Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘Extraordinary,’ I murmured.

  ‘Indeed,’ acknowledged Munthe. ‘Had I witnessed these goings-on just the once, I’d have dismissed them as trickery but I am a man of science and, in Tuminello’s company, I have attended exorcism after exorcism. There is more to it than hocus-pocus.’

  ‘Do you admire Monsignor Tuminello?’ I asked.

  ‘He brings relief to those who need it. I respect him. He is an unusual man.’ He looked engagingly from Oscar to me. ‘I like unusual men.’

  ‘Do you think he will achieve the canonisation of little Agnes?’ asked Oscar.

  Munthe laughed and removed his spectacles to polish them once more. ‘Is that his ambition? Tuminello wants to make the child a saint? I am sorry to hear it. Frankly, without a body and without a miracle, he’s without a hope.’

  ‘He claims that the girl cured Pius IX of epilepsy,’ I said.

  ‘Some say the old pope’s final illness was provoked by an epileptic attack! The Holy Father’s fits may have become less frenzied and less frequent as he grew older, but I don’t think Pio Nono was ever completely cured.’

  ‘And what about the man who lived in the woods behind the pyramid,’ I asked, ‘your patient, the bone man?’

  ‘He is dead,’ said Munthe.

  ‘He was a cripple with a gammy leg,’ said Oscar, ‘until he prayed to Agnes.’

  Munthe smiled and shook his head. ‘The man was a drunkard and a wastrel. If he dragged his foot, it was to get pity. If he ceased to drag it, it was to draw attention to himself. Even if the poor wretch was still alive and half coherent, his testimony would be worthless.’

  Our journey to the harbour at Naples took three hours. We filled it with talk of Monsignors and miracles. Munthe had respect for Luigi Tuminello (‘He knows his business’), reservations about Nicholas Breakspear (‘He asked me if he might roast my Cleopatra’) and what he called ‘a curious fondness’ for Francesco Felici. ‘Felici lives in the moment, for the moment. I find his undisguised greed oddly disarming.’

  ‘Is it greed or a lust for life?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘God alone knows,’ said Axel Munthe, blinking endearingly from behind his darkened glasses.

  On the tiny iron-hulled steamship that took us from the harbour station across the bay of Naples to the island of Capri, we agreed, nem con, that if anyone merited immediate beatification it was Brother Matteo. The Capuchin friar appeared to be the exemplification of saintly virtues. Tall and lean, bearded and handsome, with sparse snow-white hair and kindly dove-grey eyes, in his simple brown habit, with cowl thrown back, he looked every inch the part. The four of us had stood simply looking on as, with bare feet, grace and good humour, the Capuchin friar had overseen the removal of Father Bechetti’s coffin from the goods van of the train, found porters to convey it across the railway tracks to the dockside and helped manhandle it onto the cargo deck of the waiting vessel. Brother Matteo was around sixty years of age. He did what he did with dignity and without fuss.

  ‘No tips expected or forthcoming, I notice,’ Oscar whispered (with a touch of envy, I thought).

  ‘He has natural authority,’ said Catherine English, admiringly. ‘He commands respect.’

  ‘The monkish habit helps, no doubt,’ Oscar murmured, ‘and the presence of a coffin.’

  When Munthe and I offered our assistance, Brother Matteo called out, ‘Grazie tanto! Non è necessario!’ and continued about his business. While Munthe was briefly locked in bureaucratic conclave with the harbour master, Brother Matteo appeared on the quayside with a tray of fresh coffee and ham sandwiches.

  ‘He is a saint,’ said Miss English.

  Oscar took the refreshments gratefully — it was our first food and drink of the day — and, as Brother Matteo departed, murmured into my ear: ‘He is so good he really should be our murderer. That’s what your readers would expect, Arthur.’

  On the steamship, while we four sat together on a wooden banquette on the upper deck, sheltered from the ferocious midday sun by a tarpaulin awning, below us, on the cargo deck, Brother Matteo stood, exposed to the elements, keeping vigil by Father Bechetti’s coffin. The crossing took two hours. Brother Matteo remained at his post throughout, his left hand resting all the while on the coffin’s lid. During the voyage, Oscar dozed and then slept soundly. Munthe leafed idly through Oscar’s copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints and then fell asleep himself. Miss English and I sat side by side and talked — of her travails and my ambitions. The sea was calm, but in the occasional swell she rested her hand on mine and looked into my eyes for reassurance.

  As the steamship neared Capri, Munthe awoke, got to his feet and called out to us all to stand and admire the island’s beauty. We had no difficulty doing so. The island’s coastline was wonderfully varied and above the dramatic range of cliffs and crags, creeks and caves, there rose high hills covered in myrtle, cypress and lemon groves. The Mediterranean light was perfect and the view undeniably enchanting.

  ‘This is where I want to live!’ declared Munthe, his arms outstretched towards shore.

  ‘This is where Father Bechetti wanted to be buried,’ mused Oscar. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘Because it is paradise,’ cried Munthe.

  ‘I’d rather live in paradise than be buried there,’ said Oscar quietly.

  From the cargo deck, Brother Matteo called up to us:

  ‘Barca a remi!’

  ‘There’s no harbour here,’ Munthe explained. ‘The ship can go no further. We must row the coffin ashore.’

  ‘How will we get back?’ asked Oscar, anxiously.

  ‘The ship will wait for us. We’ll row back once we’ve safely delivered our cargo.’

  Four of the crew, with ropes, assisted by Brother Matteo, Munthe and me, lowered Father Bechetti’s coffin over the ship’s side into the rowing boat. Matteo and I and two boatmen took the oars. The beach was not far off, but the water, though shallow, was choppy and the tide strong. It was hard pounding, made no lighter by Oscar’s jocose (and incessant) commentary. As we rowed the boat ashore, my friend thought he would entertain us all by likening our heroic endeavours to those of the Oxford and Cambridge crews in the University Boat Race of 1877, the year in which the race resulted in a dead heat and Oscar composed his sonnet ‘On first approaching Italy’, which poem, encouraged by Miss English, he proceeded to recite!

  As, wearily, we dragged the heavy rowing boat up the pebble beach, Oscar apologised.

  ‘My nerves get the better of me when I am too close to water.’ His pale and puffy face was awash with perspiration. Shading his eyes with a shaking hand, he looked up into the clear blue sky. A peregrine falcon hovered overhead. ‘You see, the birds of prey are gathering. My anxiety was perhaps justified.’

  Catherine English and Munthe laughed indulgently, but I was not amused. My arms ached and my head throbbed. ‘Enough,’ I snapped. ‘We have solemn work to do.’

  Brother Matteo smiled. ‘Andiamo in chiesa,’ he said, indicating the donkey and cart waiting at the roadside at the top of the beach.

  It was not clear to me at first whether or not we were expected, but two elderly men, unshaven, in ragged trousers and torn shirts, stood by the cart and, as we came within earshot, one of them called out, ‘Capri? Funerale?’

  ‘Si,’ responded Brother Matteo. ‘Chiesa Sant’ Anna.’

  The old men came down the beach to help us carry the coffin to the donkey cart. I commanded Oscar to assist.

  ‘You’ve got to face life’s harsh realities now and again, old man,’ I said.

  I had noticed that since Brother Matteo and the coffin had first emerged from the railway goods van at the harbour in Naples, Oscar had studiously avoided gazing upon the oak box itself.

  ‘It’s not life that I shy away from,’ said Oscar. ‘It’s death.’

  Nevertheless, my fine aesthetic friend heaved to and six of us — the two old men, Brother Matteo, Axel Munthe, Oscar and I — lifted the coffin out of the rowing boat and up onto o
ur shoulders.

  As we carried it, precariously, over the shingle towards the roadway, we were not unattended. Eight or ten young boys — all barefoot, some quite naked — had run along the beach to discover what was going on. Catching sight of the coffin, they had fallen silent and now they stood, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, watching the scene in wonder.

  When we had placed the coffin on its simple hearse, we followed it along the roadway and up the hill, our cortège of naked boys in tow.

  ‘I’ll not forget this death march,’ murmured Oscar. ‘I’m glad I came.’

  Brother Matteo led the procession, walking alongside the donkey. He and the animal seemed to know the way.

  ‘We are going to the church of St Anna,’ said Axel Munthe. ‘It is the island’s parish church and very old. It’s where Father Bechetti was baptised.’

  ‘St Anna is the protectress of women in childbirth,’ said Oscar.

  Munthe pulled Oscar’s copy of The Lives of the Saints from his jacket pocket and handed it back to my friend. ‘You know all about her, of course.’

  ‘I do,’ said Oscar, taking the book. ‘I already did. She is the mother of the Virgin Mary. She is Our Lord’s grandmother. Her story is well known, Doctor.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Munthe. ‘I am a Swedish Protestant and a lapsed one at that.’

  Oscar laughed and pushed the book into his outside jacket pocket. To make room for it, he had to transfer his cigarette case to an inside one.

  ‘I suppose I am not allowed to smoke under the present, sad circumstances?’ he asked, balefully eyeing the box containing the mortal remains of Father Bechetti. ‘I could use a “gasper” as Arthur’s ne’er-do-well characters like to call them. In this heat, to be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up.’

  As we got close to the village, the naked boys began to fall away. As we entered the old church, there were just the seven of us, the six men carrying the coffin and Catherine English following behind. The ancient building — constructed, according to Munthe, in the thirteenth century with materials taken from the ruins of villas dating back to the heyday of Imperial Rome — was deliciously cool. And still. And dark.

  Evidently we were expected, for immediately in front of us, at the head of the nave, just in front of the altar steps, stood a simple wooden bier, with, at its head, a heavy brass candlestick bearing a single burning candle.

  To the right of the bier, seated alone in the front pew, was a nun dressed in a blue serge habit, her head bowed. From the outline of her form, she might have been a young woman. When we had lowered the coffin onto the bier and I turned towards her, I saw that her face was deeply lined and she had sunken, black-ringed eyes.

  As we stepped away from the bier, Brother Matteo whispered to Axel Munthe in Italian. ‘Sister Anna,‘

  Munthe translated, ‘she does not speak. She weeps. She prays.’

  Catherine English had remained at the back of the church. Axel Munthe, Oscar and I joined her in her pew. As we sat down, the nun got to her feet and stepped into the nave. She genuflected towards the altar, made the sign of the cross and went to kneel at the foot of Father Bechetti’s coffin. She knelt on the hard stone floor, her back erect, her hands placed together and held up before her face, palms and fingers touching. Brother Matteo stood beyond the candle, on the steps, facing the high altar. He genuflected slowly and then turned back to lead his little congregation in prayer.

  ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’

  He made the sign of the cross over the coffin, then smiled at the reverend sister.

  ‘Requiem œternam dona Joachim Bechetti, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen.’

  For twenty minutes, we sat at the back of the church listening to Brother Matteo’s prayers and the old woman’s sobbing.

  ‘Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.’

  When Matteo was done, and we had been blessed, the Capuchin friar came down from the altar steps and walked to the foot of the coffin. Gently he placed his hands on the nun’s shoulders and raised her up. He turned her towards him and took her in his arms. She lifted up her tear-stained face and rested it against his chest. He embraced her and, with great tenderness, he kissed the top of her coif. As he led her back to her place in the front pew, she whimpered pitifully. He leant over her for a moment and whispered something to her. When she had fallen silent and lowered her head once more, Brother Matteo left her and walked down the nave towards us.

  Oscar got to his feet to greet the friar. ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine,’ he said distinctly. He was visibly moved.

  ‘Domine, exaudi vocem meam,’ responded the Capuchin, taking Oscar’s hands in his.

  “‘Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord,”’ said Oscar. ‘It is my favourite Psalm.’

  Brother Matteo spoke to Munthe in Italian. Munthe translated: ‘Sister Anna is all the family Father Bechetti has. She will wait here until the funeral. It will be tomorrow. Then the village will come.’

  ‘We cannot stay,’ said Oscar. ‘We must return to Rome.’ He looked at Munthe. ‘We must return at once.’

  ‘That is the plan,’ said Munthe. ‘We can go now. Our duty here is done.’

  ‘Will Brother Matteo come with us?’

  ‘He will return tomorrow, after the funeral.’

  ‘Domani,’ said Matteo, ‘a Dio piacendo.’

  ‘Indeed,’ muttered Oscar. ‘Who is safe now, I wonder? We must return to Rome.’

  ‘Come then,’ said Munthe. ‘We can go.’

  As we moved towards the church door, Oscar pulled away from us, saying, ‘Excuse me for a moment. I will just speak to the reverend sister.’

  ‘She has taken a vow of silence,’ said Munthe. ‘She cannot speak with strangers.’

  ‘I will speak to her. Wait here.’

  Leaving us standing in a pool of sunshine by the church door, Oscar walked down the nave. I stepped out of the light to watch him. When he reached the nun’s pew he waited a moment, as if in doubt. He took out his wallet and opened it; then, lightly, he touched the nun on her shoulder. She looked up at him and, not recognising him, turned away at once. He touched her on the shoulder a second time and called her name: ‘Anna,’ he said. ‘Il sua anello.’ He stood looking down at her. From inside his wallet he had taken the little envelope that contained the rose-gold ring and the lock of lamb’s wool that he had been carrying with him since we had left Bad Homburg. He gave the envelope to the reverend sister, bowed and stepped away. The old nun took the envelope, uncomprehending.

  He came back up the nave towards us. ‘Avanti!’ he called. ‘We must get back to Rome before it’s too late. I’ll take one of the oars if I must.’

  Outside the church, when we had bade the Capuchin farewell and promised to meet up with him the moment he returned to Rome — ‘Immancabile,’ said Oscar, earnestly, ‘without ‘fail’ — and were walking down the hill towards the beach, I said to my friend: ‘Well, what was all that about?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he cried. ‘You must see, Arthur.’ He stopped in his tracks and looked at me in amazement.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t see,’ I said.

  ‘I know who she is.’

  ‘Sister Anna?’

  ‘Yes. And I know who Agnes was.’

  ‘But the nun did not speak.’

  ‘There was no need. Some secrets lie too deep for words.’

  20

  Duty calls

  It should never be forgotten that Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was essentially a man of the theatre. His very name has a theatrical flourish to it. His life, by his own admission, was a five-act drama that turned from comedy to tragedy. His literary reputation rests, not on his poetry or his prose, but on his plays. The men in whose company he felt most easy were all men of a theatrical disposition; the females he most admired were all actresses — and Queen Victoria. Oscar w
as essentially a man of the theatre and so, to him, the effect was everything.

  No doubt, when he declared in the sunlit doorway of the ancient church of St Anna that he would ‘take one of the oars’ if he must, he meant it. But when we reached the rowing boat on the shore of Capri, and Munthe and I heaved to, Oscar did nothing but help settle Catherine English opposite us and discourse on the beauty of the sunset. He had a playwright’s way with words and a showman’s instinct for timing. He loved to ‘hold the moment’, as he put it, to keep the audience ‘in suspense — on the edge of their seats’. He resolutely refused to share with us what had been revealed to him in the church that afternoon until he was ready to do so, ‘and that will be,’ he announced, ‘after the interval, when we are safely on board the train to Rome, beakers of champagne in hand’.

  By the harbour railway station in Naples he found an inn and from the innkeeper he purchased three bottles of French champagne, already iced, four glasses and a basket of local fruit: grapes, peaches and strawberries. But even when we were ensconced in our compartment — first class now, courtesy of Lady Windermere — with beakers at the ready and the train at full speed, he seemed reluctant to speak.

  ‘Are you playing for time, Oscar?’ I asked, as he poured the sparkling yellow wine into my glass and it spilt over the rim onto my hand. ‘Have you lost your nerve, old man? Changed your mind?’

  ‘I am playing with ideas still, certainly. As a detective I am an amateur, but I am a writer by profession, as you are, Arthur. We writers do play with ideas, don’t we? Is it not our duty to do so — to take them and toss them into the air — to let them escape, to recapture them, to make them iridescent with fancy and wing them with paradox? I am not plodding the streets of London in muddied boots with your Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard; I am barefoot in the hills of Capri pursuing Truth in her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy — following her where she dances like a Bacchante and mocks the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts spread before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet tread the huge press at which the wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rises round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles or crawls in red foam over the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides.’