CHAPTER 20: RIDDLE
Has the temperature in the room dropped sharply all of a sudden? Sherlock thinks distractedly. That would be the only logical explanation, for he would swear that his blood had just frozen in his veins. He can feel it: molten ice all over his circulatory system.
This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. It's not fear, though. He knows how he reacts in front of it. He is not like most people: fear doesn't paralyse him; if anything, it heightens his senses. Then why, for Heaven's sake, is he petrified right now?
He perceives an unfamiliar sensation of tightness in his chest as he lowers his gaze to the tissue soaked with chloroform. What is this unpleasant clutch over his diaphragm? He self-diagnoses. It bears an uncomfortable resemblance to guilt and powerlessness. Is it... remorse?
He shakes his head to cast that absurd thought out of his mind, but his conscience-stricken pride keeps haunting him. He tried his best to protect Giulia and failed. He was in too deep and didn't realise it. He thought he could simply yell some mean things and get her out of the crosshairs. But he should have known better than that: that's not how life in Baker Street works.
"I didn't see this coming," Sherlock murmurs. His tone resounds like a confession of wrongdoing, and that's a first. How? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, not see it coming? How could he fail so spectacularly?
John shoots him a hostile glare and clenches his fists to hide that his hands are shaking.
"I'll call Greg," he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Finally responsive to his surroundings, Sherlock frowns. "Who?"
"Greg Lestrade," John clarifies matter-of-factly.
"Oh, him. What for?" He wonders candidly.
John takes a deep breath, trying his hardest not to land his right hook on that smug face.
"Because he is with the police, and we need help."
"Scotland Yard never helps," Sherlock quickly rebuts. "You know I can perfectly handle it myself."
"Right now, I know nothing. And since you weren't able to protect her previously, now we are going to do it my way. Is it clear?"
Sherlock doesn't talk back this time; he simply stares as John takes a few steps across Giulia's tiny flat with the phone up to his ear. Then, he too makes a call.
"Hello, Mr Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call." The croaky voice that Sherlock has already heard once picks up to greet him.
Sherlock tightens his grip on his phone and demands harshly, "Where is Giulia? I know you are the person behind her abduction."
"Yeah, it wasn't a very difficult deduction, was it? She's right here with me," the mysterious killer of the Alpes replies sinisterly.
Sherlock has never been more dismayed to be right about something.
"Care to elaborate?" He struggles to keep a cool head. Weird: he always maintains his indifferent composure even in the most frightful situations. What is happening to him?
"I've already left you all the information you need to find us. Just look around, Holmes. You're told to be quite observant and clever. Time to prove it."
In a wide dark room, somewhere
A bulky man, to whom belongs the dark voice Sherlock was speaking to, hangs up with an evil smirk and throws the phone across the darkened room. The device flies and crashes against a wall, shattering on the floor.
"What a shame. It was the new model," a female voice protests in the darkness.
The man casts a blank look at the electronic carcass.
"I don't need it anymore. Besides, I don't want either Sherlock Holmes or the police to find me by geo-localising the signal. It'd spoil all the fun." He turns around and walks towards the source of the voice that has just reprimanded him.
"And I don't like that my guests speak to me like that." His lips unveil a cruel smile as he approaches the other person.
"You. That's a good starting point. You could begin by introducing yourself, for example." The silhouette of a woman tied to a chair slowly emerges from the shadows as he steps closer.
He bares his teeth in a wolfish grin.
"My dear Giulia, I thought it was quite obvious; I am a fan of Sherlock Holmes."
"So am I. Is that why I am here? Is this an unofficial Fanclub?" She jokes, turning her gaze around as if looking for other people.
He gives her a stern look, irritated by her insolence.
"You are leverage, and I'm confident that you'll prove very useful."
"So, you haven't decided what to do with me yet," she teases him.
"Of course. I kidnapped you to get to Mr Holmes."
She looks genuinely taken aback. "I'm not following you."
The man walks up to her and raises a hand in a swift movement. Every muscle in her body tenses up, expecting either a slap or a punch in the face. Her eyes widen in horror as she sees his hand coming down slowly to caress her cheek. She desperately tries to pull back and avoid his touch, but the bonds on her wrists and ankles restrain her movements.
"He cares about you deeply." He cups her chin and forces her to lift her eyes and meet his. Giulia swallows hard, focusing on his dark gaze. In the dim light, his pupils are so dilated that she can't even distinguish the colour of the irises. She has the impression of gawking into two endless pits.
She tries to regain control and lowers her eyes, murmuring feebly, "I think he doesn't. Especially after what he has said lately."
"Don't be silly. He would do anything to save you." He loses his temper in front of her stubbornness.
"Would he?"
"Just shut up," he shouts, making her jump in her seat. "Sherlock Holmes will try to rescue you. In fact, I bet he is already finding a way to come here. The great detective in person will come to meet me," he proudly affirms.
"If you just wanted to be introduced to him, you could've dropped by the flat on Baker Street. It would have taken a lot less effort." She continues to make fun of him, even though she knows better than to mess with such a dangerous person.
"I prefer to play safe by having home-court advantage."
"Then I should warn you: he loves playing games and hates losing." Giulia mentally prays that Sherlock doesn't loathe her enough to let her die at the hands of that psychopath. She hopes with every fibre of her being that he will take up the challenge, if only for the sake of an adrenaline rush. It will be just another game for him, and that's probably her best bet that he will indeed show up.
The kidnapper trails his hand along her delicate collarbone and smirks.
"Oh, I know. And today you will be lucky enough to witness his crushing defeat."
221C Baker Street
When the voice on the phone hangs up, Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns around, coming face to face with John, who eyes him with suspicion.
"Who were you talking to?"
"Take a wild guess."
He instantly catches the meaning of his deranged actions and yells, "Are you crazy?"
"No, John, I'm just eager to find Giulia. The killer said he left me a clue." Sherlock pushes him aside to scrutinise the flat.
"Great. So, he's not only a murderer and a kidnapper but also a sadistic lunatic," John raises his voice, summoning all his willpower to avoid wrapping his hands around Sherlock's throat. If he gets to the end of this day without killing him, he will consider it his greatest achievement.
Holmes searches every inch of the small flat. After a couple of minutes, he exclaims triumphantly, "Here it is," and waves around a note that he found on Giulia's pillow.
As John holds his breath, Sherlock reads it aloud.
King William is ready to lead to the street,
Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet.
Although the Great Fire destroyed the Abchurch,
Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch.
Every capital counts. Have you written them yet?
Hold on to the beginning if the ending makes you upset.
Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down."
The short poem sounds macabre, but it also seems incomplete. Sherlock turns the piece of paper in his hand and finds the last sinister line on the back.
we've reached the end, Mr Holmes. Shall I start the countdown?
Author's note: I invented this riddle and I assure you that it is perfectly solvable. You don't need any specific knowledge or a mind palace, but just an Internet connection to open a map of London and search for additional information (first, you'd have to figure out what to look up online, but that's the spirit of it, isn't it?).
So, if you want to put yourself to the test and see if you could measure up to Sherlock Holmes, don't read ahead, take a moment, and give it a try. Comment your solution or drop me a message if you want some additional help or clues.
Alternatively, you can go ahead and see the Consulting Detective at work.
THE GAME IS ON.
Neither of them moves or speaks for several seconds, then John blurts out, "What's this rubbish? It sounds like a creepy nursery rhyme."
"It's a riddle. He tried to tell us where he's hiding," Sherlock says absent-mindedly.
"And how are we supposed to decipher it?"
Holmes quickly scans the poem a second time.
"Let's start from the structure. Look at the spaces between the lines: they are pretty irregular. They don't follow any rhyme scheme: there are four verses at the beginning, then three more, and the third one rhymes with the last one on the back of the paper."
"If he disregarded simple poetry rules, it might mean that the separation between the sections serves the purpose of the clue. It's a weird set of coordinates, perhaps?" John suggests.
"That's a possibility. Let's try to go line after line. King William: what about him?" Sherlock looks expectantly at his friend.
John knits his brows in response. "Why do you ask me?"
"Because that's the kind of school stuff that I would delete, but you'd prefer to remember, for whatever reason." He rolls his eyes at the amount of useless stuff that people usually keep in the recess of their minds.
"Well, if my memory serves me correctly," Watson teases him, "there were several monarchs called William in history. This poem is not very specific, though. How are we supposed to know who the killer is referring to?"
Something snaps in Sherlock's mind when he hears John's question.
"It's not who, but what. Read the first line again: King William is ready to lead to the street. It's not a historical figure, but a direction: King William Street here in London," he points out.
"Okay, that makes sense," John concedes, going on. "Then it reads, Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet. Following your reasoning, the meet could mean a crossroads."
"Very good, John."
"Save your compliments for a better time," he snarls. "Now, why the religious reference?"
Holmes scratches his chin. "I doubt a killer would care much about faith, so I bet it means a church."
"A church near King William Street?"
"More than that: a church on a road that intersects King William Street, hence the meet," Sherlock specifies. "Carrying on with the lines, there's some specific information: Although the Great Fire destroyed the Abchurch."
"I'm quite sure that the Great Fire destroyed dozens of parishes," John cuts him short with a clueless expression.
"Yes, but this note contains a very peculiar and archaic word: Abchurch, with a capital letter. I think that the word doesn't indicate an architectural space, but a name. Oddly enough, there is a narrow road called Abchurch Lane crossing King William Street. So now we know which intersection the kidnapper was pointing to. And I'm quite positive there is a church looking out onto that alley," Sherlock affirms, rubbing his temples while consulting his mental map of London.
John gapes at him. "Bloody hell. Do you know every single street in this city?"
"Sort of. Now, please, could you check out if I am correct?"
"Already on it," John replies, typing on his phone. "There it is: St Mary Abchurch, on Abchurch Lane at the junction with King William Street. It's a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary," he reads the website out loud.
"Bingo."
"St Mary's was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666," John adds, scrolling down the page of the history of the parish. "But there's more; a German bomb hit the church in September 1940 during the London Blitz, then it was completely restored."
"This explains the meaning of the next line: Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch. I must admit that our killer did his research," Sherlock comments, quite impressed.
"Yeah, let's give him a round of applause," his friend sarcastically talks back, then frowns. "What does it mean, though? Is he waiting for us at the junction of King William Street and Abchurch Lane?"
"No, there must be more than that. We need to go on with this nursery rhyme."
"It says Every capital counts. Do you think it might have something to do with an important city?" John questions. He hates that riddle; he detests every single moment spent on deciphering it. He gets the impression that it is only slowing them down. Why couldn't that psychopath ask for ransom like any other 'normal' criminal? Oh right, it's because he is trying to get Sherlock's attention. And with Sherlock, nothing can ever be simple or ordinary.
"No, not that kind of capital. I believe it refers to the letters, instead. Look at the rest of the line: have you written them yet? He wants us to jot down the capital letters of this note," Sherlock deduces, rummaging in Giulia's bags to find a pen and paper, then presses John, "Come on, dictate only the capital letters to me."
John takes a glance at the note: many words have capital letters. "All of them?"
"Wait." Sherlock's mind automatically goes through the following line that he has already memorised. "Hold on to the beginning if the ending makes you upset," he repeats. "That's another clue; not every capital letter, John, just the ones at the beginning of each line."
John's eyes scan the note.
King
Nonetheless
Although
Bombings
Every
Hold
Take
"Here they are: K - N - A - B - E - H - T. But, Knabeht doesn't ring any bell." He grimaces, massaging his forehead in a desperate search for answers.
Holmes's head jerks up in sudden realisation.
"Because you're looking at it the wrong way. Think at the last line on the front page: it is also the last line that begins with a capital letter, and it says—"
"Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down," John perfectly recalls while Sherlock takes a compact mirror from Giulia's nightstand and places it near the letters he wrote so that the reflection shows the writing in reverse, from right to left. Now the letters form the words THE BANK.
"What bank?" John immediately asks as Sherlock types on his phone.
"The one at the corner of King William Street and Abchurch Lane," he concludes, showing him a roadmap on the screen.
Watson widens his eyes and brushes off some beads of sweat from his forehead.
"Did the kidnapper really give us an absurd set of coordinates of the place where he is holding Giulia hostage?"
"I'm afraid so," Sherlock murmurs in a grim tone, still staring at the screen. An icy gleam veils his eyes.
"How can you be sure?"
The detective raises an enigmatic gaze on him.
"Because that specific bank is temporarily closed and he mocked us with a final joke. Just guess the nationality of the bank."
John pales. "Italian."
A brooding silence hovers in the tiny flat for a few seconds, then Sherlock whips around and rushes upstairs like a tornado. He turns the living room upside down, tossing everything away frantically.
"John, did you see my Browning?" He asks, a note of urgency barely noticeable in his voice.
"The last time I saw it, Giulia was jokingly pointing it at your chest," John says, recalling the events that happened earlier that day.
"Yes, then she gave it back to me. But now I can't find it anywhere," he protests like a toddler who has just lost his favourite toy. He runs from one corner of the room to the other, looking everywhere. He even crouches on his hands and knees and sticks his head into the fireplace. Then he sits cross-legged on the floor, shaking the ash off his hair; his eyes distractedly follow the minuscule white particles floating down on a scattered pile of envelopes at the foot of the fireplace. If Mrs Hudson saw the flat in that chaotic state, she'd beat him up with a broom.
"Come on, Sherlock, we need to get to that bank immediately. She might not have long," John urges him, hinting at the door. His eyes travel across the room restlessly as he fidgets with his hands, eager to spring into action. That's the soldier in him kicking in.
"You might want to remember that we are dealing with a seasoned killer," Sherlock points out, standing up and brushing his trousers.
"And you might want to remember that I'm an ex-soldier and I always carry my gun with me," John replies, tapping the pocket of his jacket. "Now let's go."
Holmes gives him a curt nod, but a dark shade glides over his face as his mind concocts several scenarios to anticipate what comes next.
"We must notify the police of our discovery," John says, dashing along the staircase.
At that exact moment, Sherlock's phone rings. He takes it out and frowns at the screen.
"Speak of the devil," he says, answering the call. "Lestrade, what's happening?"
John stares at Sherlock climbing down the stairs in front of him, silently nodding: Greg is probably delivering crucial information, but Sherlock hasn't put him on speaker, and he can't hear anything. Then the detective thrusts open the front door and steps out on the pavement, his phone still solidly pressed against his ear.
"Where exactly?" Sherlock continues his conversation with the D.I. while John grows more impatient with each passing second.
"Got it. Just hold on a little longer." He touches the screen and lowers the phone, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets as John hails cab and looks expectantly at him.
"What did he say?"
"He found her. She was at the bank. We did a great job with that nursery rhyme, after all," he hints at a smile, trying to defuse the tension, but his anguished face betrays him.
"Yeah, kudos for us. Sherlock, what happened?" John stares into his eyes, but he averts his gaze.
"After you phoned Lestrade, Scotland Yard instantly started a search and located the kidnapper's hiding place at the bank, where he was holding Giulia hostage. They got there, and there was a shooting..." he trails off.
"Jesus! We need to go there. Now," John cries out, throwing open the passenger door of the cab.
"Wait. Giulia is fine. The police freed her. She got into an ambulance just as a precaution. She is being taken to the hospital as we speak," Sherlock explains in a calm tone.
"Fine. Then that's where we are going, then," Watson asserts, hopping in the cab and yelling the address of St. Barth's hospital. He turns towards his friend. "Sherlock, hurry up."
"I'm not coming, John. I'm going to the bank."
"What do you mean you are not coming? She's at the hospital," John protests. He knows his friend all too well and is perfectly aware that he behaves like an emotionless machine most of the time. But the woman who has been living with them for the past few months just got into a shooting: does he really not care in the slightest?
"And she's okay. The killer, instead, is still entrenched inside the building, and I have every intention of taking him down. I asked Lestrade to hold his men; I want to go in with them. Please, John, go," he barely finishes his sentence before slamming the car door and signalling the cabbie to leave.
He stands on the sidewalk, gazing at John's upset face as the taxi pulls away, heading to the hospital.
After a moment, Sherlock pulls out of his pocket the hand that never let go of his phone and moves it closer to his ear again. The screen is still lit: he never really hung up, he just put it on mute. He touches the screen again and talks into the device.
"Sorry for this chaotic answer. I'm listening to you now."
"Is it possible to know what is going on? Nobody has ever made me wait for so long, not even the Prime Minister," Mycroft's voice petulantly rants.
"Thank you for keeping the line open."
"You asked me to hold, so I held. But it doesn't look like you heard a word I said about the Christmas present for our mother. And why did you even care about the location of the store? We both know that none of us is going there to buy the gift. I'll send Anthea, my assistant."
"Good," Sherlock comments absently, raising an arm to stop a cab. He jumps in and gives the address of the bank to the driver.
"Are you even listening?" Mycroft grumbles. "Besides, you have my phone number saved among your contacts: why did you call me Lestrade when you picked up?" he inquires suspiciously.
"I was putting up a little farce. I needed to get rid of John quickly and delicately. He had to have a pretty good reason to run away and leave me alone."
"As if he hadn't enough already," Mycroft comments sarcastically.
"If we've sorted the Christmas-present conundrum, I'd like to put an end to this lovely phone call. I'm in a bit of a hurry, brother dear," the younger Holmes presses him, an unusual trace of distress taints his deep voice.
"Actually, I phoned you for another reason. I need to consult you on a very critical matter," Mycroft says, grinding his teeth. He is clearly not comfortable with a sentence like that.
"You need to consult me? Can't you deduce everything by yourself?" Sherlock retorts. His sibling constantly teases him by claiming to be the smart one, and now he runs to him for answers? A bit out of character.
"I have my suspicions, and I would like you to confirm or contradict them. Although, you seem very busy at the moment," Mycroft notes, trying to divert the attention from his unwonted cry for help.
"Quite so. Why don't you ask your friends of the secret service? Oh wait, right: you don't trust them." Sherlock can distinctly hear his older brother sigh on the other side of the line before replying, "Never mind. I am probably just a bit paranoid."
"Fine. Bye," Sherlock cuts it short.
He is about to hang up when Mycroft stops him.
"Wait, Sherlock, what is happening? I have just handed over to you on a silver platter the perfect opportunity to make fun of my paranoia, and you don't jump at the chance to show off and patronise me? What are you dealing with?"
Sherlock twitches his lips: impossible to hide anything from Mycroft.
"A kidnapping." He deliberately omits further details.
Though, Mycroft can sense the distance in his voice and certainly didn't miss the urgency that has been enwrapping Sherlock's every sentence. Something is wrong, and the eldest doesn't intend to drop the conversation.
"Who was abducted?" He tests the waters.
Sherlock bites his bottom lip and murmurs reluctantly, "My flatmate."
"Giulia has been kidnapped?" Mycroft's voice booms through the line. "Why haven't I been notified about this?" He spits out furiously, but Sherlock has the impression that he is not addressing him. Was he expecting his employees to keep him updated on that? Why?
"I got it under control. No need for the British government." Sherlock sneers.
"I hope so since I don't have a single agent to put on this quest," Mycroft replies in a worn-out tone. Sherlock has never heard his brother that anxious.
"Why couldn't Doctor Watson go with you, by the way?" Mycroft tries to change the subject.
"This whole thing is my fault, and I should fix it on my own. Please, let me be." Sherlock's guilty plea echoes resolutely over the phone.
"If it has anything to do with Moriarty, then I have every right to be made aware," Mycroft peremptorily claims.
"It's not him."
"How can you be certain? It wouldn't be the first time he kidnaps one of your friends to play cat-and-mouse with you."
"Exactly. He already did it with John at the pool. Moriarty would never repeat himself. He has a vivid imagination; he would find an alternative method. It's something different this time. Someone else," Sherlock says gloomily.
"I see. Well then, I have pressing business to take care of. I'll let you sort it out on your own. Good luck, brother mine." Mycroft's voice resonates deeper in the device. He cannot help but worry about his little brother.
Sherlock looks out the window as the cab pulls over in front of the bank on King William Street.
"I don't need luck."
"No, of course, you don't," Mycroft whispers, hanging up and praying that his sibling won't do anything foolish. Wishful thinking, isn't it?