A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes

by Raynes, Katie

  “But how could they, Holmes?” I asked, astounded. “I do not see how any mortal man could be involved in such an event.”

  Holmes’s smile was bracing. “No, I am sure you do not, Watson,” he said. Yet he spoke rather distractedly; he watched intently as one of the officers began knocking on the door of the solicitor’s office next to us. After several minutes of pounding, a sleepy-looking housemaid finally answered the door, and a brief conversation ensued, though I could hear none of it myself.

  The officers continued to knock on doors up and down the street. Many of the businesses seemed empty – the bakery, for instance, which had no room to let. The door to Mr Fenton’s importer neighbour on our other side likewise remained unanswered. The rest of the interviews all transpired quickly, and the officers soon stood together as one in front of the bakery itself, glancing up from time to time, looking as puzzled as I felt.

  The rain was becoming quite numbing, and, having now seen the incident for ourselves first hand, I moved forward to step into the street. I suspected it would prove difficult to find a hansom so late in this part of town, but a walk of a few blocks would surely yield better results. Yet as I moved forward, Holmes placed a restraining arm on my sleeve. “Where are you going, Watson?” he asked.

  “Home, to Baker Street,” I said. “There is nothing more to do here, Holmes.”

  “I am not so sure we have seen it all yet,” Holmes mysteriously replied.

  I sighed as I felt a cold sliver of rain slip into my coat and down my back. Moving back under the ledge, I resigned myself to a further watch.

  We stayed several more hours, though happily the rain abated soon after the green object had left the sky. We stayed until our client and several of his neighbours came to prepare their wares for the day, until the first rays of the sun had returned, and until the lamp lighter once again came down the street, climbing up and down the ornate lamps to complete his nightly rounds. Once the sun had fully risen, Holmes turned to me. “Well, then, Watson, I daresay we have now seen it all.”

  “Indeed, Holmes?” I queried, a tad cross. “I daresay we had ‘seen it all’ some hours back.”

  Holmes laughed, a short barking sound. “My dear Watson! This evening has surely been a hardship on you. Perhaps, however, a hearty breakfast of steak, tomato and egg at Simpson’s will go far to revive your flagging spirits.”

  “But what of the case, Holmes?” I asked. “What of the unidentified flying object?”

  “What of it, Watson?” Holmes replied with an infuriating wink.

  For two days I badgered Holmes about the mystery, but for two days he stayed absolutely silent on the matter. He left our rooms for hours at a time, as was his wont, and came home more than once with a few foul-smelling packages for his chemistry experiments. The third morning after we had witnessed the event loomed dull and dreary; this pleased Holmes, who left shortly after breakfast and returned well after sunset. I thought perhaps he would retire for the evening, but once again he dragged me out into the dismal murk of a cold, wet London spring.

  It was quite late when we arrived at Cleveland Street; by this time, a rather large crowd had gathered. We sought shelter again under the ledge in the alleyway and waited for the green light to appear. Soon it did, in the same splendour as before, attended, once again, by the distinct crash of thunder. Yet as I watched, transfixed, the colour of the light suddenly began to change. First to red, then yellow, and then suddenly a blazing white that seemed to light up the entire sky! Then just as suddenly there was a small explosion, followed by a crash, as if the ghastly light had fallen from the sky.

  The crowd watching in attendance was stunned into silence; I, myself, felt shaken as well. Only Holmes seemed unaffected, chuckling as he was at the colourful display. “Splendid, eh Watson?” he asked. “I feel reasonably certain that our little display sent the appropriate message to those behind this excellent bit of theatre. I daresay we have seen the last of it.”

  “But, Holmes,” I said as we stepped into a waiting cab and headed towards Baker Street, “are you implying that you were behind tonight’s spectacle?”

  “You could say I added a few more ingredients to their pot – and created quite a stir in the process, I must say!”

  “But I don’t understand, Holmes,” I sputtered. “You know what the glowing object was?”

  “Of course, Watson,” Holmes said. “You mean to say after our vigil three nights prior you still have no clue?” I could only shrug in response. Holmes shook his head. “Well, perhaps it is no matter. I must confess that the entire scheme is certainly the product of the highest intelligence. Yes, of that there can be no doubt…”

  “But how was it done, Holmes?”

  Holmes smiled. “White phosphorus!” he said. “When white phosphorus is exposed to damp, wet air, it glows green. Yes, from the moment Mr Fenton mentioned the green glow of the flying object, I had no doubts as to its cause. But how was it done? That was the question, Watson, and the process is certainly a very clever, though somewhat elaborate, one! Very careful planning was needed. Here is how it worked. Every evening that promised rain a large, covered ox-cart was brought into the alley next to Mr Fenton’s shop – you observed that, no doubt?”

  “I confess I did,” I said, “but I attached no significance to it.”

  “That is because you only see, Watson. You do not observe. Such a large ox-cart – for what purpose? For a butcher, or perhaps a fishmonger, certainly. But a small bakery would utilize less product than such a cart would explain. And certainly no milliner’s shop would require such large wares! No, the cart had to be part of the plan – and once I knew that, everything began to fall into place.”

  “Then what was in the cart, Holmes?”

  “Tanks for storing hydrogen gas, and a rather large balloon. Yes, it certainly was the invention of a clever mind indeed! Attached to the balloon was a basket designed to hold the white phosphorus. A wind-up device was inside – when the clockwork ran down, the basket opened, exposing the white phosphorus to the wet night air.”

  “Ingenious!”

  “No more so than many children’s toys. Of course the difficulty was in flying the balloon – and in releasing it. The balloon was grey – all the better to blend in with the dismal night sky. It had to be fastened somewhere near to the bakery, and only after night, when it would not be seen. And yet it likewise had to be unattached before daybreak. Otherwise, even on the cloudiest of days, someone would see the balloon in the sky, and the mystery would be solved.”

  “So just how was that accomplished, Holmes?”

  Holmes’s smile grew wide. “The lamp light man, Watson! Why should he climb on such early century finery when he could easily reach up with his long stick to light the lamp? Of course, he was doing more than lighting it – he was attaching the loop of the thread, passed on by a confederate. Then, near sun up, down the street he came again, only this time, he cut the rope, allowing the balloon to fly far away from the scene of the crime. Oh, yes, Watson everyone may notice the lamp light man, but few bother to observe his actions – I did, however, and saw the knife in his hand as plain as day.”

  I pressed on eagerly. “But the thunder, Holmes? How was that accomplished?”

  Holmes laughed. “Through a theatre trick as old as any. Large sheets of very thin metal, when vibrated vigorously, make a noise quite like that of thunder. Shakespeare had such props for his plays; I rather think Euripides did as well. As for tonight’s performance, I think we can thank Mrs Frobrisher’s good boarder, Mr Templeton, for such sound affects. After all, Watson, did you not tell me that Mrs Frobrisher mentioned that the sound practically shook her out of her home? And yet to us, it seemed much more distant. Well, of course it would be loudest to the good lady if it were happening in one of her own rooms.”

  “Well, you have certainly explained how it was done, Holmes,” I said. “But why was it done? And who was behind it? And what of Mr Fenton’s windows? I fail to see the poin
t in targeting a poor tradesman in such a cruel way.”

  “Let me start with your last question first. Why were the windows on the bakery destroyed, three weeks running? I can only guess, Watson, as to ensure a witness to the first strange event. After all, white phosphorus would not burn bright unless it was a wet, wild night, and surely those behind the event could hardly hope to assemble a crowd on such an eve unless, of course, they had another reason to already be there. Thus our client’s shop was targeted to ensure there would be witnesses – especially official witnesses – to the main event, the glowing, flying object. Once people witnessed that, as you know, Watson, the attacks on the bakery stopped.

  “And as for why, well, your answer is there, too. Someone obviously wanted to draw attention to this place, to bring not only a crowd, but also official police representatives. But why? What could they hope to uncover? You never asked me, Watson, how I knew Mr Fenton’s bakery was located on Cleveland Street that day he came to our rooms. I knew because his Lordship told me. What Mr Fenton believes to be an importing business is actually the location of the club to which Lord Somerset and I both belong.”

  “Holmes!” I said, taken aback. “Then – then this whole plot was to target –”

  “Yes, the club itself, Watson,” Holmes said.

  “But why, Holmes, why?”

  Holmes stared intently into my eyes. He reached one hand over and grabbed my wrist with it. “There are certain men in this country, Watson – certain very important men – who, for their own reasons, would like to have the activities of that particular place become public knowledge. I can say no more, my friend!” he said, holding up a protesting hand to my open mouth. “Whoever was behind this scheme dearly hoped that the presence of the police – and their enquiries into the local homes and businesses – would result in a public scandal the likes of which London has not seen for some time.”

  Holmes released my hand and settled back in his seat. I pondered this sentence gravely, for I knew that Holmes did not speak it lightly. Though I could not wrap my mind around the activities of that club, I knew that I trusted Holmes implicitly in what he said. “Then who, Holmes?” I said, asking the other question on my tongue. “Who was behind all this?”

  Holmes avoided my gaze and stared at the dusky London street instead. “That, Watson, is the real question,” he said. “For some time now I’ve detected a presence – a strong intelligence – directing much of the wrongdoing going on in London. Someone behind the scenes, commanding the troops, pulling the strings – a veritable Napoleon of crime, if you will. Though I have yet to identify who this man is, Watson, I promise you that it will surely be my highest priority.”

  Holmes spoke with such gravity that I fell silent, horrified at the existence of such a superior and evil intellect in our fair city. In every other aspect of this manner, Holmes was resolutely correct; the green, glowing light was never seen again, and like any such occurrence, was quickly forgotten by the public. Not long afterwards, Holmes received a generous cheque and message from Lord Somerset. Amused, he tossed the latter to me. It read: “Holmes: Good work. The club is secure. Do bring Dr Watson over sometime. Somerset.” I read these lines with an amazed countenance, but before I could say anything to Holmes, he took the message back and threw it in the fire. “I think, my friend,” he said quietly, grabbing onto my hand once again, “that you are not quite ready to be a member of that club. But I hope, Watson, that soon you will be. Soon,” he repeated, squeezing my hand briefly before letting it go and falling silent once more.

  Among the many adventures Dr Watson never wanted to publish for fear of scandal, is this one. Holmes takes on a case which has him leading Watson on a journey not only through some interesting places but also into the recesses of his mind and untapped desires. A ring is missing – stolen from the hand of a murdered man. The ring, one of a pair owned by a gay couple, is all the surviving partner has of his murdered lover. Holmes is determined to find the ring and unravel the mystery of the murdered lover and doesn’t stop until he does.

  The Adventure of the Poesy Ring

  by Elka Cloke

  “A Vila Mon Coeur, Gardi Li Mo”

  “Here Is My Heart, Guard It Well”

  In the years of my residence at Baker Street there are many cases which have been withheld from the public. In point of fact Mr Sherlock Holmes had himself placed restrictions not only on what I might publish but also on what I might write down even in draft form, out of concern for the privacy of his clients and to avoid the harm that might come if any case should be brought prematurely to public light.

  For the most part I have kept the promise of secrecy, keeping those private cases locked in my memory, waiting for the day when he would lift the ban. Many are the cases that, though they could not be spoken of at the time of his having solved them, he has afterward given me permission to share. I trust that in doing so I present to the world the character of my most admired companion. It is to that end that I devote my pen, that his genius and the example that he set among scientific detectives and indeed for all who serve justice might be accurately recorded and better known by those who seek to emulate him.

  As I have stated many times before, Mr Sherlock Holmes was an exceptional man in many ways. His mental capacity was absolutely astounding, and his limitations were likewise astonishing in their breadth. He would go many days without even speaking to me though we shared the same rooms, and there were times when I wondered how he managed to drive himself so hard. When an idea was upon him he neither ate nor slept but pursued it relentlessly. It was as if all the natural desires of man were suppressed in him, shunted into thought alone. His heart beat but only to supply blood to that incredible brain. It is not true, however, that he was heartless. He was capable of seeing the motivations of others as only someone who shared those same feelings could be capable. He never to my knowledge held a romantic impulse, but he was understanding and forgiving of those who did and even towards myself when my marriage took me further from him than perhaps he would have preferred.

  I would not have him remembered as an automaton, cold though he could sometimes be. This particular case is a difficult one for me to bring to light, but I know that to fully understand my remarkable friend it is absolutely necessary that it be told. It must be written down now because if it is not the details of this case will be lost forever. I doubt that within my lifetime opinions on the actions of the players in this tale will change enough that I could publish it without concern for the effect it would have on so many lives.

  There are good people who would be jailed, possibly even killed for the way they are portrayed herein, though they have hurt no one and are in all ways noble citizens. I would not permit that to happen; therefore I cannot publish this case. It is likely that it will not be possible to publish it for many decades after my death. Therefore this story, and the others in this slim volume, have not been placed with the remainder of the papers at Cox & Co in Charing Cross. Rather this volume has been given to Dr Verner, the same as to whom I sold my practice and who has proven himself very trustworthy. He will keep it and see to its preservation. If times ever change so much…but here I get ahead of myself. I will endeavour, as I am asking others to do, to emulate the man to whom I have dedicated my true life’s work, and let the facts speak for themselves.

  We first made the acquaintance of Mr Frederick Croft in the late morning on a lovely fall day when the weather was crisp but clear and I had tried in vain to persuade Holmes to leave his delicate experiments and accompany me out into the sunshine. I had finally given up and was sitting in one of the large chairs facing the window as my companion toiled over his titrations.

  I thought at first that Mr Croft made a singularly undramatic entrance. He rang the bell quietly, came up the steps slowly and allowed Mrs Hudson to hand us his card without even looking up. When he did look up, however, I found I had misjudged, for here was the most thorough picture of misery I had ever encountered.

/>   He was tall and one could see that if he stood fully upright he would be a paragon, as ideal in his proportions as in his youth, beauty and health, but he walked slightly bent over as if a great invisible weight were crushing him and slowly as an old man. His face was likewise an ideal face with strong features, blue eyes well balanced under a head of straw-coloured hair and a spiritual quality which marked him as much a thinker as his physique proclaimed him an athlete. This face at the moment wore an expression of utter joylessness. He had come seeking my friend’s expert advice, clearly, but he sought it as if nothing in the world could ever matter again.

  “Allow me to say, Mr Croft, that I am most sorry for your loss,” Holmes began.

  The young man looked up as if noticing his presence there for the first time. “Yes, thank you, I…” he struggled with the words.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we dispensed with pleasantries and you simply told me what I can do to help you.”

  “Yes, of course. I admit that it is a small matter, but one of very much importance to me. You will notice that I wear a ring on my left hand.” It was a large opal ring set in silver, with a pattern around the broad band which I could not make out. “There was another, just like it, and it has disappeared. I am myself not at liberty to look for it, but…” and here he hesitated again.

  “Who was he?” Holmes asked. Our guest looked up from twisting the ring around on his hand, his face pale with fear.

  Holmes glanced at me then, his face enigmatic. “Mr Croft, if you would prefer to speak to me alone I will ask Dr Watson to leave us.”

  I was quite incensed at this seemingly offhand remark and its implication that I could not be trusted. The many times during which he had insisted upon my presence from the very outset of a case were perhaps not an indication of his true opinion.