A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes (35 page)

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 point 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 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.

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.

“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.

“I have come here to request your assistance, Mr Holmes,” our guest replied, “and I will follow your advice.”

My anger must have shown on my face then as I started to stand because Holmes motioned me back into my chair with a wave of his hand and an amused look. I retook my seat and made every appearance of being ready to listen to Mr Croft’s story.

“Come then, take heart, Mr Croft, said Holmes. “I am not the law and I am far from delivering clients to the mercy of the courts. Nor am I in the business of exposing secrets out of malice. Watson is my fried and can likewise be trusted. Please believe that I have your best interests at heart. The ring on your hand is not a wedding band, but it had a match you say. The phrase around the band in French “
Gardi L-
” is just visible. I assume that the full text is “
Gardi Li Mo
” and that its brother reads “
A Vila Mon Coeur
,” which is the usual initiation of that phrase. Your mourning is too acute to be for someone who was not your very dearest companion. I would advise you to be as honest with me as possible and trust that I will not land you in gaol since truthfulness is your best chance at success.”

Frederick Croft smiled wryly. “I have spent the better part of my life hiding what you have guessed in under a minute, Mr Holmes. I suppose that means I was right to come to you. I am reassured.” He sighed and for the first time a glint of life came into his eyes as he began to speak. “His name was Captain Elliot Clay. We were in the service together since our youth. We took all our posts together and vowed to stay together always. It was in Australia that he acquired the opals for the rings and had them made. Soon after, we were parted when he took up a dangerous but highly compensated position.

“The manner in which he distinguished himself and the honour he earned with his actions is a matter of public record. He was the pride of his town. I felt differently, as you may well imagine. I scarcely spoke to him for five years, I felt so betrayed, but when I heard that he had been injured and forced to retire from service I came to see him. I found him to be quite unchanged in his feelings and faithful to me even when I was most spitefully injurious to him. How happy he was to see the ring still on my hand! I recanted, resigned my position and devoted the remainder of my life to caring for him. Elliot was the best and most loyal man I have ever known. He forgave my long silence instantly.

“We were inseparable from that time on. He had gained a fortune in his travels and was able to lease a home near the sea at Rye where we made our residence.

“He suffered from a war injury which kept him from much activity but we had friends in town who visited often and his brother, Walter Clay, had been our guest for the better part of the year. I had thought him happy, but it seems that secretly he was in despair. It is true that he came back from the war a changed man. He rarely spoke of the horrors he had seen, even to me. I knew it was not out of mistrust but out of love that he did so. He wished to spare me from his memories. There were nights upon which I was forced to shake him in order to rouse him from nightmares but such nights had become less frequent as the months passed. It seemed clear to me that he would recover spiritually if not physically.