CHAPTER 43: DEADLY EVER AFTER
When the four of them step into the small dressing room of the soprano, they immediately wrinkle their noses at the strong perfume that permeates the place.
"Someone loves their cologne," Giulia notes ironically.
A snivelling woman seated in an armchair in the middle of the room overhears her comment and replies defensively, "I hope it's not too strong for your nostrils. This perfume is my lucky charm. It was supposed to be a big night, and I wanted to have it on me. My poor husband used to hate it so much he couldn't even stand to be in this room after I sprayed it. I detested his complaints then, but now I'd give anything to hear him grumble one more time," she sobs uncontrollably. Giulia bites down her lip, mortified.
Sherlock frowns at that display of emotions and hurriedly introduces himself, cutting to the chase.
"Mrs Storing, my name's Sherlock Holmes. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband."
Mrs Storing nods, blowing her nose in a tissue.
Lestrade raises a hand to hold back Sherlock. "First off, I must ask you where you were between 6 and 8 PM today."
She shoots him an outraged look. "Why do you ask, Inspector?"
"Because the lifeless body of your husband was just found in a swimming pool, a couple of blocks away from this theatre. He had no reason to be there, and we gathered some elements that lead us to believe we are dealing with a homicide. So, as per standard procedure, I advise you to answer my question," Greg replies.
She grimaces at the insinuation she could be involved in her husband's murder.
"You're right. My husband certainly wasn't a sports enthusiast; let alone would he have gone to a swimming pool just a few hours before the show. Your hunch is correct: I don't doubt he was indeed murdered, but I didn't kill him if that's what you'd like to think. I was in the make-up studio, going through my skin routine and having my makeup done. Several performers and the makeup artist will corroborate it."
Sherlock curls his lips at the word hunch and mentally remonstrates: the science of deduction is an exact method of analysis, you vulgar common people.
He gives her a distrustful glance. "And I'm guessing the make-up artist is a close friend of yours."
"I wouldn't say so. She was definitely closer with my husband," she replies harshly, pouting.
"Oh, I see." Sherlock's eyes light up at that cutting remark as he senses a reproachful note in her voice. "How would you describe your relationship with your husband? Did you get along well?"
"Yes, absolutely," she shoots back, then stops and studies the mocking look on Sherlock's face. She adds reluctantly, "Don't get me wrong; every marriage has its downsides, and my husband wasn't perfect. He loved life and all its pleasures, and no, he wasn't good at resisting temptations. He has always enjoyed life to the fullest. Especially in the last two years, every weekend was a party for him. He was always travelling back and forth from Africa or the Middle East; he had a weird fascination for dangerous places and people. Personally, I didn't like it, and more often than not, I preferred to be far from his wild tours around the world. But I couldn't take it anymore, and some months ago I asked him to stop. To my surprise, he agreed. I know he wasn't faithful in the past, but he showed that he truly wanted to mend my broken trust, so I gave him one more chance. He was trying to change, to become a better man. He even promised we would move to the United States, begin again, start there our family. We've been trying to have a baby for months. I've always dreamed of becoming a mother, and now my period is late, but I'm not sure I'm ready to take a pregnancy test now that he—" she gets choked up, overwhelmed by emotion.
"Do you have any proof of this plan of yours?" Sherlock inquires bluntly.
She raises her bloodshot eyes on him. "I'm not lying, Mr Holmes. My husband was determined to make our marriage work. He didn't tell anyone, but we had sold our house here in London, and he had already signed a contract for a tournée in the US. We were planning to leave by the end of the month. I have a copy of the contract among his papers. We used to share this dressing room," she explains, foraging in a pile of scripts and musical staffs.
Sherlock seizes the chance to look around the room and memorise every tiny detail. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a plain dressing room like any other, with a lot of empty space and no clues.
She finds what she was looking for and hands him a document. Sherlock scans the content and registers every piece of information; his eyebrow furrows imperceptibly upon reading about the insurance contract regarding a family plan. Apparently, they did have serious intentions of starting a family. They had already taken into consideration the possibility of the birth of children in the near future. She isn't lying about that.
He passes it to John, whose eyes grow wide when reading the figure with many zeros. He whistles. "Quite the deal he made there."
"He was very talented and was worth every cent. You are free to think I was angry with him for cheating on me and constantly leaving me waiting for him to return from his pleasure trips. And I can assure you sometimes I was furious, but I had forgiven him," she says, then shrugs. "Even if you don't believe in my love and wifely devotion, you have that contract before your eyes. Why would I kill the man that was about to make me rich?"
Giulia raises a brow. "It makes sense, but my question now is, if he was as talented as you say, why aren't you rich already?"
They all turn their heads at her, raising brows at the insinuating note in her voice, and Mrs Storing sighs loudly. Sherlock narrows his eyes at Giulia. Quite a daring question, but an interesting line of inquiry. She is uncommonly perceptive; judging by the soprano's resigned reaction, her intuition just hit the mark.
Giulia keeps her eyes fixed on her prey, who bows her head with a bitter smile.
"Here's my answer for you: because I was in love with what I called 'a son of the moon'. Vincent was an extraordinary man: charismatic, determined, ambitious, and exceptionally gifted. But just like our satellite, he had a dark side—a grey area unattainable even for me. You are young, and you might meet a soon of the moon yourself, in your life. If by chance you fall for one of them, don't repeat the same mistakes I made. Be brave enough to leap into the black void of the space and explore the dark side together with him. Don't kid yourself, though: you can't save him. Only he can save himself if you'll be his source of light."
While the soprano speaks so open-heartedly, Giulia peeks out at Sherlock. He intercepts her eyes for half a second before she could look away. They know. They both know Giulia has already met a son of the moon. What they are slowly coming to realise is that it wasn't just a fleeting encounter: it was a cosmic collision for both of them.
Giulia rapidly lowers her gaze to the ground. Whatever universe Sherlock's brilliant mind belongs to, she is afraid to admit her heart shudders at the thought that she might not be part of his life, the dark corners of his soul included. She never judged him or the rough edges of his character; she has accepted all of him just the way he is. All she asks in return is that he doesn't leave her out.
Lestrade frowns and massages his forehead, trying to make sense of that convoluted reply.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Storing. Are you trying to tell us that your husband has thrown away all your money? How?"
"My husband had many vices, but the worst of them was the gambling. He spent most of our savings trying to repay his gaming debts. Money was never enough for him. More than once, he got in trouble with loan sharks."
"So, this is ultimately why he wanted to flee to the US. He got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and a romantic getaway was his only way out," Sherlock infers, and she scowls at his choice of words.
Lestrade intervenes to retake control of the interview. "Mrs Storing, did your husband have any medical condition affecting his lungs?" he interrogates her, earning a reproachful look from Sherlock.
Holmes scrutinises the police officer, trying to read his intentions. Even if the baffling conditions of the victim's lungs remain a mystery, it is patently obvious they aren't the result of an accident or a pathology. That question is a massive waste of time.
"No, not at all. But he had type-1 diabetes if you think it's relevant."
Sherlock has to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from smirking boastfully in her face: his deductions at the pool were spot-on, as always.
"Actually, he experienced a diabetic shock one month ago. He almost seized while on stage during his performance. When he hurried backstage, he lost consciousness," Mrs Storing recalls, stifling a sob.
The hint of a smile fades from Sherlock's lips as he knits his brows together, disoriented.
"How is it possible? The symptoms you've just listed (seizure and loss of consciousness) would indicate an insulin overdose. Did he intentionally overdose? Was it the result of a neglectful distraction?"
She stares into his eyes with a helpless look and slowly shakes her head.
"I have no idea, Mr Holmes. In those moments, I panicked and just tried to keep my husband alive. I didn't check his blood sugar levels, and I have no clue what triggered the reaction. He might have had a good reason to inject himself with additional insulin; maybe he had stress-eaten before the show and was trying to take remedial action. But if you need more information, you can ask the hospital he was brought to."
Lestrade cocks a brow when Sherlock glances at him with an eloquent expression of keen interest; he looks like a pleading son throwing a silent tantrum with his exasperated father. In the end, Greg surrenders and mumbles under his breath, "Fine, I'll have someone pull his medical record, even though I don't see why it should be of interest."
Sherlock fakes a grateful smile, then focuses again on the soprano.
"Onto the interesting part: did your husband have any enemies? Did he get along with the rest of the troupe?"
"No known enemies. This company was his family. Samuel Humphrey, the producer, was his best friend. He took Vincent under his wing since the beginning of his career. The two of them started together: Samuel was a sound technician trying to break into the world of music production when they met. He has told the story a hundred times: one day, while working in a theatre, he heard Vincent rehearsing for an audition, and it was love at first hearing. He volunteered to become his producer and had him hired in big lyric productions. They have collaborated ever since, on and off the stage. Heavens knows how many times Samuel ran to Vincent's rescue."
"He was a troubled man. This doesn't help," Sherlock spaces out for a second, striving to narrow down the list of suspects.
Think! he mentally yells at himself. The troupe includes the people closest to him. They were his family, and dysfunctional relationships are common in families, natural or created.
"Mrs Storing, is it possible that someone resented him for whatever reason?" Giulia chimes in, recalling Sherlock's words back at the pool. He said that Moriarty acted as an instigator, gaining murderous leverage through anybody's grievances against the victim. He seemed convinced that even the tiniest misunderstanding could have been at the basis of the motive for the homicide.
Sherlock raises his gaze on her, impressed. He wasn't expecting anybody to back him up on his theories. To be fair, he isn't used to having anyone on his side when he blurts out his deductions. Even John is more difficult to persuade.
"I told you, Vincent used to get along well with everybody. He only had small quarrels with the costume designer."
Lestrade tilts his head at that remark and asks, "Why were they fighting?"
"Calvin—that's his name, was obsessed with my husband. He said he was his idol; that boy is a tenor too and dreamed of becoming just like him, one day. He was so petulant, though. He wanted Vincent to train him, give him singing lessons, and let him exhibit by his side," she says.
"Let me guess: your husband didn't enjoy all the attention," John interjects sarcastically.
"He didn't like that Calvin thought he could sneak his way into big productions with the snap of a finger. My husband thought that the inexperienced boy had to earn the stage first," Mrs Storing justifies her spouse.
"He might have a slight obsession, but to me, it doesn't look like a good reason to kill," Giulia comments, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who fell weirdly silent.
"They had other issues, though. Calvin was at his first working experience in a theatre and was still learning. He used to make Vincent wear silk shirts, but my husband had a silk allergy that caused him redness and itch. Every once in a while, Vincent lost his temper and shouted abuse at him. Oh my God..." the soprano trails off and covers her mouth with a hand, as a wave of shock passes through her.
They stare at her in confusion, so she carries on. "I never imagined it was a big deal, but now that I think about it, a few days ago I distinctly heard Calvin telling my husband, 'I will bury you'."
"A bit overdramatic for my taste, but then again, we are in a theatre," Giulia jokes around, earning a stern look from the distressed soprano.
"Thank you very much, that would be all. Sorry for your loss." Sherlock breaks his meditative state and with that, he leaves the room while everyone gapes dazed at his sudden exit.
"What do we think of her?" John asks his friend as soon as he reaches him, strutting down the corridors backstage.
"Do you think she's a suspect? After all, hell hath no fury like a scorned woman. And that woman had more than one disagreement with her husband; he cheated on her repeatedly and squandered all their savings on gambling. I bet they were about to fly to America with empty pockets."
"But with an incredibly wealthy contract. His wife had no valid reason to kill him. She had more to gain from him being alive than six feet under," Sherlock says flatly.
"And what about the loan sharks? She said he had financial problems," Greg intervenes, studying his notes.
"Out of the question. A loan shark would have beat him up a bit at most, but certainly not murdered him. You can't have your money back from a dead man. I don't doubt he had enemies, but we need to find whoever had a real reason to assassinate him," Sherlock argues.
"What about the costume designer, then? All those arguments with the tenor about the costumes and the silk allergy might have built up to the murder," Giulia suggests.
A corner of Sherlock's lips curves in a faint smile. Good, someone is finally following his reasoning.
"I was thinking the same. Let's pay him a visit and see what he has to say for himself."