Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘It won’t,’ said Munthe, moving into the hall and picking up his medical bag from his desk as he went. ‘Blow out the candles, would you? I’ll clear up the rest when I return.’

  ‘Is she away? Your companion?’

  ‘No,’ said Munthe. ‘She’s sound asleep. I made sure of that.’

  ‘Did you drug her?’ enquired Oscar lightly, blowing out the candles on the mantelpiece as he spoke.

  Munthe stood by the door to the apartment, holding it open for us. ‘As it happens, I did.’

  ‘Strychnine?’

  ‘A touch of strychnine stimulates, Mr Wilde. More than a touch can be fatal.’ The hammering on the door was growing louder. ‘I gave her phenacetin. She won’t wake tonight.’

  17

  Unmasking

  The loud, insistent caller at the doctor’s door was Cesare Verdi. The sacristan was no longer wearing the black cassock in which he had served us our tea: he was now dressed in a dishevelled trenchcoat, workman’s trousers and an open-necked linen shirt without a collar. Beneath a labourer’s cap, his hair and forehead, his face and round cheeks glistened with perspiration. He held an oil lamp up close to his face and in the gleam of his eyes I detected excitement rather than alarm.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Doctor,’ he said breathlessly, speaking in English. ‘It’s Father Bechetti.’

  ‘I feared it might be,’ said Munthe. ‘I’m ready.’ He pushed past Verdi and, half running, half walking, made his way rapidly to the pony and trap that stood waiting by the fountain in the middle of the piazza. ‘Come on,’ he called to Verdi. ‘Let us go.’

  As he made to follow, Verdi offered a cursory nod of acknowledgement to Oscar and to me. ‘It’ll be the end, I think.’

  ‘In case you need to make sure,’ said Oscar, ‘here’s this.’

  From the inside pocket of his jacket Oscar produced the silver hammer he had used to crack open the lobster claw and handed it to Verdi. The sacristan took the slender object and looked at it, confused.

  ‘I borrowed it without asking,’ said Oscar, with an apologetic shrug. ‘Forgive me. You have so many treasures …’

  Verdi said nothing.

  Munthe called from the pony and trap: ‘We must go.‘ Verdi ran to join him.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go too?’ I asked.

  ‘To be in at the kill?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘To hear Father Bechetti’s deathbed confession? I fear it’s too late for that. Joachim Bechetti will take his secrets to the grave. I imagine that is what he would have wanted.’

  We watched the pony and trap trundle out of the piazza. Neither Cesare Verdi nor Axel Munthe looked back, though the doctor raised his hand in a farewell wave as the pair disappeared into the darkness along the Via del Babuino. Oscar gazed up at the blue-black night sky: there was no moon.

  ‘It’s time for bed, Arthur,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘You think nothing’s to be gained by going to the sacristy now?’

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s gone two o’clock: it’s the dying time of night. Clearly, Bechetti is fading fast. If the poor man is not dead already, once Munthe arrives at the bedside it won’t take long. The good doctor will despatch him pretty swiftly — and tomorrow, blithely, he will tell us that he did — because, in his view, his patient had suffered “too long and more than enough”. We don’t need to witness a sad old priest’s demise, Arthur. We won’t be required at any inquest and a death is not a pretty sight.’

  ‘I have known peaceful deaths,’ I said. ‘Some, even, that might be called “lovely”. Death is the gateway to a better world. I do believe that.’

  Slowly, side by side, in silence, we crossed the piazza towards the Via del Babuino. As we walked, I listened to the odd, echoing clack of our heels on the cobblestones. Oscar said nothing, but lit another cigarette. Eventually, as we were passing the old church of Sant’ Atanasio dei Greci, I broke the silence.

  ‘Munthe is a good man, don’t you think?’ I said.

  Oscar laughed. ‘If you believe in “mercy killing”, he’s the best. If death is the gateway to a better world, Dr Munthe certainly holds the key.’

  ‘He has some peculiar views, no doubt, but we shouldn’t forget that he’s a Swede.’

  Oscar looked sideways at me. ‘And what is that supposed to mean, Arthur?’

  ‘Swedes are of a morbid disposition — it’s well known.’

  ‘Have a care, Arthur. My godfather was king of Sweden.’

  ‘And of Norway. King Oscar I. I remember. Your father treated his cataracts.’

  ‘He removed them. He made a blind king see. My father was a miracle worker — and the devil incarnate, of course. He led my mother the most dreadful dance. He was both a good man and a sinner.’

  ‘We’re all sinners, Oscar, but we’re not all murderers.’

  ‘Death is central to the Swedish doctor’s vocation, there’s no denying it. His study is awash with macabre memorabilia.’

  ‘That does not make him a murderer, does it?’

  ‘I hope not. But, as we know, Arthur, when a medical man does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.’

  We had reached our hotel. Oscar peered through the glass-fronted door. The hotel hallway was in darkness. He rang the night bell.

  ‘Perhaps, when we see Munthe tomorrow, we had better ask him where he was on 7 February 1878. You never know …’

  He was about the ring the bell again, when a bleary-eyed porter appeared and, muttering and grumbling, unlocked the door for us. Oscar appeased the man with a handful of coins.

  As we stood in the corridor outside our rooms and bid one another goodnight, one last question sprang into my mind.

  ‘Tell me one thing, Oscar. Why on earth did you steal the silver hammer from the sacristy this afternoon?’

  ‘Because I could.’ He smiled at me as he opened his bedroom door. ‘Sleep well, Arthur. We’re getting there.’

  In the morning, I breakfasted alone and at eight o’clock. I had not slept well, and for no more than five hours, but I am regular in my habits and, as a rule, the happier for it. I took my writer’s notebook with me to the dining room and over breakfast (coffee, black bread and Italian smoked ham) I made some preliminary notes for the Sherlock Holmes story that would introduce his brother, Mycroft. As a nod to Oscar’s devotion to all things Hellenic, I decided to call the story ‘The Greek Interpreter’. Despite my lack of sleep, my thoughts flowed freely. I was pleased with my endeavours.

  I was less pleased, however, with the telegram that I drafted to send to my darling wife Touie. I was not sure what progress in the case I could report. I could not be certain when I would be returning to London. In truth, I did not know what to say to her, so I simply said: STILL IN ROME WITH WILDE. ALL WELL BUT PLANS UNCERTAIN. TAKE CARE. ACD. I also drafted a brief wire addressed to the Bursar at Stonyhurst College, Clitheroe, Lancashire.

  At ten o’clock, as the dining room began to clear, I took my telegrams to the hotel’s reception desk for despatch. There I found two notes awaiting me. One was from Oscar, advising me that he had gone out in search of cigarettes and hoped that I would join him shortly in the Piazza del Popolo for ‘a beaker — or two — full of the warm South’. The other note was from Axel Munthe. It was written in English, in a doctor’s spidery, near-indecipherable hand:

  Arthur—

  As a fellow medical man, you will understand this better than Wilde. When I arrived I saw at once there was no hope. The patient was sinking fast, but doing so in great discomfort: plucking at the sheets, crying out in distress. I had no choice. The old man had suffered too long and more than enough. I administered morphine — 5 mg. He died in peace and I am glad for that.

  The last rites were conducted by Msgr Tuminello, with the other chaplains in attendance. Brother Matteo held Father Bechetti’s hand to the end and will accompany the old priest’s body on its final journey to the island of Capri.
(Bechetti was born on the island and expressed a wish to be buried there. On Brother Matteo’s behalf I have sent a telegram to Bechetti’s family there. I may accompany the body too. I know Capri and love it very much.)

  I am going to my bed now, but please call on me this evening and we can talk further. Msgr Tuminello asks especially to be remembered to you. He is conducting Mass in the chapel of the Holy Sacrament today, at five o’clock, and hopes that you might attend. Tell Wilde I acted for the best. Had you found Bechetti as I did this night, I believe you would have done the same.

  Yours,

  Axel Munthe

  ‘Methinks the doctor doth protest too much,’ said Oscar, tossing Munthe’s note back across the café table to me. I returned it to my pocket and smiled at my friend.

  I had found him seated in the shade at the far side of the piazza by the Porta del Popolo. He was dressed once more in his lime-coloured suit, wearing a matching tie and a shirt of daffodil yellow: he was quite unmissable. He was smoking a long, thin American cigarette and drinking a long, tall glass of Tokay and seltzer. His cheeks were pink, his eyes full of mischief. Two books lay open in front of him, propped up against a third.

  ‘These were to have been my breakfast, Arthur — food for the mind. I was going to consume a page or two of Twain’s Innocents Abroad in lieu of porridge and then tuck into Butler’s Lives of the Saints for my bacon and eggs, but I was rudely interrupted.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By James Rennell Rodd!’

  ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. Oscar was gratified by my amazement. ‘You spoke to him?’ I asked.

  ‘He spoke to me.’

  ‘Was he civil?’

  ‘Barely. He spoke to me only because he saw that I had seen him lurking by the obelisk and was embarrassed.’

  ‘Embarrassed?’

  ‘I think so. Rennell Rodd and the Reverend Martin English were together, thick as thieves, tucked behind the obelisk, deep in conference with Romulus and Remus, the urchin lads who dwell beyond the pyramid.’

  ‘What were they up to?’

  ‘I hadn’t yet breakfasted. I dared not think. The boys appeared to be in tears.’

  ‘If the Reverend English was there, there will be an innocent explanation, I’m sure.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Oscar, raising his glass to his lips, ‘possibly not.’ He took a sip of the wine and looked at me beadily. ‘All I can report is that Rennell Rodd caught sight of me catching sight of him and sent the lads scurrying at once, before wandering across the piazza with the Reverend English to wish me good morning.’

  “‘Good morning”? Was that all?’

  ‘Rodd also asked how long I was planning to remain in Rome.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘The truth. I said that I did not know.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘Not quite. He saw my copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints and said that he was pleased to see me reading something of an “edifying nature” — “for a change”. He had a book in his own hand. I asked what it was. It turned out to be a life of Pope Pius IX. He told me that he had been an admirer of Pio Nono’s since his first visit to Rome, in 1878, when, as a young man, he had had the privilege of attending the Holy Father’s funeral.’

  ‘Rennell Rodd was here in Rome at the time that Pio Nono died?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘How extraordinary. Do you think he’s somehow mixed up in all this?’

  Oscar laughed. ‘I doubt it. He has too much ambition and too little courage for a life of crime. But you never know, there may be hidden shallows …’

  I smiled and, taking off my straw hat, put it on the table alongside Oscar’s books, then sat back, folded my arms and surveyed the scene. The grand piazza was filled with brilliant sunshine, flower sellers and a sudden flurry of worshippers in their ‘Sunday best’, criss-crossing the square on their way to one of its three churches.

  ‘This afternoon we are invited to Mass at St Peter’s,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘Munthe says so in his note. But I think it is you who are invited, Arthur. You are also invited to call on the Englishes, by the way. The Reverend English said his sister had something she particularly wished to ask you. I did not enquire further. I assured him I would pass on the message.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  Oscar grinned at me — it was an impish grin. ‘Miss English looks like a woman with a past. Most pretty women do.’

  ‘Her life has not been easy,’ I said.

  ‘She has told you her story then?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  The waiter arrived with the coffee I had ordered and with a fresh Tokay and seltzer for Oscar. My friend offered me one of his American cigarettes.

  ‘The tobacco is pale yellow and absurdly bland,’ he said, apologetically.

  ‘I have my pipe,’ I answered, feeling my jacket pockets to locate it.

  ‘I’m glad. You may need it. This case could prove to be one of your “three-pipe problems”, Arthur. It is turning out to be less tractable than I’d anticipated.’ I found my pipe. Oscar passed me his box of matches. ‘Do you still have the hand and the severed finger on you?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Keep them safe.’

  I held the lit Lucifer to the bowl of the pipe and sucked hard on the stem. Through the matchstick’s flickering flame I looked across at my friend as, languidly, he drew on his cigarette and slowly ran his little finger around the rim of his wineglass.

  ‘What progress are we making, Oscar?’ I asked, puffing on my pipe. ‘This is a wild-goose chase, isn’t it? We don’t even yet know who brought us here.’

  My friend furrowed his brow and sat forward at the table. He laid down his cigarette, taking the saucer from beneath my coffee cup to use as an ashtray.

  ‘Yesterday, I was certain that I knew whose cryptic “cry for help” it was that brought us to Rome. Now I have my doubts. It’s not Rennell Rodd.’

  I laughed. ‘Rennell Rodd is looking forward to our departure.’

  ‘To my departure, at any rate.’ Oscar smiled wanly. ‘It’s not the Englishes.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I don’t know why you say “Of course not”, Arthur. They were travelling on the same train as we were from Milan to Rome. They had reserved seats in the same compartment.’

  ‘Coincidence.‘

  ‘Most likely. How were they to know what train we’d take? Nevertheless, we must consider every possibility —and we must face the fact that Miss English has pressed her attentions on you, Arthur, in no uncertain terms. ‘‘Don’t be absurd, Oscar,’ I remonstrated.

  ‘Love and gluttony justify everything.’

  ‘You do say the most ridiculous things at times, Oscar,’ I protested, unamused. ‘It seems likely from the items sent to Holmes — the severed hand, the finger, the ring, the lock of lamb’s wool — that the “cry for help” is connected in some way with the disappearance of this unfortunate girl, Agnes.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘I thought so, too, but now I am having second thoughts.’

  ‘You amaze me, Oscar. I was confused to begin with, but I now see that the clues are as clear as daylight. The severed limbs point to foul play, obviously. The rose-gold ring with the crossed keys is what led us to the heart of the Vatican. It could lead nowhere else. It’s the rose-gold ring that binds the chaplains and the sacristan and Pio Nono all together.’

  ‘And the lock of lamb’s wool?’

  I put down my pipe. ‘That’s what completes the picture. It’s the lamb’s wool that leads us to Pio Nono’s “little lamb of God” — the little girl whose very name is Latin for “lamb”.’

  Oscar blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘I am now wondering whether it has anything to do with the girl at all.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Oscar, it must have.’

 
‘There is no “must” about it, Arthur. I am now thinking that the whole business may have nothing to do with Agnes and everything to do with Breakspear.’

  ‘With Breakspear?’ I was dumbfounded.

  ‘I am now wondering whether, in fact, it was not that mountain of flesh, Monsignor Felici — the Pontifical Master of Ceremonies and our official host — who sent those extraordinary parcels to Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Felici? To what end?’

  ‘To lure you — you, Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes — to Rome, to the Vatican, for a specific purpose: to expose your alleged schoolfellow, the so-called Nicholas Breakspear.’

  ‘Why on earth should Felici want to do that?’

  ‘Because Felici believes Breakspear is bogus but he can’t prove it.’

  ‘But Breakspear has been a chaplain-in-residence at St Peter’s since Pio Nono’s day. He is a Jesuit priest — clearly he is. He trained at the English College here. He knew Cardinal Newman.’

  ‘Of course, no doubt, all that may well be true. But before that, before he came to Rome, before he caught the late pope’s eye, what was he then? Who was he then? Is his whole life built upon a lie? He claims to have been at school with you but you don’t remember him, do you, Arthur?’

  I hesitated. I was caught off-balance by Oscar’s maelstrom of words. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘Exactly. You are not sure. The moment you set eyes upon the man, you did not trust him. And there is something about him that I do not trust either. I have known him only five days. Felici has known him fifteen years and still doesn’t trust him.’

  ‘If Monsignor Felici has had these doubts all these years, why has he acted now? Why not before?’

  ‘Perhaps the doubts are new or perhaps they did not matter in the past. Or perhaps nothing is new, other than the circumstances. Here is Breakspear, ten years Felici’s junior, suddenly on the brink of becoming a cardinal … It’s too much to bear. Envy is a deadly sin, but Felici is only human: he is as guilty of it as he is of gluttony and pride. Felici will discover the truth about Breakspear. If Breakspear is a fraud, Felici will unmask him. It won’t be easy, because Felici has no proof. He just has that uneasy feeling that you had when Breakspear greeted you with such over-familiarity this week — that uneasy feeling that I had when I heard that Breakspear was “eating his way through the animal kingdom” and using those two boys from up the hill as his scavengers. Something about Breakspear doesn’t ring true. Before it is too late — before young Monsignor Breakspear, the late pope’s favourite, the new pope’s confessor, receives his cardinal’s hat — Felici is determined to find out all he can about the man … It may be nothing, it may be something.’