Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (6 page)

‘The
truth.’

‘Oh,
Arthur, that was a mistake. When a husband starts telling his wife the truth
the marriage is as good as over. Certainly, the mystery’s all gone.’

‘Goodnight,
Oscar.’

‘Goodnight,
Arthur.’ He fell silent once more, but not for long. ‘What was it called,
Arthur, that instrument of torture? A “Tolley”, did you say?’

I made
no reply.

He went
on: ‘There’s never been a Jesuit pope, you know.’

I said
nothing. Minutes passed. I listened to his breathing. Gradually, it quietened;
eventually, it slowed. Lulled by the steady lurch of the train, we both slept
till dawn.

In
Milan, we changed trains for the final time. At the station hotel, we washed
and shaved, changed our linen and took breakfast. We each bought a newspaper to
read with our coffee and brioches.

‘I see
the pope is alive and well,’ I said, mischievously, looking up from my paper.
‘There is a photograph of His Holiness here. He appears to be in remarkably
good health for a man of eighty—two.’

‘I’m
pleased to hear it,’ said Oscar, tersely. ‘Your paper is evidently more
diverting than mine.

I
pressed home my advantage. ‘It seems the Holy Father is on his way to his
summer retreat.’ I took a sip of my coffee and muttered: ‘Remind me, Oscar. Why
are we going to Rome?’

My
friend lowered his newspaper and looked me in the eye. ‘I will not be
discomfited by you, Arthur. I don’t know why we’re going to Rome — except that
all roads lead there and there is the most wonderful tobacconist’s shop in a
corner of the Piazza del Popolo. It stocks cigarettes from four continents,
while in Bad Homburg they don’t stock cigarettes at all.’ He put down his
coffee cup so dramatically that it rattled in its saucer. ‘We are going to Rome
to get away from Homburg, the dullest place in Christendom. Even the Germans
find it dreary. We are going to Rome in search of adventure and to escape
dullness. Could there be a better reason?’ He waved at the waiter for our bill.
‘Dullness is the coming-of-age of seriousness. It is our duty to avoid it.
Throw away your newspaper, Arthur. I am throwing away mine. It’s dull, dull,
dull.’ He tossed his paper onto the floor beside the table. ‘Even the typeface
is dull. When I am editor of
The Times,
the commas will be sunflowers
and the semicolons pomegranates.’

Suddenly
he was crackling with energy. He paid the bill (with English money — he did it
so charmingly, the young waiter seemed not to mind at all); he confiscated my
newspaper (throwing it onto the floor next to his own); he tucked his arm into
mine and led us from the hotel back onto the station concourse.

‘We
shall find our train and if our porter has lost our luggage, so much the
better. We can each buy a new wardrobe at the tailors in Via del Corso. They
dressed John Keats, you know.’ He looked down at me and winced. ‘You are
wearing
tweeds,
Arthur, in July, in Italy. No wonder the Pope is leaving
town.’

When we
found our carriage — Oscar had booked us first class on the ten o’clock
Milano—Roma
diretto
— we found that we were not alone. Already ensconced in the window
seats, with hats, cane and parasol, their bags and baggage on the seats
immediately beside them, were a man of about forty and a young woman, seemingly
a dozen years his junior. I sensed at once that they were English and I saw at
once that she was very pretty. As we stepped into the compartment, she looked up
at me and smiled. She had round brown eyes, a small, pointed nose, a small,
happy mouth, and the hint of a dimple in her chin. Her face was boyish, but her
figure was not. She was wonderfully alluring, dressed in a cornflower-blue
pleated skirt and white silk blouse. As her eye caught mine, she held out her
hand.

‘Catherine
English,’ she said.

‘Arthur
Conan Doyle,’ I replied.

As we
shook hands and I caught the scent of lily of the valley in her perfume, the
book she had been reading fell from her lap onto the floor. I bent forward to
retrieve it.

‘Ah,’ I
said, returning the volume,
‘The Lays of Ancient Rome.
I’ve never read
it.’

Oscar
loomed over my shoulder. ‘A classic is something everyone wants to have read
and nobody wants to read.’

‘I’m
enjoying it,’ said the young woman, smiling. ‘Very much.’

Oscar
lifted my portmanteau onto the luggage rack above us and intoned:

‘Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the Gate:

“To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his Gods.”’

He
looked down and extended his hand to our fellow traveller. ‘Oscar Fingal
O’Flahertie Wills Wilde,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Conan Doyle’s gentleman.’

‘No,
he’s not,’ I burst out, embarrassed. ‘He’s—’

‘I know
who you both are,’ interposed Catherine English, laughing. ‘You’re celebrated.
Mr Doyle is the creator of Sherlock Holmes, and Mr Wilde is a poet and a better
poet even than Lord Macaulay, in my estimation.’ She gently tapped her copy of
The Lays of Ancient Rome
and tucked the book under the straw hat on the
seat next to her.

‘Man is
the only creature who blushes — or needs to,’ said Oscar, bowing towards the
lady.

The man
seated opposite her lowered his newspaper and nodded briefly to each of us in
turn. ‘Martin English,’ he said, curtly, and uttered nothing more.

He was
taller, leaner, darker than the lady. His eyes were large and brown like hers,
his hair was curly. On second glance, he was not as old as I had first reckoned.
He was thirty-seven, perhaps, but his features had a weary, malcontent quality
to them that added to his years. Apart from a cream-coloured shirt and brown
shoes, he was dressed all in black.

‘Martin
is shy,’ said the young lady. ‘He doesn’t mean to be boorish. It’s just his
way.

The man
grimaced, grunted and disappeared once more behind his newspaper.

‘I
understand entirely,’ said Oscar. ‘In this I am with Mr English completely.’ My
friend seated himself in the corner of the compartment, by the door, and
indicated that I should take my place opposite him. ‘Let us be seated, Arthur,
and let us be quiet.’ He looked from me to the young lady. ‘You two have books
to read and I have a sonnet to compose. Hush now. Not a word before Bologna.’
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the antimacassar.

‘Are we
going via Bologna?’ I asked, seating myself with a small sigh. The train was
moving now and the sun streamed into our compartment; I felt that a congenial
conversation with Catherine English was something that would make the final leg
of our long journey most agreeable.

‘Hush,
Arthur. Not a word before Florence then. Not a word.’

‘Nonsense,
gentlemen. Pay no attention to Martin. He’s an old curmudgeon. Of course we
must talk. I am so excited to meet you both. I want to learn all about you.
What brings you to Italy? Why are you here? Where are you going?’ She turned
towards me and stretched out her hand, across her hat and book and the bags and
parcels on the seat next to her. ‘What are you writing now, Mr Doyle? Are you
here undertaking research? I am sure you are. Do tell.’

‘Well …’
I hesitated. ‘Yes and no.’

‘It’s
Dr
Conan Doyle,’ said Oscar, opening one eye and turning his head towards the
lady. ‘Customarily, he’s quite particular about it. He’s a medical man, a
physician, as well as an author.’

‘Oh,’
said Catherine English, blushing prettily. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She looked at
me with wide-open eyes. ‘You’ll think me very foolish, Dr Doyle, but somehow I
thought you were a detective.’

It was my
turn to grunt. ‘People do think that,’ I said. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I
suppose.’ I brushed imaginary crumbs from my trouser legs. ‘Sherlock Holmes is
the detective. But he’s a fictitious character, of course.’

‘He’s
so real I supposed you had to be a detective also.’

‘No,
it’s all imagination.’ I looked over towards Oscar, hoping that he might come
to my rescue. ‘My friend Wilde here is more of a detective than I am.’

‘Am I?’
he said unhelpfully, opening one eye.

‘You
are. You know you are. You’re observant. Though normally you never stop
talking, you know how to listen, too. Your parents taught you. It’s a good
discipline. And you’re a poet, so you can make the imaginative leap when
necessary.

‘The
“imaginative leap”,‘ repeated Oscar, both eyes open now. ‘I like that.’

‘You
know what I mean, Oscar. You dare to think things that Lestrade and the other
plodders at Scotland Yard would never dare. And you’re a gentleman, in your
way, so you can mix and mingle among all sorts. Your ordinary detective has to
come in through the servants ‘entrance, but you can walk in through the front
door.’

‘So
you’re the detective, Mr Wilde,’ said Catherine English, turning her gaze on
Oscar. ‘How wonderful.’ She leant forward, eagerly. ‘Tell me, what does your
detective’s eye tell you about me?’

Oscar
sat up. ‘That you are young, pretty, highly intelligent and wonderfully well
read,’ he said.

‘I
could have told you as much,’ I protested. ‘Anyone could.’

Oscar
ignored me and continued to look steadily at our beautiful companion. ‘What
more can I say?’

‘Anything
that occurs to you, Mr Wilde. This is marvellously amusing.’

‘Well,
then,’ said Oscar, ‘I can tell you that you like to be amused, that you have
secrets and that you are impressively protective of your older brother.’

‘I have
secrets, Mr Wilde?’

‘We all
have secrets,’ said Oscar.

I
turned to Catherine English. ‘You have a brother?’ I enquired.

Oscar
intervened. ‘The gentleman sitting opposite Miss English is her brother. Our
companions are brother and sister, Arthur, not husband and wife.’

‘Is
that so?’ I asked, confused. The young lady nodded, smiling. ‘I assumed…’

‘Never
make assumptions, Arthur. It’s the golden rule.’

I
turned to Oscar. ‘Brother and sister. How on earth did you know?’

‘Well,
it was fairly obvious, Arthur, even before we learnt their names. The couple
are sitting face to face. They might have been married, except for the fact
that Miss English is not wearing a wedding ring. They could have been
sweethearts, except that then we would have expected to see them sitting side
by side. When we discovered that they shared a surname, I thought for a moment
they might be cousins, except that Miss English’s easy familiarity with Mr
English — a familiarity bordering almost on impertinence: she called him
“boorish” and “curmudgeonly” — suggested a much closer kinship. The age
difference does not allow them to be father and daughter, ergo they must be
brother and sister.’

‘Well
done, Mr Wilde.’

‘Yes,
Oscar, congratulations. A tour de force.’

‘And
I’ll hazard two more thoughts while I’m about it. Miss English and her brother
are orphans — and Mr English is not all that he seems.’

4

Brown shoes