A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes

by Raynes, Katie

  She pressed her lips together firmly in thought. I pressed mine to steepled fingers while the other three left theirs gaped open in wordless wonder. Above and around us, the painted cherubs gambolled quite happily.

  “You were quite right, Mr Holmes, in refusing my earlier request for advice and supplying only facts, for now I find myself enabled to make my own choices. That is, Georgie, if you will acquiesce to my decision?”

  “I will.”

  “Your family fortunes have been replenished with Barnes money and my father’s companies are anointed with noble title. Having a wife, you find your social obligations quite fulfilled. I, having a husband, am relieved of needing to find one. That is, if I have a husband. Do I?”

  Mr Parker half leapt from his chair and pounded his fist on the table. “I will die for love rather than give up!”

  “And here in Britain,” I said calmly, “you most likely would. It is my suggestion that the three of you purchase a residence in France, where you may live more freely in the Cambacérès tradition.”

  Earnestly, Watson agreed, “Holmes knows what he’s talking about, he has just returned from time in Montpellier and …oh …I see.”

  Then the great solution was fully known. I, who had devoted my life to unravelling mysteries, was revealed to have been creating one about myself all along.

  The sensible nature of my suggestion was at once seen by the odd trio at our table. Virginia would be free to travel or pursue such interest as appealed to her. Colin and the newly feminine Stamford would be safe from Reading Gaol. Agreements were reached. Arrangements were made. Thus began the great migration from the shores of Albion to those of France. Had more of us taken the journey this early, the disaster after Oscar and the marquess’s son might have been, if not averted, somewhat lessened.

  Watson said nothing.

  It was not until we were back at Baker Street and he once again had a cigar in hand that he broke his silence.

  “The medical experts are quite divided on this matter, you know.”

  It is rare that I am as silent as I was in those moments but my allies – logic, deduction, all my mental powers – were swept away in an internal storm of panic and fear. I nodded mutely. He turned away from me and knelt to light a fire in the grate as he continued.

  “But knowing you as I do, I am certain that you have exhausted all avenues of doubt and find yourself unchangeable in this matter.”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “I meant to ask you earlier today, before our latest adventure, would you be opposed to my returning to residence here on Baker Street? As I am again a bachelor, I don’t need the house that Mary and I shared and, if I am to resume participation in your investigations, it might be sensible to live close at hand.”

  “In your absence I adapted your former bedroom into a laboratory for myself. I will clean it out immediately.”

  The fire lit, Watson rose and settled himself into the chair nearest the hearth and, in his familiar fashion, took up the day’s paper. He replied from behind its pages, his voice so soft I nearly didn’t hear.

  “No need,” he said, “no need.”

  You might expect, dear reader, that what follows in these pages will be a description of intimate confessions or passionate avowals of fidelity. You must remember however, that we are English. Were this a French novel there would perhaps be some lurid description of clothing removed with trembling hands. An American tale might include an epilogue of suicide, incarceration in a sanatorium or other ghastliness.

  It was many years before Watson started publishing accounts of our adventures again but, as a devotee of the truth, I must warn you that these later tales are so heavily edited as to be estranged from the truth. Names have been changed, dates altered and even the fundamental facts of the cases have been so thoroughly run through the mill of imagination that they barely resemble actual events.

  If you look closely however, the astute eye might find hints and clues. The perceptive mind might be able to glean subtle whispers of what the French writers shout. Like the true story of the young Lord Stamford, my own chronicle exists in its full truth only for the participants. Everything else must be left to the fictions of your own minds. Lestrade, The Strand, the Earl and Lady Stamford and even you, dear reader, are to be left knowing only that, in most ways, Watson and I continued along in a pleasant fashion very similar to that in which we had always lived.

  We are, after all, Englishmen.

  Blackmail is one crime that Holmes detests almost as much as murder. For him, it is a kind of murder in its own way, stealing everything a person has worked for and leaving them with a shell of their former life. Holmes, as intricate and interesting as ever, readily takes on the case and shows a compassionate side to his otherwise cold and single-minded personality. Gardner brings us an intricate tale of blackmail and betrayal that has some surprising twists and turns. As with so many Holmes adventures, things are not always what they seem, people have motivations and desires which show their depths all the more clearly.

  The Adventure of the Hidden Lane

  by Lyn C.A. Gardner

  I’m placing this sealed manuscript with my solicitors on instructions that it be published at least seventy years after my demise, when all the principals are long dead and any rumour has passed into family legend. I trust that one day this tale will be welcomed among the rest.

  If I return often in these annals to the days before my marriage to Mary Morstan, it is only because Sherlock Holmes and I spent so much time in company then. In 1887, Holmes was thirty-three and I thirty-five, and we seemed at the height of our powers. No problem was too obscure for me to attend along with him. In many ways, despite the strains on health and sanity, I look upon those days as the golden age: long nights prowling outside an abbey, waiting for a murderer to emerge in nun’s habit; grey afternoons watching the world stream past outside our train while we chewed over the case or enjoyed the companionable silence only two intimates can share. Whether we brooded over separate projects in the parlour or ran through fields in fear of someone’s life; whether Holmes filled the air with violin music or I, the minds of distant readers with the magic of his work, there seemed one great song between us.

  Without a practice of my own, I’d rise in my dressing gown when Mrs Hudson brought our breakfast, and share the morning papers with Holmes. Even without a case, there were times when he hardly slept. I’d wish him good night and leave him brooding over the fire, then walk out yawning in the morning to find him staring into the street, waiting only my waking to play the violin. I’d trained myself to sleep through the stench of all but the most explosive chemical experiments.

  “Anything on the fire this morning, Holmes?”

  He didn’t turn from his contemplation of Baker Street. The medley of voices, the rattling percussion of hooves and carriage wheels, and the cymbal-like crashes of coal chutes all registered in a higher key as the threat of rain induced a more hurried tempo. I took the chair opposite his dirty dishes and tucked into my kedgeree. The haddock was tender and well-seasoned. Atop a stack of books, a telegram waited for me.

  “Situation grave at Leidstone Manor near Reigate, Surrey. Your presence great personal favour. Forrester.”

  “Forrester,” I mused. “The inspector we met in the affair of the Reigate squires?” Five months before, in April, I had convinced Holmes to leave the poisoned city air for some needed rest in the country. To his delight, theft and murder had broken into his vacation. The young officer in charge had been duly appreciative of Holmes’s talents.

  “The very same.”

  “What do you suppose it is?”

  “I understand that Sir Hugh Syms-Caton has been ailing for some time.”

  “Syms-Caton. Why do I know that name?”

  Holmes held up a slim volume that had been concealed between his body and the window. His finger still marked a page, but I could read the impress of gold upon the cover: Songs of Earth and Heaven by Catherine Syms
-Caton.

  “Now I remember. Sir Hugh’s niece writes poems; her brother writes adventures. What is his name –”

  Holmes gestured to the table, watching me with the faintest smile. He said, “I took the liberty of running out to the bookstore on the corner while you slept.”

  I hefted one of the books stacked beneath the telegram. The Squire of All or Nothing by Aubrey Syms-Caton. “Seems to promise a good sword fight to while away a fall afternoon. So, what’ll it be, Holmes? A duel upon the downs?”

  “Hardly that, Watson,” he replied, and slipped into his coat. He tipped the brim of his hat toward me. “But a doctor’s services might be in order.”

  My army training and Holmes’s austere habits made packing the work of a moment. I grabbed my valise and doctor’s bag. Holmes scooped up the books as we hastened out the door.

  On the train, we passed the books back and forth. “Not bad, Watson,” Holmes commented as he handed me the slimmer volume. I’d got a fair way into one of the novels – murder, unjust imprisonment, and a case of mistaken identity – but I set it aside to see what had impressed my critical friend. The poems’ raw power clawed through the smooth veneer of form and sentiment. “Whoever inspired these is a lucky man.”

  Holmes said thoughtfully, “There is something caged – something furious and helpless here that cries out and beats the bars.”

  Inspector Forrester met us at the station with a brougham bearing Sir Hugh’s arms. A sober young man, Forrester looked smart in his inspector’s uniform, but concern had etched grooves in his narrow face. His wide brown eyes lingered, considering everything. A thick but precisely trimmed moustache paralleled a solemn mouth. He said, “Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”

  Holmes and I shared a bench inside the brougham. Holmes said, “Pray tell us the trouble, Inspector.”

  Though he sat with the sun in his eyes, Forrester’s keen face clouded. “When their father died fifteen years ago, Sir Hugh took on the role for his niece and nephew. Now he lies at death’s door –” His eyes shifted to me. “I’m glad you’re here, Doctor. It seldom hurts to have a second opinion, especially when all other hope is gone.”

  I nodded, murmured “Of course.” But Holmes said shrewdly, “I take it there’s some trouble getting in to see him.”

  “Not yet. But there might be. There are these manuscripts, you see –” His gaze slid to the woodlands rushing past. “Having unpublished manuscripts stolen is a terrible thing for any writer. But these manuscripts, sir – these manuscripts –”

  “A little unusual, are they?”

  Forrester said, “They don’t want their uncle’s last thoughts to be marred by – this situation. They’re concerned about the shock when his health is so delicate. They’re also afraid that in a moment of anger he might shut them out, and they’d lose their last hours with him.”

  “You lost your own father early, Mr Forrester,” Holmes observed gently.

  Forrester nodded, the underlying sadness rising to his face. “The day after the manuscripts vanished, they received an anonymous letter warning them that unless they comply with certain demands, their uncle will be shown the manuscripts.”

  “And the conditions?”

  Forrester growled, “Aubrey is to renounce his claims and leave the country. He and Kate must urge their uncle to adopt another heir. They’re to say their farewells and leave for his holdings in America.”

  “What, both of them?” I exclaimed.

  Holmes mused, “The sister must not inherit either. There’s someone else.”

  “There’s a rumour that Sir Hugh has an unacknowledged son.”

  Holmes stared out the window as the fields rolled past. I asked, “Could Sir Hugh’s wife be interested in the matter? Without children, she may worry she’ll lose her home when he dies.”

  Forrester said, “If Lady Hilda’s aim were to disinherit her nephew, I don’t see how it could suit her purpose to withhold the manuscripts at all.”

  I asked, “They’re that bad, then?”

  Forrester said, “There are others who might be injured as well.”

  Afternoon gilded the fields. I drank deep of country air. The great house stood atop a sloping lawn, facing the early afternoon sun. Forrester said, “My mother and I would be honoured if you’d stay with us tonight. The manor might be more comfortable, but with Sir Hugh’s health, it would be best not to strain the household further.”

  I said, “I’m sure we’ll be quite comfortable. Thank you.”

  We’d scarcely entered the house when two golden youths stepped into the entry hall, their curly-haired beauty shining like Apollo and Athena in the misty interior light. Forrester introduced us, then said, “I must return to my duties. Aubrey, Kate, I’ll leave you with your guests. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I’ll call for you at dinner time.” He nodded and left.

  “We’re very pleased to meet you,” said Kate. Shadows lurked beneath her red-rimmed eyes and hollowed cheeks, but she made an effort to smile.

  Aubrey bore the same marks of weariness, but his hectic energy demanded some object. “Come upstairs with us, Mr Holmes. It all begins and ends there.” He hit the stairs running.

  “Pray excuse my brother,” murmured Kate. “He’s anxious to resolve this – there’s nothing else we can do to help Uncle.”

  “Understandable,” said Holmes. His eyes brightened with the challenge. His long legs took the stairs two at a time, leaving Kate and myself to bring up the rear.

  On the second floor, we entered a study lined with large, glass-fronted cabinets filled with books and keepsakes. The wide oak desk stood with its left edge toward the window. Facing it, a smaller table held a typewriter, its keys shining with daily use. A brace of armchairs stood before two tall secretaries with a lamp between.

  Kate locked the door behind us and settled behind the big desk. Aubrey perched by the typewriter, his wild curls bobbing as he showed off with a rapid burst on the machine.

  Kate set her elbows on the desk. “This is Uncle Hugh’s private study,” she said. “He’s let us use it since I was nine and Aubrey eight. We used to sit at those secretaries, completing our schooling while he worked. We seldom spoke, but we enjoyed being industrious together.”

  “When we got older,” Aubrey said, “we learned that Uncle Hugh didn’t conduct his affairs here so much as he sought refuge. This was the place where he came to read romances –”

  “– or write funny lyrics,” Kate said. “He’d slip them into our books to mark our lessons.”

  “For a while there, Uncle Hugh and I had a poetry war going on,” Aubrey said. “We’d leave poems on top of important papers or hidden in drawers, composed in the most stately and serious manner. The trick was to break the other’s composure. We’d read them and go about our business, but if one of us laughed, or grinned, or shed a tear –”

  Kate said, “Of course, I enjoyed it immensely. But I laughed so much they gave up surprising me. I’d get the one who wrote it chuckling, and that was a forfeit. So while they attacked their poetry with all the gravity of war, I sat in my corner of Uncle’s big desk, gazing out the window at my own dreams – and jotting them down.”

  “It sounds like your writing is something of a family tradition,” I said. “Your uncle must be very proud of you.”

  “Oh, he is!” Kate caught her breath. “When Uncle took to his bed, he asked us to keep writing for him. Every day, we come in here and –” She hung her head.

  Aubrey said quietly, “We try to carry on. He likes to hear our work as we write it. It’s one of the first things he asks – it seems to keep him going. But it isn’t easy, Mr Holmes.”

  Kate said, “That’s why we’re so sick about the theft. We’ve lost work that represents time we could have spent with our uncle, even if it was his wish. If that time was wasted –”

  Holmes stood, stretching his lanky frame. “Where did you keep the manuscripts? Looked up in this room?�
��

  Kate said, “The typescripts are kept in the secretary behind Dr Watson, where we can get to them easily. The manuscripts are locked in the safe above the fireplace.”

  Holmes rounded on Aubrey. “With so much at stake, you still think it’s worthwhile to lie to me?”

  Aubrey blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not.” Holmes offered a wintry smile. “Do you think I don’t already know your secrets? Your sister’s romances are no doubt far more popular under your name than they would ever be under hers. As for your poetry, I’ve no doubt the man you love is well-placed, and neither one of you can bear the scandal.”

  Kate gave a small cry. Aubrey stood with clenched fists, but Holmes continued relentlessly. “You take great pains to hide the holographs, yet the typescripts are kept in an obvious location, and the work itself is published for anyone to read. Typewriting may be a modern fad, but it’s more frequently done by those who must earn their wages. I asked myself why it was so important that the handwriting be hidden. If you’d stolen another’s work, the demands would include acknowledgement or restitution – even if the author wanted revenge as well. But if you were each the author of the other’s work, the secrecy would certainly be justified. It’s unusual, but not unheard of, for a woman to study fencing; but the poetry published under Catherine Syms-Caton’s name is erotically charged, and clearly written to a man. Since the manuscripts are so dangerous, why did you retain them?”

  Aubrey said, his cheeks flaming, “We wanted to keep proof of our true authorship.”

  “Pride,” Holmes muttered and bent over the typewriter, pulling the paper from the platen. “Has anyone ever seen you at work, other than your uncle? How did you explain this machine?”