Suddenly he was crackling with energy. He paid the bill (with English money — he did it so charmingly, the young waiter seemed not to mind at all); he confiscated my newspaper (throwing it onto the floor next to his own); he tucked his arm into mine and led us from the hotel back onto the station concourse.
‘We shall find our train and if our porter has lost our luggage, so much the better. We can each buy a new wardrobe at the tailors in Via del Corso. They dressed John Keats, you know.’ He looked down at me and winced. ‘You are wearing tweeds, Arthur, in July, in Italy. No wonder the Pope is leaving town.’
When we found our carriage — Oscar had booked us first class on the ten o’clock Milano—Roma diretto — we found that we were not alone. Already ensconced in the window seats, with hats, cane and parasol, their bags and baggage on the seats immediately beside them, were a man of about forty and a young woman, seemingly a dozen years his junior. I sensed at once that they were English and I saw at once that she was very pretty. As we stepped into the compartment, she looked up at me and smiled. She had round brown eyes, a small, pointed nose, a small, happy mouth, and the hint of a dimple in her chin. Her face was boyish, but her figure was not. She was wonderfully alluring, dressed in a cornflower-blue pleated skirt and white silk blouse. As her eye caught mine, she held out her hand.
‘Catherine English,’ she said.
‘Arthur Conan Doyle,’ I replied.
As we shook hands and I caught the scent of lily of the valley in her perfume, the book she had been reading fell from her lap onto the floor. I bent forward to retrieve it.
‘Ah,’ I said, returning the volume, ‘The Lays of Ancient Rome. I’ve never read it.’
Oscar loomed over my shoulder. ‘A classic is something everyone wants to have read and nobody wants to read.’
‘I’m enjoying it,’ said the young woman, smiling. ‘Very much.’
Oscar lifted my portmanteau onto the luggage rack above us and intoned:
‘Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods.”’
He looked down and extended his hand to our fellow traveller. ‘Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Conan Doyle’s gentleman.’
‘No, he’s not,’ I burst out, embarrassed. ‘He’s—’
‘I know who you both are,’ interposed Catherine English, laughing. ‘You’re celebrated. Mr Doyle is the creator of Sherlock Holmes, and Mr Wilde is a poet and a better poet even than Lord Macaulay, in my estimation.’ She gently tapped her copy of The Lays of Ancient Rome and tucked the book under the straw hat on the seat next to her.
‘Man is the only creature who blushes — or needs to,’ said Oscar, bowing towards the lady.
The man seated opposite her lowered his newspaper and nodded briefly to each of us in turn. ‘Martin English,’ he said, curtly, and uttered nothing more.
He was taller, leaner, darker than the lady. His eyes were large and brown like hers, his hair was curly. On second glance, he was not as old as I had first reckoned. He was thirty-seven, perhaps, but his features had a weary, malcontent quality to them that added to his years. Apart from a cream-coloured shirt and brown shoes, he was dressed all in black.
‘Martin is shy,’ said the young lady. ‘He doesn’t mean to be boorish. It’s just his way.
The man grimaced, grunted and disappeared once more behind his newspaper.
‘I understand entirely,’ said Oscar. ‘In this I am with Mr English completely.’ My friend seated himself in the corner of the compartment, by the door, and indicated that I should take my place opposite him. ‘Let us be seated, Arthur, and let us be quiet.’ He looked from me to the young lady. ‘You two have books to read and I have a sonnet to compose. Hush now. Not a word before Bologna.’ He closed his eyes and rested his head against the antimacassar.
‘Are we going via Bologna?’ I asked, seating myself with a small sigh. The train was moving now and the sun streamed into our compartment; I felt that a congenial conversation with Catherine English was something that would make the final leg of our long journey most agreeable.
‘Hush, Arthur. Not a word before Florence then. Not a word.’
‘Nonsense, gentlemen. Pay no attention to Martin. He’s an old curmudgeon. Of course we must talk. I am so excited to meet you both. I want to learn all about you. What brings you to Italy? Why are you here? Where are you going?’ She turned towards me and stretched out her hand, across her hat and book and the bags and parcels on the seat next to her. ‘What are you writing now, Mr Doyle? Are you here undertaking research? I am sure you are. Do tell.’
‘Well …’ I hesitated. ‘Yes and no.’
‘It’s Dr Conan Doyle,’ said Oscar, opening one eye and turning his head towards the lady. ‘Customarily, he’s quite particular about it. He’s a medical man, a physician, as well as an author.’
‘Oh,’ said Catherine English, blushing prettily. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She looked at me with wide-open eyes. ‘You’ll think me very foolish, Dr Doyle, but somehow I thought you were a detective.’
It was my turn to grunt. ‘People do think that,’ I said. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I suppose.’ I brushed imaginary crumbs from my trouser legs. ‘Sherlock Holmes is the detective. But he’s a fictitious character, of course.’
‘He’s so real I supposed you had to be a detective also.’
‘No, it’s all imagination.’ I looked over towards Oscar, hoping that he might come to my rescue. ‘My friend Wilde here is more of a detective than I am.’
‘Am I?’ he said unhelpfully, opening one eye.
‘You are. You know you are. You’re observant. Though normally you never stop talking, you know how to listen, too. Your parents taught you. It’s a good discipline. And you’re a poet, so you can make the imaginative leap when necessary.
‘The “imaginative leap”,‘ repeated Oscar, both eyes open now. ‘I like that.’
‘You know what I mean, Oscar. You dare to think things that Lestrade and the other plodders at Scotland Yard would never dare. And you’re a gentleman, in your way, so you can mix and mingle among all sorts. Your ordinary detective has to come in through the servants ‘entrance, but you can walk in through the front door.’
‘So you’re the detective, Mr Wilde,’ said Catherine English, turning her gaze on Oscar. ‘How wonderful.’ She leant forward, eagerly. ‘Tell me, what does your detective’s eye tell you about me?’
Oscar sat up. ‘That you are young, pretty, highly intelligent and wonderfully well read,’ he said.
‘I could have told you as much,’ I protested. ‘Anyone could.’
Oscar ignored me and continued to look steadily at our beautiful companion. ‘What more can I say?’
‘Anything that occurs to you, Mr Wilde. This is marvellously amusing.’
‘Well, then,’ said Oscar, ‘I can tell you that you like to be amused, that you have secrets and that you are impressively protective of your older brother.’
‘I have secrets, Mr Wilde?’
‘We all have secrets,’ said Oscar.
I turned to Catherine English. ‘You have a brother?’ I enquired.
Oscar intervened. ‘The gentleman sitting opposite Miss English is her brother. Our companions are brother and sister, Arthur, not husband and wife.’
‘Is that so?’ I asked, confused. The young lady nodded, smiling. ‘I assumed…’
‘Never make assumptions, Arthur. It’s the golden rule.’
I turned to Oscar. ‘Brother and sister. How on earth did you know?’
‘Well, it was fairly obvious, Arthur, even before we learnt their names. The couple are sitting face to face. They might have been married, except for the fact that Miss English i
s not wearing a wedding ring. They could have been sweethearts, except that then we would have expected to see them sitting side by side. When we discovered that they shared a surname, I thought for a moment they might be cousins, except that Miss English’s easy familiarity with Mr English — a familiarity bordering almost on impertinence: she called him “boorish” and “curmudgeonly” — suggested a much closer kinship. The age difference does not allow them to be father and daughter, ergo they must be brother and sister.’
‘Well done, Mr Wilde.’
‘Yes, Oscar, congratulations. A tour de force.’
‘And I’ll hazard two more thoughts while I’m about it. Miss English and her brother are orphans — and Mr English is not all that he seems.’
4
Brown shoes
Martin English lowered his newspaper and turned hi head towards Oscar, his stare cold and unamused. He spoke in a low voice, slowly, emphasising each word in turn. ‘And how, sir, do you know that I am not all that I seem?’
‘Because of the brown shoes that you are wearing, ‘replied Oscar, lightly.
English glanced down at his elegantly shod feet. He was wearing two-tone ankle boots in chestnut and tan. ‘Is there something amiss in my “brown shoes”?’ he asked. Again he spoke slowly, emphatically, without emotion.
‘No,’ said Oscar, quickly, ‘nothing at all. Far from it. I have a pair quite like them myself, bought — like yours, I think — from John Lobb of St James’s.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘Yes,’ said English, eventually, looking up from his boots to return Oscar’s gaze. ‘And what of that?’
‘They are beautiful brown shoes, Mr English,’ answered Oscar, smoothly, ‘but I cannot help noticing that you are wearing them with black socks.’
‘Ah,’ grunted English, folding his newspaper and placing it carefully on the seat at his side. ‘I see. A faux pas — literally.’ He did not smile. He folded his arms and studied Oscar. ‘I have read about you, Mr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I know that you are a man of fashion, noted as an “aesthete”. I apologise for my sartorial lapse. But explain to me, please, if you can, how it leads you to believe that I am not entirely what I seem?’
‘It’s not just the socks and the shoes, Mr English. Your elegant cream silk shirt is equally at odds with the black serge suit that you are wearing. You are sporting the shirt de luxe and the hand-made shoes of a man about town — a gay blade. But in all other respects you are dressed in the unseasonable and sombre garb of a clergyman. You are a clergyman, are you not?’
‘I am,’ he answered, dryly.
‘Well done, Mr Wilde,’ exclaimed Catherine English, clapping her hands together with delight.
‘It was hardly a miracle of deduction, dear lady. Since we boarded the train, until just now, Mr English has been lurking behind a copy of The Church Times. I observed his eyes while he was looking at the paper. He was reading it, column by column, page after page, most assiduously. Only a clergyman would do that.’
Martin English said nothing. His sister leant forward and touched him on the knee, playfully. ‘You see, brother dear, Mr Wilde has found you out. You shouldn’t pretend not to be what you are — even on holiday.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Oscar, pleasantly. ‘I love acting. It is so much more real than life.’
Mr English looked at him coldly. Miss English laughed and patted her brother’s knee reprovingly. She glanced in my direction and smiled at me, then turned back to Oscar. ‘And how do you know that we are orphans, Mr Wilde? You are correct, of course. Our parents died many years ago.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Oscar. ‘I sensed you might be orphans, that was all. It was a guess, nothing more.’
‘The “imaginative leap”,’ she said.
‘If you like.’ I followed my friend’s look as he glanced between the brother and sister — one so cold and forbidding, the other so warm and tender — and continued boldly: ‘Forgive my impertinence for saying so, Miss English, but I sensed your shared isolation. I sensed it was just the two of you against the world.’
Her smile softened. ‘There is no impertinence, Mr Wilde. It was I who invited you to tell us what you could see with your detective’s eye. I confess I’m a little startled that you have seen so much so quickly.’ She gave a small sigh and looked down at her delicate hands now resting, folded, in her lap. ‘Martin is the Anglican chaplain in Rome — newly appointed. He has been in post only three months. It is not altogether easy.’
‘Change is never easy,’ said Oscar. ‘And perhaps Mr English is fonder of incense than some of his flock?’
‘How do you know all this, Mr Wilde?’
‘I am just playing imaginative leapfrog, Miss English. The Church Times is an Anglo-Catholic newspaper. I imagine your brother’s parishioners, being expatriates in the main, are wedded to the tea-and-muffins Anglicanism of the old school. There will be tensions.’
‘There are tensions, Mr Wilde.’
English, who had been staring out of the window at the passing countryside, turned back to look at Oscar. ‘Pay no heed to my sister,’ he said, quietly. ‘I am quite content with my lot.’
‘I am happy to hear it,’ said Oscar.
‘But Mr Wilde speaks true,’ protested Catherine, gently. She looked at Oscar once more. ‘My brother’s predecessor was the Anglican chaplain in Rome for many years. He was much loved.’
‘He was a spiritual husk,’ said English, tartly.
‘Nevertheless, he was much loved.’
‘And I am not.’
‘You are respected, Martin, I am sure of that. And love will come — in time.’
‘The scriptures tell us that we must love our God, I know that, but I am not sure where it says in the Gospels that Our Lord tells us that we must love our clergy. And I am not sure, either, that we need trouble complete strangers with the trivial difficulties of the Anglican chaplaincy at Rome.’
‘Quite right, brother mine. We do not.’ Catherine English sat back in her seat and rearranged the pleats of her skirt. She did not seem unduly abashed by her brother’s reproof. After a moment’s silence, she looked up once more and smiled. ‘Enough about us,’ she declared.
‘Tell us about you.’ Her small teeth were pearly white and there was something delightfully mischievous about the sparkle in her eye. She turned towards me. ‘You are coming to Rome to undertake some research, did you say?’
As I was forming my reply, I heard Oscar boom, ‘Yes! Yes, indeed. Conan Doyle is writing a new mystery. It has an intriguing title: Sherlock Holmes and the Vatican Murders.’
‘Oh my,’ exclaimed Miss English, delightedly. ‘Murders? There is to be more than one?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Oscar swept on. ‘His American readers expect that. His American publishers demand that. He is almost paid by the murder nowadays, you know.’
I intervened. ‘This is nonsense, Miss English. Ignore my friend, please — though he is correct, to an extent. We are engaged upon research of a kind and we are going to Rome and, once there, we are hoping to visit the Vatican …‘ My train of words ran out of steam as, suddenly, in my mind’s eye I pictured the severed finger, the severed hand and the lock of hair that had been sent to me care of Mr Sherlock Holmes.
Oscar came to my rescue. ‘I have been to Rome before, ‘he announced, con brio, ‘fifteen years ago, in younger and happier days. When I was just twenty-two, I had the honour of a private audience with Pope Pius IX — Pio Nono.’
‘How wonderful, Mr Wilde,’ said Catherine English, warmly. ‘What was he like?’
‘Very old. Very frail. He was an epileptic, they say, though I saw no sign of it. It was the year before his death. He gave me his blessing, which I shall treasure always. And I sensed his goodness. He had the sweetest smile.’
‘He is fondly remembered still. Apparently, on hot days he would send out for ice creams for the cardinals.’
Martin English shifted in his seat. ‘I imagine he would rath
er be remembered for defining the dogma of the immaculate conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Oscar, ‘but none of us can choose how history will come to view us, alas.’
‘How is Leo XIII viewed?’ I asked, recovering my concentration.
‘He is seen as more austere,’ replied Martin English, looking at me directly for the first time, ‘more disciplined. He is said to be more of an intellectual, though quite as devoted to the Marian cause as his predecessor.’
‘We have not yet had an audience,’ added his sister. ‘We are hoping to arrange one later in the year, but it is not easy — as you will know, Mr Wilde.’
‘As I recall, it’s a matter of whom you know or how much you can pay. I was fortunate,’ said Oscar. ‘I had a Catholic friend with the right connections.’
‘We are doing our best to cultivate those,’ said Miss English, with an impish smile. ‘We have our summer fund-raiser at All Saints tomorrow evening to which we have invited the papal Master of Ceremonies as a guest of honour — and he has accepted.’
‘We have a new Anglican church in Rome,’ explained Martin English. ‘It has been ten years in the building.’ He sighed before muttering, somewhat sourly, ‘The fund—raising never stops.’
‘It is necessary Martin, you know that, and the evening will be enjoyable. Even you would enjoy it if you approached it in the right spirit.’ She turned to Oscar and to me. ‘You would enjoy it, gentlemen — I know you would. There will be sherry and Italian cheeses.’
‘In the church itself?’ I enquired.
‘In the nave,’ she said. ‘You must come.’
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 4
