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Chapter Five: The Adventure of the Beryl Hornet's Nest
20:20, Thursday 2nd of January 2013, London
The unmarked police car glided through the icy rain; it carried a silent Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes along the city streets. Rain drummed against the roof and sides of the Volvo; through the windscreen, London was a blur of multicolored lights against an inky backdrop.
At the intersection of Baker Street and George Street, traffic caused the police car to slow to a crawl. With an irritated noise, Lestrade changed into first gear. After a pause, he cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to begin briefing Holmes on the case.
Sherlock spoke rapidly, before Greg could begin: 'The stolen item isn't just valuable - it's well-known to the public.' The consulting detective gazed out of the passenger-side window as he spoke; his expression was one of mild boredom.
'Though the victims of the theft possess a high level of influence, there is no risk to national security.' Sherlock added, without turning away from the window. There was a spreading circle of steam in the spot where his breath had landed on the glass.
Now Holmes turned to face Lestrade, and said: 'The perpetrator used fire to facilitate the crime. It's probable that he left a message; directing you to me.' For the first time since they'd left the flat, a flicker of intense emotion crossed Holmes' face. It might have been sharp curiosity, but it passed too quickly for Greg to gauge it.
As the Detective Inspector opened his mouth to reply, the driver of a black cab behind them beeped his horn loudly. The road in front had cleared. Lestrade quickly changed gears, whilst pressing his foot down on the accelerator. The two detectives drifted down Baker Street in the heavy rain, picking up speed as they went.
'You heard of Croesus'?' Lestrade asked gruffly. They came to a stop at a red light, next to Selfridge's department store. No answer was forthcoming, and the grey-haired Detective Inspector glanced at Sherlock to make sure that he had heard.
Holmes was staring out of the car window. Even through the misty glass and streaming rain water, the Selfridge's Christmas display was visible. In its center sat a giant, sparkly red shoe, stuffed with extravagantly wrapped presents. Surrounding this center-piece were beautiful, eye-wateringly expensive, shoes of every colour. Gold and platinum jewelery twinkled from the branches of tiny silver fir trees. The whole tableau was lit up like a stage set.
In a doorway of the department store, a weary looking homeless man paused for a moment, eager to be out of the rain. At his side a skinny, very wet dog made a sad little whining sound, which was drowned out by the hum of traffic.
When Sherlock spoke, his tone was acidic: 'Croesus', the international auction house - where oligarchs who've looted their own countries compete to buy artifacts looted from other people's countries?' A flicker of fierce emotion played across his features; this time Lestrade could read it plainly.
After a while the light turned green, and they moved on.
Pushing his dark, wavy hair from his forehead, Sherlock continued; his tone now flat: 'Founded in 1754, Croesus' have branches in Dubai, Monte Carlo, New York and Shanghai.' All traces of intense feeling were gone from Holmes' face, replaced by his customary expression of contempt for the world. Focusing his attention outside of the car, Sherlock took in the shop names and door numbers; he quickly checked them against his mental database.
'The theft you're investigating took place at the London, South Kensington branch - which were are now, I believe, en route to.' Sherlock absentmindedly said to the window. The consulting detective seemed to be tiring of Lestrade or the conversation. Or possibly both.
They arrived at the junction of Baker Street and Oxford Street, and Greg now turned the car right sharply, so that they were traveling in the direction of Hyde Park.
The Detective Inspector had long ago given up trying to follow, or even understand, Sherlock's thought processes. And as for Holmes' mood swings… Lestrade shook his head. He doubted he would ever fathom what it was like inside that brain of Sherlock's.
'It's a Damien Hirst - the stolen piece of art.' Greg Lestrade began, in his gruff baritone. 'It was expected to sell for fourteen mil'... at least…' Lestrade continued. Abruptly, he slammed his foot onto the brake pedal, skidding to avoid a pedestrian. The jaywalking woman wrestled with an umbrella in the middle of the road; every time she managed to right it, the wind blew it inside-out again.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, at what he perceived to be yet another example of garden-variety idiocy. Behind the unmarked Volvo, several cars beeped their horns in annoyance.
'It was expected to sell for fourteen mil'.' Greg repeated. Ignoring the cars behind him, he carefully put the Volvo into first gear, and gently accelerated. As they gathered speed, Lestrade brought a Samsung phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock.
'The pin number is-' began Lestrade.
'-your eldest son's birthday.' finished Holmes dismissively, as he entered the last digit. 'I assume this is the stolen piece of art?' Sherlock asked rhetorically, his gaze flicking across the image displayed on the screen of the Samsung.
The Detective Inspector briefly consulted the phone in Sherlock's hand. 'Er, no,' Lestrade answered awkwardly. 'That's a crime scene photograph. From a hit-and-run.' he added sadly. 'Poor hedgehog. Never saw that heavy goods vehicle coming.'
The unmarked police car stopped at a red light, and Greg took the phone from Sherlock with his left hand. Jabbing the screen with his thumb, he opened an email attachment: it was an image of the missing Damien Hirst. 'It's his most talked about work since Shark in Formaldehyde.' Lestrade explained, turning the car left, onto Park Lane, where a red light stalled them once more.
Tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Lestrade continued: 'The thief was clever. The security at the auction house is tight - photo-electric beam sensors, infrared motion detectors, glass-break detectors - the works. There's only one way they could get in, and that's-'
'-social engineering.' Sherlock finished for Lestrade. 'Exploiting the weakest link in the chain: people.' Holmes' clear blue eyes focused coolly on Lestrade as he spoke. 'Manipulate the so-called security professionals, and a thief can walk right in - and out - with whatever he can carry.'
Lestrade felt a prick of extreme irritation: Holmes tended to have that effect on people. The Detective Inspector knew Sherlock's conclusion was correct - but that didn't stop him from getting on Lestrade's nerves. Maybe because Holmes never seemed to realise how annoying his interruptions, and his... bloody arrogant tone of voice, were. Or - and this was equally likely - Sherlock just didn't care.
'There's a second attachment...' Lestrade said out loud. 'Go back to the original email-', he glanced toward the screen of his Samsung, '-that's it.'
Sherlock clicked the link to download the second attachment. After a few moments an image popped up; it showed the charred remnants of an empty, paper thin hornet's nest. The few patches of nest untouched by flames were decorated with rainbow swirls of paint. Golden beryls peeked out from tiny, long-deserted hexagonal tunnels.
'That piece of art was called Exodus Twenty-Three.' Lestrade explained. 'Also a Hirst. It was on display in gallery B, next to the stolen work.'
Sherlock zoomed into the image; the machinery in his mind clicked and whirred, as he processed the clues in the photograph. 'The thief put an incendiary device inside the nest.' said Sherlock to Lestrade, as he handed back the phone. 'Containing a timer. When it ignited, the smoke triggered an automatic call to the fire brigade.' Holmes was speaking at a rapid pace. 'The perpetrator-'
'-entered the auction house dressed as a fireman...' now it was Greg who interrupted Sherlock.
'...and manipulated the security guard into disabling the alarms. Probably by claiming he needed access to the gallery to put out the blaze.' added Sherlock.
'And when the real fire brigade arrived, our burglar was gone.' said Lestrade, sliding the gear stick into neutral, as they joined a long queue of traffic. 'He was wearing a pack, like the breathing apparatus a real firefighter carries. That's how he got the Hirst out.' finished Greg Lestrade.
Holmes and Lestrade both fell silent as the car passed the white marble facade of the Park Lane Grosvenor House Hotel. Above the imposing entrance, five flags were whipping about wildly in the howling wind. England, Scotland, Wales, the United Kingdom, and the European Union were all represented; the soggy canvas rectangles seemed in danger of being blown away by the storm.
Below the flags stood a uniformed doorman. Dwarfed by the scale of the building, he surreptitiously blew into his bare, cupped hands to warm them.
A Range Rover with tinted windows pulled up outside the hotel, prompting the doorman to sprint across the marble courtyard towards the disembarking guests and their immaculately groomed Shih Tzu. A glass roof jutted out from the building, shielding them from the downpour.
Sherlock ignored the scene: he had seemingly lost interest in both the view, and Lestrade. The consulting detective was busy scanning through his mental database of art heists - his eyes were flicking rapidly back and forth as he thought. One eyebrow rose slightly: now he was scrolling through a list of fences: men and women who might be approached by the thief in the coming days.
'Anything else?' Holmes asked Greg Lestrade distractedly.
'One more thing.' Lestrade answered. 'It wasn't the thief who asked for you -', the Detective Inspector glanced over at Holmes, before continuing: '- it was Stephanie Baker. She's at the scene now - and wants to use you as an "expert" advisor.'
Sherlock suddenly sat up very straight in the passenger seat. For the first time since they'd left the flat, he seemed genuinely interested in what Lestrade had to say. 'The Stephanie Baker?' asked Holmes, turning to face the Detective Inspector.
'Boyyds Bank are the insurers,' replied Greg Lestrade, 'and with something like this, they're not gonna mess about - they want the best. Or rather, they want the investigator with highest recovery rate -', the grey-haired Detective Inspector spoke with disapproval, '- and they're not fussed about the details.'
'She asked for me.' said Sherlock quietly, sounding both pleased and unsurprised. He was staring through the windscreen into the distance, and there was a small smile on his face.
For a while, the two detectives drove in silence through the darkness.
Lestrade spoke at last, in his gravelly voice: 'You don't want to sound too satisfied with yourself... remember what happened to the last "expert" to work with Stephanie Baker. Poor sod.' He shook his head sympathetically.
In the passenger seat, Sherlock had withdrawn inside of himself. Occasionally he mumbled something, before gesturing wildly in the air, or consulting his smartphone with urgency. Every now and then he demanded information from Lestrade: names of auction house employees, the age of their children... and whether any of the security guards had ever lived in Holland. When the Detective Inspector answered, Sherlock responded with the merest nod of acknowledgment, and immediately returned to his own thoughts.
Lestrade turned right at Hyde Park corner. He did nothing to disturb Holmes, having learned from experience that it was usually worth while to let Sherlock do… well, whatever it was that he did, in peace.
The police car followed the road into Knightsbridge. Inside the Volvo, the air was warm and humid. Outside, the rain continued to wash the streets of London clean, falling on both rich and poor alike.
Though the rich were more likely to own umbrellas, thought Lestrade wryly, as he turned the car onto Hans Road.
In front of them, in the same spot that it had stood for almost two-hundred and sixty years, was Croesus' auction house.