Free Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders by Gyles Brandreth Page B

at the table. ‘The finger is self-evidently
from a different hand — and from a different person.’
    ‘And
the lock of hair?’ asked Oscar. ‘What do you make of that?’
    Munthe
picked up the curl and held it close to his eyes. He rubbed it between his
fingers. He put it to his nose. ‘This isn’t human hair,’ he said. ‘This is
lamb’s wool.’
    ‘Are
you certain?’ asked Oscar, sitting forward and consigning the butt of his
cigarette to his water glass.
    I
laughed. ‘Oscar took it to be a golden kiss-curl from a young man’s forehead.’
    ‘It is
lamb’s wool,’ repeated Munthe, handing it to me to examine. ‘Feel it.’
    ‘And
the gold ring?’ enquired Oscar. ‘What do you make of that? Don’t tell me it’s
nothing more than a gewgaw from one of Tom Smith’s Christmas crackers.’
    The
Swedish doctor removed the ring from the finger and peered closely at it. He
turned it carefully between his own fingers. Gently he bit on it. He put it
onto the palm of his hand and held it out for us all to see.
    ‘The
ring is made of gold, to be sure. And inside the ring I see what you must have
seen — the crossed keys of St Peter.’
    ‘And
what do you make of the ring, Doctor? What does it tell us?’
    ‘I am
not sure what it tells us,’ said Munthe, ‘but I have seen the ring before, just
a year or two ago, on the bedside table of a dying woman.’
    ‘Was it
her ring?’
    ‘No. It
belonged to the priest who had come to administer the last rites to her. At
the time I did wonder whether he might not have murdered her.’
     

 
     
     
    7
    The Pyramid of Cestius

     
     
    ‘A nd
had he murdered her?’ asked Oscar.
    Munthe
did not answer directly. He held the ring towards the candlelight as he spoke
and studied it intently. ‘He was her lover, of course. That I do know.’
    ‘Why do
you say “of course”?’ I asked. ‘He was a priest.’
    ‘These
things happen, Dr Conan Doyle — all the time.’
    ‘How do
you know that he was her lover?’ asked Oscar.
    ‘She
told me and I believed her. She was dying of tuberculosis. She had no reason
to lie. He was her lover and she was expecting his child.’
    ‘Ah,’
murmured Oscar.
    ‘Yes,
he had motive, means and opportunity. He was with her at the end, alone. She
was very weak. He could have killed her simply by holding a pillow across her
face.’
    ‘But
why would he murder her if she was already dying?’ I asked.
    ‘Because
he feared a deathbed confession. She carried his child — and his secret. So
long as there was breath in her body it was a secret she might share.’
    ‘And
this notion that he’d murdered her: when did that come to you?’
    ‘As I
entered her room. He’d sent for me. His message said that she was fading and
that I should hurry. As I arrived, I saw at once that she was dead. She was
dead and he was kneeling at the foot of her bed in prayer. ‘‘He was a priest,’
I said.
    ‘He was
also her lover. I would have expected him to have been at her side.’
    ‘The
picture was too perfect,’ said Oscar.
    ‘Exactly,
Mr Wilde. She lay in peace, with her arms folded across her heart and her eyes
closed. He knelt silently at her feet in prayer. The scene was contrived.’
    ‘And
the ring?’ asked Oscar, taking it from Munthe’s fingers and holding it up to
the candlelight between his own.
    ‘I saw
it on the bedside table, next to the girl’s rosary.’
    ‘What
of that?’ I asked.
    Dr
Munthe turned to me and smiled. ‘Why had he removed it, Dr Conan Doyle?’
    Oscar
answered, ‘Because it was a priest’s ring, a sign of his calling. He removed
the ring while he committed the mortal sin of murder.’
    ‘Exactly
so, Mr Wilde. As I entered the room and approached the bed, I saw the ring on
the bedside table. I noticed it because of its colour — rose-gold — and because
of its size. It was clearly a man’s ring. Moments later, it had gone. I next
saw it on the priest’s hand. While I attended to my patient, he