Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

IV: Behind the Walls of San Michele

We did not return to Fulworth the evening after visiting Mycroft. All of the local clues were known to us and we did not want Barlow to suspect anything. Holmes only asked his brother to have the police watch the parish and the pastor’s movements during our absence and provide us with regular reports.

The next task that the detective entrusted to Mycroft’s security unit was to contact Rolls-Royce in Manchester to obtain a list of Silver Ghost owners. We hoped by means of the key letters to obtain the name of the man to whom Barlow had written the cheque. Under normal circumstances he would of course have taken this step himself, but time was of the essence. With perhaps a hint of optimism he hoped that the police could handle this relatively simple task.

We spent another day and a half in London making preparations for our journey, quickly so as not to lose the trail.

Holmes and I had been to Venice before, but this watery city, cleft by hundreds of narrow canals, never ceased to enchant and astonish me. Clamorous modern Italy here met the poignant and romantic beauty of ancient palaces, intensified by the reflected September light in the twilight. When we arrived the omnipresent water was dotted with boats, vaporettos and gondolas. Minutti lived here with his family, because most of his companies were scattered across northern Italy.

On the journey the detective studied Mycroft’s files. They contained information about Minutti and Lord Bollinger, their habits, families and friends, and if such were known by the secret service, rumours about their affairs and perversions. It was up to Holmes to determine what information was important and could contain a clue about what to do next.

The evening after our arrival we took rooms in the Regina Hotel near the Santa Lucia station, tired after our long journey. We went straight to bed without even taking supper, as though we knew that this night would be the last for a long time when we could sleep in peace.

We were awoken by the sound of Italy; the unmistakable jumble of street noises, shouting, heckling and spirited conversations in the street under the window; a din that only the citizens of this sunny and excitable country could make. We ate a light breakfast and headed off for the city, to a meeting without which the investigation could not get underway.

Since we had risen early we did not have to hurry. I was tempted to pass through the Grand Canal, the main Venetian boat thoroughfare, but Holmes insisted that we go by foot. He was in good spirits after his years spent in the country. He liked this way of life and was impressed by the light-heartedness and speed of everything here. Vessels darted through the water as people travelled to work or from the markets, past petty verbal exchanges between gondoliers and people swarming the narrow sidewalks that weave through Venice and smack of quaint odours.

We crossed what seemed like a hundred bridges before we arrived at our destination: St. Mark’s Square. Holmes selected a table in front of one of the cafés that had a fine view of the basilica and its tall bell tower.

He settled into a chair and ordered a cup of coffee.

“How beautiful, but to reside here longer than a few weeks would drive one to madness,” he said, stretching his body. “I am glad to see that the bell tower is almost rebuilt.”

The detective was alluding to the last time we had been in Venice, in the case of the Doge’s diamond in 1901, only a short time before the five hundred year old tower had collapsed, the result of a fire long ago. No doubt fire was the plague of civilisation in the nineteenth century. It was a miracle that nobody had been harmed. The only victim of the falling building was the caretaker’s cat.

I was jolted back into the present by the brisk footsteps of a swarthy gentleman with a cane. He approached Holmes, leaned on his cane and looked in the same direction in which Holmes fixed his gaze.

“A morning such as this is practically invitations one to chat over a cup of coffee,” said the man, his eyes fixed on the basilica. “May I recommend that you give the band a few coins to play a folk song?”

Without so much as glancing at the man, the detective wiped his lips with his napkin and winked at me.

“Do you have a particular song in mind?”

“How about La tabaccheria mia?”

“Thank you, but I prefer to delight in the beauty of the city in silence,” Holmes replied. “Please, sit with us.”

Mycroft had devised the code especially for this case. The secret service frequently used call and response so that people who had never met could identify one another. This was doubly important for Holmes, who was travelling under the name of his cousin Cedric[14].

“Welcome to Venice, my friends,” said the man and he promptly sat down at our table.

“Thank you, Mr ...”

“No last names, please. Just call me Paolo.”

He pulled out from his breast pocket a packet of folded documents and handed them to Holmes. The detective began to unfold them, but the man stopped him. He held Holmes’s hand under the table and looked around the square to see if we were being watched.

“Wait until I leave,” he said. “You can never be too careful. This is a sensitive case, and if it was discovered that I have spoken to you, I would be in danger.”

“What have you given me?”

“What your London office requested. Records from the investigation of the death of Signor Minutti. These are copies of all the important documents and my notes. Judge for yourself.”

“Excellent. If I need anything else, how do I find you?”

The Italian agent discretely gave us another document.

“I am at your service. Here are instructions for using the drop off point.”

We assured him that we would use it only when absolutely necessary. Paolo once again scanned the square and then disappeared into the crowd. Everything had happened so fast that it seemed like a dream.

As soon as he was gone, Holmes began hungrily examining the documents.

“Let’s take a look,” he muttered. “Evidently, the carabinieri have not given the investigation the attention one would expect in the murder of such an important person.”

“How so?”

“Minutti was killed almost three weeks ago, but so far they have failed to find anything. Everything suggests that the case was simply set aside. Minutti was shot, but the police were unable to find anyone who had heard anything. His office is easily accessible and anyone could get in when the secretary was at lunch; but none of the hundreds of employees has testified that they noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary. What’s more, everyone has an alibi. There are no fingerprints or footprints at the scene of the crime, nothing at all. The perpetrator’s motive is also unknown. Minutti was rather well-liked.”

“But there must be a bullet,” I said.

“It was never found,” said Holmes. “Neither in the room nor in the body.”

“Strange.”

“Indeed. Nevertheless, the body has been returned to the family and was buried last week in the San Michele cemetery. In this way the opportunity to find other clues on the body of the victim has been all but eliminated.”

He finished reading the document and began focussing on Paolo’s notes.

“According to the findings of our mysterious friends, this is not just a matter of police incompetence, but a much more dangerous game involving people in high places. Apparently the authorities were not interested in shedding light on the incident. Paolo’s source even asserts that a small bribe was paid to one of the commissars!”

“Outrageous!”

“But effective. The chances of finding the murderer are now practically nil.”

“If we found the recipient of the bribe it would lead us to the murderer.”

“There is no evidence of the bribe; it is merely a suspicion. We do not even know who was meant to be its recipient. There are many in the local criminal hierarchy who are capable of thwarting an investigation. What’s more, I fear that the police will cover each other’s backs, just as they do everywhere else in the world, even in England. That is probably why Paolo thinks he is in danger.”

“What about Minutti’s family? They have a great deal of influence. Are they not following the investigation?”

“The poor wretch left behind only a widow and her thoughts after this tragic loss are somewhere else entirely,” sighed Holmes. “I am not surprised that our friend was so careful.”

“Have we reached an impasse?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. I would say merely that should you ever write a literary account of this case, as is your wont, a short story will not suffice.”

The hot Italian sun compelled us to seek the shade of the hotel. Holmes retired for a while to his room to organise his thoughts. Someone had apparently tried to sever the threads that would unknot this thorny case, but enough of them still remained for us to continue.

Directly after lunch the detective set off in pursuit of one of them.

We hired a boat and a rower and set off into the restless waters of the Grand Canal. My friend was perched in the bow of the craft, his eyes roving and watching the events around us like a hawk. The fish and vegetable markets had just closed, lackeys were loading empty crates and leftover goods and sprayed the paving stones with hoses, washing away blood and fish innards into the waters of the canal. Gondoliers transported their customers from shore to shore and shopkeepers loudly rolled up the shutters of their shops. The siesta time was starting.

The detective wanted to take advantage of this odd time, when the city suddenly rested for a few hours, to visit Minutti’s widow.

“This man contacted me because he feared for his life. Perhaps he had a particular suspicion. Who else would he confide in if not his wife?”

The boat took us to one of the river palaces near the Rialto Bridge, a water-worn Renaissance structure with a row of arcades, balconies and columns. The boatman stayed at the steps rising straight out of the surface of the water and covered with rotting algae, holding onto the swaying boat, so that we could disembark. Holmes paid him in advance for the return journey to ensure that he would wait for us.

While the man tied the boat to the red and white painted stake, we walked to the doors of the palace, decorated with black grating.

The detective knocked.

A housemaid, a tiny girl with jet-black hair and dark piercing eyes, opened the door. We asked to speak with the lady of the house and were led into the drawing room.

The girl went upstairs to announce our visit, while we made ourselves comfortable in a spacious room decorated with vases and colourful Murano glass accessories. We could distinguish the tiny patter of the housemaid’s footsteps above us and heard her knock on the door. The hinges of the door creaked as she entered her employer’s room.

Suddenly there was a terrible cry. It cut through the still air of the palace like a scalpel. Apparently the lady of the house was not pleased with our visit.

“Inglese! What do they want again? How many times must I tell them? Enough!”

The girl mumbled something.

“Where are they? I will shame them, those hyenas!”

We stood up with astonishment and watched the ceiling swaying under the vigorous footsteps of Signora Minutti.

“We seem to have come at a bad time,” said Holmes.

Indeed. The widow of the murdered factory owner literally stormed upon us from the stairs. She was small and thin, dressed in a simple black dress and dark shoes. She wagged her finger in our noses and showered us with insults, which thankfully we did not understand. But she soon switched to English.

“How dare you bother me at this time? And with such a request? My husband would never allow the business to be sold and I shall respect his wishes! It will stay in the family. His death does not change anything!”

We did not have the faintest idea what she was talking about. Then something broke in her, her eyes turned glassy, and she fought back tears.

“I shall not discuss it further. Tell your boss too! Why are you standing here? Go!”

“But we...,” said the detective, trying in vain to stop her. She did not give him the opportunity to speak.

“Out! Do not come back!” she cried angrily, pointing a bony finger at the door of the palace.

There was nothing to do. There was no way to reason with such rage and despair. We could only hope to have the opportunity to visit her under more favourable circumstances.

“Signora Teresa, allow me to escort the gentlemen out,” said an elegantly dressed man, who had quietly entered the drawing room.

“Please, Luigi, get them out of my sight as quickly as possible,” said the widow, turning her back to us.

Her shoulders trembling, Signora Minutti poured herself a glass of water, while the man politely, but unsmilingly, led us out.

Like all Italians he was not particularly big, though his well-tailored coat concealed an athletic figure. His swarthy lightly shaven face shone with manly energy, his dark eyes seemed to notice every detail.

He led us out onto the steps to the canal, where the boatman was waiting. We wanted to board immediately, but the man stopped Holmes.

“Have you gone mad?” he barked at us.

The detective was taken aback and looked at the young man with confusion.

“Pardon me?” he asked coldly, but with renewed interested. “Who are you to talk thus?”

“I am the secretary of the Minutti family, Luigi Pascuale,” he said haughtily.

“And this gives you the right to treat us so?”

Pascuale frowned and followed us down the steps to the boat. He took care to ensure that the tips of his expensive well-shined shoes did not touch the water.

“Nobody can hear us here, there is no need to play games,” he said angrily. “I clearly told His Lordship to wait! I do not understand why he sent you straight here and just a few days after the funeral. He ought to be aware that it is to no purpose.”

Holmes kept a poker face, despite the fact that a moment ago he had no idea why he was being yelled at. But he let Pascuale continue. The people for whom he seemed to have mistaken us for could provide an interesting and illuminating clue.

“Haste will not help us, we need time,” said Pascuale. “Come see me tomorrow afternoon at the factory; I will be expecting you at three o’clock. Now go quickly and tell your boss that he does not have to check up on me. I will arrange everything as we agreed. There’s no way back anyway.”

“No indeed,” said Holmes. “We will be there; we wanted to see the factory anyway.”

“Of course,” Pascuale nodded in a conciliatory manner and even helped us into the boat. It swayed, and as the boatman pushed off the waves lapped hungrily at Pascuale’s luxurious shoes.

The secretary cursed and jumped back. He polished the shoe with a handkerchief and disappeared from our view, while we joined the other vessels and drifted away. There was a moment of silence, disturbed only by the sound of the oars hitting the waves.

“Holmes, what just happened?”

“Signora Minutti has apparently mistaken us for an emissary of a British enterprise that is interested in acquiring Minutti’s factory. This is important information. Judging by the manner in which she received us she clearly wants to prevent foreigners from taking control of her husband’s business. This corresponds with Mycroft’s fears.”

“What do you make of that awful secretary? What a fop!”

“Mr Pascuale plays a crucial role, Watson! Indeed, he has just admitted that he is working for both sides. He must persuade Mrs Minutti of the necessity of selling.”

“Do you think he had a hand in the murder?”

“I cannot say, but I hope we will learn more after our little excursion tomorrow night.”

The significance of these words hit me hard.

“We have to figure it out at all costs. If Minutti’s factory were to fall into the wrong hands, and should the same appear to be happening to Bollinger, it would be a catastrophe.”

“I am aware of that,” said Holmes, frowning. He fixed his gaze on the murky waters of the canal.

We drifted onwards between the carefree vessels with their smiling passengers, planning our next steps in the investigation and slowly heading to the one possible solution.

The Island of Death awaited us.

The island of San Michele received its grisly moniker at the start of the nineteenth century, when it became the city cemetery.

Although it is located on the Venetian shores, it is separated from the city lagoons by nearly a thousand feet of water. It was briefly used as a jail, but now the island again merely served as a final resting place for the dead.

Behind the high brick wall that surrounded the cemetery we could see the dark green tips of the poplars and the cupolas of the local monastery. The boat, navigated by our local agent Paolo, glided silently across the water to the shores of the island.

Poor Paolo had been dragged here instead of spending a quiet night with his wife and children. As this was hardly an official visit we had had to wait for a dark, moonless night. Personally, I considered it sacrilegious.

“The end justifies the means,” Holmes had said back in the hotel. “Or do you perhaps have a better idea?”

Of course I had none.

The detective had opted for a daring and highly illegal course of action. We had no other choice. We desperately needed another clue and the deadly bullet had to be located. Holmes wagered everything on the assumption that the projectile had remained in the victim’s body.

“The doctor who performed the autopsy on Minutti did not find the bullet,” he said, “but it did not leave the body and therefore must still be inside. It could not have simply vanished into thin air. In my opinion this is a case of bribery or simple negligence. In any event, a crucial clue is missing, and you will help me find it.”

“Upon entering the body a bullet sometimes behaves oddly and forgets the laws of physics,” I said. “Blood circulation, pressure, deadly cramping of the organs and many other factors could have hidden the bullet from the eyes of the doctor. But must we really break into the cemetery at night, exhume the poor wretch’s body and dissect it?”

“We would never obtain official permission here, someone is sabotaging the investigation,” he insisted.

He added that he could not embark on the nocturnal mission by himself. My medical knowledge was required in order to determine precisely where the bullet was lodged.

Thus I found myself in the middle of the night at the mooring dock of San Michele, scrambling over the gate of the cemetery in order to desecrate it. Paolo remained at the mooring dock, while Holmes and I silently crept into the cemetery.

The island is divided into several sections, separated from one another by white gravel paths lined with trees. On the far side in front of us loomed the monastery with its Renaissance chapel and urn grove. As Paolo explained to us, there was very little space on the island for graves; therefore the bodies are buried in the ground for only a few years, then are exhumed, cremated and placed in urns.

We headed towards the tombs of eminent figures.

Each of them was a work of art. I would have stopped to take delight in them had not Holmes at that moment removed from the bag a large crowbar and a set of picklocks.

“There’s no time to waste, Watson. Please step aside.”

He used the picklock to open the padlock hanging on the chain, which held together the wrought iron gate of the Minutti family crypt. The lock gave way with a click and the detective opened the gate. Musty air and dust wafted out.

I placed a handkerchief over my mouth and followed Holmes inside.

We found ourselves surrounded by darkness in a confined space where two adult men could barely stand. The detective lit a torch and examined the tomb. There were marble rectangular sarcophagi, several decades old. In the centre of them stood one that was new and freshly polished.

“The funeral was only a few days ago, the body should not yet be in an advanced state of decay,” said Holmes.

My knees wobbled.

The detective swept withered flowers from the sarcophagus and asked me to help him remove the lid. The slab was heavy and my arms were weakened by age and fear. Nevertheless, after much effort and awful creaking we managed to remove it.

Now all that remained was the coffin. Holmes grasped the crowbar and wedged it between the wood of the lid and the sideboard of the casket. The stained oak boards cracked and under the strain of the crowbar the lid came free. We pushed it to the side and stood over the deceased Signor Minutti, dressed for his last journey in a finely tailored Italian suit.

His small body was swollen and the thin pale face was already beginning to lose its features. Alive he clearly was a man who had taken excellent care of himself. The grey hair was cut short and the swollen fingers were adorned with rings.

“Now it is your turn, my friend,” said Holmes, unbuttoning the factory owner’s shirt.

The first thing I saw was the burned edges of the blackened wound where the bullet had pierced the skin. Stitches from the original autopsy - the one that had not revealed anything - extended across his chest.

I swallowed hard and the detective had to literally push me towards the coffin. My legs refused to budge.

Summoning up every bit of courage, I examined the wound. The skin was still supple, without blood, which had descended and created a purple bedsore on the back of the body.

As though in a dream I cut away Minutti’s shirt in order to gain better access to the body. Holmes assisted me and handed me the required instruments. I pulled out the black stitches and re-opened the wound.

The post-mortem under the petroleum light of our torch took almost an hour. I would rather not describe it further: it would be too harrowing for the reader.

I will only say that as soon as I stopped thinking about the circumstances and where I was, my stomach calmed, the nerves and weakness in my legs subsided, and my hands became precise surgical instruments that plunged into the dead body as deftly as they would were he lying on the table in the hospital.

Then I found it!

But at the same moment pandemonium broke loose.