Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders by Gyles Brandreth

it
cannot be the ring that was sent to Sherlock Holmes on the severed finger.
That’s in your wallet, Oscar.’
    ‘It is
a ring exactly like it.’
    ‘There
could be scores of rings exactly like it.’
    ‘Possibly,
but I doubt it. By the pricking of my thumbs, something tells me His Holiness’s
Master of Ceremonies is the man to lead us to the heart of the mystery.’
    ‘I hope
so,’ I said, touching the side pocket of my jacket. ‘This dead hand weighs on
me heavily.’
    Oscar
smiled. ‘I am glad you are keeping it about you, Arthur — it’s wise to do so.’
He touched the pocket of his own jacket. ‘Since sherry is being served in
church, would it be bad form to smoke, do you think?’
    ‘Most
certainly.’
    ‘They’re
eating cheese in the transept and I’m sure I can smell incense burning
somewhere,’ he said, looking about him as he pulled a silver cigarette case
from his pocket.
    ‘Put
your cigarettes away, Oscar,’ I said firmly.
    ‘Remember
where you are.’
    ‘You
know I smoked a cigarette on the stage of the St James’s at the opening of Lady
Windermere’s Fan.’
    ‘For
your curtain speech — you told me. You wore a green carnation in your
buttonhole and held a lighted cigarette in your mauve-gloved hand. I remember.’
    ‘My
enemies were not amused.’
    I
smiled. ‘Do you have enemies, Oscar?’
    ‘Yes,’
he said, snapping shut the cigarette case and slipping it back into his pocket,
‘and I have just seen one of them on the far side of the nave.’
    I
turned quickly to look in the direction indicated by my friend. I saw no one I
recognised, except for the Reverend Martin English pushing his way to the edge
of the crowd.
    ‘My
apologies,’ he called out, as he came towards us. ‘I am an appalling host.’
    ‘You
have your flock to attend to,’ said Oscar, pleasantly. ‘They must be
entertained.’
    ‘They
are entertaining themselves. Listen to them. The House of God has been turned
into a house of gossip. I cannot hear myself think above the hubbub. The
sherry’s all gone.’
    ‘And
the cheese?’ asked Oscar.
    ‘They’ve
gobbled the lot.’ The clergyman shook his head despairingly. ‘It’s our moment
to take to the stage — if you can face it, gentlemen.’
    ‘We are
at your service,’ said Oscar.
    ‘A poem
from you, Mr Wilde? And a Sherlock Holmes story from you, Dr Doyle: is that
correct?’
    ‘I had
something else in mind,’ I said, crisply.
    ‘Oh. No
matter. We are very grateful. Come this way, please.’ He led us from the side
aisle towards the pulpit steps. ‘I’ll say a few words — very few — then introduce
you as our surprise guests.’ He looked at us both with troubled eyes. ‘It is
not easy for me here. Thank you for agreeing to this, gentlemen. I am very
grateful. Tonight the ladies can talk about you, instead of me. It will make a
pleasant change.’
    Anxiously,
he shook each of us by the hand. I was clutching the manuscript of the story I
proposed to read: it was a Highland adventure, as yet unpublished.
    ‘I
wonder if this will be too lengthy?’ I asked.
    ‘If it
was about Sherlock Holmes,’ said Oscar, playfully, ‘they’d think it not nearly
lengthy enough.’
    ‘Do you
have your poem, Mr Wilde?’ enquired the clergyman.
    ‘I have
it by heart,’ said Oscar. ‘It is by John Keats.’
    ‘Ah,’
said the Reverend English, widening his eyes, ‘very good.’ He took a long, deep
breath. ‘Let us do what we must.’
    He
turned and made the sign of the cross and, with a steady step, climbed the
narrow stone stairway to the pulpit. As he went, Oscar pointed approvingly at
his well-polished black boots.
    ‘Your
friend looks after her brother well,’ he whispered.
    From
the pulpit, the vicar called the multitude to order. ‘Good evening, ladies and
gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment?’
    The
tentative, seemingly troubled soul that had left us a moment before, now
appeared in full command of himself and his