Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (31 page)

‘Just
the one,’ said Oscar. ‘Nicholas Breakspear.’

‘Yes,’
said Tuminello, setting down his chalice on the floor and moving behind the
black sarcophagus. ‘Hadrian IV.’

He lit
a second match and held it high above another tomb. In the flickering light
before the flame died, I caught a glimpse of red porphyry and an ox’s skull and
two Medusa heads.

‘He’s
in here, safe and sound, thanks to the embalmer’s art. When we opened up the
tomb, we found he was just a little man wearing tiny Turkish slippers and a
huge emerald on a rose-gold ring. Cesare Verdi has promised to give Monsignor
Breakspear the ring when he gets his cardinal’s hat.’

‘Will
Monsignor Breakspear be made a cardinal?’ asked Oscar.

‘Certainly
and soon. We’re due another English cardinal and Breakspear’s the obvious
choice. It would be cruel to deny him. He burns with ambition.’

‘And
you, Monsignor Tuminello,’ asked Oscar holding up his chalice as the old
priest poured out more wine, ‘do you not burn with ambition?’

‘I do,’
he said, ‘but not for myself, not any longer. I burn with ambition for another,
one much more worthy. I burn with ambition for Agnes — our little lamb of God.’

‘You
loved her?’ I asked.

‘All
who knew her loved her. She was love made manifest.’

‘Who
loved her most?’ asked Oscar.

Tuminello
laughed. ‘Pio Nono, without a doubt. He was pope and no one in the world ever
behaves entirely normally with the pope … but Agnes did and the Holy Father
loved her for that. They prayed together — they
played
together. He
tottered along the corridor; she skipped along by his side. They were so easy
in one another’s company. It was a joy to behold them: the ancient pope, the
old shepherd, and his little lamb of God.’

‘They
were like father and daughter?’

‘No,
like grandfather and granddaughter, or great-grandfather even. Pio Nono was
very
old. He was eighty-five when he died. Agnes was thirteen or fourteen.
Father Bechetti was more like a father to her. He was the one who watched over
her. He did not want her to be spoilt by all the petting she received. He
worried that we paid her too much attention.’

‘And
yet he painted her? Did that not feed her vanity?’

‘Agnes
was without vanity and Father Bechetti did not paint her from life. He painted
her from memory. And his memory played tricks with him. It was when we lost her
that Bechetti began to lose his mind. It happened very slowly. That painting in
the sacristy — he began that about a year after she disappeared. It is not a
good likeness, in my opinion. I think Felici is right. It looks more like the
Blessed Virgin in Michelangelo’s
Pietà
than like our little Agnes.’

‘Why
did he paint her?’

‘Because
we asked him. We wanted something to remember her by. We
doted
on her.
We all did: the chaplains, the cardinals, the reverend sisters in the laundry,
the lay brothers who work in the gardens and in the builder’s yard … Agnes
was a free spirit; she could come and go as she pleased. Pio Nono allowed her a
freedom within the Vatican enjoyed by no one else — no one at all. And she
never took advantage of it. Everyone who knew her adored little Agnes.’

‘Brother
Matteo?’

‘He was
like a brother to her. Breakspear, too. They were both younger men then. I
taught Agnes to read and write, but Brother Matteo taught her about nature —
about plants and flowers, about the birds and wild creatures — and Breakspear,
bless his heart, tried to teach her English! He was very good with her. Very
patient. He taught her English nursery rhymes.’

‘And
what about Monsignor Felici?’

Tuminello
paused and peered inside his now-empty chalice. ‘I suppose if anyone loved her
least, it was Felici. He loves very little beyond himself.’ The Monsignor looked
up at us and grinned. ‘When Pio Nono teased us and named each of us after one
of the seven mortal sins, he gave Felici the sin of sloth. He said Felici was
too lazy to look beyond the looking-glass. Felici has only ever really been
concerned with himself.’

Monsignor
Tuminello chuckled, then frowned and shook his head, casting his eyes down
towards the chalice once again.

‘May
God forgive me,’ he muttered. ‘That was uncharitable — and wrong. Felici loved
her, too. He prepared her for her first communion. He was her confessor. He
knew her well and loved her dearly. We all did.’

The old
priest returned to the niche in the wall and retrieved the bottle of wine.

‘No
more for me,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ He divided the last of the bottle between
himself and Oscar.

He
looked at us, from one to the other, and his face was once more wreathed in
smiles. ‘She wrought miracles, you know. Pio Nono suffered from epilepsy until
little Agnes came into our lives. She cured him.’

I
raised an eyebrow.

‘I know
that she did,’ said Tuminello.

‘Did
she know that she did?’ asked Oscar.

‘No,
she was just a child, no more than six or seven when she first arrived. She was
utterly unselfconscious —all simplicity, all modesty. But she wrought miracles
and she still does.’

‘And
miracles are essential if little Agnes is to become a saint?’

‘Two
miracles are sufficient. Just two.’

‘And,’
said Oscar, casually, handing me his chalice to hold while he lit another
cigarette, ‘it is with regard to the proposed canonisation of little Agnes that
you seek the assistance of Mr Sherlock Holmes …‘

‘Of Dr
Conan Doyle,’ replied Monsignor Tuminello, ‘yes.’

He
turned to me. I saw both supplication and excitement in his eyes. I did not know
what to say.

‘I am
no expert on miracles,’ I began. ‘On the contrary, I—’

Oscar
raised a hand to silence me and looked directly at Monsignor Tuminello. ‘You
know for a certainty, do you, sir, that the child is dead?’

‘Yes,’
replied the priest. ‘I know that she is dead. I have heard her voice — she is
already at work among the angels.’

‘You
know that she is dead because you have heard her voice from beyond the grave?’
I asked.

‘That
is my profession, Dr Conan Doyle. Yes, I have heard the voice of Agnes from
beyond the grave.’

Oscar
raised his hand again to stop me from responding. ‘You know that Agnes is
dead,’ he said to Tuminello, ‘but you did not witness her death yourself?’

‘I did
not see her on the day she died. I had not seen her for a day or so. I was in
attendance on the Holy Father at the time. We all were. We knew that he was
dying. I witnessed his death, but not hers. God took each of them on the same
day — 7 February 1878. He took them together.’

‘It was
God’s doing?’ I asked, doubtfully.

‘Everything
is God’s doing, Dr Conan Doyle.’

‘You
did not witness Agnes’s death,’ Oscar persisted, ‘but did you see her body on
the day that she died?’

‘I did
not,’ said Monsignor Tuminello, draining his chalice, ‘but I know that
Monsignor Breakspear did. He found her body in the sacristy, laid out on the
seat of tears.’

‘He
told you that?’ said Oscar, surprised. ‘Breakspear swore to me that he had told
Cesare Verdi what he saw and no one else.’

‘Breakspear
did not tell me anything. I overheard him and Verdi talking about it once,
years ago. It is not easy to keep secrets within the sacristy. The walls are
thick, but there are no locks on any of the doors. I overheard Breakspear tell
his story and I tried to question him about it, but he would tell me nothing further.
He said no purpose would be served. He refuses absolutely to discuss the
matter. I know that he believes that Agnes took her own life.’

‘And if
she did take her own life — for whatever reason — she would not be eligible for
canonisation. Is that correct?’

‘That
is correct, Mr Wilde. The rules are strict. They have to be. A saint must die
in a state of grace.’ He laughed. ‘Cardinal Bellarmine, you know, was well on
his way to beatification when we opened his coffin and found that he had died
with his finger in his mouth. It raised the question: had the unfortunate
cardinal been buried alive? If he had been, who could tell what his final
thoughts might have been! If you are to join the canon of saints, how you die
is as important as how you lived.’

‘You
are promoting Agnes’s canonisation?’

‘Yes, I
will be her advocate. I am preparing the papers now. It has become my life’s
purpose.’

‘Who
knows of this?’ asked Oscar.

‘No
one, as yet — apart from you, gentlemen. I must have everything in order first
or the cause is futile.’

‘Why
are you doing this?’ I asked.

‘Because
I loved her and I honour her memory. In God’s eyes, she is a saint already. I
am merely doing God’s work here on earth. In her cause I shall be God’s
advocate —
advocatus Dei.’

‘And
when you have prepared your case, what happens?’

‘I
submit it to His Holiness for consideration. And His Holiness will then hand
the papers to the Office of the Promoter of the Faith who will appoint a
devil’s advocate —
advocatus diaboli
— a canon lawyer who will test the
case to exhaustion. He will require proof positive that Agnes lived and died in
such an exemplary and holy way that she is now in heavenly glory.’

‘He
will explore every aspect of her life?’

‘Every
aspect. The process can take years and the examination will be minute. A cause
can stand or fall on the most trivial matter. There is a case being considered
at the moment, that of Canonico del Buffalo, a missionary and a truly holy
man. But the devil’s advocate has found three things against him. Apparently,
he ordered his servant to buy large fish at the market, his mother used to curl
his hair and he was fond of chocolate cream. His promoters can overcome the
first two charges. Being in delicate health, he required good food. He needed
his strength to do God’s work. His mother curled his hair because, in his day,
longer hair was the fashion for ecclesiastics and
not
to have allowed
it to be curled would have been a sign of ostentation. But how to overcome the
matter of the chocolate cream: that is the problem!’

Oscar
and I joined in Tuminello’s wheezy laughter —Oscar with delight, I with
incredulity.

Oscar
drew on his cigarette. ‘We can take it that little Agnes, though a child, was
not unduly fond of chocolate cream.’

‘On hot
days, when Pio Nono sent out for ice creams for the chaplains and the
cardinals, Agnes always chose a chocolate ice and then gave hers to Monsignor
Felici.’

‘Ah,’
said Oscar, ‘as ever, self-indulgence was Monsignor Felici’s besetting sin, but
it was not Agnes’s.’

‘No one
will accuse Agnes of self-indulgence. No one will question her goodness, her
virtue or her faith. I am sure of that.’

‘And
the miracles?’ I enquired.

‘From
his boyhood onwards Pio Nono suffered from epilepsy. It is well known. He had
attacks all his life —they caused him much private distress and occasional
public embarrassment. And then Agnes came among us … and, after her first
communion, Pio Nono and Agnes prayed together, side by side, and from that day
the attacks stopped. He never had another.’

‘You
have
proof
of this?’ I asked.

‘I have
the Holy Father’s medical records. I have his doctors’ notes. Pio Nono suffered
from epileptic fits for every year of his adult life until 1871, the year Agnes
came to live in the Vatican. I have all the details. I have sufficient proof.
Agnes cured a pope of epilepsy!’

‘But
you need two miracles,’ said Oscar.

‘I have
proof of a further miracle — and Dr Munthe can vouch for this one.’

‘Munthe
knew the girl Agnes?’ I exclaimed.

‘No, I
don’t believe so. Dr Munthe has not been in Rome that long. But the man for
whom Agnes performed her miracle is a patient of his.’

‘Who is
he?’ asked Oscar.

‘Nobody
special, a charity case — an old man who lives up on the hill, in the woods
behind the pyramid. He collects bones from around the city and sells them to
the glue-maker. In the old days, every Friday before dawn he used to come here
with his cart to collect the bones from the Vatican kitchens. He knew Agnes.
She gave him coffee and bread for his breakfast. He called her his “little angel”,
and when she disappeared he missed her sorely. When he realised that she must
be dead, he began to pray to her.’

‘And
the miracle?’

‘The
man was a cripple, born with a withered foot. He dragged his leg when he
walked. I saw it with my own eyes. Then he prayed to little Agnes and she cured
him. Dr Munthe will attest to that.’

Oscar
finished his wine and returned the chalice to Monsignor Tuminello. The priest
returned the empty vessels to the niche in the wall.