Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders by Gyles Brandreth

Author:Gyles Brandreth
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-11-27T15:56:51+00:00

We climbed the stone steps in silence. I could not decide whether Oscar was simply being playful — he was a great spinner of yarns — or whether, in fact, he had truly deduced who it was had summoned Holmes to Rome and why.

As Axel Munthe was about to lead us through the small side-door that led to the chapel, I stayed his hand. ‘Forgive me, Doctor. Before we proceed further, I must speak to my friend.’

I saw at once that I did not need to say a word. I could tell from Oscar’s amused and kindly eyes that he understood my anxiety.

‘I will take the lead this afternoon, Arthur,’ he said, ‘fear not. You may be the creator of Sherlock Holmes, but the great detective is a figment of your imagination, not your other self. J know that.’

‘Thank you, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I am relieved. The truth is, old friend, you seem to be certain of what’s afoot, but, frankly, I’m baffled by the whole business. I’m quite lost. I can’t see the wood for the trees.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps you have been distracted by your walk through the woods beneath the trees? Miss English is most beguiling. Today she has commanded your entire attention. I understand. I am not surprised. The fair sex is your department. You can leave the clergymen to me.

He was as good as his word. Once Axel Munthe had taken us through the doorway and across the dark corner of the Sistine Chapel (heavy with the smell of incense and burning candles) to the near-invisible door to the sacristy, and the sacristan, Cesare Verdi, had admitted us to his domain, Oscar was in his element — and at his most effortlessly charming.

His urbanity and exuberance were matched only by those of Monsignor Felici who welcomed us with the sign of the cross followed by an open-armed embrace. As we arrived, the portly Monsignor was waiting for us, perched awkwardly on the edge of the papal seat of tears. The moment the sacristan opened the door to us, the elderly cleric struggled to his feet and came forward beaming. As one by one he took us in his arms, he explained, in his heavily accented English, that, as Pontifical Master of Ceremonies, he had the honour of being our official host.

‘We are late,’ declared Oscar, bowing low before the priest, ‘mea culpa!’

‘You are here,’ rejoined the Monsignor, taking Oscar in his arms, ‘Deo gratias! And the scones are still warm —and we are so happy to have you with us. Welcome to the circolo inglese. Tea is about to be served. Step this way.’

With some effort he moved his huge bulk towards the left-hand stairway that led from the first chamber of the sacristy to the oak-panelled refectory we had visited the day before. Munthe took the Monsignor’s arm. As we followed them up the steps, Oscar paused and breathed in deeply. ‘We pass from the odour of incense to the fragrance of fresh baking.’

‘It’s all to the glory of God,’ rumbled the Monsignor.

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