A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes

by Raynes, Katie

  Today I sit here in a garret in Paris, planning my return to London, keeping my journal up to date. I don’t know when I will return; I know only that I shall. I have heard that my dear papa is retiring from the army and coming home. His will be a short retirement; I will see to that.

  As long as the police in two countries are looking for Sebastian MacKay, I will live as someone else. Angelique is no more. She has been replaced by a governess. It is the governess who will soon return to London. The city will be once again drenched in blood, terrorized by the invisible New Ripper. The police will never look for a slim, black-clad demure governess who is never without a prayer book, and whose eyes, like Louise Doyle’s, are always shyly downcast.

  To keep myself amused while living here, I began a correspondence with the newly created “Sir” Arthur Conan Doyle. Using the name T. Bascome, I give him ideas for the new adventures of Sherlock. He has received them with eagerness. Honest man that he is, whenever he incorporates my suggestions, he sends me a stipend. Little does he know that my literary efforts are often based on my own activities in the narrow, dark alleys and byways of Paris.

  Since fleeing London a year ago, I have had much time to ponder. I know now that I don’t kill for the reasons I always thought.

  Not for revenge.

  Not for sexual gratification.

  Not to rid the world of evil men; all men are evil and I can’t kill everyone.

  I kill for two simple reasons.

  I want to.

  And I can.

  Holmes and UFOs? It’s not as unlikely as you might think. In fact, the putative UFO is part of a devilishly clever plot which Holmes must unravel. He becomes involved not only because Lord Somerset asks for his help, but also because he has a personal interest in discovering what is behind the eerie apparitions in the night skies before it destroys something dear to his heart. It all begins with the vandalism of a shop which signals the first time the green glowing object hovers over Cleveland Street.

  The Adventure of the Unidentified Flying Object

  by Michael G. Cornelius

  As I look over my copious notes of the adventures I have shared with my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am continually astounded at the completeness with which Holmes always solved those seemingly inexplicable problems brought to our Baker Street lodgings. No matter how bizarre the crime or unusual the circumstances, Holmes had a knack for shedding light onto the darkest of mysteries. Not a detail went unexplained in his summing up of each case. Still, I find scattered here and there a few problems which, while successfully resolved by Holmes, had aspects that remained unconcluded. Everyone remembers the case of Haughton, the poisoner, who, thanks to Holmes’s diligence, did not escape undetected. To the rest of the world, justice had been swift; but to Holmes, who was never able to prove the involvement of Mrs Haughton in the disposal of her daughter’s body, the case remained woefully incomplete.

  Another such case involved one of the most unusual plots to ever cross our threshold, a scheme so cleverly conceived and expertly carried out that surely a highly disciplined and genius mind was at the root of it. And the strange circumstances certainly made for a rousing adventure. Nonetheless, these many years later, Holmes has never quite explained to me exactly how the many disparate threads of the tale all weave together. Still, as Holmes would say, the adventure was not without its instructive points, and thus is worth recounting here.

  The spring of 1889 was a particularly wet and foggy one. Holmes and I were passing a quiet morning in our Baker Street rooms. Holmes was busy at work on some chemical experiment, crouched low over a long table peering through his microscope, pausing now and then to jot something down on a piece of foolscap with the fervent energy of a man on the verge of a great discovery. I was enjoying a more leisurely enterprise, having just finished the morning Times and now merely sitting in front of the fire, enjoying its warmth on such a cool morning, when Mrs Hudson knocked to announce that a gentleman visitor had arrived at our rooms.

  I arched my eyebrows sharply, wondering if the caller meant a new client for Holmes and a new adventure for my writer’s pen. Holmes, however, proved far more irritated at the interruption. “No word of warning, no request for an appointment,” he muttered to himself as much as to me. I was aware that Holmes was loathe to be interrupted when he was pursuing one of his scientific endeavours. Still, the potential for an excuse to exercise his mental faculties always intrigued Holmes, and he finally directed Mrs Hudson to send the gentleman up.

  A well-dressed and handsome gentleman of about thirty-five years entered, with the manner and air of a man whose forebears were clearly connected to the great courts of their day. I rose to greet him, but I was not nearly as fast as Holmes. “Milord!” Holmes said, and I thought I detected a hint of surprise in his voice as he greeted our guest. “It is an honour to have you in my – our lodgings,” he added, indicating the chair nearest the fire. The man sat, and Holmes pulled up another chair to face him. His eyes were darting wildly between the gentleman and myself. I was astonished by this reaction. Holmes had entertained the greatest statesmen of the day in these rooms – leaders of government, foreign royalty – as well as some of the most fiendish villains of our time. Yet no one seemed to make him more nervous than this regally-dressed but rather ordinary-seeming man. “Can I get you some coffee, milord? Or perhaps sherry – it is still early, I know –”

  The other man declined the offer with a wave of his hand. “I am sorry, Mr Holmes, to interrupt your morning like this.”

  “It must be a matter of some grave importance for your Lordship to visit on such a blustery, unpleasant day,” Holmes added.

  The other man nodded. “Indeed it is, Mr Holmes. It is very much what we have feared. I –” The gentleman turned towards me with mild surprise, as if noticing me for the very first time. I was used to many of Holmes’s clients eyeing me with some manner of suspicion, not wishing to share their private woes with just anyone, but the appraising glance that the gentleman gave to me was different from that of any previous client. “Forgive me,” he said, rising and extending a hand. “You must be the famous Dr Watson. Holmes has oft spoke of you.”

  Now it was my turn for surprise. “Indeed, sir?” I was rather flattered by the report, and felt my cheeks flame red.

  Holmes rose hurriedly, and I was rather glad to have his action distract from my embarrassment. “Ah, yes, where are my manners? Watson, this is Lord Somerset. Milord, Watson.”

  “A pleasure,” the man said demurely, gripping my hand in his and giving me a firm shake. “Please, gentlemen, be seated,” Lord Somerset added, and we all sat near the fire.

  “Forgive my saying so,” I said, my curiosity perhaps getting the better of my good sense and decorum, “but it appears, milord, that you have met Holmes before.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Somerset replied. “We are members of the same club, though it has been some weeks, at least, since I have seen you there, Holmes.”

  My eyebrows raised again. Members of the same club? The only club I was aware of Holmes ever patronizing was the Diogenes Club, where Holmes’s brother Mycroft and like-minded men sometimes went. Yet Lord Somerset hardly seemed the misanthropic type to me.

  Holmes eyed me warily, as if reading my thoughts, and quickly turned towards our new client. “Well, milord, my consulting business has kept me quite busy of late,” he hastily explained.

  “Indeed. And that, Mr Holmes, is why I am here. Your services as detective are needed. I hope that you are not currently engaged in anything too pressing.”

  I thought immediately of Holmes’s experiments, or the half-dozen cases I knew he was working on. But Holmes spoke first. “Of course not, milord. Whatever you need, I am your humble servant.”

  Lord Somerset smiled. “As I hoped you would be, Mr Holmes.” He leaned forward. “Later this morning, a man will be visiting you. He will ask you to solve a problem for him. All I ask is that you offer him whatever assistance he requires.”
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  “I see,” Holmes replied evenly. “Is this gentleman…a mutual acquaintance…perhaps a member of the club?”

  Lord Somerset shook his head. “No, Mr Holmes, he is nothing more than a common tradesman. It will be suggested – through a proper intermediary – that he place his troubles at your feet. On the surface, his affair may seem trivial. Still, his problem is a rather…difficult one, and needs clearing up with all due haste.”

  Holmes nodded his acquiescence. “Of course, milord. I shall do my best.”

  Lord Somerset smiled. “Then the situation is as good as resolved.” Still smiling, he rose from the chair and once again turned his scrutiny towards me. “It was very good to meet you, Dr Watson.”

  I gave a slight bow. “And you, milord.”

  The gentleman strode towards the door. “Perhaps, once this difficult business is concluded, Mr Holmes will see fit to bring you ’round our club.”

  “I would be honoured, milord,” I gulped. And without another word, Lord Somerset departed.

  I turned towards Holmes, full of curiosity over this remarkable encounter. Yet I was stalled by the look on Holmes’s face. Never had I seen him so shaken. His pallor was ashen, and his voice quavered when he spoke. “Yes, Watson, a most intriguing adventure this promises to be!” He saw my ready tongue, eager with questions, but hurriedly forestalled me. “Not another word, please, Watson, I beg you! Leave me to my experiments until our new client arrives!”

  I daresay Holmes dreaded the prospect of waiting all morning for his new client to arrive, but as fortune would have it, we did not wait long. Our new client was less than an hour in arriving. Despite his earlier protestations, Holmes eagerly left behind his experiment in order to greet the fellow coming through the door. “My good sir!” he said, welcoming the newcomer with a flourish and indicating the chair nearest the fire. “No doubt you are the gentleman whose coming was but recently foretold to me!”

  The gentleman furrowed his brow in confusion. He was a short man, stout, well over fifty years in age and, just by the looks of him, a world away from the previous inhabitant of his seat. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Someone has already told you about the bedevilment plaguing me?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, not in so many words, my good fellow,” he replied. “Why, other than the fact that you are a baker, a recent widower with at least two sons, and that you own a shop in Cleveland Street, I know nothing of your affairs!”

  “My word, Mr Holmes!” the man replied. “I have read of such wizardry in detective stories, but never did I think such a thing existed! Yet, everything you say is true – surely someone has tipped you off to my visit.”

  Holmes smiled. I could see that he had recovered fully from his earlier shock and was now commanding the scene with his usual mastery. “Come, sir, any keen observer could note by the fine white flour on your shoes that you are a baker. While we oft change our clothing when we go about in the world, our shoes have a nasty habit of picking up whatever is lying about. Of course, if your late wife were still alive, she would never let you leave the house in such a state – but since your apparel is still neatly mended, I can only conclude that she died quite recently.”

  “Yes, just two months hence,” our visitor confirmed. “But my sons, sir? And Cleveland Street?”

  Holmes’s smile grew deeper. “Tut, sir, ’tis simplicity itself! I can judge by the quality of your jacket that times have grown lean for you – and yet you lack the distinct stoop that men in your trade acquire as they get on in years. Therefore, you must have help in your store, and enough of it – and as I doubt you could afford to hire said help, then I see two sons, strapping lads, working at their father’s side.”

  “Everything you say is true, sir,” the stout man said. “It is amazing how you do it, though of course, when you make explanations, it all comes clear.”

  Holmes turned to me with a grin. “It is as I feared, Watson. The more I explain myself, the more my reputation diminishes.” With a small wink he turned his attention back to the man in the chair. “Now then, Mr –”

  “Fenton. Joseph Fenton.”

  “Now then, Mr Fenton, tell me what has brought you out on such a dismal morning. Please go slowly, and spare no details, man! I have found that even the slightest detail, though seemingly insignificant, often has much to tell.”

  “Well, Mr Holmes, it is true what you say of me. I am a baker by trade, and I own a small shop on Cleveland Street, in Fitzrovia, London. The business has always been hard, but steady; I’ve no complaints of it. I have my sons working with me, and until the loss of my wife, was quite content.

  “Recently, though, some rather curious events have occurred around my shop that have given me no end of worries, Mr Holmes. At first I thought it nothing more than a case of petty vandalism, but now…I fear something sinister may be afoot, though what it is, I can hardly say.”

  “Please, Mr Fenton, do continue,” Holmes said. “You have my undivided attention.”

  “The troubles began four weeks ago. There is insufficient room to live above my shop, so I rent a flat with my sons on Yardley Square, several blocks away. One morning I came to prepare for the day’s business as usual when I saw that some ruffians had shattered the large front window to the shop. Like many men of my craft, I often display various cakes and other wares in my front window, and thus to find it broken was truly a blow.”

  “Indeed, I can discern how it would trouble you,” Holmes spoke. “Yet I hardly see where my services may be of use.”

  “Normally, I would agree, Mr Holmes. Nothing was taken from the shop, and for that matter there is little to take that would be of any value. I debated whether or not to even tell the local constable, though I finally mentioned it to him, so that he might keep a sharper eye out. Nonetheless, I hardly thought the matter worth pursuing. I summoned a glazier, who then put in a new window, though at some expense to me, of course.”

  “Of course,” Holmes murmured. “I rather feel there must be more to this story, Mr Fenton.”

  “Right you are, Mr Holmes. A week passed by without incident, and the broken window was all but forgotten when, to my great surprise, I came to my shop one morning to find the window shattered all over again, same as before.”

  Holmes relaxed into his chair. “Let us be clear in the matter, sir. Was this the same day to the week that the window was previously shattered?”

  Mr Fenton nodded. “Yes, Mr Holmes, a week exactly. Well, you can imagine my consternation! Once is an unfortunate accident, but twice could hardly be a coincidence.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said, stroking his chin. “Is there no one who holds a grudge against you, Mr Fenton, no rival for your business or your shop?”

  “I’d like to think I’ve been square in all my dealings, Mr Holmes. I can think of no man who might hold such a complaint against me, whatever the cause. Though I certainly began to feel even more so when, the next week, I came to the shop and found the very window shattered yet again.”

  “Remarkable!” I interjected.

  Mr Fenton turned his gaze towards me. “Yes, Dr Watson, but the tale grows even more remarkable still. By this time, Mr Holmes, I was at my wit’s end. The cost of replacing the window three times had grown quite high. I alerted the local constabulary, and by week next, myself and two officers waited in the shadows of an alley across from my shop to catch whomever was vandalizing my store in the act. Yet what transpired was something more amazing than anything we could have imagined happening.”

  Holmes leaned forward intently. “Pray, Mr Fenton, before you continue, set the scene for us. Describe the area around your shop, including those other domiciles that neighbour it.”

  Mr Fenton cleared his throat. “To the left, sir, is a lady’s hat shop – once very grand, I imagine, but not very fashionable these days. I happen to know that matters are so poorly there that the good lady who owns the shop had to rent out her only spare room above the place, much to her g
reat consternation.”

  Holmes shot up an eyebrow. “Oh? Is the tenant undesirable?”

  Mr Fenton hastily shook his head. “No, nothing like that, sir. In fact, Mrs Frobrisher – the proprietress – has said that he is the perfect tenant, quiet, respectable, even offered slightly more than the going rate. Yet having a tenant there upsets her, I know. Mrs Frobrisher is a proud woman, and taking in a boarder looks a bit too much like coming down in the world for her taste.”

  Holmes nodded. “I see. Pray, continue Mr Fenton. The milliner’s is on the left. And on the other side?”

  The stout baker cleared his throat. “On the other side of the bakery is a branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland –” my eyebrows shot up at this “– though it is a small branch, it does a good custom.”

  “And you, sir? Where did you stand across the street?” Holmes asked.

  “Across the street there is a rather ornate series of homes. Most of them are simple residences, though at least two of them house businesses. The first is a legal office – I pass by their sign every day on my way into my own shop. The second I am less sure of – some sort of importing concern, I believe. I often see men and lads go in and out, conducting business, though I confess I’ve never enquired exactly what that business was.” Mr Fenton sniffed. “They never come into my shop, not even for a roll or biscuit, so I never had the opportunity to ask.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Thank you, Mr Fenton. Continue, please, your tale.”

  “Well, Mr Holmes, myself and the two constables stood, as I said, in an alley next to the offices across the street from my shop. It was a quiet night. While it seemed work was still continuing in some of the offices quite late, as people came in and out at irregular intervals, both the bank and the milliner’s were closed, so the opposite side of the street from where we stood was quite deserted. At first, it was almost too dark to see, until the lamp light man came along. Then we watched and waited, but nothing happened. I rather feared the good officers were going to give up the hunt, and I myself grew exceedingly weary with the wait, when the most marvellous thing transpired.”