An Ensuing Evil and Others

A STUDY IN ORANGE

This is one of those papers.

It was my estimable friend, the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who drew the printing error to my attention.

“Really, my dear Watson!” he exclaimed, one morning over breakfast, as he thrust the copy of Collier’s Magazine toward me. “How can you let something like this slip by? I have often found myself remarking on the considerable liberties that you have taken in your accounts of my cases, but this date is an error in the extreme. Detail, my dear Watson. You must pay attention to detail!”

I took the copy of the magazine from his hands and glanced at the page on which his slim forefinger had been tapping in irritation. Collier’s had just published my account of the case of “Black Peter,” in which Holmes had been able to clear young John Neligan of the accusation of murder of Captain “Black Peter” Carey. He had caused the arrest of the real culprit, Patrick Cairns. The case had occurred some eight years before, in 1895 to be precise. Indeed, it had only been with some caution that I had decided to write it at all. Although the events happened in Sussex, all three men were Irish sailors, and Holmes was always reticent when it came to allowing the public to read anything that associated him with Ireland.

This was, I must hasten to say, not due to any bigotry on the part of Holmes. It was simply a stricture of my old friend that no reference be made that might associate him with his Anglo-Irish background. He was one of the Holmes family of Galway. Like his brother, Mycroft, he had started his studies at Trinity College, Dublin, before winning his demyship to Oxford following the example of his fellow Trinity student Oscar Wilde. On arrival in England, Holmes had encountered some xenophobic anti-Irish and anticolonial hostilities. Such prejudices so disturbed him that he became assiduous in his attempts to avoid any public connection with the country of his birth. This eccentricity had been heightened in later years by public prejudicial reaction to the downfall and imprisonment of the egregious Wilde, whom he had known well.

While Holmes allowed me to recount some of his early cases in Ireland, such as “The Affray at the Kildare Street Club,” “The Specter of Tullyfane Abbey,” and “The Kidnapping of Mycroft Holmes,” purportedly by Fenians, I had faithfully promised my friend that these accounts would be placed in my bank with strict instructions that they not be released until fifty years after my death or the death of my friend, whichever was the later event.

I was, therefore, fearful of some error that I had associated him in some manner with the nationality of the three men involved in the case of “Black Peter,” that I took the magazine from him and peered cautiously at the page.

“I was very careful not to mention any Irish connection in the story,” I said defensively.

“It is where you pay tribute to my mental and physical faculties for the year ‘95 that the error occurs,” Holmes replied in annoyance.

“I don’t understand,” I said, examining the page.

He took back the magazine from me and read with careful diction: “In this memorable year ‘95, a curious and congruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his 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….”

He paused and looked questioningly at me.

“But the case was famous,” I protested. “It was also publicly acknowledged that the pope asked specifically for your help. I kept some of the articles that appeared in the public press….”

“Then I suggest you go to your archive of tittle-tattle, Watson,” he interrupted sharply. “Look up the article.”

I moved to the shelves where I maintained a few scrapbooks in which I occasionally pasted such articles of interest connected with the life and career of my friend. It took me a little while to find the six column inches that had been devoted to the case by the Morning Post.

“There you are,” I said triumphantly. “The case of Cardinal Tosca was recorded.”

His stare was icy. “And have you noticed the date of the article?”

“Of course. It is here, for the month of November 1891….”

“Eighteen ninety-one?” he repeated with studied deliberation.

I suddenly realized the point that he was making.

I had set the date down as 1895.1 had been four years out in my record.

“It is a long time ago,” I tried to justify myself. “It is easy to forget.”

“Not for me,” Holmes replied grimly. “The case featured an old adversary of mine whose role I did not discover until after that man’s own death while in police custody in early 1894. That was why I knew that the date that you had ascribed to the case was wrong.”

I was frowning, trying to make the connection. “An old adversary? Who could that be?”

Holmes rose abruptly and went to his little Chubb Safe, bent to it, and twiddled with the locking mechanism before extracting a wad of paper.

“This,” he said, turning to me and tapping the paper with the stem of his pipe, “was what I found in my adversary’s apartment when I went to search it after his death. It is a draft of a letter. Whether he sent it or not, I am not sure. Perhaps it does not matter. I believe that it was fortuitous that I found it before the police, who would doubtless have made it public or, worse, it might have fallen into other hands so that the truth might never have been known to me. It is a record of my shortcomings, Watson. I will allow you to see it but no other eyes will do so during my lifetime. You may place it in that bank box of yours with your other scribbling. Perhaps after some suitable time has passed following my death, it can be opened to public scrutiny. That I shall leave to posterity.”

I took the document from him and observed the spidery handwriting that filled its pages.

I regarded Holmes in bewilderment. “What is it?”

“It is the true story of how Cardinal Tosca came by his death. You have had the goodness to claim the case as one of my successes. This will show you how I was totally outwitted. The man responsible wrote it.”

My jaw dropped foolishly. “But I was with you at the time. You solved the case to the satisfaction of Scotland Yard. Who-?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, the man who I once told you was the second most dangerous man in London. He was my adversary, and I did not know it. Read it, Watson. Read it and learn how fallible I can be.”

The Conduit Street Club, London W1

May 21, 1891

My dear “Wolf Shield”:

So he is dead! The news is emblazoned on the newspaper billboards at every street corner. His friend, Watson, has apparently given an interview to reporters in Meiringen, Switzerland, giving the bare details. Holmes and Moriarty have plunged to their deaths together over the Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock Holmes is dead, and in that news I can find no grief for Moriarty, who has dispatched him to the devil! Moriarty, at his age, was no street brawler and should have sent his hirelings to do the physical Work. So Moriarty’s untimely end was his own fault. But that he took that sanctimonious and egocentric meddler to his death is a joy to me.

Holmes was always an irritant to me. I remember our first clash in the Kildare Street Club in Dublin, back in ‘73. He was but a young student then, just gone up to Oxford. He and his brother, Mycroft, who, at the time, was an official at Dublin Castle, were lunching in the club. It chanced that Moriarty and I were also lunching there. It was some paltry misunderstanding over a ridiculous toilet case with that old idiot, the Duke of Cloncurry and Straff an, that Holmes’s meddling caused me to he thrown out of the Club and banned from membership.

It was not the last time that little pipsqueak irritated me and thwarted my plans. But there is one case where he was not successful in his dealings with me. Now my own ego must lay claim to having got the better of that Dublin jackeen. I proved the better man but, alas, he went to his death without knowing it. I would have given anything that he had plunged to his death knowing that Sebastian Moran of Derrynacleigh had outwitted him while he claimed to be the greatest detective in Europe! But, my dear “Wolf Shield,” let me tell you the full story, although I appreciate that you know the greater part of it. You are the only one that I can tell it to for, of course, you were ultimately responsible for the outcome.

In November of i8go His Eminence Cardinal Giacomo Tosca, nuncio of Pope Leo XIII, was found dead in bed in the home of a certain member of the British Cabinet in Gay fere Street not far from the Palace of Westminster. The facts, as you doubtless recall, created a furor. You will remember that Lord Salisbury headed a Conservative government that was not well disposed to papal connections at the time. The main reason was the government’s stand against Irish Home Rule summed up in their slogan — “Home Rule is Rome Rule.” That very month Parnell had been reelected leader of the Irish Party in spite of attempts to discredit him.

The Irish Party controlled four-fifths of all Irish parliamentary seats in Westminster. They were considered a formidable opposition.

A doctor named Thomson, called in to examine the body of the papal nuncio, caused further speculation by refusing to sign a death certificate, as he told the police that the circumstances of the death were indistinct and suspicious. The doctor was supported in this attitude by the local coroner.

The alarums that followed this announcement were extraordinary. The popular press demanded to know whether this meant the papal nuncio was murdered. More important, both Tory and Liberal newspapers were demanding a statement from government on whether the nuncio had been an intermediary in some political deal being negotiated with Ireland’s Catholics.

What was Cardinal Tosca doing in the house of the Conservative government Minister Sir Gibson Glassford? More speculation was thrown on the fire of rumor and scandal when it was revealed that Glassford was a cousin, albeit distant, of the Earl of Zetland, the Viceroy in Dublin. Moreover, Glassford was known to represent the moderate wing of the Tories and not unsympathetic to the cause of Irish Home Rule.

Was there some Tory plot to give the Irish self-government in spite of all their assurances of support for the Unionists? All the Tory leaders, Lord Salisbury, Arthur Balfour, Lord Hartington, and Joseph Chamberlain among them, had sworn themselves to the Union and made many visits to Ireland declaring that Union would never be severed. Yet here was a cardinal found dead in the house of a Tory minister known to have connections with Ireland. It came as a tremendous shock to the political world.

Catholic bishops in England denied any knowledge of Cardinal Tosca being in the country. The Vatican responded by telegraph also denying that they knew that Cardinal Tosca was in England. Such denials merely fueled more speculation of clandestine negotiations.

As for Sir Gibson Glassford himself-what had he to say to all this? Well this was the truly amusing and bizarre part of the story.

Glassford denied all knowledge of the presence of Cardinal Tosca in his house. Not only the press but also the police found this hard to believe.

In fact, the Liberal press greeted the minister’s statement with derision, and editorials claimed that the government was covering up some dark secret. There were calls for Glassford to resign immediately. Lord Salisbury began to distance himself from his junior minister.

Glassford stated that he and his household had retired to bed at their usual hour in the evening. The household consisted of Glassford himself, his wife, two young children, a nanny, a butler called Hogan, a cook, and two housemaids. They all swore that there had been no guests staying in the house that night and certainly not His Eminence.

In the morning, one of the housemaids, descending from her room in the attic, noticed the door of the guest’s room ajar and the glow of a lamp still burning. An attention to her duties prompted her to enter to extinguish the light, and then she saw Cardinal Tosca. His clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, his boots placed carefully under the dressing table chair. He lay in the bed clad in his nightshirt. His face was pale and his eyes wide open.

The maid was about to apologize and leave the room, thinking this was a guest whose late arrival was unknown to her, when she perceived the unnatural stillness of the body and the glazed stare of the eyes. She turned from the room and raised the butler, Hogan, who, ascertaining the man was dead, informed his master, after which the police were called.

It was not long before the clothing and a pocketbook led to the identification of His Eminence.

The household was questioned strenuously, but no one admitted ever seeing Cardinal Tosca on the previous night or on any other night; no one had admitted him into the house. Glassford was adamant that he and his wife had never met the cardinal, or even heard of him, let alone extended an invitation to him to be entertained as a guest in their house.

Inquiries into the Catholic community in London discovered that Cardinal Tosca had arrived in the city incognito two days before and was staying with Father Michael, one of the priests at St. Patrick’s Church in Soho Square. This was the first public Catholic Church to be opened in England since the Reformation. It had been consecrated in 1792. But Father Michael maintained that he did not know the purpose of Cardinal Tosca’s visit. The Cardinal had simply told him that he had arrived from Paris by the boat train at Victoria and intended to spend two days in important meetings. He exhorted Father Michael not to mention his presence to anyone, not even to his own bishop.

Now, and this was the point that troubled the police the most, according to Father Michael, the cardinal had retired to his room in the presbytery, that is the priest’s house, in Sutton Street, Soho, at ten o’clock in the evening. Father Michael had looked in on His Eminence because the cardinal had left his missal in the library and the priest thought he might like to have it before retiring. So he saw the cardinal in bed in his night attire and he was looking well and fit. At seven o’clock the next morning, Cardinal Tosca was found dead by the housemaid a mile and a half away in Sir Gibson Glassford’s house in Gayfere Street, Westminster.

The press redoubled their calk for Glassford to resign, and the Liberal press started to call on Lord Salisbury’s entire government to offer their resignation. Riots had burst out in Belfast instigated by Unionists, and various factions of the Orange Order, the sectarian Unionist movement, were on the march, and the thundering of their intimidating lambeg drums was resounding through the streets of the Catholic ghettoes.

The police confessed that they had no clue at all. They did, however, treat the butler, poor Hogan, to a very vigorous scrutiny and interrogation, and it was discovered that he had some tenuous links to the Irish Party, having some cousin in membership of the party. Glassford, a man of principle, felt he should stand by his butler and so added to the fuel of speculation.

The police admitted that they were unsure of how the cardinal came by his death, let alone why, and were unable to charge anyone with having a hand in it.

Because of the suspicion of an Irish connection, which was mere prejudice on the part of the authorities due to the Catholic connection, the case was handed over to the Special Irish Branch, which is now more popularly referred to as the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. The Police Commissioner James Monro had formed this ten years before to fight the Irish Republican terrorism. The head of the Special Branch was Chief Inspector John G. Littlechild. And it was through the private reports of Detective Inspector Gallagher that I was able to observe, in some comfort, the events that now unfolded.

It was some seven days after the revelation of Cardinal Tosca’s death that Chief Inspector Littlechild received a visit from Mycroft Holmes. This was a singular event, as Mycroft Holmes, being a senior government official in Whitehall, was not given to making calls on his juniors. With Mycroft Holmes came his insufferable younger brother, Sherlock. My friend Gallagher, who had the information as to what had transpired directly from Littlechild himself told me about this meeting. Littlechild had been handed an embossed envelope bearing a crest. No word was said. He opened it and found a letter entirely in Latin, a language of which he had no knowledge. It showed the arrogance of the Holmes Brothers that they did not offer a translation until the Chief Inspector made the request for one.

It was a letter from none other than Gioacchino Pecci, who for thirteen years had sat on the papal throne in Rome as Leo XIII. The letter requested that the police allow Sherlock Holmes to investigate the circumstances of the death of the papal nuncio and provide whatever support was required. Mycroft Holmes added that the prime minister had himself sanctioned the request, presenting a note from Lord Salisbury to that effect.

I was told that Littlechild had an intense dislike of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had not endeared himself to Littlechild, because he had often insulted some of Scotland Yard’s best men-Inspector Lestrade, for example. Inspector Tobias Gregson and Inspector Stanley Hopkins had also been held up to public ridicule by Holmes’s caustic tongue. But what could Littlechild do in such circumstances but accept Holmes’s involvement with as good a grace as he could muster?

Holmes and his insufferable and bumbling companion, Watson, were to have carte blanche to question Sir Gibson Glassford’s household and make any other inquiries he liked. Littlechild had thankfully made one condition, which was to come in handy for me. Detective Inspector Gallagher was to accompany Holmes at all times so that the matter would remain an official Scotland Yard inquiry. Thus it was that I was kept in touch with everything that the so-called Great Detective was doing while he was entirely unaware of my part in the game.

This is the part of the story that my friend Gallagher narrated to me.

The first thing that Holmes informed Gallagher of was that he had telegraphed Cardinal Tosca’s secretary in Paris. The secretary confirmed that Cardinal Tosca had caught the boat train to London, promising to return within forty-eight hours. The journey had been prompted by the arrival of a stranger at Cardinal Tosca’s residence in Paris late one night. The secretary had the impression that the visitor was an American by the way he spoke English with an accent. When asked his business, the man presented a small pasteboard that had a name and a symbol on it. The secretary could not remember the name but was sure that the device was harp-shaped. The man spent a few minutes with the cardinal, and the next morning the cardinal caught the boat train. Moreover, the cardinal insisted on traveling alone, which was highly unusual.

Inspector Gallagher pointed out that had Holmes consulted him, he would have been informed that this information was already in police hands, having consulted the cardinals secretary. Holmes was too conceited to be abashed by the fact. He believed that nothing was achieved unless he personally achieved it.

Gallagher accompanied Holmes and Watson in a hansom cab to their first port of call: the local mortuary where the body of the cardinal was being preserved, much to the outcry of the Catholic Church, who felt it scandalous that His Eminence was thus prevented a lying in state and burial according to their practices.

Holmes insisted that he and Watson should examine the body, and this was done, after much argument, in the company of the original examining doctor, Thomson, and the coroner, with Gallagher looking on without enthusiasm. In fact, Gallagher found Holmes’s involvement quite objectionable. He seemed to claim authority over the medical experts and leaned over the corpse, using a large magnifying glass as he examined it.

He suddenly let out a hiss of breath and turned to his companions. “Do you not remark on the slight bruising on this neck vein,” he remarked, pointing dramatically, like one who has discovered something unique.

“I did so remark on it, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Thomson replied patiently. The coroner was clearly displeased.

“If you will read my report, that matter was made clear…,” he began, but Holmes actually waved him into silence.

“But what of the puncture wound which is discernible under my glass. What of that, sir?” he demanded of the doctor.

“I found it irrelevant,” replied Thomson. “A bite of some sort, that is all.”

Holmes turned to his crony, the sycophantic Watson. “Watson, please observe this mark and bear in mind that I have brought it to the attention of these… gentlemen.”

Gallagher thought that he was being quite insulting, and so did Dr. Thomson and the coroner, who waited with unconcealed impatience for Holmes to complete his study.

Finally, Holmes turned to Gallagher and demanded to see the clothes that had been found with His Eminence’s body.

“Is there any question that these clothes found by the body belong to the cardinal?” he asked as the parcel was handed to him.

“None whatsoever,” he was assured. “Father Michael himself examined and identified them.”

The cardinal’s pocketbook, rosary, and pocket missal were all contained in the package.

“I presume that none of this material has been removed or tampered with?” queried Holmes.

Gallagher flushed with mortification. “Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes, is not in the habit of removing or altering evidence, as you well know.”

Holmes seemed oblivious of his insults, and he searched through the pocket book, which contained some banknotes in both French and English currencies and little else apart from two pasteboard visiting cards. They bore the name “T W. Tone” on them and a little harp device surmounted by a crown. Holmes showed them to Watson and said quietly, “Note these well, Watson, old friend.” It was as if Gallagher was not supposed to hear, but he did so and duly reported the fact to me.

Holmes then frowned and peered closely at the bundle of clothes.

“Wasn’t the cardinal supposed to be wearing a nightshirt? Pray, where is that?”

“It was wrapped separately from the other clothing,” Gallagher assured him, producing it. “As this was what the body was clad in, it was considered that it should be kept separate in case it provided any clues.”

The insufferable Holmes took out the nightshirt and started to examine it. A curious expression crossed his features as he sniffed at it. Turning, he picked up the other clothing and sniffed at that. He spent so long smelling each item alternatively that Gallagher thought him mad.

“Where have these been stored during these last several days?”

“They have been placed in sacking and stored in a cupboard here in case they were needed as evidence.”

“In a damp cupboard?”

“Of course not. They have been kept in a dry place.”

Half an hour later saw them at Father Michael’s presbytery, where His Eminence had last been seen alive. He treated the poor priest in the same brusque manner as he had the doctor and coroner. His opening remarks were, apparently, exceedingly offensive.

“Did the cardinal take narcotics, according to your knowledge?” he demanded.

Father Michael looked astounded, so shocked that he could say nothing for a moment and then, having regained control of his sensibilities, after Holmes’s brutal affront, shook his head.

“He was not in the habit of using a needle to inject himself with any noxious substance?” Holmes went on, oblivious of the outrage he had caused.

“He was not-”

“-to your knowledge?” Holmes smiled insultingly. “Did the cardinal receive any letters or messages while he was here?”

Father Michael admitted no knowledge on the matter, but, at Holmes’s insistence, he summoned the housekeeper. She recalled that a man had presented himself at the door of the presbytery demanding to see His Eminence. Furthermore, the housekeeper said the man was well muffled, with hat pulled down and coat collar pulled up, thus presenting no possibility of identification. She did remember that he had spoken with an Irish accent. He had presented a card with a name on it. The housekeeper could not remember the name but recalled that the card had a small device embossed on it, which she thought was a harp.

Gallagher could not forbear to point out that Scotland Yard had asked these questions prior to Holmes’s involvement.

“Except the question of narcotics,” replied Holmes, a patronizing expression on his face.

Holmes then demanded to see the bedroom where Father Michael had bade good night to His Eminence. He carefully examined it.

“I perceive this room is on the third floor of the house. That is irritating in the extreme.”

Father Michael, Gallagher, and even Watson exchanged a puzzled glance with one another as Holmes went darting around the bedroom. In particular, he went through Cardinal Tosca’s remaining clothing, sniffing at it like some dog trying to find a scent.

Holmes then spent a good half an hour examining the presbytery from the outside, much to the irritation of Gallagher and the bemusement of Watson.

From Soho they took a hansom cab to Sir Gibson Glassford’s house in Gayfere Street. Glassford was apparently close to tears when he greeted them in his study.

“My dear Holmes,” he said, holding the Great Detective’s hand as if he were afraid to let go of it. “Holmes, you must help me. No one will believe me; even my wife now thinks that I am not telling her all I know. Truly, Holmes, I never saw this prelate until Hogan showed me the dead body in the room. What does it mean, Holmes? What does it mean? I would resign my office, if that would do any good, but I fear it would not. How can this strange mystery be resolved?”

Holmes extracted his hand with studied care and removed himself to the far side of the room. “Patience, Minister. Patience. I can proceed only when I have facts. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. True, the circumstances of this matter are strange, but they only retain their mystery until the facts are explained. Watson, you know my methods. The grand thing is to be able to reason backward.”

Watson nodded, as if he understood, but he looked unhappy. Inspector Gallagher was pretty certain that the bumbling doctor had not a clue of what the arrogant man was saying. Glassford looked equally bewildered and had the courage to say so.

“Facts, my dear sir!” snapped Holmes. “I have no facts yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has facts. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

He made Glassford, his wife, and all the servants go through the evidence they had already given to the police and then demanded to see the bedchamber in which His Eminence had been found.

“I observe this bedroom is on the fourth floor of your house. How tiresome!”

Once again, he wandered around the bedroom, paying particular attention to the carpeting, exclaiming once or twice as he did so.

“Seven days. I suppose it would have been an impossibility to think anything would have remained undisturbed.”

The note of accusation caused Detective Inspector Gallagher to flush in annoyance. “We did our best to secure the evidence, Mr. Holmes,” he began.

“And your best was to destroy whatever evidence there was,” snapped Holmes conceitedly.

He then led the way outside the house and stood peering around as if searching for something. But he seemed to give up with a shake of his head. He was turning away when his eyes alighted on two men on the opposite side of the road who were peering down an open manhole. From the steps of the house, an elderly woman, clutching a Pekingese dog in her arms, was observing their toil, or rather lack of it, with disapproval.

An expression of interest crossed Holmes’s features, and he went over to them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted the workmen. “I observe by your expression that something appears amiss here.”

The workmen gaped at him, unused to being addressed as gentlemen.

“Naw, guvnor,” replied one, shaking his head. “We do reckon ain’t naw’fing wrong ‘ere.” He glanced at the elderly lady and said in an aggrieved voice. “But seems we’ve gotta check, ain’t we?”

The elderly lady was peering shortsightedly at Holmes. “Young man!” She accosted him in an imperial tone. “I don’t suppose you are an employee of the local sewerage works?”

Holmes swung round, leaving the two workmen still gazing morbidly down the hole in the road, and he smiled thinly. “Is there some way I can be of assistance, madam?”

“I have not seen eye to eye with your workmen there. They assure me that I have been imagining excavations near my house by the sewerage company. I do not imagine things. However, since these excavations have ceased, or rather the sounds of them, which have been so oppressive to my obtaining a decent night’s repose, I presume that we will no longer be bothered by these nightly disturbances?”

“Nightly disturbances?” Holmes asked with quickening interest.

When she confirmed that she had complained a fortnight prior to the sewerage company of nightly disturbances caused by vibration and muffled banging under the street, causing her house to shake, one of the workmen summoned courage to come forward.

He raised a finger to his cap. “Beggin yer pardon, lady, but wiv all due respect an’ that, ain’t bin none of our lads a digging dahn ‘ere. No work bin done in this ‘ere areafer months naw.”

Holmes stood regarding the old woman and the workmen for a moment, and then with a cry of “Of course!” he bounded back to Glassford’s house, and his knocking brought Hogan, the butler, to the door again.

“Show me your cellar,” he ordered the startled man.

Sir Gibson emerged from his study, disturbed by the noise of Holmes’s reentry into the house, and looked astounded. “Why, what is it, Mr. Holmes?”

“The cellar, man,” snapped Holmes dictatorially, totally disregarding the fact that Glassford was a member of the government.

In a body, they trooped down into the cellar. In fact, several cellars ran under the big house, and Hogan, who had now brought a lamp, was ordered to precede them through the wine racks, a coal storage area, a boiler room, and areas filled with bric-a-brac and assorted discarded furniture along one wall.

“Have any underground excavations disturbed you of late? These would have been during the night,” Holmes asked as he examined the cellar walls. Glassford looked perplexed.

“Not at all,” he replied, and then turned to his butler. ‘Your room is above here at the back of the house, isn’t it, Hogan? Have you been disturbed?”

The butler shook his head.

“Does the Underground railway run in this vicinity?” Holmes pressed.

“We are not disturbed by the Underground here,” replied Sir Gibson. “The Circle Line, which was completed six years ago, is quite a distance to the north of here.”

“That wall would be to the north,” Holmes muttered, and turning to Hogan ordered the man to bring the lamp close while he began examining the wall. He was there fully fifteen minutes before he gave up in irritation. Inspector Gallagher was smiling to himself and could not help making the thrust: “Your theory not turning out as you would hope, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes scowled at him. “We will return to Father Michaels,” he almost snarled.

At the presbytery, he demanded to see the priest, and being shown into the study asked without preamble: “Do you have a cellar?”

Father Michael nodded.

“Pray precede me to it,” demanded Holmes arrogantly.

The priest did so, with Holmes behind him and Watson and Gallagher trailing in the rear. It was an ordinary cellar, mostly used for the storage of coal and with wine racks along one side. Holmes moved hither and thither through it like a ferret until he came to a rusting iron door.

“Where does this lead?” he demanded.

Father Michael shrugged. “It leads into the new crypt. As you know, we are rebuilding the church and creating a crypt. The door used to lead into another cell, but it has not been opened ever since I have been here.”

“Which is how long?” asked Holmes, examining it carefully.

“Ten years.”

“I see,” muttered the Great Detective. Then he smiled broadly. “I see.” He said it again almost as if to impress everyone that he had spotted some solution to the mystery.

“And does an Underground railway run near here?”

Father Michael shook his head. “Our architect ascertained that before we began to rebuild the church. We needed to ensure strong foundations.”

Gallagher felt he could have done a dance at the crestfallen expression on Holmes’s face. It lasted only a moment, and then Holmes had swung round on him.

“I want to see the Metropolitan Commissioner of Sewers and maps of the system under London.”

Gallagher felt he was dealing with a maniac now. It seemed that Holmes had devised some theory that he was determined to prove at all cost.

Mr. Bert Small, manager of the sewerage system, agreed to see Holmes and provide plans of the area at the company’s Canon Row offices, just opposite the Palace of Westminster on the corner of Parliament Street.

“I cannot see the connection I wish to make,” Holmes said in resignation, pushing the plans away from him in disgust. “There seems no way that one could negotiate the sewers from Soho Square to Gay fere Street, at least not directly in a short space of time. And the Underground railway does not run anywhere near Father Michael’s nor Glassford’s houses.”

It was then that Bert Small came to the rescue of Holmes, demonstrating that it was not intellect alone that helped him solve his cases but good fortune and coincidence.

“Maybe you are looking at the wrong underground system, Mr. Holmes,” he suggested. “There are many other underground systems under London apart from sewers and the new railway system.”

Holmes regarded him with raised eyebrows. “There is another system of tunnels that runs under Westminster?”

Mr. Small rose and took down some keys, smiling with superiority. “I will show you.”

It took but a few minutes for Mr. Bert Small-the man of the moment, as Gallagher cynically described him-to lead them from his office around the corner to Westminster Bridge. Here Mr. Small led them down a flight of steps to the Embankment to the base of the statue of Queen Boadicea, in her chariot with her two daughters. There was a small iron door here, which he unlocked, then suggested that they follow him.

A flight of iron steps led them into a tunnel. Mr. Small seemed to swell with pride, and he pointed out that it was situated just above the lower-level interceptory sewer that ran below the level of the Thames. They could see that it was built of brickwork but arched rather than circular and was about six feet high. It was designed, said Mr. Small, to carry cast-iron pipes with water and gas.

He took a lantern and shone it along the dark, forbidding way.

Gallagher was conscious of the river seeping through the brickwork, dripping down the walls on either side and, above all, he was aware of the smell, the putrid stench of the river and the echoing tunnel before them. Holmes began to sniff with a sigh of satisfaction.

Mr. Small pointed down the tunnel. “These tunnels run from here along the river as far as the Bank of England, Mr. Holmes. These are Sir Joseph Bazalgette’s tunnels, which he completed fifteen years ago,” he said proudly. “You have probably seen, gentlemen, that Sir Joseph died a few months ago. The tunnel system under London was his finest achievement and-“

Holmes was not interested in the eulogy of the civil engineer who had built the tunnels. “And are there other connections?”

“Altogether there are eleven and a half miles of these sorts of tunnels. They fan out through the city,” replied Mr. Small, blinking at being cut short.

“Do they connect with Soho Square and Gayfere Street?” Holmes demanded.

“There are none of these tunnels that would connect directly. You would have to go from Soho Square down to Shaftesbury Avenue to find an entrance and then you would have to exit here and walk to Gayfere Street.”

“Then that’s no good to me,” snapped Holmes irritably. “Let’s return to the surface.”

Detective Inspector Gallagher smiled to see the Great Detective so put out that whatever theory he had could not be sustained.

As they emerged onto the Embankment, Mr. Small, perhaps seeking to mollify Holmes’s bad humor, was prompted to make another suggestion.

“There is yet another tunnel system, Mr. Holmes,” he finally ventured. “That might pass in the general direction that you have indicated, but I am not sure. I do have a plan of it back at the office. But it has been closed down for over a decade now.”

Holmes asserted that he would like to see the plans.

Gallagher believed that Holmes was off on another wild goose chase and, being just across the road from his office at Scotland Yard, he left Holmes and Watson with Mr. Small. He returned to report the progress to his chief, Littlechild. It was two hours later that Gallagher received a curt note from Holmes asking him to meet him at Glassford’s house within half an hour and bring a posse of armed police officers, who were to station themselves in the front and back of the building.

Gallagher reluctantly carried out Holmes’s orders after consulting with Chief Inspector Littlechild, who checked with the commissioner.

Holmes met Gallagher at the door of Glassford’s house and immediately took him down into the cellar. The first thing that Gallagher noticed was an aperture to the south side of the cellar that had previously been covered by piles of old furniture. Beyond this hole was a tunnel of some ten feet in length, dug through the London clay. But within ten feet it met a well-constructed brick-lined tunnel. It was of arched brickwork some four and a half feet in height and four feet wide and a small-gauge railway line ran through it. Gallagher was puzzled, for this was certainly not a tunnel connected with the rail system. Holmes ordered a policeman to be stationed as a guard at this point and then invited Gallagher to join him in Sir Gibson Glassford’s study.

Holmes had gathered everyone in Glassford’s study. There was the minister himself his wife, and all the servants, nanny, cook, housemaids, and the butler, Hogan. The Great Detective was looking pleased as punch with himself, and Gallagher reported that the spectacle was repulsive in the extreme.

“The case was simple,” exclaimed Holmes in his usual pedantic style. “I drew your attention to the bruising and puncture mark over the vein in the cardinal’s neck. To most people who have dealt with the administration of narcotics, the puncture mark was the sign of a hypodermic syringe. Usually, this is the method by which a medication or drugs is introduced under the skin of the patient by means — “

“I think we know the method, Holmes,” muttered Gallagher. “Dr. Thomson did not agree with you. Indeed, he conducted tests which showed no sign of any foreign substance, let alone narcotics or poison, being introduced into the body of the cardinal which would cause death.”

“There was no need to introduce such foreign matter,” Holmes went on, looking like a cat that has devoured cream. “The hypodermic contained no substance whatsoever.”

“But how — ?” began Sir Gibson.

“It contained nothing but air,” went on Holmes. “It caused an air embolism-a bubble of air-to be introduced into the bloodstream. That was fatal. Cardinal Tosca was murdered.”

Gallagher sighed deeply.

“We already suspected that…,” he protested.

“I have now demonstrated your suspicion to be a fact,” replied Holmes scornfully. “Now that we know the method, the next question is how was the body transported here?”

“You have been at pains to prove your theory that there is a passage through the underground sewers from Soho Square to here,” muttered Gallagher.

Holmes smiled condescendingly. “As you have now observed, it is no theory. It was obvious that the body had to be removed from Soho Square to Gayfere Street. Hardly through the streets in full view, I think, eh, Watson?” Holmes chuckled at his own humor. “It was clear to me that the body had been removed through a dank, smelly sewer. A tunnel where the clothes the body was being transported in, in this case, his nightshirt, had come into contact with the excretions running from the walls. The odors were still apparent after some days in police storage. There was no odor on the cardinal’s other clothing. Those transporting the body had carried them wrapped separately in a bag or some other casing, which protected them. The only question was-through what manner of tunneling was this achieved?”

He paused, presumably to bask in their admiration of his logic. He met only bemusement.

“The body was transported not through the sewers, as it happened, Gallagher. In 1861 the Pneumatic Dispatch Company built an underground rail system. The plan was to transport only mail. However, two years later the Post Office opened its own system and this, coupled with the fact that the pneumatic system had begun to develop mechanical faults and air leakage, caused the plans to extend it to be shelved. Ten years ago, that entire system was abandoned and was also forgotten.”

Holmes paused, waiting like a conjuror about to pull a rabbit from a hat.

“Except by Mr. Small,” pointed out Gallagher, not wishing Holmes to claim the approbation.

“And by the group of people intent on mischief. The body of the cardinal was carried, with his clothing, from his bedroom in the presbytery down to the cellar. In spite of assurances that the door had not been opened in ten years, I observed scuff marks showing that it had been opened recently. The body was removed into the new crypt where workmen had, in their excavations, made contact with the old pneumatic tunnel. The tunnel came directly toward Westminster. In preparation for this ghastly event, which had been well planned, a tunnel had been excavated in advance into the cellar of Sir Gibson’s house. I was alerted by the complaints that had been made to the local sewerage company by the old lady opposite who had been disturbed by it. I subsequently found out that, being elderly, she had removed her bedroom to a lower floor, near ground level. That was how she had been disturbed in the night. I found it curious that her concerns were not shared by anyone in this house.”

“But I have already told you that only the butler lives on the lower floor,” pointed out Sir Gibson, “and Hogan has not complained of any such noises. Have you, Hogan?”

The man shook his head morosely.

“Well,” went on Holmes obliviously, “our conspirators, for that is what they are, had enticed their victim from France on the pretense that he was wanted to mediate in some negotiations between this government and members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. The idea appealed to Cardinal Tosca’s vanity, and he came here obeying the conspirators’ exhortation not to tell anyone else. He was killed and the body brought through this underground system.”

“But for what purpose?” demanded Glassford. “Why was he killed and placed in my house?”

“The purpose was to achieve exactly what this has nearly achieved. An attempt to discredit you as a member of government, and to stir up antagonism against any movement by the Irish Tarty to press forward again with its political campaign in parliament.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What group of people would best benefit by discrediting both a government pledged to the Unionist cause and to those who seek only Home Rule within the United Kingdom? Both those objectives would receive an irrevocable blow by the involvement of a Tory Minister in the murder of a cardinal and the suspicion of some conspiracy between them. Where would sympathy go to?”

“I presume the more extreme Irish Nationalists — the Republicans.”

“Watson, your revolver!” cried Holmes suddenly.

It was too late. Hogan had pulled his own revolver. “Everyone stay where they are!” he shouted.

“Don’t be a fool, Hogan,” snapped Gallagher, moving forward, but Hogan waved his weapon threateningly.

“I am not a fool,” the butler cried. “I can see where this is leading, and I shall not suffer alone.”

“You’ll not escape,” cried Holmes. “The police have already surrounded this place.”

Hogan simply ignored them.

He stepped swiftly back, removing the key from the lock of the study door. Then he slammed the door shut, turned the key, and they heard him exiting the house.

When Gallagher threw his weight against the door, Holmes ordered him to desist.

“He’ll not get far.”

In fact, Hogan hardly reached the corner of the street before members of the Special Branch called him to stop and surrender. When he opened fire, he was shot and died immediately. Which was, from my viewpoint, my dear “Wolf Shield,”just as well.

Holmes had reseated himself with that supercilious look of the type he assumed when he thought he had tied up all the loose ends.

“Hogan was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Fenians. He had ingratiated himself into your employ, Sir Gibson, and was told to wait for orders. The diabolical plot ivas to use the murder of His Eminence to bring about the fall of your government.”

“And we know the name of the man who lured the cardinal here,” Watson intervened importantly, speaking almost for the first time in the entire investigation. “We should be able to track him down and arrest him.”

Holmes looked at his acolyte with pity. “Do we know his name, Watson?”

“Why, indeed! He overlooked the fact that he left his card behind. T. W. Tone. Remember?”

“T. W Tone — Theobald Wolfe Tone is the name of the man who led the Irish uprising of 1798,” Sir Gibson intervened in a hollow voice. Watson’s face was red with chagrin. Sir Gibson glanced at Holmes. “Can we find out who the others were in this plot, Mr. Holmes?”

“That will be up to the Special Branch,” Holmes replied, almost in a dismissive fashion. “I fear, however, that they will not have much success. I suspect those who were involved in this matter are already out of the country by now.”

“Why did Hogan remain?”

“I presume that he thought himself safe or that he remained to report firsthand on the effects of the plot.”

Glassford crossed to Holmes with an outstretched hand.

“My dear sir,” he said, “my dear, dear sir. I… the country… owe you a great debt.”

Holmes’s deprecating manner was quite nauseating. Gallagher told me that he found his false modesty was truly revolting.

It is true that when the government released the facts of the plot, as Holmes had given it to them, the case of the death of Cardinal Tosca became a cause celebre. Holmes was even offered a small pension by the government, and he refused, perhaps more on account of its smallness than any modesty on his part. He even declined a papal knighthood from the grateful Bishop of Rome.

Sickening, my dear “Wolf Shield.” It was all quite sickening.

But, as you well know, the truth was that Holmes did not come near to resolving this matter. Oh, I grant you that he was able to work out the method by which I killed Cardinal Tosca. I admit that I had thought it rather an ingenious method. I had stumbled on it while attending a lecture in my youth at Trinity College. It was given by Dr. Robert MacDonnell, who had begun the first blood transfusions in 1865. MacDonnell had given up the use of the syringe because of the dangers of embolism or the air bubble which causes fatality when introduced into the bloodstream. My method in the dispatch of the cardinal was simple, first a whiff of chloroform to prevent struggle and then the injection.

My men were waiting, and we transferred the body in the method Holmes described. Yes, I’ll give him credit as to method and means. He forced Hogan to disclose himself. Hogan was one of my best agents. He met his death bravely. But Holmes achieved little else…. We know the reason, my dear “Wolf Shield,” don’t we?

Well, now that Holmes has gone to his death over the Reichenbach Falls, I would imagine that you might think that there is little chance of the truth emerging? I have thought a great deal about that. Indeed, this is why I am writing this full account in the form of this letter to you. The original I shall deposit in a safe place. You see, I need some insurance to prevent any misfortune befalling me. As well you know, it would be scandalous should the real truth be known of who was behind the death of Cardinal Tosca and why it was done.

With that bumptious irritant Sherlock Holmes out of the way, I hope to lead a healthy and long life. Believe me-

Sebastian Moran (Colonel)

Having read this extraordinary document I questioned Holmes about whether he had any doubts as to its authenticity.

“Oh, there is no doubt that it is in Moran’s hand and in his style of writing. You observe that I still have two of his books on my shelves? Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas and Three Months in the Jungle.”

I remembered that Holmes had purchased these volumes soon after the affair of “The Empty House.”

“Moran was many things, but he was no coward. He might even have been a patriot in a peculiar and perverted way. His family came from Conamara and had become Anglicans after the Williamite Conquest of Ireland. His father was, in fact, Sir Augustus Moran, Commander of the Bath, once British Minister to Persia. Young Moran went through Eton, Trinity College, Dublin, and Oxford. The family estate was at Derrynacleigh. All this you knew about him at the time of our encounter in the affair of ‘The Empty House.’ I did not mean to imply that he was without faults when I said Moran was no coward and a type of patriot. He had a criminal mind. He was a rather impecunious young man, given to gambling, womanizing, petty crime, and the good life.

“He bought himself a commission in the India Army and served in the First Bengalore Pioneers. He fought in several campaigns and was mentioned in dispatches. He spent most of his army career in India, and I understand that he had quite a reputation as a big-game hunter. I recall that there was a Bengal tiger mounted in the hall of the Kildare Street Club, before he was expelled from it, which he killed. The story was that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes iron nerve.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “You call him a patriot? Do you mean he was working for the Irish Republicans?”

Holmes smiled. “He was a patriot. I said that Moran had criminal tendencies but was no coward. Unfortunately the talents of such people are often used by the State to further its own ends. You have observed that Moran admits that Inspector Gallagher kept him informed of our every move in the case. Unfortunately Gallagher was killed in the course of duty not long after these events, so we are not able to get confirmation from him. I think we may believe Moran, though. So why was Moran kept informed? Colonel Moran was working for the Secret Service.”

I was aghast. “You don’t mean to say that he worked for our own Secret Service? Good Lord, Holmes, this is amazing. Do you mean that our own Secret Service ordered the cardinal to be killed? That’s preposterous. Immoral. Our government would not stand for it.”

“If, indeed, the government knew anything about it. Unfortunately, when you have a Secret Service, then it becomes answerable to no one. I believe that even behind the Secret Service there was another organization with which Moran became involved.”

“I don’t follow, Holmes.”

“I believe that Moran and those who ordered him to do this thing were members of some extreme Orange faction.”

“Orange faction? I don’t understand.” I threw up my hands in mystification.

“The Orange Order was formed in 1796 to maintain the position of the Anglican Ascendancy in Ireland and prevent the union of the Dublin colonial parliament with the parliament of Great Britain. However, the Union took place in 1801, and the Orange Order then lost support. Its patrons, including royal dukes and titled landowners, quickly accepted the new status quo, being either paid off with new titles or financial bribes. The remaining aristocratic support was withdrawn when the Order was involved in a conspiracy to prevent Victoria inheriting the throne and attempting to place its Imperial Grand Master, His Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland, on the throne instead. The failure of the coup, Catholic Emancipation 1829, the removal of many of the restrictions placed on members of that religion, as well as the Reform Acts, extending more civil rights to people, all but caused the Orange Order to disappear.

“Those struggling to keep the sectarian movement alive realized it needed to be a more broad-based movement, and it opened its membership to all Dissenting Protestants, so that soon its ranks were flooded by Ulster Presbyterians who had previously been excluded from it. Threatened by the idea that in a self-governing Ireland the majority would be Catholic, these Dissenters became more bigoted and extreme.

“The attempt to destroy the Irish Party seeking Home Rule, which is now supported by the Liberals, was addressed by diehard Unionists in the Tory Party like Lord Randolph Churchill, who advised the party to ‘play the Orange Card.’ The support of Churchill and the Tories made the Orange Order respectable again, and Ascendancy aristocrats and leading Tories, who had previously disassociated themselves from the Order, now felt able to rejoin it. The Earl of Enniskillen was installed as Grand Master of the Order two years before these events and, with the aid of the Tories, continued to dedicate the Order to the Union and Protestant supremacy.”

“But why would they plan this elaborate charade?” I asked.

“Remember what had happened in that November of 1890? The rift in the Irish Party was healing, and Parnell had been re-elected its leader. Once more they were going to present a united front in Parliament, and Lord Salisbury was faced with going to the country soon. Something needed to be done to discredit the moderates within Salisbury’s Cabinet to bring them back ‘on side’ with the Unionists against any plans to give Ireland Home Rule to help them remain in power.”

“But to kill a cardinal-”

“-having enticed him from Paris to this country thinking he was going to meet with members of the Irish Nationalists,” interposed Holmes.

“-to deliberately kill a cardinal to cause such alarms and… why, Holmes, it is diabolical.”

“Unfortunately, my dear Watson, this becomes the nature of governments who maintain secret organizations that are not accountable to anyone. I was tried and found wanting, Watson. This case was my biggest single failure.”

“Oh come, Holmes, you could not have known….”

Holmes gave me a pitying look.

“You must take Morans gibes and insults from whence they came. You could do no more,” I assured him.

He looked at me with steely eyes. “Oh yes, I could. I told you about how important it is to pay attention to detail. From the start I committed the most inexcusable inattention to detail. Had I been more vigilant, I could have laid this crime at the right door. It is there in Morans text, a fact made known to me right from the start and which I ignored.”

I pondered over the text but could find no enlightenment.

“The visitors cards, Watson. The mistake over the visitor’s cards presented by the mysterious caller to the cardinal.”

“Mistake? Oh, you mean the name being T W Tone, the name of someone long dead? I didn’t realize that it was a false name.”

“The name was merely to confirm the notion that we were supposed to be dealing with Irish Republicans. No, it was not that. It was the harp device, which was also meant to lead us into thinking that it was presented by an Irish nationalist, being the Irish national symbol. The fact was that the harp was surmounted by a crown-that is the symbol of our colonial administration in Ireland. No nationalist could bear the sight of a crown above the harp. I should have realized it.”

Holmes sat shaking his head for a while, and then he continued:

“Place the case of Cardinal Tosca in your trunk, Watson. I don’t want to hear about it ever again.”

Even then I hesitated.

“Granted that Moran worked for some superior-have you, in retrospect, come to any conclusion as to who Moran’s superior was? Who was the man who gave him the order and to whom he was writing his letter?”

Holmes was very serious as he glanced back at me. “Yes, I know who he was. He died in the same year that Moran was arrested for the murder of Lord Maynooth’s son. You recall that Moran died in police custody after his arrest? It was supposed to be a suicide. I realized that should have been questioned. But then I heard of the death of…” He paused and sighed. “Morans superior was a brilliant politician but a ruthless one. He, more than most, reawakened the Orange hatreds against the Catholic Irish in order to maintain the Union.”

“He was a member of the government?” I cried, aghast.

“He had been until just prior to this event, but he was still influential.”

“And this code name ‘Wolf Shield’? You were able to tell who it was by that?”

“That part was simple. The name, sounding so Anglo-Saxon, I simply translated ‘Wolf Shield’ back into Anglo-Saxon, and the man’s name became immediately recognizable. But let him now rest where his prejudices cannot lacerate his judgment any more.”

In deference to my old friend’s wishes, I have kept these papers safely, appending this brief note of how they fell into my hands. It was Holmes, with his biting sense of humor, who suggested I file it as “A Study in Orange,” being his way of gentle rebuke for what he deemed as my melodramatic title of the first case of his with which I was involved. With this note, I have placed Moran’s manuscript into my traveling box, which is now deposited in my bank at Charing Cross. I have agreed with Holmes’s instructions that my executors should not open it until at least fifty years have passed from the dates of our demise.

The one thing that I have not placed here is the name of Moran’s superior, but that anyone with knowledge of Anglo-Saxon personal names could reveal.