A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes (34 page)

Having already spoken at length with Mr Fenton, I went in first to the milliner’s. The shop had clearly seen better days; five years ago it must have been quite fashionable, but now it had a slightly run-down, shabby look. The proprietress, Mrs Frobrisher, a thin, pinch-lipped woman, looked eagerly at me as I entered through the heavy door. “Good day, sir!” she chirped, walking towards me. “A good day to you indeed! And what may I do for you, sir? Something for your wife, perhaps?”

“Actually, I am a bachelor,” I replied without thought.

“Oh, indeed, sir,” Mrs Frobrisher said, not losing a beat in her well-rehearsed sales pitch. “Perhaps this is for a sister, or – a special friend?”

“Actually, no,” I said firmly. “I’m here on another matter – the glowing green light.”

The sudden turn in Mrs Frobrisher’s countenance was evident; her face darkened, and she eyed me suspiciously. “Not another reporter, are you?” she asked cautiously.

“No,” I replied. “I am with my friend, Mr Holmes –” I thought perhaps at the mention of my friend’s name the lady would become more cooperative, but she gave no indication she recognized it “– we are investigating the matter for your neighbour, Mr Fenton.”

“Oh, him,” Mrs Frobrisher sniffed, turning her back to me and walking further into her shop. I followed her at close quarters, eager to get her reaction to our client. “You do not find him agreeable?” I asked cautiously, hoping to elicit a telling response.

“Agreeable enough, I suppose,” she replied. “Always on the bustle, always grousing about this or that. Course, with the shattered windows, I can understand the complaint, mind you. I would hardly like to have to replace one window here myself, the way things have been lately.”

“I take it you have been spared the vandalism your neighbour has suffered?”

“Right enough. So far as I know, it is only the bakery that has had problems at all. But this green light sir – that we’ve all suffered from, that we have!”

“You surprise me, madam,” I said. “I would have thought such an irregularity would bring many curious onlookers, perhaps some even in to your shop.”

“Oh yes, many curious onlookers indeed!” the good lady fumed. “Yet that is all they ever do – look. All this extra attention has not done me any good. I ask you, sir, how am I to compete with the shops on High Street and the fancy wares they sell? It is difficult enough for a lady to make her way in the world.”

I nodded in sympathy. “I understand that you recently had to take in a boarder.”

Mrs Frobrisher furrowed her brow at me. “You mean Mr Templeton? Oh, he’s a right enough fellow, always paid up on time and willing to help out a widow woman when asked.” The shopkeeper lowered her voice, as if taking me into her confidence. “New to town, or so he said. Came in from Woking. He never seems to go out, so I daresay he truly doesn’t know anybody. Handsome fellow, too, I don’t mind saying.” I smiled at Mrs Frobrisher’s description of her boarder. I wondered if the good fellow had any notion of the affections his landlady held for him.

“Still, you must know something about the strange light – seen something, perhaps, or heard something unusual?”

Mrs Frobrisher shook her head. “I have already explained it all to the constable, sir. I have only seen and heard what everyone else has. And right loud it is, too – sometimes it seems to shake the very house with its thunder!” The woman shook her head. “Still, sir, I could not say what it is at all.”

There seemed nothing left to ask, so I bade Mrs Frobrisher “Good day” and went on to the fishmonger. The owner of that shop, Mr Pearson, had little to add to Mr Fenton’s and Mrs Frobrisher’s accounts. The butcher shop, sadly, was closed; I found this a bit unusual, as it seemed before its time, though I certainly was unsure what the custom in the locale normally was.

I had saved the bank for last, and asked to speak to the branch manager. This time, when I mentioned the name of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, it earned a response I felt sure would have pleased him immensely. “Mr Holmes, sir?” the bank manager said. “The detective? Of course I have heard about the flying object, as the newspapers are calling it – though I have not seen it myself. Does Mr Holmes suspect something criminal is afoot?”

“I am unsure what he suspects,” I honestly replied.

“Well, if the bank is in danger from some menace, I hope Mr Holmes will tell me,” he said. “Though I feel safer knowing that he is looking into the matter.”

Once I had concluded my interviews I hurried back across the street, eager to report to Holmes. I had learned some time ago not to spare him any detail, lest I leave out something he would deem important. As I suspected, Holmes professed to be flattered by the bank manager’s recognition of his name, though he seemed less amused than I at Mrs Frobrisher’s demonstrative interest in her tenant. “Very curious, Watson, don’t you agree?”

I hardly saw what in my endeavours had roused Holmes’s curiosity, but I knew better than to ask. Instead, I queried, “What next, Holmes?”

“Now,” Holmes said gravely, looking me square in the eye, “we wait.”

I feared our wait would be long, though since we had no need to stay silent to flush out our quarry, I was at least able to stretch my legs from time to time by taking a quick walk up and down the alley. Holmes stayed still the entire time, his cat-like eyes intent on the bakery across the street, though there seemed no need for his vigilance, as it turned out that we were not alone in our evening’s endeavours. Indeed, soon a small crowd had gathered, filled with curious onlookers, newspapermen, and even several police officials, all eager to catch a glimpse of the glowing green object lighting up the sky.

Despite the dismal conditions, or perhaps because of them, I had begun to despair that anything would occur, and my eyelids began to feel quite heavy, when I heard a voice shout, “There it is!” A collective gasp arose from the crowd as we all shifted our gaze skywards. There, indeed, high above the bakery, was a green light, glowing dimly at first, but then more strongly, blazing through the murky conditions quite clearly, as clear as the street lamps below. At the same time, too, I heard a thunderous sound, rumbling softly at first before building. It is difficult to describe how such an other worldly sight affected me; I stared at the object in awe, but also in dread. Whatever could it be? The more I looked, the less certain I was, but I found, despite my mounting fear, that I could not look away.

The green glow must have lasted nearly a minute before it finally diffused, dimming again before the night sky once more became dark and grey. The people gathered to watch the event paused, waiting to see if something more would occur, before they finally began milling back to their homes. All save the officers who, after a hushed conference, started knocking on the doors of the businesses and residences of the street. Seeing this, I moved closer to Holmes. “But what could they possibly be doing?” I asked him, indicating an officer with a nod of my head.

“They are interrogating the inhabitants of the area about the green light,” Holmes whispered, “to see if anyone has knowledge of the incident.”

“But how could they, Holmes?” I asked, astounded. “I do not see how any mortal man could be involved in such an event.”

Holmes’s smile was bracing. “No, I am sure you do not, Watson,” he said. Yet he spoke rather distractedly; he watched intently as one of the officers began knocking on the door of the solicitor’s office next to us. After several minutes of pounding, a sleepy-looking housemaid finally answered the door, and a brief conversation ensued, though I could hear none of it myself.

The officers continued to knock on doors up and down the street. Many of the businesses seemed empty – the bakery, for instance, which had no room to let. The door to Mr Fenton’s importer neighbour on our other side likewise remained unanswered. The rest of the interviews all transpired quickly, and the officers soon stood together as one in front of the bakery itself, glancing up from time to time, looking as puzzled as I felt.

The rain was becoming quite numbing, and, having now seen the incident for ourselves first hand, I moved forward to step into the street. I suspected it would prove difficult to find a hansom so late in this part of town, but a walk of a few blocks would surely yield better results. Yet as I moved forward, Holmes placed a restraining arm on my sleeve. “Where are you going, Watson?” he asked.

“Home, to Baker Street,” I said. “There is nothing more to do here, Holmes.”

“I am not so sure we have seen it all yet,” Holmes mysteriously replied.

I sighed as I felt a cold sliver of rain slip into my coat and down my back. Moving back under the ledge, I resigned myself to a further watch.

We stayed several more hours, though happily the rain abated soon after the green object had left the sky. We stayed until our client and several of his neighbours came to prepare their wares for the day, until the first rays of the sun had returned, and until the lamp lighter once again came down the street, climbing up and down the ornate lamps to complete his nightly rounds. Once the sun had fully risen, Holmes turned to me. “Well, then, Watson, I daresay we have now seen it all.”

“Indeed, Holmes?” I queried, a tad cross. “I daresay we had ‘seen it all’ some hours back.”

Holmes laughed, a short barking sound. “My dear Watson! This evening has surely been a hardship on you. Perhaps, however, a hearty breakfast of steak, tomato and egg at Simpson’s will go far to revive your flagging spirits.”

“But what of the case, Holmes?” I asked. “What of the unidentified flying object?”

“What of it, Watson?” Holmes replied with an infuriating wink.

For two days I badgered Holmes about the mystery, but for two days he stayed absolutely silent on the matter. He left our rooms for hours at a time, as was his wont, and came home more than once with a few foul-smelling packages for his chemistry experiments. The third morning after we had witnessed the event loomed dull and dreary; this pleased Holmes, who left shortly after breakfast and returned well after sunset. I thought perhaps he would retire for the evening, but once again he dragged me out into the dismal murk of a cold, wet London spring.

It was quite late when we arrived at Cleveland Street; by this time, a rather large crowd had gathered. We sought shelter again under the ledge in the alleyway and waited for the green light to appear. Soon it did, in the same splendour as before, attended, once again, by the distinct crash of thunder. Yet as I watched, transfixed, the colour of the light suddenly began to change. First to red, then yellow, and then suddenly a blazing white that seemed to light up the entire sky! Then just as suddenly there was a small explosion, followed by a crash, as if the ghastly light had fallen from the sky.

The crowd watching in attendance was stunned into silence; I, myself, felt shaken as well. Only Holmes seemed unaffected, chuckling as he was at the colourful display. “Splendid, eh Watson?” he asked. “I feel reasonably certain that our little display sent the appropriate message to those behind this excellent bit of theatre. I daresay we have seen the last of it.”

“But, Holmes,” I said as we stepped into a waiting cab and headed towards Baker Street, “are you implying that
you
were behind tonight’s spectacle?”

“You could say I added a few more ingredients to their pot – and created quite a stir in the process, I must say!”

“But I don’t understand, Holmes,” I sputtered. “You know what the glowing object was?”

“Of course, Watson,” Holmes said. “You mean to say after our vigil three nights prior you still have no clue?” I could only shrug in response. Holmes shook his head. “Well, perhaps it is no matter. I must confess that the entire scheme is certainly the product of the highest intelligence. Yes, of that there can be no doubt…”

“But how was it done, Holmes?”

Holmes smiled. “White phosphorus!” he said. “When white phosphorus is exposed to damp, wet air, it glows green. Yes, from the moment Mr Fenton mentioned the green glow of the flying object, I had no doubts as to its cause. But how was it done? That was the question, Watson, and the process is certainly a very clever, though somewhat elaborate, one! Very careful planning was needed. Here is how it worked. Every evening that promised rain a large, covered ox-cart was brought into the alley next to Mr Fenton’s shop – you observed that, no doubt?”

“I confess I did,” I said, “but I attached no significance to it.”

“That is because you only see, Watson. You do not observe. Such a large ox-cart – for what purpose? For a butcher, or perhaps a fishmonger, certainly. But a small bakery would utilize less product than such a cart would explain. And certainly no milliner’s shop would require such large wares! No, the cart had to be part of the plan – and once I knew that, everything began to fall into place.”

“Then what was in the cart, Holmes?”

“Tanks for storing hydrogen gas, and a rather large balloon. Yes, it certainly was the invention of a clever mind indeed! Attached to the balloon was a basket designed to hold the white phosphorus. A wind-up device was inside – when the clockwork ran down, the basket opened, exposing the white phosphorus to the wet night air.”

“Ingenious!”

“No more so than many children’s toys. Of course the difficulty was in flying the balloon – and in releasing it. The balloon was grey – all the better to blend in with the dismal night sky. It had to be fastened somewhere near to the bakery, and only after night, when it would not be seen. And yet it likewise had to be unattached before daybreak. Otherwise, even on the cloudiest of days, someone would see the balloon in the sky, and the mystery would be solved.”

“So just how was that accomplished, Holmes?”

Holmes’s smile grew wide. “The lamp light man, Watson! Why should he climb on such early century finery when he could easily reach up with his long stick to light the lamp? Of course, he was doing more than lighting it – he was attaching the loop of the thread, passed on by a confederate. Then, near sun up, down the street he came again, only this time, he cut the rope, allowing the balloon to fly far away from the scene of the crime. Oh, yes, Watson everyone may notice the lamp light man, but few bother to observe his actions – I did, however, and saw the knife in his hand as plain as day.”