CHAPTER 51: FINAL ACT
Giulia steals a glance at Sherlock's absorbed expression and feverish activity, and shakes her head, laughing inside. This is what she talked about with Sherlock's mother, after Christmas dinner. Mrs Holmes had asked her why she put up with her son, and Giulia had pointed to that one particular aspect; since she came to Baker Street for the first time, she had noticed a sparkle in him, a burning flame of curiosity and passion for his detective work. At first, his childish enthusiasm for cases caught her attention as one of his many quirks. But now, after many months and even more internal battles, whenever she watches him in his impetus of adrenaline rush, a ridiculous, spontaneous smile plasters on her face. She loves his passion and his devotion to the search for the truth. She loves that inhumanly dangerous life by his side.
As her eyes linger over his movements, a detail catches her attention, waking her up from her daydream; some beads of sweat are forming fast on Sherlock's forehead, trickling on the keyboard over which he is towering. She frowns at the anomalous reaction of his body. It's mid-February, and the theatre is still considered an active crime scene and any activity has been shut down, meaning no one has taken the trouble of turning the heat on lately. Besides, they aren't even wearing their coats; they left them in the museum cloakroom when they rushed to the theatre without a second thought.
Inside the direction cabin, she is freezing; she has to restrain her jaw from making her teeth chatter. She looks at Sherlock; whenever he talks, a puff of white smoke comes out of his mouth, so he must be cold, too. How can he be sweating so much then? What is going on with his body?
She lowers her eyes to his hands and notices that he is spasmodically clenching his right fist to dominate the uncontrollable shaking in his hand. That's not a cold shiver, though.
Her quick mind draws one logical conclusion: the inexplicable tremor and copious sweat are all physical symptoms of his post-traumatic stress disorder. Solving this case is making adrenaline pump into his veins, triggering a reaction in his scarred subconscious.
She gives him a concerned look and murmurs, "Sherlock, did you take your medicine today?"
He covers the microphone with his hand and whispers back, "What are you talking about?"
"Are you feeling alright? Before going to the exhibition, did you remember to take all the medicine the doctor prescribed you?"
Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to recall his last actions before leaving the house. As his memory focuses on the tablets that he left on his nightstand, that recollection brings to the surface another image: the two bottles of lotion he had toyed with during the costume designer's interrogation in the wardrobe department. Even back then, the sight of those lotions had triggered his PTSD, already aggravated by his utter ineptitude to take care of himself.
Right now, though, the resurfacing of that piece of information that he stored away in his mind palace flashes before his closed eyes, providing him with the final answer that he has been secretly chasing all along.
He opens his eyes wide, exclaiming, "The medicines. That was the key, and it was right under my nose. Yes! You are a genius."
In the heat of the moment, he takes Giulia's head between his hands and plants a kiss on her forehead.
She arches a brow, bewildered at such an unusual display of affection. "What was that?"
He takes a step backwards and clears his throat, blushing slightly, then says timidly, "A sign of gratitude. For inspiring me with the definitive solution to this enigma."
He hurriedly turns his back to her and resumes his show, speaking straight into the microphone for everyone to hear.
"When I solved the case in my mind, less than an hour ago, one tiny detail kept eluding me. Everything fell into place so smoothly and perfectly that even the slightest inconsistency stood out. Now it is perfectly clear that you people shared one common motive—you were mostly driven by blind revenge. The wife wanted to get back at her cheating husband; the mistress needed to avenge Vincent's forthcoming abandonment and negligence, and so did the producer. As for the journalist, we've already established that he was trying to get revenge for his suicidal sister, the never-to-be bride. But what about the costume designer? Calvin was surely upset about Vincent's fits of rage and tantrums because of his skin allergy, but that is too little, too flimsy. What real incentive could he ever have to participate in a cold-blooded homicide? What drove you to murder, Calvin?"
Once again, Sherlock directs the beams of light on the scrawny figure of the costume designer on the stage.
"You really wanted a part in the production, didn't you? You wanted your fifteen minutes of fame, even just one song in the show. One night to shine. You hoped that Vincent, your idol, would understand and step back; you wished he would leave you a tiny spot. You wanted him to be your patron, just like his producer had been for him when he first started. But he didn't believe in you, or maybe he was too self-absorbed, intoxicated by his own success and by the blinding limelight. When it became clear that he would never quit the stage, you tried to push him aside for a while. You caused him the diabetic shock that knocked him out one month ago, during a performance." Sherlock's voice thunders in the auditorium.
Calvin swallows hard and yells back at the top of his lungs, "You've just said it; it was a diabetic shock. I have nothing to do with it. Vincent must have miscalculated the right dosage and overdosed on insulin."
"Exactly. A very accurate diagnosis, my compliments. That's precisely what happened to him. The police checked Vincent's hospital record about that night, and I saw the medical report myself. Here are the findings: There was excessive insulin in Vincent's bloodstream the night he collapsed. That's the odd thing; how could that happen?"
Inside the direction cabin, he theatrically rests his chin on the palm of his hand, faking a pensive pose. He knows nobody but Giulia can see his pantomime, but he just can't resist: the atmosphere is so suggestive.
"We can safely exclude suicidal tendencies; his wife told us how much her husband loved life and its pleasures." He smirks childishly, leaning over the console. "Vincent Storing had type-1 diabetes, meaning he used to check his blood sugar levels every single time before injecting himself with insulin. This also rules out the possibility of someone else trying to poison him since he attended to his own care. So how could he himself get the wrong amount?"
"A malfunction in his medical equipment, perhaps?" Calvin ventures that hypothesis.
Sherlock scratches his forehead, pretending to ponder that option.
"I thought the same thing. There's always the possibility that his capillary glucose monitor displayed the wrong level of blood sugar, right? And yet the nurses at the hospital went through his possessions and checked the data recorded on his glucose monitor; it worked perfectly," he replies as the clear image of the medical report Lestrade had brought to his house some hours before is seared in his mind. Skimming rapidly through it was enough for him to memorise all the relevant information. He knows everything that was recorded, and what was missing, too.
"But there had to be a flaw in the system. Vincent Storing was the one who made a mistake. He must have read the wrong levels of sugar in his blood on the display, which is what made him increase the dose of insulin. The only question is how?"
"Any working theories?" The costume designer shouts again, a quiver in his voice.
"Just one: you were behind it. You can prove you didn't tamper with his glucose monitor, but I bet you found another way. You knew about his allergy to silk and still deliberately made him wear silk shirts for the show, well aware that contact with that fabric would cause him a rash and redness. This gave you the chance to play the part of the good Samaritan; you bought lotion cream for him to alleviate his itch and pain. Hydroquinone cream, to be exact; it was on the table in the costume department—I fiddled with it during your interrogation. I distinctly remember it because I thought it was a weird choice. Why hydroquinone?"
"Hydroquinone-containing lotions can help fade red or brown spots that persist after redness or irritation," Calvin replies, seemingly unperturbed.
"You're right, they do. It also explains the discolouration of the skin I noticed on the body at the crime scene—it is, in fact, one of the collateral effects of hydroquinone. But I don't need to tell you all this stuff; you know it already. You were in medical school, after all," he drops in allusively. "Bear with me. Why would a drop-out medical student choose that particular lotion over a corticoid cream that would be much more effective with the condition you wanted to treat?"
The costume designer is speechless.
"Oh, you've been clever, Calvin, and it is going to be immensely amusing for me to take you down. Some people might find chemistry boring, but I find it fascinating, and the chemical components of that lotion will hand me the final proof to nail you. Scientific studies have demonstrated that the use of hydroquinone-containing cream can induce falsely increased values of capillary glucose levels. You gave Vincent Storing that body lotion because you knew its side effects. He applied it on his skin, and when he got elevated glucose measurements, he did what he thought would be best for his health: he increased the insulin in his blood, accidentally causing himself an insulin shock. This explains why he almost seized on stage and passed out one month ago. You didn't seriously try to kill him, though. You simply wanted to incapacitate him so that you could replace him and get on the stage to finish the show. You wanted to stand in the spotlight. Well, look at you now." Sherlock mocks him, and his fingers fly on the console to direct three spotlights on Calvin.
"Even so, that little accident didn't stop him. One month later, he was ready to tread the boards again, and you figured that he would never get off that stage willingly. Ultimately, this is what convinced you to take part in this unholy alliance. Did you make a deal with the producer? Are you going to be his next golden goose? This is your motive: desperation, hunger for success, and money. You need to break through as a lyric singer; it is not only the dream of a lifetime but also the only option for a young man who dropped out of medical school to pursue this career. The alternative for you would be to keep working together with your father in a funeral home your whole life, am I right?"
Calvin takes his head in his hands, sobbing, as Sherlock goes on, "About that, thank you very much for telling us about your old man's profession and your studies in forensic pathology. We all remember that you threw up in a trash can when we arrived at the theatre. At first glance, one could think that it was an emotional yet human reaction upon hearing the news of Mr Storing's death, but it doesn't add up. How could someone so accustomed to death due to their academic studies in forensic pathology (albeit incomplete) and occasional work in their father's mortuary business react so badly to someone's death? I would have expected more sangfroid from you. Unless your nausea was caused by something else." His satisfied smile glimmers in the dim-lit cabin.
"I'll give you a hint; it's a side effect of having been too close to the deadly sound waves that killed Vincent. They didn't cause you a pulmonary embolism as it happened to the victim because you probably kept a safe distance from the stage while Mr Humphrey was using the sound system. But you weren't far enough, and you were still affected by the pressure waves. This provides for an interesting question: why would a costume designer, who is used to working in the far backstage, be standing so close to the stage at that time? Easy: You were there to help dispose of the body."
Sherlock toys once more with the lights, illuminating the journalist again.
"In fact, you weren't the only one exhibiting some physical reactions to pressure waves. Gordon Ammel showed some nasty effects, too. When the columnist spoke with us, he complained about a terrible headache and dizziness. Again, those are signs of a close encounter with dangerous sound waves. You two had to be at the forefront to remove the dead body, which makes even you, the angel-faced rising star, an accessory to this murder."
Sherlock switches on all the lights on the stage and comes out of the direction cabin with Giulia following him. He speaks out loud from the end of the auditorium.
"This plot was remarkably devious. Once the plan was set in motion, none of you could stop it. That's genius. Each accomplice had their task—their indispensable part in the play. You were all necessary for it to happen, and nobody could back out without bringing everyone else down. It's like a game of dominoes: when a chip falls, it is going to take the entire streak to the ground."
Sherlock and Giulia walk down one of the aisles between the rows of seats, towards the stage.
"And now onto the most intriguing part of this case. One would expect solidarity among accomplices, but the plan was way more sophisticated than that. When interrogated, you all pointed fingers at each other, without mentioning potential suspects from outside your small group, because you knew you couldn't deny the veiled interest each of you had in his death; it'd seem too fishy. Instead, you threw the guilt around, casting doubt on everyone, making me spin from one suspect to the next in a chain of linked alibis that ultimately seemed to acquit you all."
His applause echoes in the silent theatre while everyone is holding their breath.
"Bravi, well done! Your performance was impressive. You almost got away with murder. Almost. Sergeant Donovan, I believe you have all the answers now. You can arrest them: they are all responsible for the murder of Vincent Storing."
He turns around to grin at Giulia and bows histrionically.
"And with it, the curtain falls."
Giulia and Sherlock walk silently to the front door of the theatre.
She breaks the ice. "You've finally solved the case."
He nods pensively. "So it would seem."
"Only thanks to my invaluable help." She smirks, trying to get a more enthusiastic reaction from him. "I convinced you to listen to that guide's explanation of the cosmic noise, and I even suggested the involvement of medicine, sort of."
The corners of his mouth bend in a playful smile. As much as her mere presence unleashes a whirlpool of sensations that he can't control, threatening to cloud his judgment, she always provides the sparkle that triggers his most extraordinary deductions.
"Scotland Yard will probably keep you out of their official records, but for what it's worth, I appreciate your contribution."
He keeps the glass door open for her, and she jokes, "We can say I was your muse."
At those words, Sherlock freezes. Giulia turns around to find him standing still in the middle of the doorway, his hand paralyzed on the handle. He gawps at her and whispers, "What did you just say?"
She shrugs. "It was just a self-referential compliment. You don't have to take it seriously."
He blinks repeatedly, coming back to life. "No, that is the key to the game. A Muse... Of course! I finally cracked the code. They represent the Muses," he almost shouts into the night, sprinting out of the theatre.
She frowns. "Who?"
"The figurines that Moriarty shipped to me. When I received the first statue, I simply assumed it would contain a clue, pointing out the murder weapon and the connection with the killer." He inhales some cold air to clear his head.
"And it did. The sculpture was holding a bunch of grapes; the nun was choked with a one-of-a-kind wine. You connected the dots at St. Barth's," Giulia recalls, remembering Molly Hooper's help in the autopsy.
"Yes, but what I have been missing all along is that they aren't just random classical-style figures. They are the Muses," Sherlock repeats.
"You mean the Greek goddesses?"
"Precisely. The first statue sent to Baker Street was holding grapes and was wearing a flossy veil and cloak. I should have recognised her sooner; she is Polyhymnia, the Muse of Sacred Hymn and Agriculture."
Giulia's mind draws a rapid conclusion. "Sacred hymns… The first victim was a nun."
"You're finally following." Sherlock nods at her. "Moriarty accurately chose his victims and killing methods to fit the pattern with the statues of the Greek Muses."
"So, I suppose the fair lady holding a wind instrument and wearing a laurel wreath on her head that you received at the convent represents Euterpe, the Muse of Songs, Music, and Lyric Poetry. Quite appropriate," she murmurs, looking back at the facade of the theatre.
"How do you know that?" Sherlock stares at her, pleasantly impressed as always.
"Ever since our second case together, you've known that I studied Greek language and culture with my private tutors and teachers. My knowledge of Greek mythology should hardly come as a surprise to you."
He looks at her, admiring once again her peculiar intelligence and knowledge, then completes her line of reasoning.
"Euterpe symbolised the connection not only to the victim—a lyric singer—but also, as we finally know, to the murder weapon: those killer sound waves. Smart and poetic."
She rolls her eyes and looks around the deserted pavement with ill-concealed worry.
"Are we waiting for another figurine leading to another murder, then?" The mere idea gives her the creeps, but she convinces herself that her shivers are just caused by the icy night air. She regrets not stopping to retrieve her coat from the museum cloakroom.
Sherlock gazes upon vacancy. "I don't think so. The first round of this game was a relatively simple homicide; one victim, one killer, and a well-known instigator. All Moriarty did was throw in some interesting features—namely, his phone call to you, the fake IDs in the name of Dr Kim Cab, and the entry in the convent ledger. Later, he upgraded to a well-concocted plot with the tenor. It feels like he is building it up to something never seen or done before. He has the brains and means for a truly unprecedented crime, and that's what I'm expecting from him."
Giulia sighs. His obsession with that enigmatic criminal mastermind borders on pure admiration.
"Don't you think you might give him too much credit?"
He turns around to fix his eyes on hers. "You once told me I always want everything to be clever, but sometimes people aren't the challenge I'd like to face."
Giulia gapes at him. "Yeah, I remember I said that some months ago. It was when you couldn't deduce the code to unlock my phone. How can you remember that?"
"I remember everything about you," he whispers and averts his gaze as his cheeks blush. "The point I'm trying to make is that you were wrong. You have always been wrong."
"Pardon?"
"Back then, you were talking about yourself and your choice of password. The code was banal, but you aren't, not in the slightest. You are possibly the greatest dilemma I've ever come across. The mysteries surrounding your past have incessantly lit up my curiosity."
And my interest, he mentally adds before going on.
"Today, you revealed some more explanation about your past love story and the dreadful explosion at the Consulate, but I can feel that your story isn't complete. I know you are still holding back, and that's fine by me. Some months ago, all this secrecy would have driven me crazy, but not anymore. I respect your time and space, and I hope that one day you will trust me enough to finally open up. Until then, I will patiently wait," he murmurs, and his breath condenses in a white puff between them.
He clears his throat to retrace his train of thought. "I went a bit off track, sorry. I was saying that most of humankind is indeed banal in my eyes, but there are some clever exceptions. You are one of them, and so is Jim Moriarty. I'm not giving him too much credit. I know his true colours and what he is capable of. He is planning his greatest challenge so far. It's just a matter of time—" he gets cut short by Sergeant Donovan marching to them with her ever-present scowl.
"Freak, you've got mail," she addresses him disdainfully and almost throws an envelope at him. He catches it, studying it in his hands.
"This looks different from the other gifts. I know Moriarty wouldn't repeat himself, but I thought the Greek Muses were slightly more than two," Giulia jokes around, struggling to suppress a shudder crawling down her spine.
"The Muses were nine, you're right. But this isn't a gift. It's an invitation."
He opens the envelope methodically and pulls out three tickets for the play Ifigenia at the Royal National Theatre. There is also a note with only four words: Come out and play.
Sherlock glances at the tickets and fishes his phone out of his pocket, dialling frantically.
"What are you doing?" Giulia asks.
"I'm about to cut John's date short. He must come, too. I can't do it alone."
His call goes straight to voicemail, and he leaves a message. She waits until he has sent at least four more texts to John, then comments in an offended tone, "You are not alone."
He whips his head up and cocks a brow at her. "You are not coming. It's too dangerous."
"Are you joking? I thought we were past that point: you trying to protect me by pushing me away. It never works," she underlines, peeved.
"You don't understand. Last time, with that psychotic rogue agent of the CIA that kidnapped you, I tried to drive you out of my life because I was in the crosshairs, and I wanted to divert the target from you. This time, though, it's different. It's Moriarty, and he's unpredictable. If anything were to happen to you, I would feel responsible." He looks at her with pleading eyes. She had never seen him so conflicted before.
"I appreciate your concern, but it's not up to you to decide. In case you didn't notice, there are three tickets, and you were the one who said we need to play by his rules," she says, grasping the tickets from his hand to study them.
"Yes, but this game is between Jim and me—" he gets interrupted mid-sentence by Giulia's shocked voice, "Sherlock? I'm starting to think this isn't all about you."
She turns the tickets around, showing him that Moriarty wrote the initials of their names on the back of each ticket: S.H., J.W., and G.R.
"The last name I got with my new identity is Ferrini. G.R. are my real initials, the family name I was born with. This means that Moriarty knows who I really am."