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called,
Arthur, that instrument of torture? A “Tolley”, did you say?’
    I made
no reply.
    He went
on: ‘There’s never been a Jesuit pope, you know.’
    I said
nothing. Minutes passed. I listened to his breathing. Gradually, it quietened;
eventually, it slowed. Lulled by the steady lurch of the train, we both slept
till dawn.
    In
Milan, we changed trains for the final time. At the station hotel, we washed
and shaved, changed our linen and took breakfast. We each bought a newspaper to
read with our coffee and brioches.
    ‘I see
the pope is alive and well,’ I said, mischievously, looking up from my paper.
‘There is a photograph of His Holiness here. He appears to be in remarkably
good health for a man of eighty—two.’
    ‘I’m
pleased to hear it,’ said Oscar, tersely. ‘Your paper is evidently more
diverting than mine.
    I
pressed home my advantage. ‘It seems the Holy Father is on his way to his
summer retreat.’ I took a sip of my coffee and muttered: ‘Remind me, Oscar. Why
are we going to Rome?’
    My
friend lowered his newspaper and looked me in the eye. ‘I will not be
discomfited by you, Arthur. I don’t know why we’re going to Rome — except that
all roads lead there and there is the most wonderful tobacconist’s shop in a
corner of the Piazza del Popolo. It stocks cigarettes from four continents,
while in Bad Homburg they don’t stock cigarettes at all.’ He put down his
coffee cup so dramatically that it rattled in its saucer. ‘We are going to Rome
to get away from Homburg, the dullest place in Christendom. Even the Germans
find it dreary. We are going to Rome in search of adventure and to escape
dullness. Could there be a better reason?’ He waved at the waiter for our bill.
‘Dullness is the coming-of-age of seriousness. It is our duty to avoid it.
Throw away your newspaper, Arthur. I am throwing away mine. It’s dull, dull,
dull.’ He tossed his paper onto the floor beside the table. ‘Even the typeface
is dull. When I am editor of The Times, the commas will be sunflowers
and the semicolons pomegranates.’
    Suddenly
he was crackling with energy. He paid the bill (with English money — he did it
so charmingly, the young waiter seemed not to mind at all); he confiscated my
newspaper (throwing it onto the floor next to his own); he tucked his arm into
mine and led us from the hotel back onto the station concourse.
    ‘We
shall find our train and if our porter has lost our luggage, so much the
better. We can each buy a new wardrobe at the tailors in Via del Corso. They
dressed John Keats, you know.’ He looked down at me and winced. ‘You are
wearing tweeds, Arthur, in July, in Italy. No wonder the Pope is leaving
town.’
    When we
found our carriage — Oscar had booked us first class on the ten o’clock Milano—Roma
diretto — we found that we were not alone. Already ensconced in the window
seats, with hats, cane and parasol, their bags and baggage on the seats
immediately beside them, were a man of about forty and a young woman, seemingly
a dozen years his junior. I sensed at once that they were English and I saw at
once that she was very pretty. As we stepped into the compartment, she looked up
at me and smiled. She had round brown eyes, a small, pointed nose, a small,
happy mouth, and the hint of a dimple in her chin. Her face was boyish, but her
figure was not. She was wonderfully alluring, dressed in a cornflower-blue
pleated skirt and white silk blouse. As her eye caught mine, she held out her
hand.
    ‘Catherine
English,’ she said.
    ‘Arthur
Conan Doyle,’ I replied.
    As we
shook hands and I caught the scent of lily of the valley in her perfume, the
book she had been reading fell from her lap onto the floor. I bent forward to
retrieve it.
    ‘Ah,’ I
said, returning the volume, ‘The Lays of Ancient Rome. I’ve never read
it.’
    Oscar
loomed over my shoulder. ‘A classic is something everyone wants to have read
and nobody wants to read.’
    ‘I’m
enjoying