Oscar Wilde and the Vatican Murders Read Free

lot. I have
hundreds of letters demanding a response.’
    My
friend looked alarmed. ‘Are these from creditors, Arthur? Are you in trouble?’
    ‘These
are from readers, Oscar.’
    ‘You
get hundreds of letters from your readers?’ Oscar sat back wide-eyed in
amazement and, I sensed, a little in envy.
    ‘No,’ I
reassured him. ‘I get only a handful, fewer than you do, I’m sure. It is
Sherlock Holmes who gets hundreds of letters—thousands even.’
    ‘But
Holmes is a figment of your imagination.’
    ‘He is,
but the letters aren’t. The letters are all too real and my publishers insist
that I at least glance at each and every one. Most can be dealt with by
means of a printed postcard of acknowledgement, of course, but simply opening,
scanning and sorting it all takes time — and gets in the way of my real work.’
    ‘Cannot
your wife serve as your secretary?’
    ‘My
precious Touie does not enjoy the best of health, as I think you know. She has
a weak chest and a small daughter and a new house. She is frail. She cannot
take on anything more. No, I must clear the correspondence that has accumulated
and then stay on top of it. It can be done.’
    ‘It
will be done,’ said Oscar emphatically, as the waiter arrived with the fresh
bottle of Moselle. ‘And I shall assist you. Do not protest. We shall start work
tomorrow — immediately after breakfast. I shall forgo my morning cure to be at
your service.’ He raised his hand and shook his head. ‘Do not protest, Arthur,’
he repeated. ‘I insist.’
    I did
not protest. I merely smiled. I was accustomed to Oscar’s sudden enthusiasms. I
had no doubt that his offer was sincere, but equally I had no doubt that once
the novelty of the enterprise had worn off, I would be working my way through
Holmes’s correspondence alone.
    ‘Thank
you,’ I said. ‘And thank you for dinner. This wine really is outstanding and,
for all that he’s an old soldier down on his luck, I’d say our waiter is
looking after us rather well.’
    ‘He
is,’ my friend conceded, smiling as he sipped at his wine.
    ‘But
just now, Oscar,’ I continued, ‘as he was serving us, I studied his face quite
closely. I saw no duelling scar.’
    Oscar
raised his glass to me once more and narrowed his eyes. ‘You must allow a
fellow writer a little licence, Arthur.’
     
    The following morning, at
ten o’clock, as agreed, we gathered in the hotel lounge to begin our work. When
I arrived, Oscar was already in place, seated alone at a card table by the
window overlooking the promenade. He was heavily built and massive, with a suggestion
of uncouth physical inertia in his figure, but above his unwieldy frame perched
a head so masterful in its broad brow, so alert in its blue-grey, deep-set
eyes, so full in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after
the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant
mind — and the outrageous garb. He was dressed in a bottle-green linen suit,
sporting a pale-grey shirt and an elaborate daffodil-yellow tie that exactly
matched the toecaps on his leather ankle boots. His overlong hair was swept
back over his large head. He was freshly shaved; his cheeks were pink and his
eyes sparkled.
    ‘You’ve
clearly breakfasted well,’ I said, by way of greeting.
    ‘I am
breakfasting now,’ he replied, indicating the small hand-rolled cigarette that
he held between the middle and the ring finger of his left hand. ‘And never
better. And I’ve ordered a bottle of iced champagne to help ease us into our
labours: Perrier-Jouët ‘86. I adore simple pleasures, don’t you? They are the
last refuge of the complex.’
    ‘Are
you going to be saying clever things all morning?’ I asked, opening up my
portmanteau and placing four bundles of correspondence on the table.
    ‘I hope
so,’ he replied, pulling one of the bundles towards him. ‘Are we opening these
at random? May I start?’
    ‘We
are,’ I said, ‘and you may.’ I