CHAPTER 11: SHERLOCK HOLMES BAFFLED?
A few weeks later
It is a chilly November day, and Sherlock comes back to Baker Street after wandering around the city for hours, lost in thought. When he walks through the door of his flat, his nostrils instantly catch an intense smell of smoke. He gazes at the flames on the other side of the living room and gapes.
"What happened to the fireplace?" He blurts out.
Giulia, who is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, looks over her shoulder and smiles brightly at him.
"You mean the fact that it is currently hosting a fire?" She points at the warm glow in front of her.
"No, no, no. Bad idea. It's completely wrong." He rushes to her.
"I'm quite sure this is its primary function."
"There's no time for jokes. Put it out, now," he shouts angrily.
She does a double-take at his furious reaction and protests, "No way. It took me half an hour to light it up like this. What's the problem?"
"My secret supply," he replies tartly.
"Your what?"
"My cigarettes. I always keep an emergency packet inside the fireplace." He hurries towards it, stretching out his arms. She quickly pushes him aside, away from the burning embers.
"Don't touch, you'll get burned," she warns as if she were dealing with a child.
"No problem. I'm already boiling with rage." He glares at her.
"Calm down, alright? I found your cigarette pack before starting the fire," she says serenely.
"Thank goodness. Where – is – it?" he spells out.
She grins and casts an eloquent glance at the fire next to her.
"I thought it'd be an excellent fuel and threw it into the flames."
Sherlock gives a helpless look at the fireplace and murmurs lividly, "Right now, I loathe you."
"You're very welcome," she replies as if he had just thanked her. "I can save your lungs anytime."
"Why did you do that? Why are you like this?"
"Worried about your health and life expectancy, you mean? Oh, I don't know: it might be a collateral effect of being human," she retorts with a wry smile, quite acquainted with his peculiar ideas about sentiment and feelings of any sort.
"You, you—" He struggles to contain his anger and bites down on his lip. "Please, leave me alone," he eventually hisses.
"Sure. I'll let you contemplate the reaching of your goal." She stands up and heads towards the door.
He doesn't even turn to her when he asks, "What goal?"
"Ten days without smoking. Be proud of yourself." She takes one last glance at him before leaving the room, moving out of the threshold to let John in, overloaded with grocery bags.
"What a pleasant warmth," he exclaims. "It's about time someone lit up that fireplace."
"Not you too." Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"I'm glad to finally receive the right reaction. Thanks." Giulia smiles at him before descending the first steps.
John frowns at her. "Why are you leaving?"
She nods in the direction of the detective. "He wants me out of his way."
Watson sighs. Knowing Sherlock, he must not have been too delicate in his request for personal space. He scowls at his silent flatmate, asking, "What happened?"
"She burned my cigarettes," Holmes groans, sinking into his armchair.
"Didn't she know that Mrs Hudson has a lot of wood?" John replies sarcastically.
"I'm not in the mood, John."
Watson sits down in his armchair across from him.
"Seriously, though, was it in retaliation for something you did to her? Did you read her diary again?"
"It's not the case, but even if Giulia and I were at war, why would you assume I started it?" Sherlock glowers at him.
John rests his back against the seat and smirks. "Because I know you. Both of you."
Two hours later, Sherlock goes downstairs and opens the door of 221C without even bothering to knock. A sense of déjà vu assails him: Giulia is sitting in the middle of her tiny living room, legs crossed, facing the flames crackling in the grate. She did it again.
"You are genuinely attracted to fire," he points out, walking closer. She doesn't turn around, not even when he stops right behind her.
"I like playing with it, always have. There was a fireplace at my house when I was a child in Rome. I used to spend hours in front of it, just staring at the flames. It was calming and hypnotic."
"Fire can be dangerous."
"And fascinating. Some of the most beautiful things on Earth are also the most dangerous. Ironic, isn't it? You can't even admire the beauty of this world without the risk of leaving it for good." She closes her eyes and lets the warmth of fire caress her cheeks.
They stay quiet for a while, listening to the pleasing crackle. Then Sherlock breaks the silence.
"What's your idea about murder?"
This time, she turns to him and raises a brow with a sarcastic grimace. "Look, you can be very irritating sometimes, but I'm not planning to kill you."
"I didn't say about committing a murder."
"I see. You mean, what are my thoughts about being a victim, then?" Her ever-present sarcasm colouring all her phrases.
"That's why I find it difficult to deal with people: no one ever understands me," he moans. "I'm actually here to extend an olive branch. Now, please, try to focus: would it upset you to walk into a crime scene?"
She pauses for a second. Even though she joined her flatmates in the secret agent's case, and she has already spent several weeks living in Baker Street now, she realises that she never considered the idea of tagging along to a crime scene.
"As far as I'm not directly involved, I don't think so." She shrugs with a smile.
"Excellent, because that's exactly where we're going," he says and sticks his head out of the door, calling out towards the staircase, "John, get ready. We're all leaving."
Watson appears on the landing. "Where to?"
"Lestrade texted me: a new case. Take your coat."
"No, Sherlock, wait. Do you really think this is a good idea?" Watson hints at Giulia's involvement and argues, "Remember what happened last time? Terrorists, shootings, explosions, lives at stake, to mention just a few aspects."
Giulia turns towards the detective. "He has a point."
Sherlock shakes his head.
"First, never agree with him: you only encourage him. Second, if I recall correctly, your presence proved quite useful." He forces himself to mutter that vague compliment before walking to the front door. He stops with his hand on the handle and abruptly spins around to face Giulia.
"John was right about one thing, though. I should warn you: it might be difficult and possibly dangerous."
She gives him a determined look. "Do I look scared?"
Their cab pulls over next to a lavish house in one of the richest neighbourhoods in the city. They hop off and walk straight into the luxurious entrance where Lestrade is waiting for Sherlock.
"What's this strange and inexplicable case, to quote you?" Holmes taunts the D.I. who rolls his eyes at his rude tone and smiles humourlessly.
"Hello to you, too, Sherlock. I'm fine, thank you for asking."
"Whatever. Can we skip the small talk and just get on with it, please?"
Lestrade walks down a hall, leading the group.
"These are the facts: sixty-year-old Michael Chadley was murdered in his study a few hours ago. The maid found him lying in a pool of blood. The crime scene has been well-preserved and forensics have still to sweep the place for fingerprints."
They reach an immense living room and pass by a marble fireplace. Sherlock steals an admiring glance at it as the corners of his lips lift in a crooked smile.
"Are you planning to light up this one, too?" he addresses Giulia, and she simpers at him.
"Maybe. If you keep being so icy."
He snorts, and Lestrade glowers at him like a teacher who just spotted a pupil laughing during his lesson, then goes on, "There's not much else to add: no enemies, no threats, no suspects. This case is very recent, though; my men are still gathering information."
"Which means you're groping around in the dark, getting nowhere." Sherlock haughtily reads between the lines.
"Yes, dear me." Greg rubs a hand over his tired face.
"No, inspector. I'd rather say, Lucky you, you have me." Holmes grins and enters a round study where a body is lying in an unnatural pose over a wooden desk.
Giulia stops on the threshold and raises her hand to her mouth in a grimace of horror, hesitating to step forward.
"Either come in or stay out: it's your choice," Sherlock instructs without even looking in her direction. She nods briefly and stares at him while he paces around the room.
"First time on a crime scene?" a deep voice says behind her, causing her to jump.
She turns around to face a smiling policeman. "Is it so obvious?"
"Don't worry. I know it might be upsetting, especially when you are not used to it." He beams at her with an understanding look.
"No, not really," she swallows, and he nods sympathetically.
"The maid has just made us some tea. Fancy a cuppa?" he passes her a tray, and she gratefully accepts a piping hot cup of tea.
In the meantime, Sherlock has examined every detail in the office, inspecting the corpse.
"What's your analysis so far?" Lestrade interrupts his stream of thoughts.
"I've barely been here for four minutes," he protests without looking away from the body.
"Yeah, but I know that you've already formed a hypothesis. Come out with it."
"Let's see: the victim was standing behind his desk when he was stabbed. No, sorry, not stabbed. It wasn't a dagger or a knife; the edges of the wound are jagged and rough. A blade doesn't cut like that. Where is it, by the way?"
"Where is what?"
"The murder weapon," Sherlock replies matter-of-factly.
"It isn't here." The inspector shakes his head, earning a theatrical eye-roll from Sherlock.
"Obviously, that's why I'm asking you. It must be a blunt, rusty object, big and heavy, given the depth of the wound. I see nothing like that around here."
"How do you know that?"
"Take a good look at the cut: there are traces of rust on the torn skin. But every item in this room looks brand new or in mint condition: nothing seems to match the lethal wound. So, I'll ask again: where did you put the weapon? Did you take it as evidence?"
"No. It was never here or near the body. We didn't find any murder weapon."
"Interesting," Sherlock mutters, striding around.
"You said that Michael Chadley was sitting there—" Lestrade begins, but he is immediately cut off by Sherlock.
"No, I didn't say that. Pay attention. He was standing there when he was pierced, then he collapsed onto his chair. The killer moved it after the hit. Look at the carpet: the wheels of the chair marked their path in blood." He points at the floor where two crimson lines run parallel across the thick rug.
Greg jots down the information on his notepad, afraid of losing even one bit of Holmes's rapid deductions. "Right. What else?"
"There's no sign of struggle, which is quite odd. He didn't defend himself. Why?" Sherlock asks, not addressing anybody in particular.
"Maybe he knew he couldn't run away from his killer and was simply ready to accept his fate," Lestrade suggests.
"What fate? You said it: no enemies, no death threats. He surely wasn't expecting it. Yet, he was struck in the back. That's curious: how is it possible?"
"An attack from behind?" John intervenes. He has been silent all along, trying to keep up with his friend's deductions.
Holmes squints his eyes at the corpse. "It would seem the only reasonable explanation."
John recognises his sceptic tone. "But?"
"But before his death, he had been busy at his desk writing and reading documents for hours. The ashtray is full of cigarettes: he spent the whole day in his study. Why would somebody hide behind him in this round room for quite some time, just waiting for him to stand so they could kill him? It makes no sense. Where did the killer conceal themselves anyway? There's no hiding place here." Sherlock turns on himself with his arms wide open.
"Then how?" Johns asks, waiting for the obvious answers that his friend always provides.
Sherlock frowns and remains silent. Then, he slowly stutters, "I don't—I don't know."
"What?" Watson glances at him goggle-eyed. Did he hear right?
"Yet," Sherlock clarifies, glaring at him. He quickly regains his composure and interrogates Lestrade. "Tell me more about the victim. What do the police know about Michael Chadley?"
Greg browses through his notes. "He's a very rich man."
"Thank you for your input, but that was fairly evident." Holmes shoots him a sarcastic grin while his eyes travel around the luxurious mansion.
"He owns a company—an empire, to be precise. He's a self-made businessman who built his own fortune from scratch."
"Remarkable. And he was sharing it with his wife, I presume," Sherlock's voice conceals a hint of suspicion.
"Correct. How—?"
Sherlock interrupts him mid-sentence and points at the left hand of the corpse.
"The wedding ring on his finger. This one was incredibly easy." He shakes his head at the slowness of Scotland Yard's finest.
"He got married fifteen years ago. A good marriage, apparently: the two of them were a right match, according to several attestations," Greg reads again on his notepad.
"I bet his money helped him look more charming in his lady's eyes," Holmes says tartly.
"Keep your voice down," the D.I. reprimands him. "Mrs Chadley is in the next room."
Sherlock's face lights up. "She's here? I need to talk to her."
He marches towards the door while Lestrade whispers peevishly after him, "Listen, she's just lost her husband. Now might not be the best time for your Sherlockness."
But he has already left the study, heading towards the adjacent room.
"I'll behave," he says in the same mischievous voice of a toddler falsely reassuring his father.
Giulia, who has been standing in the doorway the entire time, puts down her cup of tea, flashes a smile at the kind policeman who offered it and runs behind her flatmates.