CHAPTER 14: DEATH SENTENCE
"Good Lord, what did he ever do to you?" A female voice inquires with an unexpected sardonic undertone.
Molly Hooper, a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, enters the morgue right when Sherlock pokes a scalpel into the back of a dead man lying on the slab. He meticulously sticks the blade into the flesh from different angles, then pulls it out and leans forward to examine the wound he has just caused. She stares at him in awe, slightly horrified at his barbarian methods but incapable of taking her eyes off him.
"A huge favour, since he donated his body to science—which basically means to yours truly, thus enabling me to do some research about my newest case," he replies, focused on his experiments.
"And how—how is this case, erm, going?" Molly stutters timidly to make small talk.
Sherlock straightens up and speaks at impossible speed.
"I'd say pretty well. A wealthy man died under mysterious circumstances: no enemies, no motives, no murder weapon. So apparently, there were no suspects. Then, an enigmatic woman, most likely his lover, showed up at his funeral, making this jigsaw puzzle more intricate. Eventually, my flatmate Giulia was accused of the murder, and she doesn't have an alibi."
"What?" Molly's eyes instantly widen in shock as she covers her mouth with one hand.
"I've just explained everything. Molly, please, keep up." He rolls his eyes and stabs the corpse again.
She shakes her head, bewildered. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"
"Proving a point," he replies, unfazed.
"What point?"
He studies the marks on the cadaver, and a corner of his lips quirks up.
"Either the murderer is a very talented contortionist, or something is wrong."
Molly can't believe it; despite the upsetting incarceration of his flatmate, his whole attention is currently focused on some impossible deadly maneuvers. Yet, she can't help but ask, "Such as?"
"Michael Chadley was murdered with a blow to the back, between his ribs. When I was at the crime scene, I deduced he was standing when he was stabbed and then collapsed onto his chair. I am 100% sure of my deductions, but there are some inconsistencies I'm trying to solve. First, there wasn't even a scratch on the thick seatback of his leather chair, so we can rule out the possibility that the killer stabbed him through it. Therefore, the logical conclusion is that the victim was standing and not sitting when he was hit. Now, here's the problem: he had no reason to stand up as he was deeply immersed in his work and most likely had been for hours—the number of cigarette butts in his ashtray revealed his stress and dedication." Sherlock recalls even the tiniest details from the victim's studio.
"He wanted to stretch his limbs, maybe? You just said that he had been sitting for long hours. Perhaps, he wanted to give a boost to the blood circulation in his legs," Molly tentatively suggests like a shy pupil answering in front of the entire class.
"Possibly, but then we have another issue: how could the murderer accurately predict when to kill him?" He nervously paces the room, leaning his folded hands against his lips.
Molly strives to follow his reasoning process.
"Are you assuming that the killer was waiting for the right time to strike? Wouldn't it be easier to just enter the room, threaten him, and make him stand up?"
He gives her a condescending look.
"You forget that the entry wound was on his back. What you theorise is incoherent. Just think: if you wanted to kill someone (since in your little scenario you were clearly referring to a premeditated crime showing hate or anger), would you pass up the opportunity to stab the person right on the front while facing them?"
She shivers, refusing to imagine herself in such a disturbing situation.
"So, you think the killer sneaked behind his back, waited for him to stand up, and pierced him?" She asks, confused at the illogicality of that option.
"No, of course I don't; it makes no sense. And there wasn't enough room for two people behind the wooden desk anyway: it was too close to the bookshelf." His hands float in the air as he mentally rebuilds the plan of the study. "Nobody could slip behind Mr Chadley and stab him to death: it was too narrow. The only logical explanation is that he was facing his murderer. But that would mean that—" his voice dies in his mouth. Suddenly, the consequences of his observations strike him.
"The victim knew his killer," Molly gives voice to his unspoken conclusion, following his train of thought.
The gears in Sherlock's mind run wild like an engine at full throttle, and he finally connects some dots.
"That's why there was no sign of struggle: he didn't defend himself because he didn't think he was in danger. He knew his killer," he repeats Molly's words.
"I don't understand, though. You said that he was struck in the back. How could the—the killer hit him, uhm, there while standing in front of him?" She stammers.
"That's exactly what I was trying to figure out by reproducing the same lethal wound on this corpse," Sherlock mumbles, turning the body on the slab around in a prone position. He bends over the mortuary table and slides his arm under the torso of the dead man until his fingers reach the wound on his back. This simple movement rings a bell in his mind, and he whips his head up.
"Mr Chadley was hugging his assassin, and she hit him while they were still locked in that death grip."
"Hold on, she?"
"The killer is obviously a woman," he says as if he expected it to be common knowledge already.
"How do you—"
"The depth of the wound," Sherlock abruptly cuts her off. "That was the easiest deduction. At the crime scene, I examined the slash, and I can affirm that, despite the heavy weight of the murder weapon, the killer didn't apply great pressure."
"Out of pity?" The pathologist ventures.
The detective shakes his head, disappointed.
"No, no, no. Killers never feel compassion for their victims while they are murdering them. They might feel guilt and remorse afterwards. But no, it wasn't an act of mercy. Conclusion: the killer is a woman, statistically more likely given the lesser strength."
Molly struggles to keep up with all the news. After considering Sherlock's explanation, she tilts her head and asks, "Does this mean that your flatmate is, in fact, guilty?"
"So it would seem. Although, the position of the wound tells another story..." he trails off as he hears footsteps approaching along the corridor.
A couple of seconds later, a man in a black suit pokes his head through the door of the morgue.
"Mr Holmes?"
"Yes, it's me." He waves his hand. The man passes him a folder containing some documents, nods at the two of them, and leaves discreetly without another word.
Molly stares confused at the door that just closed behind the mysterious figure. "Who was that?"
Sherlock doesn't even raise his gaze from the folder and leafs through the pages, replying absentmindedly, "One of Mycroft's minions—I mean, employees."
"And what's that?" Molly points at the folder, puzzled.
"A document that was never made public but just registered with a very discreet notary, which explains why the police ignored it even existed. A secret contract from fifteen years ago, when Michael Chadley signed his own death sentence," he says calmly, then slams the folder shut and shoots her a cunning smile.
"It's his prenup."
New Scotland Yard
Half an hour later
"Sherlock, where have you been?" Lestrade approaches the detective as he walks through the glass doors of Scotland Yard. The black circles under the D.I. weary eyes make him look even more distressed than usual.
"Collecting evidence for your investigation, Detective Inspector," is his curt response.
"And what happened to our agreement about you interrogating the suspect?" Greg narrows his eyes at him.
"It's still on, isn't it? I suggest you get into that room with me this time." Sherlock shoots him an eloquent glance.
"Why?"
"Do you want to miss the final verdict?" Sherlock smiles slyly. He doesn't have to ask twice; Lestrade follows him with Donovan inside the interrogation room.
As Holmes steps in, Giulia lifts her gaze on her flatmate and smirks.
"I can't wait to know if you're sending me to jail for the rest of my life."
"Don't tempt me," he retorts, smirking back.
"What did you find out?" Lestrade intervenes.
Sherlock clears his throat and looks straight into his eyes as his baritonal voice echoes in the room.
"Are you paying attention?"
The inspector nods quickly, and the detective talks in his rapid-fire manner. "According to an accurate analysis that I have just conducted at the morgue, Mr Chadley was struck in the back by a woman. More specifically, he was hugging his killer only seconds before he was stabbed."
Both police officers turn to face him, a shocked expression on their faces. "Hugging?"
"Yes, that was the only physical way in which the murderer could reach his back to deliver the mortal blow," he explains clinically.
Greg frowns. "I'll take your word for that. How does it help us, anyway?"
Sherlock doesn't reply but simply slides across the metal table a pen and the sheet of paper usually employed for writing and signing confessions.
"Giulia, could you please write these two words: not guilty?"
"Does it mean she's not, then?" Lestrade inquires briskly.
"Shut up and look."
Giulia takes the pen and jots down those words in clear handwriting.
"Perfect." Sherlock claps his hands. "Now it's quite obvious that she didn't commit the murder."
Donovan and Lestrade shake their heads simultaneously, and the latter rubs his temples.
"No, it really isn't."
"Did you take a good look while she was writing? She's right-handed," Holmes points out as if that alone was a thorough explanation.
"Yes, I saw that, but I fail to see the relevance," Greg says through gritted teeth.
"Can you remember precisely where the lethal wound was located?" Sherlock questions him, crossing his arms on his chest. Now he looks like a cop interrogating a felon.
Lestrade thinks for a few seconds and replies, "On the right side of the victim's back, between his ribs."
"Very good. All I ask from you is just a little stretch of the imagination. Given the frankly not too slim build of the victim, the position of the wound, and the fact that the killer hit him in the middle of a hug, we can assume that the murderer was left-handed. Are you following?" Sherlock asks, searching the inspector's face for the slightest sign of brain activity.
Greg's eyes instantly light up.
"Oh, you're saying that considering his massive body size, a right-handed person hugging him could never stretch their arms far enough to hit him on his right side. This means Giulia couldn't have killed him."
"Two correct answers in a row: I'm touched." Holmes smiles falsely at the inspector, who looks daggers at him.
"You can let her go now: she couldn't possibly strike the victim in that specific spot on his back. The angle is simply impossible."
"Slow down," Sally interjects. She does nothing to hide her mistrust. "We don't know if this is what really happened. The events might have been different."
"No, they couldn't. There wasn't enough room for two people behind the desk, and Mr Chadley would have no reason to stand up and turn his back randomly. This is the only possible dynamics," Sherlock says, annoyed at her scepticism towards his post-mortem experiments.
"Alright, but we cannot disregard the incriminating evidence of her fingerprints. How do you explain that?" Sally inquires scornfully.
"The forensics report will reply to your question." Sherlock leans back in his chair and casually intertwines his hands behind his nape in a relaxed position.
"You mean the very document that nails her?"
He nods peacefully. "It was signed by forensic scientist Albert Kane, right?"
"Yeah, you saw him at the crime scene: tall bloke with ginger hair," Lestrade describes the policeman.
"I remember him. He offered me a cup of tea. It was nice of him," Giulia chimes in, smiling.
Sherlock gives her a sneering glance.
"It would have been even nicer if he hadn't used that cup to get your fingerprints and plant them all over the crime scene."
"What?" Giulia and Greg burst out at the same time.
"Not too tough a job for a forensics scientist, actually. He gave you a hard, smooth surface on which you left your fingerprints. When you put down the cup, he simply used it to frame you and fill the report to charge you with murder."
"I can't believe it," Giulia exclaims indignantly.
Greg frowns. "Neither can I, honestly. Could you please provide further explanation?"
"Giulia, did you have a fever on November 21st, the day Michael Chadley was killed?" Sherlock addresses her, changing the subject. Every single person in the room turns to him, questioning his sanity.
"No, I didn't."
"Are you sure? No symptoms?" He tries again with a hint of sarcasm. It is quite clear that he is trying to prove a point, and he can't help but enjoy how he makes their heads spin in his flight of fancy.
"No, Sherlock. Had I been ill, I would have never gone out in such freezing weather just to escort you to a crime scene. Why do you ask?" She exhales, irritated.
"Because there are two odd things in that forensic report. First: the poor quality of the fingerprinting. The report only contains blurred images, enough to match your prints, but still not of the highest quality."
"Sometimes it happens: it isn't always possible to have perfect images," Sergeant Donovan promptly objects, defending police procedures.
"Indeed. Do you know why it happens, though? It's very simple: it depends on the presence of condensate interlaid between the finger and the surface it comes into contact with—sweaty hands could leave blurry prints, for example. Now, Giulia's fingerprints on the report appear quite smudged. Why is that?" He rhetorically asks before providing the answer. "We can assume, as I just did, that she had a fever, and her body temperature was high enough to produce perspiration stains on her fingertips. And yet she wasn't showing any symptoms: no burning hot skin, no excessive sweat. Please be advised that I'm not basing it all on the suspect's own statement. I was there too, and I'm quite the observant man, so I would have noticed if something was off with her health that day. Not to mention that a doctor was also in the room," he adds with a faint smile, referring to John Watson.
"Alright, so if it wasn't the sweat that caused the blurry fingerprints, what did?" Lestrade scratches the back of his neck, getting frustrated.
"I'm glad you asked. If we exclude the possibility that the blur was caused by burning hot flesh touching a room temperature surface, we might consider the opposite: the surface was steaming, literally. In fact, if we suppose that condensed liquid similar to perspiration is also produced by the contact of a finger with a hot surface, we can deduce that Giulia left blurry fingerprints on the piping hot cup of tea that Albert Kane so kindly offered her at the crime scene."
Silence falls in the room as everyone tries to process that information. Lestrade swallows hard and stares into Sherlock's eyes.
"What is the second suspicious thing about the forensic report?"
"The methods of fingerprints detection were always the same for both prints found on the hard surface of the furniture in the study and those on the victim's body. However, Inspector, you certainly know this is not how it works. The police use specific methods for different situations. In all probability, the reason we can only see one kind of fingerprint on that report is that it was all Officer Kane had: just one detection from the ceramic cup. To sum up, either your scientist is utterly unqualified, or he is an accomplice to this murder. I am more persuaded it is the latter," he concludes with a sneer.
"And why would he do that?" Sally blurts out.
"Because of the most obvious detail on the forensics report, the clearest warning bell. When I first read it, my eyes fixed on that name: Albert Kane. It sounded oddly familiar, and I remembered where I had already heard (or rather read) that name. I recalled an image, a frame: the wedding invitation hung on the wall of the living room at the victim's house. As per tradition, their full names were printed on it: Mr Michael Damian Chadley and Ms Lilian Ann Kane—her maiden name."
He looks intently at the three people in the room.
"In conclusion, Albert Kane just wanted to cover up for his sister, the real killer: Mrs Chadley."
"Sherlock, are you sure?" Lestrade passes a hand through his greying hair, exhaling deeply. Clearing Giulia's name is one thing, but jumping to conclusions and accusing the victim's wife is another story.
The consulting detective raises a brow with an annoyed face.
"I am. When I read Albert's last name on the report, I knew it couldn't be coincidental; the two of them were somehow kin. The next step was quite easy. Same name, similar age, almost identical hair colour: brother and sister, of course." He stands up to pace the small interrogation room. "So, ultimately, the only incriminating evidence against Giulia is a report signed by the brother of the victim's wife. Suspicious, isn't it?"
"Yes, but that would mean that Mrs Chadley—"
"Killed her husband," Sherlock quickly completes Greg's sentence. "We finally got there."
Donovan furrows her brow. "And how can you prove that?"
"Do you honestly want me to explain everything?" Sherlock sighs, but he is secretly pleased to show off a bit. It passes the time and dispels boredom.
"She is a woman that Michael knew very well, and he definitely would have hugged her, feeling completely safe in her arms. How naïve," he spits out, rolling his eyes. "But there's another clue: she is left-handed. I saw her sign a delivery receipt when I was at her house; I remember noticing the polished nails in her left hand. She perfectly fits the profile of the murderer," he lists methodically.
Lestrade fiddles with the pen and paper on the table, restless.
"She has some matching characteristics; I'll give you that. But it isn't enough to accuse her. You'll have to give me something more than her gender or dominant hand."
"How about a motive?"
Greg jerks his head up and gestures for him to continue, giving Sherlock his full attention.
"Michael Chadley had a lover and his wife found out that he was cheating on her."
"Was it just an act of revenge against her unfaithful husband in the end?" Greg asks, unconvinced.
"Oh, please, you've seen her. Does she really look like the kind of woman who would react madly, driven by uncontrolled jealousy?"
"Why did she do it, then?" Donovan inquires, still sceptical.
"Why does anyone do anything? Money, simple as that."
"Are you serious?" Donovan gapes at him.
Sally is not easily convinced of anyone's guilt. Unless it's about Giulia, apparently. She never questioned her involvement in the homicide, Sherlock reflects, wrinkling his nose at her bias.
"We are talking about a large sum of money here. Tens of millions, judging by the dimensions of his empire," he estimates, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
"But she was already married to him," Lestrade bursts out. "She had free access to the bank accounts and her husband entirely supported her. You've been to their house: it's a bloody mansion in a residential area of London. She already had all the money she needed and even more. You're not making any sense, Sherlock."
"Yes, she had everything, and she was about to lose it all. When she realised her husband was in love with another woman, she understood that their marriage was ending. It was a bolt from the blue, given the document she had signed before getting married," he drops the hint allusively.
The D.I. needs to restrain the urge to slam his fist on the table out of despair. Having to put up with Sherlock's deductions and attitude should be considered a full-time job.
"What are you talking about now?"
"Mr Chadley was a wise man. He was a rich entrepreneur who married a divorced, broke woman: he took his precautions against the possibility of fraud. He probably believed that Lilian truly loved him, but he was a businessman, after all: he wasn't inclined to blind leaps of faith. For this reason, a few days before their wedding, he made her sign a prenup where it was stated that, in case of divorce—whatever the reason was, she would get almost nothing of his fortune. Now, it is easily understandable why Mrs Chadley panicked when she discovered Michael's affair. Had he become too involved in that relationship, he could have dumped her and tried to get a divorce. She thought she had no choice but to dispose of him permanently to inherit his fortune. So, she went to his study and gave him a loving embrace. Well, maybe not so loving." He has to prevent himself from overtly giggling while talking about murder.
He takes a breath before he talks up a blue streak.
"She pierced him in the back and left his dead body on the chair, then she slipped out of the room. That's where Albert Kane came in. His sister must have called him, confessing that she had just killed her husband and asking for help. I am sure that she offered him a fair share of the inheritance to convince him. You know the rest: he came with you to the crime scene and met us. What a stroke of luck for him! He probably figured out that I wasn't a suitable target, and he excluded John, too. Giulia was his best bet: a young woman who couldn't object to the hard evidence of her fingerprints found all over a crime scene where she hadn't her even walked in when the police were there."
Giulia gapes at him, unable to control her astonishment and rage.
"How do you know Mr Chadley was cheating on his wife, by the way?" Donovan intervenes.
"His lover attended his funeral from afar. It's easy to understand why she hid, pretending to be there by chance. She wanted to conceal her identity and attachment to the dead, of course, but she also feared some sort of revenge and was afraid the killer could target her, too. Giulia met her during the burial."
"Are you seriously basing the whole reconstruction of this crime on the testimony of our main suspect about an imaginary ghost?" Sally gapes.
Sherlock glowers at her disdainful tone and retorts, "Giulia is no longer a suspect. I thought that much was clear. Anyway, his lover is real; there are some signs you failed to spot. First, had you looked at Michael Chadley's photos in his house, you would've clearly seen that he had no dress sense: he was decently dressed only on his wedding day. But did you notice the suit he was wearing when he was murdered? Famous brand, elegant, impeccable: completely different from his previous taste. A few days before his death, he bought a box full of new ties that were delivered right when we were at the crime scene. Don't you see it? He felt loved and cherished by his lover, so he saw himself in a different light. He was making an effort and trying to improve his image in the eyes of his mistress. He felt more confident. I imagine it must be a side effect of love."
Giulia chuckles at his word choice. Lestrade nods, almost satisfied.
"Okay, you've been quite thorough. However, there is still one missing piece: the murder weapon was never found."
"Because it was never hidden. It was in the house, but none noticed. Fortunately, Giulia helped me see it." He looks at her, and for a split second, a corner of his lips curves up in a smile.
Giulia raises her gaze to him, surprised. "Me?"
"Do you remember when I mocked you in front of the huge fireplace of that house? I was reminded of our little joke while leaving the scene. At that moment, I stole a glance at it and stored that image in my mind palace. When I was performing my experimental autopsy at St Barth's one hour ago, I was thinking about the wound and what could have possibly caused it. I had already given the inspector my preliminary analysis at the crime scene: a heavy, rusty object. There was nothing like that in his study, but something similar was indeed in the house, in front of the fireplace. I dug up the image of the fire tools from my memory and noticed that only the fire poker had been recently washed."
"It has been freezing these days. Maybe they lit a fire, then cleaned it?" Lestrade suggests.
"Nope. That fireplace hasn't been used in years, believe me: I know ash. In conclusion, I am sure that Mrs Chadley pierced her husband with the poker from their fireplace. This would also explain the jagged edges of the lethal wound and the traces of rust in it: iron tools deteriorate as time goes by," Sherlock states confidently.
"But if you still don't believe me, I suggest you pay another visit to the Chadleys' mansion, take the fire poker into evidence, and search it for any trace of the victim's blood. No matter how scrupulous Lilian might have been. Some DNA particles are likely to still be on it."
"So, you were able to recall your memories of their house and noticed the brightness of the poker in contrast to the other old tools because Mrs Chadley must have scrubbed it clean it to wipe her husband's blood off it?" Lestrade asks, feeling victorious: the umpteenth question of the day is about to find an answer.
"Exactly. I think we're done here. Thank you for this fascinating case. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home," he announces, walking to the door, but then turns around as if he forgot something and addresses Giulia in a sarcastic tone. "Are you coming?"