Welcome to Baker Street

116. On the count of three

John stares at the timer, aghast, then looks at Sherlock. "Why the countdown again?"

Holmes shrugs, as if cold sweat weren't pooling at the base of his neck. Even his shrug is stiff, like a puppet pulled by the strings—which is exactly how he feels right now: A will-stripped straw man at the mercy of an omniscient, cruel puppeteer.

"To make things interesting, perhaps?" He feigns an aloof tone, but John doesn't buy it.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

"Think fast, obviously. What did Jim mean? How could I possess additional information about the suspects?"

"Maybe you've met them before?" Giulia suggests. "Do the names Benjamin Williams, Edith Sheffield, and Logan Sullivan ring any bell?"

Sherlock shakes his head and squints at the photos.

"I'm not good with names, but I have an excellent memory for faces, and I'm sure I've seen them already. I just can't place where..." His voice trails off as his eyes land on the marble figurine of Urania. Of course. The theme of this round is astronomy. How did he not think of it before?

"The exhibition," he murmurs. "They were all at the exhibition A Night with the Stars at the Hickman Gallery tonight. This also explains the professionally taken pictures for two of them: Jim probably got them from the official photographer that was taking the guests' photos at the museum entrance."

John arches a brow at that revelation. "All astronomy enthusiasts, then?"

"Not really. The only star-lover here was the dead man, who, in all probability, curated the exhibition too. And that's why the suspects were all there: because of their links to Oliver Portland," Sherlock finally realised. "They were there for different reasons, but the dead man was always the common denominator."

He shuffles the photos around and points at the concierge. "Logan Sullivan was a server tonight and not a guest, which is why we only have a phone picture for him. I remember him from when I told Giulia that I had counted the people present at the exhibition, catering members included. Tonight, he was doing the one-time catering job that Mr Oliver Portland got him."

Giulia's eyes glide over the picture, and she shakes her head. "I didn't notice him."

"One of the perks of wearing a server uniform: it's better than an invisibility cloak," Sherlock says, knocking on another photo. "Then there's the landlady. She was a guest."

He ruffles through the pictures of the crime scene until his eyes lock on one showing the living room.

"In this photo of the victim's table, you can see a memo stuck to his open agenda saying, Ask Stephanie to add Edith's name to guest list."

"We don't know who Stephanie is," Giulia intervenes.

"No, but with a little leap of the imagination, we can assume she is either Mr Portland's secretary or one of the museum's assistants in charge of the guest list for the exhibition. Being one of the main curators of the soiree, Oliver Portland could probably invite people to the gala."

John chimes in, "Why would he invite his landlady with whom he was constantly fighting over the heating system?"

"Fair question but irrelevant. We just know he did: it's on the sticky note. His reason is not pertinent right now: the last thing we need is to waste precious time on the deceased's motives and actions," Sherlock hurriedly dismisses the topic.

"Still, this might help shed new light on their recent landlady-tenant relationship. Maybe things weren't as tense as we believe, maybe the two of them had patched things up. Ultimately, maybe she didn't have that many reasons for wanting him dead."