Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (23 page)

‘I
shall be honoured. I am fond of my own voice. Is a “colloquy” the usual form?’

‘Only
when we have guests. Otherwise we eat in silence — as we would in a Capuchin
friary, with one of us reading out loud to the others.’

‘And
you are the reader as a rule?’ asked Oscar.

‘This
is the
circolo inglese.
The reading is always in English, so, yes, I am
usually the reader.’

‘And
what do you read? Sacred texts?’

‘Of a
kind. Recently we have been concentrating on the works of Arthur Conan Doyle!
We are devotees of the great Sherlock Holmes. Look on the sideboard — there,
alongside Cardinal Newman’s
Apologia Pro Vita Sua,
signed by the author,
you will find my copies of
A Study in Scarlet
and
The Sign of Four,
first
editions, of course.’

Breakspear
bowed towards me unctuously. I felt even happier that I had positioned myself
as far from him as possible.

We had
all found our places around the table:

Cesare
Verdi, standing by the sideboard, rang the sanctus bell and the party fell
silent. After a moment’s pause, Monsignor Felici invited Monsignor Breakspear
to say grace.

‘Benedic,
Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum
Dominum nostrum. Ad coenam vitae aeternae perducat nos, Rex aeternae gloriae.
Amen.’

It was
a grace I knew well, from my schooldays. Breakspear intoned it sonorously and
offered me a knowing smile at its conclusion. All but Father Bechetti joined
in the ‘Amen’ and we took our seats.

I have
to report that the feast spread out before us would have gladdened the heart of
the greediest schoolboy.

‘Help
yourselves, gentlemen,’ said Felici jovially. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. The tea
in the pots on the table is Darjeeling. If you prefer something lighter, Cesare
will prepare you a special pot of Earl Grey.’

Cesare
Verdi stood hovering at my shoulder with a silver milk jug in his hand. “Ome
from ‘ome, sir, eh?’

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

L
ife,
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.’