail upon the Holy Father to have them transported to the British Museum so that they could be shared with the British public, even as the scholars from both lands investigate them.”

It was a clever idea. The Roman church had a foothold in our society but were still viewed with some suspicion. Sharing such undiscovered greatness would stand the Papists in good stead.

“Tell me what transpired,” said Holmes.

“The crate arrived today,” said Monsignor Della Chiesa. “It was carried in by two men and placed on that table. Then, when they left, the Cardinal and I opened the crate to ensure the contents. That was when we found that one was missing.”

We all peered into the crate. The two remaining cameos were each made of a glasslike substance and were some eighteen inches by twelve in length and breadth, while an inch thick. Holmes picked up the bill of lading and I read it with him. It showed a delivering weight of the crate as a hundred and twenty pounds. He turned to Epicurus, whispered to him, and watched him leave whence we had come in. When Holmes turned back to us, the bill of lading was no longer to be seen.

“This time tell the truth please, Monsignor.” There was an uneasy silence. “Very well. When you opened the box, all three of the cameos were there. You then left the room, and when you came back one was missing.”

The Monsignor’s fallen expression said it all.

Cardinal Manning filled in the gap. “Now that we have tried your way, Don Luigi, maybe we can do this properly?” He turned to Holmes. “Monsignor Della Chiesa is very loyal and is trying to protect the Cardinal.”

“Indeed,” said Tosca, “and I allowed myself to be persuaded.” He stood up and stretched himself into a man of importance. “These cameos are most important to me and to the tetchy relations between the church and your country. What has happened here must be covered up. We need to let the British Museum know that there are only two cameos and that the other will not be coming.”

“I care not for your games,” said Holmes. “I want only the truth. Somebody here is going to tell me what happened.”

“What makes you think something did?” said Manning. He asked out of the genuine curiosity of a scholar.

“Because you do not hunt a rabbit with an elephant rifle,” I said. “If it was merely a missing cameo during the delivery, you’d have called the police, not my colleague. That you have arranged for his services means that only his services will suffice. Otherwise it would be excessive.”

Holmes nearly smiled. “Thank you, Watson. That was an eloquent précis.”

“I alone was here,” said Tosca. He was interrupted by the return of Epicurus, who handed Holmes a note. Holmes read it then placed it in his pocket.

Tosca continued. “I wished to check the cameos for myself, make sure they were not damaged. I opened the crate and saw that one was missing.”

“No,” said Holmes. “Epicurus here has just verified with the shipping company. The weight of the box they delivered is consistent with how heavy three cameos and a crate would be. Each cameo is about thirty pounds, and the crate would be similar. A hundred and twenty pounds all told. This box is a quarter lighter, I’ll wager. Epicurus?”

Epicurus picked up the box by the handles, tested the weight in his arms, and then put it down. “Eighty-eight, mebbe eighty-nine pounds.”

“Which means that the box came here with all three of them packed, and one of them went missing in this room.”

“And why should we believe this man’s parlour trick?” said Stoutbridge, pointing at Epicurus.

“Because he’s a Gunner.” I said. “He served in the Royal Artillery and had a distinguished career, winning medals and fame, including the highest glory of them all. But even more importantly, the men who man the guns learn about weights and measures. It is their life, and if they are wrong it is their death. After a thousand loads, most gunners can tell the weight of a charge to the nearest half-pound just by picking it up and putting it in the cannon. If he tells you that box weighs eighty-eight pounds now, you may trust him.”

“Don Luigi misinformed you, because the truth is so much stranger,” said Cardinal Manning.

“Non mi dire!” said Tosca. “It is such a strange tale I feared you would not believe me. It is true they were delivered here for our inspection to make sure they had travelled safely, and the cathedral has this safe storeroom where they could be kept overnight. There is only one entrance, and only one key. I opened one of the cameos and laid it out on the table, but the exertion was too much for me. They are heavy, and as you can see, well wrapped. I left the room, locking the door behind me.”

“You are sure of that?” said Holmes, interrupting the Cardinal.

“I am sure,” he said.

“And when you came back, it was missing?” Holmes seemed disinterested, and as Tosca was answering he whispered to Epicurus, who again took his leave.

When Tosca had finished lamenting the loss, Holmes addressed Manning. “And it was you, Eminence, who decided to call for diplomatic help instead of the police. No doubt you have the ear of half the cabinet and all the Mandarins of Whitehall, my brother included.”

“You are correct, Holmes. I walked in on Don Luigi as he was unlocking the door. We discovered the theft together. Don Luigi did not want a fuss, but I insisted. Eventually we compromised. No police due to the diplomatic delicacy. But how did you deduce that?”

“You are English, sir, and your sense of fair play shines through your cloak of religious purpose. You are a man who will always try to do what is right, but you are worried that you may damage the career of your friend Tosca, as well as embarrass the Pope. So you called in a favour. What you could not have known is that you are the only one playing fair this evening. No one wants this solved, least of all Cardinal Tosca.” He chose this moment to walk away in a flurry of coat and hat, leaving me to flounder in his wake.

“Then what will you do?” said Manning to his departing back.

“I will solve it,” he said, “and then we will see what the politicians and bureaucrats think when they are faced with the truth.”

“What is going on Holmes?” I said as we settled into the cab.

“We are in the middle of a delicate game, Watson. There is much afoot.”

“And a locked room mystery as well,” I said.

“The room was locked,” said Holmes, “but there is no mystery. There is, however, more to this than stolen artwork. Let me drop you at home, lest your wife worry about the company you are keeping. If you wish, come round in the morning. We shall break our fast together and then there is someone I want to meet. I think you will find him interesting. He is a distant cousin, and by some way the most intelligent man in the country. Even Mycroft will attest to that.”

“I thought the Diogenes Club would be our next stop?” I said. “Your brother put you up to this after all.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Then he sent the drunken halfwit, Stoutbridge, to represent the government - surely a sign they wish to have nothing to do with this. There is no point talking to Mycroft. Whatever game he’s playing has already run its course in his head. Now he’s waiting for the pieces to fall into place.”

“But he also sent Epicurus with us,” I said. “As if he knew we would need him. Why would he do that?”

“Aside from his ability as a scale? Epicurus is also brave and resolute. I do believe that he was sent with us as a protector. Mycroft, in his own unfeeling manner, used Epicurus to warn us that the solution to this theft is fraught with danger.”

“Where is Epicurus? Where did you send him?”

“Outside, to stay and watch the cathedral. I shall ask Wiggins to relieve him later.”

I would have asked why, but Holmes lent back into the cab with a look I knew so well and he said nothing more save, “Good night, Watson,” when he dropped me at home.

The next morning, I arrived at 221b Baker Street early to find Mrs. Hudson waiting for me at the door. “There’ll be no breakfast here,” she said. “He’s been up all night, pacing and slamming books. He’ll be rushing you out the door.” My stomach rumbled in protest then she pressed a packed meal in a bag into my hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “You are a wonder.”

“I know,” she said. “Just because he ignores food doesn’t mean you have to.”

Holmes appeared at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Watson, let us away. This promises to be an eventful day.”

Thirty minutes later, delayed by traffic that seemed to be growing worse by the day, we arrived at the back of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“I must admit,” I said to Holmes, “that of all the places I could think of to visit in this most Catholic of mysteries, Wren’s house would have been low on the list.”

“You are aware,” said Holmes, “of the movement of several high church Anglicans in the last few decades to the Roman church.”

“Somewhat,” I replied. “Cardinal Manning was one of them. He was married and at one point the Archdeacon of Chichester. His conversion was one of the most famous.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow in query. “Mary dabbles in religious matters,” I said. “I may have glanced at some of her newspapers from time to time. Er, who are we here to meet?”

“Even though some left the church, they did not leave their friends.” The voice, rich and plummy, came from a tall, sallow man. He looked as though a sharp breeze would bowl him over, but there was no mistaking his authority. Canon William Church, in his position as Dean of St Pauls’ Cathedral, was one of the highest ranked members of the Anglican hierarchy in the land. “Sherlock, I hope you are well. And this must be your friend, Doctor Watson. Do come through. Your cousin is resting in the antechamber.”

My surprise was complete when we went into the room. Even though he was dressed in none of the finery of his two fellow Princes the day before, it was still an incongruous sight to see a Cardinal under the roof of the Anglican Bishop of London. All three men must have seen my surprise.

“Poor Doctor Watson, Holmes has told you nothing,” said Reverend Church. “You were right to say so, John. Sherlock is a rapscallion of the highest order. Permit me then. Doctor John Watson, please meet my friend and Mister Holmes’s cousin...”

“Cardinal John Newman,” I said. “As I live and breathe. My word, sir. It is indeed an honour.”

And it was. Newman was a giant of the century. A poet spoken of in the same breath as Keats or Byron, a philosopher, a theologian, a man of letters. His reach was vast and his intellect as keen as any in history.

“This man,” I said to Holmes, “this giant of a man - is your cousin? And you never thought to mention it?”

“We are distant cousins only, my dear Doctor Watson, through our French antecedents.” Cardinal Newman’s voice was reedy and thin. It made one want to lean closer to hear what he had to say. He also looked unhealthy, with a thin face and long bony fingers. Either asceticism was a hard road or the sanctified life was not without its trials, for it seemed every high ranking church member I had recently met was on a short road to meet their maker.

Holmes looked around the antechamber. It was quietly resplendent, a room fit for a Prince. “If you are visiting here, do you know any of what is happening with your fellow Princes? The Vatican Cameos.”

“I know, since I first mentioned them to you some weeks past, that they have been sent here, shrouded in secrecy, as a sop to the British Government. As if sharing secrets will make us all great chums.” Newman gestured as if conducting grand affairs of state. “It will not. It was a mistake to send the cameos, and Tosca may yet pay for the missing one with his career, such as it is.”

“Why did Tosca allow Pecci to become Pope, when he had it in his hands?” asked Holmes.

“I was not there,” said Cardinal. “If you already know that much about what went on in a secret conclave, then I suspect you and Mycroft have better sources than I. However, I believe that, when faced with the possibility of the chair of St. Peter, Tosca stepped back for the good of his church. He is an honest though weak man, and I think he realized, for once in his life, how much of his career had been created by others who used him. Stepping away from the most powerful position in Christendom defined his goodness, but also marked him for vengeance. His former backers have long memories. They wanted to control the church through him, have access to the church finances, and try to reclaim portions of the Papal States lost in 1870. Pecci, Leo XIII, is a tougher nut to crack.

“So it is about more than church politics,” I said.

“It must be,” said Newman. “The cameos are about more than revenge on Cardinal Tosca. That is not the Italian way. If it was important for Tosca to be punished, he would have been found hanging from a bridge over the Tiber. No, this is about something far weightier, I fear.”

“What do you know of these enemies of his?” said Holmes.

“That they have motives far beyond the spiritual, and that Tosca is naïve,” said Newman. “Manning as well. When a thing is too good to be true, it almost always is.”

He sighed and lent back in his chair. “The French cameo depicts a point in history that allowed historians to conclude certain things about that time. To commission a cameo was a long and expensive business, so great care and much consultation would have gone into its characterization. It is therefore deemed to be more historically accurate than any other form or depiction of the times. They were also fragile, so any that survived are assumed to have been well protected - not just as art, but as a sign of the times.”

“So where have the Vatican Cameos been for the last two-thousand years?” asked Holmes.

“Exactly,” said Newman. “What do they depict that has left them hidden for so long? What is their message, and why have they appeared now?” He paused to sip some water, which had the effect of strengthening what he had to say. “Europe and the world have been sitting on a powder keg since Napoleon. There are at least five major powers wrestling for the conquest of the globe, and the might of America will also feature in that struggle sooner rather than later. All it will take is one incident, a death at the wrong time or even a diplomatic disagreement, and that powder keg will start burning.”

“And you fear the cameos and their historical context,” said Holmes.

“I pray I am wrong,” said Newman. “I fear I am right.”

Holmes used the Dean’s servant to send some messages. We waited for the replies. I could see that Holmes was restless. The Cardinal left for his room to rest.

“He is in the habit of staying here among friends when he comes to London,” said Holmes. “He finds the machinations of Manning tiring.”

The servant returned with the replies. “It is as I thought,” said Holmes. “My brother is now showing an interest. He will meet us at the Pro-Cathedral, as will their Eminences Cardinal Tosca and Manning.”

The ride across the city would normally have been pleasant. The driver took the direct route and we passed by much of what marked London at the height of its worth. Holmes, however, was preoccupied. As we rode down the Mall and passed Buckingham Palace, I asked him, “What could possibly be so important in those cameos?”

“Superstition,” he said, before retreating into his thoughts.

Epicurus met us just inside the church. “No one has been in or out the room.”

I looked around. There was no easy observation point in the church of the storeroom door. “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

Epicurus looked puzzled, as if the question demeaned his word. “I stood in front of it. Wouldn’t let them, until now.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, and we went inside.

They were all gathered in the storeroom, except for Stoutbridge, whose dim presence was no longer needed. There were extra chairs now so the dramatis personae could all be seated. Everyone had separated. Mycroft to the left, Manning in the middle, Tosca to the right, with Della Chiesa behind him. I took a seat near the elder Holmes. He turned and smiled, a rare occasion.

“Doctor Watson. Glad to see you. Whenever you are near, I feel my brother is better behaved.”

If Sherlock Holmes heard the exchange, he chose to ignore it.

“I believe we are here only because of Cardinal Manning. If he had not chanced upon Cardinal Tosca and the missing cameo so soon after the discovery, we would not be here. Cardinal Tosca was in the process of covering up the story of the cameo and another few moments leeway would have meant none of this would have happened.”

He paused for a second and looked at Tosca. “You would do well to dismiss your assistant. This will not aid his career in the church. He is better off not knowing.”

“You know?” said Tosca. “But how could you?”

“I suspected,” said Holmes. “Now I know.”

Mycroft harrumphed. “Monsignor Giacomo Della Chiesa is being trained for higher roles.” He said. “I believe he is leaving here soon to be the personal assistant to Cardinal Rampolla, the Secretary of State.” He saw the surprise - and then momentary delight - on the young man’s face before he resumed his diplomatic mien. “You didn’t know,” said Mycroft. “No matter, the announcement will be in three days. They are grooming you for high office, young man. Whatever sins are hidden here will be a lesson for you as well. Let him stay.”

“Continuing,” said Holmes. “Cardinal Tosca was sent here to get him away from Rome, where he had many enemies. Then he was offered this diplomatic coup, to mend fences with the British people by sharing an exciting new secret from the Vatican Archives. What he didn’t realize is that very often a secret is hidden for a reason. Have you looked at the other two cameos?”

“Yes,” said Della Chiesa. “They are similar style to the Grand Camée de France, except of a slightly later period. The French one shows the family and important officials of Tiberius Caesar. The two that I have seen here this morning would seem to be similar in design. The first is of Caligula. He was the successor to Tiberius and it is unfinished, although there was room for the horse. It is likely incomplete because he was mad and only lasted three years as Emperor. The other one may refer to the time of Claudius Caesar and it is complete, which points to his thirteen years as Emperor.”

“Va bene,” said Tosca. “We are finished here. The third one was stolen. The exhibition is over, and we shall return these two back to Rome.” He stood up as if to leave until Holmes’s voice stopped him.

“There was no theft,” he said. “No locked room mystery and no crime committed.” He walked over to the shelves and moved away parcels of cleaning cloths and solvent. Then he picked up a rectangular parcel and placed it on the table.

“You had no time to hide it and when you tried to come back, you were stopped by Epicurus. You must have known then couldn’t get away with it. Had you been innocent, you would have protested such treatment. You didn’t, which confirmed my suspicions. Whatever is on this cameo is so frightening that you felt you had to hide it, and when Cardinal Manning insisted on calling for an investigation, your story became more unwieldy.”

“Please,” said Cardinal Tosca. “I beg of you. Do not unwrap it. There were only supposed to be three, which is why I started to look at them. When I saw it, Madre di Dio, I did not know what to do. The scandal it will cause!”

But Holmes would not be stopped. He unwrapped the third cameo, leaned over it and looked closely at the depictions. Mycroft joined him.

“I see,” Mycroft said.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “This is now more within your realm than mine. I bid you good day. Watson, with me.”

“But?” I said.

“Now, please. We must leave at once.”

I was seething with anger, curiosity, and frustration. Being Holmes’s friend was often interesting and seldom quiet, but it could also be tiresome.

Before I could say anything, Holmes spoke.

“Please, my friend. Give me this ride to think of all the possibilities. I have just made a monumental decision and I need to reconcile myself with my actions. Let us return to the rooms at Baker Street. It is early enough, but I think it will be time for a glass of port when we arrive, and I shall tell you all.”

I honoured his request, as disgruntled as I felt. We went straight up the stairs, and Holmes waved at the cabinet. There was a fine bottle of malt whisky gathering dust and I chose that instead for both of us. I don’t think that Holmes noticed.

“What if you discovered a piece of information so terrifying that you truly could not even envision the consequences?” he asked. “A cameo so divisive it could create the war to end all wars, could set brother against brother, nation against nation, continent against continent.”

“Holmes, whatever you saw could not possibly be that bad. You glanced at it for barely a moment.”

“Watson, I am no expert in the iconography of early civilization, but what I saw, if true, would change the world.”

I waited, dreading his answer.

“The last cameo appears to follow the sequence. It is from the time of Emperor Nero and it is the reason why the entire set was hidden. Like the others it can be dated, and it shows the Emperor standing next to a figure with holes in his hands and a crown of thorns. There is a woman with him and a child, and the scroll above their heads says Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum.”

“ ‘Jesus, the Nazarene, King of the Jews’,” I said. “Oh my word.” I moved away from the fireplace and sat down, trying to comprehend the implications. “It must be a forgery.”

“Think of the provenance,” said Holmes. “Even if it is eventually proven to be fraudulent, the story will be out there that the church hid it for two-thousand years, unwilling to test the core beliefs of their religion. And what if it is not a forgery? What if that cameo is taken as proof that Jesus had a family and children, and didn’t die? The date marking on that cameo shows it to be in the ninth year of the reign of Nero. That would be around about 64 A.D.

“Thirty years after the crucifixion,” I said. “It would mean that all of Christianity would be a lie.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “And that is why, despite my better judgement that the truth must always win out, I took us away and left it to my brother to resolve. This was never about revenge on Cardinal Tosca. Cardinal Newman was right. This way is not the Italian way. This was about the destruction of society. Whoever did this wanted to change the world, and didn’t care how many people died to make it happen.”

“Surely it wouldn’t be that bad?” I said.

For perhaps the only time in my life, I heard my friend utter these words: “I don’t know.” Then, “But when you have all these raging empires ready to go to war, and possibly the only thing holding them back is their professed faith in a religion that has sustained society for two millennia...”

“What happens if you take that away?”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And in this incendiary political climate no one needs to find out.”

“What about Cardinal Newman? Will you tell him?”

Holmes drank again from the whisky glass. It did not seem to be relaxing him. “John Henry Newman has spent a lifetime justifying the cause of Christian faith. He has not long to live, and I am not the person to ruin what is left of his life for him. There are times, Watson, when the truth is too terrifying to be told.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” I said.

“Neither did I, my friend. Neither did I.”

POSTSCRIPT

Cardinal John Newman died later that year, on 11 August, 1890, thankfully never knowing the truth about the matter which would have shaken the Church to which he’d devoted his life

Two weeks after the events described here, there was a small announcement in The Times of the cancellation of a display of church artifacts at the British Museum, as the ship that was transporting them had sunk with seventy-two souls on board. Mycroft had taken a disaster already extant and used it to bury the truth of the Vatican Cameos.

In 1914, many years after the events in this story, Giacomo Della Chiesa was elected Pope. As Benedict XV, he watched from the sidelines of St. Peter’s in Rome as every Christian country in the world tried to rend civilization asunder. His diplomatic and humanitarian efforts, though largely fruitless, drew praise from all who met and knew him. He died in 1922, having seen Christianity fail, and like all who knew the truth of the cameos, wondering if it ever existed at all.

Signed: Doctor John H. Watson

... I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases.

Sherlock Holmes - The Hound of the Baskervilles