The Aluminium Crutch, Part 2
Sherlock was out of his seat before Amelia even had a chance to draw in a shuddering breathe, her mind whirling. She hastily gathered up his coat and absently draped it over her arm, not wanting to leave it behind as she scrambled to stand and slip out of the row to chase down Sherlock, who was already climbing the stairs up to the stage. By the time she had hurried up the stairs, confused murmurs were starting to trickle through the rest of the theatre and up on the stage the guy that played the fake killer, 'Albert,' had staggered back slightly from the motionless body at his feet and dropped the bloody crutch on the floor, looking stunned and dazed, gaping down at the body. The woman that played 'Sissy' gave a horrified scream and covered her mouth as it seemed to dawn on her that something seriously wrong had happened, and the 'Maid' and the man playing 'Sissy's' brother, 'Cedric', seemed to just watch on in shock and horror. Amelia's heels carried her up onto the stage and over to where Sherlock was already leaning over the motionless body, and she stopped just next to him, swallowing hard, before she moved to kneel down.
"Please tell me he's not dead?" she whispered to him, hoping desperately that they hadn't just witnessed an actual murder, the idea just frankly disturbing.
Sherlock's eyes flickered up to her, "Oh, he's definitely dead..."
One of the actress's gave a sob, over hearing that, and Amelia glanced up grimly in time to see the 'Maid' turn and positively throw herself into 'Cedric's arms, the other man just barely catching her shaking form with a look of disbelief upon his youthful face. Amelia sighed and looked back down to the dead man, blood staining the once neatly combed and styled blonde strands at the back of his head, while some had dropped onto the back of the light beige coloured trench coat that was part of the 'Detective's' costume. Just then, a middle aged women with bobbed, dark brown hair came bustling from off the side of the stage, looking rather out of place in a pair of very tight skinny jeans and a vivid pink blouse that looked simply uncomfortable for a woman with her chest to be squeezing into, but it was more the frightened and alarmed expression upon her face that caught Amelia's attention.
"What's happened?" the woman demanded in a startling girly, high-pitched voice, before her gaze seemed to land on the blood on the back of the man's head and she gave a positively horrified shriek and all the colour drained immediately from her cheeks, what hadn't been put there with makeup, of course, "Oh, God, no!" she cried in a strangled gasp, stumbling forward, "Matty!"
"Someone call the police!" someone shouted from somewhere close by.
Amelia hastily moved to stand and quickly moved to stop the near hysterical woman from getting any closer, stepping swiftly between her and the body and, while it was rather awkward, wrapping her arms around her in a hug, just hoping it would stop her from getting any closer and ruining the already rather poor crime scene that they did have. The women seemed to positively sag into her arms and Amelia, grimacing very slightly, patting her awkwardly on the back, feeling her burst into tears. She shot Sherlock a glance over her shoulder and found him now standing with his phone against his ear, giving her a look that looked almost amused. She shot him a glare that positively said 'Shut up'.
"Someone get an ambulance!" someone else called out, seemingly from the audience.
"What's happening? I don't understand...is this part of the show?"
"Is someone hurt?"
"Would someone close the curtain, for God's sake?" Sherlock turned and snapped at the 'Cedric' actor, phone still pressed against his ear, and the young actor looked rather startled, but quickly untangled himself from the 'Maid's' embrace and hurried off to the side of the stage, the curtain shutting across the stage a second later, concealing them from view, "Lestrade," he spoke over the phone, his voice swift and brisk, and Amelia looked hopefully over to him, "There's been a murder..."
...
Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard turned up barely ten minutes after Sherlock had made the call, and immediately set to work securing the crime scene. The rest of the theatres patrons had been gathered up and taken aside into the foyer of the tiny theatre to have their names and addresses taken by the police, while Amelia and Sherlock waited up on the stage for the good detective to arrive. The actors and director, who turned out to be the near hysterical overly pink woman, had lingered by the edge of the stage while they had waited, but with Lestrade's arrival it was decided it was best to separate them all and escort them backstage to be question separately. It was perhaps surprising that Sherlock was capable of waiting to question the suspects when they had a real, proper crime on their hands right before their very eyes, but oddly enough Sherlock made little move to even try and question any of the suspects. Amelia was just grateful to no longer have the director clinging to her and sobbing. John was far better suited to that task, but since he still wasn't answering his phone or responding to a single text, there wasn't much use.
"So you guys go to the theatre and there just happens to be a murder?" Lestrade cast Sherlock and Amelia a slightly dubious look, eyebrows raised and a hint of disbelief lacing his words.
"Evidently," Sherlock said flatly, gaze narrowed on the body of the victim, still laid out before them in the middle of the stage, a pool of blood now surrounding his head.
"Have you suddenly become Miss Marple or something?"
The cool glare that Sherlock levelled at Lestrade, full of exasperation and exhaustion, totally missed by Lestrade, who was too busy chuckling to himself at his own witty likening he'd made. Amelia smiled lightly at the joke, seeing more humour in it then Sherlock clearly did, but then again, she was something of a diehard Agatha Christie fan, so naturally she could see why Lestrade would make such a comparison.
"It is rather odd," Amelia agreed lightly, watching from afar as one of the forensic officers, dressed in blue paper protective overalls and plastic booties, crouched down to take a picture of the victim, while a second officer in similar protective gear used a long cotton bud to gently swab the bloody end of the crutch.
"No odder then some of the cases you lot have had before, I suppose," he shrugged, shaking his head slightly as he turned his gaze onto the dead body. He frowned slightly, "So...our murder victim, Matthew Michael. Dead from blunt force trauma during the middle of a stage play, witnessed by an entire theatre audience of people, including you two..." he glanced at Amelia and Sherlock as he spoke, lifting his eyebrows, "Seems pretty open and shut to me".
Sherlock scoffed, sparing him an almost disappointed look, "Does it really, Lestrade?"
He heaved a sigh, "What am I missing?" he asked, looking rather wary and tired already, having apparently thought this case would truly be just that simple and easy.
"Everything".
"Very specific, Holmes," Amelia shook her head, before flashing Lestrade a rather amused smile when the man stared at Sherlock blankly, looking rather as if he simply was to tired already to try and entertain Sherlock's usual mysterious nonsense he went on with. Lestrade turned to her and gave her a vaguely hopeful look, as if she was somehow a saving grace to him in this whole affair...her smile only widened. She almost felt bad for having to dash his hopes, "I'm afraid, Lestrade, this isn't going to be one of those cases were you get to simply check off some formal police investigation boxes and have everything nicely tied up in a little bow before midnight".
"Alright...what've you got for me?"
"Matthew Michael," Sherlock began immediately, seemingly having been waiting for Lestrade to actually ask, calmly clasping his hands behind his back as he looked directly across the stage towards their victim, "Mid-thirties, male. Right handed. Dyed greying hair at the temples...Note the padding that's been added to the lining of the suit, specifically along the shoulders and upper body and back," he pointed towards their victim, lying partly on his side on the floor, clear bulges sticking out slightly beneath the tweed fabric, "Obviously, it's purely a costume and not his own dress, but what is also evident is that the padding has been added over time. Look at the stitching work, it's messy and at least three different cotton threads have been used, so we can conclude that the padding was added as an afterthought during rehearsals..."
"But why?" Amelia cut in, shaking her head slowly as she looked down at the body, ignoring the flash of one of the crime scene camera's going off, "I mean, this is a mismatch play of Victorian sensibilities and present time, the most intense fight scene involved in the entire production was supposed to be when our victim get's whacked over the head by the supposedly fake killer," she sighed slightly, frowning, "Hardly warranting of extra padding being needed to be added to the costume".
"Okay..." Lestrade eyed the pair closely, half-expectant, "So why the extra padding?"
Rather than answer, Amelia moved to step forward, carefully moving around the pool of blood that had seeped across the floor, soaking into the floorboards and likely into the under-stage. What a mess. It spoke of how used to them Scotland Yard was, because forensics, while shooting her rather disapproving frowns, stepped back to let her approach. Her dress and sky-high heels were far from suitable for getting around a crime scene, but she still made do as she crouched down, balancing delicately on her platforms with her knees pressed together, her dress coming dangerously close to the blood...she heard someone huff slightly in exasperation and sensed someone step up behind her, before the hem of her flowing, gauzy skirt was lifted slightly. She glanced up to see Sherlock giving her a flat glare, while grasping her skirt. She grinned.
"Thanks, Holmes," she said brightly, turning her gaze back to the man before her.
"That is quite the outfit, even for you, Amelia," Lestrade remarked with something caught between amusement, admiration, and even a little exasperation. He had also moved to step up beside Sherlock, looking over her crouching form with a quirk of his eyebrows.
"I was told we were going to the theatre," she sighed slightly, gaze still on the man before her, running her eyes over his prone form, blood splattered over the stiff collar of his shirt, his necktie coloured a rather modern dark green with dark blue stripes, also scattered with some blood drops.
"You and Sherlock...out to the theatre...together..."
"I had an extra ticket," Sherlock cut him off firmly.
Amelia ignored Lestrade's little scoff of disbelief, before the man hummed lightly in acceptance with Sherlock. She didn't care if Lestrade didn't believe the story and thought they were secretly dating, she was far more curious about their victim. She dared to lean just a little closer, frowning as she spied what looked like some old bruising marking the pale skin of Mathew Michael, creeping up from beneath the stiff collar and visible through the blood. The bruising was in various stages of healing, some of it was yellowed, while others were a light blue and purple, while she even spied some of it creeping down beneath the stiff collar. If she looked closely enough, she thought that there seemed to be some old, now yellowy-green bruising along the man's jaw-line, concealed by thick stage makeup. That was a lot of bruising, even though there was no evidence that the man had been in any fights or as a boxer, and the bruising was in too many different phases of healing to have happened just once. It happened frequently, but there was no pattern to it. That, coupled by the extra padding to the custom made Amelia's thoughts whirl...
"You got anything else to add, Amelia?" Lestrade broke through her thoughts.
She blinked back to reality, her mind developing several theories, but those theories would first need clarification and while she thought she already had a very strong one in mind, she was not some novice. She wouldn't so swiftly jump to one thread of a case and ignore all others, without evidence. She moved to rise from the ground and accepted Sherlock's offered hand when she threatened to almost topple. These heels were truly not meant for much more then looking deadly beautiful while walking for very brief stints and sitting, even for someone as experienced as she with heels. Her eyes met his and she lifted an eyebrow, reaching up to lightly touch the back of her neck, hoping he'd read her silent question. His very slight nod told her he had noticed the bruising, too.
"Let's speak to our suspects, shall we?" she turned to Lestrade, deciding to keep the bruising between them, for now. Consider it petty payback for making assumptions about her and Sherlock's relationship.
...
Deborah Challis was the director and she was still positively far too emotional for either Amelia or Sherlock to be truly able to stomach, heartless as that might sound. Amelia stood between Lestrade and Sherlock back stage. Deborah was slumped on a slightly scuffed, rather worn-out looking velvet armchair that looked as though it had been found behind an old skip-bin somewhere for a second chance of life on the stage, the once possibly handsome red velvet water damaged in places and threadbare in other places. A female police officer looked up as they approached the sobbing woman; a small pile of tissues rolled up into miserable balls on Deborah's lap, while the woman clutched another tissue and cried into it. Lestrade nodded to the female officer, who immediately moved to step away to give them space, and Amelia very nearly cursed. Damn John, this was his area, with only Sherlock here it came down to her to be the comforting, nice one...even though she felt deeply uncomfortable being cried on.
"Deborah Challis..." Lestrade began, regarding the sobbing woman with warm, but very slightly wary eyes...Amelia very nearly glared at him. He was the copper; he was supposed to have training in dealing with distressed people, why was he looking so bloody scared of a few tears?
"No, not her," Sherlock cut across him instantly, looking almost bored as he regarded the sobbing woman, seemingly utterly unconcerned or interested in her crying, miserable form.
"What?" Lestrade turned on him sharply, confused.
"Sorry?" Deborah sniffed, voice heavily congested as she looked up, tissue pressed to her nose, cheeks stained by tears and smeared makeup. She blinked up at them, wide eyed, tearful, and utterly lost, "I...I don't..."
"She's obviously not the killer, Lestrade. Just look at her".
"Sherlock..."
"He's right," Amelia sighed slightly, only earning Lestrade's bewildered stare. She gave Deborah an apologetic, gentle smile, and sighed slightly, "Just look at her clothing. Far too tight and small for her to possibly be able to get around without someone noticing her switching out the prop-crutch for a real one..."
"And pink," Sherlock added with a slightly narrowed, critical glare over Deborah...the poor woman hiccupped slightly and looked down at her front, bemused by what they were speaking off. Her very vividly pink, tight blouse left little to the imagination, especially when she was sitting down.
"What does pink have to do with anything?" Lestrade threw him a rather exasperated frown.
"Could you overlook seeing someone sneaking around wearing that hue?"
"I don't..." Deborah began, sniffling as she looked up at them blankly.
"Of course she's not the killer, Lestrade," Sherlock went on, scoffing, "Just look at her outfit. She wouldn't have been able to smuggle in anything larger than a peanut," he shrugged, still considering the woman's clothing with a rather distasteful, critical eye, "Which would be fine if she wanted to kill someone with a nut allergy, but she didn't".
"I didn't kill anyone!" the woman exclaimed suddenly, gasping, horrified as it seemed to hit her that they had just been discussing her innocence. Her eyes widened, appalled, "I'd never..."
"Yes, yes, boring, we know," he dismissed her swiftly, waving a sharp, annoyed hand through the air to shut her up...
"Sherlock," Amelia fixed him with a glare.
"...but you are in love with William Howells, aren't you?" he continued on, speaking right over Amelia. He was looking intently at Deborah, who spluttered in shock and almost seemed to reel back, clutching the tissue so tight, it was amazing it didn't just turn into confetti in her lap.
Lestrade, grimacing slightly as he rubbed at her forehead, threw Sherlock a confused frown, "William Howells?" he asked slowly.
"He played the murderer," Amelia clarified with a small sigh, understanding entirely how Lestrade could have forgotten such an important detail, even if it was the same man how had delivered the killing blow. There was quite a few different names floating about the place, character and real.
"Oh, right..."
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Sherlock insisted, positively looming over Deborah, who gaped up at him in shock and horror, her tears seemingly paused, for the moment. He glared at her, "Admit it, you're in love with him, but he knocked you back. You've held a soft spot for him ever since, haven't you?"
"No, you're mistaken...it's just gossip..."
"Deborah," Amelia tried, softening her voice slightly and giving the obviously alarmed woman a kind smile. She reached out and grasped Sherlock's upper arm, giving him a slight shove off to the side...he let her do it, going with the motion as she stepped up into his place. She gave the tearful woman a warm look, "It's alright, you're not in any trouble, we just need to make sure that we know all the facts, alright? You have a soft spot for Mr Howells, right?"
Deborah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, "It's against company policy," she muttered, lowering her eyes onto her lap, "But...he's so talented and handsome...how could I not?"
Personally, Amelia couldn't see the appeal, but she nodded anyway and smiled, "The heart wants what it wants," she said gently, and Deborah gave her a weak little smile, looking vaguely relieved. She kept up the gentle tone, eyeing her closely, "But your feelings are also why you let Mr Howell get away with things, isn't it? Why you let him drink back stage during the production? Why you might...say, turn a blind eye to complaints against his drinking and...sloppiness on stage?"
Deborah kept her eyes downcast for a moment, before she sniffed and nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip as she glanced up to Amelia, meeting her eyes. She looked guilty, but not guilty of murder, just guilty of turning a blind eye.
"Thank you for your time," she said lightly, before turning to walk away...Lestrade and Sherlock followed her, while the female officer returned to comforting Deborah, who had her head buried in her hands.
They walked away a few steps and turned to face one another, Lestrade fixing Amelia with a sharp look
"What was that last part about?" he asked her curiously.
"William Howell is a drunk, Lestrade," Sherlock informed him, eyes narrowed slightly in thought, "A sloppy, messy one at that. Of course, there would be complaints from the rest of the cast, but why hasn't anyone removed him from the production?"
"Desperation? It's a small company, small play".
"I think it's all a little messier behind the scenes then we think, Lestrade," Amelia said with a slightly knowing, grim look, her red lips briefly pressing into a line, "And nothing is messier then matters of the heart".
...
Since Deborah had been so swiftly ruled out, next their attention turned to Sarah Groenewegen, also known as 'Sissy Hastings'. If this was truly a plot from a Miss Marple's stories, then they likely would have found Sarah sitting within her dimly lit, cramped dressing room backstage of the theatre, probably swirling a crystal whisky glass and puffing on a cigarette, red lipstick staining the tip...but this wasn't quite what they found. In fact, the theatre was so small; it didn't even have separate dressing rooms for the cast, just a rather narrow, cramped room out of the back of the stage, positively stuffed with makeshift dressing tables with production makeup still strewn about the tables, while one wall was lined with clothing rakes with the costumes hanging on metal hangers.
Sarah, herself, was sitting slightly slumped in one of the shabby, padded dressing table chairs, makeup ruined from tears that had thankfully stopped flowing at some point recently, leaving her pretty, big blue eyes swollen and red, while black eye makeup smudged all around her eyes and left dirty tracks down her face. She still wore the cheap, slightly odd mismatch of Edwardian costume and modern day dress, the skirt slightly to short and the blouse just cut completely wrong, all in contrasting hues of pink and orange. On the stage, it had been distracting; up close and personal, it was simply hideous and confusing. The bright pink, fluffy blanket that she was wrapped up in, didn't exactly help matters.
"I still can't believe it," Sarah murmured, voice slightly thick from tears, still, big blue eyes wide and slightly glazed with shock, "One moment he was there, breathing and everything, and then he's just..." she blinked slowly, swallowing, hard, "Gone, just like that. I've never seen someone die before, and poor Will...Oh, my God..."
"Very shocking, I'm sure," Sherlock said flatly, looking bored and annoyed.
Amelia shot him a warning look.
"It all happened just so fast, it's so surreal. How can someone just die like that?"
"A metal crutch to the head works beautifully".
"Sherlock," Amelia sighed with a slight eye roll, while Lestrade grimaced tightly, but seemed to resist the urge to scold him, too.
Sarah blinked slowly at Sherlock, looking quite startled and confused, "What?" she asked, staring at him blankly.
Sherlock pinned her with an intent glare, "You were having an affair with William Howells, weren't you?" he said it without any build up, nor attempt to soften his words, voice as blunt as a brick and almost as forceful.
The girl's eyes widened and she spluttered, leaning back from Sherlock as if he had come at her with an actual brick. Lestrade, too, also turned sharply to gape at Sherlock and shock and disbelief, clearly having had no idea of this development...Amelia sighed slightly and briefly closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. Sherlock could be bloody blunt, at times, painfully so, sometimes, but this was taking it to another level.
"Another one?" Lestrade blinked, looking rather thrown...it might have been comical, had Sarah not gasped, stricken, at the same time:
"How...how do you know that?"
Sherlock merely levelled her with a cool glare, "Your touching concern for William Howells's involvement in all of this is rather a big sign," he said lightly, regarding her closely, "Normally, the natural response would be to express concern and sympathy for the victim, but you immediately jumped to expressing sympathy for the seemingly likely killer..."
"Will didn't kill anyone!" Sarah cut across him, hotly, glaring at him with narrowed eyes, "He wouldn't, he couldn't..."
"Because William is a kindly, gentle man?" Amelia lifted an eyebrow, causing the woman to look at her sharply, mouth still hanging open with angry words dying on her tongue. She merely gave the younger woman a knowing, pointed look, "Why are you so quick to try and defend him, Sarah?" she frowned very slightly, "You know that isn't the case, at all. William is a sloppy, angry drunk; you know he is, you can't deny it".
The woman opened her mouth to try, only to almost seem to visibly swallow back the words, her eyes falling onto her lap and her fingers tightening uncomfortably on the edge of her blanket, a slight flush crossing her heavily powered and tear stained cheeks. Lestrade cast Amelia a curious glance, likely mildly confused by what she was even speaking about...but Amelia pretended not to notice, still peering at Sarah closely. A picture was starting to build itself in her mind, those odd bruises that had marred the victim's flesh had triggered a theory, while Sarah very own inability to deny that William is an angry drunk and Deborah's own confession that she had allowed William to get away with whatever he wanted, all due to her own crush on that man, only lent further concrete to Amelia's theory. But a theory wasn't proof.
"It wasn't Will," Sarah said quietly, but firmly, even though her eyes remained planted on her lap, "It can't have been him. It just...can't have been".
Amelia gave her a grim, tight lipped smile. Dear Lord, this William Howell certainly had some supernatural sway over the ladies, he and Sarah had broken up, fairly recently, she imagined, but even still, the loyalty Sarah still showed the bloke was startling, clearly telling Amelia that is had been William's decision to end the relationship, the reasoning, truth be told, had little relevance to anything, until proven otherwise. But that still didn't bring them much closer to figuring out the killer.
...
Jonathan Morris, who played Cedric Hastings, was their next stop, and they found the man sitting outside on the back steps of the theatre, smoking, while a uniformed male police officer stood carefully watching just a few steps away. It was quite cold and Amelia immediately longed for Sherlock's coat again, unable to help casting the curly haired detective a slightly envious glance as she curled her arms around her middle, rubbing her bare arms, which bloomed with goose-bumps the second she stepped outside. The inside of the theatre was hardly warm and cosy, but outside there was a icy breeze that fluttered at her gauzy skirts and brushed over her bare flesh. She had many regrets about her choice of outfit tonight. Damn Sherlock and his mysterious attitude, refusing to tell her just what sort of low-budget theatre this production was.
"Look," Jonathan began after blowing a long puff of smoke through his lips, tilting his head back slightly backwards to do so, "I'm just gonna be honest with you, okay? You've probably already heard about it already, but I'm not exactly shocked Howells killed someone. If you ask me, it's been coming for years".
"Why's that?" Lestrade asked, lifting an eyebrow at the man.
"'Cos the bloke's a raging alcoholic," he scoffed, almost bitterly as he tossed his cigarette onto the ground, stepping on it, grinding his heel down on the stub a little more forcefully then needed, "And the bloke's completely mentally unhinged," he continued darkly, looking back up to them, "Just look at the way he treated Sarah while they were dating, ignoring her whenever it suited him and then sending her flowers and buying her those fake diamond earrings when he thought she was getting sick of taking his attitude".
Amelia's eyebrows rose sharply, another piece of the puzzle slipping into place, though she still couldn't quite see how...evidently, every single cast member on this damn play was trying to sleep with one another and were either in love with William or, wanted the man dead. Jonathan had so much bitterness and anger in his voice, it was practically rolling off him in waves, all directed towards William. And all over Sarah. Now wasn't that just interesting.
"You're in love with Sarah," she said softly.
Jonathan blinked and looked at her, but to his credit, he didn't flinch or try to deny it, instead he simply gave her an almost challenging look and lifted his chin higher, "Yeah," he said, "I do love her and she deserves better, someone who will respect her and appreciate her".
"Someone like you?" Sherlock regarded him blankly, though his gaze was intently focused on the man, who looked at him sharply, "Is that why you got into a fight with William Howells?"
Amelia's eyes immediately zeroed in on the partly healed bruises and cuts that ran over Jonathan's right fist, his knuckles clearly having taken something of a nasty blow, though probably a few weeks back now. Jonathan frowned very slightly in surprise and glanced down at his knuckles, briefly flexing his fingers.
"I punched the bloke," he nodded, looking back up to him, "He was asking for it".
"What about Mathew Michael?" Lestrade lifted an eyebrow, "Did you have any issues with him?"
A strange, almost sympathetic look briefly shifted across his features, "Matty was an alright guy," he said quietly, "He didn't deserve anything, either. I didn't touch him".
"But someone did, didn't they?" Amelia narrowed her eyes on him.
Jonathan shifted uneasily on the spot and looked torn, before he nodded stiffly, just slightly, lips firmly pressed together. His silence and refusal to speak any further, spoke volumes.
...
"You were sleeping with Mathew, weren't you?" Amelia sighed very slightly as she regarded Karen Nelson, also known as 'The Maid' in the play, who had largely consisted of just screaming and gasping very loudly in the background, in fact, she couldn't even remember the character having more than three lines throughout the entire play.
Karen sobbed loudly and nodded, before burying her head in her hands.
"Well," Sherlock said lightly, turning to Amelia and Lestrade, "I think that's that with this one".
...
Lastly, came the often spoken of and evidently, ladies man of the hour, William Howells. They had left him to last specifically because it was obvious that he was the one that anyone else might have spoken to first, but now that they had something of an understanding of the dynamics of the cast and some idea of the complex relationships that had possibly lead to the crime being committed, it was time to speak to their main man.
William Howells was just as plain up close as Amelia had thought he was from only having seen him up on the stage. He was clearly a heavy drinker, puffy bloodshot eyes and cheeks, while his right foot jolted up and down rapidly on the spot, while he nervously fiddled with one of the plays pamphlets, turning it around and around in his very slightly shaky fingers. He still wore his costume, but she could clearly see the outline of a hipflask sticking out of the baggy trouser pocket of his tweed trousers. He was being closely watched over by a couple of officers as he sat in the front row of the theatre, while up stage forensics continued to scan the stage. The body of Mathew Michael had been moved by now, but the pool of blood remained, bright scarlet beneath the harsh theatre lighting in the centre of the stage and William seemed to be trying hard not to look towards the stage at all, frowning up at the ceiling.
"I didn't do it," he insisted the second he noticed their arrival before him, his bloodshot eyes wide and pleading, while his Northern English accent hung thickly from each word, "I swear to God, I didn't know it wasn't a prop. I never would have...I didn't mean..." he broke off with a shuddering gasp and looked away, looking briefly sickened.
"It's hard to notice details when one is drunk, Mr Howells," Sherlock commented coolly, "Never mind the sentimental distractions of working closely with your ex-girlfriend".
Amelia glanced at him sideways...right, because she was sure that when Sherlock had his benders, back in the day, he had been just brilliant as noticing all the fine details of a crime. But she kept that thought to herself.
"Sarah and I just didn't work out," William sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, "It's got nothing to do with Matt".
"You're not a very well liked man amongst your peers, Mr Howells," Amelia said lightly, regarding the man closely...yeah, she still wasn't seeing what all these other women saw in him. He was just average, nothing to be fighting over, anyway.
He shrugged, glancing up at her...she almost rolled her eyes as, even while they stood before him and interviewed him as a murder suspect, the man still didn't conceal the very obvious admiring, once over he gave her, lingering briefly on certain parts of her body. She narrowed her eyes dangerously on him and crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at him, hard...
"For God's sake," Sherlock huffed slightly, irritation lacing his voice, enough to make Amelia blink slightly and glance at him...she expected him to be glaring at her, likely with another remark about her dress, but instead she found him giving William a positively icy glare, "Are you incapable of keeping your on hormones in check, Mr Howells, or do you feel the need to mentally undress every woman around you?"
That was...okay, that was something. Amelia's lips parted slightly in shock, while Lestrade lifted an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock, something vaguely like amusement and barely concealed delight lightening his eyes, before he looked, oddly pointedly, to Amelia. She merely frowned back at him, silently telling him to 'Shut up and stop reading into this, Lestrade,' though she knew the damage was done. Lestrade would probably be convinced she and Sherlock were secretly dating, or something. William blinked slowly, almost sluggishly, gaping up at Sherlock in almost a bemused state, evidently having never really been called out for his sleaziness so openly before.
"I'm..." he began, blankly.
"A drunkard idiot," Sherlock swiftly cut across him, tone clipped and rapid, "You spend most of your time so wiped out on alcohol and winking at any woman that crosses your path, that is it any wonder you completely failed to realise that the prop you have spent the past six weeks practicing with, was replaced by a real aluminium crutch? You may not be guilty of murder, Mr Howells, but you are guilty on being a negligent drunk and, while unfortunately, that isn't punishable by law, if you had been in anyway vaguely sombre tonight, a man might have lived," he gave him a tight, humourless smile, "Just food for thought, Mr Howells. Amelia, Lestrade..."
He turned, then, and calmly strolled away from them, coat flapping dramatically around him as he marched up the aisle towards the back of the theatre. Amelia slowly blinked, feeling as if someone had just smacked her across the face, lips slightly parted in disbelief as she glanced at William, who sat stock still with a stunned expression upon his bloated features, and then she glanced at Lestrade, who seemed to be debating something with himself. When he noticed her looking at her, he gave her a small smile, almost looking amused, as he held out a hand for her to go ahead of him.
"You first, Amelia".
Amelia frowned faintly, feeling rather startled by everything that had just happened...it was as if Sherlock had utterly decided to do away with the pretence of interviewing William and had simply jumped to insulting the man, several times, and then dismissing him, all at once. It had all happened so fast, she wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, but she shook her head and moved to follow Sherlock, deciding that perhaps it was better this way. If William eyed her up again, she might have ended up reacting a little more sharply than she had the first time, and given how Sherlock had almost seemed triggered by it, as confusing as that was, in itself, best it truly was to get away from William Howells as fast as possible. Besides, it was plain that they weren't going to get much further with the man.
It was time to put all the pieces together.
I hope you liked it, tell me what you thought. Please review :)