Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders by Gyles Brandreth Page A

congregation. His voice was clear
and resonant: the people fell silent almost as he spoke. Peering round from our
vantage point behind the pulpit we could see half the nave.
    ‘What
do those faces tell us?’ asked Oscar.
    ‘It is
difficult to say,’ I replied.
    ‘Exactly,’
whispered Oscar. ‘They do not know what to make of their man — and neither do
I.’
    The
only joyful face that I could see belonged to Monsignor Felici. He stood no
more than ten feet from us, in pride of place, at the front of the crowd,
surrounded by a cluster of English ladies of riper years. The papal Master of
Ceremonies beamed beatifically as he gazed up at the Anglican vicar of All
Saints.
    ‘He
exudes the complacency of the righteous, does he not?’ whispered Oscar. ‘How I envy
his certainty.’
    Dr
Munthe stood on the Monsignor’s right hand and an elderly priest, wearing a
black cloak and black biretta, stood on his left. The old man was tall and
thin, but his pallid face was wizened and his body bent like a weeping willow.
He wore round spectacles with darkened lenses.
    ‘Is
that Father Bechetti?’ I asked.
    ‘Is he
blind?’ asked Oscar.
    The old
priest held on to the Monsignor’s arm with one hand. With the other he held out
his empty sherry glass as if he was about to propose a toast.
    ‘Is he
simple?’ I wondered.
    ‘Is he
our murderer?’ asked Oscar, laughing softly as he spoke. ‘Look at his fingers,
Arthur. Look carefully.’
    ‘I see
nothing.’
    ‘Neither
do I. Father Bechetti wears no rings.’
    ‘In the
name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,’ declared the Reverend English
from the head of the pulpit, ‘welcome to the soon-to-be-consecrated church of
All Saints, our new and beautiful Anglican parish church here in the heart of
Rome — the Eternal City. Let us stand where we are, humbly before God,
recalling the eternal verities and bowing our heads in prayer.’
    English
spoke with an unassuming authority and the assembly did as it was bidden. The
brief prayers done, he thanked those gathered before him for their prompt
attendance and their generosity, ‘some of it already manifested, much of it
still eagerly anticipated’. (This pleasantry was met with silence. The
congregation gazed up at English quite impassively.) When he went on to welcome
‘our honoured guests’, notably the First Secretary from the British Embassy,
representing His Excellency the British ambassador, and ‘our friends and
neighbours’ from the Vatican, there was a murmur of apparent approval, but news
of ‘the surprise presence in our midst of one of the most dazzling literary personalities
of our time, Mr Oscar Wilde’ provoked no response at all.
    There
was an eerie silence as English climbed down the pulpit steps and, slowly,
Oscar mounted them. I felt for my friend as he reached the summit and surveyed
the sea of sullen faces that gazed up at him.
    ‘I have
been asked to share a poem with you tonight,’ he began, lightly. ‘I am honoured
to do so. It is one of the most beautiful poems ever penned — yet, you may be
surprised to learn, it is not one of mine.’
    Dr
Munthe smiled. Monsignor Felici laughed. I heard an English voice close to the
pulpit hiss, ‘The man’s beyond the pale.’
    Oscar
glanced behind him and smiled. ‘Nevertheless, here is the poem … It is called
“The Eve of St Agnes”.’
     
    St Agnes’ Eve — Ah,
bitter chill it was!
    The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
    The hare limp‘d trembling through the frozen
grass,
    And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
    Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
    His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
    Like pious incense from a censer old,
    Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
    Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer
he saith.
     
    He
spoke the poem beautifully, liltingly, the words flowing from him like music
played upon a cello. Almost at once — before he had spoken even four lines — he
held