Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (33 page)

‘Did
I?’ asked Munthe.

‘You
did,’ I laughed. ‘I seem to recall that Oscar was convinced it was a lock of
hair plucked from the brow of a golden Adonis.’

Oscar
was too merrily on song to be put off his stride. ‘Eventually, of course, we
recognised what we should have seen at once: that the lamb’s wool symbolised
Agnes, Pio Nono’s little lamb of God.’ He turned to the mantelpiece and flicked
ash from the tip of his cigarette into the upturned palm of the late builder
from the church of All Saints. ‘The dead hand — not a woman’s hand, as we first
thought, but the small and delicate hand of a pontiff unfamiliar with hard
labour — was Tuminello’s second clue, sent to Holmes in growing desperation six
weeks after the first. As it transpired, it was the clue that we unwrapped
first. It certainly caught our attention. The final clue, of course, was the
finger. It was the finger that pointed us in the direction of the Holy See,
thanks to the tell-tale rose-gold ring—’

‘Stolen,’
I added, ‘by Monsignor Tuminello’s own admission, from the dead hand of Pope
Pius IX. Tuminello attended the embalming of His Holiness and brought away Pio
Nono’s rose-gold ring as a souvenir.’

‘Yes,’
mused Oscar, twin plumes of cigarette smoke filtering from his nostrils, ‘of
the seven rings once in the possession of Pio Nono’s “seven deadly sins”, the
only ring not yet accounted for is the one that belonged to Father Bechetti.
Where it’s got to, heaven knows.’

He
stood erect, head held high, chest expanded, with his back to Munthe’s
fireplace. With his right hand he patted the outside of his breast pocket.

‘I
still have Pio Nono’s ring in my wallet, as my souvenir, but before we left St
Peter’s, we returned the severed limbs to their respective sarcophagi. Arthur
generously gave them up, though Monsignor Tuminello said they’d not been
missed. We said a prayer as we reunited hand and digit with their rightful
owners.’

‘You
have returned them?’ Munthe smiled at Oscar. ‘I might have hoped to add them to
my collection. Even a minor pope’s hand is quite a novelty.’

As we
laughed, from behind the brocaded curtain in the corner of the room came the
noise of cascading saucepans. Oscar turned eagerly. ‘Are we going to eat?’ he
asked.

‘You
may do as you please, gentlemen,’ said Munthe, putting on his spectacles. ‘I
must calm my companion and then I am for my bed. I must be up at five. I have
said that I will accompany Brother Matteo and Father Bechetti’s coffin to
Capri. We are taking the Naples train at a quarter to six.’

‘We
shall join you,’ declared Oscar, jubilantly. ‘Capri in July will be glorious.’

‘We’re
accompanying a coffin, leaving at dawn and returning at dusk. It’s not a
seaside holiday.’

‘Nevertheless,
we shall come too, if you’ve no objection, Doctor?’

‘None
whatsoever,’ said Munthe distractedly. He had moved to the chest of drawers on
the far side of the room and, from on top of it, from a shallow metal tray that
stood alongside a human skull, he had picked up a small syringe. He handled it
with care.

‘Which
is it tonight,’ asked Oscar, ‘morphine or cocaine?’

Munthe
raised his eyes languidly from the needle’s point and gazed at Oscar. ‘It is
cocaine,’ he said, ‘a seven per cent solution. Would you care to try it?’

‘Thank
you,’ said Oscar, ‘we’ll have a sandwich and a bottle of Barbaresco at the
hotel instead. You should eat something, too, Doctor. Won’t you join us?’

‘If
you’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I’ve eaten, but I have not slept all day.’ He
stood facing us, syringe in hand. It was clear that our evening was at a close.

‘I do
apologise, Doctor,’ I said, hastily. ‘We would not have called, but in your
note to me this morning you said you were going to rest during the day and
suggested we come by this evening.’

‘I did,
but as it turned out I got no rest. I’ve not slept since Friday night. As soon
as I got in from Father Bechetti’s deathbed this morning, I was called out
again.

Another
case.

‘Another
day, another death,’ said Oscar, smiling.

‘As it
happens, yes,’ said Munthe, ‘but in this instance I arrived too late to be of
any use. I had no involvement in the patient’s death. The poor man killed
himself —gradually, over many years.’

‘Ah,’
sighed Oscar, ‘the demon drink …’

‘Yes.
It broke him, slowly. He was a pathetic creature at the last. He lived up the
hill, by the Protestant Cemetery, not far from where your hero Keats lies
buried. His boys want him buried there.’

‘His
boys?’ asked Oscar, leaning forward earnestly. ‘This is the father of the two
boys who come from the field behind the pyramid?’

‘The
immoral ones?’ I added.

‘The
boys I warned you about — yes, those lads. Their father was a bone man and a
drunkard. He’d been of little use to anyone for several years. Now he’s dead.
He passed away last night, according to the boys.’

‘How do
you know?’ asked Oscar, pressingly. ‘Have you spoken with them?’

‘I have
been with them for much of the day. They found his body this morning when they
went to give him his breakfast. He was dead. They saw that at once. His body
was rigid and stone cold. They ran into town, encountered the Anglican chaplain
and Rennell Rodd in the piazza, and told them what had occurred. Then they came
here to find me. It’s a sorry business, but the boys will be fine. Their father
had not been a father to them for many years. He had only been a burden. Today
they are saddened by their loss. Soon they will simply feel relieved.’

From
behind the brocaded curtain came the sharp clatter of tumbling kitchenware.
Oscar started.

Munthe
laughed. ‘Before you go, gentlemen, let me introduce you to my companion. She
is not easy to live with, but I do love her so. Her name is Cleopatra. Around this
time in the evening she gets hungry for attention —and for cocaine.’

Dr
Munthe stepped across the room and slowly pulled back the brocaded curtain to
reveal the kitchen beyond. There, on top of the unlit stove, cross-legged and
rocking to and fro, sat a beautiful Arabian baboon.

At five-forty-five the
following morning, Oscar Wilde and I scrambled aboard the Rome to Naples
diretto
at the very moment of the train’s departure. We had reached the railway
station before five-thirty, but Oscar refused to proceed to our platform until
he had equipped himself with coffee — and the station’s coffee vendor was not a
man to be hurried. (And his coffee, it turned out, was not coffee to be drunk.
‘It’s cold and tastes of sour walnuts, ‘croaked Oscar, bitterly. ‘It was sent
to punish us. God does not approve of early risers.’)

The
murky liquid having been consigned instantly to the gutter, we rushed across
the station concourse towards our train. Amid doors slamming, whistles blowing
and steam hissing, frantically we ran along the platform until, at last, we
caught sight of Axel Munthe seated in the corner of a second-class compartment.
As the train juddered to life and lurched ponderously forward, we heaved
ourselves onto it. The Swedish doctor, dressed in his customary linen suit,
wearing his usual hat, holding a handkerchief and polishing the lenses of his
spectacles with fastidious fingers, squinted up at us as we stumbled,
breathless, into the carriage and tumbled, panting, onto the seats opposite
him.

‘Ah,
you’re here, gentlemen,’ he said, smiling.

‘We
are,’ wheezed Oscar. ‘Just. How are you? How is your monkey?’

‘I am
well, and Cleopatra is a baboon, not a monkey, but thank you for asking. When I
left, she was sleeping like a baby.’ The doctor put on his spectacles and
tucked his handkerchief neatly into his pocket. ‘She’s only eighteen months
old so, in fact, she isn’t much more than a baby. Baboons can live to be
forty-five years of age in captivity, you know. They thrive as pets in a way
that’s impossible in the wild. I much prefer animals to humans, don’t you?’

‘That’s
too deep a question to ask a man who’s not yet had his morning coffee,’
murmured Oscar. He sniffed and looked sharply around the compartment, then
turned back to study Munthe. ‘Where is your corpse?’ he demanded.

‘Father
Bechetti’s coffin is in the luggage van. Brother Matteo is there, too. He felt
he should keep an eye on it. He’s a good man.’

‘So
everybody says,’ muttered Oscar.

His
hooded eyes shifted their gaze from Dr Munthe to the young lady seated next to
him. I had already greeted her with a smile and a mouthed ‘Good morning’. It
was Catherine English, looking lovelier than ever, despite the ungodly hour.
She was wearing a summer dress of the palest pink, with deep cuffs and a high
collar of soft white silk. I was surprised to see her. Clearly, so was Oscar.

‘Look
at the state of us, Miss English,’ he apologised. ‘We’re a disgrace. I’m
unshaven and unkempt.’ Oscar glanced towards me with a look of exaggerated
disgust.

‘Arthur
is probably unshaven also — it’s difficult to tell, given his absurd moustache.
If we’d known we were to have the honour …’ He half rose in his seat to bow
to the lady.

‘When I
saw Dr Munthe yesterday,’ she explained, ‘he mentioned that he was coming to
Capri and, as I have never been, I asked whether I might come too. I shan’t get
in the way, I promise you. I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.’

I
smiled at her. She had a lovely way with words and a charming manner of
speaking: the tone of her voice combined clarity and strength of character
with intelligence and gentleness.

Oscar
ran his eye over her rose-coloured costume. ‘You’re not coming to the funeral?’

‘None
of us is,’ said Munthe, intervening, ‘unless, of course, you wish to stay on. I
can’t. The funeral won’t be for a day or so. We’re merely accompanying the
coffin to the church. As I am the doctor who signed the death certificate, it
simplifies matters with the paperwork at the harbour if I escort the deceased
onto the island. If all goes well, we can return to Rome late tonight.’

‘I will
keep in the background,’ said Catherine English, lowering her eyes. ‘I have
brought my book.’

Oscar
raised an eyebrow.
‘The Lays of Ancient Rome?’

‘No,’
she answered prettily.
‘The Sign of Four
by Arthur Conan Doyle. I am
fond of a good detective story.’

Oscar
sniffed again, stifling a sneeze. ‘Has Dr Munthe told you about the case we are
investigating?’

The
young woman looked anxiously in the doctor’s direction. ‘I have told Miss
English everything,’ said Munthe, ‘without breaking a doctor’s code of
confidentiality, of course.’

‘Of
course,’ said Oscar. ‘This is good. It means we can speak freely. There is
something I wanted to ask Dr Munthe last night, but there was not time.’

‘We
have time now,’ said the doctor amiably. Oscar pushed himself forward on his
seat so that his face was close to Munthe’s. He lowered his voice: we had to
strain to hear him above the hiss and rumble of the train. ‘Is Monsignor
Tuminello
mad?’
he asked.

‘Mad?’
repeated Munthe.

‘This
exorcism business — it’s lunacy, isn’t it?’

‘I am
not that sure it is,’ replied Munthe, carefully. He sat back in his seat,
pulling his face away from Oscar’s. ‘As Tuminello’s physician, and friend, at
his behest I have attended a number of his exorcisms. He certainly appears to
bring peace to troubled souls. With nothing more than words and oil and holy
water, he achieves what I can manage only with a syringe and a seven per cent
solution.’

‘What
happens?’ I asked, turning to Munthe. ‘How does the act of exorcism work?’

‘It’s a
ritual,’ said Munthe, ‘that’s all.’

I
pressed him. ‘What takes place — exactly?’ I asked. He regarded me steadily.
‘It varies, but it always begins in the same way. The priest, holding up a
crucifix, addresses the victim, the “possessed one”, with the words
“Ecce
crucem Domini”
— “Behold the cross of the Lord”. Then he touches them with
the hem of his stole and rests his hand on their head. The object of the
exercise, according to Tuminello, is to engage “the demons within”, to take
them on in personal combat and defeat them. It’s a fight to the death.’

‘And
these “demons”,’ enquired Oscar, ‘how do they manifest themselves?’

‘They
speak through the victim — usually they cry out loud. They declare themselves:
“I am Satan, I am Lucifer, I am Beelzebub”. Sometimes they emerge slowly,
stealthily; more often in loud and sudden bursts. I was with Tuminello once
when he performed an exorcism on a young boy of nine or ten. The child was
uncontrollable. His language was vicious, utterly vile. The lad — he was a slip
of a boy — had to be held down by four grown men. They struggled to subdue him.
I watched amazed. Tuminello explained it very simply. He said the boy had “the
strength of the devil” inside him.’

‘Could
there have been another explanation?’ I asked.

‘Possibly
but it’s one not yet known to science.’