The Soprano's Last Song

by Irene Adler

  We reached a point where the corridor forked. Straight ahead led to the dressing rooms while turning right led to a lower basement. Sherlock pointed to the right, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep my breath quiet as it became more labored and heavy. We had just started on the new staircase when we heard some voices.

  “Shh!” Sherlock hissed, making a sign with his hand to stop.

  We tried to figure out where they were coming from, but the way sounds echoed between those narrow corridors made it difficult to know with any certainty.

  Soon we were back at the fork in the corridor, crouching in the shadows. We heard two voices — one male and one female — coming from the stairs.

  “Is that Collins?” I asked, whispering into Sherlock’s ear.

  “I can’t say,” Sherlock replied. “He has an accent.”

  “Italian,” Lupin said, sure of himself.

  He was right.

  A few moments later we heard the woman’s voice say the word “maestro.” I looked at my friends. The man who was coming up the stairs from the basement was Giuseppe Barzini. I leaned over to look down the hallway and saw the luminous glow of an oil lamp crawling slowly up the stairs.

  Sherlock turned rapidly and looked down the corridor behind us, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Did you hear something?” he asked.

  But neither Lupin nor I could take our eyes off of the two figures on the staircase.

  “How can you deny it, my dear?” Maestro Barzini said. “It is useless to deny that we are all very worried. I was wondering if you, being such a dear friend to Ophelia, know something more than what Scotland Yard has told us.”

  “No, Maestro. As I said, I know nothing more. Nor how she is doing or where they have brought her,” the woman replied.

  The Maestro sighed. “All this is terrible,” he said. “Terrible and painful.”

  The oil lamp swung.

  “I have worked with Ophelia for almost twenty years, and I find it humiliating that the police treat me like I’m the last of the curious. Forced to beg for scraps of news about my poor student like an ordinary stranger! Does that seem right, my dear?” Barzini said.

  “No, Maestro,” the woman agreed. “It does not. On the contrary, I say that after what has happened, Scotland Yard should also protect you!”

  “You are kind, my dear . . . but that does not really matter,” replied the musician. “To see Ophelia, to know that she’s all right . . . that’s all I want right now,” he concluded with another sigh.

  If they had taken just a few more steps, they would have reached us at the fork in the corridor. Sherlock, Lupin, and I silently consulted about where to hide next. We stepped back a few feet in the dark, hoping that the two would go in the direction of the dressing rooms.

  “You will see that everything will be all for the best, Maestro,” the lady said with a polite tone.

  “I would like to believe you, my dear!” he replied.

  “You have to be strong in moments like these, Maestro.”

  They stopped just before the fork.

  “You promise that if you ever hear about Ophelia, you will tell me?” asked Maestro Barzini, his voice sorrowful.

  “You will be the first to know,” the woman assured him, walking with him to the doors of the dressing rooms.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Prodding me to follow him, Sherlock tugged at the hem of my skirt. We crawled on all fours to the hallway that led to the basement, and we hid there, remaining motionless in the dark. We listened carefully, but from that position we could only hear a faint hum.

  After a while, we heard some steps, then the voice of the woman again, now very close by. “Goodbye, Maestro and, I pray, do not worry yourself too much,” she said, taking her leave. Then we heard her walking along the corridor in the opposite direction.

  “Shall we go down?” Lupin asked once the steps of the woman sounded far away.

  “In the dark?” I asked.

  “It’s only dark until the end of the staircase,” Sherlock explained. We agreed to wait a few minutes before making a move so we wouldn’t run into Barzini coming out of the dressing room.

  Suddenly, there was a loud noise. The crash of glass breaking. All three of us jumped. The shattering was followed by a scream. Immediately, I thought about what the woman had just said to Barzini, “Scotland Yard should also protect you.”

  “No! Not him now!” I said, with a strangled cry.

  Sherlock and Lupin looked at each other.

  “Did you hear that rumbling noise?” Sherlock asked.

  “No. But perhaps the attacker is hidden, lurking,” Lupin said.

  That word, “attacker,” nearly made my heart stop. I closed my eyes and saw the Spaniard. I could picture him hidden in the shadows of the haunting stage sets. He might have gone down to Barzini’s dressing room to kill him, too, after murdering his assistant and making an attempt to kill Ophelia Merridew. That thought made me freeze, petrified with terror.

  Lupin suddenly made a move toward the dressing rooms.

  “Freeze! Wait!” Sherlock whispered, grabbing him by the arm.

  Lupin had just enough time to crouch down into darkness again when the door to Barzini’s dressing room opened.

  We stood motionless in the dark while Barzini staggered into the corridor and passed by our hiding place, cursing softly. We watched him disappear in the direction of the stage. I noticed that one of his hands was bandaged with a rag. Red with blood.

  “Let’s help him!” I said, fearing I might lose consciousness at any moment. “And get out of here!”

  “Quiet, Irene,” Lupin said, shaking me. “There seems to be no one else . . .”

  “True,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s quiet down here.”

  Sherlock and Lupin went together and peered around the corner. Then they moved quickly toward the dressing room, dragging me with them. I was totally opposed to that decision, but I did not have the energy to resist.

  All I could do was go along with them. My heart beat so violently, I thought it might break out of my chest and onto the floor.

  “And now what?” I whispered.

  We reached the door of Barzini’s dressing room. There were a few drops of blood on the floor. Lupin pulled a pair of white gloves from his pocket, put them on, and gently pushed the door open.

  “I do not think this is a good idea,” I whispered, afraid of being attacked at any moment by the mysterious criminal who was hunting the artists of the Royal Opera House.

  Instead I saw only Barzini’s dressing room, lit by the oil lamp that he had been holding just a few minutes before. The room was empty.

  “Look!” Lupin exclaimed. He pointed to a broken mirror next to a music stand.

  Sherlock picked up a bloody splinter of glass from the ground and muttered, “He injured himself.”

  Just then, in a corner of the room that until that moment had been hidden from my view by the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes, I saw some familiar clothes tossed in a heap atop an old wooden chair.

  It took a few moments, but when I finally began to process what my eyes were seeing, I could not help myself and I screamed.

  Chapter 20

  THE DEVIL’S COSTUME

  Thrown on top of the chair were a long black cloak, a red scarf, and a hat with a wide brim. Sherlock, Lupin, and I looked at each other, stunned.

  “But — but then . . .” I stammered.

  “The Spaniard is him! It’s Barzini!” Sherlock exclaimed.

  “Curse him!” Lupin mumbled between his teeth, his face flushing. “CURSE HIM!” he shouted. He sprinted out of the room like an angry beast. Neither Sherlock nor I managed to restrain him in time. He ran down the corridor that led to the stage. We could not do anything but follow our friend and his distressed cries that echoed through the corr
idors like those of a wounded animal.

  When we caught up with him, Lupin had just spotted Barzini behind the scenes of the stage, and was staring at him from afar with eyes full of anger.

  The Maestro stood at a porcelain basin with his back to us, washing his bloody fingers.

  Lupin stepped forward.

  Hearing his steps, the Maestro whipped his head around, surprised. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Does the name Théophraste Lupin mean anything to you?” Lupin roared.

  Barzini turned completely and wrapped his hand in a handkerchief. “Should it?” he asked.

  “He is the man that got put in prison instead of you! Charged with your murder of Santi!”

  “I do not know what you’re talking about, young man. And above all . . . what are you still doing in the theater at this hour? The workers should all be out already!”

  “What workers?! I am the son of Théophraste Lupin! And I have exposed you!” Lupin shouted.

  Barzini laughed, wiping his hands. “You have exposed me? I insist — I do not understand what you mean!”

  “You are the Spaniard who framed my father!“ Lupin shouted.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll have you know that I am Italian,” Barzini muttered scornfully. “And now, if you do not mind — get out of here, before I am forced to call the Scotland Yard.”

  “Actually, that is exactly what we would like to do!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, who was alongside Lupin at that point.

  I saw Giuseppe Barzini hesitate and take a step back. “May I know what’s going on?” he muttered when I approached my friends. The theater was dimly lit, but it is likely that as he looked at us, Barzini began to suspect that we were the same people who he had surprised in Bethnal Green.

  “It so happens that we figured out your plan, Maestro Barzini,” Sherlock Holmes said calmly. “We know that you hired Théophraste Lupin to carry out a theft, but that it was actually a trap to blame him for something far worse — for the murder of Alfred Santi. We know that you tried to kill Ophelia Merridew, and now you want to know where she is hiding — to shut her up when she recovers!”

  “Enough of this nonsense!” the Maestro snapped. “You are only three stupid children with your heads full of fantasies!”

  “Three stupid children who have exposed your crimes!” I said.

  “Anyway, your charade is over, Maestro!” Sherlock yelled. “The evening papers have just reported the news . . . Ophelia has woken up. And when she can talk, she will reveal you as the killer — as you well know!”

  Those words seemed to hit Barzini like a stab in the chest. The musician’s eyes widened. He looked lost and, groping behind him, leaned against the basin. His reaction in that moment revealed his guilt more than any confession in words could.

  The musician put a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a gold watch. After consulting it with a feverish look, he burst out laughing — a crazy laugh that echoed in the wings of the theater, making my skin crawl.

  “You are smart, boy,” Barzini said to Sherlock. “But the news you are talking about was not in the newspapers as of four o’clock, and now it’s five-thirty. The second edition will be released in only half an hour,” he concluded, revealing Sherlock’s bluff.

  But the musician already knew we had exposed his guilt. Still laughing in that horrible manner, Barzini turned abruptly, and with surprising agility for his age, he disappeared between the pieces of scenery.

  We heard his voice resound through the theater: “You really think you can bring down the great Barzini? How much arrogance you young people have! Arrogance! Just like Santi, that ungrateful fool! Instead of being honored to work beside me . . . pah!”

  Lupin ran between the objects and the shadows of the stage, trying to spot Barzini so he could try to catch him. Sherlock and I did the same, staying a few steps behind our friend.

  Meanwhile, furious noises began to echo in the theater, as if Barzini was knocking down any object that happened to come within his range.

  Actually, he was looking for something. We figured that out, when, after a few moments of silence, the musician reappeared in front of Sherlock, holding a sword in his good hand.

  Sherlock, caught off guard, took a step back and tripped on a rope, tumbling onto the stage.

  I saw Barzini raise the weapon, ready to strike.

  “NO!” I cried. And without even knowing what I was doing, I grabbed the object nearest to me — a chair — and threw it at him with all my strength.

  I missed by a small margin, but I still forced him to dodge it, and that gave Sherlock time to stand and pick up a wooden board.

  “Back! Stand back, Irene!” Sherlock yelled at me.

  Barzini plunged forward with the sword, but Sherlock was able to deflect and then attack with some lunges. Sherlock moved nimbly, dodging Barzini’s blows as he weaved in and out of the scenery.

  I stood watching my friend defend himself, and with every assault from Barzini, I felt my heart beating furiously. I was wondering, exasperated, where on Earth Lupin was, when I found myself face to face with a little man who looked at me with tiny, pleading eyes.

  “Duvel?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes seemed possessed, and his face ashen. He looked like he was about to faint. “I’ve heard everything . . .” he whispered.

  “So help us, Duvel!” I said, irritated by his cowardice. “Go call Scotland Yard — and hurry!”

  “Come with me, young lady! Please!” he begged.

  “Run and call Scotland Yard! Now!” I hissed.

  Then I pushed him away and went back to watch what was happening with Sherlock and Barzini. In between deflecting one blow after another from Barzini’s sword, Sherlock kept throwing quick glances toward the ceiling. Looking up to see why, I spotted Lupin perched on a beam above the stage — he was guiding Sherlock’s movements.

  Barzini was now plunging his strikes with more fury. “You’re finished!” he cried when he managed to hit Sherlock in the shoulder, tearing his jacket and shirt and scratching his skin, which spurted a little gush of blood.

  Sherlock felt the wound, lowering the weapon and backing away as fast as he could. In a matter of seconds, Barzini was lunging at Sherlock trying to land a decisive blow. My friend slipped out of the way just in time and rolled behind a large column.

  The musician screamed. “Where are you going? Now I come to get —”

  But he could not finish the sentence. Lupin, clinging to a rope, hovered over Barzini, surprising him from behind. Barzini fell onto the floor in fright, releasing his grip on the sword, which flew a few feet in front of him. I ran over, grabbed the weapon, and threw it into the orchestra pit.

  Lupin then pounced on Barzini, pushed him onto his back, pinned him down on the ground, and tied his scarf around his wrists. At that point, Sherlock emerged from behind the column holding a heavy cloth torn from a piece of the set. He gave it to Lupin who used it to bind Barzini’s legs, while the Maestro shouted words in Italian that did not sound at all polite.

  “Good timing, Lupin . . .” I muttered.

  Sherlock Holmes ran to grab the rope that had tripped him and handed it to Lupin, who used it to tie Barzini’s ankles together, who was squirming like he was being bit by a tarantula.

  “So. Now what?” Sherlock asked then, the calmness in his voice displaying his usual hint of irony.

  “Someone will have to go and call Scotland Yard,” Lupin muttered.

  “Duvel!” I replied. “He went there.”

  My friends looked at me, astonished. “Duvel? And where does Duvel fit in?”

  I had no time to explain it. We heard noises coming from outside and from behind the stage. We turned in circles looking for the source of the noise, but nobody was there.

  Then we heard a distant
door open, and an inspector from the Scotland Yard yelled into the theater. “Hold it!”

  “Apparently they are already here!” I exclaimed.

  All three of us looked at the strange, kicking bundle that Barzini had become. He would not be going anywhere except straight into the arms of the police.

  The three of us, on the other hand, could move just fine. And we did not lose a moment to do so.

  We ran at breathless speed toward the back door, praying that the police had not already surrounded the entire building. Sherlock pushed the door open with his shoulder, and the three of us found ourselves outside in the dense mist that now surrounded the city.

  Chapter 21

  LIKE A DREAM

  The morning after those events occurred, a couple of local newspapers had been tipped off and had come out with a special edition.

  “Have you read this, Miss Irene?” Mr. Nelson asked me at breakfast. The paper was still hot from the press, and the large, dark letters of the headlines left spots on my fingertips.

  “Ophelia Merridew regained consciousness,” continued Mr. Nelson. “They are expecting ‘shocking revelations from the singer’!”

  “Yes,” I muttered in resposne. “It seems that nothing happens in this city without the journalists knowing about it.”

  “Modern times, Miss Irene, modern times . . .” Mr. Nelson said, followed by a brief sigh.

  “They also have their positives, these modern times,” I replied.

  “What do you mean, Miss?”

  “The newspaper also reports the address of the place where Merridew has been hiding and the exact time it is expected she will leave to go home,” I said.

  “So . . .”

  “So this will be an important event for London. And for us, as future Londoners! I do not think we should miss it, my dear Horatio!”

  He looked at me, puzzled, then smiled. He must have thought that waiting in front of a house was, after all, better than taking me shopping!

  “I’ll call a carriage, Miss,” he said.

  Even though I was supposed to meet Sherlock and Lupin at Shackleton’s that day, I thought it likely that they, too, had heard the news about Ophelia.