Welcome to Baker Street

88. Off script

Makeup studio - backstage

"Hello, Miss. We'll skip presentations and get straight to the point: we want the truth from you," Sherlock starts off unceremoniously, addressing the sobbing young woman. She is standing in the middle of the studio with her arms wrapped around her torso to comfort herself.

She raises her face streamed with tears and gives him a confused look. "The truth about what?"

He flashes her an eloquent grin. "Your affair with the victim, obviously."

Her eyes widen in shock, and she instinctively brings a hand over her mouth, unable to restrain her automatic response, "How do you know that?"

"The costume designer has just been quite outspoken about backstage rumours. In all fairness, it wasn't even necessary, considering the heart-breaking state of grief you are currently in. We can also consider Mrs Storing's subtle allusion that she dropped during her interrogation about the intimate relationship you shared with her husband." Sherlock recaps the clues like he was listing the ingredients to a cooking recipe.

"What allusion? I didn't get that." Lestrade frowns at the detective, who spits out disdainfully, "Clearly."

"This is the worst day of my life. First, Vincent dies, and now my secret is exposed. I—I need to take a seat," the make-up artist stammers and plunges in an armchair in front of the lighted mirrors of the studio, massaging her back. "You must excuse me, but I guess the tragic news put a strain on my health." She closes her eyes for a second, fighting her fatigue.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and studies her. "Miss...?"

"Trevors, Megan Trevors," she whispers.

"Miss Trevors, how long have you been in a clandestine relationship with the victim?" he asks harshly.

She sighs, knowing that there's no point in dodging the question.

"Almost six months. I knew that part of the crew had found out about it, but I had no idea that even his wife had discovered about us. On an unrelated note, is that her perfume that got stuck on your clothes? Vincent was right: it's nauseating," she complains, wrinkling her nose in a grimace of disgust.

Sherlock cocks a brow, impressed. "It can't be more than a faint whiff now. How can you smell it?"

"What do you mean? It's all over you. I can't even breathe," she bemoans, taking quick breaths.

Sherlock squints at her overreaction. "How could you think his wife suspected nothing about the two of you when you were travelling the world together on, I quote, pleasure weekends?" he recalls Mrs Storing's exact words.

Megan looks genuinely surprised. "Did she really call them that? She was probably wrong, though; I don't think that's what he was doing. For the record, no, I never went with him. He preferred to travel solo," she whiffles. It is quite obvious she never felt welcomed at his getaways.

John turns to his friend with an insinuating look and mutters under his breath, "Mr Storing was neglecting his spouse and didn't want even his lover to tag along. Should we believe he was polygamous and the purpose of his mysterious trips to Africa and the Middle East was to visit his other wives? After all, why would he deliberately choose to travel alone every single time to such destinations?"

"To be fair, he wasn't quite on his own," Megan interjects after overhearing him. The prospect of being just one of many for him horrifies her. "He was invariably accompanied by his private orchestra."

Greg frowns. "What do you mean?"

She tries to shrug off the feeling that Victor loved his beloved instruments more than her and replies, "He used to carry those bloody instruments anywhere. He was always travelling together with all his cases and a bunch of hideous hired musicians. I hate he preferred going on his trips, probably performing for sheikhs or uncultured but rich warlords, rather than staying with me. As I said before, I don't think he went around the globe for women. I believe he was trying to scrape together some money to repay his debts."