As he said those words, quite unexpectedly my mind’s eye was suddenly filled with a vision of my darling wife, Touie. She was seated at the fireside in the front parlour of the little house we had lived in during the first months of our marriage. She was toasting muffins for me on the fire.
Felici roused me from my reverie. ‘Dr Conan Doyle, we know you and your work. We all admire it. Father Bechetti understands English and Brother Matteo, though he may not speak English as well as some of us, is learning the language — slowly. I know that both of them have sat at this table and listened to your stories with deep pleasure.’
The bearded Capuchin, seated between me and Felici, nodded to each of us, benignly. He murmured, ‘Si,’ and then returned his attention to buttering a scone for Father Bechetti.
‘And Mr Wilde,’ continued the Monsignor, ‘we know you and your reputation. We look forward to discovering your works in due course.’ Oscar smiled. ‘We are so delighted at the chance that has brought you both to our table. You are most welcome, gentlemen.’
‘We know you,’ echoed Monsignor Breakspear, looking from Oscar to me, ‘and, because we read the English newspapers, we feel that we know you quite well — but do you know us?’ He looked directly at me and raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘Dr Conan Doyle knows me, of course. We were at school together. But Mr Wilde knows none of us.’ He turned towards Monsignor Felici on his right. ‘Perhaps, before our “colloquy”, we should introduce ourselves?’
Oscar leant across the table and placed his hand on Breakspear’s wrist. ‘There is no need, Monsignor. I know who you are.’ Oscar looked around the table and smiled, widening his shining eyes. ‘I know who you all are,’ he said, sitting upright and resting his elbows on the table’s edge. He brought the tips of his fingers together and held them against his chin, as if in prayer. ‘Indeed, I realise now that I have met you before, every one of you. It was here, at St Peter’s, fifteen years ago. You may not recall the occasion, but I do. I was twenty-two and I had the privilege — the blessing — of an audience with Pope Pius IX. It was in one of the corridors close to the Sistine Chapel, only a few yards, I suppose, from where we are seated now. I remember how we stood in line, we pilgrims, waiting for the Holy Father. We waited for an hour, at least. And then he came. He was old and frail —it was not long before his death. He was not alone, of course. You were all in attendance. I can picture you now, hovering around him, anxiously, as he made his way along the line. I was at the end of the line, standing next to a garrulous Englishwoman and a young girl and a Capuchin friar.’
I looked at Brother Matteo. He had put down his knife and was listening attentively, but his face betrayed no emotion.
‘I remember the girl vividly,’ Oscar continued. ‘She was very beautiful, with hair the colour of moonbeams and eyes the colour of cornflowers. And I remember what Pio Nono said when he had blessed her and raised her from her knees and lifted her veil to see her face. I recollect his words exactly. He said: “Look on this child and give thanks. She is pure innocence. She is a lamb of God, surrounded by the seven deadly sins.” I imagine that you, gentlemen, are the deadly sins and that she is the beautiful girl in that painting on the wall. Is her name Agnes? I am sure that it must be.’
14
The seven deadly sins
Life, I have found, is infinitely stranger than anything that the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things that are really mere commonplaces of existence. If you and I, dear reader, could fly out of the window hand in hand, and hover over a great city, such as London or Rome, gently removing the roofs and peeping in at the queer things that are going on, the strange coincidences, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.
When Oscar had finished speaking, I sat marvelling at what he knew and how he had discerned it. The heavy silence that greeted his remarks suggested to me that my remarkable friend had been correct in each of his surmises.
I looked about the table. Brother Matteo had his eyes fixed on Father Bechetti opposite him. The old priest had his eyes closed and a curious smile upon his face. The three Monsignors gazed steadily into the middle distance.
Eventually, Cesare Verdi, standing by the sideboard, broke the silence. ‘More tea, gentlemen?’
‘Thank you,’ said Oscar. ‘More tea would be delightful.’
Monsignor Felici turned in his chair to look up at the painting of the girl that hung in a simple frame between the gasoliers on the wall behind him. ‘She is very beautiful, as you say, Mr Wilde. It is some years since Father Bechetti painted her. It is some years since he painted anything. But it is a wonderful piece of work — possibly his finest. That is why we treasure it. The girl’s face, of course, is the face of the Blessed Virgin in Michelangelo’s Pietà. I am sure that is why people feel that they recognise her when they see her.’ The Monsignor turned back to look at Oscar. ‘We have the sculpture here, you know, in the basilica, in the first chapel on the right. It is the only work that Michelangelo ever signed — his masterpiece.’
Oscar said nothing. Cesare Verdi passed around the table, pouring out fresh tea. In the hush that filled the dining room once more, Monsignor Felici chuckled softly to himself and contemplated the half-eaten custard tart that sat upon his plate. Then he raised his head and, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, he lifted his replenished cup of tea and raised it to Oscar.
‘And as for the seven deadly sins, Mr Wilde, only five papal chaplains are ever allocated cells here in the sacristy. There’s not room for more. There were just five of us here in Pio Nono’s day. There are just five of us here now.’
Oscar looked directly into the Monsignor’s eyes. ‘With the sacristan it’s six. And with Pio Nono himself it would have been seven.’
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Wilde?’
‘That the Holy Father was a humble man — with a sense of humour. Even during my brief audience I recognised both those qualities in him. He would have acknowledged his own sinfulness. He counted himself as one of the “seven deadly sins”.’
Angrily, Felici pushed his chair back from the table. His face had darkened and his jowls shook. ‘The Holy Father was human. He was not above the stain of sin—’
As he spoke, he began to struggle to his feet. Brother Matteo, seated on his right, put out a gentle hand to restrain him.
‘Non affoga colui che cade in acqua, ma affoga chi male incappa.’[4]
Breakspear, on Felici’s left, also put out a restraining hand. He looked directly into his colleague’s eyes. ‘We are unmasked, Francesco, but we are not undone. Mr Wilde has uncovered our secret. Does it matter? It is a very small secret, after all.’
‘What business is it of his?’
‘None, I’m sure, but since he has stumbled upon it, let us accept what has occurred with a good grace.’
‘It is an invasion of our privacy,’ protested Felici.
‘Perhaps, but does it signify? We have nothing to hide.’
Oscar sat upright at the head of the table. I noticed that the flush in his cheeks of a moment before had disappeared. His face had resumed its customary pallor and his eyes had lost their gleam. ‘I apologise, Monsignor,’ he said. ‘I intended no harm.’
‘And none has been done,’ answered Monsignor Breakspear. ‘Having shared our English tea, you now share our little secret. It is a very little secret.’
‘Explain it to him,’ said Monsignor Felici, calming himself. ‘It was a secret — that was its charm. But it contains no deep mystery.’
‘No mystery at all.’ Breakspear turned to Oscar. ‘It was, Mr Wilde, rather as you suggest, a little joke of the Holy Father’s. Among our duties as the papal chaplains-in-residence, we were — and are still — in attendance upon the Holy Father during his audiences. In the old days, before each and every audience, we would gather with
His Holiness here in the sacristy.’
The English Monsignor nodded in the direction of the steps leading down to the chamber with the red-damask wall-hangings, and the seat of tears, and Father Bechetti’s paintings of the Last Supper and Pio Nono and the Virgin Mary.
‘Before processing through the Sistine Chapel to the audience corridor, we would stand together, clustered around the Holy Father, and say a prayer. One day, Pio Nono, laughing, looked around our little circle and remarked that there were seven of us — just seven. ‘Breakspear put out a hand to indicate the sacristan who stood at his post by the sideboard. ‘Cesare Verdi was always of our number. He would walk ahead of the procession, with his staff of office, opening the doors, clearing the way.’
The sacristan nodded as if to confirm the accuracy of the Monsignor’s account.
‘As we stood in the circle that day, the Holy Father —laughing, as I say — suggested that we should think of ourselves as the “seven deadly sins”. He said it would be a reminder to us all, himself included, that because we were the pope’s men it did not mean that we were above other men. We were as capable of the capital sins of the world as any other mortal.’
Monsignor Felici wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘So now you know, Mr Wilde.’
‘But how do you know?’ asked Monsignor Tuminello, pushing back his chair and reaching out towards the sideboard. Cesare Verdi, anticipating him, brought him a glass and filled it from the decanter. ‘How did you uncover our little secret?’
‘I recognised the rose-gold rings you wear. I saw such a ring on Pio Nono’s finger when I kissed his hand. It was such a simple ring for a pope to wear. On the third finger of his right hand he wore the traditional papal ring, of course — the Fisherman’s Ring of St Peter. I kissed it, but as I kissed it, under it, half hidden beneath it, I noticed a second ring, a simple rose-gold band. It was the ring’s simplicity that struck me. I saw that ring on Pio Nono’s finger fifteen years ago. I see the same ring on your hands now.’
Oscar looked around the table. Monsignor Breakspear followed his gaze. ‘Father Bechetti does not wear a ring,’ he said.
‘So it seems,’ said Oscar.
‘Nor does Brother Matteo.’
‘Not on his hand perhaps,’ said Oscar. ‘He has a workman’s hands, heavy and rough — not hands for jewellery. He does not wear the ring on his ring finger, but I suspect he wears it around his neck.’
Brother Matteo smiled. He put both hands inside the top of his brown habit, pulled out the thin cord that hung about his neck and displayed the rose-gold ring for all to see. ‘Eccoti!’ he said, laughing.
‘Pio Nono gave you the rings?’
‘Yes, on the day of the special audience to mark the thirtieth anniversary of his papacy,’ said Breakspear. ‘Cesare Verdi had them made from a block of gold given to Pope Leo XI by an Ottoman sultan, as I recall.’
‘That’s it, sir,’ confirmed the sacristan from the sideboard. He held up his hand to display the ring he wore.
‘Does Pope Leo XIII know about this?’ Oscar asked.
‘No, he has never asked. He has not noticed the rings, I am sure. He is not close to us in the way that Pio Nono was. We are his chaplains too, of course — but there is a difference. Pope Leo did not choose us. He inherited us. We serve him. We love him. We give him all obedience. He is the Holy Father, but we are not his children as we were the children of Pio Nono.’
‘Leo has other chaplains,’ said Felici, ‘personal chaplains of his own choosing. But we are the chaplains-in-residence. We remain here from the moment of our appointment until we die.’
‘Or become bishops or cardinals,’ added Tuminello, emptying his glass, and looking directly at Breakspear with amused and mocking eyes.
Breakspear shook his head and gazed down at the table.
‘We are here until death,’ said Monsignor Felici, ‘or beyond, in Verdi’s case. Our successors as chaplains-in-residence will be chosen by whoever is pope at the time of our demise, but the post of sacristan is a gift from God, handed down from father to son.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Oscar, smiling up at Cesare Verdi.
‘Except I don’t ‘ave children, sir,’ said the sacristan. ‘Nor a wife.’
‘But you have time,’ said Oscar. ‘I have no doubt that both will be provided — in due course. God will provide. C’est son mêtier.’
Cesare Verdi said nothing. Monsignor Tuminello held up his empty glass and the sacristan fetched the decanter and poured the priest a further libation.
An awkward stillness filled the room once more.
‘And Agnes?’ asked Oscar, looking up at the painting on the wall. ‘Tell me about Agnes. Her uncanny resemblance to Michelangelo’s Virgin notwithstanding, this was the girl that Pio Nono blessed that day — I am certain of that.’
‘No, sir,’ said Monsignor Felici, defiantly.
‘Si,’ said Brother Matteo, gently, resting his hand on Felici’s sleeve. ‘La verità viene sempre a galla.’
‘Yes, indeed, we should not be frightened of the truth, said Monsignor Tuminello, leaning forward onto the table, pushing the tea things away from him and setting down his glass. ‘Yes, Mr Wilde, the beautiful child in the painting is Agnes. She was named for Agnes of Rome, the virgin-martyr, the patron saint of chastity. We loved her dearly. We still do.’
At my side, Father Bechetti stirred. His eyes remained closed, but his hands twitched. Brother Matteo leant forward and rested his hands on those of the old priest. ‘We all loved her,’ Tuminello went on. ‘I taught her to read and write. Father Bechetti painted her. Brother Matteo looked after her. But Pio Nono loved her most of all.’
‘Who was she?’ asked Oscar, still gazing at the painting.
‘A girl from the Vatican laundry — one of the waifs and strays taken in by the nuns. It was the nuns who named her. She would have become a nun herself in time. She had the vocation. Her faith was simple, but profound. Pio Nono saw that. She was his favourite. He delighted in her company. Who would not? She was all sweetness and light. She was, as he said, all innocence — a lamb of God.’
‘And she is dead?’ asked Oscar in a voice barely above a whisper.
‘We do not know,’ said Monsignor Felici. ‘We have no idea.’
‘I know,’ said Monsignor Tuminello. He spread out his fingers on the table, on either side of his empty wineglass. ‘She is in heaven. She is with the angels. I have heard her voice. She is with God.’
‘The truth is, Mr Wilde, we know nothing,’ said Monsignor Felici. He spoke with quiet deliberation now. ‘She may be alive. She may be dead. We simply do not know. She disappeared.’
Oscar looked sharply at Felici. ‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes, one day she was here, the next she was gone. It was as simple — and as final — as that.’
‘Did no one look for her?’
‘We looked for her: all over the basilica, all over the Vatican City, all over Rome. She was nowhere to be found. The nuns looked for her, too. The Swiss Guard looked for her.’
Tuminello interrupted angrily. ‘They did not. The Swiss Guard did nothing.’
‘They were preoccupied,’ said Monsignor Breakspear. ‘We were all preoccupied. The girl disappeared on 7 February 1878.’
‘Is the date significant?’
‘It was the day of Pio Nono’s death.’
Another silence fell. I waited for Oscar to break it, but he said nothing. He sat facing me at the far end of the dining table, gazing fixedly up at the painting of the beautiful young girl.
‘May I ask a question?’ I said, eventually. Monsignor Tuminello turned, smiled and raised his empty glass towards me. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the voice of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Could the girl have been kidnapped?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ said Monsignor Felici, with a heavy sigh. ‘It happens all too frequently. Young girls are stolen from the streets and sold into slavery.’
Oscar’s eyes turned to Felici. ‘In Rome at the end of the ninet
eenth century? You surprise me, Monsignor.’
‘They are taken from Rome to Sicily and on to North Africa,’ explained Felici. ‘It is a terrible trade, cruel and brutish, but it thrives.’
‘She was not stolen from the streets and sold into slavery,’ said Tuminello. ‘She was not of the streets. She was an innocent child and she lived here, in safety. She slept in the dormitory above the laundry. The reverend sisters loved her as we did. This was her home.’
‘She may have run away,’ said Felici. ‘It is possible.’
‘Run away? Why should she run away?’
‘She was a child, Tuminello. Perhaps she wanted the company of other children. Pio Nono taught her her catechism. You taught her to read and write. Perhaps she also wanted to do childish things — to play as well as pray. Have you considered that?’
‘No,’ said Tuminello, shaking his head, and, turning to Cesare Verdi, he held out his empty glass. ‘That’s not what happened.’
‘No one knows what happened,’ insisted Monsignor Felici. The papal Master of Ceremonies had regained all his composure. He spoke once more with his accustomed authority, looking straight at me. ‘I fear that the poor child may have joined the band of feral children who live up on the hill beyond the pyramid. They are notorious.’
‘They are notorious now,’ cried Tuminello, slamming his hand upon the table. ‘There were none there then.’
‘There were gypsies there then — a whole encampment. ‘‘Look at her, Francesco. Agnes was not a gypsy. She was an angel.’
Felici turned in his chair once more to look up at the painting. ‘She was very beautiful,’ he said simply. ‘No one will deny that. And one day we lost her. She was here — then she was gone. She vanished into thin air. Where she went, or why, we do not know. It was a long time ago now and we do not speak of it because what purpose does it serve? It is idle speculation — and corrosive.’
‘She vanished into thin air …’ Oscar repeated the phrase slowly, deliberately, folding his napkin carefully as he did so and laying it down next to his plate.
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 15
