Curtain Call at the Lantern

The Grand Lantern after hours. One working light on the stage, the old ghost light theatres leave burning so the building is never truly dark. The suspects sat in a semicircle on stackable chairs: Imogen, straight-backed. Halloran, chewing his pen. Blackwood, studying the ceiling as if it had been taken from him. Lund, hands folded. Pryce, checking his watch. Anisa, arms crossed. Kez, hood up, at the back, as far from the light as the stage would allow. Dr Crane sat in the middle, umbrella between her knees, perfectly composed. Rook watched from the stalls.

"Every one of you has been playing a part," you said. "You were born into some of them, learned others, and chose a few. That's how a society works: through roles, and norms, and beliefs that tell you what to do. But Sir Edwin Fairweather tried to do something rare. He tried to let the 'I' speak instead of the 'Me'. Somebody in this room couldn't allow that."

Jonah stood at your shoulder, pen poised. The theatre held its breath.

Whom do you accuse?