‘Will Monsignor Breakspear be made a cardinal?’ asked Oscar.
‘Certainly and soon. We’re due another English cardinal and Breakspear’s the obvious choice. It would be cruel to deny him. He burns with ambition.’
‘And you, Monsignor Tuminello,’ asked Oscar holding up his chalice as the old priest poured out more wine, ‘do you not burn with ambition?’
‘I do,’ he said, ‘but not for myself, not any longer. I burn with ambition for another, one much more worthy. I burn with ambition for Agnes — our little lamb of God.’
‘You loved her?’ I asked.
‘All who knew her loved her. She was love made manifest.’
‘Who loved her most?’ asked Oscar.
Tuminello laughed. ‘Pio Nono, without a doubt. He was pope and no one in the world ever behaves entirely normally with the pope … but Agnes did and the Holy Father loved her for that. They prayed together — they played together. He tottered along the corridor; she skipped along by his side. They were so easy in one another’s company. It was a joy to behold them: the ancient pope, the old shepherd, and his little lamb of God.’
‘They were like father and daughter?’
‘No, like grandfather and granddaughter, or great-grandfather even. Pio Nono was very old. He was eighty-five when he died. Agnes was thirteen or fourteen. Father Bechetti was more like a father to her. He was the one who watched over her. He did not want her to be spoilt by all the petting she received. He worried that we paid her too much attention.’
‘And yet he painted her? Did that not feed her vanity?’
‘Agnes was without vanity and Father Bechetti did not paint her from life. He painted her from memory. And his memory played tricks with him. It was when we lost her that Bechetti began to lose his mind. It happened very slowly. That painting in the sacristy — he began that about a year after she disappeared. It is not a good likeness, in my opinion. I think Felici is right. It looks more like the Blessed Virgin in Michelangelo’s Pietà than like our little Agnes.’
‘Why did he paint her?’
‘Because we asked him. We wanted something to remember her by. We doted on her. We all did: the chaplains, the cardinals, the reverend sisters in the laundry, the lay brothers who work in the gardens and in the builder’s yard … Agnes was a free spirit; she could come and go as she pleased. Pio Nono allowed her a freedom within the Vatican enjoyed by no one else — no one at all. And she never took advantage of it. Everyone who knew her adored little Agnes.’
‘Brother Matteo?’
‘He was like a brother to her. Breakspear, too. They were both younger men then. I taught Agnes to read and write, but Brother Matteo taught her about nature — about plants and flowers, about the birds and wild creatures — and Breakspear, bless his heart, tried to teach her English! He was very good with her. Very patient. He taught her English nursery rhymes.’
‘And what about Monsignor Felici?’
Tuminello paused and peered inside his now-empty chalice. ‘I suppose if anyone loved her least, it was Felici. He loves very little beyond himself.’ The Monsignor looked up at us and grinned. ‘When Pio Nono teased us and named each of us after one of the seven mortal sins, he gave Felici the sin of sloth. He said Felici was too lazy to look beyond the looking-glass. Felici has only ever really been concerned with himself.’
Monsignor Tuminello chuckled, then frowned and shook his head, casting his eyes down towards the chalice once again.
‘May God forgive me,’ he muttered. ‘That was uncharitable — and wrong. Felici loved her, too. He prepared her for her first communion. He was her confessor. He knew her well and loved her dearly. We all did.’
The old priest returned to the niche in the wall and retrieved the bottle of wine.
‘No more for me,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ He divided the last of the bottle between himself and Oscar.
He looked at us, from one to the other, and his face was once more wreathed in smiles. ‘She wrought miracles, you know. Pio Nono suffered from epilepsy until little Agnes came into our lives. She cured him.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘I know that she did,’ said Tuminello.
‘Did she know that she did?’ asked Oscar.
‘No, she was just a child, no more than six or seven when she first arrived. She was utterly unselfconscious —all simplicity, all modesty. But she wrought miracles and she still does.’
‘And miracles are essential if little Agnes is to become a saint?’
‘Two miracles are sufficient. Just two.’
‘And,’ said Oscar, casually, handing me his chalice to hold while he lit another cigarette, ‘it is with regard to the proposed canonisation of little Agnes that you seek the assistance of Mr Sherlock Holmes …‘
‘Of Dr Conan Doyle,’ replied Monsignor Tuminello, ‘yes.’
He turned to me. I saw both supplication and excitement in his eyes. I did not know what to say.
‘I am no expert on miracles,’ I began. ‘On the contrary, I—’
Oscar raised a hand to silence me and looked directly at Monsignor Tuminello. ‘You know for a certainty, do you, sir, that the child is dead?’
‘Yes,’ replied the priest. ‘I know that she is dead. I have heard her voice — she is already at work among the angels.’
‘You know that she is dead because you have heard her voice from beyond the grave?’ I asked.
‘That is my profession, Dr Conan Doyle. Yes, I have heard the voice of Agnes from beyond the grave.’
Oscar raised his hand again to stop me from responding. ‘You know that Agnes is dead,’ he said to Tuminello, ‘but you did not witness her death yourself?’
‘I did not see her on the day she died. I had not seen her for a day or so. I was in attendance on the Holy Father at the time. We all were. We knew that he was dying. I witnessed his death, but not hers. God took each of them on the same day — 7 February 1878. He took them together.’
‘It was God’s doing?’ I asked, doubtfully.
‘Everything is God’s doing, Dr Conan Doyle.’
‘You did not witness Agnes’s death,’ Oscar persisted, ‘but did you see her body on the day that she died?’
‘I did not,’ said Monsignor Tuminello, draining his chalice, ‘but I know that Monsignor Breakspear did. He found her body in the sacristy, laid out on the seat of tears.’
‘He told you that?’ said Oscar, surprised. ‘Breakspear swore to me that he had told Cesare Verdi what he saw and no one else.’
‘Breakspear did not tell me anything. I overheard him and Verdi talking about it once, years ago. It is not easy to keep secrets within the sacristy. The walls are thick, but there are no locks on any of the doors. I overheard Breakspear tell his story and I tried to question him about it, but he would tell me nothing further. He said no purpose would be served. He refuses absolutely to discuss the matter. I know that he believes that Agnes took her own life.’
‘And if she did take her own life — for whatever reason — she would not be eligible for canonisation. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct, Mr Wilde. The rules are strict. They have to be. A saint must die in a state of grace.’ He laughed. ‘Cardinal Bellarmine, you know, was well on his way to beatification when we opened his coffin and found that he had died with his finger in his mouth. It raised the question: had the unfortunate cardinal been buried alive? If he had been, who could tell what his final thoughts might have been! If you are to join the canon of saints, how you die is as important as how you lived.’
‘You are promoting Agnes’s canonisation?’
‘Yes, I will be her advocate. I am preparing the papers now. It has become my life’s purpose.’
‘Who knows of this?’ asked Oscar.
‘No one, as yet — apart from you, gentlemen. I must have everything in order first or the cause is futile.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.
‘Because I loved her and I honour her memory.
In God’s eyes, she is a saint already. I am merely doing God’s work here on earth. In her cause I shall be God’s advocate — advocatus Dei.’
‘And when you have prepared your case, what happens?’
‘I submit it to His Holiness for consideration. And His Holiness will then hand the papers to the Office of the Promoter of the Faith who will appoint a devil’s advocate — advocatus diaboli — a canon lawyer who will test the case to exhaustion. He will require proof positive that Agnes lived and died in such an exemplary and holy way that she is now in heavenly glory.’
‘He will explore every aspect of her life?’
‘Every aspect. The process can take years and the examination will be minute. A cause can stand or fall on the most trivial matter. There is a case being considered at the moment, that of Canonico del Buffalo, a missionary and a truly holy man. But the devil’s advocate has found three things against him. Apparently, he ordered his servant to buy large fish at the market, his mother used to curl his hair and he was fond of chocolate cream. His promoters can overcome the first two charges. Being in delicate health, he required good food. He needed his strength to do God’s work. His mother curled his hair because, in his day, longer hair was the fashion for ecclesiastics and not to have allowed it to be curled would have been a sign of ostentation. But how to overcome the matter of the chocolate cream: that is the problem!’
Oscar and I joined in Tuminello’s wheezy laughter —Oscar with delight, I with incredulity.
Oscar drew on his cigarette. ‘We can take it that little Agnes, though a child, was not unduly fond of chocolate cream.’
‘On hot days, when Pio Nono sent out for ice creams for the chaplains and the cardinals, Agnes always chose a chocolate ice and then gave hers to Monsignor Felici.’
‘Ah,’ said Oscar, ‘as ever, self-indulgence was Monsignor Felici’s besetting sin, but it was not Agnes’s.’
‘No one will accuse Agnes of self-indulgence. No one will question her goodness, her virtue or her faith. I am sure of that.’
‘And the miracles?’ I enquired.
‘From his boyhood onwards Pio Nono suffered from epilepsy. It is well known. He had attacks all his life —they caused him much private distress and occasional public embarrassment. And then Agnes came among us … and, after her first communion, Pio Nono and Agnes prayed together, side by side, and from that day the attacks stopped. He never had another.’
‘You have proof of this?’ I asked.
‘I have the Holy Father’s medical records. I have his doctors’ notes. Pio Nono suffered from epileptic fits for every year of his adult life until 1871, the year Agnes came to live in the Vatican. I have all the details. I have sufficient proof. Agnes cured a pope of epilepsy!’
‘But you need two miracles,’ said Oscar.
‘I have proof of a further miracle — and Dr Munthe can vouch for this one.’
‘Munthe knew the girl Agnes?’ I exclaimed.
‘No, I don’t believe so. Dr Munthe has not been in Rome that long. But the man for whom Agnes performed her miracle is a patient of his.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Oscar.
‘Nobody special, a charity case — an old man who lives up on the hill, in the woods behind the pyramid. He collects bones from around the city and sells them to the glue-maker. In the old days, every Friday before dawn he used to come here with his cart to collect the bones from the Vatican kitchens. He knew Agnes. She gave him coffee and bread for his breakfast. He called her his “little angel”, and when she disappeared he missed her sorely. When he realised that she must be dead, he began to pray to her.’
‘And the miracle?’
‘The man was a cripple, born with a withered foot. He dragged his leg when he walked. I saw it with my own eyes. Then he prayed to little Agnes and she cured him. Dr Munthe will attest to that.’
Oscar finished his wine and returned the chalice to Monsignor Tuminello. The priest returned the empty vessels to the niche in the wall.
‘I have all I need,’ he said, ‘except a clear understanding of how Agnes died.’
I wanted the light of reason to cut through the miasma of ‘belief’. ‘If she took her own life—’ I began.
Tuminello interrupted me. ‘Then the case is hopeless, Dr Conan Doyle.’ He looked directly at me. ‘But she did not take her own life — I am convinced of that.’
‘How can you be?’ I persisted. ‘You say the girl was devoted to the Holy Father?’
‘She was.’
‘And how old was she at the time of his death? Thirteen or fourteen? Girls of that age are the creatures of their emotions, Monsignor Tuminello. Any doctor will tell you that. They are at an age when changes are taking place within their bodies that lead to emotional volatility. It is well known. In such a state, Agnes’s distress at the death of Pope Pius might have driven her to do something desperate.’
Tuminello smiled at me. He had disposed of the end of his cigar and now clasped his hands together, holding them up almost as if in prayer.
‘I hear what you say, Dr Conan Doyle. And, yes, in the weeks before the Holy Father passed away, when he lay dying, Agnes came to visit him in his quarters and she found those last visits deeply distressing. She kept her tears from the Holy Father, but she shed them.’
‘Did you talk to her about her distress?’
‘No, I was not her confessor. That was Felici’s role. He spent time with her — a great deal of time. I was surprised. Customarily, Monsignor Felici is quite self-absorbed. I think he took pity on the child. As the Holy Father’s death approached, Felici heard her confession almost daily.’
‘And what did the girl “confess”?’
‘The secrets of the confessional are sacred, Dr Conan Doyle.’
‘You know that, Arthur,’ murmured Oscar, reprovingly.
‘I do, Oscar,’ I said, quietly. ‘I also know, from all I have heard, that suicide in this case is undoubtedly a possibility. I think Monsignor Tuminello must accept that.’
‘I do accept that,’ cried the Monsignor, without rancour. He smiled at me, almost seraphically. ‘Suicide is a possibility, but in this case not a likelihood. Agnes may have been troubled, but she was ever-faithful. Suicide is a sin. Despair is a sin. Agnes was without sin. I know it.’
Oscar was now looking about, somewhat distractedly. He was wondering, I realised, if he dare stub out his cigarette on the tomb of Pope Gregory V. (Oscar was oddly fastidious: he never liked to drop a lighted cigarette on the ground.) As he did the deed, over his shoulder he asked: ‘Could she have been murdered? Is that a possibility?’
‘It would be a blessing,’ declared Tuminello roundly.
‘A blessing?’ I expostulated.
‘I understand,’ said Oscar, returning to us. ‘She might have died a martyr’s death. That could assist her on the road to sainthood.’
‘But if all who knew her loved her,’ I said, shaking my head wearily, ‘who would murder the poor child — and why?’
‘Exactly,’ said Tuminello. ‘She was universally adored.’
‘And yet,’ said Oscar, putting his face close to the priest’s, ‘you have considered the possibility of murder, Monsignor, have you not?’
‘I have.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because of something Agnes said, not long ago.
‘Not long ago? After her death?’
‘It was earlier this year. In January. I encountered her spirit at an exorcism.’
‘You know it was Agnes?’ Oscar enquired.
‘Oh, yes. She spoke her name quite distinctly.’
‘And she addressed you?’
‘No, she was wrestling with a devil within the troubled soul of one the reverend sisters who works in the laundry here.’
‘And what did the child say?’
‘She spoke of the struggles of life and death. And she spoke of her own death — a violent death. She spoke of a hand at her throat and a single finger pressed against her mouth. S
he spoke of violence and a secret she had not shared.’
‘And?’
‘That was enough. It troubled me. It resolved me in my purpose. It was then, in January, that I knew I should not rest until I had discovered all I could about how Agnes died.’
‘Not only about how she died,’ said Oscar, ‘but also where she died, and what happened to her body.’
‘We know what we have learnt from Monsignor Breakspear,’ I said. ‘According to his testimony, her body was last seen at ten o’clock on the night of 7 February 1878. Less than an hour later, it was gone. Who took it? Where was it taken?’
“‘Eliminate all other factors,”’ said Monsignor Tuminello, “‘and the one which remains must be the truth.” A favourite maxim of Mr Sherlock Holmes, I think.‘
‘I recognise the line,’ I said.
‘I know the truth,’ said Tuminello, still gazing at me. ‘God took her body. Agnes was assumed into heaven.’
I clasped my hands together and shut my eyes. ‘Forgive me, Monsignor,’ I sighed, ‘but that is preposterous.’
‘There is precedent,’ said the priest, lightly. ‘But the fate of Agnes’s body does not worry me unduly. What concerns me — and what will concern the devil’s advocate — is the nature of her death. I must discover the whole truth about that, and I need help to do so.’ Tuminello put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Frankly, I need the services of a good detective, however sceptical.’
Oscar laughed. ‘And that is why you lured Dr Conan Doyle to Rome, is it? You wanted the brains behind Sherlock Holmes to come to your aid in your hour of need.’
The Monsignor laughed also but less comfortably. He cast his eyes downward. ‘No,’ he protested weakly. ‘I am simply hoping to take advantage of Dr Conan Doyle being here. It’s a happy chance that he has come to Rome and that we have met.’
‘It’s not a happy chance, Monsignor. You planned it and planned it well. I must congratulate you.’ Oscar narrowed his eyes and peered about him into the gloom. ‘And to which of these late lamented popes did the finger and the hand you sent to Mr Holmes belong? Before we leave, you must tell us that.’
Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Page 20