CHAPTER 13: LOST IN TRANSLATION
When the police officers leave and drive Giulia away, the room falls into an odd, muffled silence. John and Sherlock are unable to move, speak or react. They have turned into pillars of salt about to collapse.
After several seconds of stillness and shock, John shakes his head and mutters, "What just happened?"
Sherlock keeps staring blankly into the void and murmurs, "Giulia got arrested."
John blinks, still trying to grasp the meaning of that scene. "Yeah, I saw that. But why?"
"Manslaughter. Possibly intentional," Holmes replies in a seemingly indifferent tone.
"That's crazy."
"These are the accusations they are going to charge her with. Those police officers had an arrest warrant, which means they have incriminating evidence against her. It is a very serious matter," Sherlock rebuts plainly; there is no trace of any emotion in his voice.
John takes a deep breath to clear his mind and asks hesitantly, "How do we work it out?"
The detective snaps his head up and frowns.
"Work what out, precisely? You want to fix the fact that our flatmate is a murderer?"
"You've got to be kidding me. You can't believe it," John protests, searching for his eyes.
Sherlock averts his gaze and replies bluntly, "I know it's difficult to accept, but we have to stick to the facts."
"I couldn't agree more. The facts, Sherlock, not some crazy fantasy," Watson hisses, clenching his fists.
"She has always acted suspiciously, and this is not a figment of my imagination. You, too, doubted Giulia and made me follow her throughout the city during her first week in Baker Street, remember?"
"Yes. We followed her and didn't find the slightest hint that she could be dangerous," John remarks.
"But she almost immediately noticed that we were tailing her so that stalking chase didn't prove anything in the end. She might have changed her plans that day. She told us she deliberately walked for miles on end to get revenge for our mistrust," Sherlock recalls. That was the first time she proved to possess uncommon and intriguing skills, he reflects. Not everyone has such acute situational awareness.
"I would've done the same, honestly. Also, we're talking about an event that happened over two months ago. We've been living with her for weeks; we share a flat, and we spend several hours with her every single day. Do you honestly think that we wouldn't notice if she were a killer? Don't you trust your deduction skills anymore?" John teases him, hoping for a reaction.
Sherlock glares at him. "I do. And my skills are telling me that her behaviour was always strange. She practically solved the twins' case before me. She deciphered the code hidden in the crossword puzzle and understood the intentions of the terrorists. You witnessed it all. She has peculiar capabilities and is very smart."
"So now, just because she has proved to be smart, you think you have every right to believe that she committed murder, right?"
"What's wrong with that? People do it all the time with me"
John nods and exhibits his disappointed, tight-lipped smile.
"You're right. People do it, and they usually assume you are the murderer. But I never did, not even when I found you with Jennifer Wilson's suitcase, during our first case, and I had known you for less than a day, back then. Since I trusted you at that time, now you'll do me the favour of considering the possibility that Giulia might have been framed."
Sherlock holds his gaze for some seconds, then sighs.
"I can give her the benefit of the doubt, but I want the truth, and I need evidence."
"Very well. Find it, then."
New Scotland Yard
In the meantime, Lestrade escorts Giulia into the police headquarters. When they enter the building, they bump into an officer in her thirties.
"Is she the killer?" The policewoman asks, scrutinising her from head to toe.
"Alleged killer," Giulia underscores, twitching her lips.
"This is Sergeant Sally Donovan," Lestrade introduces her briefly, then adds, "Donovan, could you search her and confiscate every item in her possession?"
"Don't bother. I have only my phone." She pulls it out of her pocket and hands it to Donovan, who takes it warily.
"You didn't give me time to collect much else when we left Baker Street," Giulia comments sarcastically, simpering at Lestrade.
"Did you say Baker Street? You live with Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan asks, stunned. "How appropriate. A psychopath has a killer for a flatmate; it sounds like a joke," she jests.
"Sherlock is not a psychopath. And I most definitely am not a killer," Giulia spits out angrily.
"Okay, that's enough," Greg intervenes, gesturing her toward the holding room.
"Just a moment." She stops in the middle of the hall. "Do I have the right to make a call?"
"Yes, you do. But make it quick." He passes a hand through his greying hair, pointing at a phone on the opposite wall.
"If I were you, I'd contact the best attorney in England," Donovan sneers.
Giulia flashes her a cunning smile. "I have something better in mind."
Baker Street
Sherlock's phone suddenly starts ringing. He frowns at the screen and picks up. He doesn't need to say anything; the caller talks quickly on the device without giving him time to reply.
John cannot catch a single word or the context of the conversation. He only hears Sherlock answer rather enthusiastically, "Of course. I'm on my way." Then he hangs up and runs to the other side of the living room to take his coat and scarf from the coat rack.
"Who was that?" Watson inquires, confused.
Holmes beams at him. "Scotland Yard. I'm heading there right now."
John's face radiates hope as he asks, "Why?"
The detective flips his collar up and shrugs as if he was talking about casual tea with friends.
"I'm going to question the prime suspect in the murder investigation."
MI6 Headquarters
Almost at the same time
Mycroft is absorbed in reading a top-secret file when his phone rings. He glances at the screen and cocks a brow at the caller: New Scotland Yard.
He picks up with a circumspect tone. "Hello?"
"Good evening, Mr Hol—I mean, Mycroft. It's Giulia, Sherlock's flatmate."
He immediately recognises her voice and notices that she lacks her usual light-heartedness; there's an anxious note in her voice.
At that precise moment, inside the police station, Giulia is whispering in the receiver of a phone hung on the wall while stealing furtive glances around: Sergeant Donovan has walked away, and Detective Inspector Lestrade is making a call some feet away from her. She constantly looks over her shoulder to make sure that he doesn't overhear her conversation.
"Yes, Giulia. Your call comes unexpectedly." Mycroft clears his throat to mask his surprise about the ID caller.
She looks down at the note in her hands that she always keeps in the pocket of her jeans.
As per your instructions, you are on your own now.
Whatever you may need, don't hesitate to contact me on this number.
M.
It's the same piece of paper she found on the floor next to the door of her hotel bedroom, on her second day in London. It's the note that Mycroft left her to mark the beginning of her new life; she has kept it on herself since then, imagining that one day it would come in handy. That day has come.
"When you settled me in England, you wrote I could contact you for any need. Is this a bad time?" She fakes an indifferent tone.
He smiles at her unfaltering politeness.
"Don't worry. I'm just dealing with foreign affairs, international crises, a coup: the usual stuff. But please, speak freely: I am eager to hear what this is about."
"I am not quite sure how to say this," she stutters, biting down on her lip.
"I don't have all day, dear," Mycroft urges her, thumbing through the report on his desk.
She takes a deep breath then lets out, "I've been arrested."
Standing in the corridor of New Scotland Yard, she cannot hear any sound coming from the other side of the line: Mycroft doesn't even breathe in the receiver. After several seconds, he gulps nervously and tries to regain his composure.
"That's impossible," he affirms in a stentorian voice.
"I assure you it's more than realistic," she mutters sarcastically, lowering her eyes to her cuffed wrists. The annoying twang of the handcuffs accompanies her every movement.
"On what charges?" His tone is resolute again.
"Manslaughter against Michael Chadley," she says in a bored voice.
He exhales, enraged. "Those bunglers at Scotland Yard couldn't find the killer and locked up a defenceless woman, didn't they?"
"I'm not a defenceless woman," she retorts, clenching her fist.
"Obviously, but that's what they think," he scoffs, deploring every human being with an I.Q. lower than his—which includes 99% of the world's population. "But it's quite clear that you are running low on resources, otherwise, you wouldn't be calling me," he patronises her.
Even though she cannot see him, she would swear that he was smirking boastfully right now.
"Yeah, well, I was counting on your brother to solve the murder, but I'm afraid he won't be able to handle this situation all by himself. Besides, you haven't helped him at all after he explicitly asked for your assistance," she reproaches him.
"I've been busy," he snaps back defensively.
"Fine. But this is me asking you now. I need your help. You are my last resort," she pleads.
"You must be very desperate." There isn't any conceit in his words this time. He sounds sincerely concerned about her.
She clutches the handset tightly. "I am. This is my S.O.S."
"Very well, Miss Giulia. I cannot guarantee you the salvation of your soul," he jokes with the meaning of the acronym she chose, "but I will ensure that your person stays out of prison. I will keep you up-to-date on my progress."
"How? I'm in custody right now." Her voice drops to a whisper as she catches sight of Lestrade coming towards her.
"I'll find a way."
She smiles gratefully and murmurs into the receiver. "Thank you, Mycroft."
"My pleasure."
New Scotland Yard
Twenty minutes later
"You shouldn't be here."
Sherlock has just walked through the glass doors of New Scotland Yard when Sally Donovan welcomes him with an annoyed expression on her face.
"I was summoned," he replies without even looking in her direction.
She frowns. "By whom?"
"Me," Lestrade interjects, strolling across the entrance hall.
She turns to him, appalled. "Really? The freak?"
Greg scowls at her. "Sergeant Donovan, this is a very delicate and complex case."
"We can handle it," she protests vehemently, making her curls wobble around her head.
"I know. But I want to be certain, so Sherlock will help question the suspect."
"He can't. He's not even a police officer." Sally's voice is boiling with anger.
"That's why you will be in the interrogation room with him." Greg gives her an exasperated look. He hates it when Donovan assumes he hasn't taken every detail into account. He is her boss, after all.
"She won't cooperate with me," Sherlock complains.
"He won't let me do my job," she protests, glaring at the unexpected guest.
"Okay, now listen to me, you two." Lestrade displays his inflexible fatherly tone and scratches one of his grizzled sideburns, trying not to lose his temper. He turns to the stubborn detective. "Sherlock, could you please remember that Sergeant Donovan is not your assistant? She's a police officer." Then he turns to point a finger at Sally. "As for you, Donovan, your job consists of arresting criminals. Now, if you want to be 100% sure that the woman in our holding room is actually guilty, you'll trust him and his methods. Are we clear?"
He glowers at both of them as if he was dealing with spoiled children.
"Yes, sir," Sally reluctantly replies as Sherlock nods imperceptibly and moves to the interrogation room.
Interrogation room
"Sherlock, thank goodness. Could you please explain to me what on earth is going on?" Giulia greets him springing to her feet. Her movement causes the cuffs around her wrists to jingle against the metal table, restraining her.
"First, I am leading the interrogation, so I will be the one asking questions, and you will provide proper answers. Understood?" He looks sternly at her.
She tilts her head, gaping at his brusque manner, then smiles ironically. "Are you serious?"
"You don't seem to get it. I'll try again," he begins with an icy glare.
"Okay, okay. Just get started," she cuts him short, sitting back down and showing her hands in surrender.
Sherlock nods at the policewoman who followed him into the room. "This is Sergeant Donovan—"
"I know. We've already met," Giulia interrupts him, casting a bored look at Sally.
"Marvellous." Holmes simpers at the two of them. "Let's skip to the interesting part, then. Giulia, you've been accused of the murder of Michael Chadley."
She arches a brow. She already got the memo. What is still missing, though, is a proper explanation.
"On what grounds?"
"Your fingerprints were found all over the crime scene and on the corpse," Donovan answers promptly.
"Sherlock, that's impossible," she immediately objects, shifting her attention to her flatmate. "When I went there with you, I didn't even enter the room. I was standing on the threshold. I never got close to the corpse, let alone touch it." She grimaces in disgust as the image of the hunched, lifeless body resurfaces in her mind.
"And now you've just made your situation even worse. By affirming that you didn't touch anything in that room when we got to the crime scene together, you're practically dating your fingerprints back to the time of the murder. Listen, I'm sure you've already been told that anything you say can and will be used against you. So, I kindly suggest you think it through before opening your mouth again." His tone is impassive.
"I didn't do it. I didn't kill him, I swear. I've been framed," she affirms, but her voice quivers at the end of the sentence. She looks at him with watery eyes; he does not flinch or change expression. He is showing his game face.
"You'll have to prove it."
"Miss Ferrini, where were you on the afternoon of November 21st?" Sally intervenes methodically.
Giulia sits back and rests her shoulders against the chair. "At the flat."
They both give her a questioning look, waiting for further details.
"You know the address," she grunts.
"This is an official interrogation," Sherlock replies, unperturbed.
"221B Baker Street."
"Were you alone?" Holmes presses her.
"Yes, I was, and you know it perfectly well. You were out, and John had gone grocery shopping while Mrs Hudson was visiting a friend," she lists, staring right at him.
"No witnesses who could corroborate your story, then?"
"Oh, come on. You were the one who found me by the fire when you came back home. You know I didn't commit the murder."
"I found you by the fire when I came back from a two-hour walk," he specifies. "As far as I know, you could have spent your time fiddling with the flames in the fireplace or stabbing people in the back. I'll ask again: are there any witnesses who could testify in your favour?"
She stares at him for a few seconds, then lowers her gaze, defeated. "No, there aren't."
"Things don't look good for you," Sergeant Donovan comments in a mocking tone.
Giulia lifts her head to look into Holmes's unreadable eyes. "Sherlock, why are we doing this?"
"It's the procedure," he answers tartly.
"No, it's not. You shouldn't be the one questioning me."
"Agreed," Sally interjects, irritated by their banter.
"Why are you here?" Giulia asks him again, ignoring the policewoman.
"Because I am the only one who can prove you guilty with absolute certainty. Or innocent," he adds after a pause and shrugs as if both options had equal value.
"Do it, then. I have no motive, and you have no murder weapon. The only piece of evidence that keeps us all here is some fingerprints, isn't it? How far can you go with it?" she taunts.
Sherlock snaps his head up at those words.
"Where is the forensics report? I need to see it. Now," he barks at Donovan.
"You heard Lestrade: I'm not your assistant. Go get it yourself." She flares her nostrils.
In response, the detective slouches in his chair, making himself comfortable. "And I'm not a police officer, which means I don't have access to official reports. Come on, Sally. I am sure Anderson would be delighted to see you," he alludes.
She widens her eyes at his insinuations but tries to act cool.
"I don't know what you're implying. Anyway, he wasn't on forensics for this case; he is on holiday."
"With his wife," Sherlock completes her sentence. "And that explains why you are even more annoying than usual."
At that moment, the metal table vibrates for a second as Giulia's phone receives a text. Holmes gives it a confused look.
"Why is her phone here?"
"They want to take it into evidence. They think they might track me back to my instigator." Giulia smiles seraphically.
"Unlock it. I want to read the text," Sally harshly demands, glowering at Giulia's ill-timed irony.
Sherlock quickly reaches for it before she can stretch her hand out, inputs the code, and hands it to Donovan. His failed attempt at cracking her password still burns; he will never forget the code now.
"Guess what? Someone has just texted you an incomprehensible message." The Sergeant gives her an inquisitive gaze.
"What does it say?" he asks calmly.
"That's the point: I cannot read it. What alphabet is this?" Sally turns the screen to Giulia, who casts a glance over it and smirks.
"It's Greek."
"You know Greek?" Sherlock gapes at her.
"Yep. I studied Ancient Greek when I was young. It's quite common in the Italian education system. It wasn't compulsory, but I liked it."
"You never told us."
"You never asked."
"Why would someone text you in Greek?" Donovan steps in.
"It's a friend of mine. I tutor him and help him with his Greek classes. That's a passage of the text that he has to translate for his class. In all probability, he sent it to me for my help," Giulia explains casually.
"Impressive," Sherlock says with an astonished look on his face, but Sally talks over him with a distrustful voice, "Why?"
"Because Greek is a tough language, and I am an incredibly kind person." Giulia fakes a smile, fed up with all those questions. "Can I reply to him?"
"Absolutely not. This person could be involved in the murder, and this whole story could be some sort of cypher." Sergeant Donovan scowls at her.
"I suppose my charges just went from manslaughter to criminal conspiracy," Giulia jokes around.
"Why don't you tell us what the content is, then?"
"I can't translate on the spot. Without a dictionary, I can only understand the overall meaning." Giulia takes the phone and reads the message carefully for two minutes. "It's a philosophical text, quite common in academic translations. I recognise the style and the construction of the sentence, so I'm pretty sure that the author is Socrates."
"This is all very entertaining, but unfortunately, we still have to carry on with the investigation," Sherlock cuts it short. "Donovan, the forensics report: I need it. Now." He glowers at her.
She grumbles and stands up reluctantly, leaving the room. As soon as the door slams behind her back, he fixes his eyes on Giulia.
"Why did you lie?"
She puts on the most innocent face she is capable of. "What are you talking about?"
"You said that Socrates wrote that Greek excerpt, but that's impossible since he never wrote a single word about his thoughts and teachings," Sherlock underlines, earning a smile from her.
"It turns out you aren't so ignorant of philosophy, are you?"
"I must have stored it somewhere inside my mind palace. I've always been interested in ancient philosophers, actually. It runs in the family."
She grins. "I was counting on it."
"Now answer quickly. We don't have long. Why did you lie?" he presses her.
"Because I wanted to see if you could spot the clue and try to have a moment with me. Alone." She can't believe that her improvised plan worked out so smoothly.
"Oh please, I am Sherlock Holmes," he says in a conceited tone. "What do you want from me?"
"To exonerate me."
He tightens his jaw. They both know that it wasn't exactly was he was doing. If anything, it looked like he was trying to confirm her charges.
"How?"
"Mycroft will help you."
Sherlock lifts a brow, surprised. "What about him?"
"He was the real author of that text. I called him when I got arrested." She drums her fingers on the desk, enjoying his shocked expression.
"You called Mycroft?" He goggles at her. No one in their sane mind would ever bother his brother with a phone call. He himself does it rarely even though he loves pestering him.
"Yes. I assumed that thanks to his connections, he could be of help."
Not only did she lie about the content of the text, but she also invented the story regarding an imaginary friend and his Greek classes. How could she come up with that cover-up so quickly? That was quite clever, he reluctantly admits to himself.
"And why does he text you in Greek now?" Sherlock struggles to understand. He hates it when things don't immediately appear obvious to him.
"I needed him to update me on his search for a way of acquitting me. He chose this language because there must be some corrupt cops here that set me up, and we don't know who can be trusted. He didn't want that text to be public," Giulia explains, hinting at Donovan.
"Why? What did he write?" He urges her.
"He found an interesting document that might clear my name. He'll send it to you. You just have to tell him where."
Sherlock quickly fishes his phone out of his coat pocket and texts his brother.
St Barth's.
- SH
He lifts his eyes from the screen and stares at her, perplexed.
"Hold on, how did he know you could read the Greek alphabet?"
"I showed it to him. When we were in his office, I asked him if he knew himself. Do you remember that?"
"Distinctly." He sighs, annoyed, recalling his brother's unusually intrigued expression when Giulia delivered her philosophical lecture.
"I was just translating the engraving at the bottom of his Socrates' bust: γνῶθι σαυτόν which means know thyself. He already knew the meaning of the engraving, of course, but at that moment he realised I could read and translate from Greek. Not a difficult deduction," she says with a satisfied smirk.
Sherlock stands up, unable to take his eyes off her. She is an even greater mystery than the case itself.
Suddenly, the door thrusts open, and Sally steps in while holding the forensics report. Sherlock quickly snatches it from her hands and flicks through it. He studies it until his eyes stop on a single line. SCIENTIST: Albert Kane. He frowns at the name. Something's not right.
"Got to go now." He smiles falsely at the sergeant and walks out of the room.
"What? Are you seriously leaving?" Sally is enraged and disoriented.
"Urgent business. Matter of life and death. I'm guessing the latter."
"Where?" Donovan asks indignantly.
He simpers. "The morgue."