Murder by Rosin at the Royal Opera House

# The Conductor's Final Note

Maestro Vincent Aldrich lay dead in his dressing room at the Royal Opera House, slumped over his makeup table. The show had ended thirty minutes ago to thunderous applause. Now, Detective Sarah Chen stood over his body, noting the empty champagne glass beside his hand and the foam at his lips. Poison, clearly.

"Who had access to this room during the performance?" Chen asked the stage manager, a nervous woman named Patricia Hill.

"Only three people, Detective. His wife, Margaret Aldrich—she's also the lead soprano. His assistant conductor, Thomas Wu. And Julian Price, the concertmaster and first violinist. They all came backstage during intermission."

Chen examined the room. On the mirror, written in what appeared to be lipstick: "THE TRUTH DIES WITH ME."

Margaret Aldrich entered, still in her costume, mascara running. "Vincent was going to announce something tonight. He wouldn't tell me what, but he seemed almost... relieved about it."

Thomas Wu appeared next, violin case in hand. "I won't pretend we got along. Vincent was blocking my promotion for years. But I didn't kill him."

Julian Price, the oldest of the three, stood in the doorway. "We all had our reasons to hate him. He was a tyrant. But he was also the best conductor alive."

Chen noticed something odd. "Mr. Wu, why do you have a violin case? You're the assistant conductor, not a violinist."

"I play both. Always have my violin with me. Vincent mocked me for it constantly—said I couldn't commit to one instrument."

Chen turned to Price. "And you're the concertmaster. That's the lead violinist, correct?"

"For thirty years under Vincent, yes."

"Show me your violin, both of you."

Wu and Price exchanged glances. Wu opened his case—empty. Price reluctantly retrieved his instrument from the orchestra pit. When Chen examined it under the light, she found a tiny residue of white powder on the bridge.

"Julian Price," Chen said, "you ground up the poison, mixed it with rosin powder on your violin, knowing that during the performance, particles would become airborne near the conductor's podium. That's why the message says 'the truth dies with ME'—not 'him.' Vincent wrote it himself when he realized he was dying. He knew what you'd done, but the truth was dying with him because he couldn't prove who'd poisoned the rosin."

Price's face went pale. "He destroyed my career. Thirty years ago, I discovered he'd plagiarized his first symphony—stolen it from a dead composer in Prague. He threatened to ruin me if I ever spoke of it. I've lived under his thumb ever since."

"But you made a mistake," Chen continued. "Thomas Wu's empty violin case gave me the idea. You put normal rosin on your violin tonight, but you needed to dispose of the poisoned rosin immediately after the performance. That's why you went to the orchestra pit just now—you weren't retrieving your violin, you were swapping the bridges. The poisoned one is in your pocket right now."

Price slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden bridge, his hand trembling. "I'm seventy-two years old. I couldn't let him win. Not anymore."

As Chen handcuffed him, Margaret Aldrich whispered, "Vincent once told me that every great performance requires sacrifice. I suppose he was right, just not in the way he imagined."

THE END


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