Chapter Text
He got there early so he could find optimal seating. Not for the stage, but for the crowd. If Ms. Martinelli was being stalked, he would likely be here some nights, and Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on anyone who looked suspicious. It was unlikely that the man attended every one of her shows, as that could get expensive—he himself had balked at the price of the ticket he purchased that evening—but tonight he might get lucky. If not, he still had to talk to Ms. Martinelli.
Sherlock was familiar with the technicalities of opera, such as vocal ranges and whether or not someone was good, but he knew nor cared little about the actual content. These three hours would be pure investigation. Perhaps he could even catch her on the intermission. Not likely.
The theatre filled as the minutes passed. It was as he expected; Cordona's wealthy British elite, with some other transplants mixed in in fewer numbers. No one seemed to come in alone. That was unfortunate. It was extremely unlikely that the stalker was a man with a wife whom he took to shows, so perhaps tonight was a bust on that front. No matter. He would people-watch and use the time to think.
The gas lamps were dimmed as the orchestra began, and Sherlock settled himself in for a long and tiresome three hours. He was fond of music, but the story tended to get in the way.
It turned out to be more intriguing than he gave it credit for. The plot was of course foolish romantic nonsense, and the arias were incomprehensible as, despite understanding French conversationally, the singing masked articulation. But they certainly sounded nice—and he could not deny Ms. Martinelli's talent. Her timbre pierced the air, overpowering the full orchestra without any semblance of effort. Only the tremble of her exposed bosom gave the idea that singing in her dramatic soprano was something she had to do through exertion, rather than something that came naturally.
The minutes passed. As expected, he could not reach her at intermission.
"I'm a private investigator Ms. Martinelli hired. I would be grateful if I could speak to her now so that I don't have to sit through the rest of this performance."
"Sorry, sir, but I can't let any old man claiming to know Ms. Martinelli backstage. You seem an alright fellow, but she's very busy at the moment. If you know her, you'll be able to speak with her later this evening."
That was that. Sherlock didn't want to cause a scene at the theatre, of all places. There were scenes enough. He was glad at least that she was not unguarded; if he would have been able to reach her that easily, so too could a stalker.
Take a seat, Sherry. Enjoy the show.
It was more of the same, but again, not wholly unpleasant. He wouldn't be able to bother recounting the storyline afterwards, but nevertheless it was charming to the ear. He was even glad he had come. Somehow picking apart the plot holes and deciding who enjoyed being on stage and who did not was a nice distraction from the events of the past couple of weeks. Perhaps this case would turn out to be lighter after all.
That's the spirit, Sherry. Maybe you'll take me to more of these. I happen to enjoy them, you know.
Sherlock wasn't rude enough to respond to Jon in the middle of Ms. Martinelli's final aria.
It went on for several minutes, and again she easily pierced every note while gliding across the stage, her face and movement full of emotion.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Sherlock recalled his behavior the week before, at the refugee camp. He could certainly do to learn a thing or two about pretending to be full of emotion.
Before he knew it the show was over. The kerosene lamps that always unnerved him in enclosed spaces like this were raised again, and people began to exit in neat rows. Sherlock remained seated, watching once again all the individuals of the crowd. No one stood out. Some people stayed behind, chatting and mingling, but no one looked suspicious.
He wondered how long it would take Ms. Martinelli to change and finish up her post-show activities. Surely not longer than ten minutes or so, and that had already passed by the time he pondered going to her.
Sherry, I know you don't know what's under all those layers, but listen to me. It's a lot of layers.
"I'll wait a few more minutes," he muttered to Jon, who had taken the seat beside him after his previous companion departed. They had been a bit too sniffly for his tastes.
To his surprise, he saw Ms. Martinelli approaching him already, making her way up the red velvet-lined stairs. Sherlock stood as Jon left. She was wearing an emerald green evening gown this time, sans hat, her hair still arranged in the style she had donned on stage.
"Ms. Martinelli." He knew he should say more about the opera, lest he offend her. "I suppose I should thank you for inviting me to the show. It was very…entertaining. You are quite talented."
She smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek. Even with that added affectation he could tell it wasn't completely genuine. Perhaps she wouldn't have minded if he got straight to the point after all.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. But I know you didn't come for my singing, so please, let us talk somewhere more private."
"Where do you have in mind? Please, lead the way."
"I wouldn't want to make you walk me all the way home, so my dressing room will do."
Scandalous.
"Do you normally walk home alone? That's not something I'd expect a woman being stalked to do."
She turned her neck sharply to glance back at him. She remained silent in response for a minute, looking around to apparently make sure no one else could hear them as they walked backstage and through the halls.
"You'd be right. I always walk with others or take a carriage. I also have a maid, and I've hired a man I know from the gallery to keep an eye on my home. But I'm not going to live in fear. I want this to end."
Sherlock nodded along as she spoke, narrowing his eyes as he contemplated the facts at hand. It made sense. But really—"Why haven't you contacted the police? I'd like to hear more, but it isn't precisely my area." It seemed more of a local matter, in any case. He would understand perfectly well if she wanted nothing to do with the police, as incompetent as they were.
They reached a door with her name on it, set in brass. Ginevra Martinelli. He instinctively opened it for her, and both entered.
"I cannot go to the police, trust me. Let me explain."
She took a seat at the wooden vanity which lay at the far end of the dressing room. There was a low, olive-green chaise lounge against the left wall, and Sherlock took a seat there, both facing the other. He remained silent so she continued. As she spoke, he pieced together her true character. It was easier now in this room, her own sphere of influence and activity, particularly now that his mind was unoccupied.
Her manner was more relaxed as she sat, and she did not fiddle or twiddle or blink or twist. She was collected and straightforward as she regaled her tale to him, a self-satisfied look about her.
She had soft, unblemished hands and an unpainted face that betrayed no deeper emotion or purpose besides what she was saying at that moment. Either she was a simple sort of woman or she knew her way around talking. Given her profession, and simply how he felt about her up to now, he presumed the latter.
"The reason I know I'm being stalked is this." She turned to open the vanity drawer and drew forth a wadded up piece of paper. She smoothed it out well enough then handed it to him.
"Why is it crumpled?" He could guess. She was afraid…
"...and I felt suddenly that he was watching me read it. I didn't want anyone else to see its contents, though there was no one else around."
Sherlock read on as she quieted.
"Your dalliances do little to conceal you from me. Even from Milan and London it was not hard to ascertain exactly where you could be found. I still recall what you have seen and I have no intention of forgetting it, but I do intend to make you forget. The world could use one less opera singer."
His scanning of the letter lent to a few observations. It was obviously a man writing, given the hand it was penned in, which was haphazardly concealed from his own but not enough to withstand a side by side comparison if it came to that. The attitude towards women in particular was not negative nor positive, and that was odd for a stalker. Indeed he was no ordinary stalker, that much was clear.
"What did you see? You cannot leave out any small detail or any help I can give you will be negligible."
"I intend to tell you everything," she said with a slight snap to her voice that made Sherlock sit straighter. "I'll be frank, then, as you wish. I witnessed a murder two years ago in an alleyway near the Milan Conservatory."
A picture came to light. A woman in her graduating year, walking with friends under the moon after a party or more likely a gala. They go their separate ways as they near their lodgings. Ginevra is too deep in thought to know she should be going straight home, or better yet to her friends' home.
"It was a prostitute, that much was obvious, and I was too caught up in things"—Sherlock knew that meant slightly affected by drink—"to realize I should have run away. I saw the whole thing, and then I stupidly exhaled louder than I should have. He saw me and started to run. Then I did something more foolish."
For once he could not guess.
"I ran after him." Her side eye tried to observe his reaction. He didn't give her one, but yes, he was surprised. Somehow not even admonishing the fact that she'd done so. It was almost admirable if it wasn't so dangerous.
Ms. Martinelli continued, "I passed the body as I ran. There was no blood, but I knew she was dead."
"How do you know? Perhaps she was drunk as well." Not likely.
"No, I knew. Her eyes were open and glassy, and her neck looked as though it had been put through a ringer. He'd killed her for certain."
"I see. You're still here, so I assume the confrontation did not end badly."
"He got away." Now the emotions were churning upon her face and in her eyes. This part of the story seemed the most important. "He got me first, though. Hit me as hard as he could but it sort of bounced off, I was so drunk," she finally confessed, though from the look they shared she supposed he already guessed it. It made little difference to him, though he did not drink himself. "Then a male friend of mine passed by again and saw us and I suppose saved me. I got a good look at him, though, before he ran off."
"And he got a good look at you too."
"Right. I haven't gotten to the worst part yet, I'm afraid. He was a constable."
"And he was in uniform?"
"No. I wouldn't have neglected to mention that detail." She peered at him silently for a moment, apparently trying to judge his reaction to all of this. He betrayed nothing, and she sniffed and continued. "A few days later, he was one of the constables at our graduation ceremony, and I recognized him for certain. I know he recognized me too."
"And now he's here, tracking you down? What made him wait so long?"
"He was transferred here to Cordona's force some weeks ago, I'm guessing, because that's when the notes began. Don't worry about those; there were only two others, and they were practically the same, I suppose to make sure I got the message." Sherlock thought he caught a hint of an eye roll.
"I've talked to some of the police already, since I've been back in Cordona. An unintelligent and thoroughly incompetent bunch if I had to classify them. I'd be glad to root out one more seed of corruption."
"How do you suppose you'll do that?" she asked suddenly, almost suspicious; as though she no longer wanted, or trusted, his services. She'd called him down here and made him sit through a three hour opera for this, so he hoped he was going to get some investigation out of it. He would look into it regardless. He'd already failed to stop corruption in the force once, and ousting an actual murderer over a group of smugglers might end up more satisfying.
"Well, you know what he looks like. I can sketch him up easily enough if you give me an apt description. You heard his voice too, I presume? I may need your help on that front, but aside from that, I think it will be rather easy to pinpoint who it is. Not many newcomers to the police force these days."
"I heard his voice if you count shouting." She tittered as she thought for a moment, and he remained silent, observing. Finally she continued, seeming to have made up her mind about something, "Do you have a paper with you to sketch on? I can give you the details now."
"Of course," he replied, taking out a small notepad which he did indeed carry on him at all times.
"But I do have one small request. I would like to be there when you confront him."
Sherlock paused in his notetaking and raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I can't promise anything. I don't know when or where I'll stumble across him."
"Then let me know what you discover, as you discover it. You still have my card. Call on me anytime. Now, as for his description…"
She described him at considerable length, with an admirable attention to detail. The only object of contention was the mustache, which she was for some reason sure he would have shaved off by now. He didn't seem the type to keep styles for so long, she claimed, and although Sherlock saw no reasoning in it he wrote it down anyway. Women's intuition could often be relied upon as much as any clear cut evidence.
Finally as the sketch was finished, he presented it to her, and she nodded sagely. "Yes, exactly that. You have a very fine hand, Mr. Holmes. Are you sure you aren't fond of art?"
Vogel must have told her about their conversation at the gallery. "Quite sure. The art I apply myself to is objective and for a specific purpose."
She leaned back against her vanity, tapping her fingers on her crossed arms. "Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes. Now." She stood. "Is there anything else you need to know? I would like to get home before it is too late and there's no one around to accompany me."
Sherlock stood as well, nodding to the lady. "That's all I need, Ms. Martinelli. I'll look into this matter for you and bring you results. I will likely call on you tomorrow evening, after your show." He certainly did not plan to sit through it again. He would wait in the lobby. "I'll have something then."
Ms. Martinelli smiled at him in a kittenish way, her eyelids drooping as she showed him to the rear doors. "Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. I would honestly take care of it myself if it wasn't so dangerous. A few years ago I was more reckless than I am now."
"Try to remain safe then, Ms. Martinelli, in the meantime. Keep a man at your door and tell your maid to watch out as well." He thought more of her character as they walked down the hall once more. She didn't seem overly afraid of the stalker, but concerned enough to want it to end. Perhaps that was just her confidence.
Ms. Martinelli nodded compliantly and touched his arm as he went through the doors. "Goodnight."
He replied in kind and began his walk away from the Legacy Theatre and back to his manor. He would visit the police station the following morning, he thought, and do some snooping about.
"By the way," Ms. Martinelli exclaimed from the doorway, so Sherlock stopped and turned, assuming she had remembered some crucial detail. People often forgot the most important of facts until it was too late to relay them.
Instead she merely called out, "The sculpture is true to life." She waved at him and shut the exterior doors.
Ooh, Sherry. You're out of your element.