A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes (33 page)

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 great 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.”

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.”

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.”

“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 was 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.