Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (21 page)

‘You
have no money,’ I said quietly.

‘None
to speak of,’ she replied.

‘And
yet …’ I hesitated before I spoke. ‘And yet, when we met you on the train,
when Oscar and I first introduced ourselves, were you not returning from
holiday? Were you not travelling first class?’

Catherine
English stopped in her tracks once more. ‘Oh, Dr Conan Doyle, you are a
wonderful detective, that is clear, but you are no psychologist. Martin must
have his holidays. Martin must have the best linen and tailor-made new suits.
Martin must travel first class. My dear brother has a foolish pride — and it
has cost us dear.’ She put her arms about my shoulders and held me tight, as a
child might cling to her father in a storm. ‘I am so lonely and we are as poor
as church mice.’

I held
her close and told her that I would give her twenty pounds. She reached up and
kissed me tenderly on the cheek and, as she did so, I breathed in the scent of
lily of the valley on her neck.

13

English tea

W
e
were late for our tea with the
circolo inglese
at the Vatican.

I was
late returning to the Hôtel de Russie from the Pincio Gardens. Oscar was late
in rousing himself from his siesta. Axel Munthe was late because the patient he
had been attending that afternoon had taken ‘so long to die’.

‘Did
you despatch the poor unfortunate?’ I asked, unamused, as I sat at the doctor’s
side in the pony and trap that jostled us at breakneck speed from the Piazza
del Popolo to St Peter’s Square. Munthe was attempting to rearrange the
contents of his medical bag as we were bumped and buffeted over the cobbles. A
bottle of cocaine lotion fell from his hand onto my lap. I returned it to him.
He thanked me, sniffed and held the bottle up close to his thick spectacles.

‘Yes,’
he muttered to himself, ‘there’s sufficient should Father Bechetti be in pain.’
He returned the bottle to his bag and snapped the fastener shut, then turned
his head towards me. ‘But, no,’ he said, smiling, ‘I did not “despatch the
poor unfortunate”. God did what He does so well, though He took his time about
it. Had He kept my suffering patient waiting longer, I might indeed have
assisted in the process — out of the kindness of my heart. Either way, the
outcome was inevitable.’

‘I
could never be a doctor,’ said Oscar, drowsily. He was seated on the banquette
facing us, his eyes closed, his head resting against our driver’s back. ‘I can
sympathise with everything, except physical suffering. It is too ugly, too
horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern
sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy
of life.’

He
opened his eyes. We were passing the tiny eighth-century church of San Michele
e Magno. A little girl in a white pinafore was skipping up and down the church
steps. Oscar gestured towards her with a languid hand.

‘I rest
my case,’ he murmured, looking at us reprovingly and then closing his eyes
once more. ‘The less said about life’s sores, the better.’

‘We are
not discussing medical details, Oscar,’ I said, somewhat tetchily. ‘We are
discussing medical ethics. A doctor’s duty is to save life, not extinguish it —
whatever the circumstances. Is what Munthe does
right?
Is it legal?’

Axel
Munthe chuckled. ‘Don’t leap onto your high horse, Doctor.’ He leant his
shoulder towards mine and tapped his forefinger on my trouser knee. ‘Tell me
something, Dr Conan Doyle. Do you still have that severed hand in your pocket?
Is that sawn-off finger still hidden about your person?’

‘Yes,’
I said, hesitating, sensing the trap.

‘Is
that
legal? No. Is
that
right? Who is to say?’

I
wanted to protest, but words failed me. Oscar opened his eyes and stirred
himself.

‘Arthur’s
instinct was to take the horrid evidence sent to him directly to the police. I
know my friend. He is one of Queen Victoria’s most loyal and law-abiding
subjects, and had all this occurred in South Norwood that is precisely what he
would have done. But when in Bad Homburg it is not so simple. And when in
Rome—’

Munthe
completed his sentence for him: ‘And when in Rome, take the law into your own
hands. It is the only way.’

Our
carriage had turned into St Peter’s Square and was now crossing the piazza,
slowing down as it approached the main gate beyond the statue of St Paul. Oscar
sat forward, his strength returning, his spirits lifting.

‘As I
understand it from my new friend, the pirate captain of the Pincio Gardens’
hot-air balloon, the police in these parts are, at best, incompetent; at worst,
corrupt. Am I right, Doctor?’

‘You
are,’ said Munthe. ‘Everyone would acknowledge that, even, I suspect, the chief
of police.’

‘And
the reason we are investigating this mystery was reinforced this morning when I
was up there in that basket in the clouds. If we don’t, no one else will. The
pope’s
gendarmerie
and the Roman
carabinieri
are incompetent,
corrupt and at daggers drawn.’

Our
carriage had now stopped. Oscar held up his hands to prevent us from moving
while he finished his rhetorical rodomontade. As he spoke, he looked about him
and surveyed the scene:

‘This,
gentlemen, is the no-man’s-land between the city of Rome and the Holy See. Here
are we arriving at the Vatican — for English tea, with cucumber sandwiches, God
save the mark! — and there are they, rival police forces, lined up on either
side of an unmarked marble moat, hostile armies, encamped, face to face, just
fifty yards apart.’

He held
one arm out towards the Swiss Guard standing sentinel at the Vatican gate and
the other towards the band of
carabinieri
grouped around a pair of
sentry boxes a few feet from where our trap had stopped. In truth, these men
(most of whom were slouching, chatting and smoking at their posts) did not seem
like greyhounds in the slips straining upon the start, but the two forces were
clearly set in opposition to one another — and neither looked as if it would
inspire the least confidence in even the most naive soul seeking assistance in
a case of suspected murder.

‘There
you have them: Rome’s rival representatives of law and order. They don’t speak
to one another and they cannot be trusted.’ Oscar rose to his feet and gazed
down at us. ‘If one of the reverend gentlemen with whom we are taking tea this
afternoon suspects foul play within the Vatican, or without, to whom is he to
turn? Not to the police, either of church or state, that’s for sure …

‘To God
then?’ laughed Munthe.

‘To the
heavens, certainly,’ cried Oscar, handing money to the driver before clambering
cumbersomely down from the trap. ‘In his hour of need our man decides his only
hope is to summon a
deus ex machina:
a saviour who will float down from
the skies to unravel the mystery and avenge the crime.’ Oscar held out a hand
to assist me as I climbed from the carriage after him. ‘There is no local help
to be had — our man cannot trust the police, he cannot trust his friends — so,
boldly, having nothing to lose and all to gain, he makes an imaginative leap,
throws caution to the wind and summons a stranger to his aid … but no
ordinary stranger! He sends coded messages to the world’s “foremost consulting
detective”! It is a wild gamble, improbable, absurd, and fraught with danger
and uncertainty, but it pays off. The Lord be praised! Miracles do happen! For
here we are,
in loco
Sherlock Holmes: Dr Arthur Conan Doyle and party.
Avanti!’

Munthe,
much amused by Oscar’s histrionics, jumped down from the trap without
assistance and, holding his black bag prominently before him as his badge of
office, led us, almost jauntily, past the sentry boxes to the Vatican gate.

‘Well,’
he said, looking up at Oscar, ‘you have certainly convinced yourself that your
journey was necessary and that you have arrived at the correct destination.’

‘I
have,’ replied Oscar, his head held high.

‘Well,
I am less certain,’ I muttered.

‘The
rose-gold ring has led us here, Arthur — you must see that.’

‘And
all your “reverend gentlemen” will be gathered around the tea table to welcome
you,’ said Munthe. ‘When you meet them, will you tell them why you have come to
call?’

‘Not
for a moment. We must steal up on them unawares.’

‘This
is life, Mr Wilde. This isn’t one of your penny-dreadful melodramas. Wouldn’t
it be simpler to be straightforward? As we say in Sweden: “The best way out is
through the door.”’

‘This
is a murder mystery, Doctor. I feel it in my bones. The straightforward has no
place here. As we say in Ireland,
“Ni mar a shiltear a bhitear”
—
“Nothing in life is as it seems.”’

‘Will
you at least ask which of them it was who summoned “Sherlock Holmes” to the
Vatican in this extraordinary way?’

‘Oh,
no,’ cried Oscar. ‘That might be fatal. Whoever it was who sent that lock of
hair, and that severed hand, and that finger with the tell-tale ring to
“Sherlock Holmes” fears for his life. I am convinced of that. My instinct tells
me there has been one murder at least — and there may be more. Whoever it was
who sought the help of “the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that
the world has seen” — the phrase is Arthur’s — believes he needs to hide behind
a mask, or why not simply write Holmes a letter, giving his name and address in
the usual way? Oh no. This has been a secret summons from a desperate soul. For
the time being, I have no doubt that we should respect our client’s desire for
anonymity.’

Pausing
at the foot of the long flight of steps leading to the Sistine Chapel, Munthe
looked up at Oscar and smiled. ‘You call him your “client”?’

Oscar
shrugged. ‘Well, he has brought us here all the way from Germany. We are at his
service, even if we are not in his pay.’

Munthe
turned to me and patted me warmly on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, Dr Conan
Doyle. Mr Wilde has definitely caught the Baker Street disease.’ He looked back
at Oscar. ‘And do you have any idea who he might be, this “client” of yours?’

‘Of
course,’ said Oscar quietly.

‘Of
course?’ I repeated, dumbfounded.

‘Of
course I know who he is,’ said Oscar. ‘Don’t you?’

We climbed the stone steps
in silence. I could not decide whether Oscar was simply being playful — he was
a great spinner of yarns — or whether, in fact, he had truly deduced who it was
had summoned Holmes to Rome and why.

As Axel
Munthe was about to lead us through the small side-door that led to the chapel,
I stayed his hand. ‘Forgive me, Doctor. Before we proceed further, I must speak
to my friend.’

I saw
at once that I did not need to say a word. I could tell from Oscar’s amused and
kindly eyes that he understood my anxiety.

‘I will
take the lead this afternoon, Arthur,’ he said, ‘fear not. You may be the
creator of Sherlock Holmes, but the great detective is a figment of your
imagination, not your other self. J know that.’