CHAPTER 12: THE (UN)USUAL SUSPECTS
Two days later, Sherlock is lying on the couch, his feet stretched over the armrest. He has spent most of the time in this position, his eyes closed, his hands steepled under his chin; perfectly immobile.
Giulia and John have begun to see him as part of the furniture of the flat; he has become one with the upholstery on the couch. On more than one occasion, Giulia raised her hand over his nose just to make sure that he was still breathing. One time, he opened his eyes right at that moment and flinched at the sight of a hand hovering above his face, instinctively thinking that she was going to slap him. Giulia has stopped checking on his vital functions since.
Today, he is lying on the sofa once again. The living room is quiet while Giulia reads a book and John flips through the pages of the newspaper.
"The funeral!" Sherlock cries out without warning, shooting his eyes open and making everyone jump in their seats.
"What?" John looks at him, stunned.
"The burial service of Michael Chadley will take place today at the cemetery," he specifies, sitting upright.
"Interesting. I wonder why it isn't on the front page," Watson sarcastically mumbles, folding the paper and placing it on the small table.
"It could be a goldmine. Not to be missed," Sherlock says allusively, ignoring that snarky comment.
John gives him a bored look and stifles a yawn. "Are you going to the funeral, then?"
"No. You are." The detective simpers, pointing at the two people in the room.
"Thank you very much for your kind offer, but I decline," Giulia answers, passive-aggressively closing her book with a thump.
Sherlock flashes his puppy eyes. "Please, it's for the case."
She stares back, unmoved. "If it's so important, why don't you go?"
"It's barely a 7. I am not really in the mood to go out for anything less than an 8," he grumbles, rattling off the number system that he uses as a benchmark to evaluate the critical level of his cases.
"And what about the goldmine?" John quotes him.
Sherlock beams at them for a second. "I am sending my best miners."
Then he sinks again into the couch, wrapping his dark blue gown around his body and wrapping himself in permanent silence.
One hour and a half later, John and Giulia are on their way to the cemetery. As they walk side by side, John gives her a desolate look. "Sorry for dragging you to a case on your day off."
"No problem. I'm getting used to your peculiar habits and time schedule."
They walk in silence for some minutes then Giulia suddenly comments, "What astonishes me is that you two were able to survive together all this time."
"Our lifestyle can be dangerous sometimes, that's true," he admits.
She turns to look at him and smirks.
"I meant the fact that you never attempted at his life."
"Actually, I planned about three different scenarios to make it look like an accident," John chortles, making her laugh out loud. She becomes suddenly aware of their surroundings and puts a hand over her mouth, embarrassed; they are standing at the entrance of the cemetery—not exactly the most appropriate place for laughter.
Giulia takes a cursory glance at the headstones and lowers her voice.
"Every time I pass by a graveyard, I am reminded that even when life becomes an exhausting challenge, we are truly defeated only when we give up and there's nobody by our side to pick up the pieces." She swallows hard, looking into the distance while her thoughts fly away. "No matter how hard the path might be, life becomes almost unbearable when you cannot share your battle with anyone, and you have to stand up for yourself." She is reminded of the long solitary months before she arrived in London and bites down her lower lip, desperately trying to whisk away those gloomy thoughts. She stood strong; she had no choice. But she is so tired of having to keep everyone at a distance to protect them and herself.
Her flow of thoughts is interrupted by the touch of two hands placed on her shoulders. John gently stops her and searches for her eyes.
"Whatever happens, you are not alone, Giulia. You have us, me and Sherlock, by your side."
She stares at his kind face. There is so much they don't know. Is it fair to expect that they are going to stand with her unconditionally?
She nods slightly. "Promise?"
"Promise."
She gazes at him and forces a smile, but he can spot the crack in the mirror. Sherlock might be the observant detective, but he notices these signs. And behind her stormy eyes, he perceives a hidden, agonising story she hasn't told yet.
They walk across the cemetery in silence and get to the place of the burial service.
"I still don't get why Sherlock made us come here. I highly doubt that a killer would show up at their victim's funeral," John complains, looking around.
"Let's check everyone, so we can go back to the flat as soon as possible," she says, glancing over the small crowd around the celebrant and the dark coffin.
She examines everybody there; she analyses their expressions, their attitudes, every single detail, but nothing stands out. John follows her example with the same disheartening result. After a while, Giulia simply gives up and tries to pay attention to the function, but she feels instantly depressed and heavy-hearted by the words of kindness pronounced in memory of Michael Chadley. It looks like everybody loved him: no one had a reason to kill him.
A few minutes later, she eventually surrenders and whispers in John's ear, "I need to get some fresh air. I'm going for a quick stroll. I'll be back by the end of the service."
He gives her a concerned look and nods briefly, watching her walk away.
She strolls around the graves, looking down at her feet sinking in the grass. When she lifts her eyes, she notices a woman standing by the exit of the cemetery, next to a row of parked cabs. She occasionally blows her nose into a tissue and quickly puts it back in her purse. She is staring at the funeral and never takes her eyes off the casket.
Assuming that she is attending the service from afar since she looks very upset, Giulia approaches her and says kindly, "Hello. Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to tell you that if you want to pay your respects, this is the very last moment. They're burying the coffin right now."
"Oh, no, thank you. I am not attending the function. I just drove some relatives of the dead. I am a cabbie, you see," she says in a gravelly voice, gesturing at the taxis to her left.
Giulia frowns for a moment. She would swear that she saw her cry. Although, she can't be certain now since she is wearing dark sunglasses over her eyes.
"Sure. Sorry for the misunderstanding."
The woman clears her throat and shrugs. "No problem. I didn't even know him."
"Neither did I. I'm just here for a friend, out of courtesy. I hate funerals." Giulia immediately regrets her statement and snaps her mouth shut, giving her an apologetic look.
"Oh, I can relate. As if this weather wasn't depressing enough," the woman mutters jokingly, lifting her eyes to the sky laden with dark clouds.
At that moment, a beggar comes near them and stretches out his skinny hand, pleading, "Any spare change?"
The woman takes her wallet out of her bag and hands some coins to that poor devil. Giulia follows that exchange then glances at the small crowd and says, "I should go now. Have a good day."
She strides back to service, walks up to Watson, and whispers, "John, I think I found our gold."
He whips his head up, and a glimmer of curiosity sparkles in his eyes. "Who?"
"Don't turn around completely, but there's a woman next to the exit," she says under her breath, nodding at the row of parked cabs.
He looks over his shoulder and furrows his brow. "No, there isn't."
"Yes, of course. I've just talked to her," she insists and mentally sighs. Men, why can't they find anything by themselves?
John keeps looking in the same direction and shakes his head.
"I'm sorry to differ, but there is no one there."
She whirls around, facing the exact spot where she was standing a few instants before. The woman has vanished.
221B Baker Street
Half an hour later
"She was there. I swear I saw her. I even talked to her," Giulia exclaims, flinging open the door of the living room.
"I believe you. I'm just saying that I didn't see her," John replies, following her into the flat.
Sherlock looks up from one of his experiments and lifts a brow. "Who did he miss?"
"A very suspicious woman," she affirms.
A twinkle of excitement darts into his eyes, but he keeps his voice neutral when he asks, "Suspicious how?"
"She was standing at the furthest end of the cemetery and wouldn't come any closer to the service but was clearly following the funeral. When I spoke with her, though, she denied any connection to the deceased, claiming to be a cabbie who had just driven some participants to the graveyard."
"This looks perfectly plausible to me," John retorts.
"It does. If it weren't for some details."
Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued by that allusion. "For instance?"
"First, she was wearing sunglasses in this weather." She points out of the window at the leaden sky.
"A lot of people wear sunglasses at a funeral," John intervenes.
"Exactly. Because people consider the possibility of weeping and prefer to keep their composure. She was probably crying but didn't want anyone to see it. I watched from afar before approaching her: she was blowing her nose and hiding the tissue. And when she spoke, she sounded hoarse, as if she had a lump in her throat because of emotion."
"She could simply have a cold. It's November, and it's freezing. Giulia, those things don't prove anything," Watson protests, striving to stick to the facts.
"Even assuming that she was sobbing, I don't see why it should be suspicious. As far as I know, killers don't mourn their victims," Sherlock says sarcastically.
"I wasn't accusing her of murder. I just noticed that she was acting strangely," Giulia mumbles, irritated.
"It could be strange only if she was somehow connected to the dead and was indeed in an emotional peril over his death," Sherlock notes with a sceptical look.
"Except that she wasn't. She told Giulia that she didn't know him," John underlines.
Giulia's eyes light up. "Precisely. She said she didn't know him, but I hadn't specified who was lying inside the coffin, whether a man or a woman. I am sure I didn't mention it, and yet she knew. But she wasn't even facing the headstone with the name on it. How do you explain this, John?"
Watson rubs a hand over his tired face.
"She said she had driven some participants; maybe they were Mr Chadley's relatives. They could have talked about him and his funeral during the cab ride." He doesn't mean to belittle Giulia's intuitions, but he has the impression that she is just building castles in the air. She doesn't have any hard evidence that the mysterious woman is linked to the murder.
Giulia flashes him a cunning smile. "That's the point: that ride never happened. She lied."
Sherlock furrows a brow, suddenly paying attention. "How can you tell?"
"She lied about being a taxi driver. While I was standing next to her, a beggar came asking for some spare change, and she took her wallet. I glanced at it while she was taking some coins, and I saw an Oyster Card. What cabbie would own an Oyster Card for public transport?"
"Suspicious indeed. A crying woman attended a funeral in disguise, trying to go unnoticed, and when she was approached by a stranger, she lied and denied any connection," Holmes sums up, folding his hands under his chin and pacing the room.
"But if she wanted to conceal herself, why did she go to a public place during a public event, to begin with?" John asks, bewildered.
"She couldn't miss it, apparently. The question now is: why was the funeral so important and upsetting to her?" Sherlock looks like a teacher quizzing his students.
"No idea. Why?"
He rolls his eyes at his friend's slowness. "Because she was his lover, obviously."
"Wait, what? Michael Chadley's lover?" Giulia flickers her eyelashes, surprised. She hadn't considered that option.
"Yes, as showed by the detailed information you so observantly provided—thanks again for it; John would have never caught that." He lowers his voice at the end but keeps it still perfectly audible to the doctor, who looks daggers at him. "It's quite clear that the victim was having a secret affair with our 'funeral ghost'."
"So, she kept a low profile, standing at a considerable distance from the ceremony because of her inappropriate connection to Chadley, but attended anyway to pay her last respects to him?" Watson struggles to understand.
"Yes, John, can you believe it? Risking it all just for a heart-wrenching goodbye. How dull," Holmes spits out in horror.
Giulia frowns. "Risking what?"
"Questioning, suspicion, maybe murder charges. In case you forgot, we are dealing with a homicide. Whoever appears to be connected to the victim (especially with a secret and prohibited relationship like an affair) immediately becomes a suspect in the investigation," Sherlock explains and strides across the living room, fidgety.
"There's something wrong, though. I am missing something."
He walks to the window and looks down as a police car stops in front of the main door.
"I get the feeling we aren't the only ones who made headway today," he says while heavy footsteps echo along the staircase.
Holmes turns around to face the familiar police officer, who has just appeared in the doorway.
"Evening, Lestrade. Any good news on the case?"
Greg swallows hard and looks around the room. His eyes land on Giulia, and his expression hardens.
"I wouldn't say so."
He moves close to her, followed by three other officers. One second later, metallic clang jangles in the room as Lestrade handcuffs her.
"Giulia Ferrini, you are under arrest for the murder of Michael Chadley."