CHAPTER 20: RIDDLE
Has the temperature in the room dropped sharply all of a sudden? Sherlock thinks distractedly. That would be the only logical explanation for he'd swear that his blood has just frozen in his veins. He can feel it: molten ice all over his circulatory system.
This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. It's not fear, though. He knows what that means but, more importantly, he knows how he reacts in front of it. He's not like most people: fear doesn't paralyse him; if anything, it heightens his senses. Then why, for Heaven's sake, is he petrified right now?
He perceives an unfamiliar sensation of tightness in his chest as he lowers his gaze to the tissue soaked with chloroform. What is this unpleasant clutch over his diaphragm? He self-diagnoses. It bears an uncomfortable resemblance to guilt and powerlessness. Is it... remorse?
He shakes his head to cast that absurd thought out of his mind, but his conscience-stricken pride keeps haunting him: he tried his best to protect Giulia and he failed. He was in too deep and didn't realise it. He thought he could simply yell some mean things and get her out of the crosshairs. But he should have known better than that: that's not how life in Baker Street works.
"I didn't see this coming," Sherlock finally manages to murmur. His tone resounds like a confession of wrongdoing, and that's a first. How? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, not see it coming? How could he fail so spectacularly?
The doctor shoots him a hostile glare and clenches his fists to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. "I'll call Greg," he states fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Sherlock, finally responsive to his surroundings, frowns at him, "Who?"
"Greg Lestrade."
"Oh, him. What for?" he wonders candidly.
John takes a deep breath trying his hardest not to land his right hook on that smug face, "Because he is with the police and we need help."
"Scotland Yard never helps. You know that I can perfectly handle it myself."
"Right now, I know nothing. And since you weren't able to protect her previously, now we are going to do it my way. Is it clear?" John glowers at his friend.
Sherlock does not talk back this time; he simply stares as John takes a few steps across the tiny flat with the phone up to his ear. He decides to make a phone call, too.
"Hello, Mr Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call," the croaky voice that Sherlock has already heard once picks up to greet him.
Sherlock tightens his grip on his phone and demands harshly, "Where is Giulia? I know you are the person behind this abduction."
"Yeah, it wasn't a very difficult deduction, was it? She's right here with me," the mysterious killer of the Alpes replies sinisterly.
Sherlock has never been more dismayed to be right about something.
"Care to elaborate?" he struggles to keep a cool head. Weird: he always manages to keep his indifferent composure even in the most frightful situations. What is happening to him?
"I've already left you all the information you need to find us. Just look around, Holmes. You're told to be quite observant and clever: time to prove it."
In a wide dark room, somewhere
A bulky man, to whom belongs the dark voice Sherlock was speaking to, hangs up with an evil smirk and throws the phone across the darkened room. The device flies through the air crashing into a wall and shattering on the floor.
"What a shame, it was the new model," a female voice protests in the darkness.
The man casts a blank look at the electronic carcass and shrugs, "I didn't need it anymore. Besides, I don't want either Sherlock or the police to find me by geolocalising the signal: that would spoil all the fun."
He turns around and walks towards the source of the voice that has just reprimanded him, "And I don't like that my guests speak to me like that." His lips unveil a cruel smile as he approaches the other person.
"You. That's a good point, actually. You could start by saying who you are, for example," the silhouette of a girl tightly tied to a chair slowly emerges from the shadows as he steps closer.
"My dear Giulia, I thought it was quite obvious; I am a fan of Sherlock Holmes."
She ironically smiles at him, "Great. So am I. Is it why I am here? Is this an official gathering?" she jokes.
He gives her a stern look irritated by her insolence, "You are leverage, and I'm confident you will prove very useful."
"So you haven't decided what to do with me yet," she teases him.
"Of course, I have. I kidnapped you to get to Sherlock."
She looks genuinely taken aback, "I am afraid I'm not following you."
The man walks up to her and raises a hand in a swift movement. Every muscle in her body tenses expecting either a slap or a punch in the face; her eyes widen in horror as she sees his hand coming down slowly to caress her cheek. She desperately tries to pull back and avoid his touch, but the bonds on her wrists and ankles restrain her movements.
"He cares about you deeply," he cups her chin and forces her to lift her eyes and meet his. She swallows hard focusing on his dark gaze. In the dim light, his pupils are so dilated that she can't even distinguish the colour of the irises: she has the impression of gawking into two endless pits.
She tries to regain control and lowers her eyes murmuring feebly, "I think he really doesn't. Especially after what he said."
"Don't be silly. He would do anything to save you," he starts to lose his temper.
"Would he?"
"Just shut up!" he shouts making her jump in her seat. "Sherlock will definitely try to rescue you. In fact, he's coming here. The great detective in person here to meet me," he proudly affirms.
"If you just wanted to be introduced to him, you could have dropped by the flat in Baker Street. It would have taken a lot less effort," Giulia continues to make fun of him, even though she knows better than to mess with such a dangerous person.
He looks daggers at her, "I prefer to play safe, having home-court advantage."
"Then I should warn you: he loves playing games and hates losing." Giulia mentally prays that Sherlock doesn't loathe her that much to let her die by the hands of this psychopath. She hopes with every fibre of her being that he will take up the challenge, if only for the sake of an adrenaline rush. It'll be just another game for him, and that's probably her best bet that he will actually come.
The kidnapper trails his hand along her delicate neck and smirks menacingly, "Oh, I know. And today you will be lucky enough to witness his crushing defeat."
221C Baker Street
When the voice on the phone hangs up, Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns around coming face to face with John who looks at him with suspicion, "Who were you talking to?"
"Take a wild guess."
"Are you crazy?" he bursts out.
"No, John, I'm just eager to find Giulia. The killer said he left me a clue."
"Great. He is not only a murderer and a kidnapper but also a sadistic lunatic," John raises his voice summoning all his willpower to avoid wrapping his hands around Sherlock's throat. If he gets to the end of the day without killing him, he'll consider it a great achievement.
The detective starts searching every inch of the small flat; after a couple of minutes, he exclaims triumphantly, "Here it is," and waves around a note he found on Giulia's pillow.
As John holds his breath, Sherlock reads it aloud.
" King William is ready to lead to the street,
Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet.
Although the Great Fire destroyed the Abchurch,
Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch.
Every capital counts, have you written them yet?
Hold on to the beginning if the ending makes you upset.
Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down..."
The short poem doesn't only sound macabre, but it also seems incomplete. Sherlock turns around the piece of paper and finds the last sinister line: "we reached the end, Mr Holmes, shall I start the countdown?"
*** Author's note: I invented this riddle and I assure you that it is perfectly solvable. You don't need any specific knowledge or a mind palace, but just Internet connection to open up a map of London and to search for additional information (you'd have to figure out what to look up online first, but that's the spirit of it, isn't it?).
So, if you want to put yourself to the test and see if you could measure up to Sherlock Holmes, interrupt here the reading and give it a try before Sherlock solves it. Alternatively, you can go ahead and see the Consulting Detective at work.
THE GAME IS ON ***
None of them moves or speaks for several seconds, then John blurts out, "What's this rubbish? It sounds like a creepy nursery rhyme."
"It's a riddle. He tried to tell us where he is," Sherlock asserts.
"And how are we supposed to decipher it?"
The detective quickly scans it another time, "Let's start from the structure. Look at the spaces between the lines: they are pretty irregular. They don't follow any rhyme scheme: there are 4 verses at the beginning, then 3, and the third one rhymes with the last one on the back of the paper."
"If he disregarded simple poetry rules, it might mean that the separation between the sections serves the purpose of the clue. It's a weird set of coordinates, perhaps?" John suggests.
"That's a possibility. Let's try to go line after line. King William: what about him?" Sherlock looks at his friend with expectancy in his eyes.
John knits his brows in response, "Why do you ask me?"
"Because that's the kind of school stuff I would delete, but you'd prefer to remember, for some reason," Sherlock rolls his eyes at the amount of useless stuff that people usually keep in the recess of their minds.
"Well, if my memory serves me correctly", the doctor teases him, "There were several monarchs called William in history; this poem is not very specific, though. How can we know who the killer refers to?"
Something snaps in Sherlock's mind when he hears John's question. "It's not who, but what. Read the first line again: King William is ready to lead to the street. It's not a historical figure, but a direction: King William Street here in London," he points out.
"Okay, that makes sense. Then it reads, Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet. The meet could mean a crossroad."
"Very good, John," the detective nods at him.
"Save your compliments for a better time. Now, why that religious reference?"
"I doubt that a killer could care much about faith, so my bet is it indicates a church."
"A church near King William Street?" John asks.
"More than that: a church on a road that intersects King William Street, hence the meet. Carrying on with the lines, there's very specific information: Although the Great Fire destroyed the Abchurch."
"I'm quite sure that the Great Fire destroyed dozens of parishes," John cuts him short.
"Yes, but this note contains a very peculiar and archaic word: Abchurch, with a capital letter. I think that the word doesn't indicate an architectural space, but rather a name. Oddly enough, there is a narrow road called Abchurch Lane crossing King William Street. So now we know which intersection the kidnapper indicates. And I'm quite positive there is a church looking out onto that alley," Sherlock affirms rubbing his temples while consulting his mental map of London.
The doctor gapes at him, "Bloody hell, do you happen to know every single street in this city?"
"Sort of," Sherlock smirks. "Now, please, could you check out if I am correct?"
"Already on it," John replies typing on his phone. "And there it is: St Mary Abchurch, on Abchurch Lane at the junction with King William Street, is a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary," he reads the website out loud.
"Bingo."
"St Mary's was destroyed in the Great Fire of London of 1666," John adds scrolling down the page of the history of the parish, "But there's more; the church was hit by a German bomb in September 1940 during the London Blitz, then it was completely restored."
"This explains the meaning of the next line: Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch. I must admit that our killer did his research," Sherlock comments quite impressed.
"Yeah, we should give him a round of applause," his friend sarcastically snaps back, then he frowns, "What does it mean, by the way? Is he waiting for us at the junction of King William Street and Abchurch Lane?"
"No, there must be more than that. We need to go on with this nursery rhyme."
"It says Every capital counts. Do you think it might have something to do with an important city?" John questions. He hates that riddle, he detests every single moment spent on deciphering it: he gets the impression that it is only slowing them down. Why couldn't he ask for ransom like any other 'normal' criminal? Oh right, it's because he is trying to get Sherlock's attention. And with Sherlock, nothing can ever be simple or ordinary...
"No, not that kind of capital. I believe it refers to the letters, instead. Look at the rest of the line: have you written them yet? He wants us to jot down the capital letters of this note," Sherlock deduces rummaging in Giulia's bags to find a pen and paper, then presses John, "Come on, dictate only the capital letters to me!"
John takes a glance at the note: many words have capital letters. "All of them?"
"Wait," Sherlock's mind automatically goes through the following lines he has already memorised. "Hold on to the beginning if the ending makes you upset," he repeats. "That's another clue; not every capital letter, John, just the ones at the beginning of each sentence."
The doctor's eyes scan the note.
King
Nonetheless
Although
Bombings
Every
Hold
Take
"Here they are: K - N - A - B - E - H - T. But, 'Knabeht' doesn't ring any bell," he grimaces massaging his forehead in desperate search of answers.
"Because you're looking at it the wrong way. Think at the last line on the front page: it is also the last line that begins with a capital letter, and it says..."
"Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down," John perfectly recalls while Sherlock takes a compact mirror and places it near the letters he wrote down so that the reflection shows the writing in reverse, from right to left. Now the letters form the words THE BANK.
"What bank?" John immediately asks as Sherlock types on his phone.
"The one situated at the corner of King William Street and Abchurch Lane," he concludes showing him the roadmap on the screen.
"Did he really give us an absurd set of coordinates of the place where he keeps Giulia?"
"I'm afraid so," Sherlock murmurs in a grim tone still staring at the screen, an icy glare veils his eyes.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because he mocked us with a final joke. Just guess the nationality of the bank."
John pales, "Italian."
A brooding silence hovers in the tiny flat for a few seconds, then Sherlock whips around and rushes upstairs like a tornado. He starts turning his living room upside down tossing everything away frantically.
"John, did you see my Browning?" he asks with a note of urgency barely noticeable in his voice.
"The last time I saw it, Giulia was jokingly pointing it at your chest," John sighs recalling the events happened earlier that day.
"Yes, then she gave it back to me. But now I can't find it anywhere," he protests like a toddler who has just lost his favourite toy.
"Come on, Sherlock, we need to get to that bank immediately. She might not have long," John urges him hinting at the door. His concern is evident: his eyes travel across the room restlessly as he fidgets with his hands, eager to spring into action. That's the soldier in him kicking in.
"You want to remember that we are dealing with a killer," the detective points out.
"Lucky for you, I always carry my gun with me," John replies tapping the pocket of his jacket. "Now let's go."
The detective nods, but a dark shade glides over his face as his mind starts concocting several scenarios to anticipate what comes next.
"We must notify the police of our discovery," John exclaims dashing along the staircase.
At that exact moment, Sherlock's phone starts ringing; he pulls it out of his pocket and frowns at the screen. "It might not be necessary," he pronounces answering the call, "Lestrade, what's happening?"
John stares at Sherlock as he nods vigorously: Greg is probably delivering crucial information, but he can't hear his voice since Sherlock is pressing the phone against his ear and steps out in the street.
"Where exactly?" Sherlock continues his conversation with the D.I. while John grows more impatient each passing second. "I was right, then. I'm on my way," he concludes and lowers the phone putting his hand in his coat pocket as John stops an approaching cab and looks expectantly at him, "What did he say?"
"He found her. She was at the bank. We did a great job with that nursery rhyme, after all," he hints at a smile trying to defuse the tension, but his anguished face betrays him.
"Yeah, kudos for us. Sherlock, what happened?" the doctor stares into his eyes, but he averts his gaze.
"After you phoned Lestrade, Scotland Yard instantly started a search and located the kidnapper's hiding place at the bank, where he was holding her hostage. They got there and there was a shooting..."
"Jesus! We need to go there, NOW," the doctor cries out throwing open the passenger door of the cab.
"Wait. She's fine; the police freed her. She got into an ambulance just as a precaution. She is being taken to the hospital as we speak."
"Fine, that's where we are going," the doctor asserts hopping in the cab and yelling the address of St. Barth's hospital. Then he turns towards his friend, "Sherlock, hurry up!"
The detective looks into the distance, "I'm not coming, John. I'll go to the bank."
"What do you mean you are not coming? She is in the hospital."
"But she is okay. The killer, instead, is still entrenched inside the building and I have every intention of taking him down. Please, John, go," he barely finishes his sentence before slamming the car door and signalling the cabbie to leave.
He stands on the sidewalk gazing at John's upset face as the taxi heads to the hospital.
After a moment, Sherlock pulls out of his pocket the hand that never let go of his phone and moves it closer to his ear again. The screen is still lit: he never really hung up.
"Sorry for this chaotic answer. I'm listening to you now," he speaks on the device.
"Is it possible to know what is going on? Nobody has ever let me wait for so long, not even the Prime Minister," Mycroft's voice petulantly rants.
Sherlock sighs, "Thank you for keeping the line open."
"Why did you call me 'Lestrade' when you answered the phone?" he inquires suspiciously.
"I needed to get rid of John in a quick and delicate way. He had to have a pretty good reason to run away and leave me alone."
"As if he didn't have enough already," Mycroft comments sarcastically: he can perfectly picture his brother rolling up his eyes at his remark.
"What's this phone call about? I'm in a bit of a hurry, brother dear," the younger Holmes presses him, an unusual trace of distress taints his deep voice. He raises an arm to stop a cab and jumps in, giving the driver the address of the bank.
"I need to consult you on a very critical matter," his brother declares grinding his teeth. Mycroft Holmes is clearly not comfortable with a sentence like that.
"You need to consult me? Can't you deduce everything by yourself?"
"I have my suspicions and I'd want you to confirm or contradict them. Although, you seem very busy at the moment," he notes trying to divert attention from his unwonted cry for help.
"Quite so. Why don't you ask your friends in the secret service? Oh wait, right: you don't trust them," Sherlock smirks to himself. He can distinctly hear his older brother sighing on the other side of the line before replying, "Never mind. I am probably just a bit paranoid."
"Fine. Bye."
He is about to hang up when Mycroft stops him, "Wait, Sherlock, what is happening? I have just handed over to you on a silver platter the perfect opportunity to make fun of my paranoia, and you refuse to jump at the chance to show off and patronise me? What are you dealing with?"
"A kidnapping," he quickly rebuts not getting into details.
Mycroft can sense the distance in his voice and he certainly didn't miss the urgency that has been enwrapping his every sentence. Something is wrong and the eldest doesn't intend to drop the conversation.
"Who has been abducted?" he tests the waters.
Sherlock bites his bottom lip and murmurs reluctantly, "My flatmate."
"Giulia has been kidnapped?" Mycroft's voice booms through the line. "Why haven't I been notified about this?" he spits out furiously but Sherlock has the impression that he is not addressing him. Was he expecting his employees to keep him updated on that?
"I got it under control. No need for the British government," Sherlock sneers.
"I hope so since I have not a single agent to put on this quest," Mycroft replies in a worn-out tone. Sherlock has never heard his brother that anxious. "Why couldn't the doctor go with you, by the way?" Mycroft tries to change the subject.
"This whole thing is my fault and I should fix it by myself. Please, let me be," Sherlock's guilty plea resounds resolutely over the phone.
"If it has anything to do with Moriarty, then I have every right to be made aware," Mycroft peremptorily claims.
"It's not him."
"How can you be certain? It wouldn't be the first time he kidnaps one of your friends to play cat-and-mouse with you."
"Exactly. He already did it with John at the pool. Moriarty would never repeat himself. He has a vivid imagination; he would find an alternative method. It's something different, this time... Someone else," Sherlock answers gloomily.
"I see. Well then, I have pressing business to take care of. I'll let you sort it out on your own. Good luck, brother mine," Mycroft's voice resonates deeper in the device. He cannot help but worry about his little brother.
Sherlock looks out the window as the cab pulls over in front of the bank on King William Street. "I don't need luck," he snorts.
"No, of course, you don't," Mycroft whispers hanging up and praying that his sibling is not going to do anything foolish. Wishful thinking, isn't it?