Mr Fenton hurriedly crossed and uncrossed his legs, shuffling momentarily in his seat. “I rather want to get the details correct, Mr Holmes. While we stood there, waiting for the mysterious vandal to materialize, there suddenly appeared, in the skies above my shop, a strange glowing object.” Holmes and I both stiffened with attentiveness. “It materialized in the sky over the shop. At first I could hardly see it through the wet of the eve, but then it grew brighter, blazing in the sky. I was never so astounded. I confess to you that fear had me solidly in its grip, as there was something about the light that seemed so ethereal, so other worldly; yet I was too scared to run. I knew immediately I was not imagining it, because both constables reacted exactly as I. And others too – a lad coming out of the office saw it, and was the first to speak, pointing at the object in the sky. We emerged from our space in the shadows and watched in awe and terror as the object glowed ever brighter. Suddenly we heard a noise – a terrible rumbling sound. The sounds drew more people out – neighbours of mine – until there was a goodly crowd watching the strange, mysterious object. Then the sound crescendoed, and the light grew its brightest – only to just as quickly die out. The group of us stood there, agreeing not at all about what we had seen, but sure that we had seen something.”
Holmes considered the stout man’s story. “What colour did the object appear to be, Mr Fenton?”
The baker mulled over Holmes’s query. “I’d have to say it glowed green, Mr Holmes. Is that somehow pertinent, do you believe?”
Holmes shrugged. “It may be so, Mr Fenton.” He paused. “I take it there have been further sightings of this – flying object?”
Mr Fenton nodded. “Yes, Mr Holmes. It has come two times since. Once I heard of it from neighbours, and once I was there myself to witness it. It always comes on rainy, foggy nights, when the atmosphere is at its worst. It has now been seen by at least one hundred different people, all who will swear to have seen something, though none can say what.”
“An unidentified flying object?” Holmes said. “Bizarre, eh, Watson? Another unusual case for your annals, perhaps?” Before I could reply, Holmes turned his attention back to Mr Fenton. “Now – and this is key, sir – what time, would you say, does the object appear in the sky? Does it come, for example, at the same time every night?”
Mr Fenton considered the question. “As you know, Mr Holmes, a baker’s business begins quite early, and I am often in my shop before three o’clock in the morning. I am acutely aware that the object has appeared before that time – say, between one and two each night. Of course, I cannot speak for the evening I was not present, but from what my neighbours have told me, it seems consistent.”
Holmes mulled this information over. “And as to your window, sir –”
“It has remained unmolested ever since the – thing – has started to appear in the sky.”
“But you feel, somehow, the incidents are connected,” Holmes said.
“I do not see how, Mr Holmes, but if it is a coincidence, then surely it is a remarkable one.”
“I agree, Mr Fenton. A remarkable coincidence indeed.”
Mr Fenton looked solemnly at his hands. “I’m afraid I am not a rich man, Mr Holmes, and cannot afford to pay –”
“Tut, tut,” Holmes replied briskly. “Your case intrigues me, sir! It presents some unusual features indeed. As Watson here will tell you, I can never resist a challenge, so I think my usual fee can be waived in this case, and I am sure any expenses will be minimal.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes!” our client said, a wave of relief passing over his face. “I tell you I have not had a peaceful night’s sleep since I first saw that strange object in the sky. My son has suggested that I open the shop to take advantage of the crowds – sell moon rolls, or some such nonsense, to the crowds the thing attracts.”
Holmes gave a small, barking laugh. “That is not such a poor idea, Mr Fenton. Your son seems to have an instinct for commerce.”
Our client’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps, Mr Holmes. But I am not afraid to admit that I do not like this business at all. There is something sinister behind this. I feel it quite surely.”
Holmes eyed the client appraisingly. “Indeed, Mr Fenton, I am inclined to agree. Nonetheless,” he added, rising, “I am hopeful that in a few days’ time we may have the entire incident cleared up for you.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes!” our client added, rising and shaking Holmes’s and my hands before leaving the room and trudging back down to the wet street below.
Holmes turned to me with a wide, smirking grin. “An unidentified flying object, Watson!” he said. “Rather something out of the work of Mr Verne, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed, Holmes,” I added. “This fantastical tale seems almost an advertisement for his latest novel.”
Holmes chuckled. “Flying objects are not quite alien invaders!” he laughed. “No, I think we have something more here than an advertisement for an ‘out of this world’ yarn. I believe this morning’s first visitor shows a more sinister motive at play.”
Holmes spoke this last line more to himself than to me, but, my curiosity piqued, I hurriedly spoke up. “Holmes, about that,” I said. “I find myself most curious about the connection between a simple baker and his Lordship –”
“Never mind that for now,” Holmes said, his countenance suddenly turning quite dark.
Something in the tenor of his voice convinced me to change the subject. “Well, then, Holmes, how shall we proceed?”
Holmes brightened at the prospect of the case. “Well, perhaps it is best to consult the almanac – or in this case, the Times. I am rather curious if the meteorological forecast calls for rain tonight.”
I consulted the discarded paper on the table before me. “Indeed, Holmes, it calls for downpour all day and night.”
“Splendid!” the great detective said. “Best to get out your rain gear, Watson. Since our mysterious glowing object appears only on rainy nights, let us take advantage of the opportunity this ill climate affords us and see this unidentified flying object for ourselves!” I opened my mouth to speak more of the case, but Holmes waved a hand at me. “Until then, Watson, I beg of you, peace and quiet. I have more experiments to run, and do not wish to be disturbed.” And without another word Holmes returned to his table, leaving me alone to contemplate the mysteries of space and wonder just what was appearing in the night sky over London.
We left Baker Street before sundown, taking a hansom to Cleveland Street. The bakery was located at 20 Cleveland Street, on a quiet end of an otherwise busy road. “Why are we arriving so early, Holmes?” I queried rather crossly. “Mr Fenton said that the object did not appear until nigh on one o’clock. That is –” I consulted my pocket watch “– nearly eight hours from now.”
“Indeed, Watson, our wait promises to be a long one,” Holmes replied. “Nonetheless, it may prove instructive.” Holmes crossed the street from the bakery. “Here,” he said, indicating an alleyway next to the solicitor’s office. “This appears to be where Mr Fenton made his first reconnoitre; let us do the same. This ledge –” Holmes pointed up “– will no doubt provide some protection from the elements.”
I surveyed the scene before my eyes. The entire area was strewn with small, free-standing buildings. There were mostly smaller shops on the opposite side, save for the bank, while larger, early-century domiciles dominated the side of the street we found ourselves on. Beyond Mr Fenton’s bakery I saw the milliner’s, then a fishmonger and butcher beside. Both those shops and the bakery seemed to be doing a fair amount of late afternoon trade, but Mr Fenton had been right; I did not count one customer going in to the hat shop.
Holmes and I found ourselves between the solicitor’s office and what Mr Fenton had described as an import-export business. The first was marked by a brass plaque, but the second had no identifying features. Still, the small but steady influx of custom seemed to indicate some kind of business transpired inside. The street itself w
as charmingly devised; large plots and deep alleyways ended at a tree-lined street dotted with ornate lamps designed to look rather like trees themselves, with several large, symmetrical flourishes extending from near the top of each. All in all, it was a picturesque scene, hardly the place one would expect such mysterious events to occur.
We watched patiently as men and women hustled about the street, completing their business and hurrying home with various parcels. After an hour the custom had dwindled down to a mere trickle; I watched as two men pushed a large, tarp-covered ox-cart into the alley next to the bakery, presumably bringing supplies for the following day. Three young lads, ruffians by the look of them, milled around the outside of the butcher’s, perhaps up to mischief. I watched them keenly, but after thirty minutes’ loitering they started walking further down the street. Finally, as dusk grew thick, the lamp lighter came, lighting each of the street lamps in their turn as he walked slowly down one side of the street, then the other. I noticed that each lamp’s ornamentation came in handy as he grasped it to hoist himself up as he lit the light inside.
I was amazed at how designers of such objects always had the insight to make beautiful that which was, in reality, wholly functional. Of course, such an observation could hardly lessen the sense of ennui that threatened to overtake me. We had hours to wait before the green glowing object was scheduled to make its appearance, and the rain, which had slackened off mid-afternoon, now returned in force. Besides, I was not sure how keeping an eye on the street would enable us to solve the mystery of what was going on in the sky. “I say, Holmes,” an idea jumping into my mind, “perhaps we should go to Simpson’s, get ourselves a good hot meal. We’ve hours to go just waiting here.”
Holmes shot me a pained expression. “I’m quite sorry, Watson,” he said. “I often forget that, to me, missing a meal means much less than to a man like you. Nevertheless, it is important that we continue our observations. However,” he added, eyeing me keenly, “there is something you could do. It may be useful to interview each of the shopkeepers whose establishments run near to our client’s. They may be able to add something to the narrative.” Holmes gave me a jovial grin. “Perhaps, my good man, you would be so kind as to interview each of them for me? I’d go myself, but one of us must keep watch here.” I had no need of a second invitation, and hastily made my way across the street.
Having already spoken at length with Mr Fenton, I went in first to the milliner’s. The shop had clearly seen better days; five years ago it must have been quite fashionable, but now it had a slightly run-down, shabby look. The proprietress, Mrs Frobrisher, a thin, pinch-lipped woman, looked eagerly at me as I entered through the heavy door. “Good day, sir!” she chirped, walking towards me. “A good day to you indeed! And what may I do for you, sir? Something for your wife, perhaps?”
“Actually, I am a bachelor,” I replied without thought.
“Oh, indeed, sir,” Mrs Frobrisher said, not losing a beat in her well-rehearsed sales pitch. “Perhaps this is for a sister, or – a special friend?”
“Actually, no,” I said firmly. “I’m here on another matter – the glowing green light.”
The sudden turn in Mrs Frobrisher’s countenance was evident; her face darkened, and she eyed me suspiciously. “Not another reporter, are you?” she asked cautiously.
“No,” I replied. “I am with my friend, Mr Holmes –” I thought perhaps at the mention of my friend’s name the lady would become more cooperative, but she gave no indication she recognized it “– we are investigating the matter for your neighbour, Mr Fenton.”
“Oh, him,” Mrs Frobrisher sniffed, turning her back to me and walking further into her shop. I followed her at close quarters, eager to get her reaction to our client. “You do not find him agreeable?” I asked cautiously, hoping to elicit a telling response.
“Agreeable enough, I suppose,” she replied. “Always on the bustle, always grousing about this or that. Course, with the shattered windows, I can understand the complaint, mind you. I would hardly like to have to replace one window here myself, the way things have been lately.”
“I take it you have been spared the vandalism your neighbour has suffered?”
“Right enough. So far as I know, it is only the bakery that has had problems at all. But this green light sir – that we’ve all suffered from, that we have!”
“You surprise me, madam,” I said. “I would have thought such an irregularity would bring many curious onlookers, perhaps some even in to your shop.”
“Oh yes, many curious onlookers indeed!” the good lady fumed. “Yet that is all they ever do – look. All this extra attention has not done me any good. I ask you, sir, how am I to compete with the shops on High Street and the fancy wares they sell? It is difficult enough for a lady to make her way in the world.”
I nodded in sympathy. “I understand that you recently had to take in a boarder.”
Mrs Frobrisher furrowed her brow at me. “You mean Mr Templeton? Oh, he’s a right enough fellow, always paid up on time and willing to help out a widow woman when asked.” The shopkeeper lowered her voice, as if taking me into her confidence. “New to town, or so he said. Came in from Woking. He never seems to go out, so I daresay he truly doesn’t know anybody. Handsome fellow, too, I don’t mind saying.” I smiled at Mrs Frobrisher’s description of her boarder. I wondered if the good fellow had any notion of the affections his landlady held for him.
“Still, you must know something about the strange light – seen something, perhaps, or heard something unusual?”
Mrs Frobrisher shook her head. “I have already explained it all to the constable, sir. I have only seen and heard what everyone else has. And right loud it is, too – sometimes it seems to shake the very house with its thunder!” The woman shook her head. “Still, sir, I could not say what it is at all.”
There seemed nothing left to ask, so I bade Mrs Frobrisher “Good day” and went on to the fishmonger. The owner of that shop, Mr Pearson, had little to add to Mr Fenton’s and Mrs Frobrisher’s accounts. The butcher shop, sadly, was closed; I found this a bit unusual, as it seemed before its time, though I certainly was unsure what the custom in the locale normally was.
I had saved the bank for last, and asked to speak to the branch manager. This time, when I mentioned the name of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, it earned a response I felt sure would have pleased him immensely. “Mr Holmes, sir?” the bank manager said. “The detective? Of course I have heard about the flying object, as the newspapers are calling it – though I have not seen it myself. Does Mr Holmes suspect something criminal is afoot?”
“I am unsure what he suspects,” I honestly replied.
“Well, if the bank is in danger from some menace, I hope Mr Holmes will tell me,” he said. “Though I feel safer knowing that he is looking into the matter.”
Once I had concluded my interviews I hurried back across the street, eager to report to Holmes. I had learned some time ago not to spare him any detail, lest I leave out something he would deem important. As I suspected, Holmes professed to be flattered by the bank manager’s recognition of his name, though he seemed less amused than I at Mrs Frobrisher’s demonstrative interest in her tenant. “Very curious, Watson, don’t you agree?”
I hardly saw what in my endeavours had roused Holmes’s curiosity, but I knew better than to ask. Instead, I queried, “What next, Holmes?”
“Now,” Holmes said gravely, looking me square in the eye, “we wait.”
I feared our wait would be long, though since we had no need to stay silent to flush out our quarry, I was at least able to stretch my legs from time to time by taking a quick walk up and down the alley. Holmes stayed still the entire time, his cat-like eyes intent on the bakery across the street, though there seemed no need for his vigilance, as it turned out that we were not alone in our evening’s endeavours. Indeed, soon a small crowd had gathered, filled with curious onlookers, newspapermen, and even several police officials, all eager to ca
tch a glimpse of the glowing green object lighting up the sky.
Despite the dismal conditions, or perhaps because of them, I had begun to despair that anything would occur, and my eyelids began to feel quite heavy, when I heard a voice shout, “There it is!” A collective gasp arose from the crowd as we all shifted our gaze skywards. There, indeed, high above the bakery, was a green light, glowing dimly at first, but then more strongly, blazing through the murky conditions quite clearly, as clear as the street lamps below. At the same time, too, I heard a thunderous sound, rumbling softly at first before building. It is difficult to describe how such an other worldly sight affected me; I stared at the object in awe, but also in dread. Whatever could it be? The more I looked, the less certain I was, but I found, despite my mounting fear, that I could not look away.
The green glow must have lasted nearly a minute before it finally diffused, dimming again before the night sky once more became dark and grey. The people gathered to watch the event paused, waiting to see if something more would occur, before they finally began milling back to their homes. All save the officers who, after a hushed conference, started knocking on the doors of the businesses and residences of the street. Seeing this, I moved closer to Holmes. “But what could they possibly be doing?” I asked him, indicating an officer with a nod of my head.
“They are interrogating the inhabitants of the area about the green light,” Holmes whispered, “to see if anyone has knowledge of the incident.”
A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes Page 26
