For almost half a breathless minute, all of them sat listening to the purr of the ringing line. Finally John pulled his phone away from his ear. "Not answering," he said unnecessarily.
"Well, that doesn't mean…" Merivale trailed off. "I mean, she's upset about Lestrade. She's blocked half of Scotland Yard."
"No," Sherlock said. "She's probably blocked you and it's possible that she's blocked me. But why would she have blocked John? Besides, it's ringing out. She hasn't blocked the incoming number, and the phone's neither switched off nor damaged."
"Maybe it's on silent?" John suggested.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John," he said longsufferingly. "Sally Donovan is a murder detective in the middle of a major investigation, her commanding officer and two close colleagues have just been murdered, and she's been married for only two months. Her phone isn't on silent."
"There's something else," Dyer said, though he sounded subdued. He got up and started rummaging around by the phone, eventually coming up with a small spiral-bound notepad. He flicked through a couple of pages, consulting them. "I've been thinking about this one all morning, actually," he said. "You said that Celeste wasn't pushed, and Bob Thompson let his killer into the house. What about Jones?"
"No sign of a forced entry," Merivale said, folding her arms.
"See, that sounds wrong to me," Dyer said. "Really wrong. Thompson was killed first and he didn't know anyone was out for him, so yeah, maybe he just opened the door to anyone. I wouldn't, but there you go. Celeste might've been drunk or drugged or both, but what girl in her right mind would accept booze like that from a stranger?"
John stopped himself before he could snark that there had been a time when his sister would probably have accepted booze from the Mad Poisoner of Maida Hill.
"Everyone knows about roofies," Dyer went on. He flicked through the pages on his notepad, though he didn't seem to be referring to it anymore. "When Hayley goes out with her friends, she says they all take it in turns to watch each others' drinks when they go to the loo." He cleared his throat. "And then, when people are being killed and going missing left, right and centre - Jones goes and lets her killer into the house. At night. When there was nobody else home. I didn't know her very well, but she wasn't an idiot. Whoever it was who killed her, it was someone she knew and trusted. And if she trusted someone enough to let them into the house-"
"Donovan might too," John finished, getting to his feet and going for the car keys in his jeans pocket. "We need to go out there. Sherlock, you should go with Merivale. You'll probably get there faster."
When they arrived at Donovan's residence fifteen minutes later, there seemed to be nothing amiss, just going on appearances. There was a white sedan in the driveway, and the curtains were drawn back, revealing a vague outline of a purple-fabric sofa and piano in the front room. Merivale seemed not to notice this as she charged up the front path and thumped hard on the door with her fist.
In seconds, they all heard a loud, blunt thud that shook the pavement stones beneath them, and then a muffled, breathless female cry.
"Shit," Merivale said, shaking the door handle fruitlessly. She reached for her belt, and a truncheon that wasn't there; when her fingers grasped nothing, she turned to Sherlock. "Get us in there!"
"John," Sherlock said. "Kitchen window."
But John had already got the idea and was pulling the window sash up. It creaked and resisted, then abruptly shot up as if it had suddenly become unstuck. Before anyone could debate which of them was likely to be able to get in faster, Sherlock was clambering for a leg-up on the sill. He was up in seconds, and let himself through the window backwards, like a deep-sea diver off a charter boat. There was another thud as he launched himself from the sink to the kitchen floor, then a scrabble of feet and the most welcome sound possible - Sally Donovan sputtering crossly, "Go after him, Sherlock!"
"Open the door for us, first," John said under his breath. But judging from the sound of flying footsteps and another clatter of what was probably the back door being thrown open, Sherlock had forgotten he'd even left people on the front step waiting for him. Merivale, now in the process of dispatching officers to the scene, banged on the door again.
"No point," John said, sizing up the window and searching for a grip on the sill. "He's long gone. Help me up."
The kitchen was in deep shadow, but there was still light enough for John to see, as he climbed over the sink and cupboards, the extent of the scene in front of him. Sally Donovan was on her knees in the middle of the floor. Or at least, John assumed it was Sally Donovan. Her face was so spattered with blood that it was hard to recognise her features, and her once-yellow shirt was now crimson. She forced herself to her feet, then slumped down again, just as John grabbed her under the arms.
"Hold on, Sally, just stop. You're injured," he muttered automatically, looking around for somewhere to sit her down - she wouldn't make the journey to the living room sofa. Finally, he urged her back down onto the floor near the dishwasher. The awkward descent jolted her and she gave a little cry of pain.
"Just a second," John said. "Stay there." He hurried through to the front door, pulling it open to admit Merivale. As he led her back into the kitchen, he glanced down the hall toward the back door. Whoever had run down it, with Sherlock in pursuit, they'd left bloodstains on the carpet. The door was hanging open on its hinges, and there were large smears of blood on the handle and panels.
"Edward Trent," Sally gasped out to him, one hand clasping her side. John could hear Merivale making a call to someone - presumably an ambulance - behind his left shoulder as he eased Sally's hand away from the wound.
"Sorry," he muttered, drawing her blood-soaked shirt up slightly to better see the two-inch knife-wound just below the underwire of her bra. "All right, listen, you're not bleeding too badly, but try to stay still until the ambulance comes, all right?" Glancing down at her, he saw that the front buttons of her jeans had been pulled so violently they'd been broken. But the primary injuries seemed to be slashes to her forearms and face. Her breath had a rattle to it. She was choking up on her own blood.
"That bastard," John heard her seething as he turned back to the sink for a cloth to clear the blood clotting around her mouth and nose. "That fucking bastard…"
An hour later, while Merivale and her team were still searching the Trent's registered address and John was waiting in the lounge of the local hospital, Sherlock joined him. He was soaking wet, disheveled and frustrated.
"Taking it you didn't catch him," John said. Sherlock shook his head.
"He made it to the football grounds four streets west of Donovan's house, but then it started to pour and I lost his tracks," he said, brushing sopping curls out of his eyes. "I called Merivale. None of the Trent family are at the house, and the neighbours said they left the house at seven this morning and none of them have been seen since. I don't expect Edward will get far, though. He's injured - all that blood can't be Donovan's." He paused. "How, er, is she?"
"Looks like she'll be okay. Won't be happy about her face being all cut up, but you probably won't even see it in a couple of months. And plastic surgery can do wonders these days. At least she survived."
"That may have been his intention."
John looked questioningly at him.
"He left no note," Sherlock went on, pulling his sodden scarf off restlessly and then retying it. "Though he might have meant to. It's possible that this was a reference to the character of Lavinia in Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. She was raped, but not murdered. Then her tongue was cut out and her hands cut off to prevent her telling anyone."
"Jesus Christ," John muttered. "Yeah, that... fits, actually. He really went for her face and wrists. Her jeans button was broken but they weren't pulled down, so I don't think he got far in raping her. Why's he still bothering with the Shakespeare, though?"
"For fun. The Shakespeare has never been anything other than a cover for sadistic, creative violence," Sherlock said. "Luckily for Sally Donovan, Edward Trent got a little too creative this time."
"Do you think Caitlin's involved as well?"
"Almost certainly."
"Oh, God. Anderson," John blurted out. "Anderson said he found something weird at Thompson's murder - a puddle of vomit on the floor that didn't come from the victim. We were thinking it came from the murderer, but what if it came from Caitlin, Sherlock? What if he's got her as some sort of hostage?"
"She was the one who was stalking Hayley Lestrade," Sherlock pointed out. "And she was the one who lied her way through interviews and tried to hide her mother from the police. She's not a hostage. This is a killing partnership, where two personalities spark into violence like fire and gunpowder. It's called a folie à deux." He paused. "Though I'll grant you that Edward, no matter how angelic he looks, is probably the dominant partner."
"But… why? I mean why would anybody do this? Just because they're both barking mad? And what's the mother got to do with anything? Is she involved?"
Sherlock muttered, "I don't know yet. But let's look at what we have achieved. But we've prevented a death and forced the Trents away from their home base. That's something."
"Yeah." John glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. "Sorry," he said, and he really sounded it. "If there's nothing more I can do for Donovan and the police are already out looking for the Trent kids, I need to head home, at least for a couple of hours. I don't want to leave Molly on her own too long in all this, especially without the car. Ring me if you need me, okay? I-"
"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively at him. "You go. I need to interview Donovan."
It had naturally never crossed Sherlock Holmes's mind that Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan might not be in any mood or condition to be interviewed, nor that it was a breach of security for him to wander into her hospital room once he'd worked out by process of elimination which one it was. The only other people in the room were a dumpy, middle-aged woman wearing a nightgown in double leg traction in the bed opposite, and Sally's husband. Rahul Mukherjee was some sort of engineer, judging from his thumbs, and the cigarette smell on his clothes betrayed that their recent honeymoon had taken place at least partly in Gibraltar.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, stepping forward defensively.
"'S'ok," Sally mumbled, "Sherlock Holmes. He's okay. Mostly."
Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the room and was looking carefully at her, as if trying to evaluate how likely she'd be to be able to be interviewed. As John had pointed out, her face had been a focus in the attack. There were thick padded dressings on both cheeks and she had a matching pair of swollen black eyes. Her voice was thick with the swelling of her injuries. Capable of basic communication, but Sherlock's glance strayed to the morphine pump inches away from her left hand. She might not be making sense for much longer.
"Go away for ten minutes," he said to Rahul. "I need to interview Sally in private."
"What-"
"He's always like this," Sally said. "He's okay."
After a few seconds of hesitation, Rahul left. Sherlock, with a deprecating glance at the near-comatose woman in the bed opposite, drew the curtains around Sally's and dropped into a nearby plastic chair. "When I find you on your kitchen floor after being stabbed by a teenage boy, it's a sign we need to talk," he said.
"Aww. You saved me," she said, trying to give a somewhat sarcastic smile. "My very own knight in tweed armour."
"I see you've been given a strong dose of painkillers," Sherlock huffed. "Don't be absurd, I was only on the scene for a minute. I didn't save you. I don't even like you." He paused. "Obviously, I'm not anxious that you be murdered."
"Thanks." She leaned back into her pillows. "Thanks so much. Gives me the warm fuzzies, that does."
"Don't fall asleep," Sherlock said. "I need you to tell me why Edward Trent attacked you."
"'Cause he's a psychopath."
"No." Sherlock shook his head. "This is important, Sally, so for God's sake, concentrate. Even psychopaths do things for reasons that make sense to themselves. Did he just walk in and attack you with a knife without saying anything? Or what?"
"Double-edged dagger," she mumbled. "Old. Like something out of Game of Thrones. Think he had it under his hoodie. An' no, he didn't tell me why he was attacking me. Said he had info about Celeste's murder. Grabbed me by the waist while I w's making tea. Stuck a knife…"
She winced. Sherlock didn't need for her to elaborate that he'd stabbed her at least twice just under her right-hand ribs before trying to rip her jeans down with one hand and subdue her with the other. An utterly stupid attack technique, and doomed to failure. "And you did the only logical thing, of course," he said.
"'Course. Smashed a plate over his head an' went for his eyes with it." She exhaled and shut her eyes, and her fingers strayed slightly toward the morphine pump. "Might've grabbed his balls, too…"
"Stay awake. Did he tell you anything about Celeste?"
"No."
"Was Caitlin with him? Or anyone else?"
"No." She opened her eyes again and looked across at him, or tried to. But her gaze was drug-fogged by this time. "Sherlock, 'm as high as shit on meds right now," she said. "Make it quick. Going to be off in la-la land in a minute."
Sherlock rose, buttoning his still-damp coat. "Thank you, Sally," he said stiffly. "I've no more questions."
How could he know?
The adventures of world-famous detective Benedict Cumberbatch and friends was making for disturbing reading. Greg had long since started skim-reading the contents: a fairly standard mystery concerning a poisoner who seemingly picked victims at random and made their deaths seem like suicides. I never told him about this. I'm sure I never…
But there was something missing from the scene where the heroic detective faces his foe in a game of wits over two bottles of poisoned pills.
He had kids. That's why he did it. He was dying anyway, brain haemorrhage or something, and he wanted money for his kids.
Matthew's narrative made no mention of the idea that his serial killer, whom he hadn't named, had a single relative in the world. His physical description seemed almost purposefully vague as well - no indication that Matthew knew what the real guy looked or spoke like. But by the time Greg reached the climactic scene where detective and serial killer face off in an empty university lecture hall over two bottles of possibly-poisoned pills, he could almost feel his blood surging through his body and the sweat break out on his temples.
"Mel," he said over his shoulder. "Phone. Now, please. The mobile." Even after all these years, he had no idea what Sherlock's phone number was off the top of his head - if he had to admit it to himself, he didn't know Melissa's either, and could barely remember his own. Still engrossed in the contents of the chapter, he reached out his hand into empty space until he vaguely registered a sigh from Melissa and the weight of his phone in his palm. He wasn't in the mood to concern himself with Melissa's muttering that she was not, in fact, one of his constables to give orders to, and her reminder that dead men don't make phone calls. Sherlock picked up in seconds.
"Relax," he said immediately. "She'll be fine."
"Donovan?" Greg guessed.
"Edward Trent attacked her, but I… wasn't able to apprehend him. The police are out at the Trent house, but Merivale's reported that the whole family have disappeared."
"Yeah, well, you can tell the guys looking for them that they might be wasting their time, 'cause if they're who I think they are, they're not even using their real names. They've been in a Witness Protection program since 2010. Sherlock, six years ago their name wasn't Trent. It was Hope. Karen Hope went into the WPP because she was the forewoman on the jury at Moriarty's trial, and he secured that bollocks acquittal by threatening to kill her kids. I couldn't tell you the kids' names, but they're not Caitlin and Edward, anyway."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"'Cause I had no idea who the hell they were just from their assumed names, Sherlock, that's the point of Witness Protection. Not even the regular police are meant to know who they are. The only reason I put those two things together are 'cause they're also the family of Jeff Hope. The Suicide Pill Murderer."
Sherlock's breath caught for a second.
"Matthew's got the whole case mapped out in this book, Sherlock," Greg went on. "In a hell of a lot of detail - more than you'd get from reading the papers. Stuff the press didn't even know. And he didn't find it out from me."
"Wait," Sherlock said. "If Hope's family went into Witness Protection, what are they doing in London?"
"No idea, and I haven't got the info on hand to be able to tell you. I'm thinking they might have moved back after Moriarty was declared legally dead in 2013. It's going to take me ages to get any information from that division, especially since I'm supposed to be dead…"
Sherlock was silent for so long that Lestrade wondered if he'd put the phone down and walked away. "Sherlock," he barked. "Wake up."
"I'm thinking," Sherlock finally said, though he sounded vague. After a few more seconds he asked, "Have you read the end yet? The denouement of the crime?"
"No."
"Flip forward and answer me this: Who killed the cabbie?"
Anchoring the stapled pages with the back of his wrist, Greg flicked forward to the final pages, skimming it through. When he reached the relevant passage, he suddenly felt like he'd taken a punch to the chest. "James Harden," he heard himself say. "Obviously a stand-in for John. Shot him through a window… Sherlock, Matty didn't know…"
"You kept telling us that you never discussed your cases with Matthew, and you were telling the truth." Sherlock said. "He didn't get those details from you. He extrapolated them from John's blog… oh, God."
Sherlock hung up.
John answered his phone almost the second it began to ring, clearly indicating it had already been in his hand at the time. "Sherlock," he said, sounding agitated. "I was literally calling you just now-"
"Where are you?"
"Ten minutes from home - just picking up some milk." After another second, Sherlock registered, much later than usual, two other voices in the background of the call - a male service station cashier from North London and a female customer of Eastern European extraction, judging by their accents. "Sherlock," John was saying, "I got a text from an unknown number just a second ago. Either the media have leaked the Shakespeare thing, or Edward Trent's texting me now. Just says 'Your castle is surprised.'"
Sherlock shut his eyes and let out a breath.
"It's from him, isn't it." It was not a question. "What's it mean?"
"Listen to me carefully," Sherlock said, trying for clarity over emotion. "Lestrade just called me. The Trent children are the children of Jeff Hope, the Suicide Pill Murderer."
"… A Study in Pink?"
"Yes, and that's exactly where they got the information that you killed their father. Your bloody blog. Go home, now. Quickly. The police are on their way there. The quote Edward Trent sent you is from Macbeth. While he's out hunting him down, Macbeth has Macduff's wife and children murdered."