Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (24 page)

The
English Monsignor nodded in the direction of the steps leading down to the
chamber with the red-damask wall-hangings, and the seat of tears, and Father
Bechetti’s paintings of the Last Supper and Pio Nono and the Virgin Mary.

‘Before
processing through the Sistine Chapel to the audience corridor, we would stand
together, clustered around the Holy Father, and say a prayer. One day, Pio
Nono, laughing, looked around our little circle and remarked that there were
seven of us — just seven. ‘Breakspear put out a hand to indicate the sacristan
who stood at his post by the sideboard. ‘Cesare Verdi was always of our number.
He would walk ahead of the procession, with his staff of office, opening the
doors, clearing the way.’

The
sacristan nodded as if to confirm the accuracy of the Monsignor’s account.

‘As we
stood in the circle that day, the Holy Father —laughing, as I say — suggested
that we should think of ourselves as the “seven deadly sins”. He said it would
be a reminder to us all, himself included, that because we were the pope’s men
it did not mean that we were above other men. We were as capable of the capital
sins of the world as any other mortal.’

Monsignor
Felici wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘So now you know, Mr Wilde.’

‘But
how do you know?’ asked Monsignor Tuminello, pushing back his chair and
reaching out towards the sideboard. Cesare Verdi, anticipating him, brought him
a glass and filled it from the decanter. ‘How did you uncover our little
secret?’

‘I
recognised the rose-gold rings you wear. I saw such a ring on Pio Nono’s finger
when I kissed his hand. It was such a simple ring for a pope to wear. On the
third finger of his right hand he wore the traditional papal ring, of course —
the Fisherman’s Ring of St Peter. I kissed it, but as I kissed it, under it,
half hidden beneath it, I noticed a second ring, a simple rose-gold band. It
was the ring’s simplicity that struck me. I saw that ring on Pio Nono’s finger
fifteen years ago. I see the same ring on your hands now.’

Oscar
looked around the table. Monsignor Breakspear followed his gaze. ‘Father
Bechetti does not wear a ring,’ he said.

‘So it
seems,’ said Oscar.

‘Nor
does Brother Matteo.’

‘Not on
his hand perhaps,’ said Oscar. ‘He has a workman’s hands, heavy and rough —
not hands for jewellery. He does not wear the ring on his ring finger, but I
suspect he wears it around his neck.’

Brother
Matteo smiled. He put both hands inside the top of his brown habit, pulled out
the thin cord that hung about his neck and displayed the rose-gold ring for all
to see.
‘Eccoti!’
he said, laughing.

‘Pio
Nono gave you the rings?’

‘Yes,
on the day of the special audience to mark the thirtieth anniversary of his
papacy,’ said Breakspear. ‘Cesare Verdi had them made from a block of gold
given to Pope Leo XI by an Ottoman sultan, as I recall.’

‘That’s
it, sir,’ confirmed the sacristan from the sideboard. He held up his hand to
display the ring he wore.

‘Does
Pope Leo XIII know about this?’ Oscar asked.

‘No, he
has never asked. He has not noticed the rings, I am sure. He is not close to us
in the way that Pio Nono was. We are his chaplains too, of course — but there
is a difference. Pope Leo did not choose us. He inherited us. We serve him. We
love him. We give him all obedience. He is the Holy Father, but we are not his
children as we were the children of Pio Nono.’

‘Leo
has other chaplains,’ said Felici, ‘personal chaplains of his own choosing. But
we are the chaplains-in-residence. We remain here from the moment of our
appointment until we die.’

‘Or
become bishops or cardinals,’ added Tuminello, emptying his glass, and looking
directly at Breakspear with amused and mocking eyes.

Breakspear
shook his head and gazed down at the table.

‘We are
here until death,’ said Monsignor Felici, ‘or beyond, in Verdi’s case. Our
successors as chaplains-in-residence will be chosen by whoever is pope at the
time of our demise, but the post of sacristan is a gift from God, handed down
from father to son.’

‘How
wonderful,’ said Oscar, smiling up at Cesare Verdi.

‘Except
I don’t ‘ave children, sir,’ said the sacristan. ‘Nor a wife.’

‘But
you have time,’ said Oscar. ‘I have no doubt that both will be provided — in
due course. God will provide.
C’est son mêtier.’

Cesare
Verdi said nothing. Monsignor Tuminello held up his empty glass and the
sacristan fetched the decanter and poured the priest a further libation.

An
awkward stillness filled the room once more.

‘And
Agnes?’ asked Oscar, looking up at the painting on the wall. ‘Tell me about
Agnes. Her uncanny resemblance to Michelangelo’s Virgin notwithstanding, this
was the girl that Pio Nono blessed that day — I am certain of that.’

‘No,
sir,’ said Monsignor Felici, defiantly.

‘Si,’
said Brother Matteo, gently, resting his hand on
Felici’s sleeve.
‘La verità viene sempre a galla.’

‘Yes,
indeed, we should not be frightened of the truth, said Monsignor Tuminello,
leaning forward onto the table, pushing the tea things away from him and
setting down his glass. ‘Yes, Mr Wilde, the beautiful child in the painting is
Agnes. She was named for Agnes of Rome, the virgin-martyr, the patron saint of
chastity. We loved her dearly. We still do.’

At my
side, Father Bechetti stirred. His eyes remained closed, but his hands
twitched. Brother Matteo leant forward and rested his hands on those of the
old priest. ‘We all loved her,’ Tuminello went on. ‘I taught her to read and
write. Father Bechetti painted her. Brother Matteo looked after her. But Pio
Nono loved her most of all.’

‘Who
was she?’ asked Oscar, still gazing at the painting.

‘A girl
from the Vatican laundry — one of the waifs and strays taken in by the nuns. It
was the nuns who named her. She would have become a nun herself in time. She
had the vocation. Her faith was simple, but profound. Pio Nono saw that. She
was his favourite. He delighted in her company. Who would not? She was all
sweetness and light. She was, as he said, all innocence — a lamb of God.’

‘And
she is dead?’ asked Oscar in a voice barely above a whisper.

‘We do
not know,’ said Monsignor Felici. ‘We have no idea.’

‘I
know,’ said Monsignor Tuminello. He spread out his fingers on the table, on
either side of his empty wineglass. ‘She is in heaven. She is with the angels.
I have heard her voice. She is with God.’

‘The
truth is, Mr Wilde, we know nothing,’ said Monsignor Felici. He spoke with
quiet deliberation now. ‘She may be alive. She may be dead. We simply do not
know. She disappeared.’

Oscar
looked sharply at Felici. ‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes,
one day she was here, the next she was gone. It was as simple — and as final —
as that.’

‘Did no
one look for her?’

‘We
looked for her: all over the basilica, all over the Vatican City, all over
Rome. She was nowhere to be found. The nuns looked for her, too. The Swiss
Guard looked for her.’

Tuminello
interrupted angrily. ‘They did not. The Swiss Guard did nothing.’

‘They
were preoccupied,’ said Monsignor Breakspear. ‘We were all preoccupied. The
girl disappeared on 7 February 1878.’

‘Is the
date significant?’

‘It was
the day of Pio Nono’s death.’

Another
silence fell. I waited for Oscar to break it, but he said nothing. He sat
facing me at the far end of the dining table, gazing fixedly up at the painting
of the beautiful young girl.

‘May I
ask a question?’ I said, eventually. Monsignor Tuminello turned, smiled and
raised his empty glass towards me. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the voice of Sherlock
Holmes.’

‘Could
the girl have been kidnapped?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ said Monsignor Felici, with a
heavy sigh. ‘It happens all too frequently. Young girls are stolen from the
streets and sold into slavery.’

Oscar’s
eyes turned to Felici. ‘In Rome at the end of the nineteenth century? You
surprise me, Monsignor.’

‘They
are taken from Rome to Sicily and on to North Africa,’ explained Felici. ‘It is
a terrible trade, cruel and brutish, but it thrives.’

‘She
was not stolen from the streets and sold into slavery,’ said Tuminello. ‘She
was not of the streets. She was an innocent child and she lived here, in
safety. She slept in the dormitory above the laundry. The reverend sisters
loved her as we did. This was her home.’

‘She
may have run away,’ said Felici. ‘It is possible.’

‘Run
away? Why should she run away?’

‘She
was a child, Tuminello. Perhaps she wanted the company of other children. Pio
Nono taught her her catechism. You taught her to read and write. Perhaps she
also wanted to do childish things — to
play
as well as pray. Have you
considered that?’

‘No,’
said Tuminello, shaking his head, and, turning to Cesare Verdi, he held out his
empty glass. ‘That’s not what happened.’

‘No one
knows what happened,’ insisted Monsignor Felici. The papal Master of Ceremonies
had regained all his composure. He spoke once more with his accustomed
authority, looking straight at me. ‘I fear that the poor child may have joined
the band of feral children who live up on the hill beyond the pyramid. They are
notorious.’

‘They
are notorious now,’ cried Tuminello, slamming his hand upon the table. ‘There were
none there then.’

‘There
were gypsies there then — a whole encampment. ‘‘Look at her, Francesco. Agnes
was not a gypsy. She was an angel.’

Felici
turned in his chair once more to look up at the painting. ‘She was very
beautiful,’ he said simply. ‘No one will deny that. And one day we lost her.
She was here — then she was gone. She vanished into thin air. Where she went,
or why, we do not know. It was a long time ago now and we do not speak of it
because what purpose does it serve? It is idle speculation — and corrosive.’

‘She
vanished into thin air …’ Oscar repeated the phrase slowly, deliberately,
folding his napkin carefully as he did so and laying it down next to his plate.

‘That
seems a little improbable,’ I added from my end of the table. ‘“Vanishing into
thin air” seems to me to be the least likely explanation.’

Monsignor
Tuminello, who was now quite drunk, looked at me with blazing eyes. ‘What does
Sherlock Holmes tell Dr Watson in
The Sign of Four?
You wrote it. We
read it.’

‘It is
just a story,’ I pleaded, ‘an inconsequential yarn.’

‘You
will remember the line,’ insisted Tuminello. “‘How often have I said to you
that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth?”’

‘Yes, I
recall the line,’ I said.

‘Agnes
vanished into thin air. She was assumed into heaven. There is precedence.’

Monsignor
Felici shifted his mighty bulk uneasily. ‘Verdi, what time is it?’ he asked.

‘Coming
up to seven, sir.’

‘Evening
prayer calls,’ announced the Monsignor.
‘Agimus tibi gratias, omnipotens
Deus, pro universis beneficiis tuis, qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum,
‘he murmured, closing his eyes and resting his fingertips on the edge of
the table before him.

The
other priests responded automatically:
‘Deus det nobis suam pacem.’

‘Et
vitam aeternam,’
concluded Felici, pushing himself
to his feet, his eyes still closed.

‘Amen.’

The
Monsignor stepped away from the table, lifted his shoulders and looked about
the room, sniffing the air as a general might emerging from his tent on the day
of battle. ‘I must be about my duties,’ he declared.

Axel
Munthe, who had been seated facing him, got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Monsignor,
for a memorable tea party.’ The doctor looked to either side of him and held
out his hands. ‘Before I go, let me settle Monsignor Tuminello and Father
Bechetti in their cells. Brother Matteo will assist me.

‘Very
good,’ said Felici, briskly and nodded to Oscar and to me. ‘Thank you for your
company, gentlemen. ‘We rose to our feet and bowed towards the Monsignor. ‘At
least we had tea — and a colloquy of sorts. It wasn‘t quite what Breakspear
envisaged, but it had its lively moments. I think we can agree on that.’ He
clapped his hands together. ‘Forgive me if I hasten away. God is my saviour —
and my time-keeper.’

He
considered which way to make his exit and settled on moving to the right,
squeezing himself past Brother Matteo, resting his hands briefly on the
Capuchin’s shoulders as he did so. He paused to acknowledge the sacristan who
stood, head bowed, at the end of the sideboard.

‘A fine
English tea, Verdi. Thank you. Just a pity about the cucumber sandwiches.’

As the
papal Master of Ceremonies swept out of the refectory, the candles on the
dining table spluttered in a kind of genuflection.