CHAPTER 42: IN THE LIMELIGHT
LET'S PLAY A GAME: Let's play murder.
I have a little game for you, dear readers. The next chapters will be focused on interviewing some suspects in the murder of Vincent Storing. Pay attention and try to find out who killed the tenor. Will you be quicker and smarter than Sherlock?
The Game is on.
John breaks the silence that followed Sherlock's confession of helplessness.
"Let's start with what we know or believe to be true. Do you think this is his work again? Another murder arranged by Moriarty?"
Sherlock nods distractedly, lost in thought.
"Judging by the explosions that Moriarty planned the first time he engaged in a mad competition with you, we can all agree that bloke is a megalomaniac. But this is too weird even for him: why would he be killing like this, in an impossible way?" Lestrade comments, scratching the back of his neck. If Sherlock Holmes can't crack the mystery, what chance does he have to solve the murder?
At that question, Sherlock's head snaps up.
"Correction: he isn't the killer. He simply concocted the murder for someone else, providing means and opportunity, just as he did with Mr Perth and the nun. The motive is the only aspect that truly belongs to the perpetrator. Moriarty exploits any kind of grievance people might have against the victim, which makes it even more difficult to track down the murderer. Anybody who had even the smallest issue with the tenor is a suspect. It is necessary to question the victim's close ones," he states, walking away. "I suggest we get a head start, Detective Inspector. You go ahead with your squad. We will follow suit in a cab."
"Wait, Sherlock, where are we even going?" Lestrade yells back at him. He hates when he does that: fleeing a scene in which he suddenly lost interest.
Holmes doesn't even bother to turn around, he simply shouts in reply, "To the lyric theatre in the neighbourhood, of course. The main star has just died, but you know the saying: the show must go on."
"Why did we leave the crime scene in such a rush?" Giulia asks while sitting in a cab. She knows Sherlock isn't in the best of moods; he doesn't get stuck often, but when it happens, the whole world seems to stop around him. Her only purpose now is to force him to break down his reasoning process and make it accessible for mere mortals. She hopes this little trick will help him keep the gears turning in his head. And she needs answers, as well.
"There wasn't anything else of importance there," he replies briskly.
"Objection, your honour. There was a dead body with an unidentified cause of death."
"Precisely. We wouldn't gather any new information by standing there. I am fairly sure our victim wasn't killed in the swimming pool, which makes that place utterly inconsequential for the investigation. It was just a message for both John and me, and not even that subtle. Moriarty and I had unfinished business in a swimming pool; I can only imagine that he wants to settle the score," he says in an emotionless tone.
"I suppose you are accepting his challenge, then," she murmurs gloomily. She can't help but be scared to death. She doesn't fear for her life, though, nor is she terrified of the dangers waiting for them. She is mainly concerned about the monstrous consequences of that mad game. Her greatest fear is that Sherlock might lose himself in a maze from which there is no exit. No going back to normal, no going back to her. Because the price for playing with the devil is damnation, for all eternity.
He turns to look at her: his eyes travel across her body, her delicate face, and her feverish eyes. He can deduce her agitation, but not the cause of it. One part of Giulia will always be an enigma to him.
"I can't pull out of the game. Not with this adversary, not with my pathologic attraction to dangerous mysteries. Solving these riddles, being confronted with inexplicable murders, and tracing back every step of the homicides... This is what I'm good at. But it's more than that; it's the only thing that makes me feel alive. So, yes, I'm all in, and I'm not considering defeat as an option."
Sherlock sighs while looking away. Most of the things he's just said are true. He lied about just one detail: the game isn't the only thing that makes him feel alive. It wasn't even enough to make him want to survive when he got shot, less than two weeks before.
Yet, he still has a hard time coming to terms with the deep meaning of what he feels. Whenever he is around Giulia, his body betrays him, and his instinctive reactions never fail to amaze him. His mind, though, is still reluctant. Caring, affection, and all sorts of feelings lie beyond reason. And for as long as he can remember, he's always thought that for someone like him, only chaos and pain loom beyond the detached exactness of reason. But what if everything he has ever believed about himself was wrong?
He shuts his eyes and takes his hands up to his temples, trying to get rid of the cacophony of voices in his head shouting that he is nothing but a soulless automaton. A brain with no pulse.
A second later, he takes a deep breath and flickers his eyes open again; his mind is placid, emptied of all the doubts, the uncertainties, and the skipped heartbeat of his throbbing robotic heart. He clears his throat and becomes inflexible again; his poker face shows no hesitation.
"Now, we have too scarce data about this new murder to work on, and the easiest way to unravel this case is by interviewing the people closest to the victim—the ones who used to spend long hours rehearsing and sharing the scene with our fallen star. No more questions, please," he declares like a diva before falling unnervingly silent.
At the theatre
Once the police get to the theatre, Lestrade breaks the news of Mr Storing's death to his troupe and disperses the crowd of disappointed people who had gathered at the entrance to watch the show. Sherlock, John, and Giulia hop off the cab a few minutes later and proceed directly to the main auditorium where the police officers are rallying the members of the troupe. When the company first learns about the murder of their tenor, a blond-haired boy throws up in a bin near the exit door.
"I can relate. I have been tempted to react the same way when I first saw the corpse at the pool," Giulia mutters under her breath, grimacing in disgust from afar.
As they stand at the entrance of the auditorium, one technician trips over a wire and accidentally knocks a microphone that bangs on the floor, causing a high-pitch screech that reverberates in the theatre hall through the sound system. Everyone instinctively brings their hands over their ears, groaning in pain.
A man in a suit and tie yells at the clumsy girl, "Are you out of your mind? Do you have the slightest idea of how much that bloody microphone costs?"
"Who's the hothead?" John elbows Lestrade, who has been trying to write everyone's names and roles on his notepad. "Those anger issues might lead to murder at some point," he adds, shooting a distrustful look at the enraged man.
Before Greg has the time to check his notes, a male voice intervenes from behind them.
"That would be Samuel Humphrey, the producer of the show. No wonder he is so upset: he's just lost his golden goose. Who is going to help him pay the bills now? Who is going to perform during the upcoming tour?" A gravelly laugh follows the sarcastic remark.
Sherlock, John, Giulia, and Lestrade turn around simultaneously to meet the amused look on a middle-aged man's face.
"You must excuse me; I didn't even introduce myself. My name is Gordon Ammel, and I am—"
"A gossip columnist," Sherlock talks over him.
The man does a double-take. "Pardon?"
Sherlock nods to a name tag pinned to his jacket. "It is no surprise you opted for an easier definition and classified yourself simply as a journalist," he reads the tag. "It opens far more doors, but certainly not those of a theatre that was just shut down to the public for the night due to a police investigation. Which brings me to the question: what are you doing here? You certainly are not working on behalf of the news section, otherwise, you would be behind the yellow tape outside the theatre, bombarding some officer with questions. I've always been amazed at how quickly jackals flock to the scene of a tragedy. Yet you couldn't possibly have gotten here on such short notice. Conclusion: You were already at the theatre," he affirms contemptuously.
"A gossip columnist?" Giulia asks, puzzled.
"Obviously. Had he been a music critic, he would have already left: no performance tonight. Yet he stayed, so he's not here for the music, he never was. His ticket is peeping out of the pocket of his jacket: seat E23. It's in the upper circle." Sherlock points a finger at the right side of the man's jacket, drawing everybody's attention to that barely visible clue.
"However, accredited journalists would never take balcony seats, and you certainly aren't among the official press since you don't have the standard press card around your neck. Hence my inference: you are within the scandal media. And I noticed one more little detail: you're carrying compact binoculars with you, yet you aren't passionate about the opera—after all, you used the libretto that was given to you at the entrance to dispose of your chewing gum." He scowls at him, pointing at a flyer scrunched up in a pocket of his trousers.
He paces around the man and scrutinises him, like a vulture circling over a fresh carcass.
"Here's my deduction: You are a hungry gossip columnist in a desperate search for a juicy scandal to print. You bought a ticket for a nice, secluded spot in the theatre so that you could spy every move on the stage with your binoculars, trying to detect even the smallest thing. Maybe a wink between two performers? Perhaps an affair between a singer and a musician of the orchestra? Apparently, you did your homework, too. Given your previous identification of the producer, you are well-documented about the members of the company."
Gordon Ammel glowers at Sherlock for a few seconds, then raises his hands in surrender.
"Hey mate, I'm not looking for troubles with the police, especially not tonight when a terrible headache is boring into my brain. This dizziness is killing me; I can't even form straight thoughts. You don't happen to have an aspirin, do you?" He asks nonchalantly, rubbing his temples and earning perplexed looks from the people in front of him. He stops whining and resumes his introductions. "Anyway, I am just a fan of this company," he gives them a crooked smile, and everyone has the same thought: 'stalker' would probably be a better definition.
He shrugs innocently. "I dug out quite some dirt on Vincent Storing, the deceased tenor. He wasn't a saint, and I'm not exactly a good Samaritan with people like him. I believe wrongdoers should always be exposed."
Lestrade clears his throat and flashes his badge, warning him, "For someone who works in the media, you aren't too smart at issuing a statement. You've just confessed to having delicate information about the victim; we don't know if you acquired those with legal means, or if his secrets would be worth enough to kill for. You also hinted at your malicious opinion of the victim. Your professed dislike certainly doesn't amount to motive, but please, be advised that we are in the middle of a murder investigation, and as far as we are concerned, anyone in this theatre is a suspect. You included."
Gordon Ammel gapes at him. "Murder? When the police first came to the theatre, they communicated they found his body in a swimming pool. I assumed he had drowned."
"It's a very common mistake, apparently," Sherlock scoffs then he addresses Greg with a sarcastic grimace. "Well done, Lestrade. Why don't you just give this nosy journalist a complete interview about the current state of the investigation?"
Before the officer can reply, the columnist intervenes, "All jokes and irony aside, I'd like to state clearly that I wasn't confessing to murder, Inspector. I just meant that I know many private things about the victim. Your friend is right; I am a gossip columnist. That's what I do." He shrugs unapologetically. "I'm supposed to know all the filthy little secrets of showbiz, and I can assure you that Vincent Storing had more than one skeleton in the closet. You don't need to drag me down to Scotland Yard or even put up that serious investigative face. Not with me. If you need any kind of information, I'll tell you everything I know."
"No, thanks. I don't talk to journalists. Now, if you'll excuse me." Sherlock pushes him aside unceremoniously and walks away.
They follow him while Greg protests, "Where are you going? You wanted to interview people. That's why you made us come here. He might be a good source."
Sherlock comes to a sudden halt and turns around to face him.
"Wrong. Did you take a good look at his clothes?"
The D.I. gives him a scolding glance. "I'm leading a murder investigation. Checking out which brand a random guy is wearing isn't exactly at the top of my priorities."
"That's the point: he wasn't wearing any famous brand—just plain, inexpensive clothes. He had a stain of dirt on his black jacket: an old blot and quite visible, too. He couldn't have overlooked it while getting dressed, which means he is perfectly aware of that stain, but ignored it because that was probably the only good jacket he could wear for a night at the theatre."
"That's merely speculative," Lestrade grumbles, drumming his fingers on his notepad, impatient to carry on with the truly important parts of the investigation.
"But the fabric of his shirt isn't," Sherlock retorts.
Greg almost loses it. "The fabric?"
"Linen. No one in their sane mind would wear a linen shirt in such freezing weather. What can we deduce from that? Again, he owns only one remotely elegant shirt. That man is a gossip journalist who struggles to make ends meet and still spent money to be here in a desperate search for a story. Judging by all these signs, we can conclude he cannot be trusted, for we can't know if he gets creative and distorts reality. He would sell his soul to the devil for a couple of banknotes; I guess making up fake news would be quite lucrative as well. I highly value knowledge and never thought ignorance to be bliss, but I'd rather be ignorant than ill-informed."
Lestrade stares into his blazing eyes for a second, then surrenders, already regretting when he agreed to join forces on that case.
"Well then, who do you want to get information from?"
"I'd like to have a chat with the victim's wife first."
"How do you know..." Lestrade is about to ask, but Sherlock raises a brow eloquently, and a clear image immediately resurfaces from the inspector's memory. "The ring on the victim's finger," he realises.
Holmes shoots him an ironically proud smile.
"I'm glad you're finally learning to observe. It was her husband's big show, so I'm confident she would be here. Where can I find Mrs Storing?"
Greg checks his notes. "Yes, she's here. She is the soprano in the company. We'll find her in her dressing room."
Sherlock flashes a toothy smile. "Brilliant. Let's see if she is so kind as to give us a solo."