Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (22 page)

‘Thank
you, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I am relieved. The truth is, old friend, you seem to be
certain of what’s afoot, but, frankly, I’m baffled by the whole business. I’m
quite lost. I can’t see the wood for the trees.’

He
smiled. ‘Perhaps you have been distracted by your walk through the woods
beneath the trees? Miss English is most beguiling. Today she has commanded your
entire attention. I understand. I am not surprised. The fair sex is your
department. You can leave the clergymen to me.

He was
as good as his word. Once Axel Munthe had taken us through the doorway and
across the dark corner of the Sistine Chapel (heavy with the smell of incense
and burning candles) to the near-invisible door to the sacristy, and the
sacristan, Cesare Verdi, had admitted us to his domain, Oscar was in his
element — and at his most effortlessly charming.

His
urbanity and exuberance were matched only by those of Monsignor Felici who
welcomed us with the sign of the cross followed by an open-armed embrace. As we
arrived, the portly Monsignor was waiting for us, perched awkwardly on the edge
of the papal seat of tears. The moment the sacristan opened the door to us, the
elderly cleric struggled to his feet and came forward beaming. As one by one he
took us in his arms, he explained, in his heavily accented English, that, as
Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, he had the honour of being our official host.

‘We are
late,’ declared Oscar, bowing low before the priest,
‘mea culpa!’

‘You
are here,’ rejoined the Monsignor, taking Oscar in his arms,
‘Deo gratias!
And
the scones are still warm —and we are so happy to have you with us. Welcome to
the
circolo inglese.
Tea is about to be served. Step this way.’

With
some effort he moved his huge bulk towards the left-hand stairway that led from
the first chamber of the sacristy to the oak-panelled refectory we had visited
the day before. Munthe took the Monsignor’s arm. As we followed them up the
steps, Oscar paused and breathed in deeply. ‘We pass from the odour of incense
to the fragrance of fresh baking.’

‘It’s
all to the glory of God,’ rumbled the Monsignor. ‘Cesare has been busy. I took
the four o’clock Mass, while our sacristan prepared our English tea.’

The
gasoliers in the refectory were turned up high. There were lighted candles,
too, upon the table. Apart from the lighting, the scene appeared to be drawn
completely from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
The long dining table
was covered with a white linen cloth, set with cups and saucers and plates and
cutlery for eight, and littered with cake-stands and salvers, dishes and
trenchers, all piled high with sugary delights. This was the Mad Hatter’s tea
party. Even the life-size portrait, on the wall above the sideboard, of the
little girl in the white dress with the halo, seemed to echo Alice.

‘There’ll
be savoury as well as sweet,’ announced the Monsignor reassuringly, ‘anchovy
toast alongside the jam tarts.’

‘You
can make toast?’ I asked.

‘Cesare
can. He bakes his own bread — the English way.’

‘And
cucumber sandwiches?’ enquired Oscar, gleefully. (Neither of us had had
lunch.)

‘Oh,
yes, as I promised you.’

‘Sorry,
sir,’ piped up Cesare Verdi, who had skirted round us up the steps and was
busying himself bringing a tray of scones to the table. ‘No cucumber sandwiches
today.’

‘I
ordered them especially,’ boomed Felici.

‘There
was no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went down twice.’

‘No
cucumbers? In Rome in July?’

‘No,
sir. Not even for ready money.’

‘And
you always have plenty of that,’ snapped Felici.

The
Monsignor turned, took Oscar’s hands in his and, closing his eyes, pressed them
together as he might those of a grieving mother to whom he was offering consolation
at her only child’s graveside. ‘This is terrible, Mr Wilde. I had promised you
cucumber sandwiches.’

‘It’s
not in the least terrible. It’s vastly amusing. This is an exquisite moment
that I shall treasure for ever.

‘I feel
your disappointment,’ condoled the Monsignor, ‘and I appreciate your
understanding.’ Breaking away from Oscar, he turned to Munthe and me. ‘Now, gentlemen,
a tavola!
Sit where you please. I shall summon the others. They are, as
you would say, waiting in the wings. Their cells are just above us.’

He went
to the sideboard and rang what appeared to be a sanctus bell. Its chimes
sounded oddly in the oak-panelled dining room.

‘This
is extraordinary,’ purred Oscar, positioning himself at the end of the table
but not taking a seat. He stood with his hands on the back of the chair,
looking down at the table in wonder. Cesare Verdi was placing matching teapots
on silver trivets in the remaining gaps between the dishes of teatime
delicacies.

‘This
is the
circolo inglese,’
said Felici, with a nonchalant shrug of his
stooping shoulders.

‘When
did it start?’

‘The
circolo?
Years ago.’

‘In Pio
Nono’s time?’

‘Oh no,
more recently than that. Pio Nono was not in sympathy with the English. He used
to say that he accepted Father Breakspear as one of his chaplains as a penance.
It was his little joke. But when the possibility was raised of making John
Henry Newman a cardinal, he considered that a joke too far. He wouldn’t have
it.’

‘It was
I who founded the
circolo,
with Pope Leo’s blessing, in May 1879, at the
time of Father Newman’s long-overdue elevation to the rank of cardinal.’

Monsignor
Breakspear had entered the room. He swept in briskly — brusquely, almost — and
extended an immediate hand of greeting to each of us in turn. He murmured to me
pleasantly, ‘Good to see you again, Conan Doyle. I apologise for not being on
parade yesterday. I got my days mixed up.

I nodded
and studied him in silence: the broad shoulders, the red face, the hard smile,
the bushy eyebrows, the tightly curled iron-grey hair — I had no recollection
of him whatsoever. Again, I wondered at his womanly handshake, so at odds with
his robust manner. He did not acknowledge Felici or Cesare Verdi and gave Axel
Munthe no more than a cursory smile. Having greeted me with the familiarity I
have described, he addressed the rest of his remarks to Oscar.

‘Cardinal
Newman was our first guest. He sat at this very table just thirteen years ago.
He chose to sit in the very seat that you appear to have chosen, Mr Wilde. He
always sat there. He took tea with us often — whenever he was in Rome, in fact.
He was seventy-eight when he first came here. I was twenty-five. I loved him as
a son should love a father — absolutely and without condition.’

‘We all
loved him. He was the best of company and the best of men.’

The
doorway to the refectory was suddenly crowded. Three priests had arrived
together. It was the sallow-skinned Monsignor Tuminello who spoke first. He had
a smoker’s voice, rough and dark, and weary, jaundiced eyes. In younger days,
Munthe had told us, he had been a tutor at the English College in Rome. He
spoke excellent English, with a natural authority, but appeared to be
addressing no one in particular. (Indeed, the conversational style of the
members of the
circolo inglese
put me in mind of the discourse at an
Oxford high table, where the dons never catch your eye and speak to the world
in general rather than to one another.)

‘I come
across Cardinal Newman from time to time and I always feel the aura of his
sanctity.’

‘As the
papal exorcist,’ explained Monsignor Felici, ‘Monsignor Tuminello regularly
encounters the souls of the dear departed.’

‘I
wrestle with the devil on a daily basis. It is hard, hard work —
molto duro.
But it has its compensations: easy access to the communion of saints being
chief among them.’

‘You
meet saints?’ asked Oscar.

‘I find
myself in their presence, yes.

‘You
see them?’ ‘I
hear
them.’

‘On a
regular basis?’

‘All
the time.’

The
Monsignor answered Oscar’s questions without looking at him. On entering the
dining room the priest had gone directly to the sideboard, and from a crystal
decanter had poured himself a small glass of brown wine.

‘The
job of an exorcist is to free those who are possessed by evil spirits. The
devil has entered their very being. My task is to confront the devil and his
minions and drive them out. But, usually, by the time I come face to face with
the unfortunate afflicted, I find that God, in His infinite mercy, has
anticipated me and already sent in one of His favourite saints to begin the
good work.’ He drank his wine in a single gulp and refilled the glass.

‘You
hear
these saints, you say?’ asked Oscar, gazing at the Monsignor with curiosity
and delight.

‘I meet
the possessed and, usually, they are crying out in agony. I listen to the
sounds of souls in torment. What is it I hear? Saints disputing with demons.
It’s as simple as that. The arguments are very violent, as you may imagine.’

‘And
can you always tell who is speaking?’ enquired Oscar.

‘Not
always, but as a rule saints are better spoken than devils. They shout less and
their vocabulary is more circumspect.’

‘And
sometimes they talk to you directly? In what language?’

‘In
Latin, in the main.’

‘And
you respond?’

‘I talk
to the devil in Latin. He replies in French. When I am in conversation with
Cardinal Newman we speak in English — always.’

‘He
felt easy with us,’ said Monsignor Breakspear. ‘The Vatican was not Cardinal
Newman’s natural habitat, but in this room, at this table, I believe he felt
at home.’

‘Cardinal
Newman was very partial to cucumber sandwiches,’ said Monsignor Felici, casting
a reproachful glance in the direction of Cesare Verdi.

The sacristan
was at the corner of the table, with Brother Matteo, the Capuchin friar,
assisting Father Bechetti to his place. The old priest’s toothless mouth hung
open; his sightless eyes stared vacantly ahead; with a trembling hand,
repeatedly, he rubbed his temples and the side of his hawk-like nose: he looked
more dead than alive.

‘We are
all partial to Cesare’s cucumber sandwiches,’ said Monsignor Tuminello, once
more downing his wine in a single draught. He pushed the decanter to the back
of the sideboard and made his way around the table. ‘In the summer months, the
cucumber sandwiches are virtually the
circolo inglese’s
sole
raison
d’être.’

‘Not
today,’ said Monsignor Felici. ‘Today our
raison d’être
is to honour our
distinguished guests.’

‘Illustri
invitati,’
the Capuchin friar barked into Father
Bechetti’s ear. The old priest snorted derisively and struck the table with
both hands.

‘I
shall sit between my patients, if I may,’ said Axel Munthe, placing his black
bag on the floor by the sideboard and moving discreetly around the table.
‘Father Bechetti seems little improved since his fall. I am sorry.

‘E
arrabbiato e frustrato,’
replied the Capuchin,
laying a kindly hand on the old priest’s shoulder. With surprising force,
Father Bechetti pushed the hand away.

Munthe
smiled at Brother Matteo. ‘I will give him something to settle him before I
leave.’

The
Capuchin shrugged and returned the doctor’s smile.
‘Come desidera.’

He
appeared to understand English, but not to speak it. He made way for Dr Munthe
and, stepping round to the other side of the table, placed himself opposite
Father Bechetti. Throughout the tea, I noticed, he continued to keep a watchful
eye on the old man.

‘But
Monsignor Tuminello appears fully recovered,’ Munthe went on, ‘back to his old
self.’

The
papal exorcist made the sign of the cross and then shook Munthe warmly by the
hand. ‘Was it strychnine you gave me yesterday, Doctor? I think it was. It “did
the trick”, as the Americans say. I am grateful. God is grateful.’

‘I
simply do my job,’ said Munthe.

‘And in
doing it you help me do mine — and my work is God’s work. I’m sixty years of
age. I’m not young any more. Battling with Beelzebub takes it out of me.
Yesterday my body gave way. I was utterly exhausted, broken, until you revived
me, Doctor.’

‘With a
dose of poison?’ said Oscar, lightly. He was standing one place away from
Munthe, at Tuminello’s right hand.

The
Swedish doctor smiled and shook his head. ‘Strychnine is a useful medicine,
used in moderation.’

‘What
is moderation?’ asked Oscar. ‘Life should be lived excessively — or what’s the
point?’

‘Ah,’
cried Monsignor Breakspear, exultantly. ‘What’s the point, indeed? We are to
talk of the Meaning of Life. This is as it should be. I am glad you have
assumed Cardinal Newman’s old seat, Mr Wilde. You can lead our teatime
colloquy.’