Sandbag in the Fly Gallery

Holmes caught Mrs Crane's wrist. "Do not step on that chalk line—he is in the wings, counting the steps that bring you nearer."

Watson lifted the lantern into the wings. Bergamot hung like damp air; the fly-ropes stirred. The moment they set foot on the gallery ladder a sandbag crashed down, grazing the lantern rim and showering splinters. A grey fingertip flashed among the lines and vanished into deeper dark.

On the gallery boards cigarette ash still glowed. A stage-nail pinned a second note: "Before the river fog lifts, bring Crane alone to the chalk—or the obituary prints tonight." The hand matched the letter at the stage mouth. Holmes looked up: in the empty upper box a silhouette leaned out and drew back. "Dawn is counting down," he murmured. "The living man must not take the stage—we must make the writer come down himself."

❦ To be continued.