Holmesian Derivations

The title sounds like it hails from something like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings rather than a Sherlock Holmes story, but writers who step into drama seem to suddenly become inspired. So it is here, where the climax of the first part occurs—which is a good thing, since I was wondering when it would show up, but it’s just in time.

The atmosphere is tense, as Lestrade, who’s just dropped in to deliver the shattering news to Gregson’s case, is dumbfounded and not afraid to admit it.

“I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the secretary….”

He also comments that he’s dropped in on a council of war, and that’s exactly what it turns out to be.

The murder of the main suspect is both similar and unsimilar to the first, except this time the man has been killed in his own rented room, but with the word RACHE again written in blood on the wall, and with a very clear, very bloody stab through the side and into the heart.

Watson, as this is gradually revealed, feels that his “nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as [he] thought of it.” Oh Watson, you’re so jonesing for adventure.

Holmes remains poker-faced throughout Lestrade’s story (the story-within-a-story that Doyle is getting better at, and will become a vital mechanic through the rest of the series), a far cry from the man dancing with joy at a scientific discovery. Events seem to have doured even him.

And then, this happens:

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is complete.”

This is one of the things I love about Sherlock Holmes: he’s almost childlike in his enjoyment at discovery, even if it happens within some of the most joyless subject matters. And, of course, his brilliance.

And now we come to the dog-poisoning.

This tends to be skipped over when people remember fondly A Study in Scarlet, and Watson makes very sure that we know that the dog was old, sick, and needed to be put out of its misery before Holmes poisons it with the evidence that Lestrade has so carelessly put into his pocket, but plastic baggies weren’t around back then:

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.

Unfortunately, the dog is a long time dying, and seems fine for minutes on end. This provokes another outburst from Holmes, this time far less joyful.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had met.

He’s now moved, impassioned, by the case; whereas before, Watson actually had to drag him along to Lariston Gardens in the first place. Also, nobody except Watson is actually being mature in this room.

And then Holmes tries the other pill, which is when we come to the deviousness of the case ¹: the dog dies (not all that well, it has to be said). And it’s all because the murderer presented his victims with the most nerve-wracking of choices: choose between two pills, “one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless.”

Holmes further comments, “I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all.” And can’t you just love that: what he views as a failure on his part is beyond the reasoning of those around him and probably most readers, but he’s a quick study. Sherlock Holmes isn’t perfect, but he’s pretty damn good.

It’s the cabbie what done it. ² It’s brilliantly done, with the right amount of storytelling vigor as the man is captured and Holmes proclaims the murderer’s identity, and the murderer attempts to escape by jumping through the window—with cuffed hands I might add. Cue satisfying fight scene.

And then we end the chapter with what seems to be the perfect lead-in to the next: “…we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse to answer them,” says Holmes.

But the next chapter is a non-sequitar into the next story-within-a-story, and that one goes on for several chapters. If this was a serial, no one would get answers for weeks on end.

Oh Doyle. Pacing, what did you do to it? Even when read straight, the sudden break is jarring and not at all satisfactory. ³

Notes:

1. And which actually has been copied over in BBC’s Sherlock, “A Study in Pink”. [back]
2. There are additional echoes in Sherlock: “for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself.” [back]
3. This is where Sherlock‘s “A Study in Pink” wins over the original: the ending is tighter, the murderer more frightening to a modern day tale, without having to resort to stereotypes… much. [back]

Watson, Watson, Watson. Poor old Watson, cooped up with his illness, unable to accompany Holmes on his fact-finding mission. It’s, dare I say it, all the more boring without Watson by Holmes’ side—but of course, they didn’t know each other as well as they would later. After the excitement of visiting a murder scene, the promise of Watson bringing out his revolver in preparation is promising but ultimately unfulfilled.

Watson’s sensitivity is further illustrated by his musings on the nature of the murder, which has disturbed him greatly, even though he’d seen his comrades-in-arms hacked to pieces (good gods).

For Holmes’ part (and retelling), that involved tailing a (seemingly) old woman, then leaping up on the back of the cab she takes, showing us Holmes’ nimbleness and dogged determination. His imperfection, strangely good humor, is shown by how easily he’s fooled by an admittedly excellent actor, and thus loses the bait of the ring from earlier without much to show for it.

We get very little for not very much in this chapter, which feels almost like filler as Doyle grasped for the next event in his story; still, you can see it as a transition from a wavering involvement on Watson’s part to a more serious role as partner and confidant. There is some character development, a pleasant touch, although it’s not as deep as it had been in previous installments. And thus this chapter gets a rating of readable, just above “we read it so you don’t have to”.

A Study in Scarlet is even more imperfect than I remembered. Bert Coules & company had better rescue this one full mightily and well (they’ve managed to do it for “The Lion’s Mane”, which I never thought possible. They pull off miracles, they do; I may just crack the audio drama adaptation early, the canon text is painful on analysis).

Next time: Watson is actually involved, bringing us closer to the end of Part 1 and to the beginning of Part 2, where we must endure flashbacks not involving our main characters, and laced with sensationalistic and nigh-intolerant views on the part of the author, and I rarely ever enjoy an Author Tract.

We begin with Holmes’ bringing to light what he had managed to deduce in the previous chapter, and how he came to do it. Later on, Doyle does a better job of interspersing explanation with reaction (in Watson’s and/or the current audience of characters’ exclamations and tension) or even action (such as the accused leaping up to attempt to murder Holmes); here, he’s relying on wonderment from the previous chapter to hold the reader’s interest. This has somewhat mixed results, to put it kindly. There’s strangeness almost enough, such as Holmes being able to determine the number of suspects, the height and age of the as yet unseen murderer, his intimate knowledge of cigar leavings, etc. Almost enough.

Oh, and if you ever had doubts of the canonicity of Holmes’ vanity, here it is:

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

Of many aspects of Holmes’ character, this one does not change until his retirement. Possibly.

During the constable’s retelling (a technique that Doyle uses fairly often), Holmes interrupts from time to time with deductions that throw the constable out of his wits. But the constable’s story itself lacks some flair that’s present later on. Hm; “later on, in the later stories”, and soon, “in the next book, The Sign of Four“. Perhaps A Study in Scarlet was not the wisest choice to redux, but at the same time, I need a base comparison for the undoubtedly more lively adaptation from Coules.

We again refer to Watson’s lighting of Holmes’ fire (something unnecessary as time went on) in Holmes’ rather pleasant gratitude and the title drop:

I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?

And as for Holmes, an item that Watson should have added to his list of Sherlock Holmes’ limits would be musical knowledge, in particular that of the violin. Although that might be tempered by Holmes’ singing, which doesn’t appear all that impressive:

“And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

Watson, you’re more observant than you give yourself credit for. Whatever happened to you?