The Death of Cardinal Tosca (The Dispatch Box of John H Watson, MD) Read online

  The Death of Cardinal Tosca

  An Untold Adventure of Sherlock Holmes

  Hugh Ashton

  Published by Inknbeans Press, 2013

  © 2013 Hugh Ashton and Inknbeans Press

  Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are written in respectful tribute to the creator of the principal characters.

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all those who love and treasure the life and work of the great detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker-street.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to all who have assisted in making this book. Writing may be a solitary craft, but the creation of a book is a team effort, including much hard work and support by people who never put pen to paper or finger to keyboard.

  First, to my readers, who actually buy and read and enjoy my writing in sufficient quantities to continue to encourage me in my madness.

  To Yoshiko, my wife, who remains baffled and amused by the growing list of books on our shelves with my name as author on the spine, and supports me in my quest to recreate the atmosphere of 221B Baker-street from a small Japanese town.

  And to Jo, the Boss Bean at Inknbeans Press, who puts up with my unreasonable demands, and still manages to produce and promote my books.

  Preface by Hugh Ashton

  My researches into the life and work of the great detective Sherlock Holmes, and of his friend and biographer, Dr. John Watson, continue to produce excitement.

  The dispatch-box deposited in the vaults of Cox & Co. has produced an unexpected gem from the depths—a case of Sherlock Holmes which was mentioned in The Hound of the Baskervilles, but has not yet seen the light of day. I provide a little more information about this in the Editor’s Notes immediately before the story itself, which deals with several aspects of the British political scene of the day.

  Be that as it may, there were several aspects of the original Sherlock Holmes canon which are still a puzzle to many readers. Doctor Watson was, I think we can all agree, a courageous and loyal friend of the great sleuth. But why, one may ask, would Sherlock Holmes, with his love of accuracy and precision, entrust the writing of his cases to a man who consistently made so many sloppy errors? Sherlockians delight in the puzzles and paradoxes to be found in the Canon, and come up with many ingenious ideas to explain them.

  I have a very simple explanation, expounded at some length in an article which will appear in the Winter 2013 edition of The Watsonian, the journal of the John H. Watson Society.

  Briefly stated, my thesis is that these “errors” and “contradictions” were introduced into the narrative by Sherlock Holmes himself. As a matter of sheer courtesy, if for no other reason, Watson would undoubtedly have shown to Holmes the drafts of the accounts of their adventures together before passing them on to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, his literary agent.

  Naturally, Holmes would want to keep some details of his methods a secret—after all, if criminals were made aware of these methods, they could avoid making mistakes in the future which would lead to their detection and arrest. For this reason, as well as the interests of State security, as exemplified in this account, we may take it as a given fact that Watson’s accounts of his adventures with Sherlock Holmes are not to be taken as literal accounts of the facts as they occurred, any more than the dialogue he records is a literal transcription of the words spoken at those times.

  Hugh Ashton

  Kamakura, 2013

  [email protected]

  Editor’s note

  In the second box of Dr. Watson’s papers (the “dispatch-box”) from London, I discovered a thick envelope, sealed with a wax seal and the impression of a signet with the initial ’S’. On the back flap were written, in that splendidly scrawling but legible hand with which I am now familiar, the words “Not to be opened before September 25, 2014”.

  Dare one disobey the instructions of Sherlock Holmes? Dare one cross swords with the great detective and defy his will, even long after his death?

  For a long time this envelope stood on my desk, Holmes’ words ringing in my ears as I contemplated them. In my mind’s eye I could see all those famous actors who have sought to bring back to life that most famous adventurer of the London fogs. Basil Rathbone’s finger wagged at me. Benedict Cumberbatch’s sneer of disdain was directed at me. And Jeremy Brett simply turned his back on me in disgust.

  But yet... I had to know more. What was there in this envelope that had to remain hidden for so long? It was almost certainly another adventure that Holmes and Watson had shared, which had not been published, for reasons unknown. But what? The game was afoot.

  With a prayer to the saint who protects the overly curious, I slit open the envelope. As well as the expected manuscript, written in Watson’s crabbed hand, some newspaper clippings dealing with the outbreak of the Great War, and a letter, written in another, strangely familiar style, appeared. It took me a little time, but I recognised the handwriting as that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Watson’s literary agent. On reading this, I realised that I had stumbled upon a matter—the death of Cardinal Tosca—which was of great significance at the time it was written, and still had resonance today.

  Naturally, I could not resist reading Watson’s account, and to my surprise, found that the case of Cardinal Tosca was much more complex and had far more wide-reaching implications than I would ever have imagined.

  Watson writes about his friend’s “famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope” in Black Peter, but never tells us more. Many people have guessed that Holmes was summoned to Rome to investigate a death in the Vatican. The truth is actually more complex than that and involves Mycroft once again—who seems to have acted as the éminence grise of the late Victorian and early Edwardian governments.

  I reflected on whether to publish this case, and decided that the dangers to the British way of life that Holmes (and Doyle) feared in 1914 no longer applied. The roles of religion and the monarchy in the life of the nation have changed almost beyond recognition, and the problems that beset the Edwardians have largely been resolved—at least to the point where they would no longer be an issue in determining the publicity or otherwise of this case.

  Part I – The Cardinal’s Death

  Monsignor Mahoney – The Diogenes Club, London

  Of al
l the cases in which Sherlock Holmes was involved, one of the more interesting was the case which concerned the death of Cardinal Tosca. As my readers will remember reading in the newspapers of the day, His Eminence was visiting England when he succumbed to a stroke while staying at his London hotel, much to the regret of the Catholic Church in this country, on behalf of which he had been a loyal advocate in the Curia. His passing was also publicly mourned by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who declared that the Cardinal had done more than anyone to bring about a true reconciliation between the Church of England, and that of Rome. It was discreetly given out that, given the delicate state of the European diplomatic situation at the time, Sherlock Holmes had been asked to pronounce definitively that there had been no foul play. This announcement attracted considerable notice, and questions were asked as to the wisdom of employing a private investigator in the case, rather than the official police force.

  In the event, though, public honour was satisfied by the public statement of Inspector Stanley Hopkins of the Metropolitan Police Force, who informed the public that, in his opinion, Holmes' findings were in complete accordance with the facts as he understood them.

  The truth, however, was a very different matter, and one in which Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves deeply involved in a business of whose real nature few were aware. The unvarnished truth of this incident was considered to be too explosive to be made public, but I consider that after all this time, they may be safely revealed. Indeed, there is much to be said for the case that they should be revealed at this time of national peril.

  Editor’s note: It is unclear to what “ national peril” Watson is referring here. However, since the papers describing this case were found between newspaper cuttings of the early autumn of 1914, it is likely that Watson was referring to the outbreak of the First World War, in the run-up to which Holmes and Watson played their parts, as described in His Last Bow. Possibly this final adventure brought back to Watson his memories of this earlier case, which was likewise of national significance. However, it should be noted that attached to the back of this manuscript was a note from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, regretting that he was unable to act as Watson’s literary agent in this instance (attached as an appendix).

  As with so many cases of this nature, the initial summons came through Sherlock Holmes’ older brother, Mycroft. I was building up my medical practice at the time, and was living away from Baker-street, though visiting my friend as often as my work would permit, when we would often spend an evening dining, and afterwards smoking our pipes and engaging in companionable conversation, during the course of which Holmes would frequently inform me of the details of some of his recent cases.

  It was on one such evening that I mounted the steps to the well-known rooms at 221B Baker-street, and was about to knock on the door, when it suddenly opened, to reveal Holmes, dressed in his overcoat.

  “Just the man whom I need to see at this moment,” he smiled with pleasure. “I am just on my way out, and would be grateful if you would accompany me. Had you not turned up when you did, I would have given Mrs. Hudson instructions to admit you and to request you to wait for my return. As it is...”

  “Where are we going?” I asked as I followed him down the stairs.

  “To the Diogenes Club,” he answered briefly.

  “Brother Mycroft?”

  He nodded. “I received a telegram from him not fifteen minutes ago. Here, see for yourself.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper.

  I read out loud, “‘Meet me at Club immediately on confidential matter re Tosca. Mycroft.’. It certainly seems as though there is something of importance. But ‘Tosca’? Does this refer to the opera?”

  Holmes laughed. “I am certain that it does not. Mycroft has little interest in artistic matters. It is almost certainly concerned with the visit to this country by His Eminence Cardinal Pietro Tosca, the emissary from the Vatican.”

  “I remember seeing his name in the newspapers, but I took little notice of it, I confess.”

  “He is here to negotiate some business on behalf of His Holiness, I believe. No doubt Mycroft will tell us more when we meet him.” As we spoke, Holmes hailed a cab. The journey passed in relative silence, my friend seemingly preferring to sit in silence rather than make conversation, and I was sufficiently acquainted with his moods not to intrude.

  On our arrival at the Club, Holmes gave his name to the porter, and we were shown without delay to the Strangers’ Room of that remarkable institution, where conversation between members is not only discouraged, but forbidden, save for the chamber to which we were conducted.

  Our eyes beheld the massive form of Mycroft Holmes as we entered, but it was the other occupant of the room who excited my curiosity. Though clad in the usual attire of a man about town, his garments somehow appeared to be of a foreign cut, and to hang strangely on his small frame. His lined face was deeply tanned, but with striking blue eyes, and his hair, cut shorter than was fashionable at the time, had originally been dark, but now had almost entirely turned to silver. Both men rose to their feet to greet us.

  “Who is this, Mr. Holmes?” demanded the stranger of Mycroft Holmes, in a strange accent that I had difficulty placing, though it had more than a touch of Irish to it, as he indicated me, and settled himself in his seat once more.

  Sherlock’s brother waved his flipper-like hand negligently. “You need not trouble yourself, sir,” was his rejoinder. “This is Dr. Watson, who is my brother’s faithful companion and biographer. Anything you may have heard about brother Sherlock other than what I have told you is through the good graces of Watson here, who has recounted his exploits in a most entertaining manner.”

  “Hardly scientific, according to him, though," I laughed.

  “Be that as it may. I would like to introduce you, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson, to—“

  “Monsignor—?” interrupted Sherlock.

  “Indeed, Monsignor Mahoney, secretary to the late Cardinal Tosca,” said Mycroft.

  Both Holmes and the prelate started to speak at the same time, stopped, and started again simultaneously.

  “No, after you, Monsignor,” Sherlock Holmes eventually said, following several halts and starts.

  “How in the world did you know of my profession and rank when you addressed me just now?” asked Mahoney, obviously bewildered.

  Holmes smiled. “The way in which you sat in that chair just now showed me that you are unaccustomed to wearing trousers. When my brother informed me in his telegram that this business concerned Cardinal Tosca, I could easily make the inference that a cassock is more your everyday attire than a suit of clothes. And the purple socks, of course, inform me of your rank.” Mycroft Holmes said nothing, but I noticed his slightly sardonic smile as his younger brother related his findings.

  Mahoney smiled. “It seems I must work harder at preserving my incognito.”

  “But Mycroft,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You referred just now to the late Cardinal Tosca, did you not? How can that be?”

  Mycroft’s expression was serious. “Cardinal Tosca died two days ago. The matter has not been publicly announced, and the general public is still under the impression that he is suffering from a slight cold, which has prevented him from making public appearances at present.”

  Holmes’ face grew grave. “I take it this is no ordinary death, then?” he asked.

  “By no means,” Mycroft answered. “It is murder.”

  “Murder?” I exclaimed. “But who could have done such a thing? Why would anyone wish to do so?”

  “This is precisely why I have invited my brother to investigate the case,” said Mycroft Holmes, with a touch of asperity.

  “I am somewhat engaged,” protested Holmes. “The doings at Atherstoke Grange—“

  “It is the brother-in-law, who is in debt as a result of his improvidence at the races,” interrupted Mycroft abruptly. “Did you learn nothing from your examination of the driveway?”

  Sherlock
Holmes looked somewhat abashed. “I had not considered the evidence in that light,” he said. “However, I will reëxamine the facts taking that opinion into account.”

  “Hardly an opinion, dear boy. It is the only conclusion that a rational mind can reach. But you will have the kindness to resume your study of these trivia after you have investigated the problem before us here and now.”

  “Very well, then. Perhaps I had better hear the facts.”

  “And so you shall,” replied Mycroft. “Monsignor Mahoney is the man to provide them.” He gestured to the prelate, who sat forward in his chair, and addressed us.

  “Let me begin,” he started his speech, “by telling you something of myself and of my relations with Cardinal Tosca. I have been in the service of the Church for over thirty-five years. I have been addressed by my current title since my appointment as a pronotary apostolic some five years ago, and I became the personal confidential secretary of His Eminence some three years ago. He was not an easy man for whom to work. It is said ‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum’, Mr. Holmes, but in truth, I cannot say that it was a pleasure to serve under him.

  “My nature is perhaps too easy-going—indeed, it is a fault to which I regularly confess—but Cardinal Tosca is—or rather was, I should say—very strict in his demands for the work carried out on his behalf. For example, he would tolerate no corrections of any kind on a letter which carried his name. Should I make a single mistake in copying or writing such an epistle, I would invariably be required to write the whole page again. When we were travelling together, everything had to be exactly to his wishes. When he bathed, the water had to be at the precise temperature to which he was accustomed, and so on.

  “He could display a kind and generous side on occasion, though. For example, I suffered from influenza last winter, and he nursed me with his own hands, and ensured that I had proper care for the whole period of my indisposition. Let no-one say of him that he lacked Christian charity towards his fellow-men. But at the same time, he was not an easy master to serve. I disliked working with him, but in the service of the Church, we must all take the tasks to which we are assigned, and it is not our place to attempt to change our lot.”