Direct Delivery From Naples (1)

See Naples, then Ascension. Vedi Napoli, e poi muori.
-Italian Proverb-

The situation was settled with ease.

I had heard the rumor time and again that Naples, where the Camorra exerts enormous dominion under the secret patronage of the Zion Clan’s seat, the Vatican, is crawling with masters, but the Camorrista of the London branch were helpless beyond measure.

The only one with skill even worth acknowledging was Pietro Venucci.

But even this fellow would, in the end, amount to no more than a ‘promising Super Junior,’ recognized at the home base as no more than an officer candidate.

They say that among the true powerhouses of the Italian underworld factions, who handle every filthy contract for the Zion Clan and its White Path divisions, there are strong men even my master acknowledges, so the gap between a Super Junior and the real thing must be beyond imagination.

Those old masters, hiding their identities and scattered across Italy, are the true main force of the underworld factions.

Uncrowned old warriors of the martial world who were active in the Italian War of Independence.

There was no chance a hermit of Giuseppe Garibaldi’s generation had come to London by bad luck, so I could call Scotland Yard inspectors without worry.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade, in a good mood from earning real credit for once, wore a soft smile entirely unlike how he usually dealt with me.

Behind Lestrade, the arrested Camorristi were being loaded one after another into Black Mary carriages, unconscious, and the sight of sturdy inspectors and constables stacking manacled prisoners like cargo into at least fifteen carriages, as if they had prepared them beforehand, was rather impressive.

More underworld men were being hauled away besides those we had dropped in the warehouse.

All thanks to Rossetti, who, upon hearing that Pietro Venucci, a special-grade killer from the home base, had gone down, confessed every scrap of his comrades’ information in exchange for being imprisoned in a different jail from the rest.

For all their talk of Omerta and the like, seeing him sell off compatriots and comrades alike for a pittance for his own benefit, it seemed ‘righteousness above profit’ was no more than empty words.

Or perhaps it was simply that the London branch members were woefully lacking, compared to the home base members, in Kung-Fu, mental cultivation, and the virtues an underworld man ought to possess.

In any case—

“Now the Italian underworld men hiding on the Isle of Dogs have all been dealt with.”

With that, case closed.

However, for this kidnapping to be concluded meant that the pipe I had cherished all this time would be replaced with a new one.

I was regretting the farewell I would soon have with the pipe’s stem.

“Thanks to you, I enjoyed a pleasant day for once.”
“If so, I am glad.”

Meanwhile, Sir Fawcett seemed to have taken quite a liking to the task of delivering underworld men into police carriages.

/<Next time, let us have a long talk, just the two of us.>
/

-Cough!

However, upon hearing his Direct Message that followed, I inhaled the smoke wrong and ended up coughing.

“Are you all right, Holmes? Surely you didn’t suffer internal injuries in the fight earlier—”
“Don’t worry. I merely drew in too much smoke by mistake.”
“I thought you had been poisoned again, or something.”
“Have you forgotten? Thanks to the White Worm, most poisons don’t work on us.”
“Ah, that disgusting bug……no, that plump spirit beast…….”

Watson still showed thick killing intent, as if the trauma from the day she first greeted the White Worm remained in her brain.

But only for a moment.

Soon, as if recalling that thanks to the White Worm she had been freed from the effects of all manner of poisons, she returned to her usual face and nodded.

Just considering the number of antidote pills I had obtained from the White Worm, the three of us living in the boarding house must at least have become immune to a hundred poisons.

Poison and medicine are separated by a hair’s breadth.

As a doctor, Watson had to handle ingredients that could become poison if she miscalculated the dosage even slightly, so in truth, she could be called the greatest beneficiary of those antidote pills.

“Then, I will take my leave.”

When Sir Fawcett whistled, David, the spirit beast pigeon that had been resting atop a carriage roof, flew down and perched on his shoulder.

“Goo-goo!”

David had, for some time now, been flying over the Isle of Dogs and rendered distinguished service in tracking fleeing underworld men under the Postmaster General’s orders.

Intelligent enough to carry out complex instructions, David showed the astonishing ability to monitor the entire Isle of Dogs while communicating in real time with other pigeons.

That we had even been able to catch every underworld man who had leapt onto the docks and tried to escape into the Thames was entirely thanks to the pigeons’ efforts.

If David had not helped, the Scotland Yard officers, poor swimmers as they were, would never have been able to stop the Camorra, who were forced into swim training by Naples Camorra tradition, from fleeing down the Thames and out toward the North Sea.

“When I return, I will have to deal with the work that has piled up.”
“Please take care on your way back.”
“Thank you for worrying about me.”

I offered courtesy as usual, and only after hearing the minister’s amused reply did I come to my senses.

What I had been saying to a man for whom even not seeing causes no inconvenience.

“…….”

Watching Sir Fawcett’s back as he walked off at leisure with his hands clasped behind him, I recalled the message he had sent.

Sir Fawcett clearly said to speak ‘just the two of us.’

Meaning, he had sent a Direct Message so Watson wouldn’t hear.

What had my master entrusted to the top man of the post office.

The Reform Club’s mystery, my master’s estate whose locks had been changed, and the very existence of the letter he said he had entrusted to Master Newton and Sir Fawcett, all troubled me beyond endurance.

But before that—

“First, we must send that pitiable Italian sculptor back home.”

I looked at Beppo, collapsed inside the Italian restaurant we had rented out.

Watson had finished first aid, but he still couldn’t wake.

Aside from being beaten by underworld men, he seemed to have no notable wounds and no internal injuries, but perhaps because he had gone hungry for at least two days, he did not seem able to gather his strength.

Still, Mrs. Hudson seemed to be making risotto with the remaining ingredients, so if we woke him with smelling salts later and fed him, he should be all right.

The matter of commissioning a pipe would have to be put off until after we took him to Gelder Workshop.

And before that…….

-Buseureok

I took out the papers that had been carefully kept in Pietro Venucci’s coat pocket.

They were written in Italian, but I could read the contents well enough.

Through ample study and training, besides English and Chinese characters, I could freely use French, Italian, Latin, and the like.

And the contents written across the dozens of pages Venucci carried, if my eyes did not deceive me, were surely—

‘Why does an Italian manuscript exist…….’

They were the record of a murder case I had solved in my previous life.

A short while later.

Because Beppo, upon waking, fainted once again the moment he saw risotto with eel jelly in it, we apologized to Mrs. Hudson and had no choice but to find another shop nearby.

“Waiter. What is the fastest food you can serve right now.”
“Capellini and ravioli, signore. Will you be dining in?”
“Wrap it up.”
“Si, signore. One plate each of capellini and ravioli, per favore!”

When we left the shop with capellini and ravioli we had bought cheaply with an Aperitivo discount packed into takeaway containers, Watson looked at me with a face full of wonder.

“Remarkable. I never imagined you would be skilled in Italian as well.”

It seemed Watson had not heard me imitating Rossetti’s voice at the warehouse entrance while speaking with Venucci.

“It’s nothing, merely a trifling skill.”

To see Watson react like this each time I used a foreign language made me feel the worth of having crossed into London Murim.

Even if I had to die once in the process, in any case.

“By the way, is something bothering you? Holmes. Your expression has not looked good for some time.”
“Hm? Me?”

Watson nodded.

It seemed it bothered her that I had been distracted by thoughts of the manuscript taken from Pietro Venucci.

“It’s nothing. The matter simply resolved far more easily than I expected, so I have gone slack.”
“That sounds like you. An ordinary person would be glad if things went as planned, but you seem to take pleasure in the very process of solving a case that tangles itself into a labyrinth.”
“As you say.”

Having offered a suitable excuse and concealed my true thoughts, I began thinking again about the Italian manuscript as we walked toward the shop where Mrs. Hudson and Beppo waited.

The manuscript, written in a woman’s handwriting, must have been a translation of John’s manuscript into Italian.

That Pietro Venucci had possessed it could not have been mere coincidence.

He must have kidnapped Beppo because he firmly believed what was written in the manuscript would happen in the future.

‘Once again, neither my name nor Watson’s was recorded…….’

Just like the manuscript previously submitted to The Strand Magazine, this one also recorded the names of others accurately, including Beppo and Gelder, yet the names of Watson, the first-person observer, and myself, the protagonist, couldn’t be found.

The moment I saw this, two questions rose in my head.

How had Pietro Venucci gotten his hands on this manuscript?

And why did he believe what was written and try to harm Beppo?

‘……Is there no choice but to ask directly? The Strand Magazine’s editor, and Pietro Venucci as well.’

The questions only deepened.

If the manuscript reaching him was John’s intention, as he waits for me somewhere in Europe Murim, what should I do?

He is, without doubt, my closest friend, yet right now I could not even guess what John Watson was thinking.

Even so, this manuscript would become a clue to finding John.

If I interrogated Venucci and could find out who translated it, it would mean I had taken one step closer to Watson.

‘Is the most likely candidate Venucci’s younger sister……?’

Pietro Venucci’s younger sister, Lucrezia, was a maid employed by the Italian royal family.

If she had built up her education to work in the palace, she would have the skill to translate an English manuscript into her mother tongue.

But to meet her, I would have to wait for the Italian royal family’s visit to London, or else cross the sea myself.

‘Either way, it isn’t something I can resolve right now.’

It was not even confirmed that Watson was in Italy, so I could not cross the sea on a whim.

More than anything, Italy lay within the Zion Clan’s sphere of influence.

There was no knowing what danger waited.

And that was not all.

Even this month alone, I still had many commitments to get through.

Not only must I meet Her Majesty the Queen to hear the Ancient Tomb Clan’s secret, I had to receive the letter my master left from Master Newton and Sir Fawcett, and I could not forget the promise to show the Heavenly Demon Cane to Master Darwin.

Had I not also still failed to visit Sir Harcourt, who had clashed with Moriarty?

Moreover, I had to order a new pipe to suppress the Pseudo Persona, and also collect the gift Ulrich Zuckerberg said he had prepared.

Even the elixir hidden inside this Morning Star, picked up after bringing down Pietro Venucci, was not something easily obtained, so it would require sufficient time to study.

Most important was to find Irene Adler, speak with her about Moriarty, and bring her onto our side.

Thus, it was impossible for me to leave London at once.

And above all—

‘Considering that the manuscript submitted to The Strand Magazine had clean paper, it is more natural to think Watson is somewhere in the British Empire than in Italy.’

Analyzing the clues at hand, I reached the conclusion that remaining in London increased the probability of running into Watson.

For now, there was no choice but to handle what needed doing, one by one.

“You have suffered much these past few days. Eat slowly, so you don’t upset your stomach.”

When I returned to the shop where Mrs. Hudson waited, I held the food out before the gaunt Italian mason who resembled a monkey.

“And once you finish eating, I would like you to tell me everything you saw and heard while you were confined.”

Hoping that every case I encountered would open a road leading to my dear friend John Watson, and my arch-enemy Moriarty.