Chapter 7

7. "Don't let him see it"

Sherlock strode into the ruins of the Workhouse and soon disappeared from sight.

Just as he had said, "We'll talk about the little things later." He was busy investigating the case now.

Watson did not hurry after him. He still seemed stuck on the question of why I knew his name.

"Shall we talk about it when we get back to 221B Baker Street?"

Watson seemed to think discussing it would take forever, and he also agreed that solving the case should come first.

When he said that, an idea flashed through my mind: could I use my poor English and inability to communicate effectively to brush everything aside? After silently shedding a tear for myself, I decided to take a different approach.

Sherlock was a civilized modern man, after all. He would never dissect a living person's brain.

As long as I survived in this dangerous world, I could at least keep my body intact.

Besides, I needed a "safety catch."

"The case comes first now."

I nodded in agreement.

Before we set off, I looked at Watson and gave Mr. Watson a warning in advance. "Mr. Watson, didn't you think Mr. Holmes looked like he wanted to cut my head open and have a look inside just now?"

Watson thought I was telling a joke with a straight face.

Just as a joke seemed funnier when the person telling it wore a serious expression, Watson thought I was trying to lighten the mood between us. After all, he had taken part in Sherlock's plan, and there was a slight awkwardness from being on opposing sides.

But my words put him at ease, and he laughed. "Wouldn't that be frightening?"

I should mention that Watson, who had known Sherlock for less than twenty-four hours, was still innocent and naive at this point. Later, when I repeated something similar, he did not laugh. Instead, he solemnly said, "Take care."

I felt even sadder then than I did now. Perhaps it was the feeling of breaking down because, even after someone understood me, I still had to struggle on by myself?

In any case, it was complicated.

For now, that was the end of my conversation with Watson.

My safety catch was John Watson.

As the story of Yu the Great and his father Gun showed, channeling the flow was better than blocking it.

Rather than continually covering things up, or even playing dumb, I was better off actively looking for a way out and outside help.

John Watson was Sherlock's closest friend.

As long as I gained his protection, Sherlock would at least have to consider John Watson's protests and displeasure before digging into my brain.

I needed to do three things for now:

First, win John Watson's trust and support. Simply put, friendship.

Second, get Watson and Sherlock to become close friends as soon as possible.

I remembered that Watson and Sherlock had grown close through the case of "A Study in Scarlet."

Although the case had been delayed because of me, the earlier comic had shown that the protagonist's important plot events would not be changed by my actions. At most, I would influence how some things unfolded.

In other words, the case of "A Study in Scarlet" was bound to happen, and the two of them would soon become good friends.

All I had to do was survive until that case was over.

The third thing was, while I was still

safe, I had to move out as soon as possible.

Staying at a hotel was fine now.

Even if it cost a hundred pounds a day, I had to spend the money.

As the old saying went, losing money could ward off disaster. There was some truth to it.

It was all because I had been too greedy.

I had tried to get the money Mycroft was offering for keeping an eye on Sherlock to solve my current predicament of having no money.

People really should not be too greedy.

After moving out, I would work on building a good relationship with Watson.

Having thought everything through, I was filled with hope again.

Once Watson and I finished talking, Lestrade, who had long been waiting at the side, spoke up. He really was going to take us to see the bones in the courtyard.

"The body had been buried for five years. According to the volunteers who survived at the Workhouse, there was a patch in the courtyard where no flowers or plants ever grew. It was completely bare. But no one paid much attention to it. Nobody spent time gardening, after all, so they just assumed the soil there was too poor. Besides, don't they say decomposing bodies actually make plants grow better?"

"That's not entirely true."

I interrupted him.

As soon as I spoke, Lestrade looked at me in surprise.

Normally, I would have kept my mouth shut.

However, I had a bad habit of taking things too seriously. When I heard someone say something wrong, I could not sit still. Some people called it a perfectionist tendency. Because they thought such mistakes should not happen, they naturally felt anxious.

Although I did not think I had that tendency myself, I still wanted to explain it properly.

"Not every body makes plants grow more lushly."

"In fact, most of the time, a decomposing body has a negative effect on its surroundings. Otherwise, we wouldn't take such care to prepare bodies before burial. As a body decays, it produces harmful gases and chemicals such as ammonia and hydrogen sulfide. These can make the surrounding plants and soil toxic and damage the plants."

Watson's eyes widened. "You know so much!"

For some reason, his words made me feel a little embarrassed.

Perhaps I was not used to Watson's angelic habit of praising people at every opportunity.

Lestrade quickly responded, "No wonder Sherlock said we should split up. You can do detective work too."

Ah, no...

Watson took it seriously too, his eyes full of anticipation. "If you need any help, just let me know."

"...I'll do my best."

My plan was to make complete notes on the body in the courtyard and hand them over to Sherlock. Then my job would be done.

The body in the courtyard had been reduced to a complete male skeleton.

The parietal bone of the skull was fractured, with the break running downward from the top. He had been attacked from behind, most likely while sitting down. The skeleton measured nearly 1.8 meters long. To catch a man that tall off guard, the attacker would have had to be at least ten-some centimeters taller, and people who were 1.9 or even two meters tall were uncommon.

"Based on the clothing and teeth, we've identified him as Ryan Trevelyan, who went missing five years ago," Lestrade explained. "He had an intellectual disability but was capable of basic self-care. He lived on welfare for years and had no contact with his family."

"Then how did anyone know he was missing?" Watson found that strange.

If Ryan had no contact with his family, nobody should have noticed even if he had disappeared.

Lestrade explained, "Five years ago, Ryan called his mother and said he wanted to move to a small town called Wells. He told her not to contact him anymore."

"He said he wouldn't be going back either. His mother thought it was strange because Ryan's voice sounded odd on the phone. She soon went to report it, but the police didn't consider her suspicions grounds to open a case. Later, they found that Ryan was still collecting his benefits every month, so the matter was set aside. Scotland Yard has an unresolved missing-person file on him."

Watson could not help sighing. "To think he died here five years ago."

I stared at the bones in a daze.

People with disabilities, a Workhouse, welfare payments, an explosion, bodies hidden in plastic barrels, serial murders.

The case was not hard to understand, and it was easy enough to see where to look. There was just one point that stood out above all the rest.

Before I could think any deeper, I felt the intense gazes around me. I quickly came to my senses and looked at Lestrade and Watson. "What is it?"

"You look as though you know something," Lestrade said.

Watson encouraged me too. "Tell us what you think."

I, I...

Leave this sort of thing to Sherlock!

"I'm not really sure." I waved my hands. "But we can tentatively conclude that it was a group crime. And the killers all had some connection to the victims. The police may need to investigate carefully what kinds of people the victims knew and associated with during their lives."

Lestrade said in surprise, "How do you know it was a group crime?"

"Because the victims were all men, Detective Lestrade."

Sherlock's voice came from nearby.

He must have made a new discovery. His eyes were sparkling.

Lestrade immediately asked, "Could it have been the Mafia?" At the thought, his brow furrowed. That kind of case was the hardest to handle.

Sherlock did not answer immediately. Watson, who was beside him, asked, "Have you finished examining the place?"

Sherlock smiled. "I found quite a lot. Gentlemen, we may have to stay out a little longer and take another walk."

I must have misheard him to think he had used the plural.

Lestrade muttered to himself that he would start investigating the Mafia groups operating in London. I was afraid he would waste his efforts, and Sherlock clearly did not want to explain the details, so I spoke up. "Inspector Lestrade, it wasn't the Mafia."

The way the bodies had been disposed of was too amateurish.

The discovery of several bodies that had not fully decomposed in the plastic barrels was enough to show that they had probably used hydrochloric acid by mistake. Generally speaking, murder cases rarely involved multiple victims at the same time. Several people disappearing at once would attract attention more easily. However bold criminals were, they would not dare draw the police's attention. Not to mention that the information the forensic examiner should have supplied showed differences in the times of death.

That meant the criminals knew sulfuric acid could dissolve bodies, but lacked basic knowledge. Either they mistakenly believed that hydrochloric acid, another strong acid, had the same effect, or they could not tell sulfuric acid from hydrochloric acid. As a result, the body parts had not completely dissolved, and remains had been left behind.

Next, why were there multiple perpetrators?

As Sherlock had said, it was because the victims were basically all men.

The victims of ordinary serial murders were all women, elderly people, or children. The reason was that criminals thought they were easier to control and less able to resist. That made it possible for one person to commit the crimes.

But the victims here were all men.

In other words, all one had to do was consider the circumstances under which men could also become vulnerable targets.

The first possibility was victims with mental illnesses, physical disabilities, or other conditions who were unable to resist.

The second was that the criminals had an advantage in numbers.

For them to commit crimes consistently, the second possibility was certainly much more likely.

"Judging by the crude way the bodies were disposed of, the criminals come from the bottom of society and haven't had an adequate, good education. They specifically target men rather than other vulnerable groups, which suggests that the leader was probably subjected to violence by men as a child and has a strong aversion and extreme prejudice toward a certain group."

"Yet the way they coerce others into cutting off contact with the victims' families to obtain their benefits shows experience and a practiced approach. That suggests one of the accomplices is specifically responsible for coming up with plans."

"Many signs indicate that this wasn't the work of one person."

As I gave Lestrade my earnest analysis, Watson's voice rang out. "Lanny, Sherlock says it's time to go."

"..."

I was talking so intently with Lestrade precisely because I did not want to go.

Lestrade did not help me at a time like this either. "You've cleared up a question for me. Thank you so much. How about I treat you to a meal next time? Go on, you have things to do." With that, he walked away.

"..."

How heartless.

Keeping me here would have been the greatest help.

Watson gestured toward the intersection. "We'll split up from Sherlock."

I silently looked at Watson leaning on his cane with one hand, but he did not seem the least bit afraid of the danger ahead. "Mr. Watson, to be honest, I've never investigated a case or pursued a killer before..."

Watson understood what I was implying and knew I was worried something might happen. He immediately assured me, "Don't worry. I was a soldier. I'll protect you and make absolutely sure you don't get hurt."

The unexpected assurance suddenly perked me up.

What mattered now was striking while the iron was hot and getting another promise.

"There's no need for that. I only hope you'll promise me something. That is..." I chose my words carefully. "If something really does happen to me, could you promise me one thing?"

Hearing the earnestness in my voice, Watson's expression grew serious. "Please, go ahead."

I said solemnly, "If I'm unlucky enough to die, please make sure you protect my body. Absolutely, under no circumstances, let Mr. Holmes touch it. Better yet, don't even let him look at it. It would be best if he never saw it at all, all right?! Mr. Watson, please, you have to promise me. As for why, I'll definitely tell you later."

If I said now that Sherlock would dissect my brain, Watson certainly would not believe me.

Once Watson knew Sherlock well enough, I would give him the reason. By then, that explanation would be powerful and highly convincing.

But no sooner had I finished speaking than I saw Watson's gaze change.

As he listened to my words, the solemn look in his eyes slowly melted into a heartwarming, gentle spring. "I never imagined you were so worried that Sherlock would be upset..."

I had a long speech prepared to thank Watson for helping me, but now all of it was stuck in my throat.

"..."