Chapter 10
"Do you know how to play chess?" Lestrade asked John.
"Eh…sort of. I never really learned."
The two were sitting in Lestrade's office. After John left the cemetery, he was called back in to wait for the Latin translations. John was fiddling with the black bishop that was attached to the note, contemplating its meaning.
"Neither did I," Lestrade smirked. "Is that," he pointed to the chess piece, "the…rook?"
"This is the bishop. I think it can move…diagonally or something."
"Does it mean anything to you?"
John thought about telling him about the chessboard back at Baker Street, but it was irrelevant, he decided. "No."
Just then, Donovan knocked on the open door, making her presence known. "I got both of the translations. Good luck," she muttered as she tossed two pieces of paper on Lestrade's desk. As she left, John and Lestrade leaned in to read the translations. The first was that of the monologue given by one of the armed agents; one of the security cameras picked up the audio as well as video:
We are Caesar's envoys. Stop this investigation; else Caesar will kill his betrayers once again. Take this. Do not try to continue. You will regret it.
Lestrade frowned. "Well, then…"
"This is just a rough translation, right?"
"Yeah. But the Latin was really basic—that's what the translator told me when I gave it to him."
John made a mental note of this. "Let's see the other."
Lestrade took the other paper from behind the stack and held it so both of them could read it:
I am the embodiment of the Heavens,
The keeper of the Water.
I smother the Fire,
And the dead are mine to bury.
What am I?
"Oh…it's a bloody riddle!" Lestrade groaned.
A riddle for what?
"Tell me, John…was Caesar any good at riddles?"
John picked up the original note, which was in a pile on Lestrade's desk. He held it up to read the Latin, even though he had no idea what he was reading. "Not that I—"
He thought he saw some sort of shape on the paper, and as he moved it around, he tried to find it again, but it had disappeared. "What the—"
He held it up higher so it was above his eye-level. Lestrade gave him a look of trepidation as John took the note out of the plastic bag and held it closer and closer the light hanging over them.
John blocked the artificial light with the parchment, a yellowish glow emanating from the fibers of the paper. Through the contrast, John found a series of shapes lined up against one another on the blank side of the note. There was a row of squiggles printed in faded writing, so it was only visible when held up against light. Upon further examination, John found that they were sloppy, disoriented question marks.
"John, you should probably put that back…"
"Look at this," John motioned for Lestrade to stand where he was standing. He handed him the note and told him to hold it just as he had. Lestrade took a few seconds before he understood.
"Question marks? This guy sure is being cryptic…"
John took all three pieces—the note, the speech, and the bishop—and placed them beside each other in the order in which they came to them: first the speech, then the note, then the bishop (the latter being interchangeable). They all came from Caesar, so how were they connected?
"The riddle…the warning…"John murmured to himself.
The warning…the threat…the order. Then the riddle, the clue, the hint….
"The riddle contradicts the threat," John stated simply. "If they're telling us to stop investigating, then why did they give us a clue?"
Lestrade nodded, "Didn't notice that. But what about the bishop? I doubt they were just using it as a paperweight."
"We'll get to that," John said, keeping his eyes on the three pieces of evidence. "They were both delivered in Latin, but one of them was basic Latin…the kind that's easier to speak, to orate. Lestrade, did the translator mention anything about the Latin in the riddle?"
"Not particularly, but when he looked at it, his eyes kind of…widened. He could have implied that the sentences were much more complex."
John nodded. "Those envoys…didn't the speech sound…rehearsed? Then again, how many people actually speak Latin?"
"The pope!" Lestrade exclaimed.
John sighed. "That's true, but I don't think the pope is a serial killer. Anyway, the messengers obviously didn't know Latin, but they had to stay in character…as loyalists—"
He was interrupted by Lestrade's hand slamming the desk in realization, "Those two didn't know Latin either. It was like reading a script. So they couldn't read what the note said."
"They didn't know what they were delivering," John smirked, "Brilliant."
"Caesar purposefully sent us two opposing messages: one that would help us and one that would stop us."
"Given that the envoys didn't know what they were doing, but Caesar did. It's likely that the riddle is legitimate. Plus the bishop, he was trying to give us a hint."
"Why would a criminal help us?"
John thought about this, "Because he's getting bored…" he muttered to himself.
"What was that?"
"N—Nothing. I don't know. Now, the bishop…" John picked it up off the desk. He inconspicuously fiddled with the bottom of the chess piece, checking to see if it had a secret compartment. Nothing. He held it up to his face to look for any inscriptions or markings. Nothing.
"John, it's getting late. Why don't we pick this up tomorrow?"
Lestrade allowed John to take home a photo copy of the riddle, both translations, and the bishop. He drove to Baker Street with the evidence sitting on the passenger seat. Every so often, he would glance at them, hoping he would have some sort of epiphany.
By the time he got home, he had no such revelation.
He recited the riddle over and over again, trying to find meaning in its words. John recalled a short psychology course he took during medical school, where he learned about apophenia, a condition in which people see patterns in random, meaningless sets of data.
God, maybe I am going mad…
But then there was Sherlock, who could find a solution, an answer to just about everything, and he always looked at the tiniest details.
But wasn't that his fault? Making everything so complicated? He could never look at anything so simply…he had to extract and analyze every bit of information…
Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way.
He thought about the riddle generally, as broadly as he could.
It mention the sky, water, and fire, which could be referring to the four elements, in which case 'burying the dead' would have to be earth. But this didn't tell him anything. He decided to take it line by line.
I am the embodiment of the Heavens…
Embodiment of the sky, perhaps? Clouds? That would make sense, since they 'keep water', which can 'smother fire'. But clouds don't bury the dead. That was out.
Next line:
...the keeper of the Water…
What holds water? Cups, urns…urns, and ashes? They kind of 'bury the dead'…but they're not the embodiment of the Heavens.
I smother the Fire…
What can smother fires? Fire extinguishers? No…Water? No.
...and the dead are mine to bury.
That was obvious. Referencing the earth, it must be something that literally 'buries the dead.' But how could that relate to the rest of the riddle?
John noted that Heavens, Water, and Fire were all capitalized. Maybe they were…important? No. Maybe they symbolized something else…something beyond themselves?
Maybe.
Heavens: sky, religion, paradise, escape.
Water: river, flow, purity, transparency.
Fire: flame, heat, candle, Hell.
"This isn't making any sense. Come on, John. Don't look at the details. Look at the bigger picture."
John could practically hear Sherlock talking to him, guiding him through this. He rubbed his leg to soothe the pain that was beginning to swell.
"I—I can't, Sherlock…"
He grabbed his head, like he was trying to squeeze the answers out of his mind. Just like Molly had said…maybe he did have a case of nihilism.
He lay back on the sofa, rubbing his hands over his face. He picked up the bishop from the coffee table and fiddled with it, having forgotten about it.
A bishop. It's probably part of the riddle, but how on Earth could it be related?
He tried not to think about the chessboard, the thought slowly creeping to the front of his mind again, but he forced it back. Deciding to save it until morning, he went to bed, the riddle consuming his every thought and dream.
Well, can you solve the riddle? Let me know if you have a guess! *Hint: Don't forget the bishop*
There's this song called 'Dead-weight on Velveteen' by Jose Gonzalez, and I think it fits the story quite well. You should check it out:)