Welcome to Baker Street

82. Raise your glasses

At that moment, Sherlock receives a text from the wine expert to whom, in the meantime, Molly has brought a sample of the wine used to choke the nun.

Dear me, Mr Holmes!
It was the Chateau Margaux 1787.
If I weren't absolutely certain of your good faith,
I'd say you pulled the greatest disappearing trick an illusionist has ever done.
Save me a glass, please.

He cocks a brow imperceptibly. The sommelier is right; that is indeed one of the most impressive vanishing acts ever pulled. He knows all too well the magician who hides underneath the top hat: Moriarty is the great illusionist, while the pathetic gold digger standing in front of is nothing more than his 'lovely assistant'—his accomplice in that crime.

He smiles internally and compliments his adversary. When Jim kept Carl Powers's trainers for twenty years, it became clear that time was relative to him. But using the 'ghost wine' Chateau Margaux 1787 as a murder weapon thirty years after its supposed disappearance was a masterstroke.

He picks up the thread of his accusation.

"The Mother Superior of the convent had made a vow of poverty, but that was never your choice. So you made it your personal crusade to become as rich as possible, to build your empire of money and opulence right in front of her face, across the street from her convent. You were advertising for your sin, for your transgression of all the values that had been taught to you at a young age. But that was never enough: you were craving more permanent revenge, and someone very dangerous understood it. You had an accomplice: the smartest criminal mastermind I've ever met. He posed as a journalist, getting an interview with the nun and brought her here to you. He incited you to exact your vengeance in exchange for a little favour; you had to follow his precise instructions on how to kill her by forcing some very specific wine down her throat while she was tied to this chair." He drums his fingers on the armrest and turns his eyes around the room, looking for something. He scans all the pieces of furniture in the office until he stares at a big old-fashioned globe on a small table. A classy way to remind yourself you feel like the king of the world, he mentally comments, referring to Mr Perth's delusions of grandeur.

Appreciating the fine workmanship of the globe, Sherlock notices that the two hemispheres appear slightly out of joint as if the line of the equator sliced the world in two halves that don't line up perfectly. What would be the point of such a high-quality item if it was faulty? He rhetorically asks himself.

He focuses again on the furious and speechless figure of Robert Perth standing in front of him behind the desk.

"Judging by your muscular physique, I'd say you'd be strong enough to carry her lifeless body to the riverside, leaving only one set of footprints in the same mud that is now under your trainers. You planted the fake IDs and the burner phone on the corpse exactly as Jim Moriarty told you to, before trying to wipe off your traces in that mire, didn't you?"

"You are making a big mistake," Robert hisses, flaring his nostrils.

Sherlock stands up and strolls closer to the globe. He studies the national borders painted on the spherical surface and slides his right index along the equator line, noticing how the residues of a red substance smudge his fingertip. He lifts it to his nose and sniffs as his lips bend in a satisfied smirk. The smell of alcohol is unmistakable. After all, rich businessmen often find creative ways to hide liquors in their offices.

"No, Mr Perth. I made a mistake back in school. I never paid much attention to geography; I didn't think it was important. But it turns out it can be quite useful to locate things, such as countries on a map, people in a city, and even..." he trails off, placing his hand on the northern hemisphere and applying some pressure. The globe opens in half, revealing the concave inside that serves as a bottle rack. He attentively examines the content and delicately grabs one bottle different from all the others: the label reads Chateau Margaux 1787.