48. THE CASE OF THE TOWER OF PISA

Whilst visiting an aunt of Dr Watson, Sherlock Holmes makes an uncharacteristic error of judgement

“I like it,” murmured Holmes as we wandered through the streets of Montecatini in the Tuscany region of Italy. “It’s what I think of as Italian. The buildings. The, what’s the word, rurality of it all.”

“That’s probably because that’s exactly what it is,” I grinned, “come on, there’s transport put on and we’re to visit the famous tower in Pisa.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the impossible building,” grunted Holmes. “They say it should have fallen down long since, yet it still stands tall and proud.”

“Impossible because it hasn’t fallen down yet? I dared say it might one day,” I suggested, “but at the moment it’s standing quite safely and worth a visit even though the transport’s my Aunt Priscilla’s petrol-powered truck!”

“It’ll still get us there I trust,” muttered Sherlock. He wasn’t normally a pessimist, but he had yet to build up any faith in the internal combustion engine.

“Priscilla assures me that it’s never let her down,” I assured him.

“Well, there’s always a first time,” he grunted.

The roads in Tuscany were as uneven as the roads anywhere and the truck rattled along with Holmes and me squashed into the bench seat next to the driver, a surly farmer who thought the whole idea of wasting a day escorting a couple of Englishmen about the countryside so that they could see a piece of Italian history was several fathoms beneath him.

He spoke no English … my experience was that no Italians had the remotest notion of my own mother tongue, ao communication in a vocabulary that consisted of no more than antisocial grunts was impossible. So Holmes and I sat in silence as the truck rattled along, a journey of more miles than either of us felt comfortable with.

But when we got there any doubts or bruises from the bouncing vehicle were forgotten because the three ancient buildings, white as driven snow set in a sea of green grass, were spectacular. In particular, the famous Leaning Tower was worth staring at, and Holmes and I stared at it in amazement for some considerable time, walking round it and even venturing to climb the staircase that twisted round the inside of its thick white walls.

The view from the top was equally spectacular, helped by the fact that the weather was finer than any I’d experienced in London during my time with the detective. The sun beat down and I was grateful for my hat, which shielded my thinning pate from the worst of its fiery potency. Holmes pulled out an old piece of headgear that I suppose he’d had about his person since our trip to Scotland several years earlier, and pulled it down over his own crown.

“I never thought I’d see you in a deerstalker!” I jested. But, to tell the truth, it did suit him in an eccentric sort of way. It made a composite image together with his briar pipe which complemented the determined expression on his intelligent face.

“It’s this blasted heat, Watson,” he declared, “maybe we’re a little overdressed, though a gentleman really ought to be properly attired when he’s out and about. But I don’t know about you, Watson, I’m taking this overcoat off and carrying it, no matter what folks think.”

“They’ll think you were a native,” I pointed out.

“Better that than a burned and frazzled Englishman,” he declared. Then he paused and stared out from the top floor of the great bell tower and pointed.

“See that!” he exclaimed, “that rogue, that ruffian, that villain down there: look!”

I allowed my eyes to follow the direction of his pointing finger, and sure enough there was a fellow ill-clad in a threadbare suit grabbing, or trying to grab, a handbag from a fine looking lady, the sort who might have graced the West End streets of London on a festival evening, with a parasol clutched in her free hand and a battling expression emphasised by massively reddened lips.

“Come on, Watson!” barked Holmes, making for the worn and uneven steps down. “This cannot be allowed to be, not even in a foreign country!”

“But we’ve only just climbed up goodness-knows how many steps!” I protested. “I’m not up to it, not at my age and with my old war wounds playing me up with every step!”

“I counted on the way up, and there are two hundred and fifty-one, Watson. But you’re a brave Englishman, and can do it,” he bellowed at me, “because down there on the green grass there is a maiden in distress!”

I had no choice. Holmes could be insistent when he perceived wrong-doing and it wasn’t in me to gainsay him. So the two of us made haste down what seemed to be an endless multitude of steps. By the time I was half way down I was totally breathless and had to pause, but Holmes, with that determined expression on his keen face carried on as quickly as he could.

After regaining some of my breath I carried on, but was too far away from Holmes to have any chance of catching him unless (and this would never happen, he simply wouldn’t allow it), he had a heart attack that floored him.

When I did arrive at the bottom I saw Holmes in a noisy and senseless dispute with an Italian who was holding a sheaf of papers, waving them in Holmes’ face and glaring menacingly.

Holmes was still remonstrating with him when I saw the substance of what was going on. The man holding a sheaf of papers was the director, or whatever it is they call them, of a silent drama being filmed from a point beyond our vision, and the ill-dressed rogue together with the fine lady were merely Thespians playing their parts as a photographer filmed the scene, cranking the handle on a moving film camera. But Holmes had yet to realise that much because the clues to what was going on were behind him and all he knew was that a greasy Italian holding a pile of papers for no apparent reason was taking sides with a tramp against a rich and rather beautiful lady.

I rushed towards Holmes and pulled him by one shoulder.

“I’d give up if I were you, old chap” I told him, “You’re on a loser here!”

“Watson! I thought better of you!” he said, his voice like ice, “I was in the act of downing the scoundrel grabbing the woman’s handbag when this Italian man thought he’d interfere and take the part of the scoundrel!”

“You see it all wrong,” I hissed, “they’re making one of those silent dramas for the cinema screen, and it would now seem that one of the reels will show an irate Englishman improperly dressed and wearing an absurd hat acting like a raging bull!”

“But what ...” Holmes stammered, and for the first time in ages I saw him lost for words.

“You are always saying we need full access to information, Holmes,” I murmured into his ear, “and this time you have gone off like the proverbial bull in a china shop with your eyes on only half the story. Now come, before they send for an Italian constable and lock you up for the duration!”

“Oh,” mumbled Holmes, less positive than I’ve ever known him, then “if you tell the tramp chappie to do what I just demonstrated to him you will get a far better drama or whatever it is you’re trying to produce!” he barked, recovering in not much more than an instant.

“Let’s go, Holmes,” I insisted.

“Quite,” he mumbled, “haven’t we a, what might you call it, a wine-tasting to attend at, what’s the name of the place, Montecarlo?”

“At Lucca,” I agreed, “yes we have.”

“Then come on!” he barked, “before they’ve tasted it all and left nothing for thirsty Englishmen!”

And with that he strode back to where the farmer friend of my aunt Priscilla was waiting patiently for us, and by the ruddy complexion on his cheeks I’d say he had already tasted a few glasses while we have explored Pisa.

But no matter. The truck’s engine started with never a moment’s hesitation, and we set off to Lucca.

© Peter Rogerson 24.09.17