‘I apologise,’ I said, without conviction, as we lowered the frail body of the old man onto a leather chaise beneath the vestry window. He was alive. His face was as white as a surplice, his toothless mouth hung open, his grey tongue lolled loosely over his lower lip.
‘I apologise, also,’ said the so-called diplomat, now standing upright and nodding his head towards me.
He was in his early thirties, tall and slender, immaculately dressed (he wore a Balliol College tie), impeccably groomed, with thick auburn hair swept back from a broad, smooth brow, and a luxuriant moustache, waxed at the tips. His appearance struck me at once as being too good to be true, but he had high cheekbones, a distinguished nose (in the Wellington tradition) and piercing blue eyes. He was undeniably handsome.
‘I spoke out of turn,’ he said, ‘in the heat of the moment.’
‘Please,’ insisted Dr Munthe, ‘don’t speak at all.’ He lifted the old priest’s right arm, took hold of his wrist and searched for his pulse. He then rested his head on the old man’s chest and pressed his ear against his heart. ‘Doyle,’ he instructed, ‘loosen his collar, straighten his head.’
I did as Munthe told me and, as I did so, the old man started to breathe noisily, gasping first, then wheezing like the bellows on a chapel organ.
‘Is that the death rattle?’ enquired the Reverend English, anxiously.
Munthe raised his head and laughed. ‘No, it’s an old man snoring. Leave him to us, gentlemen.’ He looked at Martin English. ‘Return to your flock, Padre. I imagine the ladies will be in quite a state. You can tell them that all’s well.’
The vicar and the diplomatist took their leave. ‘I think we’ll have to forgo your story, Dr Doyle,’ English said. ‘The night has proved unruly.’
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Rennell Rodd. He bowed to us and accompanied English to the vestry door.
When they had departed, Munthe returned his attention to the old priest stretched out before us on the chaise. ‘His breathing has calmed considerably,’ he said. ‘He looks quite peaceful.’ He removed the old man’s spectacles and, with thumb and forefinger, carefully raised each eyelid in turn. ‘And look at his eyes …’ They were those of an old man: swollen, yellow and cloudy.
I bent down to look into them closely. ‘Beyond the cataracts, I see nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘We are agreed then?’ said Munthe.
‘It was not a stroke.’
‘Nor a heart attack.’
‘What was it?’
I replayed the scene in my mind’s eye. ‘His head was held up, as though he was listening to Oscar’s recitation, listening intently. Then, suddenly, he lurched forward and cried out “No, no!” and then he threw his glass onto the ground.’
‘He threw the glass — deliberately?’
‘I think so.
‘It did not simply fall from his grasp?’
‘No, he threw it, violently. And then he collapsed. His body simply gave way.
‘He fainted.’ Munthe looked down at the priest once more. ‘There was a sudden outburst of anger — or distress — and then he lost consciousness. And now he sleeps, like a baby.’
I looked down at the old man. ‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘Joachim Bechetti, a papal chaplain and a good man, by all accounts. He’s been at the Vatican for years, since Pio Nono’s time. He was an artist in his day — a painter and a fine one, too. I’ve seen his work.’
‘Will he live?’ asked a voice from the shadows.
We looked towards the vestry door. Two clerics stood there, one of whom was Monsignor Felici. He came into the room slowly, reverentially, as if solemnly approaching a deathbed, holding the old priest’s biretta.
‘Will he live?’ he repeated.
Munthe looked at Monsignor Felici with an amused eye. He will outlive you, my friend, unless you lose some weight.’
‘He appears to have fainted,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’
‘He was standing too long,’ said Munthe, ‘the crowd was too great, he had perhaps drunk too much — he was overwhelmed’
‘I am relieved,’ said Felici, laying the old priest’s biretta on the chaise.
‘What is happening in the church?’ I asked.
Felici smiled. ‘Mr Oscar Wilde is the hero of the hour. He finished his recitation and now he is moving slowly among the ladies so that they may shake his hand and touch his garb. The commotion by the pulpit went unnoticed by most, but word has since spread — so there’s excitement in the air.’
‘It will be dampened somewhat when they discover there hasn’t been a death after all.’
It was Felici’s companion who spoke, in a rasping voice and with the distinctive accent of an English aristocrat from a bygone era.
‘Good evening, Munthe.’ He nodded towards the Swedish doctor, then extended his hand towards me. ‘Good evening, Arthur Conan Doyle.’
I shook his hand. At once, I noticed the rose-gold ring upon his finger. I noticed, too, the unnatural softness of his skin and the weakness of his grasp. He was dressed in robes identical to Felici’s — his cassock was edged with purple silk; he wore a purple sash — but he was younger than Felici, around forty years of age, and, though reasonably well fleshed, not a fat man. He was broad-shouldered, sturdily built, with a round and ruddy countryman’s face. He had thick, bushy eyebrows and tightly curled, iron-grey hair. His whole manner and appearance belied the feebleness of his handshake.
‘You don’t remember me?’ he said. ‘I am surprised.’
In the dim vestry light, I peered at his face closely. I felt not the least glimmer of recognition.
‘I am disappointed,’ he continued, ‘hurt even. It’s not that long ago, surely?’
‘You have the advantage of me, sir,’ I said, awkwardly.
‘We were at school together, Conan Doyle. At Stonyhurst. I thought one always remembered the older boys. Apparently not.’ He laughed. It was a hard, guttural laugh. ‘I remember you,’ he went on, looking at me appraisingly. ‘I remember you vividly — the insistence that you were called Conan Doyle. You were a cocky little fellow, very full of yourself. We had to beat you regularly.’ He looked at me and raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You must remember the Tolley?’
‘I remember the Tolley,’ I said.
‘It was the Stonyhurst instrument of retribution,’ he explained to the others. ‘Where lesser schools used the cane, we used the Tolley.’
The priest looked at me and grinned. His white teeth were small and even. ‘I distinctly recollect the last time I had to thrash you. It was on 22 May 1872. It was my birthday.’
‘I don’t remember,’ I said. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘You were thirteen — and very wicked. I was eighteen — and very good.’ He laughed.
‘And now?’ enquired Axel Munthe.
‘Arthur Conan Doyle is an author of international renown and I carry the sins of the world upon my shoulders.’
‘Monsignor Breakspear has recently been appointed Grand Penitentiary at St Peter’s,’ explained Monsignor Felici. ‘He hears our confessions. He knows all our secrets.’
‘And shares them only with Almighty God,’ said the Englishman, smiling.
‘He is the pope’s confessor,’ Felici continued. ‘He will be a cardinal before long.’
‘I am honoured to make your reacquaintance,’ I said. ‘Forgive me for not recollecting our last encounter. Perhaps I do recollect the name, now I think of it, but I don’t remember the beating. I don’t often think of my schooldays.’
‘Don’t look back,’ said Axel Munthe. ‘It’s a good rule.’ The old priest lying before us on the chaise began to cough.
‘What are we to do with him?’ asked Monsignor Felici. ‘I will look after him tonight,’ said Axel Munthe, leaning down to replace the spectacles on the old priest’s nose.
‘Oh no,’ protested Monsignor Breakspear, with a barking laugh. ‘We want poor Bechetti to live a little longer.’ The Mon
signor reached out and, for a moment, rested his soft fingers on my hand. ‘We call Dr Munthe “Dr Death”,’ he said, with a disconcerting smile. ‘When he gets the opportunity, he likes to ease his older, weaker patients from this world to the next. He admits it. Indeed, he boasts of it. We do not approve.
‘Father Bechetti is not in mortal danger,’ said Munthe. ‘Good,’ said Breakspear, ‘then we’ll take him back to the Vatican now. I have a carriage waiting.’
‘He needs bed rest, plenty of fluids — water and milk — and regular meals, but the simplest diet: pasta and vegetables. His pulse is steady, his heart quite strong. I think he was probably overwhelmed by the heat and the numbers in the church, that’s all.’
Father Bechetti began to stir. His thin hands twitched at his side.
‘Brother Matteo will nurse him back to health,’ said Breakspear. He glanced towards me. ‘Brother Matteo is a Capuchin friar and our Florence Nightingale.’
‘He is the best of men,’ said Monsignor Felici.
‘Very good,’ said Munthe. ‘Let’s get Father Bechetti to your carriage now. I’ll call on him tomorrow.‘
‘And bring Conan Doyle with you,’ said Breakspear. ‘And Mr Wilde, too. I missed his recitation. I would like to meet him — very much.’ He turned and looked directly at me, smiling and resting both his hands on mine. I felt the smoothness of his fingers on my knuckles. ‘You must come for tea in the sacristy — join our little English circle. There are just five of us: Monsignor Felici and myself, Father Bechetti, Brother Matteo and Monsignor Tuminello. He is the papal exorcist. Few can resist him.’ He laughed and released my hands. ‘Come at four o’clock — sharp. Munthe will show you the way. We have cucumber sandwiches. It will be home from home. And bring one of your stories to read to us, won’t you? We all love Sherlock Holmes.’
The nearby clock of Sant’ Atanasio dei Greci was striking ten as Munthe and I escorted the three Catholic priests to their carriage. The toothless old father had recovered sufficiently from his fainting fit to totter down the vestry steps supported on my and Monsignor Breakspear’s arms. Munthe assisted the corpulent Monsignor Felici. We bade the trio goodnight with a firm promise to attend them on the morrow.
‘At four o’clock,’ repeated Breakspear through the carriage window, ‘sharp.’
‘He will be obeyed,’ said Munthe, as we stood in the moonlit street watching the carrozza trundle away from us over the cobblestones.
‘He has a commanding presence.’
‘A natural authority — and a name to reckon with.’
‘Breakspear?’
‘Nicholas Breakspear. Nomen est omen, as your friend Wilde likes to say. Nicholas Breakspear was also the name of the last English pope, was it not?’
‘That was seven hundred and fifty years ago,’ I said.
Munthe gazed steadily after the churchmen’s carriage as it disappeared into the darkness of the Piazza del Popolo. ‘Nevertheless …’ He smiled. ‘In the fullness of time, your old schoolfellow expects to ascend the throne of St Peter. I am certain of that.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Ambition often is absurd.’
‘He’s English.’
‘That is a problem nowadays, I grant you. And he’s a Jesuit. That may be the greater disadvantage. No Jesuit has ever become pope. The other cardinals don’t trust them.’
‘Are you Monsignor Breakspear’s doctor?’ I asked, as we turned to go back into the church.
‘No, Monsignor Breakspear has no need of a doctor. He is wonderfully robust — as you saw. He has the constitution of an ox.
‘He has very delicate fingers.’
‘He has a farmer’s build, but a priest’s hands.’
‘I did not care for the softness of his handshake,’ I said.
‘But you noticed the ring?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I noticed the ring.’
It was well after eleven o’clock when finally we left All Saints that night. It took time to draw Oscar from his audience. The Anglican ladies of Rome had greeted him in silence, but having seen him and heard him and felt the charm of his personality, they were now reluctant to let him go until they had held his hand in theirs and implored him to take tea with them or play whist with them or open their forthcoming bazaar.
‘Being adored is such a nuisance,’ he declared as we untangled him from the final knot of female admirers. ‘Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us and are always asking us to do something for them.’
‘We all need to be needed,’ said Axel Munthe. ‘We need that more than anything.’
‘I need a nightcap,’ said Oscar. ‘I need that more than anything.’
We were among the last to leave the church. As we departed, the Reverend Martin English and his sister were effusive in their thanks.
English shook Oscar warmly by the hand: ‘You transformed what would have been the dreariest of fund-raisers into a memorable theatrical event, Mr Wilde. I am grateful.’
His sister held out her hands to Munthe and to me:
‘You doctors saved the evening — saved it! We would have been lost without you. We are so in your debt.’
While Oscar and Munthe stepped out into the street, I lingered for a moment in the church vestibule.
‘Will you read me your story very soon?’ Catherine English asked — and she kissed me gently on the cheek as she bade me farewell.
The white moon was full and Oscar stood on the pavement gazing up at it, his vigour magically restored. ‘It’s time for cigarettes and brandy, gentlemen, don’t you agree?’
I felt that it was time for bed and shut-eye, but Oscar’s sudden exuberance was not to be gainsaid.
‘If you have the cigarettes,’ volunteered Axel Munthe, ‘I have the brandy. Come!’
Amused by Oscar’s unashamed appetite for pleasure, the Swedish doctor marched us along the deserted Via del Babuino to his house by the Spanish Steps. As he put his latchkey to the door, he whispered, ‘Please be very quiet as we climb the stairs. We must not disturb the neighbours.’
‘Will your companion be about?’ asked Oscar.
‘I hope not,’ said Munthe. ‘We have had enough excitement for one evening.’ He picked up the oil lamp that stood on the hallway table and checked his pocket watch. ‘It’s late, long past her bedtime. She’ll be asleep, I trust.’
‘Ah,’ exclaimed Oscar, ‘your companion is a lady? I had assumed otherwise …’
Munthe seemed unperturbed by Oscar’s impertinence. He laughed softly. ‘She is no lady, I assure you. You’ll meet her soon enough — but not tonight, I hope. She’s quite a handful.’
‘Italian?’ Oscar persisted.
‘Egyptian,’ said Munthe.
Happily, Oscar now seemed lost for words. He said nothing further until we were ensconced in low leather chairs around the empty fireplace in Dr Munthe’s study. As our host poured us generous glasses of Italian brandy, Oscar drew languorously on his first cigarette of the night. He threw back his head and, closing his eyes, murmured, ‘A woman’s life revolves in curves of emotion. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life progresses. Is that not your experience, Doctor?’
‘Let me reflect on that for a moment,’ said Munthe quietly, moving about the room and turning up the oil lamps that stood on his desk and mantelpiece.
‘That’s rather deep for this time of night, Oscar,’ I observed.
My friend tilted his head towards me and opened one eye. ‘I am trying to raise my game, Arthur — in keeping with the surroundings. Keats died in the room next door, remember. His ghost may be listening.’
‘Let us raise our glasses to Keats’s memory,’ said Axel Munthe. ‘Your reading of his poem was clearly the making of tonight’s event.’
‘It was a recitation, my dear Doctor, not a reading. I have “The Eve of St Agnes” by heart — all forty-two stanzas.’
‘The Anglican ladies were much taken with it, clearly.’
‘It’s a
tale of virginity dramatically lost and of love ecstatically found. I thought it might hold their attention.’
I laughed. ‘It brought the old priest to his knees quickly enough.’
Oscar sat up abruptly. ‘The old priest!’ he exclaimed. ‘I forgot him altogether. How is he, poor old man?’
‘Recovered,’ said Munthe. ‘I shall see him tomorrow. He will live a while longer.’
‘What was it? His heart?’
‘I think he was simply overwhelmed,’ said Munthe. ‘The nave was very crowded. He’d been standing a long while.’
‘I thought I saw him throw his glass to the ground. For a moment I feared it was something I had said. I watched him fall, but I decided it was best not to stop the recitation. The congregation as a whole appeared not to notice the commotion.’
‘You held them in your thrall,’ said Munthe.
‘And I carried on because I saw you all rush forward to the rescue. I even noticed James Rennell Rodd springing from the shadows at the critical moment.’
‘He’s the rising man at the British Embassy here,’ said Munthe.
‘I can believe it,’ said Oscar.
‘He lives across the piazza,’ continued Munthe.
‘Ah,’ said Oscar, sitting back in the leather chair once more and drawing on his cigarette. ‘I thought I caught sight of him in the street yesterday — wearing a straw hat.’
‘Do you know the man?’ I asked.
Oscar smiled at me, widened his eyes and picked a trace of tobacco off his lower lip. ‘Do I know James Rennell Rodd? Yes, Arthur, I know him well. I know him very well indeed. Did he not mention it?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘I am surprised,’ said Oscar, gazing at me steadily.
‘We were very preoccupied with the old priest. He was still unconscious.’
‘Of course,’ answered Oscar, turning his eyes towards his brandy glass and contemplating it. ‘Rennell Rodd and I were close friends once upon a time — none closer. We are enemies now. I know because he wrote to tell me so. He has the soul of a bureaucrat. He must put everything in writing. Our “falling-out”, as he termed it, is official and destined to be lifelong. Friends, of course, do make the best enemies. They know what they’re about.’
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 9