A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes

by Raynes, Katie

  “And there is of course,” broke in Watson sagaciously, “the question of how the groom became separated from his clothing. Surely a naked man in Hyde Park would be quite unusual.”

  “Far less than you might think, Watson.”

  Lestrade was undeterred in his opinions. “Nonetheless, gentlemen, we are dredging the waters now and the body will be located soon enough. This case will be solved, not by arm-chair detection but as the fruit of solid police-work.”

  I succeeded in reversing the morning-coat, which had been inside out, revealing its outer shell and the significant object which I then held aloft between my two companions. “The case is solved, gentlemen. Not by the fruit, dear Lestrade, but by the flower.”

  Between my upheld fingers was pinched the waterlogged remains of Stamford’s boutonnière, a green carnation.

  The two men on either side of me leaned in close and peered at my find.

  “Master Holmes,” Lestrade spoke slowly and with uncharacteristic gentleness, “I believe you have gone quite mad.”

  Of course, if either of them knew the truth in its entirety, the Inspector’s pronouncement would be held as true by most. I felt a little twinge of pain that Watson spoke not a word in my defence.

  “The existence of the flower was known to us from the couple’s wedding portrait,” I said, “but not its colour.”

  The two men straightened, Lestrade looking no less sure of my sanity.

  He asked, “And to what conclusion does the colour of the carnation lead you?”

  In kindness to my guest, I demurred giving an immediate explanation and asked instead what theory the inspector had formed.

  “Given the evidence, it is clear that a previous lover of this American adventuress, perhaps of foreign origin, arrived in London determined to stop the marriage. Failing this, he lured Lord Stamford from the house –”

  “Perhaps for a duel –” broke in Watson.

  “Perhaps, doctor. Whatever the exact nature of the ruse, Lord Stamford was set upon by the jealous lover, whereupon he became a victim of foul play. The killer separated the young man from his clothing in an attempt to hide the body’s identity and is even now waiting for the lady to join him. Probably still wearing her widow’s weeds, she and he will attempt to slip away. My men are in position now and watching her every movement. She, I’m sure, will lead us directly to the killer.”

  “Quite so, surely. And yet, something still perplexes you, doesn’t it, inspector?” This comment was based not upon any supernatural powers of insight but basic observation of Lestrade’s expressive face. A thorough and dedicated policeman though he is, Lestrade would make a poor player at cards.

  “How did you…? In another age you might be accused of witchcraft, Mr Holmes. There was something among the personal effects, a note written in some pidgin tongue.”

  Upon my request, Lestrade drew the note from his pocket and handed it over. It read:

  Orderly the polone, groin and metzas, and scarper with your bona bona-omi. Dump the kaffies and troll round my latte zshooshed in a shyker. The lilly won’t varder nanty.

  A great sadness swept over me and it was with no satisfaction that I announced, “I see now. I see. You deserve a certain congratulations, Lestrade. It is a young Lady Stamford for whom you should be looking, though the question is, which one?”

  It was in a poor temper that Lestrade gathered up the damp effects.

  “I don’t see, Mr Holmes, why you can’t be more direct. I’m a man who believes that things are what they are because that’s the way they were made.”

  As I handed back the slip of paper with its mysterious note, I noticed that the message had been written on the back of a receipt.

  “Here is something of note,” I said.

  “That’s nothing. The only crime here are the prices.” He went on to read from the paper, “Dinner 4s. tokay 1s. cocktails 2s 5d. Two shillings five for cocktails? I tell you, it’s the drink that leads half of them to the things they do. The drink. And that’s something you both might do well to consider.”

  He looked with great significance at our empty glasses and clearly diminished stock of liquor, then made for the door and was away.

  I looked at Watson, his facial expression of faithful consternation, and inwardly debated how much to tell him of what I already knew. Despite Lestrade’s assurances, I knew that things and people in the world were more often not what they appeared. He looked back at me, his English eyes soft and trusting. It was another long moment before I turned, walked to my shelf and took down a copy of the Archives d’Anthropologie Criminelle.

  “This is not your usual sort of reading,” I said to my companion gravely, “but I think that, as a man of medicine, you’ll find it at the least, informative.”

  I flipped open the pages to an article by one Dr Laupts, though in truth I knew this name to be a pseudonym, and drew Watson’s attention to the preface by Émile Zola. As he sank back into his chair I quickly drew on my cape and hat then nearly dashed down the stairs. Watson’s reaction to both the article and to this case would be more telling than our many years together and in that moment, I could not truly bear the enormousness of it all.

  Once outside, I located a hansom cab and set off for the house of the earl and countess. The young bride would be at the crux of the thing and I could only hope her American sensibilities still had something left of the hurley-burly of the frontier.

  The noble couple was at first stunned at my arrival so soon after their departure. Given the circumstances, however, they were only too willing to let me speak to their new daughter-in-law alone in the parlour with the doors shut. Within minutes, the two of us were sequestered in the wood-panelled room.

  The furnishings – two large fringed sofas, a pair of Louis XV chairs, sideboard and floor-lamps – were of a richness that would dwarf the demeanour of many people, but not the woman who sat across from me.

  She was exceptionally beautiful, with a pronounced jaw line and graceful neck. Her face was arresting, even magnetic, for in an age of china-doll beauty, hers was cast of nothing so fragile. The brown eyes were shrewd, the brows alert and there was something to the line of the lips that suggested a woman who knew her own strength. Even I, not given to the charms of the so-called “fairer sex,” was quite taken with her.

  Virginia Stamford wore a dress of the modern art nouveau style, with flared sleeves and a full skirt of ivory satin covered in black velvet scrollwork. Despite the organic pattern, the occupant of the dress sat straight, forced into an erect posture by the extreme hour-glass of the cut and stiffly boned collar.

  She looked profoundly uncomfortable.

  She spoke first and introduced herself. “Please call me Virginia”

  “Lady Stamford, it would not be appropriate for me to –” I began.

  “Virginia will do. As I am constantly being reminded, my entire future will be comprised of saying and doing all that is correct. In this incorrect moment, I will find what comforts I can.”

  I thought of Watson back in my rooms and of the earl and his wife outside the door. Of all those involved in this affair, it was this young woman who I estimated would fare the best. I dared not hope for myself.

  “Virginia, I believe that I have located your missing husband.”

  “You believe or you know? Yes, Mr Holmes, reports of your legendary powers of deduction have reached even America. This is no time for modesty, false or otherwise.”

  I spoke to her then as I have spoken to few others, male or female. She signalled for me to pause once or twice, holding up her delicate hand a few inches from her knee to indicate she had a question. These questions were asked in a calm voice, and were merely requests for me to clarify one or two obscure medical definitions. I had supposed that as a scion of a puritan nation she might raise religious objection, but she did not. I had supposed as a young lady of society she might shy away from the more delicate points of my speech, but she did not. In all things she exceeded my est
imation. It was only when I asked the most delicate question of her that her eyes turned from mine.

  “Do you love him?” I asked.

  “I appreciate, Mr Holmes – and though I asked you to call me Virginia, I prefer to address you by the formal name of the great detective – that you asked me this directly. You are, in fact, the first to do so. As you know, women of means are often asked to marry without even the appearance of love. I will honour you will the same candour. I am very fond of Georgie and suppose that given time, love might blossom. My father has said that is often how it happens. Perhaps it still might, in its own way. However, from what you describe, the facts are in the province of nature. Any affections of mine are unlikely to change this.”

  I nodded as she continued.

  “I tell you, Mr Holmes, that this life of corsets and tassels,” here she kicked at the fringes along the bottom of the sofa, “is not a life that particularly appeals to me and is only one that I chose finding myself without other options. It seems now that a sensible arrangement might be made. But everyone must, to put it in poker terms, put their cards on the table. Georgie included.”

  “Quite so. With your permission, Virginia, I will make the arrangements.”

  With this amazing woman beside me, I drew out pen and paper and dashed off a note to Watson.

  We spoke little in the coach as it rattled its way through the gas-lit streets of London but watched as one shift in the factory of life gave way to the next. The theatres disgorged their audiences, and these were divided into those heading for warm beds at home, and those, like ourselves, who were bound for nocturnal destinations. We pulled up in front of the Café Royal just as a light rain began to fall, and swept up the stairs to the Domino Room.

  There, beneath baroque encrustations of plaster and gold, beneath a heathen heaven held aloft by caryatids peering down through the smoke of cigar and cigarette and pipe, held court those fallen angels: the artists, actors and playwrights of the city. As we paused in the entry, aesthetes swirled in through the swing doors behind us, their eyes dancing equally around the room and up into the great mirrors that reflected not only friend and rival, but themselves. And noise! Such noise. Not for these the dull thrum of the conversational organ, but instead a cacophonous zoo of sounds. As each spoke, they might ruffle their plumage of hat or scarf then draw their tones up with lifted hand, higher and louder than their fellows. It was, in many ways, unmanly, but such bright laughter could be found nowhere else in the isles.

  Again, it was Virginia who took the initiative and, seeing an open table, established for us a place. She ordered an absinthe for herself, showing a knowledge of this nightlife which surely would distress her new mother-in-law. I opted for claret. Watson arrived moments later, his brow clouded. He acknowledged Virginia with a slight bow but remained taciturn in speech until I produced a rather fine cigar from my pocket. Thus mollified, he began to enquire about the purpose of our visit to this bohemian eyrie.

  “It is here,” said I, “that the missing will be found.

  Watson looked about surreptitiously. “Green carnations,” said he, noting their presence on many lapels.

  “An apposite observation.”

  “Then we have tracked the gang to its roost,” he said, and I saw his hand creep under the edge of the table.

  “There will be no need for your Wembley. It is not an opponent of the flesh that we face tonight but rather the fiercest adversary of all, the truth.”

  Virginia slid her gloved hand across the table and, ever chivalrous, Watson took it in his. I will refrain from explaining here my theories on the perception of time, how some moments flit by whilst others subjectively feel extended beyond probability. Let it be enough to know that between two ticks, I sensed that the lady knew me as no other woman had ever done.

  “I am prepared, Mr Holmes,” she said, “and you, Doctor, are you prepared for what happens now?” I saw her grip his hand more tightly and I saw him tighten upon hers in response, never knowing that it was she seeking to reassure him.

  As we waited, we grew more used to the bustle and clamour around us, as one does the cold of water after that initial plunge. Thus acclimated, we were each able to begin picking apart the knot of our little mystery. Woven like a silver thread through the menagerie of sound was the same patois we had read in the note:

  “…varder that omi-palone…”

  “…vogue on and cod sheitel…”

  “…eke a half of inch of naf slap…”

  “…carz on the feely-omi…”

  Watson cocked his head to the side and listened intently, not to any one exchange but attempting to analyse the whole. “Not Italian, nor French, but a pidgin!”

  “Quite so.”

  And then, through the swinging doors, the pair arrived. Our heads all turned and at once, we knew the truth.

  The man was handsome, even in that room of privilege and preening. He was clean shaven, with a proud nose and high cheekbones. His skin was not yet writ with life’s wisdom but instead glowed with the light of a lover triumphant. He was dressed a newly tailored suit, its lines still crisp, and upon his lapel he wore a green carnation.

  It is perhaps a moment of foreshadowing that I should have noticed him first. Had I had a greater presence of mind, I would have observed Watson and thereby had a more confident clue to my final mystery, but I did not.

  Upon the arm of this proud gentleman was a most striking woman. She was about the same age as he and glowed with the same cupidian light but she seemed somehow more worldly, more sophisticated and more remarkable than any other person in the room, even Virginia. This newcomer was tall and slender, and she wore a form-fitting gown of ivory and pearls, its folds gathered up high around her breasts and neck. Her chestnut hair was swept up from her face revealing red lips and long lashes. In another time, another place, this might have been a lady just after her wedding, veil stripped away at last, Venus become Juno.

  Virginia might have breathed the name of her lost love but if so, the faint exhalation was lost beneath the scrape of my chair as I leapt to my feet and gestured the pair to join us. Watson scrambled up a half-second later, eyes goggling, jaw slack.

  Seeing the movement, the pair at the doors simultaneously turned toward us, simultaneously smiled with matching pairs of pearly white teeth, and simultaneously blanched to the same colour.

  All chins in the room snapped in our direction, sensing the denouement to some drama. Wilting under the gaze of so many and buffeted by the waves of recognition exchanged between our little table and themselves, the glamorous duo visibly considered flight. It was then that Virginia unlaced her fingers from Watson’s, extended her hand and beckoned them over.

  The new arrivals slouched into the vacant seats looking shamefaced and stricken.

  I made introductions as the room’s attention drifted away. The young man repeated my name; I am not ashamed to say, with some sense of awe. “I was given to understand you were dead.”

  “We have two such mortal misunderstandings at this table then. Don’t we Mister –?”

  “Colin Parker.”

  “You’re the man who took our wedding portrait.” There was something steely in Virginia’s voice as she spoke and I wondered if, like Watson, this American might have a pistol secreted somewhere on her person.

  Our handsome guest mumbled something in the affirmative.

  Virginia continued coolly. “And will you introduce us to your companion, Mister Parker?”

  “Virginia, it’s me.” The voice of Mr Parker’s companion was a palimpsest of gender, with the rich and soft tones of a woman layered over the biological resonance of masculinity.

  In all our adventures, I had never seen such an expression of shock and surprise as splashed itself over Watson’s face in that moment.

  “George Stamford!”

  For indeed, beneath the strenuous application of wig and make-up, beneath the bridal trousseau, the mysterious woman was the missing groom.

>   Virginia turned to face me, “Though you prepared me quite thoroughly, Mr Holmes, I have to admit that faced with the truth of the thing, I am quite at a loss.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied in what I hoped was a note of encouragement, “you have already outdone most.”

  She and I each took a deep drink and Watson drew upon his cigar. The newcomers, having nothing, shuffled uneasily in their chairs. Thus fortified, Virginia turned back to her husband and his lover.

  “I can’t very well keep calling you George Stamford. How does the lady prefer to be addressed?”

  Under pressure, Virginia’s husband acquired a noticeable stammer. “I-I-I, Geo-Geo, call me Georgina.”

  I slid the remainder of my drink across the table where it was at once consumed. Georgina, for thus he-become-she preferred to be called, continued, “Do you despise me very much?”

  Virginia propped her elbows on the table before her, folded her hands and regarded her husband a long time before she spoke. “I don’t entirely know how things are here in England, and what little I have seen here does not encourage understanding of our current situation. But in America, I spent a fair amount of time on ranches and farms and learned more about the facts of life than might be assumed for a woman. I have seen the creatures of the field take to one another in the fashion of Sodom and Gomorrah, and I’ve learned that once a bull takes such a thing into its nature, it is unlikely to spend much time among the cows. Do you follow me?”

  We all did, and silently nodded to indicate this.

  “My metaphor is, I think, quite apt. I have found myself bartered like a farm animal in order to cement alliances between American money and European titles. I have also found that I have no taste for this arrangement. Apparently, this distaste is something we share.”