CHAPTER 44: COSTUME DRAMA
They explore the rooms backstage until they get to the wardrobe department. Nobody is in except for the blond boy who threw up upon hearing about the tenor's death. Sherlock casts a glance at him. He looks still shaken up: his breathing is erratic, and he seems unable to focus on the faces that have just appeared before him.
"Hello, I am Detective Inspector Lestrade. We have a few questions for you regarding the death of Vincent Storing." Greg breaks the ice briskly.
"Nice to meet you. I am Calvin Dewey, the costume designer." He smiles feebly. "I am ready to help as much as possible."
"We've just spoken to Mrs Storing, who told us a funny story. A few days ago, you threatened the victim's life by saying you would, and I quote, 'bury him'. Care to explain?" Sherlock immediately addresses the burning issue without even bothering to introduce himself.
Calvin looks taken aback for a second, then bursts into laughter. They all frown at his reaction, and John asks, "What's so funny?"
"That wasn't a death threat. It was a bad joke of dark humour. My father has a funeral home, and I help him out every now and again. Do you get the joke about burying him now? I crack jokes like that all the time. The other day, I said to the actors that dressing them was easier and much more fun than dressing up the dead in their coffins," Calvin explains with a childish shrug.
"Hilarious," Sherlock comments, emotionless. "Anyway, you wanted him to train your voice and let you shine, but he refused. Is that correct?"
"It's true. He was like a hero to me. I aspired to become just like him; it was a dream of a lifetime. I even went against my father to pursue this career. My old man wanted me to continue my studies in medicine; he wanted me to become a medical examiner. He never thought music could grant me a stable future, and he was furious when I dropped out of medical school with only a few exams left and took this job. I know I let him down, but I felt that forensic pathology wasn't my true calling. Here, at least I got the opportunity to work side by side with the great Vincent Storing, to learn from him," Calvin explains as his eyes ooze admiration.
"Let me take a wild guess: at some point, you became sick of waiting for him to make room for the new generations of singers like you, so you got a permanent place for yourself on the stage by eliminating the competition," Sherlock suggests smugly.
Calvin goggles at him in dismay and protests, "No, of course not. He was my idol. There was no competition. How could I even compare myself to him?"
"You might not have been driven by jealousy, but maybe you've had enough of your idol shouting at you because of his costume and your clumsy mistakes, and perhaps you decided to silence his angelic voice for good. After all, we know there was bad blood between you and Vincent," Sherlock sneers, pacing the room and looking around the place.
"Hold on second, we had a few misunderstandings, but it's not like I wanted him dead. Vincent was always stern with me about his costumes, but it wasn't my fault. He had issues with the silk shirts that triggered his allergy, but those were part of his character's outfit; there was little I could do. I even bought that lotion to treat his skin to make it up to him." He points at two bottles of cream on a table.
As Calvin blathers about the issues he had with the victim over the costumes, Sherlock's eyes linger on one flacon as he absentmindedly studies it while juggling it in his hands, lost in thought. The sight of those lotions reminded him that he forgot to take the pain relievers for his wound and the antibiotics to prevent infections. Sometimes he seems to forget completely that he was even shot.
That mere recollection releases a shock wave that courses through his body, leaving him breathless. He instinctively brings one hand over his bandaged torso. It's not real pain, he immediately realises. It's the body memory of the gunshot—an involuntary muscle contraction triggered by the trauma. No matter how hard he consciously tries to suppress any memory of the event, to the point of neglecting to take his medicaments, his body keeps reacting to the shock. After all, he had never been shot before. Held at gunpoint? Yes, of course. Threatened with no apparent way out? Sure, more than once. But a bullet had never passed through his flesh before. Even though it had miraculously missed critical blood vessels or major organs or bones, nothing could take away the symptoms of his post-traumatic syndrome disorder.
He hasn't spent any time worrying about himself lately. He never does anyway. Yet even without an in-depth analysis of his intricate brain, he can still perform an effective self-diagnosis: his body is healing physically, but he should take care of his mind, too. As much as he wishes he could be a cold-hearted machine, his traumatic near-death experience has left him emotionally scarred too.
He hasn't got much sleep since he left the hospital; his dreams are constantly tainted by nightmares. He hasn't told anyone about that but reckons that Giulia must have noticed his abnormal (even for his standards) sleeping pattern. They bumped into each other at 4 a.m. some nights ago, and he knows she must have guessed that his visit to the kitchen at such an hour in his dishevelled state wasn't a pleasure trip. Something in his feverish mind was keeping him awake, forcing him to confront his insufferable human nature.
Sherlock presses a quivering hand on his wound and stifles a groan. Giulia steps swiftly by his side and whispers to him, "Are you alright?"
He gives her a perplexed look. "Why do you ask?"
Her gaze lowers to his hand placed on the side of his abdomen, and she raises a brow eloquently.
"First hint: you are massaging your wound. Second detail: You look deeply in pain," she analyses methodically. She has learned one or two observational skills by living with the great detective.
"I'm fine," he retorts rapidly.
"It's a deeper kind of sorrow, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes. It doesn't stop at the physical level; you are aching viscerally. Your body language is revealing: you are in shock." She stares into his eyes, trying to get something out of him. Why is he always so stubborn? Why can't he just admit that something is wrong?
His eyes widen in surprise. "You noticed," he breathes out, astonished.
She melts her concern into a warm smile. "Of course. I always look out for you, Sherlock. If you need anything, I'm here."
Sherlock averts his gaze. He can't let her inquisitive eyes dig even deeper into his soul. He doesn't want her to figure out that his eagerness to find a new case and dive into a new mystery is just a trick to conceal his anxiety and distress. He doesn't want her to realise that he must keep his mind occupied with something else to avoid obsessing over the shocking event that gave him PTSD. He doesn't want her to know that if he focuses for too long on the thought of his wound and relives the desperate rush to the hospital, he will find it difficult to breathe.
It's not a matter of pride or superiority for him. He is just not comfortable with people worrying about him. He is afraid that it would only scare her away. After all, if not even the one and only Sherlock Holmes can't cope with his frightening world of murderers and criminals, how could he ever ask her to put up with his crazy lifestyle?
He shakes his head slightly to regain his self-control and thinks back about something she just said. She talked about how his body language is revealing. That could work for Calvin Dewey, too, he realises.
Sherlock glances over his shoulder at Calvin and studies his posture. After throwing up recently, a person in his dizzy state would lean up against the backrest and slouch slightly. Anybody would look for support and balance while this boy is sitting on the edge of the chair and rushes every answer, barely letting his interlocutors finish their questions. He is clearly too frenzied to be innocent. What is he hiding?
Feeling Sherlock's prying gaze on him, the costume designer explains, "I phoned the supplier of the company to ask for a change in the fabric, and they said they would ship new costumes for everyone to apologise for the inconvenience. I was trying to fix the situation; I had no interest in enraging my boss. This was my first job in a theatre, and now that the main singer is gone, I'm most definitely unemployed," he whimpers. "Whatever kind of envy you think I felt, I got nothing to win and everything to lose from Vincent's death."
"Where have you been for the past four hours?" Lestrade inquires professionally.
"Here, getting everyone dressed and ready for the show. I also had to unload the boxes of new costumes that were delivered in the afternoon. I finished aligning them on the hangers a little while ago." He points at a clothes-stand in the corner.
Giulia casts an enchanted look at the fanciful costumes and walks closer to look at them. They are astounding.
"I went back and forth from the parking lot. You can ask the guard at the back exit of the theatre: he'll confirm that I moved the containers to and fro the parked lorry with the help of the delivery man," Calvin says.
"I will do that straight away." Lestrade narrows his eyes at the boy and rushes out of the costume department to go find the guard.
In the meantime, Giulia admires the pomp of the costumes and slides her hand up and down the embellished corsets and velvet trousers. Then she asks, "These are the costumes that were delivered today?"
"Yes, as I've just said," Calvin rebuts, annoyed.
"Has anybody tried them on yet for tonight's show?" She insists, captivated by the fineness of the fabric.
He looks at her almost in horror. "Of course not. It would be impossible to use new clothes before the actors have had them tailored to their bodies. You do understand there isn't a one-size-fits-all in theatre, right?" He scoffs at her haughtily.
"My bad." She shrugs apologetically, putting up a vacant look. "But I'm still confused. I thought you said those were brand new, just delivered."
"That's the case," he says in an exasperated tone.
"Then how do you explain the smudge of makeup on the collar of this jacket? And what could have possibly caused this tear in a pair of trousers if nobody has worn them yet?" She glowers at him, gesturing at the flaws she has just listed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sherlock staring at her.
He resists the temptation to nod approvingly. She has just beaten him at his favourite pastime: exposing someone's lie and cornering them into confessing. Hats off to Giulia. She is proving to be unpredictable and surprising, but he isn't sure whether it is entirely a good thing. He is afraid that her quick wit will expose his deep-hidden insecurities as well. Her intelligence is the most mesmerising silent threat to his frailties.
He moves closer to Giulia until he is standing just a few inches behind her and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before leaning in to whisper, "Good job. I'll take it from here."
He straightens up and accuses Calvin with a stentorian voice, "You lied. You weren't unloading the boxes full of clothes: there are no new costumes here. All the clothes lined up on this stand have clearly been used several times before. Why did you make it all up, then? What's the story of the delivery even about?"
At that moment, Lestrade comes back, right when the costume designer panics and blabbers, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt him, I just…" His voice gets stuck in his throat.
The police officer frowns at the scene and murmurs to Giulia, who is standing closest to the door, "What did I miss?"
"I just proved Calvin was lying about the delivery and those costumes aren't new. Now he is breaking down, as you can see," she replies briskly. The reason for her peeved tone remains a mystery to Greg.
"I did something horrible, and I'm so sorry." The costume designer doubles over, sinking his face in his hands.
"I'm confused here. Are you confessing to Vincent Storing's murder?" Lestrade squints his eyes at him, surprised by the sudden turn of events.
Calvin jerks his head up and almost yells, "God no, not at all. I didn't kill him, I swear."
"Then why did you lie? What are you sorry about, and what have you been doing down here all afternoon if not unloading boxes of costumes?" Lestrade insists. "I spoke to the guard. He confirmed your version. So, what is going on? Is he lying to cover up for you?" He assaults him with a barrage of questions.
"No, the guard didn't lie. He simply reported what he saw: a sham. I invented the delivery; the new costumes won't be shipped until next week. I staged a fake delivery with a fake delivery man who helped me unload some empty containers simply because I needed to meet with someone discreetly. I thought a good farce would do the trick and not raise any suspicion," Calvin confesses, and they all frown at that bizarre explanation.
"Who did you meet then?" Greg questions stiffly.
"Gordon Ammel, a journalist."
Sherlock's eyes glimmer with distaste. "Oh, yes, we've met: lovely meddler. Why were you with him?"
"I was selling him a scandal. I know it's horrible. I know I shouldn't have done it, but he was looking for a rumour, and I needed the money he offered me for a juicy story."
"What scandal?" Lestrade presses him with weariness in his voice. Why can't people just deliver a full confession instead of half-phrases whispered disconnectedly?
"Vincent Storing was sleeping with Megan, the makeup artist," Calvin says, ashamed.
"How do you know?"
"Rumours travel fast behind the scenes. When I caught wind of it, I thought it could be an opportunity. I love this job, but I struggle to make ends meet. And Mr Ammel, the journalist, showed such a zealous enthusiasm for the story and promised me a large sum." Calvin sniffles.
"And why all the secrecy surrounding the meeting?" Giulia inquires. "I didn't know that costume designers were prohibited from talking to the press."
"Samuel Humphrey, the producer, has always tried to keep the press from prying into his star's life. He forbade all of us from talking to journalists in general but especially warned us against an obsessed columnist who had been harassing Vincent Storing for ages, but never mentioned his name. It turns out it was Gordon Ammel," Calvin explains.
"The producer was protecting his singer. That's what he has always done, according to Mrs Storing," Giulia says.
"I suppose so. The point is, no one in the troupe was allowed to talk to him, and in the days preceding a show we basically live locked inside the theatre. So, I had to get creative. I advised Mr Ammel to rent a moving van and wear an anonymous stock-boy uniform so that he could pretend to help me move some empty containers. In the meantime, I told him about the affair. That's the truth: I was with him this afternoon. We stayed here in the costume department while he took notes, then he left before the actors came in to get ready for their performance," Calvin completes his explanation, passing a hand on his face red with shame.
"Do you remember seeing the victim in your coming and going with the containers? He must have been in this theatre right before he was murdered," Sherlock questions him. There is something wrong with the timeline and execution of the murder, yet both versions of Mrs Storing and Calvin Dewey make sense. Still, he is sure the tenor wasn't killed in the pool.
One question remains though: Is it really possible that the main star was murdered in a theatre full of people in feverish activity without anyone noticing?
"Yes, of course. He was backstage. He had his makeup done early, as he always does. Except that something must have gone terribly wrong this time. When I saw him coming out of the makeup section, he looked troubled and upset. He kept repeating that everyone had to clear the main auditorium because he needed to rehearse on stage," Calvin recalls.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him for a second, letting the new information sink in. Then he spins around and hurriedly leaves the room without further comment, while a torrent of thoughts threatens to drown his mind.
John, Giulia, and Lestrade follow him in his whirlwind exit. John steps closer and clears his throat, trying to drag his friend back to reality.
"The costume designer tried to lie to us and was betraying his idol. There's something fishy about him," he says.
"That might be, but I've spoken to the guard at the rear door: Whether the delivery was real or fake, he affirmed that Calvin and a delivery man were moving some heavy shipping boxes this afternoon. His story checks out," Lestrade reads his notes aloud.
"Did the guard say anything about seeing the victim leave the theatre?" John asks him.
Lestrade shakes his head. "No. Neither the guard at the rear exit nor his colleague at the main entrance of the theatre saw Vincent Storing leave this place. I guess Sherlock was right: he must have been killed here. Maybe he had another argument with the costume designer when getting ready for tonight and things escalated."
"Calvin Dewey is a greedy backstabber and a blabbermouth willing to step over others to achieve his goals, but I'm not sure he would have it in him to kill someone. I don't think he is the bad guy," Sherlock says, begrudgingly ticking another suspect off his mental list.
"What if there is no bad guy here?" Giulia intervenes.
Sherlock turns to her with a hurt look of disappointment in his eyes.
"What are you saying? I thought we were on the same page. I thought you agreed the killer is likely to be among the people closest to the victim—someone who would have it in for him."
"I'm always on your side, Sherlock. I simply meant there might be no bad guy because the killer could actually be a woman. Let's focus on what Calvin told us: Why would Mr Storing be so upset after getting his makeup done?"
Sherlock immediately catches the hint in her words.
"Maybe his mistress had just threatened his life," he replies as he spots a door with the plaque make-up studio at the far end of the corridor.
They all follow his gaze and Giulia smirks. "Given the lack of better leads, I'd say we test this theory."
"I wouldn't normally agree with other people, but we are presented with no other viable options," Sherlock mumbles, heading in that direction and mentally reproaching his slowness. Why wasn't he the first to make that connection?
As they proceed along the backstage passage, Giulia taps him on the arm to make him turn to face her.
"Do you have a problem with me giving ideas? I'm just trying to help here," she snaps, keeping her voice down.
Sherlock throws her a confused look. "I know, and I value your contribution. More often than not, you are the one helping me get unstuck when my brain needs a little kickstarter. Can we go now?"
She puts her hands on her waist and fixes her eyes on his, rebutting, "So why do you feel the need to step on my toes whenever I have a vaguely valid theory? Do you feel threatened by me?"
It looks like her question hit too close to home; he presses his lips together in a straight line and his eyes narrow until they become two sharp slits. Before the remaining shred of his moral and social compass could stop him, he blurts out, "What threat could you ever pose to my intellect?"
She freezes, her eyes glistening with choked-back tears in the darkened corridor.
"Very classy," she whispers, pushing him aside and stepping forward.
He chases after her, grabbing her arm. "Wait, Giulia, I didn't mean to belittle you. You know I'm not good at interpersonal relationships. I'm a sociopath; there is something rotten in me."
She turns around and raises a wounded look at him, snapping back, "I know what you think of yourself, but you can't keep using that excuse to shut everyone out."
She yanks her arm off his hold and walks away, reaching John and Greg near the door of the makeup studio.
Sherlock follows suit, immersed in contemplative silence. What is going on between the two of them? The tension with Giulia is palpable. Where do all those pent-up emotions stem from? And what is wrong with him? Why can't he just behave like a normal human being for once?
He sighs. It's not just his complete lack of any social or human skills this time. He knows that being easily irritable and upset are common symptoms linked to his trauma. The whole situation is putting a strain on his mental health. He is nervous and sleep-deprived; not only has he trouble sleeping, but the three of them (four, counting Lestrade) have had no rest in the last twelve hours, literally. The day began early in the morning with his medical appointment and evolved into a murder hunt when Giulia received the ominous call on her phone and the first package was delivered to Baker Street.
He closes his eyes, reliving in an instant all the events of that day: the crime scene by the riverbank, the autopsy on the nun, the subsequent visit to the convent, and finally the confrontation with the murderer at the real estate firm and his arrest.
He and his PTSD were doing just fine until that brute businessman took a swing at him with his golf club. Being attacked triggered him more than he showed—more than he would like to admit. Now he must deal with his own demons while solving a much more devilish homicide. The last thing he needs is for his frail condition to affect his already unsteady balance with Giulia.
His thoughts are interrupted when Lestrade knocks on the door and leads them into the room. A crying woman is standing in the middle of the make-up studio, grief-stricken.
Judging by the reactions they got so far, it looks like nobody truly wanted Vincent Storing dead or had anything to gain from his passing. Sherlock suspects that someone in the theatre company is quite the actor and is hiding their true criminal nature behind an innocent facade. Could it all be a superb farce orchestrated by the great dramatist Jim Moriarty?
After all, Shakespeare, the master playwright, wrote: "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players…"
Sherlock smirks. Let them play their parts, then. And when the curtain comes down, there won't be the warm welcome of a cheering crowd but the cold embrace of a prison cell.
Author's note: Dear readers, I'd like to apologise for the slow updates. I am going through quite a stressful period, but writing remains my best coping mechanism, so I promise you I won't disappear, and I will keep updating this story.
Thank you for your patience.
A huge thanks to mr. clever: you always inspire me to push through and keep moving forward with this story. I absolutely love your enthusiasm!