"Right, Zuhlsdorf and Voris will keep us covered, while Donnelly and Taylor Marshall knock off the idols. We'll meet at the Tiber."
After offering us a humble glass of indigenous Amazon water, Pope Francis explained the problem to us. "Mr Holmes, only you can help us. Last night thieves broke into the Church of Santa Maria in Traspontina, removed four idols of the Blessed Pachamama (here the Holy Father knelt down and kissed the ground) and threw them into the Tiber."
At this point I was so shocked that I sipped at my indigenous drink and immediately felt a sharp pain in my tongue. Removing the piranha fish that had been swimming in the glass of Amazon water, I coughed a few times, and listened while the Successor of St Peter gave us our instructions.
"Do you not have replacement idols?" asked Holmes. "I saw traces of Brazilian sawdust on the floor when I came in, which suggest that an idol-making factory is somewhere nearby. I have written a monograph classifying six hundred varieties of sawdust, and these fragments clearly came from the deadly Hummes tree of Brazil."
"Oh yes, we have a whole shed full of the idols," explained Francis. "We shall be sending one to every parish in the world. But it is important for the prestige of the Synod that we recover the missing idols and place them in St Peter's Basilica."
Coming soon to every Catholic church!
We went into the garden, and I remarked to Holmes, "That's a very strange-looking garden-gnome standing on top of the compost-heap. Or is it another pagan idol?"
"I think not, Watson," replied my friend. "One can see that it is moving its lips."
As we approached, we could hear the gnome talking to himself. "Hail Pachamama, Our Lady of the Tiber! Those fascist, alt-right, racist, anti-semitic, Hitlerite, conservative, neo-Nazi, fascist, Brexiting, cat-torturing, thieving, baby-snatching, Telegraph-reading, criminal fascists have committed the Worst Crime in the World! But I will be avenged on the whole pack of you, or my name isn't Austen Ivereigh the Caped Crusader!"
We promptly turned round and walked away.
Massimo Faggioli joins the hunt for the missing idols.
Holmes and I went down to the Tiber bridge from which Pachamama had received her early bath - now renamed St Pachamama's Bridge - and looked for clues. Would the idols have sunk into the mud, or would they be drifting out to sea, like a small flotilla, wending their way back to the shores of South America? There were no clues, and the crime seemed to be motiveless. What Catholic could possibly object to the demotion of the Trinity, the Virgin Mary and the saints, and their replacement by a smelly old lump of wood? Only the worst extremist Genghis Khan-following fascist sedevacantists, as little Austen might put it.
Bowing to Pachamama. Catholic worship at its best.
After a detailed search of the neighbourhood, Holmes and I finally stumbled across a quaint Italian shop, which advertised "LITURGICAL SUPPLIES. Puppets, statuettes, idols, and dolls. All your Catholic needs supplied here." Disguising ourselves as indigenous Amazonians (those feathers really tickled), we went in and asked to see something "spiritually nourishing". There, sitting on a shelf, were four muddy idols, which were clearly the missing Pachamamas.
"I do not wish my name to appear in this case," said Holmes. "Let us alert Inspector Ploddo of the Flying Squad, and allow him to take the credit for this discovery."
And so it was. Following Inspector Ploddo's advice, the Pachamama idols appeared in a place of honour in St Peter's, the following Sunday. Inspector Ploddo was there, ready to arrest anyone seen trying to liberate them. Indeed, the Holy Father had organized a "Bring your own idol for blessing" service, to which I took along my own ten-foot statue of Moloch.
Blessed by Pope Francis.
Holmes was not present. Bored by the whole affair, he had retired to his chamber to inject himself with another 7 per cent solution of Coccopalmerio.
Many will remember his epigram about "The curious incident of the cardinal in the night - the cardinal did nothing in the night, that was the curious incident," referring to the Archbishop of Westminster's failure to give any kind of a moral lead on Catholic teaching. As a result of this, and similar cases, Holmes was often consulted on delicate Catholic matters.
Thus, one morning, we were sitting in Baker Street discussing the new Encyclical Humanae Mortis, which had driven Holmes to inject himself with a seven percent solution of "coke" - the scientific name is "Coccopalmerio" - when our servant Mrs Beattie opened the door to admit a man dressed inconspicuously as a South American general.
Our illustrious client.
"Mr Holmes, I need your help," said our client. "A book has been written about, er, a friend of mine, and we need to trace the author in order to, um, pay him homage. The Swiss Guards are already standing by with torture implements."
"I am at your service, Holy Father," replied Holmes (to my gasps of "amazing, Holmes, how did you penetrate his disguise?") "Shall we go to Rome, and make enquiries?"
We took Pope Francis's private jet to Rome, and the flight passed quickly, since our client remained standing throughout the journey, developing new Catholic doctrines "off the cuff": these will one day astound and delight the world. That evening, Holmes and I settled into an apartment in the Vatican. Holmes took out his violin as an aid to concentration and played a haunting arrangement of Stephen Walford's renowned concerto for piano and Balinese nose-flute (with its famous marking "Play whatever the Pope wants").
After two or three minutes the door opened and an African cardinal strode in. "SILENCE!" he bellowed angrily, and threw a book at my companion's head, stunning him slightly.
"... so many noisy popes..." (paragraph 40)
Once I had bandaged his head, Holmes and I made a tour of the building. We were standing outside Cardinal Coccopalmerio's apartment when we heard impassioned cries of "No! Yes! YES! YES! YES!"
"I see that they are working on an answer to the Dubia," I remarked to Holmes. He gave me a funny look that I did not understand, and began to analyse the mystery we were trying to solve.
"Watson, my theory is that the book The Dictator Pope was not written by the real Marcantonio Colonna, as he has been dead since 1584. More likely, it was written by a liberal Catholic, tired of trying to defend the Pope's obvious failings."
"I have an alibi. I am dead."
"Amazing, Holmes. Could it be Spadaro? Ivereigh (no, it's too well-written)? Massimo Faggioli? James Martin (no, there's no obsession with homosexuality)? Rosica?"
"These are deep matters, Watson, and perhaps I am wrong. But the case presents interesting features. For example, why is the book produced only electronically, and not on paper? Did Cardinal Baldisseri steal all the printed copies?"
Putting on his liturgical deer-stalker, Holmes led me into Mass, where Cardinal Paradigm was going to preach about Parolin Shifts in Amoris Laetitia. To me it sounded like complete heresy, but then Homes explained that this sort of nonsense was necessary if a cardinal wished to be considered papabile, and Cardinal Paradigm probably didn't believe half of what he was saying.
"We have found the man who stole the Pope's vestments" announced Holmes.
To be continued?
The Vatican!
"So, Watson, we have been called in to investigate how the Vatican City, which numbers a mere 840 people, managed to attract 42,000 signatures for an online petition demanding a second EU referendum."
"But Holmes, why do they want another referendum, anyway?"
"Really, Watson, that is childishly simple. They got an answer they did not like, so naturally they wanted to run the vote again. But we are faced here with the interesting case of the Sockpuppets of the Vatican."
"But the Vatican, Holmes? Is this not a crime that one associates more with dens of iniquity such as North Korea or Chiswick?"
Holmes nodded his assent, took out his violin, and played some haunting selections from the works of Paul Inwood. I hurriedly fled into another room, knowing that I could do nothing about my friend's addiction to bad music.
"Now, Lorenzo, here is the list of sockpuppet accounts that you asked for."
When all was peaceful again, I had a suggestion to make.
"Could it be the doing of Cardinal Baldisseri?" I asked. "He is an experienced manipulator of synods, and maybe he has moved into other forms of chicanery."
"I think not, Watson. His hands are full with another matter. Following requests that the last papal conclave be re-run, on the grounds that the St Gallen Mafia had fixed it, he has been masterminding his own response.
Indeed, a giant petition signed by 42,000 cardinals - some with previously unknown names such as Cardinal Eccles, Cardinal Custard and Cardinal Biggles - has expressed its complete and utter faith in the election of Pope Francis. Baldisseri has had no time for other activities."
Another suspect?
I then suggested that Emeritus Pope Benedict, who had retired from the Chair of St Peter, expressing the wish to spend more time in "praying, tweeting and checking up on spiritually nourishing blogs", might have a hand in the sockpuppetry.
"I did indeed consider him as a possible suspect," agreed Holmes. "After telegraphing to my agents in Bavaria, I even discovered that 'Benedict' is not his real name, and that he is known to his oldest friends as 'Holy Joe'. However, he was definitely otherwise engaged when the crime was committed. No, he is not the Napoleon of Crime that we seek."
Meanwhile, the word "Napoleon" had triggered something in Holmes's mind. "Watson, this is definitely a three-prayer problem. Leave me in peace to meditate in St Peter's Basilica - you will recognise it by the moving picture about monkeys playing on the outside - and we shall see if divine inspiration arrives."
After a restful doze through a three-hour sermon from Cardinal Kasper on "Why fornication is the new marriage", Holmes had a new suspect.
Fr Napoleon Rosica? Surely not!
"No, that's impossible," he said. "Surely there must be some other explanation..."
A jolly swagman. Could this have been George Pell?
Some time around 1895, a jolly swagman was known to have camped by a billabong under the shade of a coolibah tree. Nothing wrong with that, you may say, except that he grabbed a jumbuck and stuck it in his tucker bag. Later he evaded the law by jumping into the billabong, and was never seen again, except possibly as a ghost.
In vain has Cardinal Pell pointed out that he was not born until 1941, and anyway the "jumbuck" affair took place in Queensland, not Ballarat, Victoria.
Ballarat!
The next attacks on Cardinal Pell are centred on a reference in the Sherlock Holmes story "The Boscombe Valley Mystery":
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?” “ARAT,” I read. “And now?” He raised his hand. “BALLARAT.” “Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.” “It is wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”
Do you in fact own a grey cloak, your Eminence grise?
It is clear to many that Cardinal Pell was in fact the Black Jack of Ballarat mentioned in this story. Or else he knew him. All that remains to complete the case is the discovery of his grey cloak: the mere fact that we have not been able to find it proves that Pell must have destroyed it - clear evidence of a guilty conscience.
A kangaroo similar to one that was tied down by George Pell.
Nobody knows what the Australian national anthem is, but everyone agrees that it would make more sense if it were either "Waltzing Matilda" or "Tie me kangaroo down, sport" (it's a pity that the latter was written by Rolf Harris...)
Notoriously, TMKDS was performed by Cardinal Pell at a Vatican Christmas party in 2003, with an extra verse:
Stop me going to Hell, Pell, Stop me going to Hell. I’m not feeling too well, Pell, So stop me going to Hell.Enemies of Cardinal Pell have seized on this as evidence that he used to tie kangaroos down for sport, although so far no credible evidence has been produced. But it makes you think, eh? No smoke without fire. He's a traddy Catholic. Destroy him!
The sisterhood of Karn, from the Brain of Morbius.
It is believed that the quarrel started when Cardinal Kasper decided to switch over from Vatican Trad, which was showing a Doctor Who story, The Brain of Morbius, starring Tom Baker, to Vatican Mod, which was showing a Matt Smith story about lesbian lizards. Apparently, he felt that the (chaste) order of the Sisters of the Sacred Flame, as featured in the Morbius story, was too old-fashioned, and he considered it to be nearly as bad as the Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate. In any case the sisterhood did not sufficiently respect the value of homosexual relationships, and they certainly showed no sign of being Tablet-readers.
It is reported that Cardinal Pell, who had been enjoying the Tom Baker story, went over to the television and switched channels back again - being a traditionalist he would not use a TV remote control - and the evening continued with bickering and channel-switching for several hours.
The Brain of Kasper, said to be guiding the Synod.
The next evening, Vatican Trad was showing an old Sherlock Holmes film starring Basil Rathbone, while Vatican Mod was showing the modernist version, Sherlock. This time Cardinal Burke arrived first, and was comfortably seated in front of the Hound of the Baskervilles, when his enjoyment of the film was ruined by the arrival of Cardinal Kasper, who sat himself down and switched over to the Benedict Cumberbatch story, Sherlock, while asserting confidently, "Pope Francis prefers this version of the story, it's much more tolerant and merciful towards divorced, remarried, unmarried, or multiply-married families."
Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, in a pre-Vatican II story.
In the end, it was decided to let Cardinal Napier - invited in as a token African - decide which television station would henceforth be the preferred medium for Synod 14, although at the time of writing his decision was not yet known. However, we have heard on the grapevine that Pope Francis himself is not interested in television, but prefers the humbler and simpler life of a radio-listener. We must wait a little longer to see whether he prefers modern programmes or more traditional ones.
Pope Pius XII was a great fan of the Goon Show (suitable for saved persons).
"Watson, this case presents interesting features."
Holmes rose from his chair, from which he had firing bullets into the wall, producing a passable outline of the head of Bishop Kieran Conry (or it may have been Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall) - the revolver shots were annoying, but less painful on the ears than when he played selections from Paul Inwood on his violin. "Let me see now," he said. "Wednesday was insult-Muslims day, and Thursday, being the Assumption, would have been the occasion of a dig at the Virgin Mary. On Friday he just whinges about life in general - recently it was the difficulty of finding a matching pair of socks."
I read out the tweet in question: My daily breakfast includes (unsalted) cashew nuts. My current batch tastes of chlorine. Any (knowledgeable, non-facetious) ideas why?
A feast fit for a leading atheist!
"There is Devilish work afoot here," replied Holmes. "A scientific question that even Richard Dawkins cannot answer! But, if I am not mistaken, here is our client now!"
Mrs Hudson opened the door of our rooms in Tom Baker Street, admitting an aged man, who was accompanied by a younger woman and a strange metal dog bearing the legend "K9". Holmes greeted them warmly.
"I perceive from your right sleeve that you are a retired zoologist, now employed as a world-leading amateur theologian and scourge of the godly," said my friend. "Also, the scuff marks on your shoes indicate that you came here in a large red bus bearing the legend 'Look, I tell you, there probably isn't a God. Now get lost.'"
Our client, looking distinctly unwell.
"Never mind that rubbish, Holmes, you charlatan," replied Dawkins with his well-known charm and bonhomie, cutting short my cry of "Amazing, Holmes!"
The facts of the case turned out to be as Dawkins had already related in his Twitter comment, and my friend had further questions to pose. "Do you have enemies, Professor Dawkins? Are there any people you may have offended in some way?"
"Not really," said Dawkins in a puzzled tone. "Well, the Catholic Church of course. And the Anglicans. The Baptists. The Muslims. Sikhs. Hindus. Hardly anyone, really."
We accompanied our client and his companions back to the scene of the crime, the breakfast room in Castle Dawkins, Oxford. Holmes scrutinised the room carefully, then, with a cry of "Aha!" he pulled a white cap from under the table.
A clue!
"If I am not mistaken," said my friend, "this is a zucchetto. No, Watson, don't try and eat it, it's not a zucchini. This is a skull cap worn by someone very senior in the Catholic Church. I have written a monograph classifying 200 different types of skull cap. Perhaps you have read it, Professor Dawkins?"
Dawkins explained to us that he never read works by other people, to avoid the risk of being contaminated by their opinions, and Holmes gave us a profile of his prime suspect.
"I suspect someone senior in the Catholic Church, probably a pope. He would need to have some knowledge of chemistry - perhaps he found the subject too difficult, and gave it up to become a pope instead. Now, to judge by the monogram inside the cap, his name begins with F. Have you seen a Pope Fred in the neighbourhood recently?"
Pope Fred (R) prepares breakfast for Richard Dawkins (L).
Alas, the case was destined to remain unsolved. Somewhere my friend had made a vital error, for we were totally unable to track down anyone answering to the name of "Pope Fred". It was one of Holmes's rare failures.
"Watson," said my friend. "If it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, kindly whisper 'Dawkins' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."
The trouble with aunts, by P.G. Wodehouse
"What a lovely day it is today, Jeeves!" I exclaimed, as my man shimmered into the room bearing a glass of the old Calvados Chapel brandy. "I am feeling particularly saved today, don't you know?"
"I fear that your Aunt Moly is at the door, sir" responded my man Jeeves. "That is why I am taking the liberty of fortifying you for an encounter with her."
"ECCLES!" screamed the aged relative, slamming the door behind her, grabbing my brandy glass, and hurling it through the window. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY WRITING THIS VILE AND SLANDEROUS BLOG OF YOURS WHICH I NEVER READ?"
Recently, to oblige my older brother Bosco, I had written a little blog explaining how the only way to salvation lies in being a personal friend of Jesus, and how Catholics in particular are doomed to the Lake of Fire. I inadvertently mentioned that the chaps in the Drones club are also tipping my dear Aunt Moly for a prime spot in the aforementioned L.o.F., and this is what seems to have riled her.
"But the disciple John says..."
"TELL THE DISCIPLE JOHN FROM ME THAT HE'S A FOOL AND A WOEFUL SOCKPUPPET," replied my aunt, laying me out unconscious with a solidly-bound Calvary Chapel Bible. When I came to my senses, my Aunt had left, and Jeeves was struggling to revive me.
The importance of being harassed, by Oscar Wilde
"So, Mr Pell, it is time you declared your intentions towards my sweet daughter Judith, known in Australian Society as the Rose of Pottymouth. Judy, dear, there is no need to choke the life out of Mr Pell; pray allow him to answer."
"Well, Lady Haddock, I scarcely know your daughter. We have exchanged but a few words since we met."
"There is no need for you to have an exchange of words, Mr Pell. There is only one thing more pointless than talking to Judy, and that is listening to Judy. Investing in a pair of earplugs is your surest route to marital bliss."
"But..."
"Mr Pell. Since I made Judith's father the happiest man in Pottymouth, he has confined himself to producing endless drafts of his magnum opus, his own suicide note. As yet, it is unfinished, despite my every attempt to bring it to a conclusion. Now, you will find that, like her mother, my daughter has enough conversation for two. Should you stay up until 5 a.m. one night, and think of retiring to bed, you will find that she is still chattering away, mingling her insults with her anecdotes in a tapestry of tedium which has brought her so many admirers."
"Mother, every time we meet he jumps into a billabong to get away from me. That's twice he's done it. Such is life, eh? Woeful."
"I fell in, Lady Haddock."
"Mr Pell, to fall into a billabong once may be regarded as a misfortune. To fall in twice looks like carelessness."
"But, Lady Haddock, I was hoping to train as a priest, with a view to becoming a bishop and eventually a cardinal."
"A PRIEST, Mr Pell? You would throw away the love of a gentle sweet maiden in order to follow the cult of a sky fairy? Are you no better than a Bronze Age goat herd, sir? I scarcely think that you are a fit person to wed my precious daughter Judith."
The case of the secular journalist, by Arthur Conan Doyle
"This case presents interesting features, Eccles!" said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as he perused the Telegraph website. "I have been consulted about the problem of a Catholic journalist, formerly known for his wittily acidic commentary on religious matters. This latter-day Swift has now given up all pretence at serious debate, and is dumbing down and writing banalities to please the masses."
"Could he be looking for a job on the Daily Mail?" I wondered. "All he needs to do is to start writing about celebrities and their baby bumps, and they will take him like a shot. That's what happened to Simon Heffer."
Holmes nodded gloomily to me, and injected himself with a 7% solution of Mother Odone's Elixir (guaranteed to help you escape from reality). Then he picked up his trusty Stradivarius didgeridoo, and boomed out a few bars of Elton John's haunting song "Candle in the wind."
"It's my own arrangement," said my friend, unnecessarily, as our neighbours started hammering desperately on the wall.
At that moment the door opened, and a wizened old lady entered, clutching a gin bottle and tunelessly singing "Roll me over in the clover, Roll me over, Lay me down, and do it again." She then cackled evilly and said "We've won! We've managed to kill Damian Thompson's interest in religion! Now the masses are forced to read Ruth Gledhill."
"These are deep waters, Eccles," said Sherlock Holmes. "This poor sad creature is not just the simple witch that she seems to be; rather, she is a professional blog-troll from Australia, although formerly employed as a cleaner in a molybdenite-processing factory. Look at her shoes, and you will see what I mean. Did I ever mention that I have written a small monograph classifying 2048 types of mineral dust?"
"Amazing, Holmes. Can this be the solution to the Thompson mystery which has baffled readers all round the world?" I asked.
"In part, Eccles," replied my friend. "But I would draw your attention to the curious incident of Vincent Nichols, when the Catholic church was under attack."
"But Vincent Nichols did nothing!" I said.
"That was the curious incident," explained Sherlock Holmes.
Dis is de way WE in de Calumny Chappel, de really saved ones, does de kiss of peace.
We is plannin a briliant coupp against dem Calvados herretics, just as soon as Bosco's concusion is better. De doctor said dat Bosco should take some tabblets, but I aint sure dat we gave him de the rihgt ones, he gone into de gardden wiv dem and is keeping de neihgbors awake wiv his shoutin.
