Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders (7 page)

M
artin
English lowered his newspaper and turned hi head towards Oscar, his stare cold
and unamused. He spoke in a low voice, slowly, emphasising each word in turn.
‘And how, sir, do you know that I am not all that I seem?’

‘Because
of the brown shoes that you are wearing, ‘replied Oscar, lightly.

English
glanced down at his elegantly shod feet. He was wearing two-tone ankle boots in
chestnut and tan. ‘Is there something amiss in my “brown shoes”?’ he asked.
Again he spoke slowly, emphatically, without emotion.

‘No,’
said Oscar, quickly, ‘nothing at all. Far from it. I have a pair quite like
them myself, bought — like yours, I think — from John Lobb of St James’s.’

There
was an awkward pause. ‘Yes,’ said English, eventually, looking up from his
boots to return Oscar’s gaze. ‘And what of that?’

‘They
are beautiful brown shoes, Mr English,’ answered Oscar, smoothly, ‘but I cannot
help noticing that you are wearing them with black socks.’

‘Ah,’
grunted English, folding his newspaper and placing it carefully on the seat at
his side. ‘I see. A
faux pas
— literally.’ He did not smile. He folded
his arms and studied Oscar. ‘I have read about you, Mr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I know
that you are a man of fashion, noted as an “aesthete”. I apologise for my
sartorial lapse. But explain to me, please, if you can, how it leads you to
believe that I am not entirely what I seem?’

‘It’s
not just the socks and the shoes, Mr English. Your elegant cream silk shirt is
equally at odds with the black serge suit that you are wearing. You are
sporting the shirt
de luxe
and the hand-made shoes of a man about town —
a gay blade. But in all other respects you are dressed in the unseasonable and
sombre garb of a clergyman. You are a clergyman, are you not?’

‘I am,’
he answered, dryly.

‘Well
done, Mr Wilde,’ exclaimed Catherine English, clapping her hands together with
delight.

‘It was
hardly a miracle of deduction, dear lady. Since we boarded the train, until
just now, Mr English has been lurking behind a copy of
The Church Times.
I
observed his eyes while he was looking at the paper. He was reading it, column
by column, page after page, most assiduously. Only a clergyman would do that.’

Martin
English said nothing. His sister leant forward and touched him on the knee,
playfully. ‘You see, brother dear, Mr Wilde has found you out. You shouldn’t
pretend not to be what you are — even on holiday.’

‘Oh, I don’t
know about that,’ said Oscar, pleasantly. ‘I love acting. It is so much more
real than life.’

Mr
English looked at him coldly. Miss English laughed and patted her brother’s
knee reprovingly. She glanced in my direction and smiled at me, then turned back
to Oscar. ‘And how do you know that we are orphans, Mr Wilde? You are correct,
of course. Our parents died many years ago.’

‘I am
sorry to hear it,’ said Oscar. ‘I sensed you might be orphans, that was all. It
was a guess, nothing more.’

‘The
“imaginative leap”,’ she said.

‘If you
like.’ I followed my friend’s look as he glanced between the brother and sister
— one so cold and forbidding, the other so warm and tender — and continued
boldly: ‘Forgive my impertinence for saying so, Miss English, but I sensed your
shared isolation. I sensed it was just the two of you against the world.’

Her
smile softened. ‘There is no impertinence, Mr Wilde. It was I who invited you
to tell us what you could see with your detective’s eye. I confess I’m a little
startled that you have seen so much so quickly.’ She gave a small sigh and
looked down at her delicate hands now resting, folded, in her lap. ‘Martin is
the Anglican chaplain in Rome — newly appointed. He has been in post only three
months. It is not altogether easy.’

‘Change
is never easy,’ said Oscar. ‘And perhaps Mr English is fonder of incense than
some of his flock?’

‘How do
you know all this, Mr Wilde?’

‘I am
just playing imaginative leapfrog, Miss English.
The Church Times
is an
Anglo-Catholic newspaper. I imagine your brother’s parishioners, being
expatriates in the main, are wedded to the tea-and-muffins Anglicanism of the
old school. There will be tensions.’

‘There
are tensions, Mr Wilde.’

English,
who had been staring out of the window at the passing countryside, turned back
to look at Oscar. ‘Pay no heed to my sister,’ he said, quietly. ‘I am quite
content with my lot.’

‘I am
happy to hear it,’ said Oscar.

‘But Mr
Wilde speaks true,’ protested Catherine, gently. She looked at Oscar once more.
‘My brother’s predecessor was the Anglican chaplain in Rome for many years. He
was much loved.’

‘He was
a spiritual husk,’ said English, tartly.

‘Nevertheless,
he was much loved.’

‘And I
am not.’

‘You
are respected, Martin, I am sure of that. And love will come — in time.’

‘The
scriptures tell us that we must love our God, I know that, but I am not sure
where it says in the Gospels that Our Lord tells us that we must love our
clergy. And I am not sure, either, that we need trouble complete strangers with
the trivial difficulties of the Anglican chaplaincy at Rome.’

‘Quite
right, brother mine. We do not.’ Catherine English sat back in her seat and
rearranged the pleats of her skirt. She did not seem unduly abashed by her
brother’s reproof. After a moment’s silence, she looked up once more and
smiled. ‘Enough about us,’ she declared.

‘Tell
us about you.’ Her small teeth were pearly white and there was something
delightfully mischievous about the sparkle in her eye. She turned towards me.
‘You are coming to Rome to undertake some research, did you say?’

As I
was forming my reply, I heard Oscar boom, ‘Yes! Yes, indeed. Conan Doyle is
writing a new mystery. It has an intriguing title:
Sherlock Holmes and the
Vatican Murders.’

‘Oh
my,’ exclaimed Miss English, delightedly.
‘Murders?
There is to be more
than one?’

‘Oh,
yes,’ Oscar swept on. ‘His American readers expect that. His American
publishers demand that. He is almost paid by the murder nowadays, you know.’

I
intervened. ‘This is nonsense, Miss English. Ignore my friend, please — though
he is correct, to an extent. We are engaged upon research of a kind and we are
going to Rome and, once there, we are hoping to visit the Vatican …‘ My train
of words ran out of steam as, suddenly, in my mind’s eye I pictured the severed
finger, the severed hand and the lock of hair that had been sent to me care of
Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Oscar
came to my rescue. ‘I have been to Rome before, ‘he announced,
con brio,
‘fifteen
years ago, in younger and happier days. When I was just twenty-two, I had the
honour of a private audience with Pope Pius IX — Pio Nono.’

‘How
wonderful, Mr Wilde,’ said Catherine English, warmly. ‘What was he like?’

‘Very
old. Very frail. He was an epileptic, they say, though I saw no sign of it. It
was the year before his death. He gave me his blessing, which I shall treasure
always. And I sensed his goodness. He had the sweetest smile.’

‘He is
fondly remembered still. Apparently, on hot days he would send out for ice
creams for the cardinals.’

Martin
English shifted in his seat. ‘I imagine he would rather be remembered for
defining the dogma of the immaculate conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’

‘Almost
certainly,’ said Oscar, ‘but none of us can choose how history will come to
view us, alas.’

‘How is
Leo XIII viewed?’ I asked, recovering my concentration.

‘He is
seen as more austere,’ replied Martin English, looking at me directly for the
first time, ‘more disciplined. He is said to be more of an intellectual,
though quite as devoted to the Marian cause as his predecessor.’

‘We
have not yet had an audience,’ added his sister. ‘We are hoping to arrange one
later in the year, but it is not easy — as you will know, Mr Wilde.’

‘As I
recall, it’s a matter of whom you know or how much you can pay. I was
fortunate,’ said Oscar. ‘I had a Catholic friend with the right connections.’

‘We are
doing our best to cultivate those,’ said Miss English, with an impish smile.
‘We have our summer fund-raiser at All Saints tomorrow evening to which we have
invited the papal Master of Ceremonies as a guest of honour — and he has
accepted.’

‘We
have a new Anglican church in Rome,’ explained Martin English. ‘It has been ten
years in the building.’ He sighed before muttering, somewhat sourly, ‘The
fund—raising never stops.’

‘It is
necessary Martin, you know that, and the evening will be enjoyable. Even you
would enjoy it if you approached it in the right spirit.’ She turned to Oscar
and to me. ‘You would enjoy it, gentlemen — I know you would. There will be
sherry and Italian cheeses.’

‘In the
church itself?’ I enquired.

‘In the
nave,’ she said. ‘You must come.’

‘In the
nave?’ said Oscar. ‘That’s very bold.’

‘It’s a
new building,’ explained Martin English, ‘not yet consecrated.’

Catherine
English looked towards us and held out her hands imploringly. ‘You will come,
won’t you?’ She turned to her brother. ‘We would love them to come, wouldn’t
we, Martin?’

The
Reverend English half closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. ‘Some
come to church in search of spiritual sustenance; others come for sherry and
Italian cheeses. By all means, join us, gentlemen. Everyone will be there, my
sister tells me, so I am sure you will feel quite at home. I had wanted the
event cancelled, under the circumstances, but Catherine would have none of it.’

“‘Under
the circumstances”?’ repeated Oscar, enquiringly.

‘One of
the carpenters lost his life, working up in the rafters, above the nave.’

‘It was
an accident, Martin, and it was months ago.’

‘Yes.
He was a North African. And the wretched man had been drinking, by all accounts.’

‘It was
a dreadful accident.’

‘He was
working alone up in the roof. He chopped off his own hand and fell from the
scaffolding onto the marble floor forty feet below. Unconscious, he bled to
death in the nave — on the very spot where tomorrow night we’ll be enjoying the
sherry and Italian cheeses.’

‘Life
goes on,’ said Catherine English, simply. ‘It must.’

‘Ah,
yes,’ added the clergyman, “‘In the midst of life we are in death.” Perhaps
that should be my text when I welcome everyone tomorrow night. Do you know how
the line runs on?’

‘I do,’
said Oscar. ‘“Of whom may we seek for succour but of thee, O Lord, who for our
sins art justly displeased?”‘

‘We
don’t want a homily from you tomorrow night, Martin. We just need the briefest
word of welcome.’

English
ignored his sister and, casting his eyes upwards as if to heaven, continued
sonorously, “‘O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful
Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.”‘

‘Stop
it, Martin. Stop now.’ Catherine English leant towards her brother and put her
hands over his as they rested on his knees. She held them there as she turned
towards us and said as brightly as she could: ‘Will you both come tomorrow
night and, when Martin has welcomed everybody, will you both read for us? That
would be a most wonderful surprise for everybody. Will you read one of your
stories for us, Dr Doyle? Will you recite one of your poems for us, Mr Wilde?’

I
hesitated, but Oscar had no doubts. ‘We shall be honoured, Miss English,’ he
said at once. ‘At what time will you want us on parade?’

‘Eight
o’clock at All Saints on the Via del Babuino’

‘I know
the street,’ said Oscar, happily. ‘Our hotel is at one end of it. This was
meant to be. And have no fear, dear lady. I shall choose one of my shorter
poems.’

She
laughed and turned to me, apparently surprised to find that I was not laughing,
also. ‘You look pale, Dr Doyle. Are you unwell?’

‘I am
quite well, thank you,’ I said, somewhat unconvincingly. As I spoke, with my
right hand I felt the outline of the severed hand that was wrapped in my
handkerchief and hidden in my jacket pocket.

Oscar
came to my rescue once more. ‘My friend has a sensitive soul, Miss English —
notwithstanding his ferocious handshake and bristling moustache. I am going to
hazard a guess that Dr Conan Doyle is pale because he is still contemplating
the death of the unfortunate workman who fell from the scaffold, having
inadvertently chopped off his own hand. Am I correct, Arthur?’

‘You
are.’

‘Dr
Conan Doyle trained as a surgeon, you know. And, as he likes to say, he’s a
details man. I am sure he is pondering which hand it was the poor wretch cut
off.’

‘I
believe it was his right hand,’ said Martin English.