The Aluminium Crutch, Part 3
Amelia and Lestrade found Sherlock standing outside in the entrance foyer of the theatre, just outside the doors of the theatre, itself. There were a few police officers still questioning people from the audience, though most people had been swiftly processed and sent home, given that there was really only so many times you could hear the same story. Without many people around, now, the foyer looked even more rundown and old fashioned then Amelia had first thought it was, while the smell of dust and old carpet tickled her nose. For a second, she thought she caught a flash of a camera light going off from outside, through the stained glass windows that laced the front of the theatre, but she ignored it, for now. It wasn't hard to imagine that word had gotten out that someone had died during a play, even in such a low-key theatre, someone dying during a play was still an interesting story.
"He didn't do it," Sherlock said, turning around to face Amelia and Lestrade as they joined him, "William Howell".
Lestrade looked briefly thrown, before he sighed and looked as if he was struggling, hard, not to roll his eyes skywards, "Are you going to explain that one, or just leave it at that, Sherlock?" he asked warily.
"He's right," Amelia nodded, glancing at Lestrade with a slightly amused look, while Sherlock looked as if he was briefly considering teasing Lestrade, just a little bit...she saw the flash of mischievousness that had glimmered in his cool blue eyes. She was starting to be able to read Sherlock fairly well, these days, he wasn't completely without a sense of humour, in fact, he had a pretty decent one, "William Howell is far too busy drinking and flirting to have actually murdered anyone, aside from the fact that the motivation for him to even kill Mathew is flimsy, at best".
"The whole lot of them seemed to have been living in an episode of East Enders," Lestrade gave her a slightly bewildered frown, "I reckon there's motive there..."
"Enough to commit murder in front of an audience of witnesses?" Sherlock cut across him with a mocking eyebrow raised, scoffing when the other man went to respond. He shook his head, swiftly cutting him off, again, "Howell could barely stand up straight on that stage when the murder occurred, he didn't have enough presence of mind to make the calculated choice to switch out the prop crutch for the real one".
"It wasn't a crime of passion, Lestrade," Amelia nodded, giving the man a grim look, "It was planned and calculated. It had to be, someone had to switch out the prop crutch for the real one before the scene, that means someone had to know exactly the right moment to switch it out and they also needed time, access, and the calculation to do so in preparation for the murder. It was planned, not done at a moment's notice".
He seemed to consider it carefully, weighing it up, before he gave them a curious, thoughtful look, "Okay...so who had access, then?"
"Everyone," Sherlock dismissed instantly, waving a hand, "Anyone working on this production could have switched out the crutch without barely anyone blinking an eye," he rolled his eyes, scoffing, "You saw backstage, it was hardly neat and tidy, they don't even have a proper dressing area, so why would they have a prop's department with any sort of logging system?"
"Right...so, then, who would have time to switch it out?"
"Again, anyone could have done that," Amelia shook her head, sighing slightly with a thin smile, giving Lestrade a vaguely sympathetic look...the poor man looked as if he was ready to simply throw his hands in the air in despair and frustration. At her words, he gave her a slightly blank stare and she had to fight down the urge to laugh. Open and shut case, huh? She shrugged, "They all had the same access to the props and they were all involved in the scene, so they all knew the exact timing and could have easily have switched out the crutch without raising many eyebrows".
Lestrade sighed heavily and shook his head, almost looking physically pained as he brought his hand up to rub at his eyes, his features screwed up tightly. Amelia watched him with faint amusement, a tiny, perhaps childish part of her rather enjoying seeing Lestrade's mind try to figure out a puzzle and end up with nothing, but it wouldn't help him anything if they simply gave him all the answers. He needed to try and use his detective reasoning, best as he could manage, from time-to-time. Sherlock seemed to similarly think that too...or, perhaps more likely, he simply enjoy torturing Lestrade a little and teasing him, until the poor man was so aggravated by them that he simply gave up and admitted defeat. A little power play, Amelia couldn't help thinking with a slightly mocking internal eye roll.
"That doesn't tell us anything about who killed Mathew," Lestrade said eventually, voiced slightly muffled from behind his hand, before he grimaced and dropped his hand to give them a flat, slightly squinted eye glare, "It wasn't Howell, it wasn't Deborah Challis, and it wasn't...er..." he paused briefly, looking slightly lost as he hastily checked his note pad, "...Karen Baldwin, the one who plays the maid. So...that leaves..." he again paused to consult his own notes, brow furred deeply, "Sarah Groenewegen, who was having it off with Howell, and Jonathan Morris, who clearly has some issues with Howell and is in love with Howell's ex-girlfriend..."
"But Howell isn't our murder victim," Amelia reminded him with a slightly pointed look, "Mathew Michael is, a man, who by all accounts seemed to have the sympathy of the majority of the cast, a man that we've yet to hear a bad word spoken against by any of the cast and who was, even, arguably one of Howell's most suffering victims".
"Wait, what?" he blinked sharply at her, "Victim?"
"The padding to Mathew's costume, Lestrade," Sherlock gave him a slightly annoyed, impatient look, as if his slowness was starting to actually irritate him, not merely amuse, "The old bruising, surely even you can see what that's all pointing to?"
He simply stared at him blankly, earning a dark scoff from Sherlock.
"Think about it, Lestrade," Amelia urged him, slightly more gently, but growing mildly exasperated now herself. She knew it was kind of late at night and the jumble of names being thrown around was kind of hard to keep track of, but Lestrade was, arguably, one of the best Detective Inspectors that she knew, surely he had to be catching on to what they were trying to layout, "If you look at it, all of the evidence is trying so hard to point us in the direction of Howell being the killer, so much so that it's painfully obvious he's not the killer," she kept on when she saw that Lestrade was still lost, eyeing her with a deeply confused frown, making her sigh slightly, "Howell was a drunken, cheating womaniser who was pretty much either loved by the female cast or hated by the men, Lestrade, while in comparison Mathew was almost looked at with sympathy, what does that tell us?"
Lestrade sighed slightly and rubbed at his forehead, squinting his eyes slightly at her, "I dunno...that Howell probably should have been the one with his head smashed in?" he said vaguely.
"Exactly," Sherlock cut in, making the poor man blink and look at him sharply in surprise, but he barely seemed to notice, gazing thoughtfully off into the distance, "Howell would be the one you would expect to be murdered, but he wasn't".
"Okay...so if Howell isn't the killer. Who the hell is?"
"Mathew was," Amelia said, deciding that she had enough trying to get it through to Lestrade, who clearly hadn't had enough sleep or nicotine to try and properly follow them. Lestrade gaped at her and she almost smiled, "The old bruising from being previously hit by the real crutch during rehearsals when Howell was drunk, hence the extra padding in the suit to try and protect himself, all because the Director was in love with Howell and refused to actually do anything about protecting Mathew from Howell's drunken antics and abuse. Mathew planned it, Lestrade, he's the killer".
"He planned all of this...just as some sort of...what, elaborate suicide?"
"I doubt it was a true suicide attempt, Lestrade," Sherlock shook his head, sparing the man a cool glare, "Likely more of an attempt to foolishly try to draw attention to what sort of person Howell actually is, make a statement that can't simply be ignored. Obviously, it went array and Michael wound up dead, rather than just injured".
"Mathew probably just wanted to see Howell exposed and sacked," Amelia added with a small, thoughtful frown, glancing at the open door of the theatre, "I imagine he swapped out the fake crutch for a real one with the aim to get himself seriously hurt enough that no one could deny that Howell wasn't fit to work on the stage, but he didn't account for perhaps Howell being drunker than normal, or perhaps Howell just went a little higher then Mathew expected and clocked his head instead of an arm, accidently killing him".
There was a long moment of silence as the three of them stood together, processing all of the evidence in their minds. Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed, as if he had hoped for something much more exciting then an accidental death, while Amelia found the whole affair to be terribly tragic and full of little lessons in injustice. Mathew's death would have been easily avoided if everyone had just done their jobs and acted like decent human beings, and put a stop to Howell being allowed to rock up every day to work drunk. She didn't blame Mathew for trying to put an end to it himself, even if it meant getting hurt himself, she felt rather horribly for the man that it had seemingly come to that in his own mind. Lestrade simply looked as if someone had slapped him over the face, lips parted and a rather stunned expression written across his face. He frowned and opened his mouth, before closing it and shaking his head, blinking rapidly.
"Jesus," he breathed, "That's...another one for the books. The blogs gonna love this one".
Sherlock shot him a scowl, "Yes, because that's exactly why I do this, Lestrade," he scoffed, a slightly annoyed edge to his deep voice, "Consider my life fulfilled".
And with that, seemingly deciding that he had done his duty, Sherlock turned and stalked back through the doorway of the theatre. Amelia and Lestrade lingered outside the door, Amelia sparing Lestade an almost sympathetic look.
"So...that reports going to be fun to try and write," she said lightly, just imagining how hard it was going to be for Lestrade to try and explain this one...with the multiple names and interpersonal relationships that all tied the case together, especially considering that it had taken multiple attempts to get him to understand the case to begin with.
Lestrade almost paled and chocked out a swear word that made her laugh, patting him on the arm as she turned to track down Sherlock.
...
It was nearing midnight and Amelia and Sherlock were still lurking around the back stage of the theatre, waiting for John to catch up with them after he had sent back a rather simple, quick, 'I'm on my way,' after Sherlock had texted him a rather lengthy text explaining to him all of the excitement that he had missed out on. Amelia didn't really know why he was bothering to join them, not when the case was solved and their part was done, but apparently John's date had just been around the corner and, more than likely, he probably longed for a good excuse to flee from the no doubt boring date when he got the chance to. Two of your friends solving a mysterious death in a theatre was probably a pretty decent excuse, as far as getting out of a date went, Amelia supposed.
She would have accepted it, to be honest. And so they waited for him to arrive, Amelia perching herself on a scuffed chair as she daydreamed about getting home and taking her heels off, while Sherlock stood a few steps away, peering out at the stage where they had just removed Mathew Michael's body. Forensics were still taking pictures and swabs, but aside from the pool of blood, one wouldn't have known a tragic death had just occurred.
"Hey!" a slightly breathless voice called, and she and Sherlock turned sharply to find John jogging over to them from the steps leading up to the stage, looking rather wide eyed and curious. He was still dressed in the nice blue shirt Amelia had suggested he wear for the date and his dark brown, least offensive blazer that he owned...John paused as he reached them and gave Amelia a double take, his eyes just about popping out of his head at the sight of her outfit, especially when she rose to stand, "What are you wearing?"
Amelia glanced down at herself and sighed slightly, "I was told we were going to the theatre..." she muttered, slightly defensively and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling rather tired by the fact that literally everyone seemed to feel the need to either stare or comment on her dress.
She was choosing to take it as a compliment.
"Amelia, Jesus, you...er..."
"Yes, we know that you're appreciative of Amelia's physical appearance tonight, John," Sherlock cut in with a slightly sharper tone to his voice, rolling his eyes as he settled a deeply disapproving glare on the shorter man, who seemed momentarily to stunned to do anything but stare at Amelia...and her legs. He scoffed loudly, "Every male in a ten mile radius seems to share the sentiment, but perhaps we can focus on the fact that a moderately interesting death took place tonight while you were attending a seemingly even duller date".
John blinked and finally dragged his eyes off Amelia, clearing his throat embarrassedly as he avoided meeting her eyes. Amelia barely noticed, after all, she knew that John wasn't actually interested in dating her; there was no harm in finding a friend physically attractive, though, especially when she was physically what John typically liked in a woman. No, she was far more curious about how Sherlock had said that all men surrounding her tonight seemed to share John's view of her...so was he including himself in that? She did wonder...
"Yeah," the shorter man seemed to become slightly more focused on Sherlock, absently plucking his phone from his pocket, "I got your message, by the way. All twenty of them".
"And I see that you date went exactly as I predicted".
He sighed slightly and rolled his eyes, "Yeah, kind of," he then glanced sideways to Amelia, before shooting Sherlock a slightly suspicious, curious glance, furring his brows thoughtfully, "What were you two doing tonight...going to the theatre...together?"
"I had an extra ticket," Sherlock gave him a flat look.
"He guilted me into coming," Amelia said at the same time, flashing Sherlock a brilliant, if rather wicked smile in her lipstick when he looked at her in annoyance.
John's eyes darted between them, still looking oddly suspiciously, "Right..." he said slowly, dubiously, and Sherlock dragged his gaze off Amelia to glare at him tightly. He hastily cleared his throat and glanced over towards the puddle of blood on the stage behind him, "So...interesting case, shame to have missed it, though from the voicemail you left me I feel like I lived it..."
Sherlock simply turned and moved to walk away, off down the back of the stage, and Amelia guessed that meant that they were finally leaving for home. She hoped so, anyway. She moved to follow him and John fell into step with her.
"I'm sure you will be wanting to write it up for your blog," Sherlock said with a slightly mocking edge to his voice, sticking his hands inside his coat pockets. He shot John a sarcastic look, "So, what's this one? 'Belly Button Murders?'"
"'The Navel Treatment?'" John suggested, earning a groan of disgust with Sherlock, while Amelia smirked and laughed lightly.
The back stage of the theatre narrowed into a long corridor that stretched on further down the back of the building, leading to the dressing room and props room. They had just entered the hallway when Lestrade easily fell into step with them, having turned into the hallway from a room branching off from it, seemingly having been alerted to their plans to depart, at long last, by their conversation.
"There's a lot of press outside, guys," Lestrade warned them over his shoulder, striding slightly ahead of Sherlock.
Amelia blinked and frowned slightly...press? As in the media? Oh, God, no, she had noticed what looked like a camera flash going off earlier out the front, but she imagined it was just for the sake of the mysterious death occurring, but another thought entered her mind: John's blog had gained a lot of traction the past few weeks. She had even heard someone talk about one of their cases in a cafe the other morning, but she had thought it was just a once off. She had even sent John a text and laughed about it, teasing him for becoming famous and he'd even joked about it himself. If it was actually true, though, and people had discovered John's blog...that could be very awkward.
"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock dismissed easily.
He threw them an amused, knowing smirk, "Yeah," he said lightly, looking far to amused for Amelia's comfort, "That was before you were an internet phenomenon..." he grinned at them and Amelia felt a sliver of dread pool in her stomach, her eyes widening as he added cheerfully, "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three".
"You have to be kidding me..." Amelia breathed, horrified. She threw John an accusing glare, it being all his fault, after all, but John merely shrugged slightly and gave her a small smile, as if to say, 'What do you expect?' She huffed slightly in annoyance.
"For God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, also tossing a glare in John's direction, seemingly just as irritated by the whole idea of the press catching on to them. He suddenly paused and did a brief double take as they walked by a dressing room, and darted inside it...Amelia paused mid-step to watch him as he leaned inside the doorway, where a hat-stand stood just inside the door. He grabbed a tweed cap off it, "John".
"Hmm?" John hummed, and stopped outside the door, too.
"Cover your face," he ordered him, and chucked the cap at his chest for him to catch. John gave the cap a slightly blank look, "And walk fast," he continued sternly, already reaching up to loop his scarf from around his throat, only to turn and shove it at Amelia, who just managed to grab it before he smacked her chest...He gave her a pointed look, "Put that on and keep your head down, Amelia".
John gave her a slightly bewildered stare, "Yeah, 'cos that's going to make people ignore you, Amelia..." he said with a pointed glance down at her dress.
"Just do it," Sherlock gave her another glare, before whirling around and stalking off down the hallway.
Amelia sighed slightly, throwing his back a flat frown, "Great," she said mock brightly, "Now people can think we're having an affair!"
John snorted, but didn't deny what everyone would be thinking the second she stepped outside those doors with Sherlock's scarf around her neck, a scarf that very obviously didn't go with her dress, and a scarf that anyone who knew Sherlock would recognise as his near iconic accessory. And if the press were as keen on them as Lestrade seemed so delighted to imagine, then Amelia could only expect that once they got sight of Sherlock wearing his scarf, connections would be made back to this moment. But...she had little choice, it would seem, so she scowled slightly to herself and looped the still warm scarf around her neck, trying to tug it up so it partly covered her face without being to awfully obvious that she was trying to hide from view, knowing that, in itself, would only add further fuel to the fire of interest into her. The scarf at least smelled nice, like men's soap and something woodsy and nicotine, though she didn't hate it as she normally did on other men...
"Still," Lestrade was saying brightly from ahead of them as they neared the back door of the theatre, grinning widely, "It's good for the public image, a big case like this".
"I'm a private detective," Sherlock shot him a dark look, rolling his eyes, "The last thing I need is a public image..." he ducked his head slightly as he stuck a deer stalker, of all hats, upon his own head, popping his coat collar up high.
Amelia might have advised against such an odd choice in headwear, but she didn't have enough time before she found herself following Sherlock out into the back street of the theatre, her eyes assaulted by camera flashes and shouts and questions being thrown at her from the excited, eager press that awaited their arrival. The police had even formed a barricade, pushing the media back from either side of the doorway, and it was all that Amelia could do to remember to try and keep her head ducked and Sherlock's scarf up around her lower face, keeping Sherlock's back in her line of sight as she all but threw herself after the man and into the backseat of the waiting cab that Lestrade had, thankfully, hailed for them before escorting them out into the lion's den.
...
The following day at least four of London papers ran shots of them where all of their faces were clearly visible, much to Amelia's horror and displeasure. It took less than a day for the press to make a connection to the scarf and Sherlock. And no more than six hours for the first speculation between her and Sherlock or even John, to start up, from the first set of pictures being released.
And so the speculation began.
And never really stopped.
Finished! For those of you who might not know, I am slowly moving my stories across to Archive of Our Own due to the buggy issues being experienced on here. I will continue to update on here, for as long as this website remains up, but Archive seems likely to become my main uploading location from now on, so for anyone interested, it's under the same pen-name as on here.
I hope you guys liked this snippet, let me know what you thought. It was so, so hard to keep all the names in check with this one, I kept getting confused myself, but hopefully I got it all right. Anyway, please review :)
