CHAPTER THREE

NEW SCOTLAND YARD

For the second night in a row I found myself buffeted by a cold easterly wind, although this time I was not looking for sanctuary, but being whisked towards the mortuary in a hansom.

I had rushed to our visitor’s side as soon as he fell, seeking a pulse, while Mary held his head in her lap. Holmes had raised the alarm as soon as I had confirmed that the man was dead and, thanks to the detective’s standing with the Metropolitan Police, none other than Inspector Lestrade had arrived at 221B within the hour. Statements were taken and the body removed, although Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that Holmes was to remain exactly where he was.

“We will be in touch as soon as there is any information regarding the identity of the corpse, Mr Holmes.”

“Which information do you mean exactly? The fact that the deceased holds the rank of Monsignor in the Holy Catholic Church, that he has recently travelled to England from the Vatican, or that he suffered dreadfully from gout?”

“I’m in no mood for your parlour games, Mr Holmes—” Lestrade responded.

“Parlour games!”

Lestrade continued as if Holmes hadn’t spoken: “—and must insist that you do as I have asked.”

Lestrade made his farewells and departed, leaving Holmes to pace the floor and inform all of Baker Street just what he thought of the inspector.

“Holmes, please,” I entreated, sitting on the settee beside Mary, her hand held tightly in mine. “My wife is upset.”

“So am I!” came the indignant reply.

“I am quite well, John,” Mary said, although I believed not a word of it. Holmes, to his credit, deposited himself in his customary chair and made a concerted effort to hide his impatience. We ate dinner in near silence, Holmes barely touching his food, his eyes flitting constantly to the clock on the mantel. It was only after dessert, when Mary insisted that she was over the worst of the shock, that Holmes leapt from his chair and grabbed his long coat, hat and scarf.

“Mary, I—” I began, but she stopped me.

“Go with him. You won’t be able to settle otherwise.”

Kissing her on the cheek, I grabbed my outerwear and hurried down the seventeen steps to the front door to join Holmes on Baker Street.

Before long we were rattling through the darkening streets of London, our hansom cab swaying in the wind.

Not wanting to prompt another diatribe regarding Lestrade, I returned my colleague’s attention to his earlier deductions.

“So, our visitor…” I ventured.

Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. “Please do not humour me, Watson,” said he, guessing where this line of questioning was going. “You know my methods better than anyone. That the man held the station of Monsignor was obvious by the red piping and buttons on his cassock.”

“But that he had travelled from Rome? Could he not be part of the Cardinal’s retinue here in London?”

“Not according to the shoes the unfortunate fellow revealed as he sprawled across Mrs Hudson’s carpet. Black leather with gold buckles and red appliqué. According to the stitching I would venture that they were manufactured by Ditta Annibale Gammarelli, clerical tailors to the Vatican since 1798.”

I chose not to point out that a London policeman would have little reason to be familiar with the minutiae of Italian ecclesiastical tailoring. At least the diagnosis of gout had been as clear to me as it was to Holmes. The Monsignor’s left ankle had been roughly the size of a cricket ball, which, Holmes pointed out, would also account for the choice of Oxfords over boots.

We fell into silence as we approached New Scotland Yard. Upon our arrival on the Victoria Embankment, Holmes marched into the large red and white building. Bustling past the bemused constable on the front desk, we made straight for our mysterious clergyman’s temporary resting place.

As if expecting our approach, Lestrade appeared in the dingy corridor and raised his hands in the manner one would use to try to halt a speeding locomotive. Thankfully, Holmes stopped in his tracks.

Lestrade sighed. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“You did,” Holmes conceded, “and I ignored you. I will see the body now.”

He moved to continue along the corridor, only to be restrained by a hand on his shoulder.

“No, you will not. While you have served us well in the past, Mr Holmes, may I remind you that this is Scotland Yard. You are a guest here, a welcome guest most of the time, but one who should be careful not to overstep the mark.”

I decided it was best to intercede. “Inspector, with all due respect, a man died on our doorstep tonight.”

“I thought it was your sitting room.”

“In Holmes’s lodgings then. Is it any wonder that we are curious about what brought him to Baker Street? Can you at least tell us if he has been examined by the police surgeon?”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, before shaking his head in defeat. “Oh, very well. Yes, he has been examined.”

“And has the cause of death been ascertained?” “Unfortunately, God help us all.”

I was tiring of these games. “Then spit it out, man. What killed him?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Holmes. “The police surgeon believes that the Monsignor died of complications arising from cholera.”