Chapter 8: One Plus One Makes Twenty-Two
"About earlier that morning…"
"Just forget it Sherlock. It was just a nightmare and you're over it," John replied while placing two cups with Espresso on the table.
"The past is hunting me constantly, John but I don't know why. There must be something I'm missing."
"Like Redbeard?"
"That's what I'm thinking," Sherlock admitted.
Both men were sitting at the table, enjoying the strong coffee.
"Maybe you shouldn't investigate. Leave it be," the blogger said.
"No. I have to solve this one. I need to know about the hand you discovered on the beach. And there is a young girl missing."
"She's seventeen years old. Maybe she did run away with her boyfriend."
"How did you know she was seventeen?" Sherlock was now looking up from his cup.
John sighed, "This handkerchief you found in the box."
"Yes?"
"It's not an ordinary one. This one is handed to you from your parents on your seventeenth birthday."
"How do you know?" Sherlock was impressed.
"Because it's kind of a tradition. My sister Harry got one when she was seventeen from our Mum. It's supposed to keep you save from bad guys or tragedy or whatever could happen in your life."
For a moment, the detective didn't say a word. It was not often, that his best friend knew something he was missing. "Very impressive John. Very, very impressive."
"Glad to help," the blogger replied with a proud smile on his face.
"So, we have a seventeen-year-old girl, who disappeared with the boyfriend, we have my grandmother, who never came back and we have at least twenty more people, who are missing."
John spilled the Espresso over the table. "Sorry, what?!"
"When I broke into the library, I looked through all the newspapers since 1985 and I discovered two things: From 1990 to this day, twenty people were declared as missing. Strange thing is that, while the young girl and my grandmother lived here, the other eighteen persons are from other countries but were last reported to be here in Salento."
"Do you have any idea, where they came from? Was there something in the newspapers?"
"No. Most of the articles started like 'Have you seen this person?' and sometimes there was a name attached but that's all."
John rubbed his face. "Maybe the police have more information?"
"I doubt that. I searched the computer, trying to find any connection to the newspapers but no chance. The only persons originally missing are my grandmother and now the girl."
"We're missing something," the doctor replied, his eyebrow rising a little.
"Tell me something I don't know," Sherlock hissed and stood up from the table.
"What are you doing," John asked irritated.
The detective turned round, a towel in his hand. "Cleaning the table from the coffee you spilled."
It was around 1 PM, when Sherlock's mobile started to ring and when he looked on the screen, a triumphant smile appeared on his face. "Molly. Took you long enough to call me. How's the weather in London?"
"It's raining Sherlock, as always. That's not why I called you."
"I'm sure you will tell me now," the detective said with a little grin.
"You remember the hand, you gave me?"
"Of course. Still waiting for news."
"Well, seems I have something for you. The hand belongs to a woman. Age, from what the DNA can tell us, must be twenty-five. DNA also says, she has to be from Hungary."
"Hungary?"
"Yes, Hungary. No Italian roots Sherlock, sorry."
"Is there a name to the woman?"
"I'm sorry. We checked all the databases but unfortunately, we didn't find a match."
"Dammit. So, we're still don't have anything useful to work with. Thanks Molly."
The detective ended the call and stared at John, who was waiting for the latest news.
"Don't look at me this way, John. We're still not making progress. Your hand came up with no identity. All I can tell you is that the woman was twenty-five and from Hungary."
"That's not much to work with," the blogger whispered disappointed.
Sherlock grabbed the car key and stepped outside the house. John, as always flashed by the sudden movement, made sure the house was locked and also jumped into the Mini-Cooper.
"Where are we going?" he wanted to know.
"Via Ribera 31. We've got only one chance left and if we find nothing in this house, we don't have much more to work with."
Again, they were driving over nearly an hour to Gallipoli, where the daughter was last seen.
The man hadn't lied. The shrine was exactly opposite the pink house and when both men were walking down the small street, John was impressed.
The house of the man Sherlock had met the other night, was now in front of them. It was a very old house but charming. The detective positioned himself in front of the door and knocked. A few seconds later the door opened and the man from the cell greeted him with a big smile.
"Hello Mr. Private Detective. What a surprise to see you here."
Sherlock offered his hand, "Sherlock, please. I'm here for your daughter."
"You really believe me?"
"Yes, I do."
"Please come in. Do you want a coffee?"
"Thank you very much, but we have work to do," Sherlock replied friendly and stepped in.
"I'm Guiseppe Bertone by the way. I'm sorry we couldn't introduce ourselves earlier."
"Well, you already know my name, so I would like to introduce you to my partner John Watson."
The blogger nodded at Mr. Bertone and started to look around. "Not much to see here," he stated.
"Here in Salento, we don't have much. Most of the time we are working and if the holiday season is over, we are just glad to spend some time with our families," Bertone explained.
"Do you mind showing us her room?" Sherlock needed answers. He didn't have the time for talking.
Guiseppe nodded and guided them to Laura's room. When he opened the door, he started to sob.
While John tried to support the man, Sherlock was already in action, checking every corner of the room, looking under the bed, searching books, trying to find anything that could give a hint where the girl had gone. Now the blogger was getting curious and he started to look for clues on his own. While he was walking around, he tripped over the carpet and fell. While rubbing his knee, the doctor looked up at the ceiling and whispered, "She must have been angry, from the hole in the wall I would say very angry at least."
Now Sherlock also looked up at the spot, his best friend was looking at. "I think you should check your eyes, John. There is nothing to see."
"Maybe you should lay down next to me and I show you," the doctor barked.
Surprised by the harsh tone of his blogger, the detective decided it was worth the try and positioned himself next to the doctor.
"I still can't see anything."
The blogger shook his head, grabbed his best friend and pulled him close to his chest. "Now look again!"
Sherlock, still in the grip of John's strong hands looked up and his eyes grew wide. "That's interesting."
Both men stood up from the ground and the tall detective was still staring at the spot his blogger accidentally had discovered. "Do you have a ladder in your house?"
"Yes. It's in the storage room next to her room. Do you want me to get it," Mr. Bertone asked.
"Of course. I think your daughter wasn't always honest to you," Sherlock said while making sure he wouldn't miss the spot.
When Guiseppe Bertone left the room, the detective whispered, "She was hiding something from her father. Sounds like she really wanted to break free."
"Here's the ladder. I hope it's enough to reach the ceiling."
John and Sherlock positioned the ladder and Sherlock stepped up, curious about what he was to find up there. The old houses of Salento are built totally different from modern homes. You have a round dome in almost every room and a height about four to five meters. When the detective reached the white ceiling, he was amazed by the work of the teenager. "Believe it or not, but she covered the hole perfectly. It was a coincidence that you fell right at this spot and saw the reflection of the fresh painted colour," he screamed from above.
"Stop talking and concentrate on your mission. I don't want to catch your fall," the doctor replied.
"Last time it was me who caught your fall. So, stop complaining."
The detective was now pulling a little pocket knife and started to scratch the white colour away. The cement started to loosen, as soon as the colour was removed and now a little hole appeared right in front of him. Sherlock grabbed inside, trying to feel what Laura was hiding in there. He could feel something wooden in there and when he moved the object a little, it slid out of the hole. "Jackpot," Sherlock smiled and carefully stepped down the ladder.
"What is this?" John looked at the little wooden box in the detective's hands.
"It looks like the box of pandora," Sherlock said while inspecting it.
"A pandora box? Where did she get this from?" Bertone asked irritated.
"Seems like your daughter had at least one secret you didn't know of," the detective replied.
"I don't understand. Why would she have secrets? We talked about everything," Bertone whispered.
"Do you know how to open this one?" The detective asked while trying to find the beginning of the puzzle.
"Of course not! How should I? I didn't buy it."
Sherlock seemed fascinated by the little object and continued trying to solve it.
"You are disappointing me," John suddenly let out.
The detective gave him a questioning look.
"I thought you were a genius. How is it possible that you can't solve this puzzle in less than a minute?"
Sherlock thought for a moment, still looking at his best friend. "You're right. I should have solved it in less than a minute but this one…" he started to flip the box. "…It's different, John. This one wasn't made a thousand times. It was made only once."
"Jesus. A handmade one?"
The detective nodded. "Do you mind if I keep it and take a closer look?" he asked while still flipping the pandora box in his hand.
Mr. Bertone was eager to help, so he instantly nodded. "Of course, you can keep it. Just help me find my daughter. I know she didn't run away. Something must have happened to her."
Sherlock thanked the man and decided it was time to get home. This pandora box would not open in just one hour. He was sure he would at least have to work through the night to find out what was hidden inside.
When they returned one hour later, the detective hurried into their house like he was stung by a bee. He didn't wait for the doctor but directly ran into his sleeping room and closed the door. It was not a surprising behaviour from the detective, but John kind of felt useless now. He decided to spend the day cleaning the house and going to the sea later.
They spent the whole day separated from each other. John, playing the housekeeper and Sherlock trying to solve the puzzle. The pandora box was more than just complicated. The detective started to lose his trust in his own skills. He tried everything. Pushing, pulling, calculating... but nothing worked so far. It was now two in the morning and he still hadn't found the first step in maybe thousands more. He sighed. His clock told him that he had been trying to solve the puzzle for ten and a half hours now. Dark circles were forming around his eyes and he stared in the mirror, which was hanging opposite his bed.
"You're getting old Sherlock," a very well-known voice whispered.
"You? Again? What do you want?"
"Don't know yet. Maybe some fun?"
Sherlock, still sitting on his bed, stared at the man who was standing in the dark corner. "Why are you still there? You are dead. Why are you still bothering me?"
"Can't you answer this question by now?" The person came closer and suddenly, Moriarty was at his side, whispering into his ear, "You miss me. You're bored and it's eating you from the inside."
"I am not bored! I have enough work to do." He showed Moriarty the box of pandora and hissed, "See? This is what keeps me awake all those hours. I have to solve this to find a trace."
"Let me see this one," Moriarty replied and took the wooden box. While looking at it, he started to laugh. "This one is far too easy. You're thinking is too complicated Sherlock." His former villain started to rotate parts of the box and suddenly, the first mechanism made a sound. Inside the box, the melody of "Hushabye Mountain" started to play. Moriarty's face switched to surprised. "O look! There's a melody coming from inside. I'm sure it's telling you something, isn't it Sherlock?"
"Just shut up! You're not really here. It's just my tired mind playing tricks on me," the detective replied and pulled the box out of his archenemy's hands.
"Whoa, easy my friend. Easy. You don't want to destroy this little treasure, do you?"
"Leave me alone! I'm not bored and I don't need help from a person who only exists in my mind!"
Moriarty smiled at him, "As you wish Sherlock. As you wish." And he disappeared.
When John Watson awoke in the early morning hours and stepped out of his sleeping room, he heard the melody of "Hushabye Mountain" filling his friend's room.
A smile appeared on the doctor's face and when he softly knocked at the door, the detective didn't respond. There were only two possibilities for his friend being unresponsive. First one: he was unconscious by whatever he came in contact with or the second one: he was tired to the core and sleeping fifteen hours through. Carefully the blogger opened the door and looked inside. There, on the bed was his best friend sleeping peacefully. Next to him was the box of pandora, which was still playing the melody over and over again.
The doctor stepped closer and grabbed the wooden box from the cupboard. "Amazing," he whispered and decided to take the box with him, so it wouldn't wake up his friend.
When he had closed the door to Sherlock's room, he sat down on the sofa, listening to the melody. It was starting to annoy him, so he decided to try to find the next step to turn off the music. The box was decorated with a lot of ornaments like devils, angels and monsters. "Beautiful work," the doctor whispered, while rotating it in his hands. The music was still filling his ears and he needed to stop it. He hated loops and this one wasn't about to stop until someone could find the next step.
John, like Sherlock, tried to pull, press and rotate the box, but to no avail. The music played on. "For God's sake there has to be a mute button somewhere," he mumbled while twisting and turning the little wooden piece in his hands. "A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain, that's how the story begins. Maybe all I have to do is to blow somewhere," the doctor thought and started to hit different spots with his breath. Nothing happened and John's anger was beginning to slightly rise.
One more time he looked at the ornaments on the box and suddenly a detail caught his eye. There was a little ship and a cloud right over it. In the cloud was a little hole, which was nearly invisible. John, now excited about his discovery, decided to examine it further. He stood up and walked into his room trying to find a needle in his medical bag which would fit the size of the hole. A smile appeared on his face when he found one and when he returned and pressed the needle into the little hole, the music abruptly stopped and John waited for the next surprise.
When Sherlock returned to the living, it was almost 12PM. "Why did I sleep that long? Was Í that exhausted," he wondered while stepping out of the room. There, at the table, sat John Watson. In front of him was the pandora box and his expression told Sherlock everything he needed to know.
"So, at least the music stopped. Thank God. How did you solve it?" the detective stepped closer and his best friend only sighed.
"I used a needle to stick in a hole," the doctor replied dryly.
"I tried for over six hours to find something new. Good work John. You're getting better from day to day." The detective stepped into the kitchen and made himself a cold Espresso before joining John at the table.
"So, judging by the look on your face, I guess you didn't get any further?"
John's eyes showed every sign of rising anger. "At least I stopped the goddamn music!"
Sherlock, unimpressed by his blogger's outburst, grabbed the pandora box and looked at it.
"Did something change after the music stopped?"
"No. I heard a clicking sound and that's all."
Sherlock's head shot up, "You heard a clicking sound?"
"Yes, I did. Why? Is it that important?"
"Every time I think you are improving, John, you disappoint me," the detective replied while playing with the pandora box.
Suddenly, the melody of the "Phantom of the Opera" started to play and both men looked at each other.
"The Phantom of the Opera? Really?" John was irritated.
Sherlock didn't seem surprised at all.
"Well, you're not surprised, are you?" John wanted to know.
"I think our little runaway was dating someone else," the detective let out.
"How…How can you be so sure of that?"
A smile appeared on Sherlock's face and he started to explain, "The Phantom of the Opera is a story where a mysterious man kills people during an opera, unseen. The phantom falls in love with Christine Daaé, a very talented singer and ballet-dancer. Unfortunately, Christine was in love with Raoul Vicomte De Chagny. Christine had to decide which man she loved more and, in the end, she ran away with Raoul. Tragic story."
"So, you think this pandora box is telling us a story about a girl who loves two men?"
"I do." The detective flipped the pandora box in his hand.
"And how do we find that mysterious man?"
Sherlock looked at John and a smile appeared on his face. He showed John the pandora box and pressed on a little heart, which was set-in in the wood. The music again stopped and a lot of clicking sounds followed.
"Sherlock? What's happening?" John was fearing a bomb could explode any minute.
"The box is unfolding, John. Just wait for the big surprise."
The mechanism inside continued this work and suddenly it opened.
"Interesting," Sherlock whispered, while staring into the box.
John, now also excited, looked into the box and grew irritated. "A postcard? All this trouble for a simple postcard?"
"Look closer John. You're missing the clue."
"Just tell me what I'm missing." The doctor hated those moments.
"This picture. Is it a postcard you would send to a loved person?" Sherlock wanted to know.
"Of course not. I would never send a postcard with a Jolly Joker on it," the blogger immediately answered.
"That's the point John. This card is an invitation."
"What?"
"I have the feeling we are searching for an artist," Sherlock said, his voice trembling now.
"An artist? Like who? A clown?"
"Something like that, John. Something like that…"
"Sherlock? What the hell is wrong with you?" John was getting alarmed.
"This picture. I am sure I have seen it before."
"Where," John asked excited.
"A long time ago…"