One of her arms cradled an empty bottle of gin, the other was splayed out along the dusty floor. Her flamboyant clothes in her signature red and black were awry and spread out around her. She reeked of alcohol. Holmes leaned in to sniff her lips then backed away.

I patted her cheek gently and applied smelling salts. She snorted and opened her eyes.

‘Madame Borelli?’ I whispered, leaning in.

She belched and struggled to consciousness. I could smell cheap gin.

‘Where am I?’ she slurred. ‘And what is that smell?’

‘Your own breath,’ snapped Lestrade. ‘Get up.’

‘You are backstage at Wilton’s,’ I said.

She blinked and stared up at Sherlock Holmes.

‘What has happened? How did I get here?’ She sniffed the air. ‘What burned?’

She struggled to sit up, discovered the bottle of gin in her hands, looked at it in surprise, and pushed it away.

‘What is the last thing you remember, Madame Borelli?’ asked Holmes.

‘Let us not waste time, Holmes,’ barked Lestrade. ‘Madame Borelli, I am arresting—’

‘One moment, Lestrade, please!’ said Holmes. ‘Madame?’

‘Our room at the hotel. I entered and I … someone came from behind and—’ She paused, struggling for clarity.

‘… and did what? Were you drugged?’ asked my friend.

‘Stop this, Holmes. You give her ideas!’ cried Lestrade.

‘Someone hit me in the back of my head,’ murmured the lady. ‘Suddenly I was choking. A cloth … I don’t remember what …’ She blinked and shook her head. ‘And now I am here.’ The poor woman remained on the floor.

I felt her pulse. It was racing. ‘Gentlemen, where is your sympathy? Help me lift her to a chair,’ I said. Soon, Madame Borelli was seated, with all of us clustered around her.

‘Take slow, deep breaths, Madame,’ I said.

‘Where had you been,’ asked Holmes, ‘just before this happened?’

‘How is this our concern?’ cried Lestrade. ‘This is clearly a ruse!’ The policeman leaned past Holmes and placed his face inches from Madame Borelli’s. ‘I am not interested in your made-up stories, Madame! It is all too clear what happened here.’ He stood back and gestured for his second man to approach. ‘Madame Ilaria Borelli, I am arresting you on the charge of the wilful and sadistic murder of your husband, Dario Borelli. Boys, take her away.’

‘Murder? Dario?’ Her face went white. ‘Dario? Dario Mio is dead?’

Hamilton and a constable each took Madame under an arm and dragged her roughly to her feet. She moaned as they held her facing Lestrade.

‘Careful there!’ I said. ‘This lady is in shock.’

‘Your husband is dead, and you know it,’ said Lestrade. ‘He was burned to a crisp tonight in that infernal prop over there, which I understand you designed.’

Madame Borelli gagged. She wrenched one arm free and covered her mouth. ‘No!’ she sobbed.