A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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.”

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 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.

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.

The day at Scotland Yard had brought the typical mix of petty crimes. Three burglaries, an assault, and a confidence scam from the usual thugs and grifters. It made one appreciate the exotic life of a consulting detective.

Lestrade had organized his men, rounded up and questioned witnesses, then suspects, and made headway in three of the five cases.

At the end of the day, wearied by the worst of humanity, he’d slogged home through the rainy and foggy London streets.

Later, as Lestrade had warmed himself by the fire, Constable Briers slipped in the door and methodically removed his greatcoat, then his jacket and waistcoat, hanging them on the brass coat stand. Then he’d mounted the stairs to Lestrade’s bedroom.

Lestrade, giving one last poke to the dwindling fire, had sighed, and followed Briers up the stairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind him. The night passed with the heat of skin upon skin, in warm breath and whispered moans until they both collapsed into something resembling sleep.

Now Lestrade inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke scour his lungs. He exhaled a long ribbon of it. “You should leave soon,” he said. “Don’t want anyone noticing.”

Lestrade had barely arrived at Scotland Yard and was loosening his cravat when Inspector Gerard greeted him. “You’ll want to get your coat back on,” he said. “Murder.”

Lestrade sighed.

“How do you think
I
feel?” Gerard said. “My flat’s not far from the scene. I’ve only just come from there.”

Together they climbed into the brougham. Lestrade’s pairing with Gerard had been a recent event, handed down from Sir Felix with the hope that with two men on task they would be more than a match for the Detective. Gerard was a nice enough chap, but Lestrade still bristled at the encumbrance.

The body lay face down in a back alley, covered with a dark blanket. Fog curled in from the street, like fingers reaching for the dead. “Was he found like this?” Lestrade asked the constable on the scene.