A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes Read online

“Taking her is enough. Besides,” Holmes said with a smile, “Scotland Yard relies far too much upon my assistance. It will do them good to see me fail once in a while.” As he opened the door, he paused and looked back at her. “One final question, Miss Henderson: why pomegranates?”

  For a split second, the lady looked more taken aback than she had throughout our entire interview. Then she laughed, and I began to see some dim glimmer of why Alice Braddon loved her.

  “You have heard the myth of Persephone? Hades tricked her into eating pomegranate seeds, which bound her to return to him in the underworld for a season every year. Alice and I ate a pomegranate together at the end of every term, to commemorate her sacrifice and to defy the time we were forced to be apart. She would invite me to her house, to spite her parents, I expect, but they were always too polite to refuse. We ate one together only a few days ago.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said. “I know.” He inclined his head and disappeared into the hallway, leaving me behind with her.

  “Miss Henderson,” I said, “This makes me happier than I can express.” She gave a wondering smile and pressed my hand. I believe she in some way recognized my sympathy.

  Holmes was waiting outside in the hall, tapping his cane absently on the floor. “What are you going to tell Lestrade?” I asked.

  “The same thing I’ll tell her parents,” he said. “That I could find nothing. I’m willing to go through the motions for a few more days if it will distract interest. Perhaps the trail will lead us back to London and go cold there.” This was certainly new to me – Holmes had worked outside of the law before, but I had never seen him so ready to leave not only the official force but his clients in the dark. Holmes cocked an eyebrow at me as we left the school, clearly surmising my thoughts. “They would put their daughter’s safety and happiness at peril for the chance of money,” he said. “I hardly think they’re worthy of our compassion.”

  “I did not say they were,” said I. “I am merely surprised.” We were silent as we walked back to town. Finally Holmes said:

  “I fear many things about the man I am now may surprise you.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Fear, that is.”

  He smiled then, and I saw something of his old self, despite his words; the awkward formality that had so troubled me was absent.

  We did just as he predicted. After securing Miss Braddon’s consent, we followed false leads for a week and a half until Holmes and Lestrade declared the trail cold. Some days after that I came home to Baker Street to find Holmes sprawled on the settee, his pipe between his teeth and his feet stretched out and propped on a distinctly new-looking armchair, of an identical style to mine, replacing the old one. He looked up when he saw me come in and gently moved his slippered feet to the floor.

  “Holmes…”

  “Save the sentiment for your stories, my friend. Just sit and see how you like it.”

  I liked it very well indeed; the cushions were soft, it no longer creaked, and it had the definite advantage of being free from sticky chemical concoctions. I sat for a while simply enjoying it, and then, hoping that this gift was an indication of a frank mood, I asked: “Why didn’t you tell me about Verner?”

  Holmes set down the paper he was reading. He stuffed fresh tobacco into his pipe, re-lit it, and shook the match dead. “I feared you would think me foolish.”

  “Foolish? How could you think I wouldn’t want –”

  “Sentimental, then.”

  That made me smile. “You should have known better.”

  “How so?”

  “I would never think you sentimental, Holmes. And even if I did, you ought to know I don’t count sentimentality among the negative qualities.” I paused, but he gave no indication of explaining further. “My practice would have sold eventually, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps, but who knows how long it might have taken? I could not be assured of it unless I handled it myself.”

  “And you had to be assured of it?”

  “Yes,” Holmes said, meeting my gaze steadily. “I did, Watson.” He turned back to his paper. “There would be little point in it all otherwise,” he concluded, and I marvelled at his ability to say with such calmness something so significant.

  “You still should have known better,” I said. “Even without your cousin, I would have found a way.” I could see the gratitude in his smile, no matter how off-hand he meant it to be. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly like the old days; but then again maybe that was all the better.

  There is nothing so sweet as revenge, bringing retribution upon those who have committed an unspeakable crime. Holmes is never reluctant to use all the means at his disposal in the interests of justice and right. In this tale, Holmes and Watson take to the halls of an ancient public school to carry out Holmes’s cleverly devised plan. An equally ancient ritual, used by some of the school’s old boys to rob a gay man of his life, must now be used by Holmes to exact revenge.

  Court of Honour

  by J.R. Campbell

  Mrs Nyland sat in the chair by the fireplace, hands folded in her lap as she desperately struggled to hold back tears. I stood with my arm on the mantel, willing myself to meet the poor woman’s gaze directly. My association with the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had left me remarkably well informed on the subject of delivering convincing testimony and I was determined to deliver the unpleasant news with as much sincerity as the circumstances allowed. Holmes sat in the far corner of his Baker Street lodgings, scrutinising my performance with a calculating expression on his lean features.

  “Dr Watson, are you certain?” Dark eyes set in a pale, heart-shaped face looked beseechingly up at me, seeking some relief from the harsh truths I had spoken to her. A slender, fragile woman, she seemed to me ill-prepared for the words duty compelled me to speak. Still, as Holmes had been so quick to point out, she deserved the truth.

  “Quite certain,” I said. “You mustn’t forget the secret drawer in his night stand. None of those we spoke with were aware of the locked drawer’s existence. The key was hidden within the workings of your brother’s pocket watch. It may have escaped our notice had you not informed us of his fascination with complex mechanisms. I am sorry, Mrs Nyland, but the arsenic was locked in that drawer, concealed from all save your brother. It is our opinion that your brother poisoned himself.”

  “But the doctors said it was cholera.”

  “The symptoms are similar,” I explained. “Both cause death by kidney failure. Had Holmes not discovered the depleted bottle of arsenic, cholera would have been my diagnosis as well.”

  Hiding dark eyes behind her gloved hand Mrs Nyland took a moment to compose herself. I waited, ignoring Holmes’s intense gaze, anxious for this ordeal to be over. Mrs Nyland’s brother, Adam Bellamy, had poisoned himself over the course of four days, ingesting carefully measured doses of arsenic in the hope his death would be considered natural. Bellamy’s sister, Mrs Nyland, refused to accept the explanation her brother had arranged and had asked Holmes to investigate the circumstances surrounding his demise. Holmes accepted the case and discovered, in the night stand by Bellamy’s deathbed, a hidden drawer. The secrets contained within the drawer were such that I took the unusual step of presenting Holmes’s findings to Mrs Nyland myself.

  “I knew it wasn’t cholera,” Mrs Nyland insisted as she dabbed at the tears on her face. “Adam was too protective of his health. I knew it was something else, knew something happened to him, but I never suspected this. It makes even less sense than the doctor’s suggestion. Have you any idea – any idea at all – why he would do such a thing?”

  Holmes shifted in his seat, the focus of his gaze growing even more intense. I hesitated to answer, wanting to select my words carefully. Mrs Nyland filled the quiet, her grief making my brief silence unbearable.

  “My brother was a mild-tempered man, Dr Watson, and I know as well as anyone his guarded disposition. Adam was not given to outbursts or emotional excesses. He kept to himself, never taking
a wife, content with the company of his few friends. I know there were times when he struggled. Times when I wished he could find comfort in someone, someone with whom he might share his confidences. Someone who meant as much to him as my late husband meant to me. I tried to be there for him, I thought our friendship could –”

  “You must not blame yourself, Mrs Nyland. If our investigation proved anything it was the high regard in which your brother held you. Nothing we found suggests you contributed in any way to your brother’s death.”

  “Then – why?” Her grief so raw, the sincerity of her question so heartfelt, I struggled to find the words to answer her need.

  “Mrs Nyland, did you request a post-mortem examination of your brother?”

  “What?” She shook her head. “No, it did not occur to me at the time. I doubted the doctor’s findings but I’d seen my brother’s body. It was obvious no violence had been done to him.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “It’s possible however that a closer examination would have revealed some sort of illness. As a physician, I have had to inform patients of the fatal maladies they have contracted. As you would expect, such news is a dreadful shock and different men react to the news in different ways. Many seek some way of exerting control over their situations. Rather than suffering through their afflictions they chose to end their life by their own hand. You understand they are drawn to such desperate actions for a variety of reasons. It can restore a sense of control while at the same time sparing their loved ones a long, painful and – you must forgive me for speaking so bluntly – financially draining illness. You mentioned your brother took precautions regarding his health. Sometimes such men mistakenly feel responsible for succumbing to their illness. A ridiculous notion but one which I have observed in patients. Such guilt can contribute to such decisions.”

  Mrs Nyland looked thoughtfully at the empty fireplace, considering my explanation.

  “But Adam’s doctor said nothing to me about –”

  “Nor would he,” I interrupted. “Medical men often find themselves in difficult situations of this sort. Our training is strict and unrelenting. We are forbidden from revealing matters discussed in confidence – even with the patient’s families. Among my profession it is considered a matter of honour. If your brother instructed his doctor not to discuss his illness with you, then the doctor had no choice but to keep such information secret. Oftentimes such confidentiality is contrary to the physician’s better judgement but a doctor’s first duty is always to his patients.”

  “Oh, I see.” Mrs Nyland considered my words for a long moment before nodding. “I must admit that does sound rather like my brother. He often worried about being a disappointment to me, as if such a thing were even possible. And he was always very conscientious regarding his finances.”

  “Perhaps if we were to exhume your brother’s body we might discover the exact nature of his illness,” I suggested carefully.

  A look of distaste contorted Mrs Nyland’s pleasant features. “Oh no, Dr Watson, I shouldn’t think that is necessary. My brother has suffered enough.”

  “Of course,” I answered solemnly, hoping to disguise my relief.

  Mrs Nyland took a deep breath, composing herself. It was obvious to me our appointment was at an end and it seemed I had reached the conclusion of the terrible ordeal. I felt as I imagine a tightrope walker must as he nears the end of his slow, careful journey.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Mrs Nyland said. “Your assistance has meant a great deal to me. You have lived up to your reputation Mr Holmes.”

  Sitting in his corner, Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod.

  Mrs Nyland stood, gathering her things and making ready to leave. “And Dr Watson, you’ve been so very kind to me. My gratitude seems so small a thing next to the compassion you’ve shown.”

  Escorting her to the door, I replied. “Not at all, Mrs Nyland.”

  She stopped in the doorway, turning to me. “Oh, gentlemen, I almost forgot. In my brother’s secret drawer, were there any documents? I only ask because he’d spoken to me of amending his will.”

  I stumbled, searching for but failing to find an acceptable response to her innocent question.

  Holmes rose from his seat and approached Mrs Nyland as she stood in the doorway. “What exactly did your brother say?”

  “Well, he mentioned that he had visited our estate in Brighton with a friend who was much taken with the place. He asked if I would be offended if he altered his will to allow his friend – I did not catch the man’s name – the estate’s guest house.”

  “And what was your answer?” Holmes asked.

  “Of course I didn’t mind. My late husband left me well cared for financially and any friend of Adam’s is naturally a friend of mine. I bring it up now because I visited Adam’s solicitor yesterday and he made no mention of any such bequest. I had been looking forward to meeting one of Adam’s friends but, well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Nevertheless I shall make enquiries,” Holmes assured the

  widow.

  “You’ve already done so much,” Mrs Nyland protested.

  “It is nothing, “ Holmes assured her. “I shall contact you with my findings.”

  “Thank you ever so much, Mr Holmes.” She turned to me. “And you as well, Dr Watson.”

  And then she was gone. As the door closed I walked over to the chair by the fireplace, collapsed into it and filled my pipe with rough-cut tobacco Holmes stood by the door, waiting until he had heard Mrs Nyland descend each of the seventeen steps and exit to the street before risking speech.

  “Well, Watson,” Holmes said. “A masterful performance! I feel I should report your new-found abilities to my brother Mycroft. The Empire’s diplomatic corps has need of men with such skills!”

  “Holmes,” I said wearily, forlornly hoping to divert his inevitable reaction.

  “Truly, Watson, I stand in awe. You spoke not a single lie and yet managed to conceal the truth of her brother’s death completely! When you suggested she might disinter her brother’s body I was positively breathless! Such a gambit! And it worked exactly as you hoped, ensuring she would make no further enquiry into the state of her brother’s health. How can she? To do so she must chose between forcing a physician to break his solemn oath or dragging her brother’s corpse back into the light of day. Well played, Watson, you’ve an unexpected flair for deception!”

  I lit my pipe as Holmes took his customary place in the chair next to mine. His elbows rested on his thighs as he leaned forward to better observe my reactions. “There was one moment, when Mrs Nyland asked about her brother’s will, when you faltered. Oh, I doubt she noticed anything but I saw the lie rise to your lips – and your unwillingness to utter it. Still, you prevailed. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  “But?”

  “As impressive as your performance was, I fail to perceive its purpose. Surely it would have been simpler to tell Mrs Nyland the truth – the full truth – concerning her brother’s death. I would not have thought such casual deception in your nature.”

  “Casual?” I asked.

  “All men lie,” Holmes said as he reached for his pipe. “Deception is part of our nature. Some lie out of habit, others out of compulsion. Honest men lie only under duress, when deception seems the lesser evil. Others lie when the truth might lead to some unpleasantness or inconvenience. Now I know you are not a habitual liar, nor do I perceive any duress which might result in your extraordinary performance for Mrs Nyland. Unless – perhaps you feel compelled to protect Dr Jenkins and the others?”

  “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

  Holmes lit his pipe. “I know you have no affiliation with the school in question. Still, I suppose you may harbour a misguided impulse to protect the reputation of the institution.“

  “No,” I answered.

  Holmes leaned back and spread his arms. “Where does this leave us? You’ve concealed the truth
from Mrs Nyland to avoid – what? – Embarrassment? Scandal? Unpleasantness?”

  “Has it occurred to you that Bellamy endured an agonizing death to prevent his sister from learning his secret?”

  “Of course it has,” Holmes answered easily. “You know my feelings on the subject. The dead are entitled to their secrets only until they interfere with those still living. Had Bellamy wished his secrets protected he should have remained alive to guard them himself.”

  I shook my head, though in truth I had expected this answer. “Even so,” I argued, “I find I cannot so quickly dismiss such determination from my thoughts. His death was horrible. Remember how neatly the arsenic bottle was returned to its hiding place? How carefully it was stoppered? The drawer locked and the key returned to its ingenious hiding place. I admit I was struck by the resolve he evidenced. Everyone we spoke to insisted he was a good man. Bellamy will be missed by many.”

  “What of it?” Holmes asked, a trace of exasperation in his voice. “It is not a detective’s function to pass judgement on the dead. Whether he was a good man or otherwise makes no difference to my investigation.”

  “Are you not concerned that revealing the circumstances leading to Bellamy’s death could create a scandal capable of overshadowing the good he accomplished in life?” I asked.

  “Not in the least,” Holmes said. “I have no intention of revealing the results of my investigation to newspapers or gossips, only to my client. In any event, I have no fear of scandal. Such concerns plague men of other occupations, not mine.”

  “Fair enough,” I conceded.

  “Come now, Watson,” Holmes said sharply. “You seem to have developed a fondness for this particular brand of deception. While I do not doubt your concern for Bellamy’s reputation is genuine, it is not your primary motive. Why this elaborate charade? Why paper over a large falsehood with so many little truths?”