“The Case of the Vanishing Violinist” a Ginny Greaves Short by Sarnia de la Mare
They say trouble walks in wearing heels. In my experience, trouble also occasionally shows up barefoot, crying about a lost Stradivarius and asking if you have oat milk for their flat white.
It was a Wednesday. Rain hit the window like it owed the glass money. I was nursing a hangover the size of Derbyshire when she walked in.
“I’m Allegra. Allegra Witherspoon,” she said, dripping water and entitlement all over my Persian rug (which I definitely didn’t steal from my ex-landlord’s flat after a misunderstanding involving rent arrears and a mislabelled lasagne).
“My boyfriend has disappeared,” she sniffed. “So has his violin. It’s very valuable.”
“So was my last date. Didn’t stop her from leaving,” I muttered, pulling out a notepad and a packet of smoked almonds. “Start from the beginning.”
Allegra launched into a tale that had more red flags than a bull-fighting convention. Her boyfriend, Tobias Stroganov (yes, like the stew), was a rising star in the experimental klezmer-jazz fusion scene. Apparently, he played a 1720 Stradivarius that had once belonged to a Countess, a conductor, and a possibly haunted badger sanctuary.
He’d vanished after a late-night gig at The Flaccid Trumpet, a dive bar known for its live music, weak cocktails, and suspiciously damp bar stools. The only clue: a sheet of burnt music manuscript left on their shared beanbag.
I took the case, partly because she offered cash, and partly because I suspected Tobias owed a lot of people a lot of things—including an apology for his clarinet solos.
My first stop was The Flaccid Trumpet. I wore my trench coat and my don’t-mess-with-me eyeliner. The bartender, a man with three teeth and a comb-over held together by hope, remembered Tobias.
“Said he was meeting someone after the show,” he grunted, wiping a glass with something that might once have been a gerbil.
“Did he mention who?”
“Just said, ‘The Maestro’s finally called me in.’” He shrugged. “Could mean anything. Could be drugs. Could be theatre. Could be the taxman.”
The plot thickened. Or curdled. It was hard to tell.
I checked Tobias’s flat. Empty, except for a note in the freezer: Gone to compose with destiny. Do not defrost the gyoza. The handwriting was suspiciously loopy. I pocketed a dumpling for later.
That’s when I noticed the scratch marks on the floor. Cello case scratches. But Tobias didn’t play the cello. He hated cellists. Said they "breathed too loud."
A tip-off from an ex-girlfriend with a penchant for incense and illegal snakes led me to Maestro, a shadowy figure in the underground music world. Real name: Barry Plimpton. He ran a cultish collective called The Harmonious Apostates, who believed perfect pitch was a spiritual gateway to enlightenment and also maybe immortality.
I broke into their HQ disguised as a struggling oboist. Inside, I found Tobias—alive, high on nutmeg and meditating in a soundproof chamber, surrounded by burning music scores and a wall of tuning forks. He’d faked his disappearance to “transcend musical form.” Also, to escape his rent.
“You left a woman worried sick!” I snapped. “Also, where’s the violin?”
He looked at me with eyes full of jazz. “The violin is free now. I left it at a bus stop in Brixton. Someone will find it who truly understands.”
I knocked over a gong.
Later that night, I returned the case—literally and figuratively—to Allegra, minus boyfriend and instrument but plus an invoice.
She sighed. “He always was dramatic.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But next time he wants to disappear, tell him to try yoga, not fake death.”
I watched her leave, heels clicking down the corridor like punctuation marks. Another case closed. Another bill paid. Barely.
I poured myself a drink, opened the window to let out the smoke from the incense Tobias had given me, and stared into the London night.
No rest for the wicked. Or for private eyes with a taste for gyoza and jazz crimes.
Then I emailed lost property at the bus depot to claim the violin.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare
