Between the Thames and the Tiber by Ted Riccardi Page A

destroying the neat beds that he had planted with infinite care. René pointed his gun at Holmes, but it was too late.
    “Quick, inside both of you,” cried Holmes.
    A strange noise, of countless transparent wings, filled my ears. As I peered through the window I saw that the odd couple and their three henchmen were covered with dark swarms of the great wasp that lives in the soil of Lucania. The huge wasps brought them screaming first to their knees and then to the ground.
    I looked in terror at the unmoving bodies among the flowers.
    “Holmes,” I cried, “they are all dead.”
    “Unfortunately, Watson, they are dead, for which I am truly sorry. My plan for them worked out in every particular. It is the angry riposte of a very tired bee keeper. These bees are a rare Australian species that have survived in the remote areas of Lucania. The breed emits a deadly acid that destroys the skin. I should dub it Vespe Lucaniane, a poor joke, no doubt. Grimaldi, I trust that your men are on their way and can dispose of—ah, our coachman has waited for us. Come, Watson old boy, I feel the need to return to England, where we shall find, perhaps, that things are a bit easier.”
    Holmes and I returned to Matera that night. In the morning we were well on our way back to Rome. Holmes barely spoke until we arrived in London. It was there that I heard him utter quietly as if to himself the immortal words of the great poet:
Così si fa il contrapasso.

THE DEATH OF MYCROFT HOLMES
    I N THE FATEFUL SUMMER OF 1914, M YCROFT H OLMES , the brother of my friend Sherlock Holmes, older than he by almost eight years, passed away quietly at the Diogenes Club in London, the eccentric institution which had been his tranquil abode for over thirty years. He was in his seventy-third year and had shown no sign of illness. There was little doubt, however, in the minds of those who knew him that his extreme corpulence had contributed to his untimely end.
    The news of his death was conveyed by the heartbroken Sidgwick, Mycroft’s lifelong assistant and confidant. Sidgwick had found him lifeless in his chair, facing towards the window. His clear blue eyes were fully open, and Sidgwick proffered that their intense gaze recorded the deep concentration in which he had been immersed for days. To him at least, Mycroft, under the great strain of an intractable problem, appeared to have died of a sudden massive stroke, for he had uttered neither a word for help nor a cry of pain.
    “A great loss, Watson,” said Holmes as we left for the club. “Mycroft’s role in the affairs of our Government will never be told in full now that he is gone, but I can assure you that it was great, so great that we shall soon see in coming days the inevitable deterioration of Government, particularly of the Foreign Office.”
    Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact way. He had as yet displayed no emotion with regard to his brother’s death. Only his eyes occasionally showed the fraternal sorrow that he concealed beneath a cloak of calm and resignation.
    Once we arrived, Holmes quickly identified the body and notified those few who had been Mycroft’s friends of the quiet funeral that would follow. Mycroft had stipulated the most modest of services in his will, one to take place in Yorkshire, far from the Government in London. So esteemed was he in Whitehall, however, that the crowd of ministers and diplomats that came to pay its respects not only filled the small church but also mobbed the narrow village lanes on that humid rainy day.
    In the fortnight immediately following the funeral, as executor of his brother’s small estate, Holmes took possession of Mycroft’s papers. These were few, for Mycroft did not keep extensive records. His brain was far too large for that. He simply committed to memory what he wished to preserve and burned the rest. The long story of his role in the British Government and his negotiations with foreign powers, therefore, died with him.
    Mycroft had