Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (19 page)

‘Why do
you say that?’

‘Because
a severed finger and a severed hand have brought us here — and whoever sent
them did so in desperation.’ He waved to the waiter, summoning our bill,
pushed back his chair and rose from the table.

‘And between
now and then,’ I said, ‘what other avenues should we be exploring?’

‘None,’
he declared roundly. ‘We have secured our entrée to the Vatican. That’s all we
need.’

‘Then
I’d best get on with ploughing through that portmanteau of correspondence,’ I
said, with a sigh. ‘That’s why I came to the continent after all.’

‘Forget
your correspondence, Arthur. The Godalming Gardening Society can wait.’ He put
a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s a beautiful day, my friend. We should take the
air.’ He looked at me conspiratorially. ‘Follow me, Arthur. I have a surprise
in store for you.’

12

‘A
sandbag
!’

A
s
we left the shade of the café and made our way into the heat of the open
piazza, I felt apprehensive.

‘We are
not going anywhere near those wretched boys, I trust.’

He
laughed. ‘Nowhere near. The “wretched boys” have cut and run. Rennell Rodd
seems to have frightened them away.’

‘I am
glad to hear it. So where are we going? Are we taking a carriage?’ My friend
was walking us towards the
carrozza
stand in the north-eastern corner of
the piazza, by the church of Santa Maria.

‘Of a
kind — but first we are climbing a hill.’

We
reached the church and went beyond it, past the
carrozza
stand, out of
the piazza, up some stone steps and onto a narrow sandy path that led through
trees and bushes to a steep incline. It was most unlike Oscar to seek a hill to
climb.

‘Where
are
we going?’ I asked again.

‘In
search of romance,’ he replied. ‘We are in Rome, after all. And I promised you
adventure.’

‘You
are making me anxious, Oscar.’

‘I want
to make you happy,’ he answered, leading the way up the slope. “‘They do not
sin at all who sin for love. “‘

‘You
are making me
very
anxious. Is that Keats or Shelley?’

‘It’s
Wilde —
The Duchess of Padua.
Though I flatter myself that both Keats
and Shelley would have been content with the line. Keats and Shelley both
climbed this path in their day, you know.’ He paused and unbuttoned his jacket.
‘I am taking you to the Pincio Gardens, Arthur — the
collis hortulorum
of
the emperors of Rome. This is where Nero fiddled of a summer evening and where
Keats came to flirt with Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Borghese.’ His pace had
slowed as we clambered upwards. ‘This is supposed to be the short cut, recommended
to me by the boot-boy at the hotel. I hope you’ll think it worth the effort
when we get there.’

It was
well worth the effort. When we reached the summit of the hill and emerged from
the trees and undergrowth, we found ourselves in a veritable garden paradise:
acres of green and pleasant parkland, with terraces and parterres, ornate
bubbling fountains and overflowing flower beds, broad avenues and shaded
pathways, stretching as far as the eye could see.

We were
not alone: it was a Saturday and, by routes less rigorous and obscure than the
one recommended by the hotel boot-boy, fashionable Rome had made its way to the
Pincio to promenade along the
passeggiata.
Clearly, we could have come
by carriage: gigs and ponies, dog carts and phaetons were trundling along the
driveways. There were nurses with perambulators, children on tricycles and a
young priest trying to look nonchalant on a high-seated penny-farthing.

‘This
is charming, Oscar,’ I exclaimed.

‘And
it’s blessedly cool after the heat of the piazza. This way,’ he said, pointing
in the direction of a bandstand on which a picturesque assortment of musicians
in comic-opera uniforms were playing tunes by Rossini and Berlioz. ‘We’re
aiming for the meadow.’

‘All
human life is here,’ I said, as we passed a pair of old soldiers hobbling along
arm in arm (they had just two legs and two crutches between them), followed by
a trio of young nuns (giggling and eating ice cream) and a lone African beggar
with a ring through his nose and a parrot on his shoulder.

‘Quite,’
said Oscar, lifting his head into the breeze. ‘There may even be a murderer in
our midst.’

‘By all
that’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed.

We had
gone beyond the bandstand, reached the highest point on the hill, and come to
what, for all the world, looked exactly like an English village green. It was a
small rectangular field covered in lush grass, spotted with wild flowers and
surrounded by a well-kept gravel path. In the centre of this field, tethered to
the ground by sturdy ropes tied to iron pegs, was a wicker basket — no bigger
than a sauna-bath in a gentlemen’s club — surmounted by a gorgeous,
multicoloured hot-air balloon fifteen feet high. It was like a picture from a
child’s story book, but it was prettier than a picture because, standing by the
basket, just a few feet from it, and looking lovelier than ever, was Catherine
English. She was wearing a cornflower-blue and white striped dress, with navy ribbons
at her waist and on her hat. She seemed not the least surprised to see me.

‘Hello,
Dr Conan Doyle,’ she said, extending her hand, not to shake mine, it
transpired, but to draw me closer. ‘You’re just in time.’

‘By all
that’s wonderful!’ I said again. ‘Why are you here?’

‘It was
Mr Wilde’s idea,’ she said, still holding on to me.

‘It was
the Reverend English’s idea,’ said Oscar. ‘I met him in the piazza this morning
and he told me about the balloon trip. I gave him money and here we are.’

‘And
here we go,’ said Miss English, tugging at my arm. ‘We
must
go. I’ve
kept everybody waiting for you.’

‘Is
your brother joining us?’ I asked.

‘No,
it’s just us.’

She
turned and pulled me with her towards the balloon-basket. It was a small
affair, seven feet square at most, with sides to it no more than four feet in
height. On one of the sides there was a narrow gate for access. Ten to a dozen
passengers were already crowded on board, standing expectantly, shoulder to
shoulder, around the basket’s perimeter, each with one hand, or both, holding
on to one of the taut ropes that ran from the basket’s sides to the air-filled
balloon above. Standing just inside the basket’s gate, holding it open and
gesticulating towards us, was a small, fat man, black-haired and middle-aged.
He turned out to the captain of the vessel. He wore the costume of a Venetian
gondolier —striped blue vest and crimson neckerchief— but his blackened hands
and sweating face — swarthy and scarred, with a black patch over one eye —
suggested a pirate from a pantomime.

‘Robert
Louis Stevenson
must
have come here on holiday,’ muttered Oscar as we
approached.

‘Scusi,
comandante,’
said Miss English apologetically as we
climbed aboard.

The
pirate captain pulled shut the wicker gate and bolted it — with a single wooden
peg.

‘Do you
think he knows his business?’ I whispered.

‘In the
kingdom of the blind …’ murmured Oscar, squeezing himself into a corner of
the basket.

One of
the unexpected features of my friend Oscar Wilde is that, overweight, indolent
aesthete that he was, he did not lack physical courage. He was a big man who
knew how to stand his ground and use his fists. He did not court danger nor, as
a rule, physical adventure of any kind, but when he found himself facing the
one or having to endure the other, he took the challenge in his stride and
displayed no lack of spunk or nerve.

With
the gate shut, our captain moved to the centre of his craft where, on the
floor, a brazier the size of a dustbin was burning fiercely. He bent over what
was, in essence, the engine of his ship — the brazier and its concomitant
parts — and, with ungloved hands, twisted valves and levered open airways, so
that the powerful flow of hot air, already rising upwards from the fire, turned
into a roaring torrent. He then made his way to each of the four corners of the
basket and, in near-incomprehensible Italian, instructed two of the male
passengers standing there to lift from the floor a sack of ballast and hold it
between them in their arms. In our corner of the craft, Oscar and I were chosen
as his lieutenants.

‘What’s
this we’ve got to hoist aloft?’ shouted Oscar, above the roar.

‘A
sandbag,’ I called back.

Between
us we lifted it into our arms. ‘A
sandbag!’
cried Oscar, in mock
indignation, as if utterly outraged at the effrontery of the captain’s request.
‘I booked for us to travel first class.’

I
laughed and, as I did so, the basket began to lurch from side to side and Miss
English, standing just behind me, grabbed hold of me anxiously. On the grass
around the basket men were loosening the ropes that held the vessel tethered to
the ground. As the basket lurched, we began to lift upwards into the air. We
swung from side to side, buffeted by the breeze, and as we swung the balloon
lifted us higher at alarming speed.

Almost
immediately, we sensed that something was amiss. The basket was perilously
lopsided. Our corner was tipping sharply downwards. Other passengers began to
shout at us: one of the women began to scream. The captain pushed his way from
the centre of the craft towards us, pulled Miss English away from me abruptly
and, hissing
‘Accidenti!’
heaved the sandbag we were still clutching out
of our grasp and over the basket’s edge.

The
flying basket righted itself at once. ‘Good God,’ I cried, ‘we might have
caused the accident.’

Catherine
English put her windswept face up towards mine and shouted, through her
laughter,
“‘Accidenti!”
is a curse — the worst. It means, “May you die
in a fit without benefit of clergy!”’

Oscar
began laughing, too. ‘This flying game is not as easy as it seems. No wonder
Icarus came to grief.’

Our
balloon swept us higher and higher. Gradually, as we rose in the sky, our ears
became accustomed to the burning engine’s roar, and our eyes turned to marvel
at the view: the clouds above us and the earth below.

‘No
wonder the gods like it up here,’ said Oscar, ‘the people down there look so
small.’ He was in high spirits. He called out something in Italian to the
captain and the captain, laughing derisively, shouted back.

‘What
is it?’ I asked.

‘I
enquired whether we might float over the Vatican and catch sight of the pope in
his garden. Apparently not. We go up, we go down — the Vatican is out of
bounds.
Proibito.’

The
pirate captain came over to us, talking as he came. In his right hand he
carried a small brass telescope. With a flourish, he lifted it to his blind eye
and, turning west towards the Vatican, directed Oscar’s attention to St Peter’s
Square. He handed Oscar the spyglass, jabbering good-humouredly as he did so.