Intercepted at the Stage Mouth

Boot-steps broke rhythm on the side stair. Watson came down hard from the box corridor; Holmes already blocked the chalk line. The grey shadow struck the muddy coat and staggered—the half-ticket on the peg flashed, and the inspection collapsed at once.

The man lifted his face: silver at the temples, Savoy bergamot still on his collar. The right grey glove was whole; the left lacked half a fingertip—the flash among the fly-ropes. "You have ruined Scene Five," he said low, yet his eyes went past Holmes and fixed hard on Mrs Crane in the wings.

Watson seized his wrist. From the cuff slid an unprinted obituary proof, the dead man's name blank, only the line "Dawn, the river" already set. For the first time the bergamot turned bitter. Holmes pinned the sheet. "Leave the blank for yourself. The living man is in our keeping—what you will hand over is who paid for this play."

❦ To be continued.