Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

  ‘Who are you talking about, Mathew?’

  Mahoney looked about warily. ‘Giuseppe Lorato.’

  ‘Who is Giuseppe Lorato?’

  ‘The son of a Roman cloth merchant. He was born in Ostia in eighteen sixty-four. He murdered women, leaving a picture cut from a story book on their body. The police were confused about his motivation but I knew.’

  ‘What was his motivation?’

  ‘To save them. To the police, to others, they were simply women, but Giuseppe understood their inner nature. Each was as unique as a beautiful animal that needed to be saved from the flood.’

  ‘The flood?’

  ‘Not a physical flood, rising water, but the inundation of sin and hopelessness that is our lot on earth.’

  ‘How did you know about Lorato and his murders?’

  ‘My great-great-grandfather was a kind of detective. He was Italian. He spent years searching for the killer. He wrote it all down, published a book.’

  ‘Crimini d’Italia.’

  ‘Yes. There were no English language copies. Very few Italian ones. My family apparently used to have one but …’ He trailed off.

  ‘There is no mention of a Giuseppe Lorato in this book.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be. My great-great-grandfather never publicly named Lorato.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because he killed him.’

  That hit Holmes like the kick of a wild colt. Benson took his time.

  ‘You know this how?’

  ‘My grandfather told me when I was twelve years old. His father had told him. My great-great-grandfather had cornered Lorato, finally tracked him down by finding which picture book was being used and who might have a copy. Lorato did not deny the crime. He said he would never be convicted. Told my grandfather to his face, he was saving these women. Saving their souls before they were stained, just like Noah saved all the animals of the world. Then my great-great-grandfather pushed him off a roof.’

  So that was it. Ometti had taken the law into his own hands. Holmes’ wished Georgette were here. She had looked so beautiful when Benson had called to pick her up. Benson had agreed to keep Holmes’ involvement out of the media but there was still the risk of a trial in which he would have to testify, although the confession had reduced that likelihood.

  ‘When did you tell Professor Scheer this?’

  ‘About the second time we met. He thought I was making it up. He wanted to help me.’

  ‘How?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘He thought he could talk Giuseppe out of my head.’ A bitter laugh from Mahoney. ‘A soul is immortal. It is not like a piece of furniture. Lorato is punishing my family by punishing me.’

  Benson did not get distracted. ‘Scheer told you he had located a copy of the book.’

  ‘Yes. He found the book. He thought that would somehow help me understand that Giuseppe was not a spirit but just a voice in my head. But most of the time it was Guiesppe he was talking to. I am doomed to carry on his work.’

  ‘To fill his ark?’

  Mahoney was silent for a long moment. Then his face twisted as if in pain and he began to cry.

  ‘What is the matter, Mat?’

  He shook his head from side to side. ‘I let Giuseppe down. I didn’t finish the task.’

  ‘Is that why you killed Professor Scheer?’

  ‘He was going to make me stop. He told me he would have to turn me in.’

  ‘Completely nuts,’ said Benson, swigging from a longneck. ‘He’ll wind up in an institution for the rest of his days.’

  They’d had a low-key night. A nice meal, beers, chatting over the case. She’d been nervous. Benson hadn’t called it a date but that’s what it was and they both knew it. They were on stools in a cool bar around Hell’s Kitchen. It might have been Pearl Jam playing on the speakers, she wasn’t sure. She’d never been big on rock music. Harry or Simone would have known. As she left, Holmes had said she looked ‘bonny’ but had barely glanced up at her. What had she expected anyway? The last two nights she’d lain in bed awake and heard him pacing outside. Part of her wanted that door to swing open and …

  She realized Benson had said something.

  ‘What was that?’ she was forced to ask.

  ‘I asked if you wanted another. You were miles away.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I bore the pants off you.’

  ‘No! No, it’s … I’ve forgotten how to relax. I was worrying about my hamsters.’

  And that was true. Vernon was dead and the autopsy had shown identical physiological degeneration to Zoe. More hamsters were growing ill and the transfusions were having minimal effect on slowing their decline. She’d worked sixteen hours straight yesterday and another dozen today, reading, consulting. Holmes’ life was on the line and she was sitting here drinking beers. Benson took her hand. It was always a bit scary when a guy touched you like that the first time. Like you were coming to a bridge and over the other side was a town, could be filled with flowers and magic or … dragons. Not with Sherlock, mind you. Perhaps, despite his protestations, he blamed her for his predicament. He had every right.

  ‘We could go back to my place, do a little slow dancing, or heck, we could play rap. I’m not fussy and I’m not far.’

  She looked up into Benson’s eyes. Did she dare make it across that bridge?

  She wasn’t coming back tonight. It was after two and still no sign of her. He’d once trapped an embezzler who, rather than face disgrace in court, had swallowed quicklime. The pain of his intestines dissolving must have been intense. Only now though, did Holmes appreciate something of how the fellow must have felt, for his own insides were a mess, actually throbbing. He’d never had this before, never.

  When his old friend Watson had married and left him, he’d been hurt. No, he had never let on, and perhaps, he had not realized until some time after Watson had left their old rooms, just how much he relied on Watson’s fellowship and humanity.

  He had been lonely then. Sometimes the tick and tock of the grandfather clock had been like a lash.

  And this was so much worse.

  He thought of Georgette’s father, Harry. He’d been alone for nearly twenty years. Being alone had never troubled Holmes in the slightest … until John Watson, and then now. Loneliness is about the absence of love, he realized, and until you sense love, its possibility at least, then what was the fuss? Harry must have loved Georgette’s mother very deeply. Thinking of Harry jarred something in him. What?

  It had only been there for an instant, like walking barefoot over a rug when one feels a tiny sharp prick. It was in Holmes’ DNA to be constantly, unceasingly, a detector of the jarring crime-scene fact. Therefore, he could deduce that whatever it was regarding Harry must be to do with the only case on which he had seen Harry working, the murder of the young woman dragged from the river. What had he seen without realising he had even been looking, heard without listening, touched though his hands were jammed in his pockets?

  Something.

  He would have to ask Georgette to check whether that case had been solved.

  Georgette.

  Perhaps he should head outside again for a pipe? That cocaine would have been damned –

  The key turned in the lock.

  He threw himself into the armchair and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a magazine which he flipped open on an article about breast enhancement. With spectacular control, he forced himself to look over with casual interest. My Lord, she was handsome. Her dress seemed intact. He took his pulse down. He stood.

  ‘How was your evening? Or should I say, morning.’

  Why did he say that? What devil inside him would urge that snide remark. To punish her, show disapproval?

  ‘It was fine, thank you.’

  Formal. His quip had nipped her. That was wrong of him. What was happening here? Why did he feel the urge to challenge Benson to a bout?

  ‘You watched the interview?�
� she asked, avoiding his gaze, clearly deliberately.

  I must try and engage her, act less churlish, he told himself.

  ‘Fascinating. The fellow believed he was inhabited by a ghost from the eighteen nineties. I know how he feels.’

  He’d not meant it as a criticism but that must have been how she took it for she looked at him as if he’d poked her in the chest. She made for the bathroom and he sat there, listening to her brush her teeth.

  It was only then that he realized every emotion he was experiencing was classic jealousy, a flaw he’d never thought would be one from which his character would suffer. He must do something to rectify the situation.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, he said brightly, ‘Would you care for some tea?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m going to bed.’

  She was heading for the bedroom. He had to find the courage to at least tell her how he felt, even if it came to nought. He stood.

  ‘Watson …’

  She turned as if expecting another jab.

  ‘I mean … Georgette.’ He had a feeling he might be blushing. She had stopped and was fully engaged. This was it. No stepping back.

  ‘I have been ruminating deeply and I believe … I am …’

  The words wouldn’t come, the light in the room was flickering, any strength in his legs deserted him. Get the words out, come on, it is not that difficult. But his jaw was frozen. He saw alarm on her face and felt himself falling …

  … falling through the air, a sensation of complete liberty suppressing the fear of inevitable impact and death. The cold wind rifled through his clothing but he would not let go. Moriarty, howling now but from rage not fear, would disintegrate with him.

  ‘Die, pestilence!’ he shouted down at the villain whose face snarled up into his own.

  ‘Madman!’ screamed Moriarty.

  No, logical to the end, thought Holmes, knowing he had found the only solution, the one premise the Prince of Evil would not consider, that Holmes would be prepared to end his own life to destroy Moriarty’s. It had not been a difficult choice. Apart from his good friend Watson, he left behind nothing but melted tallow and empty beakers. Humanity and love had passed him by. The water’s surface rushed towards him. He fought the instinct to tense up. Relax … You are a leaf, a –

  Bang.

  Light.

  A blurry indistinct shape hovered above him. He was conscious. His first thought was that it was a coachman, that he had fallen from a horse or cab onto a road. No, he told himself, you are dead. You plummeted from Reichenbach Falls. This is an afterlife.

  But as the image focused he remembered that his afterlife was very real. It was the future and this was the one who had resurrected him.

  Georgette. She pressed a cold flannel to his forehead.

  ‘Where am I?’

  He was embarrassed that his voice sounded croaky.

  ‘Your bedroom. You collapsed.’

  He reoriented like an actor who’d forgotten what play he was performing in that evening. Yes, that’s right. She had been out with Benson.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A good six or seven minutes.’

  She rested her bare hand upon his forehead and it sent an electric charge through his body. He remembered his petulance, jealousy, unforgivable conduct.

  ‘I shall be fine.’

  Doubt creased her delicate brow. ‘I’d feel better if we got you checked out.’

  ‘I’ve simply overexerted myself. Please, I’m sure that in the morning I shall be hale.’

  ‘I’m not a physician, Sherlock, I’m just a scientist. You might need more help than I can offer.’

  ‘Watson, please.’

  Her head dropped, chin pointing towards her décolletage. She looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Okay, but I’m just over there, if you feel any pain just … call out.’

  ‘I shall. Goodnight, Georgette, and thank you for everything.’

  She smiled. ‘Until tonight you’d never called me by my first name.’

  ‘Old habits are hard to break.’

  She bent towards him so close he could count the strands of her eyebrows. She is going to kiss me, he thought, half-panicking, because the only precedent he had was a goodnight kiss from a governess while a string quartet played Mozart in a distant room and sabres rattled in their scabbards. But she did not kiss him, she stroked his forehead ever so gently.

  ‘Please let me seek help. If scientists were to know –’

  ‘Impossible. In the morrow I shall be spry. I promise.’

  He felt her will melt.

  ‘You’re certain you’re okay?’

  ‘Truly.’

  And he’d never meant anything as sincerely.

  Georgette called in every favor she knew. Apart from making sure she had a clean tablecloth and napkins – not one of Harry’s strong points – for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner, her day was a procession from hospital to hospital, showing the scans of the dead hamsters, their blood counts.

  ‘How would you treat this kind of condition in a human?’ she would ask. Her heart had been shredded last night when Sherlock had collapsed, and she’d not slept, burying tears in her pillow and resolving to get an early start. She gave no credence to his assertion that it was as a result of fatigue. Not of itself alone. So, after three hours in her lab checking the vital signs of the remaining hamsters, she had begun her rounds. Two hematologists, a neurologist and a geriatrics researcher. From this she gleaned that beta-amyloid protein was the main enemy in dementia.

  ‘This seems to form the plaque, here,’ had said the professor of neurology as she tapped the scans of Zoe and Vernon’s brain. She had recommended the researcher, Paul Li. He sat in front of Georgette now. He looked eighteen but his wall was covered with a string of awards and degrees.

  ‘We’re trying to develop a vaccine that works. Our most recent vaccine was able to improve cognitive function in patients who were not presenting with symptoms; that is, our control group improved, but there was no improvement in the sufferers. However, we are tweaking that. We should have a new vaccine in about four months.’

  Four months was far too long. She asked if there might be any chance of obtaining any of the older vaccine but was told that was impossible.

  The hemotologist had said that the low red blood cell counts might indicate that gases she’d used had created some disturbance in the bone marrow and hence the red blood cell production. He’d be guessing some kind of over-hydration that could affect the kidney. There were drugs available that could help stimulate production, as might high altitude and diet.

  Sherlock had consented at least to her taking a blood sample before she had left and by the time she was back at the lab the results were in. His red blood cell count was down, not yet to a critical level but well below normal.

  And so here we were. Months of planning were nearing culmination, some strategies had been changed but the end game had remained the same. He was proud of what had been achieved …

  He pulled himself up. Not yet, nothing has been achieved yet. Don’t go into the ring overconfident, wait your moment – then a right, followed by the left they don’t see coming. Ponds and lakes had frozen up nicely. He took from his pocket the garotte, silent, effective. He would wear gloves. His DNA was not in the system but these days they could look for distant relatives, track backwards until they found a link. Which of course they would, but let’s hope by then it would be far too late. Had he made any mistakes? What he had needed had been rented, false names, paid by transfer from the account that would not link back. Not until he was ready. He put the gloves on, they fit snug.

  The thing about being Sherlock Holmes, reflected Holmes, is that I can never stop it, the analysis of everyday dross. I am like one of those diggers on the Australian goldfields, no matter how much money I have made, I have to keep fossicking. Even his collapse, perhaps a precursor of what he could expect in future before an inevitable slide into some kind of coma, was in
sufficient to extinguish this instinct. So, regardless that having Georgette comfort him had been the most exhilarating moment of his new life and perhaps even his former one, it was not long before his mind drifted over to its well-worn, natural path. After he had taken himself out in the freezing air for a pipe and wound his way aimlessly along the treacherous sidewalk under drifting snow, it had come to him what exactly that tiny sharp prick on his bare feet had been in relation to Harry Watson’s case.

  Why had the murderer moved the body?

  That question had been raised but not satisfactorily answered. He looked in his phone and found Harry’s number. His status with Harry was problematic. Although Georgette had remained in the car in the confrontation with Mahoney, she had still been at the scene. Oh well, in for a penny. He hit the button that dialled automatically.

  When Harry saw Georgette was calling he was delighted. He’d only just finished up having a coffee with Simone, who was over the moon, things finally breaking for her. He needed to remind Georgette about bringing a clean tablecloth, although probably he didn’t, she was too well organized.

  ‘Hi, Treasure,’ he said with enthusiasm. Until the coffee with Simone, he had been on his feet all day, chasing down dead-ends.

  ‘Actually Harry, it is Percy.’

  ‘Is Georgette okay?’

  ‘So far as I know, she is at her lab. I wanted to speak with you.’

  Simone had warned him that Georgette had feelings for the guy but didn’t know where Percy stood. Harry had been on the verge of forgiving him until that take-down of Mahoney. Sure, it went alright, but it might not have.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Has the case of the body in the water been solved?’

  ‘Not yet. They looked at the former husband but he was cleared. Why?’

  ‘Something bothers me: Why move the body?’

  It had bothered Harry too. Though not a homicide detective, that didn’t stop him analysing the cases he worked on. It wasn’t to violate the body in private that it had been moved. Likely the killer could have done that in the victim’s apartment anyway but regardless, there had been no sexual interference, no bashing. The murder was … clinical.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harry admitted.