000000000000000000
"So, how'dya do it, Sherlock" John asked, not unexpectedly, as they stood in front of the trick fireplace.
Sherlock suppressed a tiny smile when he heard the question. The doctor was always fascinated by the logic behind each of his solutions, and it gave him keen pleasure to explain his deductions to such a receptive audience—perhaps the only genuinely receptive audience he had ever had the good fortune to encounter. Yet he held off answering John's question because the clamor of Met technical service and ambulance teams gathering their equipment was too disruptive and bothersome. He wanted to savor John's reactions without distractions when he recounted the details.
The emergency had clearly past. Jimmy Phillimore was alive, although incoherent, dehydrated, with a broken arm, sprained ankle, and a slight concussion, when technical services rescued him from the coffin-sized space beneath the Victorian fireplace. Once he was extracted by the crews through a false wall in the basement, IV lines and heart monitors were attached, and he was rushed off to hospital.
Displaying a broad grin, Greg shared the news with the partners who remained in the victim's flat. "There's hope." The DI assured them. "He's in serious condition, but generally the consensus is he will pull through. We found him in time, thanks to you. Great job! It's always a good feeling to know you've helped people!"
"Good to hear, Greg!" John responded with a reciprocal grin, but Sherlock frowned and walked off.
"Sherlock?" John watched his partner wander away, deep in thought, and let him go. "Hey, Greg, with your permission, we'd like to stay to study this contraption, fireplace, whatever you call it, a little more, okay?"
"Permission to examine the site," Greg's spirits were soaring, "just make sure the flat is secure when you leave." Lestrade gave the doctor a cordial handshake goodbye. "Sherlock," he called after the consulting detective and followed him across the room. "You'll have to tell me how you figured it out. Come in tomorrow. I'll need your statements to complete the report," Lestrade added grinning as he gently punched Sherlock in the shoulder, not caring how the sign of affectionate relief would ruffle his aloof consultant.
As the DI and Met teams dispersed, their excited banter and shouts could be heard all the way down the hallway and out the front door of the complex. At last, when the flat grew quite, Sherlock remained in introspective silence with his eyes closed.
"So, are you going to tell me?" John stood with his arms behind him at parade rest, staring at the unusually reticent genius.
"Hmm?" the light grey-blue eyes opened.
"How you figured it all out?" John leaned forward, an encouraging gleam in his eyes.
"A Parlor Trick."
"What?"
"I have often said, John, 'It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Inevitably, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.' You and I both know a man cannot really disappear into thin air. Yet, when Lestrade invited us to investigate, I needed to gather the facts as he presented them to us. And as he did so, it became perfectly clear that, notwithstanding a hidden escape route from the flat, the man could only be in the flat. Those were the facts as I understood them. In this case, there is nothing more deceptive than overlooking this obvious fact. Once I was certain he was in the flat, it was a matter of determining how he could be there and not yet be seen. The fireplace was unanticipated."
"You searched with your phone several times. For what exactly?"
"When we arrived on the scene, I saw the infestation of the house sparrows and checked their habits. House sparrows generally occur in flocks, often quite large ones, outside the breeding season. Breeding is mainly in loose colonies of ten to twenty pairs. Their nests are typically built in artificial or natural cavities or crevices, sometimes even in moving machinery or in the depths of coal mines. Each year, they produce two or three clutches of three to six eggs…"
"Wait, Sherlock, how is this relevant?" John's brows contracted in confusion.
"Bird droppings are acidic and can quickly corrode building materials. Significant damage has been done by nesting and roosting birds that inhabit building crevices and leave behind enormous amounts of debris and droppings. Their feces not only cause structural damage, they carry any of sixty transmittable diseases…."
"And this was a problem because…," the doctor redirected his friend's lecture.
"If the missing man…."
"Jimmy Phillimore," John interjected.
"...were still in the flat, then might there be some damage in the old unit that could have caused him to fall through a floor or wall and somehow be undetected. Could the birds' droppings have been the cause of structural damage? True, it was conjecture, an outside consideration, it was, however, a possibility I had to consider, but I never expressed it as fact."
"So the birds didn't have anything to do with it?"
"Actually they were helpful," Sherlock continued. "The birds proved what I suspected. Once I saw the unused fireplace, the inconsistent pattern of bird droppings, and recognized the protective cast-iron cover had been recently removed—"
"—Recently?"
"As it was no longer a functioning fireplace, the room's heat would have escaped up the open chimney during the cold winter weather unless it was covered. I can only presume the flatmates removed the cast-iron cover and insulation over the firebox with the tyre iron a few weeks ago…spring fever? It's what guys do. Whatever their incomprehensible reason for the deed, they seemed unaware that the open damper had been rusted in place, allowing generations of birds to drop debris freely all this time —quite an accumulation, if you notice." Sherlock pointed to the layers of fresh debris that coated the filthy floor of the firebox. "The flatmates didn't seem to care all that much since they left the cover off."
"Okay, I follow you so far."
"Good, John. Here's where it gets interesting. Without knowing who he was, I would still have correctly deduced he was in the fireplace structure, but as you can see, breaking into it was another matter altogether. I was wrong to feel his name was irrelevant. It was the key to opening up his prison."
"So you searched on your mobile…?" Following every word, John demonstrated his full attention, with nods and asides that filled in the events from his own perspective.
Observing John's response was an intangible that Sherlock nevertheless enjoyed about the 'grand reveal.' Invigorated by his partner's keen interest, he continued. "Fortunately, the Phillimore family has a history—yes, one that I swiftly researched. At the turn of the century, they had been associated with carpenter guilds that worked on stage sets, and by the early 1910s, for the film industry. Phillimore craftsmanship became renowned for elaborate and realistic set designs. Fast forward a decade or two. Success brought wealth and prestige to the Phillimore name, allowing them to expand their interests. The previous owner of this apartment complex (before some upgrades were made in the late seventies) was Gareth Phillimore, a wealthy producer. After WWII, he had this actual Victorian Parlor from Phantom of Shooters Hill Castle— a B-movie—disassembled from the movie set and reassembled to fit and become a functional fireplace within his private suite, right here in this building."
Standing close to the ornate monstrosity that carried such historic significance, John listened, fascinated by Sherlock's unfolding narrative.
"Ownership of the building changed hands within the Phillimore family; interests waned. The building, this flat especially, was leased by outsiders for private parties over several years. Then set designers were given permission to alter the fireplace once again. The Phillimore estate conceded to the request of a business man who wanted the movie set's functionality, such as trap doors, below-floor chutes, escape hatches, and secret hideouts restored on the structure. It was the mid 1960s, and he was launching a business venture called Parlor Tricks. This enterprise became a successful entertainment establishment that hosted magic shows, séances, psychic readings, all manner of hocus pocus, along with some illicit activities. Finally, after scandals came to light, the place was closed down, but not before scammers had pilfered untold savings from the bereaved with false promises of contacting the deceased. Some cases are still pending in the courts….."
"After that bad history, it's lucky this contraption wasn't dismantled ..." With interest and appreciation, John glided his hand across the marble mantel.
"Not luck. Law. About ten years ago a legal dispute over the Victorian fireplace went through the Department of Built Environments and into the courts. Somehow, the historic fireplace was given a reprieve, grandfathered in, it seemed."
"Look how detailed these engravings are!" Leaning and stooping to inspect the wood panels, John was only half-listening to his partner, his attention significantly distracted by the antique. "It is a remarkable piece for a movie set. Shame it's been left derelict."
"True. Sooooo sad. But completely inconsequential, John, to the points I am trying to make!" Sherlock clicked the 'K' sound sharply, dismissively, with a manipulative whinge, obviously upset, like a jealous child, that he had lost his audience.
John stiffened. He had no tolerance for manipulation, nor could he ignore his friend's self-indulgent rudeness. How would the antisocial genius learn from him if he let it slide like everyone else? Without giving Sherlock the benefit he had heard the cutting remark, he tightened his own voice with mild sarcasm and muttered. "We have ART in order not to DIE of the TRUTH." He waited another moment before he cut a glance toward the insulting detective.
Puzzled, Sherlock paused, unable to process John's remark, although he recognized the frown lines and creased forehead on the doctor's face.
"I'm quoting Friedrich Nietzsche," John's tone was chilly, "in case you're wondering." He imagined his friend's thoughts, cascading from one level of understanding to another, falling from the brilliant heights of Mt. Olympus to the valleys of human sentiments where mere mortals resided. Letting out a sigh, the doctor shook his head, "Maybe you actually do thrive on uncovering every last truth no matter how ugly or inevitable, but sometimes life throws us an opportunity to find the beauty, too. You see, Sherlock, sometimes we need to escape the truth, maybe just for a little while. A soft, very human sentiment, I grant you, but this fine woodworking and craftsmanship is remarkable. It doesn't hurt to take a moment to appreciate it."
Disquieted, Sherlock darted his eyes toward the hearth, thoughtfully. After a moment, a wry smile of understanding appeared. His voice became gentle, mannerly, nearly apologetic, and slightly teasing, "It is indeed a fine specimen of woodworking and craftsmanship, John, but the truth is: a man nearly died in this 'art.'"
John's amused grin, a signal of improved humor and forgiveness, satisfied Sherlock. "May I continue now?"
The good doctor gave a conciliatory nod.
"You see, John, Jimmy Phillimore, great grandson of Gareth Philimore, holds the primary lease rights and moved in a year ago with flatmates."
"Didn't inherit his family's talents, I take it."
"Seems not, which may have indeed caused this near tragedy. I suspect on Friday, when he came to get the umbrella, he was distracted by the noises of the house sparrows in the chimney and leaned in to look. As you saw, if you knelt in the wrong spot and touched the specific panel, it would open the trap door. I believe the slight-built Jimmy Phillimore made that fateful mistake, and plunged headlong into darkness, before the doors closed over and sealed him in."
"Ahhh! An accident. If Amy Sanders hadn't been expecting him, his flatmates, once they returned from holiday, may not have realized he was in trouble until it was too late."
"Or until they smelled something," Sherlock added frankly.
John wrinkled his nose at the disturbing possibility. "So, you don't think he knew about the trips and levers to work the fireplace?"
"Likely not. If he had known about them, wouldn't he also have known how to trigger the escape hatch to get free, the way the tricksters did when they hoodwinked the gullible patrons?"
"Okay, so tell me." John grinned with enthusiasm and tapped his own temple. "Your Mind Palace? Is that how you figured out the mechanisms?"
Sherlock hesitated, averting his eyes, and sighed. Returning his focus to John, he admitted truthfully. "I didn't figure them out. But I did the next best thing." A smile climbed to his eyes. "I watched the old movie scene on YouTube. It showed how they opened the trapdoor."
A stunned expression on John's face dissolved into chortles and outright laughter that doubled him over as he blurted out. "Watched it on YouTube!"
Sherlock joined him with his own wide grin and hearty laugh until the cathartic release tired them both. John was still chuckling and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, well after Sherlock had recomposed himself.
"He seemed pleased." The baritone introduced a new topic.
"Who?" Sniggers and snickers had not fully abated.
"Lestrade, I mean, seemed pleased."
"Oh, yeah, Greg. He ought to be pleased. So should you, mate!" With his fits of laughter at last subsiding, John nearly leaned a stabilizing hand on the intriguing fireplace panels to stand up, but quickly thought better of it. It would be foolish to touch anything, lest another surprise be sprung upon them.
"Well, I am pleased," Sherlock hesitated, "but not, perhaps, for the same reason as Lestrade."
This surprise statement that sprung from his partner caught John's full attention. John noticed his partner seemed suddenly bothered by ...something. Misgivings? "What? Not the same as Lestrade's? Why? What was your reason for being pleased?"
"I am pleased I was correct." Sherlock cast his eyes past John to the Victorian wall, and squinted at the peeling wallpaper.
"What do you think was Greg's reason?" John looked in the same direction as his friend, with his arms behind him, and rocked gently on his heels.
"Lestrade was pleased because, as he stated in his own words, it was for him a 'good feeling to know you've helped people.'"
"Oh?" John tilted his head, sensing his partner was experiencing a breakthrough, a new level of awareness that was, perhaps, unsettling to him.
"I'm not ordinarily motivated by humanitarian impulses... as you and he are."
"Dunno. What ordinarily motivates anybody is usually a mix of reasons," the doctor shrugged. "Even if your primary incentive is to solve the mystery, your goals are usually the same—to resolve the problem and help others, generally for the greater good."
Eyes down, the consulting detective mulled over his partner's words.
"Right! Okay, maybe you do have to foster an awareness of this 'good feeling' that results from helping others a bit more than you have up to now," John acknowledged and paused to recall Sherlock's words spoken earlier: A man's life is at stake…do you care about that at all? Had he caught a glimpse at Sherlock's heart unsheathed? Was Sherlock developing a sense of compassion for others? Offering his friend genuine encouragement, John smiled, "But, today, Sherlock, seemed like a pretty good start."