CHAPTER 41: OUT OF BREATH
Sherlock gazes at the box in his hands, feeling everybody's look on himself. They are all waiting for a reaction that never comes. He looks frozen, as still as the carved angels on the column capitals all around them.
"I'd better go now. The wake in honour of our Mother Superior is starting soon." Sister Laura breaks the awkward silence with a tender voice. "Thank you again, Mr Holmes. With the arrest of her murderer, now her soul can finally rest in peace." She makes the sign of the cross and leaves the silent trio plunged in the contemplation of that ominous gift.
Sherlock carefully unwraps the package and lifts the lid of the box. An expression of sudden realisation darts through his eyes as he pulls out another marble statue. The subject sculpted is once again a young woman, but there are some differences compared to the first one. This graceful woman is holding a wind instrument resembling a flute; her head is crowned with a laurel wreath.
"Should we assume we won the game and Moriarty is complimenting us with a wreath that signifies victory, as was the custom for ancient champions or Poets Laureate? Or is he mocking you and warning against the arrogance of resting on your laurels?" Giulia brainstorms with a hint of weary sarcasm.
Sherlock puts the figurine back in the box without uttering a sound, takes the package under his arm, and strides rapidly towards the exit.
"Wait, Sherlock, what does this gift mean?" John shouts after him, baffled.
He turns his head back to yell a reply. "That we are about to find another body."
They storm out of the convent, and Sherlock marches up to Lestrade, who is completing the arrest across the road.
"Detective Inspector, if another murder pops up—" he begins but gets cut short by the D.I.'s portable radio that crackles to life, "To the officers out there in the Chiswick area: the lifeless body of a man has just been discovered in a swimming pool..." the radio operator goes on to give the exact location.
"Take the case," Sherlock immediately commands him after listening to the dispatch.
Greg frowns. "In case you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly in Chiswick. This case will be taken over by the police squad of that district, which doesn't count me on their team," he says matter-of-factly and shakes his head. Dealing with Sherlock Holmes is like having to put up with a 5-year-old constantly asking for the moon.
"Then start negotiating a place for us on their guest list for the crime scene," Sherlock replies sarcastically, scowling at the DI's inflexibility. "I will behave properly if you let me glimpse at it. They won't even notice I'm there." He places a hand on his heart, mocking a genuine promise.
"This is a contradiction in terms. You barge in crime scenes with the delicacy of a German panzer," Lestrade retorts.
"And the same level of efficiency. All I ask is that you trust me, just this once." Holmes's tone resounds lower, deeper than usual.
Greg's head whips up upon hearing the pleading note in his voice. He gives him a long look, studying Sherlock's begging eyes. He is not putting up a fuss. This isn't an expression of his usual stubbornness, Greg suddenly realises. Something is troubling him. It looks like it is personal, and yet nothing is ever personal with Sherlock. He never gets directly involved in a case; he never lets anything get under his skin. Then why is this case so important to him?
He stares into Holmes's determined eyes. "I do trust you, Sherlock. And I wish you weren't always right about these things. But you have to consider that I'm not the only detective in Scotland Yard."
"But you're the only one who'd cooperate with me. Please, Lestrade, this is unlike anything your colleagues could ever imagine. But you and me, we have been down this road before. Do you remember the bomber and the clues sent to the pink phone?" He cocks a brow at him allusively.
The D.I. flinches as memories of those agitated days dawn on him.
"You think…" he starts off, but Sherlock stops him mid-sentence to complete the phrase, "... That we need to get a move on, yes."
He hails a cab, and the three Baker Street tenants speed away against the twilight sky. Greg sighs and runs a hand through his greying hair. It's going to be a long night.
While sitting in the cab, Giulia breaks the silence.
"Am I the only one who got the creeps at the delivery of the box at the exact address where we were at that moment?" She looks over her shoulder, almost expecting to see a black unidentified van following them, just like in spy movies. "Are we being watched?"
"Yes, to both of your questions," Sherlock replies with a shrug. "It was to be expected: Moriarty has eyes and ears everywhere. To be fair, I'd be disappointed if he didn't. Nothing to be concerned about, anyway. It's all part of the—"
"Game," Giulia completes, talking over him. "Yes, I get it; we all do. That's all you've been talking about. You sound like a broken record, for goodness sake. I understand that your nature demands to be challenged, and this is like Christmas for you. But what about this other player? Why is this Mr Moriarty doing all this?"
"Because he is bored," Sherlock answers placidly, looking out the car window.
"Bored? Look who's just found his soulmate," she lampoons him.
John chuckles at her ironic remark while the detective rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, Jim has always been so obsessed with me."
"Thank God you're indifferent to him instead," she snaps back sarcastically.
Sherlock turns in his seat to look straight into her eyes.
"Listen, I know you're scared, and it seems like a crazy wild goose chase to you. You feel exposed, constantly under the spotlight, which is not ideal, especially for someone who's trying to keep a low profile. But you are with me, with us: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, the men who are going to stand up to the consulting criminal—the only ones who could stop him. In my hospital room, you said that unconditional trust is a rare commodity. How true! So now, I'm going to ask you to trust me. It's not a gut feeling, it's not a capricious hunch. I know what we are doing; I understand how Jim is making us dance. Unfortunately, I also know that the only way to get the upper hand is to play by his rules."
She nods slowly, coming to terms with the insanity of their world. "And when does the game end?"
He shifts his gaze away. "When either of us takes a step we can't take back."
She stares at him for a few seconds while a thought worms its way into her mind. She has the impression they already crossed that line a couple of miles ago.
The cab falls in total silence for a few minutes, then Sherlock breaks the immobility and groans at her, "I know you have questions: ask away. It's physically painful to watch the gears run around in your brain."
She glowers at him, then bombards him with a roundup of queries.
"Why another statue? What's the meaning behind these gifts? Is it a twisted version of the ten figurines from Agatha Christie's novel And Then There Were None?"
He smirks faintly at her knowledge of mystery novels and detective stories.
"Not exactly. These statues aren't just featureless figurines. I suspect they represent something specific. It's still early to say, though; I'm waiting for the final proof. Speaking of 20th-century British literature, in the words of Sir Ian Fleming, 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action'."
She arches her brows at him and gives him a smug smile. "Yet you aren't sitting tight for a new delivery, and you most certainly don't believe in coincidences. Tell me, Agent 007, what's the clue in this gift?"
He reciprocates the sly grin and lets out one single word: "Music."
When their cab arrives at the address given by the Police switchboard, some police cars are already crowding the parking lot. Greg has preceded them as well; the perk of darting through the streets of London with flashing lights on.
John shoots Sherlock a worried look and murmurs, "A pool."
"Uncanny deduction, Doctor," Holmes mocks him, hinting at the gigantic Swimming and Diving Centre sign on the top of the building.
They enter the sporting facility and follow Greg to the swimming pool for scuba diving lessons, while Sherlock reassures his friend, "There's nothing to fear, John. Moriarty would never repeat himself."
"Assuming he has anything to do with a drowning accident of a scuba diver, in the first place," Lestrade interjects. "The body of a man in his forties has just been fished out of the water. No documents or ID in the clothes that we found in the lockers. We are checking the pool's database to see if the photo of one of their members in the system matches this unlucky guy."
They shift their gaze to the lifeless body lying on the pool edge, and Giulia immediately looks away, avoiding staring into the deceased face. Contrary to her flatmates, dead bodies always give her shivers and a faint sense of nausea. She isn't as indifferent as Sherlock or as stoic and brave as John. She never will be.
"You won't find any correspondence. This man wasn't a diver," Sherlock states, crouching down next to the corpse. "He wasn't even supposed to be here; everything is out of place." He sniffs the air and turns his eyes around, studying every inch of the dim-lit pool until his gaze lands on Lestrade again.
"Oh, and needless to say, this wasn't an accident. It's a murder."
"Murder?" The baffled question comes from a short, moustached police officer from the Chiswick department. He glowers at the three intruders on his crime scene and towers over the black-haired man knelt by the corpse. "It may simply be a tragic coincidence, sir," the newcomer protests.
Sherlock scoffs. "Oh, please. This death was as accidental as the rise of the sun this morning. I find it quite alarming that the police still believe in fairy tales and signs from the universe."
The officer freezes at that exhibition of blatant disrespect. "Excuse me, you are...?"
"Way more observant than you, Sergeant," Sherlock retorts, straightening up and eyeing the sergeant rank insignia on the upper sleeve of the man's uniform. "For I noticed the obvious and crystal-clear clues of homicide, and you didn't."
"What do you mean 'homicide'? As you can see, this poor man is still wearing the oxygen tanks, diving mask and flippers," the policeman objects, pointing at the corpse.
Sherlock shoots him a disdainful look. "And your foregone conclusion is that he drowned while diving, correct?"
"Well, yes, obviously."
"Wrong," Sherlock exclaims while his eyes scan the body from head to toe. "He wasn't diving at all. To be exact, he wasn't even immersed in water when he died."
"What? And how do you explain his equipment, then?" Lestrade intervenes.
"It's another play pretend from our criminal mastermind. Look at the level of oxygen in the tanks: 100%, completely full. Had he been diving, he would have consumed a bit of oxygen, if only to draw the first gulps before kicking the bucket. And yet, his tank looks as if it were taken straight from the rack and stripped to the back of his body."
Giulia chimes in their banter, "It means he wasn't alone here. Since he didn't inhale the oxygen of the tank at all, someone else must have forced the mouthpiece into his mouth when he was already dead. That wasn't an unfortunate accident: it's homicide coupled with the intention to mislead. Or, in your case, entertain." She rolls her eyes at the consulting detective.
A hint of a smile lifts the corners of Sherlock's mouth as he nods at her.
"But even admitting he wasn't diving before dying, how could you say that he didn't die in the water?" The Sergeant struggles to follow that counterintuitive reasoning in the face of such hard evidence.
Sherlock sighs and bends down next to the body; he delicately lifts one of the man's arms to show them.
"Look at his hands: no wrinkling of the skin on the fingertips or palms. We all know that when we swim for a prolonged time, our fingers turn all pruney because of vasoconstriction. In other words, the blood vessels located just below our skin shrink. It's an involuntary response of the nervous system, meaning it happens automatically when the nervous system functions properly. However, if the blood isn't pumping anymore and brain death has occurred, the vasoconstriction isn't triggered, and the skin doesn't wrinkle. This man isn't showing any; look at the smoothness of his hands. Conclusion: he wasn't in this pool when he died."
"It still doesn't prove he was murdered. Maybe he was about to take a dive; he was all set with the equipment when something happened. Perhaps he had a heart attack on the edge of the pool and collapsed into the water. This would explain both the full tank and the absence of wrinkling on his skin," Lestrade objects.
"Interesting theory, Detective Inspector. There's just one big problem. I already told you: this man wasn't a diver. He could not be—not without taking quite the risk, according to some diving medical researchers," Sherlock wanders off before being interrupted by Greg.
"Alright, Mr Encyclopaedia, what is this theory even about? Why couldn't he dive?"
"He has type-1 diabetes. If you look closely at his lower abdomen, you should be able to spot minuscule signs of subcutaneous injections on his skin where he often administers the insulin himself." He points at the pocked skin just above the line of the victim's swimsuit. "However, you should know it already. You must have found a syringe or an insulin pump among his possessions; he wouldn't go anywhere without it."
Greg frowns at his assertion and shoots a confused look at the sergeant beside him, who quickly leafs through his notepad and shakes his head. "There was nothing of the sort in his clothes."
Holmes jumps to his feet. "That's impossible. Let me see what you've found."
Greg gestures to a police officer standing nearby who obediently hands Sherlock a pile of clothes sealed in a plastic bag with the tag Evidence. Sherlock rummages through the pieces of clothing and takes every item out of the bag, disregarding all basic forensics procedures and earning appalled looks from all the officers in the pool. It takes him only five seconds to state patronisingly, "These aren't his clothes."
Greg widens his eyes in disbelief. "Again? Just like with the nun?"
"I thought you said Moriarty wouldn't repeat himself," John says, confused.
"He didn't. This time, he didn't swap the victim's garments because they could give away his identity. This is a test to see if I am observant enough: a puzzle of inconsistency. I'll start with the most obvious detail. No disrespect, but this chubby gentleman would never fit into those trousers: the size is wrong," he asserts unconcernedly, dropping the pair of pants on the floor.
"Second, he certainly wasn't wearing a t-shirt. I'm pretty sure no one has noticed it yet, but there's a gold cufflink on the floor near the small ladder," Sherlock points his finger toward one of the pool's corners. They all squint their eyes, catching a glimmer on the floor.
"Before you ask, no, it can't belong to any of the clients of the swimming pool who might have dropped it earlier. As the intense smell of detergent and the spotless conditions of the ground both suggest, the entire floor was scrubbed clean just before closing time. So, we can assume that if anyone lost a shiny piece of gold, the janitor would have noticed it while mopping." Sherlock flaunts his observational skills.
Giulia looks around and spots a Caution: Cleaning in progress sign at the far end of the pool. She smirks at his need to show off. The smell of detergent and immaculate floors? Why does Sherlock always have to go with the most complicated answer?
"Couldn't it belong to the killer?" John suggests.
"Possibly, but let's put it this way: if you were planning to kill a man with such a massive body, then carry him through a sporting centre, strip him, dress him as a scuba diver, and dump his corpse in a pool, would a shirt and gold cufflinks really be your choice of outfit?" He asks with the most patronising smile he can manage, before focusing again on the body. "But there's more. Look at these marks on his arms: he must have scratched himself vigorously in his last hours. Why though?"
His question is rhetorical, for he immediately provides the answer to his silent crowd.
"The cause becomes quite obvious when you pay close attention to those reddish spots on his forearms. He was suffering from an itchy cutaneous rash that, as it would seem, was treated with a lotion, causing the discolouration of patches of his skin. Doctor, back me up here." He raises his eyebrows to John, who takes the hint.
"Such a skin rash would suggest an allergic reaction. Cortisone creams are usually prescribed to treat that. Thinning or discolouration of the skin are among the side effects of those lotions, indeed," Watson confirms professionally. "If I had to hazard a guess with no additional elements, I'd say the hives were caused by an allergy to the fabric he was wearing."
Sherlock gives him an appreciative nod and follows up on his tentative conclusion.
"Excellent inference, John. Given the choice of bling for his sleeves (the aforementioned gold cufflink), I can only imagine he had a luxurious silk shirt on, to which his skin is apparently very sensitive. This t-shirt you found, on the contrary, is made of 100% hypoallergenic cotton: it could have never triggered such a reaction," he says, showing them the tag on the inside of the t-shirt from the evidence bag.
He lets it fall to the ground next to the trousers and simpers at the police officers gaping at him.
"Can you see now why those clothes you found couldn't possibly belong to the victim?"
Greg whiffles and turns around to yell at Sally, "Sergeant Donovan, any luck with his identity?"
She looks up from her tablet. "Nothing doing, boss. We didn't find any match among the clients of this scuba diving pool. It'd seem he wasn't a diver, after all."
Sherlock gives him a meaningful glance, and Lestrade surrenders, sinking his face in his hands and muttering, "God help me." Then he turns to the speechless Sergeant next to him.
"Sergeant Loverick, this is your district and your case. I don't want to overstep your jurisdiction, so I'll ask for your permission. Do you mind if I let my consultant, erm, be of help, as far as possible?" He scratches his neck awkwardly, at a loss for better words.
Sergeant Loverick stares at his colleague for a long instant, then nods imperceptibly.
Greg addresses his sleuth friend. "Do your thing and tell us what you can deduce about his life."
"This man was a lyric singer," Sherlock affirms straight away.
"And how did you pull that out of your magic hat?" John inquires sarcastically.
Sherlock glowers at him and fiddles with his phone while replying, "I started with the only clue Jim Moriarty sent me: music. He shipped me another marble figurine, a statue holding some sort of flute—music it is then. It means this man must belong to the musical world, and coincidentally, we are a couple of blocks away from the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre. A lyric concert is scheduled for tonight." He shows them his phone screen where he has just opened up the theatre homepage and scheduling.
"I'd exclude the dance troupe; he doesn't exactly have le physique du rôle of a ballet dancer. Considering my deductions about the elegant clothes he was wearing when he was murdered, we know he had on something really expensive and stylish: silk shirt and gold cufflinks. Maybe a musician of the orchestra or a producer of the show." He lists a few possible options and extracts his portable magnifying glass, then brings it closer to the man's face.
"Both explanations would be perfectly plausible if not for the fact that he was wearing makeup. We can notice the smudged traces around his eyes and mouth. We can theorise he was ready to go on stage, then. To sum up, scenic presence, elegant clothes, lyric performance in the neighbourhood: he was a lyric singer, obviously. One last deduction: Given his physical features (namely, he is barrel-chested and has a short neck), I'd say he could be a baritone," he concludes, glancing at the body with a satisfied grin.
"Close enough. He is a tenor, actually," Giulia corrects him.
He narrows his eyes at her, astonished. "How do you know?"
"Because I paid attention when we got here." She gestures towards one of the large windows overlooking the car park.
They walk closer to the glass to look outside; in front of the sporting centre, there are a series of billboards, and one of them advertises the same lyric concert at the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre that Sherlock showed them. The face of the victim, accompanied by his name and vocal timbre, dominates the foreground of the billboard: Vincent Storing, tenor.
"I tried to avoid looking at this poor guy's face for as long as possible, but now that you pointed at his makeup, I took a glance at him and was reminded of where I had already seen his face," Giulia explains.
In the meantime, John has remained next to the corpse to examine it, and he calls out, "Sherlock? There's something wrong with this body. Look at his ribcage; it isn't supposed to be like that."
Holmes walks to his side and tilts his head, peeved. "Alright, you're the doctor: do your diagnosis."
John smirks: even the Great Sherlock Holmes needs to consult others sometimes.
"I know it sounds crazy, but without closer inspection, I'd say his lungs literally exploded," Watson ventures.
"And you are tempted to add that it bears a striking resemblance to barotrauma, aren't you?" Sherlock reads the conflicted expression on his face, slightly annoyed that his friend is trying to refute all his previous deductions that would categorically exclude the possibility of diving.
John takes the victim's head in his hands and carefully turns it from one side to the other to do a thorough analysis of his ears, then asserts, "I know you've already ruled out a diving accident, but everything is consistent with this diagnosis. Look at him: this man has ruptured eardrums, too. Damage to the lungs and ears are all signs of barotrauma. That is a common injury among divers. I never saw it on anybody who stayed on the dry land."
"Could you translate it for medical laymen?" Giulia jests.
John explains, "As a diver descends, water pressure increases and the volume of air in the lungs decreases. It's a simple physical principle. Conversely, during the ascent, the pressure reduces, causing the air to expand and making it difficult to breathe. This is why divers should always go through proper decompression phases when ascending in order to prevent arterial air embolism. It is called barotrauma when the body can't balance the pressure between air-filled spaces (such as ears and lungs) and the surrounding water. This can cause overexpansion of the lungs, just like this corpse shows."
"Thank you for your medical lecture, but I thought we had already proved that he couldn't be a diver," Giulia argues, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who stands still with his hands folded under his chin, lost in thought.
John nods. "As a matter of fact, he wasn't. Anything Sherlock said earlier about his diabetes is medically and anatomically correct."
"Wait. So, you're telling me that a man is lying dead with blasted lungs and ruptured eardrums, and the only reasonable cause of death is an activity that he couldn't even be practising? What happened to him, then?" Greg looks more muddled than ever.
Sherlock stares at the corpse for long seconds, then mutters, "I regret to say that I don't know."
Author's note: Here we go, another murder. Do you have any working theories so far?
Don't be shy and let me know what you think of this new case. I love interacting with my readers.