Welcome to Baker Street

86. 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.