I was expecting to finish this book last year, but the pandemic situation had other plans. Only now I’m back on track and the new deadline is 2022. I got so excited about this project, having a great time writing this story and living with my favourite characters on an epic adventure, so I decided to present to you a glimpse of what is coming.
This is the first chapter I wrote years ago, just for fun, not even the final version, but I’d appreciate to have your thoughts on it. I hope you enjoy it.
PRELUDE
It was a rainy night, like
many others, setting a good background for murderers to practise their odious
art. This time, accompanying the melancholy of the rain and the blood dripping
down the pavement, a sad melody sounded within reach of everyone, policemen and
onlookers who followed the crime scene. The automatic piano placed across the
street poured its notes over the body that had been found less than an hour
ago, on Kirtling Street in London.
- Somebody turn that damn
music off - shouts one policeman.
- The inspector is coming,
he told to keep everything exactly as it is.
- Correction: the Inspector
is already here - said Lestrade crossing the crowd along with two men, that
were known by all, but adored by few.
The taller and thinner one
speaks, while lifting the collar of his coat:
- Prelude in E-minor by
Frédéric Chopin. An excellent soundtrack for a night like this. My good doctor,
examine the body, I’ll check the piano.
The doctor bends down to
examine the body while the tall man bends over the piano and begins his
analyses.
- An excellent soundtrack?
- complains the policeman - A man died here tonight, Dr. Watson, doesn’t your
friend have a heart?
- Oh yes, he does, I assure
you - the doctor answers without taking his eyes off the victim - but most of the
time he prefers to ignore it. Do the same about the detective, officer. We have
enough to worry about around here.
Sherlock watches the piano,
soaked by the rain and yet playing uninterrupted, as if a ghost were sitting on
the bench right in front of the keys. The man’s mind works fast and his
companion joins him.
- Sherlock, you won’t
believe it.... - Watson start, but he’s interrupted by the detective.
- He had traces of skinning
on his buttocks and fingertips, was probably strangled right where he lays, but
there are signs on his face from previous injuries, maybe an attempted
suffocation with a bag or something. Am I right?
- Yes, of course - John
Watson was no longer amazed or bothered by Sherlock’s deductions - how do you
know?
- There are blood marks on
the keys and the seat that the rain has failed to wash away. The colour is too
strong, one touch and... my finger has a hard time getting out. The puddles of
blood mixed with water form an obvious trail from the pavement to the asphalt,
following to the body.
- Is that some kind of
glue?
- Exactly, our killer
wanted to turn this place into his private work of art, but he’s inexperienced.
The federal agent was still alive when he was attached to the bench and the
piano, he probably woke up and crawled across the asphalt trying to escape, the
bench has scratches on the legs and sides, it certainly remained glued to his
buttocks while the killer strangled the agent and their bodies struggled. The
commotion caused a lot of noise. He only had time to put the stool back in its
place before the first onlookers arrived.
- Okay, there’s a mistake
in your story, but I’ll let you continue. - Watson now had a victorious look at
his friend. He had never found a flaw in his deductions before - tell me about
the choking and how you knew he had been strangled without looking at the body.
- The music, Watson, is the
most important part of this gruesome picture before us. Chopin’s Opus 28 number
4, also called “Suffocate”. A person would not have the trouble of dragging a
piano here, and put that music as the soundtrack to his act, without being sure
the victim would die asphyxiated. When the man broke free from his death trap,
the quickest way to ensure this would be strangulation. That part I just
guessed.
This last comment surprised
Watson, but he preferred not to say anything.
- You said there was a
mistake, what was it? - Sherlock asked without showing much interest.
- The man is not a federal
agent, he is a postal employee. His name is Larry Higgens, in charge of package
distribution in the southern region.
- Come on, John, I expected
more from you. I won’t always be by your side to open your eyes. - the
detective was now showing great impatience - Look at the body again, tell me
what you see.
Watson took a deep breath,
looked at the body again and started:
- I see a man, 42 years
old, 1.80 m tall, athletic build, grey hair, wearing a tailor-made suit and
stingray leather shoes.
- Pretty sophisticated
attire for a postal employee, don’t you think?
- He may have been a man of
refined taste. Perhaps he was returning from a gala party.
- Watson, his shoes.
- Stingray leather? Yes,
very exotic and no doubt very expensive, but...
- Look at the soles, dear
friend.
The doctor wasn’t sure what
he was looking at, but it was there, right in front of him. The sole of the
right shoe had a strange division, right in the middle, as if something was
embedded there.
- What the hell is that?
- A tracking module in
disguise. Old equipment, used in the ‘70s for emergency situations. This shows
that Mr Higgens was probably a fan of classic spy stories, because nowadays
there are much more efficient technologies, but that is not the point, at least
for now. Surely only a federal agent could have access to such equipment.
Criminals would prefer more practical equipment than that, and nerd collectors
would not be so sophisticated with the rest of their clothes.
- He must not have had time
to trigger his device, or this place would be filled with feds - Lestrade
enters the conversation - enough of this music. Foreman, turn off the piano.
The policeman pulls out the
roller, in the centre of the large piano case, and locks it. As he operates the
lock, everyone hears a buzzing, a pop, a groan. The piano shakes, knocks are
heard coming from inside the instrument.
- There’s someone stuck in
there!
Everyone rushes to the
piano, trying to open it as the pounding from inside becomes louder and louder
and more desperate. After much effort, Lestrade opens the top lid of the piano
and sees a woman struggling inside. As he lifts the lid, again there is a pop
and now a squeak.
- Gas, there’s gas going in
there, get her out quickly! - the policeman bent over the piano to save the
woman, but his hands stopped 30 centimetres above her face. There was still a
glass lid.
- The bastard wants us to watch
her die - Watson took a truncheon from one policeman and tried to break the
glass. Nothing.
From inside the piano, the
woman, with shrunk legs, was beating her arms on the reinforced glass. She
screamed with all her might for help, but her cries were not heard. The men
could only see the terror on her face and tried to open the piano. Sherlock
looked below, searching for a way to turn off the gas that filled the small
tomb of wood and glass in which the woman lay. Her skin was turning from red to
purple. Two policemen were trying to break the sides of the instrument, which
were made of very thick and firm wood. Someone went for tools. She was
spasming, her eyes were moving wildly. Lestrade drew his revolver and shot the
glass, which cracked, but the bullets did not go through. The woman stopped
moving, her lifeless eyes stared at those men who could not save her. The tools
arrived.
***
A few moments later, agents
of Mi6, the British government’s intelligence agency, arrived on the scene,
drove away onlookers and the press, and took everything away, giving none of
those present any explanation. Lestrade shouted with all the anger a man can
have, but his protests were ignored. Sherlock and Watson stood aside.
- ‘A joke in very poor
taste,’ said Sherlock, ‘and a monstrous ingenuity. The locking of the music
triggered an injection of adrenaline, which caused the lady on the piano to
awaken from her condition, which we shall never know what it was. The removal
of the cap triggered the gas device.
- Luckily for us the glass
was bulletproof, or Lestrad would have blown everyone up - Watson was trying
not to go into shock and put his thoughts in order - She had a tattoo on her
neck, a dragon, could she be involved with some gang or criminal faction?
- Maybe, I’ve seen that
drawing somewhere before, we need to investigate.
- Did you notice anything
else?
- Yes, a message - Sherlock
had his hands on his face, motionless, concentrating his strength in his mind.
Watson was looking at him anxiously. - There is something written on the walls
of the piano, scratched by nail, possibly something the woman wanted to tell us
about her captor.
- She seemed too scared to
think of leaving clues, but, what was written?
- Three numbers: 007.
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