Munthe, much amused by Oscar’s histrionics, jumped down from the trap without assistance and, holding his black bag prominently before him as his badge of office, led us, almost jauntily, past the sentry boxes to the Vatican gate.
‘Well,’ he said, looking up at Oscar, ‘you have certainly convinced yourself that your journey was necessary and that you have arrived at the correct destination.’
‘I have,’ replied Oscar, his head held high.
‘Well, I am less certain,’ I muttered.
‘The rose-gold ring has led us here, Arthur — you must see that.’
‘And all your “reverend gentlemen” will be gathered around the tea table to welcome you,’ said Munthe. ‘When you meet them, will you tell them why you have come to call?’
‘Not for a moment. We must steal up on them unawares.’
‘This is life, Mr Wilde. This isn’t one of your penny-dreadful melodramas. Wouldn’t it be simpler to be straightforward? As we say in Sweden: “The best way out is through the door.”’
‘This is a murder mystery, Doctor. I feel it in my bones. The straightforward has no place here. As we say in Ireland, “Ni mar a shiltear a bhitear” — “Nothing in life is as it seems.”’
‘Will you at least ask which of them it was who summoned “Sherlock Holmes” to the Vatican in this extraordinary way?’
‘Oh, no,’ cried Oscar. ‘That might be fatal. Whoever it was who sent that lock of hair, and that severed hand, and that finger with the tell-tale ring to “Sherlock Holmes” fears for his life. I am convinced of that. My instinct tells me there has been one murder at least — and there may be more. Whoever it was who sought the help of “the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen” — the phrase is Arthur’s — believes he needs to hide behind a mask, or why not simply write Holmes a letter, giving his name and address in the usual way? Oh no. This has been a secret summons from a desperate soul. For the time being, I have no doubt that we should respect our client’s desire for anonymity.’
Pausing at the foot of the long flight of steps leading to the Sistine Chapel, Munthe looked up at Oscar and smiled. ‘You call him your “client”?’
Oscar shrugged. ‘Well, he has brought us here all the way from Germany. We are at his service, even if we are not in his pay.’
Munthe turned to me and patted me warmly on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, Dr Conan Doyle. Mr Wilde has definitely caught the Baker Street disease.’ He looked back at Oscar. ‘And do you have any idea who he might be, this “client” of yours?’
‘Of course,’ said Oscar quietly.
‘Of course?’ I repeated, dumbfounded.
‘Of course I know who he is,’ said Oscar. ‘Don’t you?’
We climbed the stone steps in silence. I could not decide whether Oscar was simply being playful — he was a great spinner of yarns — or whether, in fact, he had truly deduced who it was had summoned Holmes to Rome and why.
As Axel Munthe was about to lead us through the small side-door that led to the chapel, I stayed his hand. ‘Forgive me, Doctor. Before we proceed further, I must speak to my friend.’
I saw at once that I did not need to say a word. I could tell from Oscar’s amused and kindly eyes that he understood my anxiety.
‘I will take the lead this afternoon, Arthur,’ he said, ‘fear not. You may be the creator of Sherlock Holmes, but the great detective is a figment of your imagination, not your other self. J know that.’
‘Thank you, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I am relieved. The truth is, old friend, you seem to be certain of what’s afoot, but, frankly, I’m baffled by the whole business. I’m quite lost. I can’t see the wood for the trees.’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps you have been distracted by your walk through the woods beneath the trees? Miss English is most beguiling. Today she has commanded your entire attention. I understand. I am not surprised. The fair sex is your department. You can leave the clergymen to me.
He was as good as his word. Once Axel Munthe had taken us through the doorway and across the dark corner of the Sistine Chapel (heavy with the smell of incense and burning candles) to the near-invisible door to the sacristy, and the sacristan, Cesare Verdi, had admitted us to his domain, Oscar was in his element — and at his most effortlessly charming.
His urbanity and exuberance were matched only by those of Monsignor Felici who welcomed us with the sign of the cross followed by an open-armed embrace. As we arrived, the portly Monsignor was waiting for us, perched awkwardly on the edge of the papal seat of tears. The moment the sacristan opened the door to us, the elderly cleric struggled to his feet and came forward beaming. As one by one he took us in his arms, he explained, in his heavily accented English, that, as Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, he had the honour of being our official host.
‘We are late,’ declared Oscar, bowing low before the priest, ‘mea culpa!’
‘You are here,’ rejoined the Monsignor, taking Oscar in his arms, ‘Deo gratias! And the scones are still warm —and we are so happy to have you with us. Welcome to the circolo inglese. Tea is about to be served. Step this way.’
With some effort he moved his huge bulk towards the left-hand stairway that led from the first chamber of the sacristy to the oak-panelled refectory we had visited the day before. Munthe took the Monsignor’s arm. As we followed them up the steps, Oscar paused and breathed in deeply. ‘We pass from the odour of incense to the fragrance of fresh baking.’
‘It’s all to the glory of God,’ rumbled the Monsignor. ‘Cesare has been busy. I took the four o’clock Mass, while our sacristan prepared our English tea.’
The gasoliers in the refectory were turned up high. There were lighted candles, too, upon the table. Apart from the lighting, the scene appeared to be drawn completely from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The long dining table was covered with a white linen cloth, set with cups and saucers and plates and cutlery for eight, and littered with cake-stands and salvers, dishes and trenchers, all piled high with sugary delights. This was the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Even the life-size portrait, on the wall above the sideboard, of the little girl in the white dress with the halo, seemed to echo Alice.
‘There’ll be savoury as well as sweet,’ announced the Monsignor reassuringly, ‘anchovy toast alongside the jam tarts.’
‘You can make toast?’ I asked.
‘Cesare can. He bakes his own bread — the English way.’
‘And cucumber sandwiches?’ enquired Oscar, gleefully. (Neither of us had had lunch.)
‘Oh, yes, as I promised you.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ piped up Cesare Verdi, who had skirted round us up the steps and was busying himself bringing a tray of scones to the table. ‘No cucumber sandwiches today.’
‘I ordered them especially,’ boomed Felici.
‘There was no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went down twice.’
‘No cucumbers? In Rome in July?’
‘No, sir. Not even for ready money.’
‘And you always have plenty of that,’ snapped Felici.
The Monsignor turned, took Oscar’s hands in his and, closing his eyes, pressed them together as he might those of a grieving mother to whom he was offering consolation at her only child’s graveside. ‘This is terrible, Mr Wilde. I had promised you cucumber sandwiches.’
‘It’s not in the least terrible. It’s vastly amusing. This is an exquisite moment that I shall treasure for ever.
‘I feel your disappointment,’ condoled the Monsignor, ‘and I appreciate your understanding.’ Breaking away from Oscar, he turned to Munthe and me. ‘Now, gentlemen, a tavola! Sit where you please. I shall summon the others. They are, as you would say, waiting in the wings. Their cells are just above us.’
He went to the sideboard and rang what appeared to be a sanctus bell. Its chimes sounded oddly in the oak-panelled dining room.
‘This is extraordinary,’ purred Oscar, positioning himself at the end of the table but not taki
ng a seat. He stood with his hands on the back of the chair, looking down at the table in wonder. Cesare Verdi was placing matching teapots on silver trivets in the remaining gaps between the dishes of teatime delicacies.
‘This is the circolo inglese,’ said Felici, with a nonchalant shrug of his stooping shoulders.
‘When did it start?’
‘The circolo? Years ago.’
‘In Pio Nono’s time?’
‘Oh no, more recently than that. Pio Nono was not in sympathy with the English. He used to say that he accepted Father Breakspear as one of his chaplains as a penance. It was his little joke. But when the possibility was raised of making John Henry Newman a cardinal, he considered that a joke too far. He wouldn’t have it.’
‘It was I who founded the circolo, with Pope Leo’s blessing, in May 1879, at the time of Father Newman’s long-overdue elevation to the rank of cardinal.’
Monsignor Breakspear had entered the room. He swept in briskly — brusquely, almost — and extended an immediate hand of greeting to each of us in turn. He murmured to me pleasantly, ‘Good to see you again, Conan Doyle. I apologise for not being on parade yesterday. I got my days mixed up.
I nodded and studied him in silence: the broad shoulders, the red face, the hard smile, the bushy eyebrows, the tightly curled iron-grey hair — I had no recollection of him whatsoever. Again, I wondered at his womanly handshake, so at odds with his robust manner. He did not acknowledge Felici or Cesare Verdi and gave Axel Munthe no more than a cursory smile. Having greeted me with the familiarity I have described, he addressed the rest of his remarks to Oscar.
‘Cardinal Newman was our first guest. He sat at this very table just thirteen years ago. He chose to sit in the very seat that you appear to have chosen, Mr Wilde. He always sat there. He took tea with us often — whenever he was in Rome, in fact. He was seventy-eight when he first came here. I was twenty-five. I loved him as a son should love a father — absolutely and without condition.’
‘We all loved him. He was the best of company and the best of men.’
The doorway to the refectory was suddenly crowded. Three priests had arrived together. It was the sallow-skinned Monsignor Tuminello who spoke first. He had a smoker’s voice, rough and dark, and weary, jaundiced eyes. In younger days, Munthe had told us, he had been a tutor at the English College in Rome. He spoke excellent English, with a natural authority, but appeared to be addressing no one in particular. (Indeed, the conversational style of the members of the circolo inglese put me in mind of the discourse at an Oxford high table, where the dons never catch your eye and speak to the world in general rather than to one another.)
‘I come across Cardinal Newman from time to time and I always feel the aura of his sanctity.’
‘As the papal exorcist,’ explained Monsignor Felici, ‘Monsignor Tuminello regularly encounters the souls of the dear departed.’
‘I wrestle with the devil on a daily basis. It is hard, hard work — molto duro. But it has its compensations: easy access to the communion of saints being chief among them.’
‘You meet saints?’ asked Oscar.
‘I find myself in their presence, yes.
‘You see them?’ ‘I hear them.’
‘On a regular basis?’
‘All the time.’
The Monsignor answered Oscar’s questions without looking at him. On entering the dining room the priest had gone directly to the sideboard, and from a crystal decanter had poured himself a small glass of brown wine.
‘The job of an exorcist is to free those who are possessed by evil spirits. The devil has entered their very being. My task is to confront the devil and his minions and drive them out. But, usually, by the time I come face to face with the unfortunate afflicted, I find that God, in His infinite mercy, has anticipated me and already sent in one of His favourite saints to begin the good work.’ He drank his wine in a single gulp and refilled the glass.
‘You hear these saints, you say?’ asked Oscar, gazing at the Monsignor with curiosity and delight.
‘I meet the possessed and, usually, they are crying out in agony. I listen to the sounds of souls in torment. What is it I hear? Saints disputing with demons. It’s as simple as that. The arguments are very violent, as you may imagine.’
‘And can you always tell who is speaking?’ enquired Oscar.
‘Not always, but as a rule saints are better spoken than devils. They shout less and their vocabulary is more circumspect.’
‘And sometimes they talk to you directly? In what language?’
‘In Latin, in the main.’
‘And you respond?’
‘I talk to the devil in Latin. He replies in French. When I am in conversation with Cardinal Newman we speak in English — always.’
‘He felt easy with us,’ said Monsignor Breakspear. ‘The Vatican was not Cardinal Newman’s natural habitat, but in this room, at this table, I believe he felt at home.’
‘Cardinal Newman was very partial to cucumber sandwiches,’ said Monsignor Felici, casting a reproachful glance in the direction of Cesare Verdi.
The sacristan was at the corner of the table, with Brother Matteo, the Capuchin friar, assisting Father Bechetti to his place. The old priest’s toothless mouth hung open; his sightless eyes stared vacantly ahead; with a trembling hand, repeatedly, he rubbed his temples and the side of his hawk-like nose: he looked more dead than alive.
‘We are all partial to Cesare’s cucumber sandwiches,’ said Monsignor Tuminello, once more downing his wine in a single draught. He pushed the decanter to the back of the sideboard and made his way around the table. ‘In the summer months, the cucumber sandwiches are virtually the circolo inglese’s sole raison d’être.’
‘Not today,’ said Monsignor Felici. ‘Today our raison d’être is to honour our distinguished guests.’
‘Illustri invitati,’ the Capuchin friar barked into Father Bechetti’s ear. The old priest snorted derisively and struck the table with both hands.
‘I shall sit between my patients, if I may,’ said Axel Munthe, placing his black bag on the floor by the sideboard and moving discreetly around the table. ‘Father Bechetti seems little improved since his fall. I am sorry.
‘E arrabbiato e frustrato,’ replied the Capuchin, laying a kindly hand on the old priest’s shoulder. With surprising force, Father Bechetti pushed the hand away.
Munthe smiled at Brother Matteo. ‘I will give him something to settle him before I leave.’
The Capuchin shrugged and returned the doctor’s smile. ‘Come desidera.’
He appeared to understand English, but not to speak it. He made way for Dr Munthe and, stepping round to the other side of the table, placed himself opposite Father Bechetti. Throughout the tea, I noticed, he continued to keep a watchful eye on the old man.
‘But Monsignor Tuminello appears fully recovered,’ Munthe went on, ‘back to his old self.’
The papal exorcist made the sign of the cross and then shook Munthe warmly by the hand. ‘Was it strychnine you gave me yesterday, Doctor? I think it was. It “did the trick”, as the Americans say. I am grateful. God is grateful.’
‘I simply do my job,’ said Munthe.
‘And in doing it you help me do mine — and my work is God’s work. I’m sixty years of age. I’m not young any more. Battling with Beelzebub takes it out of me. Yesterday my body gave way. I was utterly exhausted, broken, until you revived me, Doctor.’
‘With a dose of poison?’ said Oscar, lightly. He was standing one place away from Munthe, at Tuminello’s right hand.
The Swedish doctor smiled and shook his head. ‘Strychnine is a useful medicine, used in moderation.’
‘What is moderation?’ asked Oscar. ‘Life should be lived excessively — or what’s the point?’
‘Ah,’ cried Monsignor Breakspear, exultantly. ‘What’s the point, indeed? We are to talk of the Meaning of Life. This is as it should be. I am glad you have assumed Cardinal Newman’s old seat, Mr Wilde
. You can lead our teatime colloquy.’
‘I shall be honoured. I am fond of my own voice. Is a “colloquy” the usual form?’
‘Only when we have guests. Otherwise we eat in silence — as we would in a Capuchin friary, with one of us reading out loud to the others.’
‘And you are the reader as a rule?’ asked Oscar.
‘This is the circolo inglese. The reading is always in English, so, yes, I am usually the reader.’
‘And what do you read? Sacred texts?’
‘Of a kind. Recently we have been concentrating on the works of Arthur Conan Doyle! We are devotees of the great Sherlock Holmes. Look on the sideboard — there, alongside Cardinal Newman’s Apologia Pro Vita Sua, signed by the author, you will find my copies of A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four, first editions, of course.’
Breakspear bowed towards me unctuously. I felt even happier that I had positioned myself as far from him as possible.
We had all found our places around the table:
Cesare Verdi, standing by the sideboard, rang the sanctus bell and the party fell silent. After a moment’s pause, Monsignor Felici invited Monsignor Breakspear to say grace.
‘Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Ad coenam vitae aeternae perducat nos, Rex aeternae gloriae. Amen.’
It was a grace I knew well, from my schooldays. Breakspear intoned it sonorously and offered me a knowing smile at its conclusion. All but Father Bechetti joined in the ‘Amen’ and we took our seats.
I have to report that the feast spread out before us would have gladdened the heart of the greediest schoolboy.
‘Help yourselves, gentlemen,’ said Felici jovially. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. The tea in the pots on the table is Darjeeling. If you prefer something lighter, Cesare will prepare you a special pot of Earl Grey.’
Cesare Verdi stood hovering at my shoulder with a silver milk jug in his hand. “Ome from ‘ome, sir, eh?’
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 14
