Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (28 page)

17

Unmasking

T
he
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.’