The Man in the Stalls

The play was over. Watson followed Holmes back into the stalls. Only a few footlights still burned, turning the empty seats a dull grey. The seat number on the half-ticket pointed to the third row by the aisle—the cushion was still warm, hollowed by someone who had just risen.

Holmes drew a folded banknote from the crack. Inside it lay a white card. The hand on the face matched the reverse of the morning paper: "Scene Five. Deliver at the price." No name. On the back, pinned, was a brass key to a private box; a smear of red lead clung to the teeth, the same colour as on the prompter's glove.

"The man who paid does not sit in the stalls," he told Watson. "He needs to see the prompter, and not be seen." Watson looked up to the left-hand box on the second tier—the curtain stirred, as if a face had just been drawn back. At the far end of the corridor, Holt's boots quickened, as though he had run into someone he was not meant to meet.

❦ To be continued.