CHAPTER 31: NO-ONE'S WHO THEY SEEM
Half an hour later, after updating Giulia in great detail about the case, Sherlock hits the brakes abruptly making the tyres screech on the cobblestones in front of the Admirals' house. As he turns off the engine, he gives Giulia a smug smile, "You can drive on our way back if you want."
She looks almost terrified and replies, "That's kind of you, but no, thanks. I really don't want to run this astonishing car into a tree."
He cocks a brow, "You can't drive?"
"Oh, no, I can drive perfectly well. Just... on the other side of the road," she shrugs. She still has troubles remembering where to look when she crosses the street. Why do Brits have to behave differently from everyone else in the world?
He jumps off the car and bangs loudly on the door while yelling, "Mrs Admiral? Mrs Admiral, please open up!"
A few seconds later, Fred shows up on the threshold and looks daggers at him, "How dare you come to my house again after what you accused me of, the last time you were here?"
"Don't worry, Fred, I'm not here for you. I'm looking for your wife," Sherlock declares pushing him aside and making his way into the house.
"What do you want from her now?" the man tailgates him with a distrustful look.
The detective ignores his question and looks around the empty living room, "Where is she?"
"In the bathroom, she isn't feeling very well at the moment," Fred reluctantly replies, hesitant to give personal details about his wife.
"I knew it!" Sherlock almost spins around full of joy. "What are her symptoms?"
The man does a double-take. "I beg your pardon?"
"Come on, Mr Admiral, a bit of cooperation here. Tell me precisely what signs your wife has been showing in the last few hours," Sherlock commands impatiently.
Mr Admiral scratches the back of his head trying to recall every single detail. "When she came back home, she couldn't even tell me what had happened with you. She was staggering. She complained that her mouth and throat were so dry that she could hardly swallow. I couldn't understand a word of what she said: she wasn't making any sense," he starts recounting.
"That's it?" the detective stares at him.
Fred wrinkles his nose, "She had a headache and was feeling dizzy. After you left, she lamented that her heart was beating crazily fast..." he is interrupted by Sherlock who pedantically specifies, "It's called tachycardia."
"Yes, well, I thought it might be a physical reaction to all the stress you put her in," he pronounces giving him a stern look. "About that, you should leave now. I don't like unattended guests," he hisses pushing him towards the door.
"Not even the ones that might save your wife's life?" Sherlock moves Fred's hands away from him and straightens the lapels of his coat.
The man stops and fixes his gaze in the eyes of that hideous meddler, "What do you mean?"
"The list of her symptoms is quite long: staggering, dryness in mouth and throat, slurred speech, confusion, headache, dizziness, elevated heart rate," he quickly sums up. "Everything you have just said is consistent with Atropa Belladonna poisoning. It's a toxic plant also known as deadly nightshade. Its toxins can cause severe clinical disorders, affecting both internal organs and the central nervous system; hence the hallucinations she experienced in front of us. If your wife doesn't get medical attention immediately and provides the doctors with this specific diagnosis, she might not make it. So I'd suggest you call an ambulance now."
Fred pales, nods vigorously and quickly walks away to call 999. In the meantime, Sherlock makes a phone call as well.
"Hey Sherlock, where are you?" John's voice resonates through the speakers.
"I went back to the countryside with Giulia to solve the case," he answers casually as if a woman's life wasn't at stake.
"Wait, are you done already?" the doctor sounds surprised, especially considering how Sherlock monumentally failed just a few hours before.
"Almost there. Could you please check the news, the Internet - anything really - to see if something juicy comes up? I'd like to get back to work immediately," he hurries him in a troubled voice.
"I'm on it."
Sherlock ends the call only to meet Giulia's inquisitive gaze, "Why are you so eager to find a new case?"
"You know I'm always restless. My superior intellect needs to be stimulated constantly. Moreover, I didn't really enjoy this case. I got too... involved," he struggles on the last word as his eyes evasively scan the living room.
"You mean emotionally involved," she underlines.
He raises a brow in a scornful grimace, "That would imply that I am capable of emotion."
She smirks, "Sometimes you remind me of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz who thinks he has no heart."
"Strange. I agree more with the Wizard when he says to the tin man: 'As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable'," he quotes by heart.
She stares at him, fascinated by his unlimited knowledge and his quirky ideas. She cannot say she disagrees, though. She made the choice of renouncing to her heart more than a year ago; she didn't know what to do with a broken heart, anyway. And living heartless is easier, more 'practical' even - as the Wizard thinks. She can still feel other sensations: fear, for instance, is visceral. Contempt for the people that destroyed her, her thirst for justice... those are matters of the mind. She can feel all that and still keep her distance. The only feeling she consented to be deprived of was affection: that's the one thing the heart is good at - getting attached. And the one thing it has no defences against.
She instinctively casts a glance at Sherlock. But at what cost? Is some warmth inside worth the risk of heartbreak?
"The ambulance is on its way," Fred announces concerned rousing her from her stream of consciousness.
"Lovely. They should arrive simultaneously with the police, then," Sherlock checks his watch.
"You alerted the cops? Why?"
"Oh, it's very easy, Mr Admiral. Because your wife shot and killed Elisa Therton."
The house becomes silent and still as Fred stares at Sherlock with wide eyes, "This is nonsense."
"I'll have you know I highly value logical sense and rationality," he arrogantly replies.
"You've got to stop pinning murders on people. I'm actually glad you called the cops; I'll have you forcefully removed from my house, and I'll file a restraining order against you. Let me check on my wife and see if she needs any assistance before I kick you out of here", he shakes his head and goes upstairs groaning.
"So, is she really the killer?" Giulia tentatively asks when he is out of hearing range.
"Obviously. In my first solution of the case, I was right about almost everything: I deduced correctly that Adam Therton was the second thief and that he was indeed killed by Fred in a fit of anger and revenge. I still don't have hard evidence for that, but I trust Isaac's memory of that night; his colourblindness helps explain the detail of the man in a coverall coming out of the woods, which, given Fred's work clothes, is highly unlikely to have been just a dream. However, for what concerns Elisa's killer, I mistook the member of the pair. I regret to say, I didn't give Mrs Admiral enough credit; the whole time, I thought she was just a pawn in her husband's hands whereas she masterminded the entire plan."
"Women empowerment, Sherlock," Giulia reprimands him mockingly.
"I'm a strong advocate of gender equality; to me, you are all equally idiot," he scoffs at her. "Anyway, when her husband presumably came clean to her about both the robbery and Adam's murder, I am confident that she decided to take things into her own hands and approached the wailing widow lending her a helping hand. She took her time to assess the situation becoming a constant presence in that house, getting to know the people, their habits, everything. Up to this point, my deductions were flawless, so we'll just skip the part when she realised that the jewels weren't hidden in the cottage but rather buried in the garden, and tried her hardest to convince Elisa to sell the house so as to become the rightful owner of that land. And when it became clear that the widow would never give in, she planned Elisa's murder carefully, with the specific intention of framing Isaac."
"Framing how?"
"First thing: the murder weapon. A few hours ago, I expressed to you my confusion and doubts as to why Isaac might have chosen to shoot his mother with his father's handgun rather than his own shotgun, and I have my answer now: he didn't. We can assume that Mr Admiral informed his wife of his criminal activities, including the smuggling of Iraqi weapons into the country that he kept going when he came back home from the war. Thus, she learned that Adam Therton, his former comrade, was part of the ring, too. Consequently, he possessed the very same firearms as Fred. When she became a regular visitor in the house, she could test the waters and see for herself exactly what kind of handguns were still there. She carefully chose a weapon that both men had smuggled and kept. By firing a model that she knew was also in the Therton's house, she made it incredibly easy for biased policemen and forensic scientists to believe that Isaac must have used his dad's gun to kill his mother. Only ballistics can confirm whether or not the firearm of the Thertons has been fired recently, but we can suppose that she hoped that, with any luck, the preliminary analysis would mostly focus on matching the bullet wound to the calibre (which obviously does), making a crystal clear connection that would contribute to incriminating Isaac."
"You are implying poor police work," she scolds him.
He shrugs, "I'm just entailing that the human brain is eager to jump on the most logical answer that manifests to it. And the easier it appears to be, the quicker we convince ourselves that we found the truth. I'm criticising their biased approach against someone who they consider to be 'different', not against their overconfidence about the culprit. The latter is just a result of pride, something even I indulged in when I was sure I had figured out everything about this case," the tiniest note of shame is barely noticeable in his voice.
"Still, that couldn't' be enough to frame a fifteen-year-old for murder," Giulia insists.
"Precisely, that's why her next step was choosing the perfect time window. She had become a family friend, so she knew exactly what Isaac's routine and movements were like. She knew when he would go hunting in the woods making him the perfect suspect once the gunshot residue test on his hands and clothes would come out positive, due to his little adventures after wild animals," Sherlock explains.
"Why accusing Isaac, though?" Giulia asks perplexed.
"Simple: the only way the Admirals could get their hands on the longed-for house would be through auction, but that could only occur in the case of absence of legal heirs. With Elisa gone, her son would have inherited it, and they would have had the same problem all over again. There was no way the whole family could be murdered: it'd be suspicious, to say the least. Moreover, without any identified killer, the house would have probably become a longstanding crime scene. So, she chose the most convenient move: she killed the mother and blamed the son. Killing two birds with one stone."
"It seems plausible. And yet, there's one more thing I don't get: what made you realise she was the real killer?"
"I told you back in Baker Street: the fact that she was poisoned. That's the whole point of us being here now: I came to check if all her symptoms were consistent with my diagnosis of Atropa Belladonna poisoning. Clear as day, isn't it?"
She sighs, "Not really, no. What is Atropa Belladonna and how did she even get poisoned in the first place?"
"It is a poisonous plant with purple flowers; I spotted and studied some bushes of it in a fenced part of the Therton's garden. I archived that information in my mind palace labelling it as irrelevant, but that little fainting stunt of yours at the flat brought it back to my mind," he taunts her. "When you talked about chemistry and poisonous substances, it hit me: her weird behaviour and all those apparent signs of drug use were, in fact, a dreadful reaction to dangerous toxins of that plant."
"How does it work? You see someone delirious, you hear the word 'poison', and all the pieces magically fall into place?" she shoots him a puzzled, disoriented look. That mind of his is a maze where only he can find the path. Asking him to break down his reasoning process is equivalent to solving an equation, step by step.
He snorts, "There's nothing magical about logical deductions. I managed to trace the exact cause of her illness because I realised I had already seen nasty symptoms at the crime scene: on the dead dog."
"You never mentioned that the dog had been poisoned," she protests.
"Because I was only able to resolve it in my mind palace. On the crime scene, I couldn't understand what had caused his death, but by putting together the respiratory difficulties that I deduced it had experienced before dying and the worrisome symptoms shown by Mrs Admiral, I concluded that those two living beings were infected by the same poison. And they showed different reactions by reason of the physiological structure of their bodies. In point of fact, Atropa Belladonna plant is sometimes more toxic to domestic animals than it is to humans," he describes in a professional tone.
"Slow down, Mr 'Chemistry set'. You just said that Atropa Belladonna was a bush in the Thertons' garden. How could it poison both Mrs Admiral and the dog?" Giulia struggles to follow him.
"In two different ways, actually. The dog ate the poisonous fruit of the plant when Mrs Therton left the gate of the fence open, minutes before being killed. As for Mrs Admiral, the way the poison entered her organism is precisely the clue that unmistakably indicates that she is the killer."
She signals to him that he should carry on with the explanation, and he rolls up his eyes at her stubbornness of having all the answers.
"When I examined the scene, I deduced that just before being shot, Mrs Therton had been gardening, taking care especially of one bush with purple flowers: there were pruning residues of Belladonna on the ground of the fenced grass. She was presumably interrupted when Mrs Admiral stormed into the house for one last desperate attempt at a bargain for the sale of the house. She threatened Elisa hoping to get her to sign her estate offer, but Elisa reacted and fought her off by wielding the grass shears she was holding. In the struggle, she must have injured Martha, and some of the plant remains that were on the blades entered her bloodstream poisoning her. Which also explains why the grass shears were missing from the crime scene; Mrs Admiral took them since they were stained with her blood: not exactly the ideal clue to leave behind. Now, let me just verify my deductions..." he trails off striding across the living room up to one of the chairs where Mrs Admiral handbag is placed. He recognises it: it is the one she dropped in front of them that very afternoon.
He takes a tissue, sticks his hand in, and pulls out a pair of blood-smeared grass shears. "John was right: women's bags are indeed full of items that make them quite heavy," he smirks.
"Where are the Admirals, by the way?" she wonders considering that some minutes have already passed since Fred went upstairs.
"Packing their baggage for prison?" he jokes around.
Giulia smiles at him for a second, then her expression suddenly changes, and a shadow falls on her face as she whispers, "Sherlock, shut up, I think I heard something... Duck!" she screams as soon as she catches a glimpse of the metallic reflection of a gun barrel shimmering at the top of the darkened staircase.
As she leaps toward him, a gunshot reverberates through the walls.
221B Baker Street
In the meantime
This is mortally boring! John mentally grumbles at his computer.
He passes a hand over his tired face and lets out a loud sigh. He can't believe that Sherlock actually solved that case in such a short time. What is even more incredible is that he went back to the countryside for the second time that day. He realises just now that all the events related to that case (the trip to the crime scene, the weird encounter with Mrs Admiral, and Sherlock's wrong accusations of her husband) have actually happened only in the span of one day. Their life is so full and busy that it is difficult to keep track of what happens on a daily basis.
He stretches up his arms and goes back to the search for a new case that he had started soon after hanging up with Sherlock. He keeps scrolling down the Inbox full of requests for the Consulting Detective, reading the emails distractedly until one catches his attention.
Anonymous sender: why do people even go to the trouble of contacting them if they don't want to disclose their identity? Don't they know that Sherlock doesn't do anonymous clients? That email is pointless: no subject and no content except for an attachment - a newspaper article from one year ago, apparently. Why would someone bother to collect and attach an old article without giving the slightest information about themselves? Are people incapable of using their own words to describe what their case is about? He wonders annoyed.
He frowns as his eyes land on the picture of a happy family featured in the article. He blinks repeatedly and leans forward, shocked: that's not possible. It can't be.
He reads the title and the first lines attentively.
Explosion in Italian Consulate: the Consul's family decimated
Due to a gas leak, a massive explosion burst down an Italian Consulate in Latin America. As soon as the firefighters arrived on the scene, 90% of the building had already been destroyed by the flames. Official sources have confirmed three fatalities: the Consul, his wife and one of their daughters, the girl on the right in the photo.
He looks at the picture again, and all the colour drains from his face.
The Admirals' House
In the exact moment Fred fires his weapon, Giulia leaps towards Sherlock and tackles him to the ground. The impetus of her jump flings them toward the carpet of the living room. Sherlock falls backwards while Giulia lands on top of his chest making him cough out all the oxygen he had in his lungs. She whips her head up with an apologetic look and rapidly scans his expression for signs of pain. His face is just a few inches away from hers; his breath brushes against her lips as he tries to take in a gulp of air. A tuft of her hair hangs loose in front of her forehead, falling down to stroke Sherlock's cheek. As they are entangled on the floor, she tries to shift away from his diaphragm letting him breathe normally. She doesn't utter a sound, but she checks on him by staring into his piercing eyes; they are so close.
He inhales deeply and props himself up on his elbows groaning, "In your previous life, did you play rugby, by any chance?"
She doesn't have the time to come up with a witty reply to his ironic remark because he clutches her arm and pulls her close to him. He tries to shelter both of them behind the sofa as Fred takes aim again and shoots in their direction. Sherlock instinctively bends down as a bullet grazes a cushion of the backrest that is shielding him and flies just a few inches above his head. Some more shots are fired as they crouch down trying to make themselves less of a target.
"You will never get to her, you will never lay a finger on my wife!" Mr Admiral shouts angrily firing away.
Giulia looks at Sherlock with terrified yet determined eyes, "What do we do now?"
Sherlock shuts his eyes for a second raising his fingers up to his temples while elaborating a plan inside his mind place: he has memorised the plan of the ground floor of the house, and a clear exit path appears in his brain. He snaps his eyes open and rapidly explains, "We need to distract him long enough for us to sneak out. From where we are standing, the rear door is closer than the main entrance and easier to reach. If we manage to get there, we'll be out in the garden and we could run to the car parked in the driveway. But we still need a diversion." He lets out a low moan of defeat, "I wish I hadn't locked my Browning in that drawer."
"Would this do the trick, anyway?" she draws her gun out of the pocket of her coat. "Before you ask, that's why it took me a while to get ready back at Baker Street: I was taking the gun out of my other coat hung on the rack. It's not like I bring weapons with me to my exams," she manages to joke around.
Sherlock's eyes sparkle, "You did like my Christmas gift, then. Excellent choice having it on you."
"I figured that, since you made me leave my bodyguard behind, I could at least bring with me another instrument of the Holmeses' protection," she winks at him.
She hands it over to Sherlock who quickly illustrates, "Here's the plan: I'll fire some shots at him while you grab and topple that little wooden table on your right, next to the armrest of this sofa. We are going to use it as a shield to get to the rear door. It's not the best cover, but we only have to run for a couple of metres: it'll be enough. All clear?"
"Yes, sir," she promptly replies.
"Are you ready?" he asks the girl placing his left hand on her shoulder. She nods and takes a deep breath. Next thing she knows, her hands are grasping the wooden stand as she knocks it over and lifts it by levering one of the table legs with her shoulder. She tries to squeeze her body behind it, making room for the detective who takes off the gun safety and fires several times against Fred, struggling to get a clear shot since his target is perched on the staircase, mostly out of sight. Giulia tries to provide as much cover as possible for the two of them while they simultaneously move toward the rear door.
They proceed one leg after the other, still trying to dodge bullets; they have almost reached the rear door when Sherlock's phone starts ringing. Without losing sight of Fred's line of fire, he quickly takes the call, "John? This is really not a good time," he huffs squashing his full height behind the table which is now riddled by bullets.
Giulia stretches out her hand to lower the handle of the door and glowers at Sherlock: why did he answer in the first place?
"I don't care. I have something important to tell you right now!" the doctor's voice replies anguished.
"Could you wait for a bit?"
"No. Your life might be in danger..." he trails off holding his breath as his ear distinctly distinguish the sound of shots fired on the other side of the line.
"You don't say," Sherlock ironically replies rolling his eyes. He shoots twice in the direction of the stairs, before John's voice speaks again, "There was an email in your Inbox containing an old article about an explosion in an Italian Consulate..."
"I don't have time to work right now, John. I'll think about it when I get home," the detective interrupts him.
"No, you have to listen to me. Listen to me, please! According to the newspaper, one year ago, that explosion killed the Consul, his wife, and one of their two daughters whose smiley face is clearly visible in the picture beside the text."
"It's interesting, I'll grant you that, but... "
"I have the picture in front of my eyes, Sherlock, and there is no doubt," John cuts him short. "It is also stated in the text: the girl was 22 years old and her name was Giulia. According to this article, Giulia is supposed to have..."
"Died one year ago," Sherlock completes the sentence, coming to a sudden halt while his blood runs cold.
A second later, a bullet pierces him.