A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes
flair for deception!”
    I lit my pipe as Holmes took his customary place in the chair next to mine. His elbows rested on his thighs as he leaned forward to better observe my reactions. “There was one moment, when Mrs Nyland asked about her brother’s will, when you faltered. Oh, I doubt she noticed anything but I saw the lie rise to your lips – and your unwillingness to utter it. Still, you prevailed. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
    “But?”
    “As impressive as your performance was, I fail to perceive its purpose. Surely it would have been simpler to tell Mrs Nyland the truth – the full truth – concerning her brother’s death. I would not have thought such casual deception in your nature.”
    “Casual?” I asked.
    “All men lie,” Holmes said as he reached for his pipe. “Deception is part of our nature. Some lie out of habit, others out of compulsion. Honest men lie only under duress, when deception seems the lesser evil. Others lie when the truth might lead to some unpleasantness or inconvenience. Now I know you are not a habitual liar, nor do I perceive any duress which might result in your extraordinary performance for Mrs Nyland. Unless – perhaps you feel compelled to protect Dr Jenkins and the others?”
    “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”
    Holmes lit his pipe. “I know you have no affiliation with the school in question. Still, I suppose you may harbour a misguided impulse to protect the reputation of the institution.“
    “No,” I answered.
    Holmes leaned back and spread his arms. “Where does this leave us? You’ve concealed the truth from Mrs Nyland to avoid – what? – Embarrassment? Scandal? Unpleasantness?”
    “Has it occurred to you that Bellamy endured an agonizing death to prevent his sister from learning his secret?”
    “Of course it has,” Holmes answered easily. “You know my feelings on the subject. The dead are entitled to their secrets only until they interfere with those still living. Had Bellamy wished his secrets protected he should have remained alive to guard them himself.”
    I shook my head, though in truth I had expected this answer. “Even so,” I argued, “I find I cannot so quickly dismiss such determination from my thoughts. His death was horrible. Remember how neatly the arsenic bottle was returned to its hiding place? How carefully it was stoppered? The drawer locked and the key returned to its ingenious hiding place. I admit I was struck by the resolve he evidenced. Everyone we spoke to insisted he was a good man. Bellamy will be missed by many.”
    “What of it?” Holmes asked, a trace of exasperation in his voice. “It is not a detective’s function to pass judgement on the dead. Whether he was a good man or otherwise makes no difference to my investigation.”
    “Are you not concerned that revealing the circumstances leading to Bellamy’s death could create a scandal capable of overshadowing the good he accomplished in life?” I asked.
    “Not in the least,” Holmes said. “I have no intention of revealing the results of my investigation to newspapers or gossips, only to my client. In any event, I have no fear of scandal. Such concerns plague men of other occupations, not mine.”
    “Fair enough,” I conceded.
    “Come now, Watson,” Holmes said sharply. “You seem to have developed a fondness for this particular brand of deception. While I do not doubt your concern for Bellamy’s reputation is genuine, it is not your primary motive. Why this elaborate charade? Why paper over a large falsehood with so many little truths?”
    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

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