Holmes flung open the door to his flat in Montague Street and almost tumbled inside. What imbecile had left a stack of newspapers in the entrance way? What a thoughtless, ridiculous place to leave yesterday's edition of The Times! He slammed the door shut behind him, kicking the pile into a blizzard of newsprint. He crossed towards his bedroom, a drafty closet-sized alcove hidden from the main room behind a heavy curtain. He pulled off his waistcoat and dropped it to the floor on his way to the washstand in the corner by his bed. Of all the silly, time-wasting, nonsense he had been forced to take part in throughout his life, this by far was the worst! His collar and cuffs soon joined his waistcoat on the worn carpet, followed by his soiled white dress shirt, which had not been laundered in over a week.

He sloshed cold water into the basin and doused his face and hands. He rubbed soap over both and scrubbed away as if he might be trying to remove a layer of skin. The soap stung his eyes and foamed into his ears. What had that blasted woman dragged him into? He had heard Mycroft's parting words to her before the cab had pulled away, and if his dear brother thought that he, a man with important places to go and things to do was going to be bullied into the position of nursemaid for a stricken woman, then Mycroft had another thought coming. Had he, Sherlock Holmes, not liberated her from that horrible place where she would have waited for ages without receiving proper treatment? Had he not used his familial influence to procure her the best treatment possible? Had he not seen her, safe and sound, go off in the right direction accompanied by a gentleman capable of doing much more for her financially than he himself could? Yes. As far as he was concerned, his obligation ended there.

His eye drifted to the armchair by the small fireplace she had so recently occupied. His blood still quickened at the memory of her music. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, to the memory of watching her play that music. No doubt it was this that caused the tightening in his chest, his inability to scrub all thoughts of her from his mind. She was there, it seemed, each time he closed his eyes. Absurd!

He grabbed a rough towel off the back of a chair next to the basin and scoured himself pink and dry. Obviously he would take her case. Obviously he would solve her case, and then get back to any one of the numerous more important things he was doing right now.

None of which he seemed to be able to bring to mind just then.

He took a quick glance at himself in the cracked hand-mirror he kept on his window pane. Oh, hell, he needed a shave. He had not thought of it this morning as he foolishly went running out the door, and now the shadow of growth on his chin was unmistakable. He grabbed his leather strop with some force and began sharpening his straight razor.

No doubt this is what Miss Rushford had been looking at in the cab when he noticed her scrutinizing him so carefully. At the time he had found it most disconcerting, not only because he did not like being surveyed like a specimen in a jar, but because against his will, he had found himself curious about her conclusions. Worse, he had found that he disliked the idea that she might form a negative opinion of him. Of all the weak-willed, dirt-common concerns! Why on earth should he care what she thought? Preposterous!

He lathered his face and dragged the razor deftly down his cheeks, across his jaw line, and up over his throat. Once finished, he threw the razor down into the still-full basin of water and began the search for fresh collar and cuffs.

He found one collar that didn't look too badly worn, but after a ten minute search, during which time all his drawers were pulled out, riffled through, contents strewn about over the floor, he could not locate the cuffs. "I need a blasted maid!" he bellowed, finally dropping to his knees to search under his bed. There was a single cuff there. Another he found on the mantel piece, hooked over the top of a small water colour of the Sussex Downs. He hated that picture. Mycroft had gifted it to him some years ago, probably as a hint to take back up his position back on the family farms. Hadn't he bought a whole box of cuffs just the other week? He remembered being told that a gentleman should have no less than a year's supply at any given time. Pushing the thought away he hunted for, and found, his last remaining clean dress shirt, slung over the footboard of his single bed.

He struggled with it, of course, trying to be mindful not to tear the arm-hole, but really far too enraged to actually care. Why on earth could he still feel the warmth of her flesh on the crest of his knuckles where he had touched her face? And what the hell was the itching beneath his skin to do it again?

He nearly tore his cuff in two. The collar he buttoned strangulation tight, the shirt he crammed into his pants roughly. He pomaded his hair and slicked it back mercilessly. Surely she must have noticed how uncomfortable he was. How unfair it was to keep distracting him with those rare blue eyes? And every time he was about to loose some truly caustic observation, she managed to silence him with a look. With a look!

And her music. Again, and again, her music, echoing through his head every moment he let his mind wander, even when he slept it was there, galloping as swift as blood through his body.

The thought of never hearing her play again was an agony. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. There was nothing so pathetic as unchecked passion.

He yanked his frock coat and overcoat on and grabbed his violin off the desk. Miss Tilby's telegram he stuffed into his waistcoat pocket on his way out. He must solve this case as fast as possible and get this alarming person out of his life immediately. He slammed the door behind him. The walls reverberated so hard that the small water colour on the mantelpiece tipped over and banged to the floor.

Drury Lane was full of horses. Their breath steamed out behind them in the cool evening as they drew tradesmen's carts and cabs and wagons loaded down with piles of cabbages, turnips, or boxes of fragile porcelain packed in straw. The lamp-lighters were out, moving purposefully down the cobbled streets as the dusk closed in.

Holmes skirted around a man shoveling manure into a hand cart and pulled his overcoat tighter around his neck, veering across the sidewalk to avoid an orange seller. The Royal Olympic was a squat building, newly renovated, with a sweeping stone staircase leading to a landing with three sets of double doors, a gaslight burning in an etched glass globe above each doorway. The stage entrance was around the back of the building facing Newcastle Street, down a narrow brick alley hemmed in on one side by the theatre itself, and on the other by a soggy wooden fence. It smelled of rotting lettuce and coal smoke from the barges on the Thames.

There was a group of men in ragged jackets and slouch hats gathered around the doorway, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and spitting against the brick wall. Holmes approached them with his most determined look of disinterest.

The men looked up as he approached, and one of them with dark hair and a full tangled beard lifted a chin in greeting.

"I'm looking for Lucy Tilby. She told me to come around by this door and find her." Holmes said.

"Oh, yeah. What for?"

Stagehands. He could tell from their callused fingers and the dust smudges across all their shoulders from working up in the rafters.

"She sent me a telegram this morning. Apparently one of the orchestra members got themselves knocked around a bit, and there may be a spot open for a violinist."

The feeling in the group turned cold. The man who had been addressing Holmes took a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Knocked around she was, and if I ever get my hands on the man who laid her out, I won't answer for my actions, that's for sure. There was none kinder than Miss Rushford."

"She was badly hurt then?"

"Looked like beat to within an inch of her life and left here in a heap. Poor lass."

"She was here?"

"Found her right on this very doorstep, didn't I? Face all cut up and bloody, hands stomped to jelly. Violin was in pieces at the base of that wall, there. Looked like someone gave it a mighty heave."

"The violin was here with her?"

"I just said so. Found it right there under her. God bless 'er and all. She's ruined now for sure."

"How do you mean?"

"She's got no one. No family. No job to her name, no way to keep herself out of trouble now. Girl needs to eat. She'll find something to do, you watch. I've seen many a good-looking girl go that way, God love 'em. A girl sells what she's got to sell."

Holmes was caught off guard by the vehemence of his anger at this suggestion. Certainly what Katherine Rushford chose to do after they parted ways was no business of his, but it would still be greatly inconvenient to his schedule to have to take time out to sever the limbs from each and every man who dared even try and touch her. Which he found himself very willing to do.

One if the other men in the group, shorter than the first, with scrubby red hair curling down over his collar and springing from his shirt front, pushed his face forward, sallow skin the colour of mucky sea-foam. "Here now, what's with all the questions?"

"Didn't mean to pry." Holmes gave them a disarming smile and hefted his violin case. "All I know is that my cousin told me to show up here tonight to meet the conductor and see if I could take over the empty spot until Miss Rushford comes back."

The dark-hair one shrugged and tossed his cigarette stub to the ground and motioned Holmes to follow him.

"Better come on, then. Lucy'll be in the greenroom."

Holmes followed him out of the cold, passing from the dim alley to the even dimmer, much stuffier hallway. Generations of actors had scrawled their names and show titles into the walls, giving it a frenetic, claustrophobic feel. They turned a corner, and now the passage was lined on either side by dressing rooms. Through the few doors that were left open Holmes could see men and women in various states of flamboyant military dress. From behind closed doors he could hear sounds of chatting, gargling, and vocal warm-ups.

They turned again, and they were in the stage left wing. An old man with rheumatic hands and knees was running a broom across the deep stage. Holmes could see the plush red seating, raked upwards from the stage to the back of the large cream-coloured room. They were passing behind a line of tall black curtains that hid the business of the back stage from the audience sightlines.

Along the wall to his right was the fly gallery. Length upon length of rope strung up from the stage floor to the moving bars hung from the theatre ceiling. All run through different pulley systems, each line could be weighted and controlled from here on the ground, lowering and raising the bars hung with canvas backdrops and, in this case, the flat wooden cut-out of a pirate ship. Holmes smiled despite himself. He did love the theatre.

They came off the stage through a doorway that led them down several flights of steps, and then back-tracked under the stage itself. Holmes realized that they were walking parallel to the orchestra pit, which was sunk below the level of the front row audience. The dark-haired man veered suddenly left, into an alcove, and threw open a heavy wooden door. Cigarette smoke and the smell of perfume wafted out as Holmes followed the man inside then stopped suddenly to get his bearings.

He was confronted with a large group of people, seated in armchairs and on couches, feet up, reading newspapers or drinking strong coffee. The buzz of conversation stopped the moment he stepped through the door. Questioning eyes came to rest on him.

"Lucy, your cousin is here looking for you." The stagehand announced, and then left Holmes to fend for himself in a room full of strangers.

A slight blonde woman with doughy features and an upturned nose looked up from a handbill she was reading. Her brow furrowed when she saw Holmes. She opened her mouth but Holmes fished the telegram out of his pocket and held it up first. "I got your telegram thins morning, Lucy." Her mouth snapped shut. "About the opening in the violin section," he continued, undaunted by the uncomfortable ripple that went through the company.

"Lucy," an elder man in coat tails flashed a thunderous scowl at her. "Did you tell this young man that he could have Kit's job? It's not your place to make such promises, girl."

"No, Mr. Elmer," She stammered back, shooting a glare that was full of poisonous arrows at Holmes. "I just thought…"

"Lucy said it might help if I came down to see if I could hold the spot for Miss Rushford until she was able to come back," Holmes put in.

Elmer shook out his paper and folded it neatly on his lap. "And what is it exactly that you do, young man?"

"Bill Holmes. I give private violin lessons."

"I've never heard of you. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, but I am not in need of another violinist. I have already filled the position with a musician of my acquaintance. I'm afraid that you have wasted your time."

Holmes let his shoulders droop. "Thank you for being straight with me." He hoped he sounded like he meant it. He found the conductors pomposity repellant. "Will you let Lucy know if you hear of something else?" Elmer looked annoyed with the request, but curtly nodded his head.

"I will."

Holmes pushed the telegram back into his pocket and waved for Lucy to follow him. "Show me the way back out, will you, dear?" she looked positively horrified, but at a stern crooked finger from him she surrendered her seat and followed him out into the hall.

As soon as the door was firmly shut behind them he turned to her. "Miss Tilby. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes. It was you who sent me the telegram this morning, wasn't it?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't mean for you to come here and interfere with my job."

"There was no return address on your note. How was I to find you if not by coming here?"

"But I don't have anything to tell you."

"That's not true. You can start by showing me the orchestra pit."

She huffed out a loud breath and pointed across the hall. "There."

"Excellent." He took her by the elbow and escorted her through the low doorway into the pit.

Once inside the space opened up into a small roofless arena, from which he could see the massive guilt ceilings of the main auditorium of the theatre. There was an oppressive silence to the big room, an air of expectation as the audience gathered outside in the lobby, waiting to flood in.

"Which seat is Miss Rushford's?"

"The half-hour bell is going to go any minute. The musicians will be coming in."

"Then I suggest you hurry and point out Miss Rushford's seat to me." Lucy bit her thumbnail nervously and then pointed to one of a group of five chairs in the corner farthest away from the door. "It's the one beside mine. There are three other violinists."

Holmes made his way over, sidestepping music stands and glasses of water tucked under or around the legs of some of the chairs.

"This one?" He laid his hand on it. Lucy nodded.

He got down on his hands and knees and began to scrutinize the seat, then under it. The floor was sticky, and covered in flakes of rosin. "Tell me all that you remember from yesterday," He threw over his shoulder at her.

"I don't remember anything."

"Miss Tilby, please. I cannot help your friend if you insist on lying to me. How did you know she was coming to see me yesterday?"

Lucy glanced around behind her and then sagged visibly. "You're right; she did speak to me about coming to see you. For the last week, she was saying that she thought there was a man following her when she left the theatre."

"Did she get a look at him?"

"I don't think so. She said he wore a hat low over his eyes, and an overcoat I think. She didn't tell me any details. He kept about a block back from her I think. Then yesterday, my brother Davey showed up after the matinee. He comes sometimes to take me to dinner between shows. I invited Kit to come with us, but she said that she was going to see you to ask for your help. Next thing I knew, she was back."

"How did she seem?"

"Upset. I asked her what you had said to the whole affair, but she didn't want to tell. Anyway. Next thing I knew the show was over and she was on her way home. I told her we'd go out tonight, after the show, like, figure out what was to be done about it all. When I got into work they told me that she had been found this morning on the doorstep and that she was…that she was…" Here Lucy stopped, her face reddening and tears dripping down her cheeks. She wiped her nose on the cuff of her blouse. "Have you seen her, Mr. Holmes?"

He lifted his face from the floor for a moment to look at her, not getting up from his knees. "I have."

"And was she…I mean…had she been meddled with?"

His frown deepened as he took her meaning. "No. Not in that way."

He crawled around to the other side of the chair, near pressing his nose to the floor as he checked it inch by inch. "Tell me about Miss Rushford. Was she well liked here?"

"Kit? None better. She had a way about her."

"Who but the orchestra members are allowed in here?"

"The conductor. The cleaners, once a week. No one else really, although it's not often locked. Who would want to be in here besides the players?"

The sweep of Holmes' eye stopped on a small white object pushed against the wall behind Miss Rushford's chair. "Is smoking allowed?"

"No. Not in the pit itself. We would hardly have time, anyway."

Holmes picked up the cigarette butt gingerly and rotated it in this thumb and forefinger. "You know," he mused to himself, "one day I'm going to write a monogram on cigars and cigar ash." He sniffed the end of the stub. "Turkish."

"So?"

"It did not come in on someone's shoe. It is still uncrushed. And only half-smoked. The end has been pinched off with the thumb. I believe someone dropped it from a pocket."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes, then someone dropped it from a pocket. Please, we should go."

A chime rang out in the corridor. A moment later the call boy passed the open door of the pit, ringing a hand bell as he went. "Half-hour," he called.

"You see Mr. Holmes? We must go."

"Of course." He dropped the cigarette butt into his waistcoat pocket and climbed to his feet and dusted off his knees. They left the pit together. Lucy pointed back the way he had come. "Just follow this passage to the end, up the stairs, and across the stage.

He gave her a slight nod of thanks and started to leave.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He stopped and turned back to her.

"I'm sorry to be so callous. It's just that everything is always in such a rush here. It's so easy to find yourself without a job. As a woman, this is one of the few jobs I can have that isn't domestic, see?" She stopped and tucked a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear. Farther down the hall, they could hear doors opening, and the scurry of feet grew louder.

"You have seen Kit?"

"I have just come from her."

"And do you think she'll be all right?"

"Yes." He realized it was a lie, and forced himself to amend his statement. "I mean, I hope that she will be."

"Thank you."

He gave her a quick bow and walked away.

He was crossing the stage again, cursing under his breath, when a voice startled him from behind. "Oy!"

Holmes stopped and turned. A robust crimson-faced man was puffing after him, flapping a hand to get his attention. Holmes recognized him from the greenroom, though he had sat in the corned the whole time and said nothing. "Listen, were you serious about needing a job?"

"I was."

"And is fiddling all you can do, or do you mind throwing your back into something else for a while?"

"Any job is welcome"

"Well, I'm props assistant here, but I've been called over to the Strand Theatre for two weeks to help with their production of Phaedra. How would you like to fill in for me until I get back?"

"Props assistant? What would I have to do?"

"What it sounds like. Make sure all the props start the show in their right places, that as the show goes on the actors get what they need and everything makes it to its place. Watch that the actors don't move anything down to their dressing rooms, or it'll be lost forever. Mind that nothing gets broken, if it does, get it fixed, quick. It's not the worst job you could get."

Holmes considered. "Yes. I'll take it."

"Good. Come back tomorrow at noon. There's a guest company rehearsing another play on stage, but I'll take you through all my lists and show you what's what."

"Thank you." Holmes stretched out his hand, and the other grasped it warmly.

"Jeffey Carlyle."

"Bill Holmes."

"All right, then. We'll see you then." Jeffey turned to go, but then stopped and turned back. "Oh," he pointed his finger at Holmes' formal wear. "And you may want to dress down a little."

Holmes smiled. "Of course."

Jeffey disappeared down the stairs. Holmes watched him go. His brow darkened suddenly. He crossed to one of the stage hands working at the fly gallery and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around and grunted. "What?"

"Which play are we doing?" Holmes asked.

The man's eyes widened, and then he gave him a lopsided grin. "It's the HMS Pinafore."

Holmes groaned. The man chuckled in earnest. "Every night, my man. No time off for good behavior."

Holmes left through the stage door. The alleyway was deserted now, dark, since the streetlights did not penetrate all the way back here. He took out his case of matches and lit one, shielding the flame with his hand. He crossed to survey the brick wall of the building where Miss Rushford had been found.

The ground was damp and covered in footprints. Theatre staff, ambulance men, the regulation footwear of the Bobbies. He shook his head in annoyance. There was no way to tell if any of them belonged to Miss Rushford's attacker. There were shards of violin wood ground into the bricks, but the instrument itself had been removed. He made a note to himself to ask around tomorrow to see if anyone knew who had picked it up.

But why go through the effort, he wondered. If Miss Rushford was attacked on John Street, why go to the trouble of carrying her body and the broken violin all the way back here to leave her at the theatre? Unless it was a message to someone? It made sense that it was. They must have had a cart or wagon. He flared his nostrils, breathing in deeply. He could detect no lingering scent, of citrus or otherwise.

The ground was littered with garbage, straw and loose gravel. He couldn't even see the imprint of where her body had been. Something did catch his eye, down by his shoe. A cigarette stub. He leaned down and picked it up, wafting it under his nostrils. Turkish. He dropped it into his other pocket. The lit match singed his fingers, and he dropped it with a hiss.

He walked back to the mouth of the alley and then turned towards John Street. Perhaps he would have better luck there.