Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (14 page)

‘This is what I call “the
Oscar Wilde effect”. The man exerts an unhealthy influence on all who come too
close to him.’

‘Is
that intended as a joke, sir?’ I murmured, through clenched teeth.

‘It is
the truth, sir. At least, it reflects my experience of Mr Wilde.’

Four of
us carried the body of the old priest from the foot of the pulpit of All Saints
to the dimly lit church vestry. I was one of the four, the others being Martin
English, the Anglican chaplain; Axel Munthe, the Swedish doctor; and the
gentleman who uttered this gratuitous slander at the expense of my friend
Wilde.

‘Who
are you, sir?’ I demanded, angrily.

‘Mr
Rennell Rodd is First Secretary at the British Embassy,’ said the Reverend
English, ‘and, consequently, our principal guest of honour this evening.’

‘His
remarks do his office no credit,’ I said.

‘Please,
gentlemen,’ cried Axel Munthe, ‘desist! I have a patient to attend to.’

‘I
apologise,’ I said, without conviction, as we lowered the frail body of the old
man onto a leather chaise beneath the vestry window. He was alive. His face was
as white as a surplice, his toothless mouth hung open, his grey tongue lolled
loosely over his lower lip.

‘I
apologise, also,’ said the so-called diplomat, now standing upright and nodding
his head towards me.

He was
in his early thirties, tall and slender, immaculately dressed (he wore a
Balliol College tie), impeccably groomed, with thick auburn hair swept back
from a broad, smooth brow, and a luxuriant moustache, waxed at the tips. His
appearance struck me at once as being too good to be true, but he had high
cheekbones, a distinguished nose (in the Wellington tradition) and piercing
blue eyes. He was undeniably handsome.

‘I
spoke out of turn,’ he said, ‘in the heat of the moment.’

‘Please,’
insisted Dr Munthe, ‘don’t speak at all.’ He lifted the old priest’s right arm,
took hold of his wrist and searched for his pulse. He then rested his head on
the old man’s chest and pressed his ear against his heart. ‘Doyle,’ he
instructed, ‘loosen his collar, straighten his head.’

I did
as Munthe told me and, as I did so, the old man started to breathe noisily,
gasping first, then wheezing like the bellows on a chapel organ.

‘Is
that the death rattle?’ enquired the Reverend English, anxiously.

Munthe
raised his head and laughed. ‘No, it’s an old man snoring. Leave him to us,
gentlemen.’ He looked at Martin English. ‘Return to your flock, Padre. I
imagine the ladies will be in quite a state. You can tell them that all’s
well.’

The
vicar and the diplomatist took their leave. ‘I think we’ll have to forgo your
story, Dr Doyle,’ English said. ‘The night has proved unruly.’

‘Good
evening, gentlemen,’ said Rennell Rodd. He bowed to us and accompanied English
to the vestry door.

When
they had departed, Munthe returned his attention to the old priest stretched
out before us on the chaise. ‘His breathing has calmed considerably,’ he said.
‘He looks quite peaceful.’ He removed the old man’s spectacles and, with thumb
and forefinger, carefully raised each eyelid in turn. ‘And look at his eyes …’
They were those of an old man: swollen, yellow and cloudy.

I bent
down to look into them closely. ‘Beyond the cataracts, I see nothing out of the
ordinary.’

‘We are
agreed then?’ said Munthe.

‘It was
not a stroke.’

‘Nor a
heart attack.’

‘What
was it?’

I
replayed the scene in my mind’s eye. ‘His head was held up, as though he was
listening to Oscar’s recitation, listening intently. Then, suddenly, he lurched
forward and cried out “No, no!” and then he threw his glass onto the ground.’

‘He
threw the glass — deliberately?’

‘I
think so.

‘It did
not simply fall from his grasp?’

‘No, he
threw it, violently. And then he collapsed. His body simply gave way.

‘He
fainted.’ Munthe looked down at the priest once more. ‘There was a sudden
outburst of anger — or distress — and then he lost consciousness. And now he
sleeps, like a baby.’

I
looked down at the old man. ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

‘Joachim
Bechetti, a papal chaplain and a good man, by all accounts. He’s been at the
Vatican for years, since Pio Nono’s time. He was an artist in his day — a
painter and a fine one, too. I’ve seen his work.’

‘Will
he live?’ asked a voice from the shadows.

We
looked towards the vestry door. Two clerics stood there, one of whom was Monsignor
Felici. He came into the room slowly, reverentially, as if solemnly approaching
a deathbed, holding the old priest’s biretta.

‘Will
he live?’ he repeated.

Munthe
looked at Monsignor Felici with an amused eye. He will outlive you, my friend,
unless you lose some weight.’

‘He
appears to have fainted,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’

‘He was
standing too long,’ said Munthe, ‘the crowd was too great, he had perhaps drunk
too much — he was overwhelmed’

‘I am
relieved,’ said Felici, laying the old priest’s biretta on the chaise.

‘What
is happening in the church?’ I asked.

Felici
smiled. ‘Mr Oscar Wilde is the hero of the hour. He finished his recitation and
now he is moving slowly among the ladies so that they may shake his hand and
touch his garb. The commotion by the pulpit went unnoticed by most, but word
has since spread — so there’s excitement in the air.’

‘It
will be dampened somewhat when they discover there hasn’t been a death after
all.’

It was
Felici’s companion who spoke, in a rasping voice and with the distinctive
accent of an English aristocrat from a bygone era.

‘Good
evening, Munthe.’ He nodded towards the Swedish doctor, then extended his hand
towards me. ‘Good evening, Arthur
Conan
Doyle.’

I shook
his hand. At once, I noticed the rose-gold ring upon his finger. I noticed,
too, the unnatural softness of his skin and the weakness of his grasp. He was
dressed in robes identical to Felici’s — his cassock was edged with purple
silk; he wore a purple sash — but he was younger than Felici, around forty years
of age, and, though reasonably well fleshed, not a fat man. He was
broad-shouldered, sturdily built, with a round and ruddy countryman’s face. He
had thick, bushy eyebrows and tightly curled, iron-grey hair. His whole manner
and appearance belied the feebleness of his handshake.

‘You
don’t remember me?’ he said. ‘I am surprised.’

In the
dim vestry light, I peered at his face closely. I felt not the least glimmer of
recognition.

‘I am
disappointed,’ he continued, ‘hurt even. It’s not that long ago, surely?’

‘You
have the advantage of me, sir,’ I said, awkwardly.

‘We
were at school together, Conan Doyle. At Stonyhurst. I thought one always
remembered the older boys. Apparently not.’ He laughed. It was a hard, guttural
laugh. ‘I remember you,’ he went on, looking at me appraisingly. ‘I remember
you vividly — the insistence that you were called
Conan
Doyle. You were
a cocky little fellow, very full of yourself. We had to beat you regularly.’ He
looked at me and raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You must remember the Tolley?’

‘I
remember the Tolley,’ I said.

‘It was
the Stonyhurst instrument of retribution,’ he explained to the others. ‘Where
lesser schools used the cane, we used the Tolley.’

The
priest looked at me and grinned. His white teeth were small and even. ‘I
distinctly recollect the last time I had to thrash you. It was on 22 May 1872. It
was my birthday.’

‘I
don’t remember,’ I said. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘You
were thirteen — and very wicked. I was eighteen — and very good.’ He laughed.

‘And
now?’ enquired Axel Munthe.

‘Arthur
Conan
Doyle is an author of international renown and I carry the sins of
the world upon my shoulders.’

‘Monsignor
Breakspear has recently been appointed Grand Penitentiary at St Peter’s,’
explained Monsignor Felici. ‘He hears our confessions. He knows all our
secrets.’

‘And
shares them only with Almighty God,’ said the Englishman, smiling.

‘He is
the pope’s confessor,’ Felici continued. ‘He will be a cardinal before long.’

‘I am
honoured to make your reacquaintance,’ I said. ‘Forgive me for not recollecting
our last encounter. Perhaps I do recollect the name, now I think of it, but I
don’t remember the beating. I don’t often think of my schooldays.’

‘Don’t
look back,’ said Axel Munthe. ‘It’s a good rule.’ The old priest lying before
us on the chaise began to cough.

‘What
are we to do with him?’ asked Monsignor Felici. ‘I will look after him
tonight,’ said Axel Munthe, leaning down to replace the spectacles on the old
priest’s nose.

‘Oh
no,’ protested Monsignor Breakspear, with a barking laugh. ‘We want poor
Bechetti to live a little longer.’ The Monsignor reached out and, for a moment,
rested his soft fingers on my hand. ‘We call Dr Munthe “Dr Death”,’ he said,
with a disconcerting smile. ‘When he gets the opportunity, he likes to ease his
older, weaker patients from this world to the next. He admits it. Indeed, he
boasts of it. We do not approve.

‘Father
Bechetti is not in mortal danger,’ said Munthe. ‘Good,’ said Breakspear, ‘then
we’ll take him back to the Vatican now. I have a carriage waiting.’

‘He
needs bed rest, plenty of fluids — water and milk — and regular meals, but the
simplest diet: pasta and vegetables. His pulse is steady, his heart quite
strong. I think he was probably overwhelmed by the heat and the numbers in the
church, that’s all.’

Father
Bechetti began to stir. His thin hands twitched at his side.

‘Brother
Matteo will nurse him back to health,’ said Breakspear. He glanced towards me.
‘Brother Matteo is a Capuchin friar and our Florence Nightingale.’

‘He is
the best of men,’ said Monsignor Felici.

‘Very
good,’ said Munthe. ‘Let’s get Father Bechetti to your carriage now. I’ll call
on him tomorrow.‘

‘And
bring Conan Doyle with you,’ said Breakspear. ‘And Mr Wilde, too. I missed his
recitation. I would like to meet him — very much.’ He turned and looked
directly at me, smiling and resting both his hands on mine. I felt the
smoothness of his fingers on my knuckles. ‘You must come for tea in the
sacristy — join our little English circle. There are just five of us: Monsignor
Felici and myself, Father Bechetti, Brother Matteo and Monsignor Tuminello. He
is the papal exorcist. Few can resist him.’ He laughed and released my hands.
‘Come at four o’clock — sharp. Munthe will show you the way. We have cucumber
sandwiches. It will be home from home. And bring one of your stories to read to
us, won’t you? We all love Sherlock Holmes.’

The nearby clock of Sant’
Atanasio dei Greci was striking ten as Munthe and I escorted the three
Catholic priests to their carriage. The toothless old father had recovered
sufficiently from his fainting fit to totter down the vestry steps supported on
my and Monsignor Breakspear’s arms. Munthe assisted the corpulent Monsignor
Felici. We bade the trio goodnight with a firm promise to attend them on the morrow.

‘At
four o’clock,’ repeated Breakspear through the carriage window, ‘sharp.’

‘He
will be obeyed,’ said Munthe, as we stood in the moonlit street watching the
carrozza
trundle away from us over the cobblestones.

‘He has
a commanding presence.’

‘A natural
authority — and a name to reckon with.’

‘Breakspear?’

‘Nicholas
Breakspear.
Nomen est omen,
as your friend Wilde likes to say. Nicholas
Breakspear was also the name of the last English pope, was it not?’

‘That
was seven hundred and fifty years ago,’ I said.

Munthe
gazed steadily after the churchmen’s carriage as it disappeared into the
darkness of the Piazza del Popolo. ‘Nevertheless …’ He smiled. ‘In the
fullness of time, your old schoolfellow expects to ascend the throne of St
Peter. I am certain of that.’

‘That’s
absurd.’

‘Ambition
often is absurd.’

‘He’s
English.’

‘That
is a problem nowadays, I grant you. And he’s a Jesuit. That may be the greater
disadvantage. No Jesuit has ever become pope. The other cardinals don’t trust
them.’

‘Are
you Monsignor Breakspear’s doctor?’ I asked, as we turned to go back into the
church.

‘No,
Monsignor Breakspear has no need of a doctor. He is wonderfully robust — as you
saw. He has the constitution of an ox.

‘He has
very delicate fingers.’

‘He has
a farmer’s build, but a priest’s hands.’