CHAPTER 11: KNOW YOUR ENEMY AND KNOW THYSELF
Sherlock pushes open the door of a sumptuous sitting room; an elegant woman with a grief-stricken face is sitting daintily on an armchair.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Chadley. I am Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you," he introduces himself.
"Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Are you a police officer?" She smiles weakly at him, shaking his hand.
"Thankfully no, but I'd like to ask you some questions, anyway, if you don't mind." He simpers at her while John rolls up his eyes. Holmes shouldn't be let anywhere near grieving people; tactlessness is his speciality.
"You're my guest, now. Please, take a seat and make yourself comfortable." She does the honours, waving a hand towards a couch and an armchair. While his friends take a seat, Sherlock paces the room.
"I prefer to stand, thanks. It helps me think. So, Mrs Chadley, first of all—"
"First of all, we're very sorry for your loss," Giulia intervenes, cutting Sherlock off.
Mrs Chadley attempts a polite smile. "Thank you. Please, call me Lilian."
Holmes clears his throat uneasily. "Well Lilian, how would you describe your husband?"
Her eyes stare into the void as she replies, "He was a good man: devoted to his work and affectionate with me."
"You've been married for fifteen years," he states, strolling around and stealing a glance at some photos on the wall. The portrait of Lilian Chadley in her wedding dress and her husband smile brightly in one of the pictures. A formal invitation has been framed and hung next to the newlyweds' image. The refined cursive writing says:
~ We are pleased to invite you to the wedding of
Ms Lilian Ann Kane
and
Mr Michael Damian Chadley ~
"Yes. I met him when I was forty. I was divorced, disenchanted, and cynical. Encountering him saved me," she remembers with a faint smile and passes a trembling hand through her ginger hair.
Sherlock spins around and looks directly into her eyes, disregarding the tale of their love story.
"Did he have any enemies?"
She arches a brow. "None. At least, not that I am aware of."
He bites down his lower lip, preventing himself from smirking, then asks curtly, "Did you trust him?"
She shoots him an outraged look. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry, I am sure he meant no disrespect," John chimes in and scowls at his friend.
Holmes fakes a smile. "In fact, I just wanted to know if there was complete confidence between the two of you. I thought I caught a distrustful tone in your answer. Has he ever lied to you?"
Lilian looks taken off guard, swallows hard, and stares back at him with watery eyes.
"Well, Mr Holmes, I think we'll never know, now."
She looks away, and the room falls silent. Then she breaks the stillness with a faint voice.
"However, I know my husband for the lovable, caring man he was. He was always kind and cheerful; he used to take care of his clients and his employees. I have never heard a single word of criticism against him. So, no, Michael didn't have any enemies. And before you ask, I have no idea nor suspicion about who might have killed him."
At that moment, the doorbell echoes inside the house. A minute later, the maid steps into the sitting room and addresses Mrs Chadley. "Delivery for you, ma'am."
A postal worker shows up in the doorway handing a box to her. She stands up and carefully opens it.
"His ties," she whispers, raising a hand to her mouth in shock and sorrow. "He ordered them one week ago. Surely, he didn't think he would wear one of these in his casket." She sighs heavily to hold back the tears.
Sherlock watches her take the pen between her freshly polished nails and sign the receipt. Lilian dismisses the postman and turns to the detective, a sad look on her face.
"If you don't have any further questions for me—"
"I don't," he cuts her short and puts up a fake smile. "Thank you for your time, Mrs Chadley. Condolences. Goodbye."
He storms out of the room without a word. While walking past the fireplace, he instinctively glances at it. Only earlier, he had confidently bantered with Giulia in front of it while heading to the crime scene. Now, instead, he is rushing outside, disoriented and clouded by uncertainty.
He steps out in the cold air and strides along the pavement as his flatmates try to catch up with him. They can almost see the gears turning in his mind. He is restless, vexed; a thousand questions fidget inside his skull, but for once, the answers don't seem too obvious.
"What's your verdict, then?" John asks with curiosity.
Holmes says absent-mindedly, "What are you talking about?"
"The case, Sherlock. First things first: are you going to take it?"
He exhibits his characteristic arrogant frown. "Of course I am."
"And... solve it?" Watson ventures.
"All in good time," is his cryptic reply.
"You've never needed good time to solve a crime."
"This murder is different. There's something wrong. Too little information, too many missing pieces."
"Wanna have a solitary journey to your mind palace?" John suggests tactfully, concerned about his friend's unusual confusion.
Holmes sighs heavily; a distinctive note of defeat resounds in his tone when he says, "It's completely useless, at the moment. I just have to meet with someone who might know things I don't."
John looks bewildered at him, then he suddenly catches the meaning of his implication and smirks.
"A baffled Sherlock Holmes is turning to his big brother for help. God, I thought I wouldn't live to see this day."
"Shut up," Sherlock grumbles, raising a hand to hail a cab that quickly pulls over. He opens the passenger door and nods at his friends. "Are you two coming?"
"Another trip to Buckingham Palace? No thanks, I'll pass. Give my regards to Mycroft." John bows his head courteously (and only a tiny bit sarcastically).
"Fine. What about you?" Sherlock gazes at Giulia, and she smiles.
"I've always wanted to see where Mr British government himself works."
She hops on and the detective takes a seat beside her. She turns her head towards him and timidly asks, "Sherlock, are we really going to Buckingham Palace?"
He looks out the window with a sly grimace. "Of course not. He is in Parliament, today."
The cab ride is getting tedious, so Giulia decides to get more information out of him to keep up with that mysterious case.
"What do you think about the marriage of Mr and Mrs Chadley?"
Sherlock doesn't avert his gaze from the window. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you were insisting on indiscreet questions, even if Lilian had no intention of talking about the relationship of trust with her husband."
He grins at her observational skills and stares back at her.
"The relationship of distrust would be more accurate."
"So, the two of them weren't a right match, contrary to what Lestrade said."
"We could have stated that from the start since perfect couples simply do not exist."
"How cynical of you." She glowers at him.
"I'm not cynical. I'm a realist," he declares, and a grave silence fills up the car once.
Some minutes later, Giulia questions him again, "Have you ever thought about marriage?"
He wonders how long she has been cooking up that question and he gives her a bored look.
"You mean the word? Eight letters, three different vowels and consonants: not so interesting."
"No, I am talking about the act: wedding vows and ceremony, that sort of stuff. Have you ever pictured yourself in such a scenario?"
"Me getting married?" He asks perplexed, as if the subject was beyond his understanding.
"What would be wrong with it?"
He shifts his position in the seat to face her.
"Let's be totally honest: do you truly believe in marriage?"
"I do."
"But it's completely irrational," he protests, burying his head in his hands as if she had just affirmed to believe that two plus two equals five.
"I know some marriages fail—" she begins patiently but is abruptly cut off by Sherlock.
"Half of them, actually. If you could spare one minute to think about it, you'd realise that it is an irrational choice: marriage is just an inconvenient lifelong contract."
"There's much more than this," she says fervently.
"Yes: for worse, for poorer, in sickness, until death do us part. What a bright future," Sherlock mocks her.
She shakes her head in despair and raises her hands in surrender.
"I should have never brought up this subject with you. After all, why would you allow love to open your heart?" she asks sarcastically.
"Heart surgery is 48% more likely to succeed than marriage. I bet that would widely open my heart."
At that moment, the cab pulls over, and they silently hop off, ready to meet one of the most powerful men in Britain.
"You have no right to show up here, right when I am in the middle of a sensitive conversation with the Prime Minister," Mycroft bursts out, marching inside his office. He is wearing a dark suit and a red tie that he loosens a bit, letting his anger blow off.
"I can entertain him on your behalf if you'd like," his little brother retorts with a mischievous grin.
"Good Heavens, you'd be able to declare a war in a matter of minutes."
"I totally agree. Hello." Giulia peeps out behind Sherlock's back and waves at him.
Mycroft widens his eyes at her, bewildered. "What is she doing here?"
"I too am pleased to meet you again, Mr Holmes." The irony is her strong suit.
"Come on, Mycroft, behave. She's my guest," Sherlock reproaches him.
"In my office?" Mycroft sighs and strives to regain some self-control and says, "To say that my time is priceless is an understatement. Tell me what you need and cut to the chase."
"What do you know about Michael Chadley?" Sherlock asks curtly.
"If I recall correctly, he is a very wealthy man who owns a company of his own creation," Mycroft replies promptly, scratching his chin.
"Your memory doesn't fail you. But he was a very wealthy man. He died today," his brother corrects him.
"Should I express my sincere condolences?" Mycroft simpers annoyed. Nothing could be less sincere than that.
"He was murdered," Giulia clarifies. How can the Holmes brothers be so insensitive to death?
"Oh, I see." He fakes a smile and taunts his sibling, "It's one of your enthralling cases. Can't you figure it out all by yourself, brother dear?"
"Brother dear, please. It's important." Sherlock stares right into his eyes.
"I'll browse through all the classified files I can find and see if I can dig up something worthwhile about him. I cannot do more than that," he concedes, massaging his perennially-frowned forehead.
Sherlock nods at him, reluctant to show gratitude. "It will be enough. Thank you."
"Now you owe me one, Sherlock," his older brother warns him.
"Mr Holmes?" Giulia interrupts their conversation. She has been strolling across the room and now stands in front of a marble bust, her head tilted to the side, a rapt look in her eyes.
"You can call him Mycroft," Sherlock intervenes. The eldest Holmes glares at him. He'd rather keep his distance and authority.
"Well then, Mycroft, would you say you know yourself?" She asks him with sincere curiosity.
Mycroft looks as if she had just insulted him. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry, I was following a train of thought. This is Socrates, isn't it?" She nods at the marmoreal head on a base stone that bears a plaque with obscure writing engraved on it in a foreign alphabet.
An impressed look glimmers in his eyes as he confirms, "Precisely."
"A great philosopher: he used to attribute a particular value to knowledge," she says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, heading for the door.
"Whatever. Can we end here our philosophy class and get back to work? This is just boring."
"Not at all, brother mine." Mycroft raises a hand, signalling him to wait. "It is fascinating, instead," he says, gazing intently at Giulia. His eyes scan her from head to toe as he reaches his conclusion about her: remarkable.
She stares back at him as a quick smile crosses her lips.
"Socrates used to give his disciples valuable pieces of advice. So, tell me, did you follow one of his lessons, Know thyself?"
"I strongly believe that no man will ever have a perfect knowledge of himself. But as for me, I get great pleasure from knowing everything about everyone else." A sparkle of conceit flashes in his gaze.
"And here he is, in all his modesty," his brother teases him.
"Don't mock me, Sherlock. After all, you came to me for help," Mycroft reprimands him scornfully.
"And I regretted it almost immediately." Sherlock glimpses at the door. He just wants to leave at once.
His brother steals a glance at his pocket watch.
"Unfortunately, I have to go now. I can't keep the Prime Minister waiting." He comes near Giulia and gallantly kisses her hand. "Miss Giulia, you are a very cultivated woman. It is an admirable quality. It was a pleasure to see you again."
"Thank you. It was good to see you, too," she replies politely.
"It's a pity I cannot say the same," the youngest Holmes groans.
"Have a good day, Sherlock. I'll keep you informed." Mycroft gives him a condescending look and disappears beyond the door.