Welcome to Baker Street

87. 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 to us?" 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. They seemed to find it amusing," 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 dare to 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 a skin reaction, 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 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.