Back in the main auditorium, the place had remained equally as quiet as it did before any such performance took place. For Scotland Yard had practically finished its investigation, and they were preparing to pack up and head for home.
And with a smirk, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what lurked at the end of the case.
"Inspector Lestrade! Inspector! Inspector Lestrade!" Cried a voice.
Lestrade looked around, only to be greeted by a young constable. "I brought Mr. Cumberman's belongings, exactly as you asked for, sir."
"Good work." Said Lestrade, taking the small brown paper bag of evidence off him, and handing him an extra shilling for his troubles.
"Well?" Asked Holmes, as Lestrade opened the paper bag and examined its contents without removing them.
"Let's see... there's a pen, some spare change, and a folded slip of paper, which I think has some writing on it." Lestrade murmured.
"Very well then, Inspector. This may be the best opportune moment to present to you the identity of the killer that you so seek. The true killer of Mr. Benjamin Cumberman is none other than Benjamin Cumberman himself!"
"You mean it was suicide?!" Exclaimed Lestrade.
Tobias Gregson, James McLaren, Marcus Moffat, Richard Graves, Marvin Foreman and I all gasped in shock at the idea of such a thing being the correct conclusion.
"Suicide?!" We all cried in both shock and unison
"But... why would he want to do that?" Asked McLaren.
"It is rather simple. I dare say, even elementary." Said Holmes with a shrug. "Everyone else involved in the case has an alibi throughout the performance, and there was no instance where there would be less than two performers backstage. Particularly due to Mr. McLaren's role of playing a corpse allowing him plenty of time backstage. This means that the majority of the cast had alibis. The victim, Mr. Cumberman, however, did not."
"Of course!" McLaren exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. "He only came back stage for a short while, while I was recreating the incidents as told by the detective on-stage!"
"And what was his costume for the play?" Asked Holmes.
Mr. Graves took out his own "official notebook", and quickly flicked through a small number of pages, before he came across his own scrawled notes. "A grey suit, and brown Ulster!" He proclaimed, before he continued to read further into the notes he had made as a spurious police inspector. "Furthermore, throughout the performance he retained a stiff posture. His posture did, however, loosen up a few minutes before he died."
"He told me that he slipped off of his front doorstep this morning," added Mr. Moffat, taking a puff on his pipe "so that's why I thought he was a bit stiff walking around the stage."
"And was the moment that his gait changed the exact moment that Mr. Cumberman stepped off of the stage?"
"I think it did, actually." Marvin Foreman said "He moved around a lot more afterwards, actually. So much so that I thought if he moved any further, I'd have to get a cab to chase after him for the crutch scene!" He added, with a light-hearted chuckle towards the end.
"Thus, he could have easily smuggled in an aluminium crutch, inspector. I think that this new fact should call for a search of the victim's belongings, for he may have hidden the false crutch, the rubber one, there, if he has not yet had time to dispose of the real one."
Lestrade nodded in agreement, and sent the two constables back down to Benjamin Cumberman's dressing room to search for it again. They returned a few minutes afterwards, with a long grey crutch in-hand. One of their removed their now slightly-dented helmet and placed it on the floor. The other one raised the crutch high above his head the same way that Isaac Hopkins did in the play, and brought it down heavily onto the helmet, which fell over with the sound of a hollow rattle.
The constable retrieved his helmet, which still only had a single large dent on the top of it.
"It appears to be the genuine rubber crutch." I concluded.
"Indeed, Watson." Replied Sherlock Holmes.
"Why, though, would he want to kill himself?" Asked Foreman.
"Indeed, he appeared to be an otherwise very happy man, and very much satisfied with life." Said Moffat. "He will surely be missed, but... suicide?"
"It does seem... illogical..." Said Richard Graves, stroking his moustache and chin in thought.
"Mr. Cumberman was not a man without any form of vice." Said Sherlock Holmes, producing the slips from his pocket and handing a number of them over to Lestrade. "Mr. Cumberman had the unfortunately rather expensive vice of gambling. These are betting slips that stuck out at me in his wastepaper basket. And many of them, sadly, are incredibly large losses. A number of them are also loan receipts, as it seems that he had the tendency to gamble large and multiple amounts of money at any one time."
Inspector Lestrade went through them, one by one.
"I, Carl Benjamin Timothy Cumberman, promise to pay back the sum of ten pounds which has been lended to me by Mr. Scott Andrews before the 18th of January 1886, along with ten percent of interest..."
"But surely, he could have easily just asked for help, opposed to continuing such a terribly despicable habit?"
"Sadly not, Mr. McLaren." Said Holmes "The man, as you say, is an orphan, and had no kith or kin that he could turn to. And any addiction has the tendency to play on any man's mind before he indulges in it again. Almost taking away his entire life force until the small burst of energy created from it is found once again. And he would dare not wound his pride with any form of local scandal or making himself appear weak.
"And anyway, the man, the victim, Mr. Cumberman, was an actor. He was used to playing a different man whenever the occasion demanded it. I imagine, however, that we may be able to hear from his real self if you read from that slip of paper, Lestrade, yes, Mr. Cumberman's suicide note. Would you care to read it aloud, so that we all might hear what he has to say for himself?"
Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Dear fellow cast members, [it read] If you are reading this, then I am no-longer of this world, and have taken the decision to end my life. It is too late for me now, as my debts are catching up to me and I'm afraid that I can see no way on this earth that I will be able to outrun them. Thus, I may be able to escape them in whatever heaven or hell awaits me. I do not have much to say for myself, as I do not feel worthy to be before such people who are much greater people than I ever have been or perhaps ever will be. To enact my plan of suicide, I smuggled in a real aluminium crutch, one which looks almost entirely like the facsimile one, from a nearby pawnshop. A few days ago, before I fully enacted my plan, I stole the key to the props chest from Mr. Moffat. Sir, I must apologise for my sin, and I hope that you will forgive me. I did, however, have good reason to steal the key. I went to a nearby locksmith and had a duplicate key cut. One that does not look exactly like the key, but a functioning key nevertheless. Proof of this lies in my book, where I keep the receipt from the locksmith's as a bookmark. Hidden until now, where the truth must be outed. I used it to replace the rubber crutch for a genuine one, and I have hidden the false crutch in the costume rack that is kept inside my dressing room. If you wish to have it back for whatever purpose, I am sure that you are likely to find it there. The crutch that was used throughout the entire performance is the genuine crutch, and is likely now my supposed murder-weapon. As you may have found out, I am very much deep in debt. A fault of my own, and a burden that I cannot share with any form of kith or kin, and a burden that I do not wish to share upon my friends. Marvin - if you're reading this, I fully apologise. My wish was to die doing something that I loved, acting, with the people that I loved, you fine fellows and ladies, and at the place I love, the stage. A place where all is not as it seems, and people can hide successfully behind masks, costume and makeup. By all means, please do not stop to mourn me. Do not stop the performance because I have become tragically unavailable. My final wish, for you all, is to continue with your performances and to be happy. After all, "the show must go on", as they say. Thus, I hereby officially confess to my sins and my (hopefully) successful plans of suicide. And I apologise for any trouble that I have put any of you through. May we meet again someday, (signed)Benjamin Cumberman
The cast remained in shock and awe, now knowing fully what had truly transpired when upon the stage. A tragic death, tragically taken on a tragic stage beneath a tragic spotlight. A true tragedy.
"I am deeply sorry for your loss." Said Sherlock Holmes, shaking hands with the cast members.
"And I am terribly sorry for accusing you of murder." Said Inspector Lestrade, sincerely, as he shook the hand of Mr. Foreman "If I had known earlier, what had happened, then I would not have acted in such a manner."
"It's alright. It's alright." Said Mr. Foreman. "You were simply doing your job."
"Which, I think, Mr. Foreman, is something that you and your fellow performers need to do right now."
"I beg your pardon, Holmes?!" I exclaimed.
"Mr. Foreman, Mr. Moffat, it is your job to ensure that Mr. Cumberman's final wishes are acted out."
"His final wish?"
"Indeed. As the saying in your particular industry goes, "the show must go on", must it not?"
"Indeed," added Marcus Moffat, emptying his pipe and stamping out the contents. "even when a death occurs, time will still tick on. We cannot just simply stop because a tragedy, Greek or otherwise, has befallen us."
"Besides. He even said so in the letter." Added James McLaren "It's what he would have wanted, after all."
"Indeed." Said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm afraid that I am unable to do any further in this case. And that it is time for me to go. After all, you surely must have rehearsals or something to do?"
"We do indeed." Said Mr. Graves, in his normal voice, who seemed to have finally dropped out of character. "And I think, Mr. Holmes that you would particularly enjoy any form of crime fiction. Thank you once again for your help in bringing this tragic matter to an end."
"You're very welcome, Mr. Graves." Said Holmes, as he went to leave.
"But as for crime fiction, I find that its quality often lacks, and often sets a highly unrealistic genre of non-fictional crime, which I feel is the sort I prefer."