A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes
Edited by Joseph R.G. DeMarco
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 Joseph R. G. DeMarco
Individual stories copyright © 2011 their authors. all rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in 2011 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com
isbn: 1-59021-038-7
isbn-13: 978-1-59021-038-3
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Alex Jeffers.
Cover art: Dakota Bardy.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A study in lavender : queering Sherlock Holmes / edited by Joseph R.G. DeMarco.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59021-038-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-59021-038-7
1. Gay men--Fiction. 2. Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 3. Watson, John H. (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 4. Private investigators--England--Fiction. 5. Erotic stories, American. I. DeMarco, Joseph R. G.
PS648.H57S78 2011
813’.01083538’08664--dc22
2011018763
Introduction
by Joseph R.G. DeMarco
Is Sherlock Holmes homosexual? Is Watson? Should we even be asking these questions?
Casual readers have wondered. So have scholars. Graham Robb, in his engaging and informative study of gay history, Strangers: Homosexual Love in the Nineteenth Century, does not fail to consider the queerness of the Great Detective. Robb seems to believe that anyone thinking Holmes and Watson are not lovers is obtuse if not daft.
Ever since the Great Detective made his first appearance in A Study in Scarlet in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887, fans have been speculating about Holmes and his life. His popularity with the general public grew with the publication of stories in The Strand starting in 1891 and it was that series of stories that really got the guessing game going. Pastiches and parodies began to appear and the world of Holmes expanded beyond Arthur Conan Doyle’s writings.
In a way, the stories lent themselves to speculation through the trail of clues Doyle embedded in them. A trail that a discerning, well-informed reader could immediately follow. The material is clearly there in the Holmes canon, if a reader looks carefully enough. Someone with knowledge of nineteenth-century British history will catch references others might miss. A more detailed knowledge of the sexual habits and scandals of that era will allow a reader to find even more clues woven into the text. With those facts in hand, other, less obtrusive, more seemingly innocent passages will jump out at you. Perhaps some things will even make sense for the first time. The oblique nature of some of the references almost forces a reader to think that Doyle had either placed these hints so that only those in the know would understand, or that he was setting out clues for inveterate readers to collect and decipher.
For example, in Victorian London, the Embankment was a notorious homosexual cruising area near the Thames. In “Five Orange Pips,” one of Holmes’s clients is killed walking on the Embankment and Holmes admits to knowledge of the area, its denizens, and how it is used, though he is never explicit and never explains how he knows of this secret cruising ground.
Other, similar casually inserted references litter the Holmes tales. In “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” his adopting a young “telegraph boy” to help him certainly recalls the Cleveland Street scandals. A brothel located in Cleveland Street, which served aristocratic men and in which boys who worked as telegraph messengers were also prostitutes, came to the attention of the police. The ensuing scandal threatened to out many of England’s aristocrats, including, it is said, Prince Albert Victor, son of the Prince of Wales and second in line to the throne. Needless to say, the scandal was covered up, the aristocrats receiving no penalty, the boys getting off with light sentences (the world never changes).
But the fact that Doyle places a telegraph boy in the service of Holmes, and depicts their relationship as a very strong bond, serves as more than just a stray reference from the times.
Holmes and Watson also have a relationship that Doyle does little to disguise. They not only share rooms on Baker Street, they find their lives intertwined in such a way that one cannot function perfectly without the other. Even when Watson marries (twice and both times without children), he continues visiting and staying with Holmes. Though his second wife is a bit more possessive of his time, he manages weekend visits with Holmes until she’s out of the picture and he is “single” once again.
Holmes and Watson often exchange intimate looks and words, or profess the depth of their feelings or need for each other.
There are other clues. In “The Final Problem,” Holmes, after a particularly nasty incident, asks Watson to go with him to “the continent” where they can avoid certain matters. As anyone familiar with the era knows, the rich and the lucky were able to evade prosecution in England for the crime of homosexuality by fleeing to the continent. After certain arrests, waves of aristocrats and others were found, by whatever means they could secure, leaving England for Italy or France. That’s quite a large clue which Doyle hides in plain sight.
Of course, there are the obvious things about Holmes: he never marries or shows interest in the opposite sex and he and Watson live together in close quarters. But read more carefully and you find that the regard which Holmes and Watson have for each other goes beyond mere friendship. A good example is in “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs.”
Watson is wounded by a miscreant and Holmes is aghast. He rushes to Watson’s side and begs him to say he is not wounded. Then the narrative continues in Watson’s words:
It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
This is no mere friendship. There is love here…on both sides. True, it’s also a symbiotic relationship, with Holmes bringing adventure and Watson bringing a kind of domesticity to the pairing, but there is an undeniable love, as well. Other stories rounding out the canon contain plenty of clues, hints, and subtextual references leading to the inescapable conclusion that Holmes and Watson are more than just roommates.
Writers and fans of Sherlock Holmes have always speculated on every aspect of the Great Detective’s life. His sexual nature was no less a matter of interest than his cocaine use. And, right from the start, writers of every stripe produced parodies of Holmes and Watson. Writers such as Twain, Barrie, and Wodehouse all took their turn at getting in on the fun.
As far as anyone knows, the idea that Holmes might be gay didn’t work its way into the literature until the late twentieth century. One of the earliest books, from 1971, The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Larry Townsend), is an erotic work concentrating heavily on sex scenes, though it exhibits grounding in the Holmes canon.
Motion pictures took up the pursuit of Holmes’s personal life and sexual tastes in more than a few films, such as The Seven Percent Solution (1976) and The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970) (which takes the view that Holmes might be straight, though at one point in the film he does “pretend” to be gay in order to escape from a woman who wants to bed him).
It is not until Sherlock Holmes (2009), with Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law, that the idea of Holmes and Watson being gay makes it into the mainstream consciousness. Following closely on its heels, the BBC TV production, Sherlock (2010), with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, more or less flat out says Holmes is gay. Watson, who knows?
That cat has finally left the bag. The idea that Holmes is gay is ready to take centre stage for a while.
Though some might find the notion a bit much to tolerate, even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had no objections to what might be done with his most famous creation. The American stage actor William Gillette wrote a play about Holmes in the late 1890s with Doyle’s blessing. Called variously: Sherlock Holmes, then The Strange Case of Miss Faulkner, then Sherlock Holmes – A Drama in Four Acts, it was an immensely popular show though not a critically acclaimed piece of theatre.
During the writing of the play, Gillette, who’d stitched together elements from different Holmes stories, wanted to spice up his work. He cabled Doyle and asked if he could marry off Holmes in the play. Doyle responded, “You may marry him, or murder him, or do whatever you like with him.”
That seems like the definitive permission slip.
This brings us to the collection you hold in your hands. A Study in Lavender considers not only the idea that Holmes might be gay, or Watson, or others in the Holmes mythos, but also that the detective might have taken cases which involved gay or lesbian or transgendered clients and handled them with the delicacy, discretion, and intelligence he brought to every other case Watson chronicled.
Most of the tales in this collection take place in the Holmesian/Victorian setting. Most feature Holmes and Watson. Some use other characters as protagonists and merely mention Holmes. Each story will introduce you to new situations and characters, to cases Watson never before even alluded to, and to a Holmesian world that is similar yet different.
We hope all of these adventures will bring a smile to your face, give you some hours of reading pleasure, or make you think about Holmes, or Watson, or even Lestrade in a new way. Perhaps you might be moved to watch again one of the Rathbone and Bruce movies, which in themselves take liberties with Holmes and his world.
A Study in Lavender is meant to entertain and to open the door on a new approach to Holmes and the world in which he lived.
Enjoy!
Table of Contents
Josesph R.G. DeMaarco
The Adventure of the Bloody Coins
Stephen Osborne
Rajan Khanna
The Kidnapping of Alice Braddon
Katie Raynes
J.R. Campbell
William P. Coleman
Vincent Kovar
The Adventure of the Hidden Lane
Lyn C.A. Gardner
Ruth Sims
The Adventure of the Unidentified Flying Object
Michael G. Cornelius
The Adventure of the Poesy Ring
Elka Cloke
The Adventure of the Bloody Coins
by Stephen Osborne
~~~
Among the cases of Sherlock Holmes which Watson chose not to publish until now, this one gives us information that sheds a most revealing light on Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, and the Diogenes Club where Mycroft spends quite a lot of time. Mycroft only appears in four of the original Holmes stories but has made a number of appearances in works outside the original canon as well as in movies. This tale allows us a peek at yet another side of Sherlock’s older brother and leads to another tantalizing secret, the details of which…well, read for yourself.
~~~
I have in my notebooks records of many cases which, for one reason or another, should never see the light of day. Some cannot be printed due to national security while a few pertain to personages of such importance that knowledge of their actions could bring shame and disgrace to some of the loftiest houses of England. As I put pen to paper to record the following events, I have to wonder if the facts in the murder of Pierre Jean-Claude Villiar should ever see the light of day. Indeed, I intend to leave this record among my personal papers, only to be read many years after my death. By that time, perhaps, these events will seem less shocking.
I recall it was a brisk morning in November when I was roused from my slumbers by Holmes. I could see by the candle held high in his hand that his face was grave. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest, my friend,” said he, “but I would appreciate it if you would dress yourself and join me in the sitting room.”
I raised my head from the pillows and tried to shake the cobwebs from my brain. “What is it?” I asked, my voice still blurred from sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Lestrade is waiting for us, Watson, along with a man from the Foreign Office. Rouse yourself, my friend! Best not to keep them waiting.” He turned to leave, but paused at the door. In a quiet voice, he continued. “Mycroft, it seems, has disappeared.”
“Your brother?” I asked. Holmes, however, was already in motion. If he heard my query he didn’t bother to answer.
I dressed in haste, my mind in a whirl. I recalled Holmes telling me, at the time of the affair of the Greek interpreter, that Mycroft rarely deviated from his set pattern. It took events of the gravest import to shift the man from his usual pattern, which included his lodging, his office at Whitehall, and the Diogenes Club. What, I wondered, could have happened to the man?
Upon entering the sitting room I found Holmes standing by the mantel engaged in lighting his pipe. Seated on our sofa were Inspector Lestrade and a man who introduced himself as Sir Miles Danvers of the Foreign Office. Holmes glanced my way when I came in, but then immediately lowered his eyes. I could only imagine how the news of his brother’s disappearance was distressing him.
“Good of you to join us, Watson,” said he. “Lestrade and Sir Miles have come with grave news.”
Lestrade, nodding, said, “There’s been a murder at the Diogenes Club, Doctor. Early this morning one of the porters went into one of the upstairs rooms to find the body of a young man. The victim appears to have been killed by the poker from the fireplace. There were several blows to the back of his skull. The poker was next to the body.” Lestrade spoke slowly, as if revealing the facts were painful to him.
Confused, I asked, “What has this to do with Mycroft? Holmes tells me he’s missing.”
Sir Miles shifted uncomfortably. “The porter has stated that the murdered man was last seen with Mr Holmes. We enquired, but could find no trace of Mycroft Holmes. He’s not been to his lodgings, nor to Whitehall.”
I scoffed. “Surely you can’t think that Mycroft Holmes is mixed up in this affair?”
Lestrade shook his head. “At this point we merely want to question Mr Holmes. Given the nature of the young man’s state of undress, and the purpose of the room in which the murder took place…”
“What do you mean? What about the man’s state of undress?”
Sir Miles cleared his throat, giving Holmes a brief, apologetic look. “The young man was naked, Dr Watson. The room itself was a special bedchamber, used by members to indulge in…” Here the man stopped, clearly unsure of what words to use.
Lestrade, his lip curling slightly, finished the sentence. “Unnatural desires.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Are you suggesting,” I said, “that an old and respectable club like the Diogenes would allow such a despicable…”
Holmes, with a wry smile, interrupted me. “My dear fellow, you must calm your indignations. Rooms such as the one Sir Miles speaks of have been a mainstay in several of the more fashionable clubs of London for years. It is handled with the greatest of discretion, and the members can choose the sex and even the age of their partner. I’ve known for quite some time that the secretary of the Diogenes, Marshall Owen, has provided this service.”
“But,” I cried, aghast, “your own brother is a member of the club! Surely he wouldn’t associate with a place that would allow such atrocities to occur!”
My friend’s brow furrowed. “There is little that escapes my brother’s attention, my dear Watson, as you must have gathered. But we must leave these matters for the moment. A murder has taken place, and time is wasting. I trust, Lestrade, that nothing has been touched?”
“Knowing your methods,” said he, “I instructed my men to leave the murder scene as it was until you had a chance to examine it.”
“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 the 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, Sherlock. 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.”
The Case of the Wounded Heart
by Rajan Khanna
~~~
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.
~~~
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.”
Constable Briers lifted his head, trailed a hand through Lestrade’s chest hair. “Already?” he said.
“I’m afraid so,” Lestrade said, softer.
“Yes, sir,” Briers said.
Lestrade patted the younger man’s muscular flanks and thought of the Detective.
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.
“No, sir,” the constable said. “He weren’t wearing no clothes. Just the gunshots. We had to cover him.”
“Who is he?”
“Can’t tell, sir,” the constable said. “No identifying belongings.”
Lestrade bent by the body, noting the dishevelled hair, the blood-splattered neck. He lifted the man’s head.
And dropped it again.
Constable Briers.
Lestrade scrambled away from the body, eyes wide, pulse hammering. “Everything all right?” Gerard said.
“Yes, yes,” Lestrade said, recovering himself. “I…I recognize this man.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s Constable Briers. He’s one of us.”
The constable frowned. “It’s bad business, then, sir. Will we be wanting Holmes on this one?”
“No,” Lestrade and Gerard said at the same time.
“We’ll take it from here,” Gerard said.
Lestrade, staring at the body, imagined the freckled skin beneath the blanket. He knew almost every plane and curve of that body, he’d made good use of it in the previous weeks. Now Briers was dead. Who had done it? And why?
“We’ll have to look into his recent whereabouts,” Gerard said. “Find out if there’s a woman, where he lived, where he liked to spend his time.”
“I can do that,” Lestrade said. “You go back to the Yard. Get things under way there.”
“If you like,” Gerard said.
He left without another glance at the body, embraced by the welcoming fog.
On the brougham ride to Briers’s flat, Lestrade couldn’t help thinking that if Holmes was on the case, he’d have likely solved it already – using the angle of Briers’s body, the dirt on the soles of his feet and the tobacco stains on his fingers. He would have also discovered Lestrade’s involvement with Briers, and that was something Lestrade was certain he couldn’t bear. Only one other truth could be so damaging to him.
Sweet, sad Briers. How was it that he’d come to such an end? There had only been a few hours possible during which he could have been killed. Was it just chance – an encounter on the way from Lestrade’s home? Or something more sinister.
Lestrade needed to find the answer soon. The more attention it drew, the death of a police officer after all, threatened his privacy, and were his predilections to come to light, he would lose everything that he’d worked for.
He’d been invited to Briers’s flat many times, and yet had never visited. He’d always relied on the man coming to him. Briers had been a warm body for Lestrade’s bed, not much more, and while they’d shared the ultimate intimacy, Lestrade knew very little about him.
The landlady, a Mrs Cosgrove, swelled with tears when he told her of Briers’s death and let him up into the rooms.
“He was such a nice man,” she said. “Helped me when my son, Thomas, had gone missing. Always paid his rent on time. A gentleman.”
“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Did you know of anyone who might have a quarrel with him? Anyone who had it in for him?”
“No, and I can’t imagine it, neither,” she said. She covered her mouth conspiratorially. “I do think there was a woman, though.”
“Oh?”
“He was often leaving at odd times of night, or not coming home at all. Or coming home at the crack of dawn. He was a handsome fellow, I’m sure he had a woman somewhere. I often thought she might be married.”
“Um, yes,” Lestrade said. “Thank you. Do you think you could leave me alone to examine the rooms?”
“Of course,” she said, sniffing. “Catch whoever did this.”
“I intend to,” Lestrade said.
After she left, he moved about the drawing room and then into the bedroom. Briers did not have a lot of possessions. His bookcases were sparsely filled, there were very few ornaments on the walls, just uniforms and suits, hats and cravats, in the wardrobe. Again, he thought that the Detective would have been able to deduce volumes about the man just by looking at his living space. Lestrade, however, could only perhaps assemble a sentence.
There wasn’t even a diary or anything to indicate what had been going on in Briers’s life outside of his time spent in Lestrade’s bed.
He returned to Mrs Cosgrove. “Did Briers have any close friends? Someone he liked to drink with, or perhaps a friend from a club?”
Mrs Cosgrove pursed her lips. “Most of his friends were from Scotland Yard. But there was someone he used to have supper with. Henry Samuels, I think his name was.”
“Thank you,” Lestrade said. “Don’t worry, I’ll find who did this.”
Mrs Cosgrove’s smile proved that she, at least, had faith.
Lestrade returned to Scotland Yard where word had spread of Briers’s death. He went straight to his desk then stopped suddenly, his pulse quick. Dr John Watson, broad-chested and straight-backed, stood in front of it. “Are you here with Holmes?” Lestrade blurted out.
“Inspector,” Watson said. “No, I am here alone.”
Lestrade relaxed, his breath coming in a more measured fashion. “What can I do for you, Doctor?” he said.
“I am here concerning Constable Briers,” he said.
“Oh?”
“He was a patient of mine.”
Lestrade sat on the edge of the desk. “Really? Why? How?”
Watson shrugged. “We met during one of our cases. He knew I was a doctor and starting my own practice, so I think he felt comfortable coming to me with his ailment.”
And I’m sure he found you as irresistible as the ladies often do, Lestrade thought to himself. “Ailment?”
“Congenital heart condition. He was worried that it might affect his performance on the job. I was monitoring it for him.”
“I see. Well, I don’t see how that comes into things. He was murdered. Shot several times.”
“There’s something else,” Watson said. “Though there was little I could do for the fellow, he’d mentioned on several occasions that he’d heard of several remedies for his condition – tonics and whatnot. I told him that I couldn’t prescribe or even condone their use without proper evidence of their properties, but I fear I couldn’t persuade him. I mention this because such a pursuit may have something to do with this. Such concoctions are notoriously unreliable. One may have made him prone to violence. Or perhaps he became cross with the purveyor of such wares? I thought perhaps it might bear looking into.”
“Thank you, Dr Watson,” Lestrade said, flashing a thin smile. “I’ll make enquiries.”
Watson stood up and donned his bowler hat. “One last thing. Do you think that you could use Holmes’s help in this case?”
“No,” Lestrade said. Then, softer, “No, thank you, but Briers was a police officer and I think it would be best if we handled this.”
“Quite right,” Watson said. “Quite right. I only mentioned it because Holmes is in one of his moods, locked up tight in Baker Street, swimming in cocaine. I do hate to see him so. Never mind. Good luck in your investigation. Good day.”
Lestrade watched the doctor go and thought of the Detective, alone in his rooms on Baker Street, slumped upon the divan, in a cocaine haze. Lestrade despised the man’s addiction, yet understood it keenly. That mind, when not brought to bear on a case, could only seek sanctuary in the drug’s embrace. Lestrade knew that he could rescue the Detective from that, sing the siren’s call that would bring the Detective to him.
But he could not. He did not want that intense gaze, that gaze that did things to him, brought to bear on the current case. He could not.
Lestrade spent the morning questioning tonic and elixir salesmen, finding nothing to connect them to Constable Briers. On his return to Scotland Yard, Lestrade trailed behind a group of officers pushing someone inside the station. The restrained man in the centre was huddled over, shuddering with crying sobs. Lestrade caught the broad form of Gerard who was moving with them. “What’s happening?” he said.
“We brought in Henry Samuels. We kept an eye on him as you suggested and he was in the pub, drunk, talking about our friend, Briers. Thought it would be prudent to bring him in.”
“You taking him to the interview room?” Lestrade said.
Gerard nodded.
“Leave me alone with him,” Lestrade said.
“If you like,” Gerard said.
Lestrade waited until Samuels had been secured in the interview room, then entered and closed the door.
Samuels’s wet, red face sat atop a smartly dressed form. It was an incongruous joining. Something about the blubbering man made Lestrade want to hit him. His weakness. His abject emotion.
Lestrade took the seat opposite him. “How did you know Victor Briers?” Lestrade said.
“We were good friends.” Samuels sniffed. Lestrade recognized something in the man’s posture, his tremulous voice.
“I think it was more than that,” Lestrade said, letting the sneer into his voice. “I think you were lovers.”
Samuels turned his face away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But I’m not,” Lestrade said. “Look at you – a blubbering mess. Crying like a young girl. You loved him. What happened? Did he cut you loose? You weren’t man enough for him?”
Samuels glared at him through red eyes. “You shut your mouth.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You were too much the sap and he went and found someone harder, someone who could keep himself under control, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Samuels said, a growl of anger in his voice. “He found someone else.”
“Is that why you killed him?” Lestrade said.
Samuels’s eyes widened, he opened his wet mouth. “Killed him? No. I didn’t…I could never have killed him.”
“People can do all manner of things when hurt. Wounded. They lash out at the source of that pain. Is that what you did, Samuels? Tell me and we can take care of it.”
“No! I didn’t. I just…I just wanted to find out who it was that he was with. I wanted to expose him. To expose them both.”
Lestrade’s fire abruptly went out. He felt cold sweat on his brow. “And did you? Find out, I mean.”
“No. I only knew that he was another police officer.”
“You will keep that to yourself,” Lestrade said. “I will not have you causing disruption by pointing your finger at my fellow officers.”
“Why?”
“Because if you keep your mouth shut, I will do the same. No one needs to know of your involvement with Briers assuming your story checks out.”
Samuels stared at Lestrade, then pulled himself together, sitting straighter, smoothing back his hair. He nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good,” Lestrade said. Then he left the room.
Samuels’s alibi, that he was out drinking late into the evening, was corroborated by the keeper of the Hearth Tavern and several of its patrons. Samuels had drunk himself into a stupor and passed out. They’d sent for his sister to take him home and the journey and escort were witnessed by several others.
That still left no suspects for Briers’s murder, and already a day had passed. It would have already been brought to Sir Childing’s attention. The investigation would become more probing and soon Lestrade’s involvement with Briers would be uncovered if he didn’t present the culprit. The lure of bringing in the Detective hovered tantalizingly before him.
He pushed it away.
He stopped by Inspector Gerard’s desk on his way outside. “What’s the matter, Lestrade?” Gerard said. “You look worn out.”
“Just the Briers case,” Lestrade said.
Gerard frowned. “I thought we had Samuels to rights for it.”
“We did, but it turns out he has an alibi. And I don’t know that he’s capable of it. He’s a wreck of a man. Broken. Too emotional.”
“Many a crime has been committed because of overflowing emotions,” Gerard said. “Not everyone has the detachment of a Scotland Yard detective.”
Lestrade smiled. “That’s true. But he has an alibi. I’ll let him go shortly.”
Gerard shrugged. “So it’s back to the start, then?”
Lestrade sighed and nodded. “I suppose so. I’d better get back to it.” He gave Gerard a nod and then went to issue Samuels’s release.
Lestrade worked late, poring over the records of the case by lamplight, examining the reports from the scene, the notes from interviewing the locals. Thinking of the Detective, he called on his powers of observation, looking for the tiniest detail, and yet nothing stood out.
Muffled sobs caused him to raise his head, his first break from the documents in hours. Over at the front desk, a man and a woman stood, middle-aged, bent with grief. As Lestrade watched, the desk clerk slid across a paper to the man and, with a shaking hand, he signed, keeping one arm wrapped around the shuddering woman.
Lestrade called over to the next desk. “Oi. Who is that?”
“Briers’s parents.”
Lestrade stared at them, at the parents of the man who had so often visited his bed, at their raw pain. He realized with sudden bitterness that he hadn’t even been thinking of Briers as a person anymore, just a stain on his reputation, a plaything that he had dallied with while thinking of another. A riddle to solve. He stood up and reached for his hat.
He didn’t look at the either of them as he walked out the door.
Lestrade pulled out the magnifying glass at the scene of the crime. He’d seen Holmes use one before, when examining dirt or soot or the watermarks on paper. He wasn’t sure that he would find anything at the site, especially in the fading light, but he had to try. Time was running out.
He bent over with the glass to his eye, scanning the cobblestones, the junction of wall and street. Most of the blood had washed away in the persistent London rain. What hope did any other evidence have? It wasn’t as if Briers had any clothes to examine, either.
Lestrade thought of that. Where had his clothes gone? It wasn’t as if the man would have been wandering around nude in the early morning hours. He’d had them, anyway, while leaving Lestrade’s home. What the devil could have brought him to this? Was it some kind of purveyor of remedies as Watson had suggested? They’d questioned most of the high profile vendors in the area and come up with nothing.
Lestrade hurled the glass in frustration and it skidded against the ground, skipping across the stones before crashing into the wall. Shaking his head, he went to pick it up. Of course a large crack split it, the two pieces chasing each other in the metal frame. He tucked it into his pocket.
He recalled that Gerard lived nearby and walked to the man’s house. He was certain to have something to drink – some brandy or whisky, perhaps. A pipe, too. Maybe if he relaxed, Lestrade thought, he could come to some new insight.
He arrived at last to Gerard’s door and knocked upon it. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing.
He was turning to go when he found Gerard in front of him. “Gerard. There you are, man. You almost gave me a fright. I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I would stop by, see if you were in the mood for a drink.”
Gerard, who now seemed weary himself, nodded. “That sounds like a capital idea,” he said. “Please, come in.”
They sat and drank, and talked and smoked. And Lestrade was glad to feel some of the weight of the last few days leave him. That was the great thing about Gerard – he always seemed to understand, though the truth be unspoken.
“This is wonderful tobacco,” Lestrade said, puffing on the pipe in his mouth. “Where do you get it?”
“It’s a special blend I have made for me.”
“I’ll have to visit your tobacconist,” Lestrade said. He raised his glass. “One last drink?”
Gerard nodded. “To remaining what we are,” he said, by way of a toast.
“What do you mean?” Lestrade said.
“What with people like Holmes in the world,” Gerard said. “People look to him to solve things, discounting us. But Holmes is little more than a machine. He’s inhuman. He doesn’t feel the passions of the common people. He can’t understand them.”
Lestrade inclined his head. “I agree with you. But some find him, find that lack of emotion, to be a desirable thing. To not be saddled with such failings. Such weakness. To be somehow…pure.”
“It’s the purity of a diamond,” Gerard said. “Cold, hard. Sometimes brilliant, and worth much to some. But a diamond cannot keep you warm. A diamond may symbolize love, but it is not love.”
“Yet people lust after them, just the same.”
Gerard raised his glass. “To misplaced lust.”
Lestrade drank deeply.
Lestrade arrived home to a message from Scotland Yard. Samuels had been found dead.
After his release, Samuels had apparently headed home whereupon he had written a suicide note detailing his murder of Briers. Then he’d hung himself from the rafters.
Lestrade entered the room where the body still hung. Samuels’s sister sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, tear tracks lining her face. She looked up at Lestrade. “He didn’t do it, I swear,” she said. “He didn’t have it in him. And I was with him the night of the murder. He can’t have done it.”
Lestrade examined the note. It said that Samuels had faked his stupor, that he had sneaked out of the house and killed Briers because of unrequited love for the man. It also claimed that Briers’s clothes were hidden in a barrel in the cellar. Lestrade turned to the constable in charge. “The clothes?”
The constable nodded. “Right where it said they were. We sent them ahead to Scotland Yard.”
Lestrade nodded. He turned to Samuels’s sister. “Is this his handwriting?” he said, holding out the note.
“It’s shaky, but it looks like his,” she said, then started sobbing. “But he couldn’t have done this.”
Lestrade walked away from her, disturbed by her grief.
“You’ll be happy to have this wrapped up, I’d wager,” the constable said.
Lestrade didn’t answer. He returned to the room where Samuels hung. What he would have wagered on, if Samuels had indeed been driven to suicide, was the man shooting himself. Or poison. Samuels hadn’t seemed the type to hang himself. It was too violent. On the other hand, Lestrade hadn’t judged him the type to kill Briers, either.
Lestrade scanned the room. Samuels was shoeless. Unimportant, really, but seemingly out of place. Again, Lestrade would have expected the man, in line with his impeccable appearance, to have worn his shoes.
“Is that your brother’s rope?” Lestrade asked the sister.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see why he would have had rope for any reason, but it’s easy enough to find, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Lestrade said.
Here, then, was the answer. Briers’s murderer had been found, and dealt with. The investigation would close with Lestrade’s personal affairs still private.
What, then, was gnawing at Lestrade’s mind?
“How did you discover him?” Lestrade asked the constable.
“Inspector Gerard asked us to look in on him. Said the man looked unstable. Told us to contact you if there was anything out of the ordinary.”
Lestrade nodded. “Continue on here,” he said. “I’m going to speak with Gerard.”
Lestrade ran out into the London fog, dodging broughams and horses, and hired a hansom cab to take him to Gerard’s place. Once there, Lestrade knocked loudly on the door, and when it opened, he walked in without waiting for the invitation.
“Lestrade,” Gerard said, surprised.