Welcome to Baker Street

89. Swan song

Sherlock, John, Giulia, and Lestrade rush out of the makeup studio, looking for the producer. Sherlock does nothing to hide his impatience and edginess. His cold facade is crumbling under the blows of this intricate case.

None of the interviews of the potential suspects went as expected. Whenever one member of the company pointed the finger at another, the latter would easily deny any involvement and provide an alibi that is corroborated by the versions of the other people. Everyone could confirm plausible deniability. Contrary to all expectations, the situation looks discouraging.

Holmes feels lightheaded as he approaches the entrance of the main auditorium. His long list of accusations has now been narrowed down to one name: Samuel Humphrey. He must be the killer. There is no other explanation.

They find the producer sprawled in the front row of seats, staring vacantly at the empty stage.

"Mr Humphrey, we have some questions for you," D.I. Lestrade catches his attention.

The man they had previously seen in a fit of rage raises his head slowly and gives a silent, uninterested nod.

Sherlock frowns at his reaction. This is not the standard behaviour of someone who is about to go down for murder. Has he just surrendered to his inevitable arrest?

Greg asks professionally, "Where were you from 6 to 8 PM today?"

Samuel smiles bitterly. He knows the police have been going around his theatre in search of new suspects the whole night. If they are now questioning him, it means they got a disappointing tour of the rest of the auditorium.

"In the direction cabin. I spent the afternoon there, running the last check for the show."

"Can anybody confirm your alibi?" Lestrade inquires.

"If you ask the gaffer, he will probably remember that we bumped into each other; he was coming out of the cabin after completing the light check. I stayed inside until a member of the crew came to tell me the cops were here. You know the rest," he adds with a sarcastic shrug.

"Were you alone in the direction cabin?" Lestrade insists, getting irritated by his dismissive attitude.

"Yes. When I went in, the gaffer was leaving, and no one else came to disturb me; my crew knows better than that. Anyway, if you don't believe me, feel free to check the computer-based system connected to the door of the cabin. That place is personnel-only; just a few of us have the automated key to get access to it. Everyone must swipe the card through the reader whenever they enter or exit the room. I'll give you the coding procedure to get the data, so you will track my movements and know exactly when I got in and out of the cabin. Computers don't lie, officer."

Detective Inspector, everybody mentally corrects, but no one speaks.

"Everything you need is on the hard drive: knock yourself out," Samuel concludes in a weary tone, taking Lestrade's notepad from his hands and scribbling down some lines of code before handing it back.

Sherlock processes for a few seconds that critical piece of information. All the previous suspects have interlinked alibis. And now, the only person who seemed deprived of a reasonable excuse is the very one who has the most airtight alibi. He is missing something: what truly happened to the tenor? How can everyone look so disconcertingly innocent?

The theatre becomes mute as everyone looks expectantly at Holmes, then Greg steps in, trying to fill the awkward silence.

"How would you describe your relationship with the victim?"

"We were extremely close. I had always been there for him ever since he took his first steps in the world of lyric music. He had the voice of an angel but the soul of a demon. On stage, he was my shining star, but far from the spotlight, he was like a toddler; I had to take care of his misbehaviour constantly, cleaning up his mess. Poor Vincent, he didn't know a thing about the value of money. He lost so much on gambling. If I were his wife, I'd have kicked him out of the house a long time ago." He raises his brows eloquently.