‘I’ve just seen Mr Rennell Rodd,’ I told him.
‘I saw him too, here in the piazza.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘No, he cut me — deliberately. He walked right past me and looked the other way.’
‘Are you sure that he saw you, Oscar?’
‘He saw me and I saw him. He was with the Rome Irregulars.’
I looked at him, not comprehending.
‘Our boys,’ he smirked.
‘”Our boys”? You mean the street urchins?’
‘Yes. Romulus and Remus: Munthe’s “notorious pair” — Breakspear’s little scavengers.’
‘Rennell Rodd was in conversation with those two …’ I let the sentence trail away.
Oscar laughed at my embarrassment. ‘Yes, Arthur. Deep in conversation, over there, by the obelisk, in the very centre of the square.’
‘But he’s a gentleman, he’s First Secretary at the British Embassy. What possible business could he have with those wretched boys?’
‘Perhaps he was ordering up a haunch of badger for the ambassador’s table or making an assignation of a more personal nature for himself.’
I looked at my friend. ‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked.
‘When we were at Oxford together, Rennell Rodd and I, we were disciples of the great art critic, Walter Pater. Pater was our teacher and our guide. We read his Studies in the History of the Renaissance. It was from Pater that we first learnt of “the beauty of brilliant sins”. It was Pater who taught us that a person of cultivation must seek out every exquisite experience that he can — taste all of the fruits of all the trees in all the gardens of the world.
Rennell Rodd may simply have been enquiring of the boys what sweet delights are currently on offer in the wild orchards behind the pyramid.’
‘What you are suggesting is appalling, Oscar,’ I said with great seriousness, ‘and slanderous.’
‘They are good-looking lads,’ said Oscar, wickedly, ‘and I’m sure I saw Rennell Rodd twirling his moustaches.’
‘The boys are no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age,’ I protested.
‘In ancient Greece—’ Oscar began, smiling.
‘We are in modern Rome, Oscar,’ I countered sternly. ‘I want to hear no more of this.’
‘Well,’ said my friend, lighting a cigarette and blowing out the match, ‘let us assume then that he was merely after a weasel or a stoat in the Breakspear tradition.’
A waiter had appeared at our table. I ordered a glass of grenadine and soda.
‘What do you make of Monsignor Breakspear?’ I asked, after a moment’s pause, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I thought it odd that he invited us to tea so pressingly and then failed to appear himself.’
Oscar drew on his cigarette. ‘Ill-mannered, I agree,’ he said. ‘But, worse than that,’ he added, ‘I sense that Monsignor Breakspear is not an original thinker, which is surprising, given he’s a Jesuit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that Breakspear borrows other men’s ideas. This notion of eating his way through the animal kingdom, for example …‘
‘Tasting all the fruits of all the trees …’
‘It’s not original. Far from it. Dr Buckland, palaeontologist, Canon of Christ Church, Dean of Westminster, was doing it before Breakspear was born. Panther, crocodile, bluebottle, louse: Dr Buckland ate the lot. He was truly omnivorous. Once he came across the preserved heart of Louis XIV of France in a reliquary, declared, ,,I have eaten many strange things in my time, but never the heart of a king,” and, before anyone could stop him, swallowed the precious relic whole. Buckland’s son, Frank, whom I knew, carried on the family tradition, hosting extraordinary feasts at Willis’s — with sea-slugs, kangaroo, elephant trunk and mole pie on the menu. The Bucklands were the genuine article. There is something about Breakspear that doesn’t ring true.’
‘These eccentric banquets were held at Willis’s Rooms in St James’s?’
‘Yes, at Willis’s — the same Willis’s where the sacristan’s mother helps out in the kitchens and his twin brother is the maître d’hôtel, Gus Green.’
‘Your particular friend.’
‘A good maître d’hôtel is a gentleman’s truest friend. I know Gus Green. I trust him. But there’s something about Cesare Verdi that I don’t trust.’
‘He seemed a decent sort to me.’
‘Did you notice what he was wearing?’
‘Not especially. He seemed well dressed.’
‘Exactly. He was wearing a silk shirt. With cufflinks.’
‘Is that suspect?’
‘In a sacristan, it’s certainly surprising.’
Oscar stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray on the café table and drained his glass. He breathed in deeply, expanding his chest and raising and turning his head to gaze about the piazza. ‘We shall learn more hereafter,’ he announced. ‘This very afternoon, in fact.’ He sat back and produced a small envelope from his pocket, which he handed to me. ‘Note the crossed keys embossed on the back of the envelope. It’s a missive from Monsignor Felici, delivered to our hotel before breakfast. He apologises for yesterday’s botched tea party and invites us to a proper one today. The Holy See’s circolo inglese will be taking English tea at five o’clock this afternoon and requests the pleasure of our company.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘This is what we’ve come for, Arthur. The mystery is going to start to unravel now, I’m certain of it. And I think we will find it darker than you dare imagine.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because a severed finger and a severed hand have brought us here — and whoever sent them did so in desperation.’ He waved to the waiter, summoning our bill, pushed back his chair and rose from the table.
‘And between now and then,’ I said, ‘what other avenues should we be exploring?’
‘None,’ he declared roundly. ‘We have secured our entrée to the Vatican. That’s all we need.’
‘Then I’d best get on with ploughing through that portmanteau of correspondence,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘That’s why I came to the continent after all.’
‘Forget your correspondence, Arthur. The Godalming Gardening Society can wait.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s a beautiful day, my friend. We should take the air.’ He looked at me conspiratorially. ‘Follow me, Arthur. I have a surprise in store for you.’
12
‘A sandbag!’
As we left the shade of the café and made our way into the heat of the open piazza, I felt apprehensive.
‘We are not going anywhere near those wretched boys, I trust.’
He laughed. ‘Nowhere near. The “wretched boys” have cut and run. Rennell Rodd seems to have frightened them away.’
‘I am glad to hear it. So where are we going? Are we taking a carriage?’ My friend was walking us towards the carrozza stand in the north-eastern corner of the piazza, by the church of Santa Maria.
‘Of a kind — but first we are climbing a hill.’
We reached the church and went beyond it, past the carrozza stand, out of the piazza, up some stone steps and onto a narrow sandy path that led through trees and bushes to a steep incline. It was most unlike Oscar to seek a hill to climb.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked again.
‘In search of romance,’ he replied. ‘We are in Rome, after all. And I promised you adventure.’
‘You are making me anxious, Oscar.’
‘I want to make you happy,’ he answered, leading the way up the slope. “‘They do not sin at all who sin for love. “‘
‘You are making me very anxious. Is that Keats or Shelley?’
‘It’s Wilde — The Duchess of Padua. Though I flatter myself that both Keats and Shelley would have been content with the line. Keats and Shelley both climbed this path in their day, you know.’ He paused and unbuttoned his jacket. ‘I am taking you to the Pincio Gardens, Arthur — the collis
hortulorum of the emperors of Rome. This is where Nero fiddled of a summer evening and where Keats came to flirt with Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Borghese.’ His pace had slowed as we clambered upwards. ‘This is supposed to be the short cut, recommended to me by the boot-boy at the hotel. I hope you’ll think it worth the effort when we get there.’
It was well worth the effort. When we reached the summit of the hill and emerged from the trees and undergrowth, we found ourselves in a veritable garden paradise: acres of green and pleasant parkland, with terraces and parterres, ornate bubbling fountains and overflowing flower beds, broad avenues and shaded pathways, stretching as far as the eye could see.
We were not alone: it was a Saturday and, by routes less rigorous and obscure than the one recommended by the hotel boot-boy, fashionable Rome had made its way to the Pincio to promenade along the passeggiata. Clearly, we could have come by carriage: gigs and ponies, dog carts and phaetons were trundling along the driveways. There were nurses with perambulators, children on tricycles and a young priest trying to look nonchalant on a high-seated penny-farthing.
‘This is charming, Oscar,’ I exclaimed.
‘And it’s blessedly cool after the heat of the piazza. This way,’ he said, pointing in the direction of a bandstand on which a picturesque assortment of musicians in comic-opera uniforms were playing tunes by Rossini and Berlioz. ‘We’re aiming for the meadow.’
‘All human life is here,’ I said, as we passed a pair of old soldiers hobbling along arm in arm (they had just two legs and two crutches between them), followed by a trio of young nuns (giggling and eating ice cream) and a lone African beggar with a ring through his nose and a parrot on his shoulder.
‘Quite,’ said Oscar, lifting his head into the breeze. ‘There may even be a murderer in our midst.’
‘By all that’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed.
We had gone beyond the bandstand, reached the highest point on the hill, and come to what, for all the world, looked exactly like an English village green. It was a small rectangular field covered in lush grass, spotted with wild flowers and surrounded by a well-kept gravel path. In the centre of this field, tethered to the ground by sturdy ropes tied to iron pegs, was a wicker basket — no bigger than a sauna-bath in a gentlemen’s club — surmounted by a gorgeous, multicoloured hot-air balloon fifteen feet high. It was like a picture from a child’s story book, but it was prettier than a picture because, standing by the basket, just a few feet from it, and looking lovelier than ever, was Catherine English. She was wearing a cornflower-blue and white striped dress, with navy ribbons at her waist and on her hat. She seemed not the least surprised to see me.
‘Hello, Dr Conan Doyle,’ she said, extending her hand, not to shake mine, it transpired, but to draw me closer. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘By all that’s wonderful!’ I said again. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It was Mr Wilde’s idea,’ she said, still holding on to me.
‘It was the Reverend English’s idea,’ said Oscar. ‘I met him in the piazza this morning and he told me about the balloon trip. I gave him money and here we are.’
‘And here we go,’ said Miss English, tugging at my arm. ‘We must go. I’ve kept everybody waiting for you.’
‘Is your brother joining us?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s just us.’
She turned and pulled me with her towards the balloon-basket. It was a small affair, seven feet square at most, with sides to it no more than four feet in height. On one of the sides there was a narrow gate for access. Ten to a dozen passengers were already crowded on board, standing expectantly, shoulder to shoulder, around the basket’s perimeter, each with one hand, or both, holding on to one of the taut ropes that ran from the basket’s sides to the air-filled balloon above. Standing just inside the basket’s gate, holding it open and gesticulating towards us, was a small, fat man, black-haired and middle-aged. He turned out to the captain of the vessel. He wore the costume of a Venetian gondolier —striped blue vest and crimson neckerchief— but his blackened hands and sweating face — swarthy and scarred, with a black patch over one eye — suggested a pirate from a pantomime.
‘Robert Louis Stevenson must have come here on holiday,’ muttered Oscar as we approached.
‘Scusi, comandante,’ said Miss English apologetically as we climbed aboard.
The pirate captain pulled shut the wicker gate and bolted it — with a single wooden peg.
‘Do you think he knows his business?’ I whispered.
‘In the kingdom of the blind …’ murmured Oscar, squeezing himself into a corner of the basket.
One of the unexpected features of my friend Oscar Wilde is that, overweight, indolent aesthete that he was, he did not lack physical courage. He was a big man who knew how to stand his ground and use his fists. He did not court danger nor, as a rule, physical adventure of any kind, but when he found himself facing the one or having to endure the other, he took the challenge in his stride and displayed no lack of spunk or nerve.
With the gate shut, our captain moved to the centre of his craft where, on the floor, a brazier the size of a dustbin was burning fiercely. He bent over what was, in essence, the engine of his ship — the brazier and its concomitant parts — and, with ungloved hands, twisted valves and levered open airways, so that the powerful flow of hot air, already rising upwards from the fire, turned into a roaring torrent. He then made his way to each of the four corners of the basket and, in near-incomprehensible Italian, instructed two of the male passengers standing there to lift from the floor a sack of ballast and hold it between them in their arms. In our corner of the craft, Oscar and I were chosen as his lieutenants.
‘What’s this we’ve got to hoist aloft?’ shouted Oscar, above the roar.
‘A sandbag,’ I called back.
Between us we lifted it into our arms. ‘A sandbag!’ cried Oscar, in mock indignation, as if utterly outraged at the effrontery of the captain’s request. ‘I booked for us to travel first class.’
I laughed and, as I did so, the basket began to lurch from side to side and Miss English, standing just behind me, grabbed hold of me anxiously. On the grass around the basket men were loosening the ropes that held the vessel tethered to the ground. As the basket lurched, we began to lift upwards into the air. We swung from side to side, buffeted by the breeze, and as we swung the balloon lifted us higher at alarming speed.
Almost immediately, we sensed that something was amiss. The basket was perilously lopsided. Our corner was tipping sharply downwards. Other passengers began to shout at us: one of the women began to scream. The captain pushed his way from the centre of the craft towards us, pulled Miss English away from me abruptly and, hissing ‘Accidenti!’ heaved the sandbag we were still clutching out of our grasp and over the basket’s edge.
The flying basket righted itself at once. ‘Good God,’ I cried, ‘we might have caused the accident.’
Catherine English put her windswept face up towards mine and shouted, through her laughter, “‘Accidenti!” is a curse — the worst. It means, “May you die in a fit without benefit of clergy!”’
Oscar began laughing, too. ‘This flying game is not as easy as it seems. No wonder Icarus came to grief.’
Our balloon swept us higher and higher. Gradually, as we rose in the sky, our ears became accustomed to the burning engine’s roar, and our eyes turned to marvel at the view: the clouds above us and the earth below.
‘No wonder the gods like it up here,’ said Oscar, ‘the people down there look so small.’ He was in high spirits. He called out something in Italian to the captain and the captain, laughing derisively, shouted back.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I enquired whether we might float over the Vatican and catch sight of the pope in his garden. Apparently not. We go up, we go down — the Vatican is out of bounds. Proibito.’
The pirate captain came over to us, talking as he came. In his right hand he carried a small brass telescope.
With a flourish, he lifted it to his blind eye and, turning west towards the Vatican, directed Oscar’s attention to St Peter’s Square. He handed Oscar the spyglass, jabbering good-humouredly as he did so.
‘What is he showing you?’ I asked.
‘The line of carabinieri standing at the boundary of the Holy See. He says they are useless and corrupt, but they are the law nonetheless and they must be obeyed.’
The captain went on jabbering and gesticulating, pointing both his finger and his telescope in the direction of St Peter’s.
‘Now he is showing me the line of Swiss Guard and telling me that the pope’s men are no better. There is corruption everywhere, he says, except here in his balloon where we are closer to heaven, and where he and the Almighty — and no one besides — are in command of all our destinies.’
Oscar bowed to the captain and found a silver coin in his pocket to give the man. The fellow took the money and indicated that Oscar should keep the telescope while he went back about his business. My friend lifted the glass to his eye once more and continued to gaze towards the Vatican.
‘Our pirate king has solved the mystery for us, hasn’t he, Arthur?’ he said. ‘At least, in part.’
I said nothing. I was conscious of Catherine English at my side, her arm pressed close to mine. Oscar appeared to read my mind.
‘How rude of me, Miss English,’ he declared suddenly. ‘I got carried away. Here, take the captain’s spyglass and survey the scene. You must.’ He passed the telescope to the young lady and, as she lifted it to her eye, set about directing her attention. ‘Look below us, can you see your church? And along the street from it, Sant’ Atanasio dei Greci? And there, further south, the Capuchin church that Mark Twain writes about. Do you know it?’
‘I know Mark Twain’s book,’ she said, ‘The Innocents Abroad. It is a favourite of mine. And I know the church you mean — where the Capuchin friars are all buried.’ She peered through the telescope. ‘But I cannot see it. There are so many churches down there. I can see the Pyramid of Cestius, however. And the Pantheon. And the Colosseum. And the slums.’
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 12
