Free Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders by Gyles Brandreth

and it may be that some day he
will lift his hymeneal curls from out his amber gleaming wine, and with
ambrosial lips will kiss my forehead, clasp the hand of noble love in mine.’
    ‘Steady
on, old man,’ I said. ‘It’s only a toast.’
    He
smiled and set down his glass. There were tears in his eyes.
    ‘You
have a way with words, Mr Wilde,’ said Axel Munthe.
    ‘And
you have a way with people, Doctor,’ said Oscar, wiping his eyes with his
handkerchief and reaching for the menu. ‘And people are what count. As Keats
taught us, “Scenery is fine, but human nature is finer.” When we have ordered,
you must tell us your story. I will speak no more. I have said enough.’
    ‘On the
contrary, Mr Wilde, I sense you’ve scarcely begun. And I want to talk to Dr
Conan Doyle about his writing.’
    ‘Food
first,’ cried Oscar. ‘I insist.’
    ‘And
when you insist, you get your way?’ asked the Swedish doctor.
    ‘Invariably.’
    ‘And
yet you are never satisfied? Every gift, however great, is a minor
disappointment — another broken toy on the withered Christmas tree of Nature’s
most favoured child.’
    ‘You
are very perceptive, Doctor,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘And I am very hungry.’ He
raised his hand to summon a waiter. ‘I think it’ll be the swordfish, the turtle
soup and the suckling pig for me. Dr Munthe can choose the wines.’
    We ate
well and drank liberally. And, as we did so, Oscar was almost true to his word:
he said very little. Dr Munthe inquired about my work, both about my writing
and my special interest in ophthalmology. His own sight was poor and failing.
    ‘My
spirit likes the sunshine,’ he said. ‘My eyes do not.’ He told us something of
his story — of his childhood in Sweden, of his medical training in Paris
(under the notorious Professor Charcot at the Hôpital Pitié-Salpêtrière [1] ), of his journey south, first
to Naples and then to the island of Capri. ‘Capri is my heaven-on-earth,’ he
said. ‘I say that, even though I lived there with my first wife and our
marriage was not a happy one.
    It did
not last. We parted company four years ago.
    ‘I am
sorry to hear that,’ I said.
    ‘Do not
be. I should never have married her. From the beginning there was the sense of
an ending. Her name was Ultima.’
    Oscar
smiled. ‘Nomen est omen,’ he said. ‘The name is everything.’
    ‘Indeed,
Mr Wilde. And what is your wife called?’
    ‘Constance.’
    Munthe
smiled. ‘Congratulations. I trust you count your blessings, sir. I count mine —
and being free of my wife is one of them. And knowing the island of Capri is
another. I shall return there one day, when I have made my fortune. Meanwhile,
I am here in Rome, where work is plentiful and I know everyone. I like to know
the best people.’ He raised his glass to both of us once more. ‘Now I can boast
that I know even Mr Oscar Wilde and Dr Arthur Conan Doyle.’
    Towards
the end of our meal, as we lingered over our cheese and wine, our conversation
slowed. I filled a silence in looking about the room: the restaurant had
emptied and all but two of the waiters had gone home. I felt for my pipe. As I
stirred, Oscar roused himself and, to light his cigarette, leant forward
towards the guttering candle that stood on the centre of the table. He glanced
up at me as he did so and his oyster eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
    ‘You
trust Dr Munthe, Arthur,’ he said softly. ‘I can see that. Show him what is in
your pocket.’
    ‘What
do you mean?’ I asked, momentarily confused.
    ‘Show
him the “evidence”, Arthur. Show him what has brought us to Rome.’
    I
hesitated, but Oscar was insistent. I set down my pipe and, diffidently,
glancing furtively about the room, I produced the handkerchief parcel from my
jacket pocket and, pushing aside plates and cutlery, placed it tentatively on
the table.
    Slowly,
I unwrapped it.
    ‘Good
God,’ exclaimed the Dr Munthe, peering down at the severed hand that now lay
before him.