A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes (10 page)

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?”

I leaned forward, ready to take Holmes into my confidence. “What do you believe Mrs Nyland would have done if she’d learned the entire truth concerning her brother’s death?”

“I have no crystal ball,” Holmes protested. “I am a detective, not a fortune teller.”

“Who is hiding behind small truths now?” I asked. “It will be helpful to know if your estimation of the woman matches my own.”

“Very well,” Holmes relented. “She would be quite shocked I suppose, necessitating a period of retreat and contemplation. When sufficiently recovered she would seek a confrontation with those who brought about her brother’s demise.”

“And in your estimation would she receive any satisfaction from this confrontation?”

“It is unlikely,” Holmes conceded. “You must remember: No laws have been broken.”

“Surely there must be some legal recourse?” Unfortunately I suspected the answer but I wished to be certain. Holmes’s knowledge of the law was far more extensive than my own.

Holmes shook his head. “You have heard my views on this matter before. You seek justice, a quality the law is not always equipped to deliver. Contrary to the public perception the law is a blunt instrument. Rather than justice it is an amalgamation of popular opinion. Given the circumstances surrounding this case I see no legal path by which Mrs Nyland might find satisfaction.”

“As I feared,” I replied. “Weeks, maybe months, wasted while Mrs Nyland composes herself. And in the end the matter would be thrown back in her face still unresolved. She deserves better that.”

“Very gallant, Watson,” Holmes said. “Though I fail to see how keeping Mrs Nyland ignorant of the truth is an improvement. Mrs Nyland’s attempt to gain some measure of justice for her brother might not be successful but there is a certain nobility to the effort. She is not without resources –”

“When you say resources you mean yourself, do you not?” I asked. “You would offer your professional services to Mrs Nyland should she ask your assistance?”

“Of course,” Holmes admitted. “Being outside the law, such a case would be uniquely suited to my talents.”

“I thought as much,” I said, not without a trace of smugness. “You and I are in complete agreement in this matter. The reason I kept the truth from Mrs Nyland is simple: I wished to avoid delay. Holmes, I wish to hire you myself.”

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his features betraying a rare look of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Rather than wait for Mrs Nyland to ask for your assistance bringing those who wronged her brother to justice, I will hire you to accomplish the same task sooner rather than later. The central problem seems to be what form this justice should take, as you say the courts will be of no assistance. Ideally these villains would be hauled before the courts where your evidence would condemn them to prison or worse. Under these circumstances, well, we are left to our own devices.”

“Do go on.” Amusement was evident in Holmes’s voice as he spoke. “You have obviously directed considerable effort towards a solution.”

“Bellamy’s will,” I said, not without pride. “This entire sorry affair started when Bellamy amended his will. It seems only proper the same document bring it to a finish. I propose we see to it that Bellamy’s last will and testament be enforced.”

“Oh, well done Watson!” Holmes said with a genuine smile. “Your solution is elegant and simple. If I recall the terms of Bellamy’s will correctly, then his lover stands to inherit a good portion of his estate, including control of Bellamy’s business holdings. You would release Bellamy’s lover from the financial bounds placed on him by his tyrannical family. With a single stroke you undo all his enemies sought to accomplish. Jenkins, Schrader, Gillis and – of course – the elder Birling himself, each of them would see their efforts thwarted. Unfortunately Watson – clever as your plan is – without the intervention of the courts it is quite impossible.”

“Why?” I asked. “We have a copy of the will. You took it from the secret drawer in Bellamy’s night stand.”

“Having the document is not enough,” Holmes said. “Schrader was Bellamy’s solicitor. All he need do is disavow knowledge of the amended will and your scheme is undone.”

I smiled, remembering the document which had lain beside the amended will in Bellamy’s hidden drawer. “You have not heard the rest of my plan.”

As I explained the details of what I hoped to accomplish, I took a keen pleasure in seeing a smile creep onto my friend’s lean face.

Seemingly unaffected by the thousands of students’ feet that had marched over its cold, hard surface, the sound of our footfalls on the chapel’s stone floor echoed sharp as gunshots. Holmes and I had recently visited the student chapel as part of our investigation and, being hurried, had neither the time nor the inclination to examine the dark, highly polished wood pews or the timbers of the vaulted ceiling. However our guest, Mr Eric Birling, looked about him with a mixture of remembered awe and fresh curiosity in his expression. The last light of the day was surrendering to night, the shadows within the chapel were deep and sharp. I followed Holmes up the central aisle in order to help him move a large table. We had discussed the setup, scouted the location, but in our sudden hurry to arrive before the others we hadn’t time to inform Mr Birling of our plans. During the long cab ride out to the school composing the letters had completely occupied our attention. As I moved the table to block the aisle, cutting off access to the front of the chapel, I called to our guest.

“Mr Birling?”

He looked up, startled from his contemplation of the chapel’s unforgiving surfaces. Even in sunlight the chapel had seemed austere, in the weak moonlight seeping through the windows the interior seemed unforgiving. Finding me in the darkness he walked hurriedly down the aisle.

“I have always hated this place,” Birling said as he passed me. Although the words were not spoken loudly they echoed in the empty space like an accusation. Setting the heavy table in place, I joined Birling by the raised area of the stage.

“You are certain we are allowed to be here?” Birling asked. “I do not understand what this place has to do with Adam’s death?”

“You have been quite patient with us,” I acknowledged. “I am sorry to have to ask you to wait further but there are some preparations that must be made. It is imperative that you not be seen. We will seat you up in the corner there, you see? Completely invisible in the shadows. As long as you make no sound you will not be discovered. You are here as a witness, nothing more. Regardless of what you hear, you must remain silent. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” the man said. A rueful smile lifted his features, dark eyes sought and found my own. Until this moment Eric Birling had been something of an enigma, always an essential part of our plan but more an agenda item than an individual. A handsome man but not startlingly so, more than anything else I had been struck by his ordinariness. Foolish, I knew, but all the same I had, perhaps unconsciously, expected Adam Bellamy’s lover to be in some way unusual in appearance. When Holmes and I called upon Birling’s lodgings I had been momentarily nonplussed to see such a solid, respectable looking fellow answer. Time was of the essence, our gambit had worked better than we had anticipated and necessity forced us to forgo the explanations Birling deserved. Instead it fell to me to compel Birling to accompany us. A task which proved surprisingly simple once I informed him our errand concerned the death of Adam Bellamy.

Meeting Birling’s gaze, seeing the determination mixed with grief and uncertainty in his expression, I realised – somewhat to my surprise – that I admired the fellow. The mere mention of his lover’s name had been enough to pull Birling out of the safety of his home.

“What do you know of about a court of honour?” I asked, ushering Birling up onto the stage.

Birling laughed humourlessly. “How odd you should ask that question here of all places. When I was a student here the head-boys would bring students accused of infractions to what they called a court of honour. It was considered good exercise for students who might grow up to become barristers, solicitors and the like.”

I nodded in understanding, the explanation was much as the current headmaster had explained it. I glanced at Holmes, who was hurriedly arranging four chairs behind the long table. I found another chair and carried it to the darkened corner.

“There is disapproval in your voice,” I remarked.

“The honour of boys,” Birling said with venom in his voice. “Little more than ritualised bullying. A tyranny carried out in full view of the staff. I felt I did not so much graduate this place as escape it.”

“Adam Bellamy also attended this school, did he not?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“He did,” Birling confirmed. “Adam graduated in the same class as my Uncle Arthur.”

From where he was arranging envelopes and candles on the long table, Holmes spoke up. “Mr Birling, you should take your seat now.”

“What has all this to do with Adam’s death?” Birling demanded, his voice wary.

“A week before his death Adam Bellamy received a summons,” I explained. “Written on this school’s letterhead, it demanded he appear in this chapel or risk the punishment of the court of honour. It was signed by four of his classmates. Walter Gillis, Randall Jenkins, Gregory Schrader and –”

“Arthur Birling.” There was no question in Eric’s voice as he completed my sentence.

“Yes,” I confirmed his suspicion.

Holmes renewed his warning. “Mr Birling, I must insist you take your place now. We do not wish to endanger you but should you be seen –”

Birling nodded sadly. Removing his coat he retreated into the dark corner.

“Watson,” Holmes called for my help.

I joined Holmes, together we lifted a small but heavily made table up onto the stage. From the dark corner came the heavy voice of Eric Birling. “Adam did not die of cholera, did he?”

“No, I am afraid he did not,” I answered. “Although it was arranged that the death should appear so. Had things gone the way I planned there would have been more time to explain this properly –”

“But circumstances did not allow it,” Holmes interrupted. With brisk, efficient movements Holmes lit the four large candles he’d placed on the long table. Rather than dispelling the shadows of the empty chapel the feeble lights seemed to make their darkness deeper. The flickering candles blurred the shadow’s edges. “Those who summoned Adam Bellamy to this place have themselves been summoned.”

“My uncle will not like that.” No amusement tainted Eric Birling’s voice, the simple phrase echoed in the empty chapel like a warning.

“His reaction was surprisingly violent,” Holmes said calmly. “Rather than wait for the appointed time he set out to gather his fellows, apparently in the belief some advantage could be gained by arriving before his summoners. Small though the matter is, Watson and I are determined to deny them any advantage. Are you comfortable, Mr Birling? I do not think it will be long before –”

From behind him came the distinct sound of the outside doors being thrust open. Footsteps echoed on the narthex’s stone floor, voices broke the stillness of the sombre surroundings. Angry, impatient and offended, the men rolled into the place like a wave. Holmes and I fell silent, taking our seats in the darkness. I felt fortunate to have finished our preparations in time yet still wished we had been able to give Birling more explanation regarding what was to come.

“– intolerable I tell you!” A loud, flustered voice wheezed.

“Yes,” an exasperated man agreed half-heartedly. “But who?”

“We shall find out!” The loud voice boomed, making the statement sound like a curse. “We will wait for them here and when they arrive we shall –”

There was a sudden silence as the footsteps stopped and the voices were stilled. The new arrivals had reached the chapel’s large, open doors. Beyond the doorway they warily examined the table, chairs, and the four waiting candles. For a moment they hesitated, open-mouthed and amazed.

“What the devil is this!” The loud voice was now identified as belonging to the corpulent Arthur Birling, uncle of the Eric Birling hidden in the shadowed corner. The two of them made an interesting comparison, sharing many facial characteristics. Yet where the thin nose and high cheekbones of Eric Birling’s face gave him a noble, leonine aspect, on his uncle the same structure appeared blunt and axe-like. Arthur Birling entered the chapel like a locomotive, his considerable girth charging up the aisle as if unstoppable. Dark hair escaped the edges of his hat, giving his angry features a savage demeanour. He carried, I noted with professional detachment, a walking stick although his gait was unimpaired. An affectation or a weapon?