Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (32 page)

‘I have
all I need,’ he said, ‘except a clear understanding of how Agnes died.’

I
wanted the light of reason to cut through the miasma of ‘belief’. ‘If she took
her own life—’ I began.

Tuminello
interrupted me. ‘Then the case is hopeless, Dr Conan Doyle.’ He looked directly
at me. ‘But she did not take her own life — I am convinced of that.’

‘How
can you be?’ I persisted. ‘You say the girl was devoted to the Holy Father?’

‘She
was.’

‘And
how old was she at the time of his death? Thirteen or fourteen? Girls of that
age are the creatures of their emotions, Monsignor Tuminello. Any doctor will
tell you that. They are at an age when changes are taking place within their
bodies that lead to emotional volatility. It is well known. In such a state,
Agnes’s distress at the death of Pope Pius might have driven her to do
something desperate.’

Tuminello
smiled at me. He had disposed of the end of his cigar and now clasped his hands
together, holding them up almost as if in prayer.

‘I hear
what you say, Dr Conan Doyle. And, yes, in the weeks before the Holy Father passed
away, when he lay dying, Agnes came to visit him in his quarters and she found
those last visits deeply distressing. She kept her tears from the Holy Father,
but she shed them.’

‘Did
you talk to her about her distress?’

‘No, I
was not her confessor. That was Felici’s role. He spent time with her — a great
deal of time. I was surprised. Customarily, Monsignor Felici is quite
self-absorbed. I think he took pity on the child. As the Holy Father’s death
approached, Felici heard her confession almost daily.’

‘And
what did the girl “confess”?’

‘The
secrets of the confessional are sacred, Dr Conan Doyle.’

‘You
know that, Arthur,’ murmured Oscar, reprovingly.

‘I do,
Oscar,’ I said, quietly. ‘I also know, from all I have heard, that suicide in
this case is undoubtedly a possibility. I think Monsignor Tuminello must accept
that.’

‘I do
accept that,’ cried the Monsignor, without rancour. He smiled at me, almost
seraphically. ‘Suicide is a possibility, but in this case not a likelihood.
Agnes may have been troubled, but she was ever-faithful. Suicide is a sin.
Despair is a sin. Agnes was without sin. I know it.’

Oscar
was now looking about, somewhat distractedly. He was wondering, I realised, if
he dare stub out his cigarette on the tomb of Pope Gregory V. (Oscar was oddly
fastidious: he never liked to drop a lighted cigarette on the ground.) As he
did the deed, over his shoulder he asked: ‘Could she have been murdered? Is
that a possibility?’

‘It
would be a blessing,’ declared Tuminello roundly.

‘A
blessing?’ I expostulated.

‘I
understand,’ said Oscar, returning to us. ‘She might have died a martyr’s
death. That could assist her on the road to sainthood.’

‘But if
all who knew her loved her,’ I said, shaking my head wearily, ‘who would murder
the poor child — and why?’

‘Exactly,’
said Tuminello. ‘She was universally adored.’

‘And
yet,’ said Oscar, putting his face close to the priest’s, ‘you have considered
the possibility of murder, Monsignor, have you not?’

‘I
have.’

‘And
why is that?’

‘Because
of something Agnes said, not long ago.

‘Not
long ago?
After
her death?’

‘It was
earlier this year. In January. I encountered her spirit at an exorcism.’

‘You
know it was Agnes?’ Oscar enquired.

‘Oh,
yes. She spoke her name quite distinctly.’

‘And
she addressed you?’

‘No,
she was wrestling with a devil within the troubled soul of one the reverend
sisters who works in the laundry here.’

‘And
what did the child say?’

‘She
spoke of the struggles of life and death. And she spoke of her own death — a
violent death. She spoke of a hand at her throat and a single finger pressed
against her mouth. She spoke of violence and a secret she had not shared.’

‘And?’

‘That
was enough. It troubled me. It resolved me in my purpose. It was then, in
January, that I knew I should not rest until I had discovered all I could about
how Agnes died.’

‘Not
only about how she died,’ said Oscar, ‘but also where she died, and what
happened to her body.’

‘We
know what we have learnt from Monsignor Breakspear,’ I said. ‘According to his
testimony, her body was last seen at ten o’clock on the night of
7
February
1878. Less than an hour later, it was gone. Who took it? Where was it taken?’

“‘Eliminate
all other factors,”’ said Monsignor Tuminello, “‘and the one which remains must
be the truth.” A favourite maxim of Mr Sherlock Holmes, I think.‘

‘I
recognise the line,’ I said.

‘I know
the truth,’ said Tuminello, still gazing at me. ‘God took her body. Agnes was
assumed into heaven.’

I
clasped my hands together and shut my eyes. ‘Forgive me, Monsignor,’ I sighed,
‘but that is preposterous.’

‘There
is precedent,’ said the priest, lightly. ‘But the fate of Agnes’s body does not
worry me unduly. What concerns me — and what will concern the devil’s advocate
— is the nature of her death. I must discover the whole truth about that, and I
need help to do so.’ Tuminello put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Frankly, I need the
services of a good detective, however sceptical.’

Oscar
laughed. ‘And that is why you lured Dr Conan Doyle to Rome, is it? You wanted
the brains behind Sherlock Holmes to come to your aid in your hour of need.’

The
Monsignor laughed also but less comfortably. He cast his eyes downward. ‘No,’
he protested weakly. ‘I am simply hoping to take advantage of Dr Conan Doyle
being here. It’s a happy chance that he has come to Rome and that we have met.’

‘It’s
not a happy chance, Monsignor. You planned it and planned it well. I must
congratulate you.’ Oscar narrowed his eyes and peered about him into the
gloom. ‘And to which of these late lamented popes did the finger and the hand
you sent to Mr Holmes belong? Before we leave, you must tell us that.’

19

Capri

A
nd
did he tell you?’ asked Axel Munthe. With tightly clenched fists, the Swedish
doctor was rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn as he asked the question.

‘He
did!’ replied Oscar gleefully. ‘The hand belonged to Pope Leo XII and the
finger to Pope Benedict XIV.’ Oscar paused dramatically. ‘Or was it the other
way around?’

My
friend, wide-eyed with excitement, looked to me for assistance — in vain. He
turned back to Munthe and gave a histrionic shrug of his shoulders. ‘It matters
not. According to Monsignor Tuminello, neither Holy Father had much to commend
him beyond the fact that his mortal remains were easily accessible and
epitomised the best of the ecclesiastical embalmer’s art.’

It was
now ten o’clock at night and — as per Munthe’s instruction in his note to me
that morning — we had presented ourselves at Keats’s house by the Spanish
Steps. The doctor asked us up into his rooms, but neither took our hats nor
suggested we take a seat. Given that we had called on him at his invitation, he
seemed oddly wary of us. He was self-evidently weary. He had removed his darkened
spectacles: his weak, pale eyes had a hollow, haunted look.

Oscar
appeared not to notice. ‘I told Monsignor Tuminello that I had first suspected
that it was he who had summoned Sherlock Holmes to the Vatican on the afternoon
that we first met, from the moment when the Monsignor arrived in the refectory
at the sacristy, saw Conan Doyle and immediately collapsed. It was the shock of
recognition — the surprise of a wild dream realised.’

Oscar’s
eyes flicked around the room: he glanced towards Munthe’s desk, table,
sideboard, chest of drawers. I was familiar with the signs: my friend was
hoping for a drink. None was forthcoming. He reached into his pocket for his
cigarette case.

‘Then,
foolishly,’ he went on, ‘I allowed myself to be distracted by the notion that
it was
Felici
who had summoned Holmes, wanting someone to expose
Breakspear!’

‘Does
Monsignor Breakspear need to be exposed?’ asked Munthe, looking confused and
stifling another yawn.

‘He
does and he will be. Conan Doyle is on the case.’

Oscar
took his cigarette to one of the candles on the mantelpiece above the
fireplace. ‘I should not have allowed myself to be distracted,’ he said putting
his cigarette to his mouth and bending his face close to the candle flame.
‘Tuminello’s story makes perfect sense.’

‘If you
believe that a man can hear the voices of the dead,’ I said, sarcastically, ‘it
does.’

‘Even
if you don’t, it does,’ rejoined Oscar robustly. He was in no mood for
argument. ‘Tuminello’s actions are all of a piece. The Monsignor — the
exorcist
— is obsessed with Agnes. To him, she is a saint already. But to prove it
to the world he needs to be able to answer the questions he knows the devil’s
advocate will ask. He needs to discover
precisely
how little Agnes
died. At the time of her disappearance, extensive enquiries were made, but nothing
of substance came to light. Breakspear says he saw her body, but he will say no
more than that. What’s Tuminello to do? For years he does nothing. He broods,
he
believes,
he drinks, he smokes, but he
does
nothing. And then,
on 21 January this year, he hears her voice!
Agnes speaks
—and she
speaks of a violent death and of a secret, of a hand at her throat and a finger
at her lips …’

‘Did
Tuminello say it was 21 January?’ I asked, surprised. ‘He mentioned the month,
but not the day.’

‘Well
done, Arthur,’ said Oscar, drawing enthusiastically on his cigarette. ‘You
have Holmes’s ear for detail. The precise date is merely my surmise. Tuminello
sent the first package to Sherlock Homes on 22 January this year — we know
that: we have seen the postmark; you kept the packaging. I am guessing that he
heard the voice on the day before, on 21 January, the feast of St Agnes.’

I
smiled. ‘Clearly, I am going to have to get Holmes to pen a monograph on the
uses of hagiography in the detection of murder.’ Oscar reached out his right
arm and squeezed my shoulder happily.

Dr
Munthe looked on bleary-eyed. ‘Why on earth did he approach “Sherlock Holmes”
at all?’

‘He was
desperate. It was a shot in the dark. Through the winter, week in, week out,
the Vatican’s little
circolo inglese
had been enjoying the tales of the
world’s foremost consulting detective. In his hour of need, Tuminello thought
he might consult him too. The book was there. He could copy out the Baker
Street address. Tuminello — who speaks near-perfect English but claims to be
able to read and write barely a word of the language — despatches his first
clue. It is a simple tuft of lamb’s wool.’ Oscar pointed his cigarette towards
Munthe triumphantly. ‘You saw that at once, Doctor.’