BBC SHERLOCK: THE SCHEMER'S PIT

Chapter 4

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"The first man to die, forty-two-year-old Roger Nettles, the one found dead in the loo at the Whet Whistle Pub…," Sherlock's spellbound audience of Met investigators drew in closer around the MINI's boot to listen. The November night chill was visible in the puffs of condensation from their mouths and nostrils, but no one complained. All were lured by the seduction of answers. "…was Atkinson's alleged accomplice in many small capers and tasteless pranks. The Nick and The Net, they called themselves, except many referred to the pair as The Nitwits. They were often seen in the Whet Whistle, scheming, making a general nuisance of themselves, all the while getting completely hammered."

"I know the Whet Whistle," a detected raised his head from his notepad. "Nice old pub, small place, though. No room for troublemakers. They usually have to take their differences outside…."

"And outside, witnesses say, was where the heated bickering between The Nitwits became destructive," Sherlock segued. "They exchanged serious blows, needed to be separated. With their allegiance soured—as with most petty thieves—rampant mistrust replaced whatever 'trust' there was between them."

"Now, wait! Roger Nettles' death was considered unrelated to the brawl he had several weeks earlier outside the Whistle," Grimes objected. "Besides, Atkinson kept to his side of the pub that evening, small as it was. Witnesses swear he neither talked to Nettles nor laid a hand on him that night." Grimes shrugged, "Roger Nettles was a low life; his death, presumed due to excesses—the drink certainly—and general poor health, result of natural causes." Grimes dropped his gaze to his shoes and muttered, "His was no great loss to anyone."

"Except Nettles' death was engineered by Atkinson who fixated on redressing perceived wrongdoing against him. The subtlety of the deed—compared to the blatant hostility of weeks before—kept the police from looking his way."

"If all this wasn't coming from you, I'd consider it mere gossip and hearsay," Greg interjected.

Several of the detectives traded sly smiles of agreement.

"Granted, Sherlock," Lestrade continued, "you'd come by this information merely by observing a bloke's finger nails, but you know we're going to need actual evidence for the Crown Prosecutor."

"And I'll remind you, I've had some dealings with this loathsome man."

"So you've said, Sherlock," Greg stated, "as a restaurant supervisor… logging in the deliveries ….I'm paying attention."

"Wait!" John pursed his lips in worry, "Is your name on the list, Sherlock?"

"Don't see it, John," Greg read the page in the plastic sleeve. "Sherlock didn't make Atkinson's list of victims. Still, I'm curious what the exact dealings you had with this man, Sherlock."

"All in good time, Lestrade," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, ignoring John's concern and Lestrade's remarks with the same gesture, "I can procure testimony from several reliable sources to corroborate this information about Atkinson's schemes. However, you must admit that with motive established, means is easy to explain. The pub's loo was a single room, so cramped that one's business was all one might do in it. The police report says, 'It had a small window that had been deliberately jammed closed from the outside.' And where was this window, DS Grimes?"

"The… back alley," Grimes seemed reluctant to support Sherlock's premise. "Yeah, okay. True. It was tucked way back, in the darkest section…"

"Indeed. I put to you this scenario: the Nick and the Net were pissed and pissed off…likely at the same time. Given Atkinson's motive and means, he waited and watched until Nettles got smashed as usual and tottered to the loo, a place in which he quite often lingered, much to the frustration of others pounding on the door needing to answer the call of nature. Meantime, Atkinson scuttled to the alley, where outside the loo he had hidden the few items he needed, including the ice chest and a step stool. It may be a stretch to prove that he had strategically placed the filled cooler in the alley ahead of time—although dry ice when properly stored in a cooler will last for nearly twenty-four hours. Yet, I don't see how it could've been accidental, so we must assume that this act had been premeditated. Until the night of Nettles' death, the window had been unlocked from within…"

"The landlord admitted he meant to fix the broken lock on the window," Grimes remarked.

"Admirable of him, except it's been that way for five years according to the regulars," Sherlock scoffed before continuing. "Through this window, Atkinson tipped the full load of dry ice with Nettles inside. Perhaps Nettles was startled to see ice come through the window. While slower witted in his drunken state, he may also have been unaware of its deadly properties or he could have easily escaped…unless of course he was preoccupied with other matters…Even so, the sedating effects of carbon dioxide are swift."

"All right! See your point," Greg scratched his head and sighed, exhaling a large plume of condensation.

"Sorry, sir, but…" a detective coughed to hide his hesitation.

"What is it, Thompson?"

"…Not sure we'll be able to find much evidence of fingerprints or dry ice at the scene," Thompson continued. "It's been three months."

"Well, Atkinson had to have been wearing his gloves," John reminded them.

"That's right!" Greg picked up on John's suggestion. "Now that we know what we're looking for, we can take a closer look at the evidence we collected. Several threads, snagged on the window frame when it was wedged shut, remained unexplained. We might be able to match them to Atkinson's insulated gloves."

Sherlock gave them an approving half-smile.

"Okay, Mr. Holmes. So what about the second victim, Henry Warwick, the man in the guard booth?" Thompson asked, admiration building with each of Sherlock's explanations.

"Fifty-seven-year-old Henry Warwick was a night watchman for several warehouses in the immediate district. The police report listed Fife Trading, Simon Rainbow Creamery, Wharton Wares, along with…," Sherlock paused for effect, "Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers. Do you remember them, Grimes?"

Grimes nodded without comment while patting his hands together for warmth.

"I told you earlier, Atkinson's supplier was Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers. Before he was sacked, Atkinson would fill his lorry daily with supplies at their warehouse and leave by the delivery-gate checkpoint where the guard on duty would raise the gate to let him through. So Warwick and Atkinson knew each other on the job and off….where they were seen together at various local pubs, especially after Atkinson was let go. They had a more secretive association than what Atkinson was like with Nettles. Only once were they overheard raising their voices. Atkinson was taunting Warwick about 'falling asleep on the job.'"

"C'mon now, Sherlock, how do you know this?" Greg insisted. "You must've been following him."

"I didn't need to follow him. I had my network of observers. All will be clear in a moment, Lestrade, I promise, but back to the facts of the case: The timing of Warwick's demise coincides with a break-in at one of the dry goods warehouses. The ice house, a section of which stores dry ice, was also raided. Again, am I correct, Grimes?"

"''f course you are!" Grime muttered, his face flushed with annoyance at being singled out.

"There was no sign of struggle or evidence to suggest he had been murdered, this according to the police report you sent me, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "It also states that Warwick's death left the warehouse vulnerable for several hours during which there was a burglary that same night. At the time it was deemed an unfortunate coincidence." Sherlock did not have to ask this time, he merely looked over for confirmation.

"Yeah," Grimes mumbled, "and the CCTV cameras were out."

"However, when he drew this night shift rotation, Warwick was not in the wrong place at the wrong time," Sherlock said. "Atkinson was counting on him being there. Familiar both with the layout of the warehouse and with Warwick's weakness—that he often kipped on the job, the foolishness of betraying a confidence to a schemer—Atkinson skulked about for merchandise after giving the man who could otherwise identify him a dose of carbon dioxide. Again, the Met will need to do the legwork to connect the evidence with coincidence. You may have your job cut out for you, but I suggest you visit The Halfpenny Pub and the Dingey Dog for witnesses."

"So far, these are just theories!" Grimes remonstrated, "You're very persuasive, Mr. Holmes, with your logic and all, but for all we know, your jamming square pegs into round holes."

"So it appears," Sherlock agreed. "Didn't I just say this very same thing to you earlier this evening, John, about theorizing before one has data? Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. This comment of yours, Grimes, is perhaps the most intelligence you've demonstrated thus far!"

Grimes grimaced at the backhanded compliment.

"But I have aligned the pegs and holes correctly, as you shall see. I understand that separately, each of these police reports seemed unrelated, lacking cohesion. However, knowing the murderer as I did, I could not but recognize that these cases came together with Atkinson as the locus, the arrogant blowhard at the center of this mystery. As none of you gentlemen—except you, Grimes, in the Nettles case—had the privilege of meeting him in person, I cannot fault you for failing to make the connection. Fortunately, you have me!"

"Talk about arrogant blowhard…" someone muttered, intending it to be heard.

"Grimes," Lestrade warned. "When Sherlock Holmes shares his theories, it's best to shut your trap and listen."

"How 'bout bit of modesty, then?" Grimes muttered.

"I say things as they are," Sherlock replied, unperturbed by the DS's rebuke. "It's not arrogance. It's the truth. And modesty that is false is of no use to anyone. To underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers."

Sherlock met the stares of his listeners with his customary confidence. "As for the series of so-called 'unrelated' asphyxiations, I have it on reliable sources that when Atkinson was not sneaking around—a rat searching for morsels—he ranted on and on and volubly about the resentments he harbored against certain people in his life—people on that list." Sherlock waved toward the page in Lestrade's hand. " I can put you in touch with several witnesses who heard him malign his 'mates,' his drinking chums, disparaging them behind their backs with mean-spirited comments. Atkinson used his manic rage—which escalated after he became unemployed—to bully and frighten people. L'Effet kitchen staff and servers admitted to me they were afraid to cross his path. They also reported that he threatened meee….mbers of the restaurant...various chefs."

John hitched a breath. "You?" Only Sherlock heard the soft whisper. He knew better than to glance John's way and see the unnecessary worry in his friend's frown.

"Yeah, but did you hear him talking about killing his victims?" Greg pushed.

"Sadly, not directly. And my personal association with him was limited, so I missed that he was actually plotting murders—literally to 'ice' his victims—or I would certainly have stopped it. What I heard directly was the narrative of his offensive behavior from the restaurant staff venting their frustrations. They'd regale each other with tales, kitchen talk, common gossip. But so long as they remained on task while they traded stories, there was no need to silence them. Most of what they repeated was outlandish, empty threats, the posturing of a pathetic and impotent individual."

Sherlock paused and looked briefly down at his hands, his lips twisted in disappointment. "I fear I'm at fault for presuming that their complaint-laded banter was mostly hyperbole stirred by vexation. Had I believed their anecdotes about Atkinson's behavior were rooted in truth and not storytelling for its own sake, perhaps I would not have underestimated the lengths to which he would go to seek vengeance. Realizing all this now, I see I was wrong to dismiss their talk as hearsay."

"Do my ears deceive me?" Grimes muttered behind a wide grin. "Sherlock fucking Holmes admitting he was wrong?"

John balled his fists. It was his protective impulse whenever Sherlock was maligned, but Greg delivered the figurative "punch" with both his withering glare at Grimes and pointed rebuttal, "A great man admits when he's wrong. Something you haven't learnt yet, apparently."

"What do you know, Mr. Holmes, about the seventy-three-year-old woman, Alice Hastings?" Thompson brought the discussion back on topic. "She was found asphyxiated in a wardrobe a month ago."

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

Greg's face fell. Several detectives chuckled. "Don't have all the answers, now do he?" one said.

"She lived in ninety-nine Derby Row, Barking…the landlady…" Grimes grinned, feeling smug with his exclusive knowledge. "Mrs. Hastings had just let a room. Her friends and neighbors informed me that she always fussed with organizing her linens in the wardrobe when she was expecting a new tenant. Her other tenants told me that they were glad when she finally put out their worst nightmare—the tenant from hell, to hear 'em tell it—but it took her months. After a final row, she kicked him out of the flat, but neglected to take back the keys. That's why she'd called a locksmith. It was him who found her in the wardrobe, the locksmith, I mean."

"Do we know the name of the man she had a row with? The one she evicted?" John wondered, showing he recognized the behavior pattern that had begun to define Geoffrey Atkinson.

The implications were not lost on Grimes; he grimaced. "We'll have to check her tenancy records for that. There was no suspicion of foul play. She was old. She suffered from high blood pressure and palpitations that she claimed, often enough, were brought on by the worries of a landlady. With her ongoing medical conditions and with no other causes, the exertion of cleaning the wardrobe was explanation enough; so we hadn't bothered…"

"You see, Lestrade," Sherlock turned toward the DI, "I knew nothing about Alice Hastings, except ninety-nine D-flat, Derby Row, Barking was the address of Geoffrey Atkinson, well, until he was put out, that is," Sherlock smiled to himself. "Five weeks ago, he reportedly had heavy sessions in the pub—bingeing on ten pints, six shots and a 35cl bottle of vodka each night, if you believe the barmaid —promising a handsome sum to anyone who'd wreck the landlady's flat. He waved his key over his head and repeated the address, making a drinking song out of it …" Sherlock briefly sang the ditty, conducting with one hand the catchy melody of Mademoiselle from Armentières.

"Yeah,…Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine; Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine, 'nd hit the bitch in old Baaaa…hhkin! She deserves a guud fukin' —cause she's been fukin' outta line!

Yeah,…Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine; Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine, 'nd kick that bitch out-ta Baaaa…hhkin! She deserves a guud fukin' —'And all will fukin' then be fine!"

"Utter Dickhead!" Greg spat. "God awful!"

"That the man was legless may account for the pitiful lyrics even though he used a familiar tune," Sherlock smiled crookedly. "For days afterwards, the L'Effet restaurant staff were singing it in the kitchen, they couldn't shake the melody. Now, is it possible that someone took him up on his promise? Maybe, but before investigating that angle, it would be best to check whether he still has the key somewhere on his person…"

"How does it all tie in with the final victim, then?" Thompson asked when no one else seemed willing to talk, "Found dead a week ago in a Red Phone Box Kiosk. Twenty-eight-year-old Giles Hendrickson?"

"Ah, an enterprising sort and tech savvy," Sherlock's gaze shifted, his keen eyes hooded by his eyelids. "I was intrigued by his business acumen from the first. He had let a converted Red Phone-Box for his trade—mobile phone repairs—in a prime location near several Michelin two-star restaurants…his customer traffic was steady… He commanded a wealth of information regarding the technology and was a reliable authority. We conversed frequently, but the last we spoke was nearly a fortnight ago."

Peering beyond the team of investigators, Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts. Only John noted the subtle shift in his friend's body language: Sherlock harbored some misgivings, but John could only guess why. Was he blaming himself for not foreseeing Hendrickson's danger?

"Hendrickson told me he was closing shop to go on holiday," Sherlock continued in a neutral tone. "Seeing his name first on the police reports you sent me this evening, Lestrade, and again on the handwritten paper you hold tonight as evidence was unexpected..."

Sherlock's forthright delivery and impassive face did not betray his sentiments to the others, but John understood; Sherlock respected Hendrickson and deemed the death of the young man with a promising future a significant loss.

"Hendrickson's association with Atkinson remains unclear," Sherlock admitted. "However, a Red Phone Box is small space and mobile phones are desirable merchandise. It may not be too difficult to identify stolen mobiles. Behind the driver's seat, there is a small box of them on the floor of this car. If Atkinson was escalating to serial status with his secret weapon, it is fortunate that he stopped himself tonight before others on his list were surprised."

An admiring silence settled over John, Lestrade, and his men, except for Thompson, who exclaimed, "Good God! It's all bloody fits!"

"Oh, one other thing, Lestrade," Sherlock added in complete seriousness, "I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with this case, as I choose to be associated only with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution."

"Yeah, well, tell that to your blogger," Greg winked at John before he turned to address his team, "We've got work to do." The DI took his men aside and organized his investigators to pursue the various avenues Sherlock had opened for them. They sounded enthused and hopeful about solving the mysteries of the asphyxiation cases.

From a distance Sherlock listened to their exchanges until John's soft chuckles refocused his attention. "What, John?"

John's back had been turned, his shoulders hunched and shaking in muffled laughter. It took him a moment to collect himself. "You know," he blew out a sigh and tapped his wrist watch, "You solved all those cases and gave your statement in less than forty-five minutes…?" He met Sherlock's puzzled expression with his a wide grin.

"I told you it shouldn't have taken more than an hour."

"I know. But you originally said you expected to collect some data for this one case and take it back to the lab…implying that we wouldn't be on the scene for more than an hour, but that you would solve it after some analysis. This, tonight," John gestured to the nearby crime scene, "was amazing. When did you know you were going to solve this case…okay all the cases… on the spot?"

"It was evident once I saw the victim. Then, all the stories and information I'd been gathering, quite without realizing it, coalesced with such clarity…" Sherlock sudden grin mirrored John's. "I nearly hooted with delight when I recognized Atkinson—however you've always chided me for appearing happy about a murder—so I held my peace until I could ascertain the murder weapon and verify what I knew. Once I understood the contents of the handwritten list, it was just a matter of convincing the densest minds among the investigators."

"Yeah, Sherlock. I know we're all dense when it comes to your brilliance, but you didn't fool me. You nearly admitted you were one of Atkinson's targets…"

"Sherlock's not on the list, John, I told you that before," Greg had approached them in time to overhear John's last statement and lifted the page in the plastic sleeve. "Yeah. But these three blokes—Dan Loughlin, Herb Malden, and Scott Williams—are going to feel quite lucky."

"Wait, G…G…Greg?" John stammered, "Scott Williams was on that list?"

"Yeah! D'ya know him?" Greg frowned, puzzled at John's obvious dismay.

"Maybe..." John glanced at Sherlock. "There could be several Scott Williams. What's his address?"

Greg read off a street address, unaware it was not a residence, but the location of L'Effet de Serre restaurant. John frowned while Sherlock's brow arched in feigned surprise.

"I knew it," John said with a fierce scowl at his friend. "You knew it, too! You read the names earlier this evening!"

"Don't worry, John," Greg assured him, surprised by their reactions. "We'll be speaking to everyone on this list."

"No need to talk to Scott Williams," Sherlock offered John a conciliatory smile, "He's already aware."

Greg skewered both his friends with a shrewd look. "Okay, cough it up, Sher—?" but his trilling mobile interrupted him. A glimpse at the phone number diverted his attention. "It's the Superintendent…gotta take it, but we'll get back to this, later…. At the Yard, tomorrow!" he ordered and hurried off.

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