A word of explanation before the story begins. This early work of mine is a pastiche that was written for a group of very active Sherlockians known as the "Norwegian Explorers." The group liked it so well that they elected to publish it in their 2004 Christmas Annual. And now for the story...
The Missing Amati
“Signore Holmes and Dr. Watson: thank-you for coming at such short notice.”
It was mid-November, in the year 2052, and I was still shaking off the chill I’d acquired when we leapt from our transport and scurried beneath the gothic arches of the Palazzo Comunale. The call from Cremona, Italy, had come in not two hours prior; Escott Sherlock Holmes and I, Dr. James Watson, had, of course, immediately responded.
It was the Museum Director, Caprice DiRiso, who greeted us. A sophisticated, middle-age brunette, her wrinkled brow and somber eyes betrayed her worry despite her cool voice.
“I understand the Polizia De Cremona are even now hunting down today’s visitors,” Holmes replied. “Considering the befuddlement in the reports I downloaded, the Cremonese Council was right in calling me in.”
“Escott maintains a variety of connections,” I hastily added, as the director raised a questioning eyebrow. And being an unofficial member of British Intelligence helps as well, I thought.
“I see,” DiRiso replied in frost-bitten tones. “Signore Holmes, the Council chose to contact you because they realize the Andrea Amati violin was not stolen for money; it cannot be sold, for any appraiser or auction house would instantly recognize it. That can only mean that it is destined for some private collection, in which case it would be lost to humanity for time untold. The violin must be recovered, gentlemen. Everything else is secondary.”
“Perhaps, Signora, if you could recount events from the beginning?” Holmes asked.
“Of course, Signore. We can talk as we make our way through the museum.
“As you may know, what is now called the Salon of Violins is a room that was once a chapel, a sacred room to house the sacred legacy of Cremona, one might say. A preeminent collection of instruments is preserved within the Salon; over the last 100 years, the Cremonese Council has spent vast amounts of time, money, and effort to bring home the finest works of the Cremonese violin masters: Stradivari, Guarneri, and, of course, Amati, the founding father of violin making.
“To keep these wonderful instruments in peak condition, they are played every day according to a strict schedule. Because some instruments are more popular with our visitors than others, we took into account the museum’s peak visiting hours when creating our schedule. Thus, our Stradavari instruments are played during the more populous times. Though more precious than the Stradavari, the Andrea Amati violin is the last instrument played on any given day.
“Today, as our docent was bringing in some guests to experience the sonorous qualities of our Amati, he was astounded to see that the violin was not in its place, this despite our state-of-the-art security system. As our violinist had not yet entered the Salon, the docent quickly concluded that the violin had been taken. Fearing something amiss with our security system, I had the museum immediately closed and the polizia notified.”
Our walk had taken us past the Hall of Paintings and an ornate, antique fireplace, the mantel of which gleamed in the light. We now stood just inside the Salon of Violins. The high ceiling chamber, and the soaring arches and marble columns were all that remained from its chapel days. Arrayed along each side of the center aisle were several small tables, all but one with some stringed instrument serenely floating above it. That one stood near a column located at the far end of the room.
Holmes’s gaze flashed about the chamber; appreciation flickered in his grey eyes. “Signora DiRiso, you have done a magnificent job preserving the Salon’s ambience, while managing to install superlative security and environmental systems: top-of-the-line sensors to maintain the humidity and temperature; anti-gravitational tables to allow unobstructed viewing of the instruments; leading-edge force shields to keep curious or scheming hands away; and finally, random, scatter-beam infrared lasers to secure the windows. Truly a well thought-out arrangement.”
As he spoke, Holmes pulled his palm-sized, British Intelligence issued computer from his coat pocket, along with one of many peripheral devices he habitually carried. Securing the earpiece, he activated the instrument via thumbprint recognition; with a command, a faint blue light flashed to life upon the marble floor near the empty table.
A scornful frown tugged at Caprice DiRiso’s lips. “I thought you had already reviewed the police reports,” she said.
“I have,” Holmes replied his eyes fixed on his computer. “And now, dear lady, allow me to conduct my own examination.”
The stare from the director at this brusqueness echoed my own mental cringe, though our college years had well acquainted me with Escott’s idiosyncrasies. A touch on my arm indicated that DiRiso wished to speak with me away from Escott as he worked. Together we walked towards the Salon’s entrance as Holmes’s scanner edged towards the base of the nearest column.
“Dr. Watson,” DiRiso said softly. “I wish to convey that I was strongly against the Council bringing you and Signore Holmes into this matter. I do hope he is every bit the ‘Sherlock Holmes’ he is purported to be.”
“You will not find anyone more so,” I replied, thus carefully couching a truth known only by a few. For 85% of Escott’s DNA had come from a hair sample left by the Victorian Sherlock. That now two-year-old revelation had precipitated Escott assuming the Holmes name – and the huge mantle of his legacy.
[end part I]
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