A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Then we must make all haste to get to the Diogenes Club.” Without waiting for a response from either the Scotland Yard man or Sir Miles, Holmes suddenly turned and headed for the door. Lestrade rose with a sigh and we had to hurry to keep up with my friend, who seemed, as he often did when on a case, suddenly possessed of a strange energy.

  The atmosphere at the Diogenes was funereal as Mays, the club porter, led us up the stairs to the murder room. As soon as I entered, I felt my blood freeze in my veins. The room was elegantly attired, complete with a canopied bed, several comfortable looking chairs, and a rather large writing desk. It was next to this that the body lay. He had been a young man and would probably have been considered good-looking, if a little effeminate. His features were soft and his frame thin. The lad was indeed unclothed and was lying on his stomach, his youthful face turned toward us. The damage done by the poker was extensive and the gore contrasted sharply with the boy’s delicate features.

  Holmes wasted no time. Pulling out his glass, he crouched over the body, being careful to avoid the blood soaking the carpeting. After a moment, he glanced up at Mays, who was hovering near the doorway. “You were the one who found the body, Mays?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I take it that the secretary, Mr Owen, often had used you to check on this room and prepare it for its next use?”

  The porter looked down at his feet. “Mr Owen knows that he can count on my discretion.”

  “Quite,” Holmes replied, turning his attention back to the body. I was standing several paces back, but I could see the young man’s hand was stretched out and was clutching the leg of the desk. By his hand, in the bloody mess, were several coins and what looked to be a match-book. This Holmes examined carefully. Finally he straightened and turned to us.

  “I can tell you little,” he said grimly, “other than the obvious fact that this young man was French and that he has been in this country but a short time. He was also a very determined young man who sought to better himself.”

  Sir Miles’ mouth fell open. “How in blazes do you come to those conclusions, sir?” he asked.

  Lestrade allowed himself a smirk. “I think I can answer that, Sir Miles. The match-book is from the Hotel Montmartre in Paris, where the young man has obviously stayed in the past, and…”

  Holmes interrupted. “On the contrary, Lestrade. The young man has in all likelihood never been to the Hotel Montmartre, and certainly didn’t leave the match-book here. The match-book was placed by the body at least a half-hour after the murder took place. The coins, however, were certainly on the floor before the murder took place. In fact, I would venture that the coins were tossed down and that the young man bent over to retrieve them. That’s when he was struck with the poker.”

  “How do you know,” Sir Miles asked, “that the match-book was placed there after the fact?”

  “The blood had already partially dried before the match-book was placed there,” Holmes replied. “The tops of the coins themselves are spattered with blood, showing they were already on the floor when the murder occurred.”

  I bent closer, trying to keep my eyes on the coins and ignoring the corpse itself. “It appears that he was attempting to pick up one of the coins,” I pointed out. “He’s reached out his hand, but instead of grabbing one of the coins, he instead grabbed hold of the leg of the desk. See here, Holmes, where one of the coins has obviously been disturbed? There’s a slight smear in the blood on the carpet where he’s shifted the coin. Most of the coins are pence, but the one shifted is a pound coin. The young man may have been leaving us a clue!”

  Holmes nodded. “He indeed attempted to leave a clue to his murderer. I must speak with the club secretary. Mays, could you bring Mr Owen to us?”

  The secretary, Marshall Owen, was a small, nervous man. During his interrogation he continually pulled out his handkerchief to mop his brow. “A terrible business, this,” he said, looking from Holmes to Lestrade. He seemed uncertain as to whom he should be speaking.

  “To get to the heart of the matter,” Holmes said, “we must quickly dispense with some unpleasantness. We must make no pretences that this young man was here for any reason other than to satisfy some desires of certain members of the club, and that you, Owen, supplied both the room and the services to the members.”

  Owen’s face, already pale, grew even paler. “If this should get out to the newspapers…”

  Lestrade spoke up. “I can’t make any promises, mind you, but there are aspects of this case that the Yard wouldn’t necessarily want brought to the public attention.”

  This seemed to calm the secretary somewhat, although he still glanced uneasily at the corpse on the floor before us. “Must we talk with that still in the room?”

  Holmes seemed surprised that the body was still there. Knowing the great man as I did, I knew that he saw the body as a mere puzzle. After examining the naked young man, he’d forgotten the corpse was still present. “Certainly it can be covered if you so wish.”

  Lestrade went to the hall and summoned some men, who worked on removing the body while Holmes continued, his eyes boring into those of the club secretary. “Owen, I understand that my brother, Mycroft, was the last person in the company of this young man.”

  Owen made a conscious effort to steady his nerves. “That is true, Mr Holmes. Mr Mycroft was in the room from midnight to approximately one o’clock with Pierre.”

  “Pierre?”

  “That is the only name I knew him by. The young gentlemen I use are supplied by a contact I have in Whitechapel. Rarely do I know more than their first names.”

  “Who else used the services of Pierre tonight?”

  Owen hesitated, but after a stern look from Lestrade he went on. “Two others had the room before Mr Mycroft Holmes. The first was Lord Bettinger.”

  “What?” Sir Miles exclaimed. “Surely you jest!”

  “The second,” the secretary continued, ignoring the outburst, “was Mr Wallace Pound.”

  I immediately thought of the coin that had been shifted in the blood. Holmes had agreed that the unfortunate Pierre had made an effort to identify his killer. Surely it was no coincidence that one of the gentlemen was named Pound and that had been the denomination of the coin in question? I tried to speak, but Holmes quieted me with a look. He paced the carpet in front of Owen and asked, “Can you tell me how these trysts are arranged?”

  Owen cleared his throat. “The member usually makes his desires known to me by giving a note to Mays. Last night, having arranged for Pierre to be present, I informed the members interested in his services…”

  “Informed how?”

  “Again, by a discreet note sent by Mays. I arranged that each member should have an hour with Pierre. After each session, Mays would come in and tidy the room in preparation for the next gentleman.”

  Holmes turned to Mays, who stayed by the doorway as if ready to bolt at any moment. “Is this how it worked, Mays?”

  The man bit his lip and said in a soft voice, “Everything Mr Owen said is true, Mr Holmes.”

  “And Lord Bettinger was the first to partake of the young Pierre’s charms?”

  I winced at the words Holmes used, but Mays merely nodded. “After his hour was up, I had a half-hour to get everything ready for Mr Pound.”

  “Did you speak to Pierre at all?”

  Mays took in a deep breath. “The young man wasn’t of a pleasant disposition, sir. I tried to make polite conversation, but I must confess I felt snubbed by the young man. He acted like he was too good to speak to a mere porter, and here he was nothing more than a common tart!” The porter’s cheeks flamed crimson. “Pierre was a most unpleasant young man,” he repeated.

  “And you returned after Mr Pound had his hour?”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes. Of course, this time I didn’t even try to converse with the young man. I just went about my duties and left without a word.”

  “Where was Pierre when you came into the room?”

  �
��He was in the bed, sir, same as when I came in after Lord Bettinger.”

  “And you were here for the entire half-hour?”

  Mays shook his head. “Oh, no, sir. It took only a few minutes to tidy things up. I didn’t want to spend any more time in the room than necessary.”

  “And you brought Mycroft in when it was time?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I went to fetch Mr Mycroft at the appointed time. Mr Mycroft was in the common room and I started to lead him upstairs when Mr Mycroft told me, in no uncertain terms, that he knew the way and could walk up stairs by himself.”

  A thin smile found its way across Holmes’s features. “And after Mycroft’s hour was up?”

  “I came up and found the body,” said he, nodding over to the desk area. “Mr Mycroft was nowhere to be found.”

  Holmes’s eyes sharpened. “So no one actually saw Mycroft with the young man?”

  The porter shook his head miserably. Sir Miles, however, seemed much agitated and burst out, “Surely Mycroft knows something of the murder, though, or why should he have fled? I hate to say it, Mr Holmes, but Mycroft’s absence does make him look guilty.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Oh, no. Our young Pierre was dead when Mycroft came into the room. The man was killed after Mays left the second time. The bloody coins tell the whole story.”

  I could contain myself no longer. “You must send for Mr Wallace Pound and question him, Holmes!”

  A look of amusement crossed my friend’s face. “And why is that, Watson?”

  I stammered, “Surely that’s what Pierre was trying to tell us. He shifted the pound coin, indicating that Wallace Pound was his killer. After Mays left, Pound must have come back and bludgeoned him to death.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Pierre did leave a clue to his killer, but it had nothing to do with the coins. I’m afraid the shifting of the pound coin was only incidental, happening as the young man went to grab hold of the leg of the desk. No, my friend, the murderer did indeed come back to the room following Mays’ departure. An argument followed, and the murderer tossed the coins onto the floor as ‘payment.’ When Pierre bent over to retrieve the coins, the murderer grabbed the poker and smashed in the young man’s skull.”

  “And you’re saying that it wasn’t Pound?” I asked, somewhat disappointed.

  “Of course not. Pierre’s dying clue was grabbing hold of the leg of the desk. You must remember, my friend, that the young man was French.” Holmes ceased his pacing and looked sternly at Owen. “The French word for desk is secretaire. That is also their word for secretary.”

  Owen gasped and collapsed to the floor, sobbing and moaning loudly. Lestrade and I managed to raise the man up. Depositing him into one of the chairs, we allowed the nervous man a few minutes to compose himself.

  When he had collected himself, he spoke slowly, looking down into his folded hands. “What Mr Holmes says is true. I came back to the room knowing that Mr Mycroft would be in shortly. My intention was to pay Pierre for his night’s work, but we got into an argument. Pierre wanted more money and if I didn’t give in, he’d let my wife know that he and I have…well, occasionally I myself partook of the young men’s services. I have children, Mr Holmes, and a good wife. I couldn’t let that…that creature ruin my life. I tossed his payment onto the floor and killed him, just as you deduced. I…I didn’t mean to harm him. I lost my temper, you see, and…”

  The man once again broke down into tears. Lestrade called in two men who escorted the still sobbing secretary from the room. Lestrade and Sir Miles started to follow, but paused at the door.

  “So Mycroft had nothing to do with the murder?” Sir Miles asked.

  “Nothing,” said Holmes, “save that he was the first to discover the body. His only crime was to panic and flee.”

  Sir Miles nodded. “We need your brother in the Foreign Office, Mr Holmes. Is there any way that you…?”

  “I think I can assure you that within a few days Mycroft will be back at work, provided his role in this affair is not made public.”

  Sir Miles looked imploringly at Lestrade, who shrugged. “I don’t see any reason Mycroft’s involvement need be mentioned again.” The Scotland Yard man raised an eyebrow. “What of the match-book, Mr Holmes? You said it was dropped into the blood some time after the murder had taken place. Are you saying that Mycroft…?”

  “You must leave Mycroft, and the match-book, to me,” said Holmes.

  Several days later Holmes and I arrived at the Hotel Montmartre in Paris. During the trip I’d tried several times to question Holmes as to the purpose of our journey, but he waved aside my queries. We arrived at the hotel at lunchtime, and I expected Holmes to head to the restaurant. Instead he strode purposefully up to the front desk and spoke to the clerk.

  “What room,” he asked, “is Mr Oscar Wilde occupying?”

  “He’s in 217, sir,” the clerk informed us.

  As we mounted the stairs, I could not help but ask Holmes what Mr Wilde had to do with the affair. “I’m in the dark, Holmes. None of this makes sense.”

  “All will be plain in just a few minutes, Watson. I fear, however, this will not be a case you will want to record in your notebook.” Finding the room, Holmes knocked softly upon the door.

  It was Mycroft who opened the door. He nodded at us, and I could see that the man had not slept well for several days. As we settled in the sitting room, Mycroft sat with a huge sigh and looked at his brother. “I expected you well over twenty minutes ago.”

  “Our carriage was delayed by a lorry that had broken down a few blocks from here,” Holmes said. “Where is Mr Wilde?”

  Mycroft chuckled softly, but without mirth. “He’s still in his bedchamber. The man likes to stay up until the wee hours of the morning. The match-book brought you here, of course.”

  “Of course. I was surprised you bothered to leave me such an obvious clue.”

  “I nearly left nothing,” Mycroft said. “My first inclination was to merely flee the country and never return. The murder, the enquiries… I couldn’t face it. Most of all, I couldn’t face you, my brother. I knew, however, that I could not give up my little life in London. I surmised that you would find a way to solve the case and leave my name out of the newspaper accounts. All I had to do was be absent until you unmasked the killer. If I had been there, of course, Scotland Yard would have suspected me or at the very least questioned me relentlessly. I couldn’t have that. The murderer was, of course, Owen.”

  Holmes nodded. “The foolish man still had soot from the poker upon his hands. The rather unusual aspects of the case made Lestrade even less attentive to details than he normally is.”

  “And now,” Mycroft said slowly, “comes the conversation I’ve avoided for far too many years.”

  “No words need be said, Mycroft.”

  “I’m afraid they do, Sherlock. What happened lo those many years ago has had an effect on our lives, whether we choose to admit it or not. Certainly your dislike of women and the warmer emotions can be traced to what happened between us.”

  “And your self-imposed exile, keeping yourself to your rooms, your office in Whitehall, and the Diogenes Club.”

  “Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

  Holmes looked more miserable than I’d ever seen him. “We don’t need to speak of such things. What is in the past is dead.”

  “If only it were,” Mycroft replied. “My homosexuality…”

  I’m afraid that here I let out a tiny gasp, unused to hearing the word spoken in polite conversation. Mycroft shot me an understanding look before continuing.

  “My homosexuality is something you’d like to ignore, I’m sure, Sherlock. God knows that I’ve often wished I could. My dalliances at the Diogenes, I hoped, would be a secret that would never come to your ears. But this murder has aroused old ghosts.”

  I glanced over at Holmes and was shocked to see a tear running down his cheek. “Please,” said he, “let’s not talk about it.”

  “We have to, S
herlock. I was eight years older. I should have known better. It was wrong…”

  “I forgive you,” Holmes said, speaking barely above a whisper. “I’ve always forgiven you.”

  Mycroft’s eyes filled with tears as well. “And I apologize to you, my brother.”

  I sat, feeling most uncomfortable, with no idea what to say or if I should even speak. I wanted to ask questions, naturally, to get more details over what had occurred between the two brothers in their youth, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answers. The three of us sat in that hotel sitting room for several more minutes in silence. Finally Holmes rose slowly to his feet and walked over and placed a comforting hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

  “It’s time,” said he, “to go back home.”

  Another character made famous in the Holmes works is the venerable Inspector Lestrade. Though appearing in only thirteen of Doyle’s stories, Lestrade is ever in the imagination when fans think of Holmes and Watson. In fact, Lestrade has become famous on his own, having a series of novels penned about him, as well as appearing in a number of films. Especially in film portrayals, Lestrade is seen as a bumbler and a not very intelligent one. Doyle, however, painted Lestrade as quite smart, quick, but a bit vain. This story reveals a side of Lestrade that he kept hidden even from Doyle. In it, Lestrade takes on an investigation on his own, something not often seen (though there is a series of novels with Lestrade as the protagonist). On this case, Holmes is just a shadow floating through Lestrade’s thoughts.

  The Case of the Wounded Heart

  by Rajan Khanna

  Inspector Lestrade turned over to the night stand and began to roll a cigarette. Beside him, Constable Briers groaned and spun onto his stomach. His broad back, the skin pale and freckled, glistened with a light sheen of sweat, the soft downy hair silken in the dim light.