Category Archives: A Study in Scarlet

The final chapter in A Study in Scarlet doesn’t disappoint as an interesting read, despite being an information dump of how Holmes solved the case. You’d think this would simply be a dry litany, but instead we see how all the oddities that Watson observed over the course of the story come together into one whole:

• Holmes’ attention to peculiar ground details around the murder scene.

• Holmes’ study of poisons (in particular alkaloids).

• Holmes’ eclectic study of past sensational murder cases, both in England and abroad in America (and likely elsewhere on the globe).

• Holmes’ random knowledge of things like cigarette ashes, shoe sizes, and dirt.

• Holmes’ Baker Street Irregulars and the tasks they were set upon.

• And, let’s face it, Holmes’ non-squeamishness around corpses.

It’s cathartic and even pleasing to see everything come together in Holmes’ mind and odd habits.

Jefferson Hope dies a Disney Death of sorts (i.e., nobody has a hand in his death but nature), which is the best ending he could have gotten.

And Holmes’ assistance in the case is entirely ignored by the papers, to his indignant amusement. But Watson promises that he’s going to patch that up, and until then—

Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.

This is part of a poem from Horace, Book 1, Satire 1, and can be roughly translated as:

The public hisses at me, but I applaud myself
in my own own house and contemplate the riches in my chest.

And considering Holmes’ arrogance, it’s entirely appropriate that his vanity about his gifts (deserved as they may be) is represented by a quote from a Roman miser.

Next time: we’re going to take a break from reading, and instead evaluate the pros and cons of BBC Radio 4′s adaptation of Study. I suspect there will be vast improvements in the storytelling—there almost always are where this particular radio adaptation is concerned.

This and the next chapter are closely linked together: two sides of the same coin, the murderer’s story and Holmes’ retelling of how he put the pieces together. We’ll see if Doyle can keep things as interesting in both parts; for the nonce, Jefferson Hope’s tale of how he came to find and murder Drebber and Stangerson is quite interesting all on its own.

I’ll note that there is a parallel between Holmes’ relentless pursuit (once encouraged by Watson) and Hope’s, with Hope even expressing admiration:

“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”

It’s no mistake that phrases that would come to describe Holmes later (and our drinking game), “iron constitution” and “bloodhound”, were also used to describe Hope. Hope and Holmes are on just about equal footing, though Holmes wins the match ((Something that also comes up in the final confrontation between the cabbie and Holmes in BBC’s Sherlock.)). Which brings up an interesting point that Neil Gaiman played with in “A Study in Emerald”: (spoilers) what if Holmes was the murderer? Gaiman’s set-up is quite delightful and reflective of the original source material.

Doyle packs a punch in Hope’s story here, improving visibly even upon the previous chapters, and it’s the most riveting retelling in Study yet. Admittedly, the impact would have been less were it not for the depth of Hope’s backstory, as problematic as some of them were: the desperation of the victims escaping once more and what it means, the importance of vengeance, the satisfaction of taking that vengeance at long last and in such a manner that begs Providence for heavenly justice on earth.

There’s one unanswered question at the end: who played the part of the haggard old woman who retrieved Lucy Ferrier’s wedding ring? Hope’s not speaking, so hopefully Holmes will reveal the culprit in the next chapter, or at least a description of said man.

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 ((And which actually has been copied over in BBC’s Sherlock, “A Study in Pink”.)): 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. ((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.”)) 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. ((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.))

We start off with humor. This is not at all bad; in fact, it’s kind of hilarious.

First of all, in ye olden days, the media circus took a little while to take off ((Unless Sherlock Holmes was Murderously Attacked.)), so it’s only now that the newspapers are—incompetently—covering the murder case. It’s nice to know that some things never change. Watson acts as our RSS reader, if RSS readers had wry senses of humor.

The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features… After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the government and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal administration….

The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being a political one….

Wow. Come to think of it, it’s as if nothing has changed. I think that’s the NYT, WaPo, and take your pick of random news channel right there. It’s too bad there apparently wasn’t a Daily Show or Onion back then.

Sherlock Holmes quips, instead of being bitter, over how Scotland Yard will score well no matter whether they screwed up or not ((Well. That’s not like the present, I guess? Maybe?)):

“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.’”

Holmes is fluent in French (and German, actually, as will be shown later on in the canon, though no doubt he knows the words “murder”, “revenge”, “blood”, etc. in any number of languages), and the last sentence means: “A fool always finds a greater fool to admire him.”

I love this chapter already.

No, wait, I love it even more, although…

“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

Watson, what the hell. Argue all you want that this is just Victorian vernacular to refer to urchins as street Arabs, but that’s still thoughtless. “Rats” is also thoughtless. Oh Watson.

Anyways, we get to meet the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of street urchins led by Wiggins who act as Holmes’ unusual eyes, ears, and messengers throughout London. He talks to them as if they were adults, gives them money, and sends them on their merry sneaking ways. This is just awesome, and in the present day, would have turned into a spin-off a la the Sarah Jane Adventures.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is organization.”

I so love this chapter. And also more Holmes snark: “Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.” It’s even more amusing that Holmes is nonplussed when he suspects that the worse may have happened, that Tobias Gregson has figured things out, but is relieved (visibly so) when it’s just another screw-up. Oh Holmes. The conversation between the two is vitalized and energetic, and Doyle is really on a roll here, what with the story-within-a-story being far more lively than the previous interview with $RANDOM_CONSTABLE.

And then it ends on a legitimate cliffhanger: Lestrade rushes in to tell us all that Gregson’s top suspect has been murdered.

This is by far the most well-done chapter in the book so far, and thus gets a rating of “Must Read”.