Work Text:
It was a peaceful afternoon when I entered the sitting room and found Sherlock Holmes lounging in an armchair, listening to a recording of the London Philharmonic Orchestra. The recording played Carmen Suite No. 1, an exciting piece by Georges Bizet. This particular passage was heavy on the viola. Holmes had fallen asleep, his long, bony fingers resting against his thin frame. A book lay draped on top of him, no doubt one he had been reading before falling asleep. With a start, he awoke at my presence. He drew in a slow breath as he woke, then gave a faint, almost imperceptible frown, as though the air itself had momentarily displeased him. He swept his half-lidded eyes, still heavy from sleep, around the room and looked criticizing. I felt my heart beat a bit faster; Sherlock indeed was quite a good-looking man.
“So, Watson,” Sherlock said to me when he sat up, “Would you care to attend the orchestra concert with me tomorrow afternoon?”
I started at the sudden question. “Whatever for?” I asked, looking up at his imposing figure.
“Oh, my dear Watson, just for fun, of course,” he replied. “It’s always good to relax, is it not? And to relax with my dear assistant and intimate friend is even better.”
I was quite taken aback by this. Holmes always had a reason for his actions. It was unlike him to want to go to a concert on a whim.
Just then, the bell rang and a middle-aged, graying man burst through the door. He quickly introduced himself as Charles Gardner, the conductor of the London Philharmonic Orchestra.
“You are Sherlock Holmes, are you not?” he inquired hurriedly. “Well, I have a case for you, and it’s very interesting.”
Sherlock sat up, folded his long arms and fixed his full attention onto the man. He was evidently intrigued by the word “interesting.”
“Well, go on, Mr. Gardner.”
“Our concertmaster, William Roberts, was murdered just a few days ago. While practicing in one of the practice rooms, he suddenly went silent for a long time, something unheard of, since he would practice for hours on end with no stop. We called and tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. He had locked it himself. When we finally forced open the door, we found him lying dead on the floor, an uncomfortable expression on his face. There was no sign of force or any unnatural cause of death. However, he was completely healthy and showed no signs of illness or disease. The police have been completely useless in this case, and we need to find out why our concertmaster died.”
Sherlock frowned, deep in thought; his well-proportioned, dark, handsome features contorted. After the client left, Holmes turned to me.
“Well, it’s no surprise that the police have been no help here. What do you think of this particular case?” He asked me.
“I think it is quite peculiar. How could the concertmaster have been murdered if he was in a room that he locked himself, without windows or any other way in? I’m stumped,” I replied.
“Now you see why I am taking you to the London Philharmonic Orchestra concert tomorrow. We shall investigate and interview the players after we enjoy the superb performance.” Holmes declared. “I have bought the best tickets in the theatre, so let us enjoy ourselves before we investigate a cold-blooded murder.”
It was not for fun and enjoyment after all. Like always, Holmes had an ulterior motive.
The next afternoon I found Sherlock dressed in a formal suit and tie; his tall, elegant, and composed figure draped and encapsulated in formalwear. With a handsome bowler hat on, he beckoned me at the doorway. We walked together to the Royal Festival Hall, chatting idly, though I couldn’t help but notice that he did not typically wear clothes like this. A change for the better, perhaps.
Sherlock must have caught me staring, “Watson—your scrutiny does me too much honor.” He commented dryly, adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate sleeves.
We had arrived at the Royal Festival Hall, alive with the hubbub of murmuring voices. The orchestra was having a light conversation on the stage. As we were led to our seats, the closest possible place to sit, hanging over the orchestra, truly the best seats in the theatre, I noticed Sherlock had a tense look on his face, his sharp eyes sweeping over the orchestra like a falcon hunting its prey.
“Have you noticed something?” I asked him.
“Perhaps,” he murmured to me; thin lips parted slightly in thought. As always, he had noticed things I was oblivious to.
I let the matter go, since Sherlock was bound to satisfy my curiosity once he had solved this case. I sat back and waited for the concert to start. I glanced at the program. Today’s concert featured a soloist that had come all the way from America to play the Mendelssohn violin concerto. She was a beautiful, world-famous violinist by the name of Jenna Liu. It was indeed truly a beautiful performance, and I couldn’t help but be enraptured and completely captivated by the playing of the orchestra and soloist. However, I felt Sherlock’s eyes boring into me for the entirety of the concert. I felt the hairs at the back of my neck prickle at his longing and entranced stare.
“It is quite amusing to see that expression on your face, so mesmerized and spellbound by an orchestra performance. If only I could see that focus on your complexion more often.” He explained when I turned around to face him. I shrugged and focused my gaze back on the performance.
After the performance had concluded, we were led backstage to where the members of the orchestra were waiting. Sherlock interviewed them one by one, asking them where they were at the time of murder, who they were, their connection to the concertmaster. One thing stood out. Nobody in the orchestra liked the late concertmaster. Whether it was the principal players or the last stands, everybody seemed to have a negative impression of the concertmaster, the violas in particular.
“He would always yell at us. Last week, he even threatened to talk to the conductor and have some of us fired.” said one violist
“He would unreasonably make the conductor have us play over and over again.” said another.
The conductor that had come to us in hopes of having us solve this case was a little more courteous. “He was a very particular person, not exactly the best to have around.”
One person in particular stood out, the principal violist, Isabella Smith, a woman with medium- length hair and bangs as well as high cheekbones. She had a streak of rosin on her sleeve, which struck me as unremarkable at the time, for nearly every string player had the same dusty mark somewhere upon their clothes.
“He was a horrible person, with a terrible personality.” She commented darkly. “He would frequently have outbursts, particularly at our section for not playing time. Often, he would try to use his authority like a conductor. The only time we could ever have some peace was when he locked himself in the practice rooms after rehearsal and practiced for hours on end. He treated our co-concertmaster terribly as well, always acting like she would steal his position. Our co-concertmaster is a much better and more pleasant person. It really is fortunate that she is the new concertmaster. We no longer must endure Roberts’ endless berating.”
Her hands trembled ever so slightly when she spoke of the co-concertmaster, though whether from admiration or something deeper, I could not then say. When Holmes asked her if she had seen the concertmaster on the night of his death, she responded by saying that she left early that day and did not see him that evening.
I noticed her glance, more than once, toward an elegant brown-haired woman in the corner, who was smiling and chatting idly with the conductor. At the time, I took it for nothing more than idle admiration, though Holmes, I later learned, had drawn a very different conclusion. I assumed she was the co-concertmaster Smith was referring to.
After interviewing everyone in the orchestra, Sherlock moved on to the practice room in which the concertmaster had died. The body had already been moved, but the air of death and a faint scent of decay still hung in the room. Everything was intact from the murder until now; nothing had been moved except the body. It was a small practice room, brightly lit, however, with a piano in the corner, no windows, and a few stands and chairs. There was no way for an intruder to get in and murder Mr. Roberts.
All of a sudden, Sherlock raised one of his thin, wiry hands and waved it around the room. I was confused by this particular action, and briefly wondered whether Holmes had lost his senses, but Sherlock always had a reason for doing something, so I stayed silent. The concertmaster's violin was still lying on the ground, haven presumably fallen down along with the man. Sherlock bent over it to inspect it.
“It’s a pity the violin got damaged. A pristine Stradivarius worth millions,” he sighed.
Suddenly, he straightened up and backed away hurriedly.
I moved over to look at the violin as well, to see what Sherlock could have found. Curious, I picked up the violin and the bow to try and play it. It was a surprise to none when I produced the most awful screeching sound known to mankind.
Holmes, however, turned around abruptly at the sound of my horrendous playing, and his hand shot out to seize my wrist as he wrapped his fingers around my forearm. His fingers laced softly against mine as he whisked me away from the violin,
“You must refrain from touching that, it's dangerous.” He said fretfully, his elegant and stately eyebrows scrunched in worry.
“Is it poisoned?” I inquired in a hurry, dropping the bow on the ground in a rush.
“Quite possibly,” Sherlock replied, “It’s best if you stay away from it for now.”
He gently unlocked his fingers from my wrist as he knelt to inspect the bow and brushed a finger across it. The rosin made a white streak on Sherlock’s finger. He narrowed his sharp eyes gracefully and wiped the streak away on a handkerchief, and held it an arms-length away, before dropping it securely into a bag which he produced from his pocket. As he straightened up, the room suddenly went black. A creaking sound reached my ears. The door opening, perhaps.
I let out a short gasp of surprise as an arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me in close. The arm dragged me against a firm, tall body urgently, a body that I instantly recognized. My exclamation was quickly cut off when I felt the familiar touch of cool, slender fingers pressed firmly against my lips and nose, preventing me from breathing. I was hauled out the door, and back to the backstage area in which the orchestra members were packing up.
I looked at Holmes. “Whatever was that about?” I demanded.
Momentarily, I caught an expression I couldn’t quite puzzle together. However, in the blink of an eye, the expression disappeared, and Holmes, with his characteristic composure, replied, “We were, my dear Watson, in a situation of most grave peril. Had you, I dare say, inhaled even a single breath of that particular atmosphere; you would have succumbed to its noxious influence and met your untimely end upon the floorboards. Somebody does not want us to find the true working of this murder.”
“I have collected enough evidence to prove my conclusion to be true.” Holmes added, “Now, we wait for the police to show up.”
“You called the police beforehand?” I inquired, “Had you already figured out the culprit of this mystery even before coming here?”
“No, the overview that our dear conductor gave me was not sufficient evidence and was not enough for me to conclude anything. However, I was confident in the fact that I could deduce the murderer behind this death during my investigation, so I called on the police to be ready.”
Sherlock paced around, inspecting and observing the backstage. Soon, my ears detected police sirens, and minutes later, the police arrived. As soon as they burst in, they looked towards Sherlock and he made a gesture towards a certain direction. I followed his hand and landed my eyes upon Isabella Smith, the principal violist with strong feelings against the concertmaster. The leader of this group of police nodded and went over. Handcuffs were produced and slapped onto her wrists while she was turned around. Smith whipped around in surprise at the pressure of the handcuffs on her wrist and as her eyes widened in shock, Holmes smirked, so subtly that only I could detect it. His keen gaze swept over the scene in approval.
“No! You have to believe me! It wasn’t me!” Her head whipped around frantically, her eyes crazed as she looked around the room. Her gaze locked on the co-concertmaster she was previously talking about, who looked at her, eyes wide in confusion and jaw open. As the police dragged her away, much to the astonishment of the rest of the orchestra as well as myself, Holmes turned towards me.
“I expect you have many unanswered questions.”
“Yes indeed, I do.”
Holmes led me away to a quiet, secluded area of the stage. His eyes bored into me, half amused, half expectant.
“So?” I questioned, looking straight back at Holmes.
“So what?” He answered, a small smile quirking up in the corner of his thin lips.” My wonderful companion, whatever are you referring to?”
“You undoubtedly have comprehended exactly what I'm talking about. Your genius mind is much too vigorously astute to not be aware of what I am referring to,” I snapped.
Sherlock chuckled, entertained by my annoyance. “Of course, my dear Watson. So let us start from the very beginning of this case. You see, when our dear conductor first came to us, his words alone were not enough to come to any conclusions. It did, however, give me some ideas, so I knew I had to come here to investigate further. And so, I brought the two of us here. Although, I will admit I did want to take you to see this concert. During the concert, although I was quite occupied with staring at your face, I did notice that Ms. Smith kept on glancing towards the concertmaster’s seat. A coincidence, perhaps? Or, I thought, could it be guilt? When I questioned the members of the orchestra, Ms. Smith really did stand out to me in both her distaste for Mr. Roberts as well as her avid admiration of the co-concertmaster. Another important detail that many may have missed was the streak of rosin on her sleeve.”
“What does that have to do with the murder?” I queried, intrigued.
“Patience, my dear fellow. Allow me to finish my explanation before you interject any further. While having rosin on one’s sleeve is common in this profession, there was something off about the streak that I could not quite place until later on in our investigation. After I had finished the interview and moved on to the location in which Mr. Roberts died, I noticed that there was no chance of someone breaking in and murdering, as there were no windows, and the conductor informed us that the door was locked from the inside. You must have thought it strange when I threw my arms in the air and waved them about. I had already suspected that there was something in the air. When I went to inspect the violin and the bow, I came across something most peculiar. I have dabbled in quite some research regarding poisons and toxins and immediately recognized the substance spread across the bow. Strychnine, an odorless, crystalline powder that can cause death within fifteen minutes of inhalation. I noticed that the white powder on the bow was in fact, not rosin, as it was much too fine and white to be the regular rosin used on bows. That is the reason for which I backed away suddenly. I feared I would inhale that powder and meet my demise without ever finishing this case. When I saw that you had picked up the violin to play, my heart quite nearly leaped into my throat. I do apologize for the sudden action however.”
I nodded, Sherlock’s explanation dawning on me.
“Now, you are probably wondering about what happened when the lights went out. You must have heard the door creaking slightly on its hinges. I had specifically shut the door firmly, as well as told the members of the orchestra not to disturb us during the investigation. There was no reason for the door to have opened. I immediately sensed something was off, and it dawned on me, that the perpetrator must’ve become afraid that I would find something, and decided that since dead bodies tell no stories, they may as well finish us off the same way that Mr. Roberts was killed. That meant that an aerial toxin had been released into the room, therefore the reason for which I grabbed you so suddenly and prevented you from breathing in the toxic fumes. I had already come to a conclusion, so I found no reason to dally there any longer.”
“Additionally, Miss Smith claimed she had not seen Mr. Roberts that evening. However, one of the stagehands distinctly recalled her lingering near the practice rooms shortly before his death. A small mistake, perhaps, but when investigating crime, these small inconsistencies are hardly ever innocent. While we were waiting for the police to arrive, I secretly searched Ms. Smith’s viola case and found a suspicious rosin. When I opened it, it was the rosin with strychnine laced into it. She must have swapped it with Mr. Roberts’ real rosin, and once he died, hid it in plain sight inside of her viola case. So, to sum it all up, the concertmaster was murdered by the violist, Isabella Smith, via lacing his rosin with toxin so that when he played, he would breathe in the fumes and die. A perfect crime, placed inside a secure, locked practice room, with no possible way of any outsider murdering him.”
“And the motive for this murder?”
“The motive, my dear Watson, is far more intricate than mere dislike. Miss Smith was not simply irritated by Mr. Roberts; she was cornered by him. For months, he had singled out the violas for harsh criticism, and Miss Smith in particular had been subjected to repeated humiliation before the entire orchestra. Only last week, he threatened to have members of her section dismissed, a fate which would have ruined her career entirely.”
“But there is more. You may have observed her particular admiration for the co-concertmaster. Mr. Roberts, by contrast, treated that same woman with disdain and suspicion, as though she were unworthy of his position. To Miss Smith, this was intolerable.”
“Thus, we see a convergence of motives—professional desperation, wounded pride, and deeply personal loyalty. When Mr. Roberts locked himself away, as was his habit, Miss Smith saw not merely an opportunity, but a final escape from a man she believed was destroying both her career and the dignity of someone she held in the highest regard.”
As the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in my mind, Holmes suddenly leaned in close, warm breath tickling my ear as the familiar and comforting scent of old books and leather enveloped me.
“I cannot say what she did was justified, however I will sincerely say that she did a favor for the entire orchestra.” Sherlock whispered to me.
“However, she dared try to harm my Watson, and that is an unforgivable crime, as she had the nerve to meddle with the person dearest to my heart, the companion I would never be able to live without.”
I was quite moved by this statement and gave nothing but a brisk nod. I felt Sherlock’s tender gaze even as we began the walk back to 221B Baker Street.
As we strode out to return home, we passed by Ms. Smith, sitting in a chair, handcuffed, accompanied by two officers on each side. She looked haggard and weary, clothes rumpled and eyes red. Although I knew she was getting rightfully punished by due course of the law for what she did, I could not help but feel a sliver of pity for her. Beside her was the co-concertmaster, crouched down and whispering worriedly into the violist’s ear. That was no longer Sherlock’s problem, however, and when I looked back, he was already many strides ahead of me, and I hurriedly struggled to catch up.
When we arrived home, Holmes turned to me.
“You seem troubled, Watson. But in the end, not every case ends happily with a satisfactory conclusion. But on another note, this case has taught us a lesson, has it not? For an orchestra to play well, it requires complete harmony as well as cooperation. This was a mystery solved not only by keen intellect, but by an understanding of the discord that lies, unseen, within even the most harmonious of ensembles.”
And so concluded the curious case of the orchestral murder, one with many twists and turns, and a not-so-fairytale ending, but nonetheless, one I will remember.