Somehow this just struck me as extremely Sherlockian (or Holmesian, or whatever). I suppose we need to replace the alcohol with a syringe and much smaller bottle, although it’s not as if Holmes didn’t have a brandy snifter at 221B.

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Happy New Year’s!

No related posts.

But yeah, been busy over at the main blog. As soon as I find a secret pool of time I’ll update this here dusty ole’ site.

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The Blue Carbuncle: Kindle or EPub.

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Folks, we are in need of serious House oracles here.

As of this writing, season 4 of House, M.D. has ended on a couple of tear-jerker, heart-stopper episodes—and the fallout in season 5 is going to be ugly.

But as I’m a Holmesian as well as a House fan, I look at the events of the last four episodes of season 4 as a darker mirror of The Sign of Four—and the analysis of the differences and similarities between the two may yield some answers to the future of season 5. (I also extend my analysis into events beyond Sign of Four.)

And since we’ve got some months ahead before Season 5 lands, and maybe an actor’s strike on the way, let’s have a good go at it.

A House, MD and Sherlock Holmes Primer

For Holmesians unfamiliar with House, and House-ians unfamiliar with Holmes, here’s what you need to know:

• Gregory House is the even more bitter, far scruffier, and just as dark analog of Sherlock Holmes.

• James Wilson is the less hero-worshipping, non-biographer, and just as oddly obsessed analog of Dr. John H. Watson.

  House is just as dependent on Wilson for friendship as Holmes was on Watson.

  Wilson has multiple ex-wives, a la some theories on Watson’s very odd marital life.

• The show features strange medical mysteries rather than strange crime mysteries, but it’s mysteries all the same.

• House has a tendency towards self-destruction, popping Vicodin (”poor man’s cocaine”) as much as Holmes self-injected his 7% solution.

  Both typically don’t need their drugs when hot on a case. But towards their respective ends, both end up taking drugs while hot on a case—implied in the case of Holmes (”The Devil’s Foot”), and directly shown in the case of House (season 3)—and to their serious detriment in both cases.

• There are arguments that Lisa Cuddy is the analog of Inspector Lestrade. Just add more brains and a little dash of sexual tension.

For more comparisons, there’s “House/Homes/Holmes” at House MD Guide.

And Now for the Really Important Stuff

• As of Season 4, a rather assertive and very House-like female character showed up: Amber Volakis (aka “Cutthroat Bitch”).

  She is the bitchier analog of Mary Morstan, as she becomes romantically involved with Wilson and takes him away from House.

  Contrary to popular belief for most of season 4, Amber actually has a human side, and is probably the first person to really and sanely care about Wilson without, let’s face it, extremely neurotic price tags attached.

• Amber becomes the center of one of House’s cases in “Wilson’s Heart”, just as Mary Morstan is the center of The Sign of Four.

  The difference is that Amber dies.

Just think of the implications.

Let’s explore them in more detail.

The Three Big Questions

After the solar plexus punch and roundhouse kick to the head of “House’s Head” and “Wilson’s Heart”, the two ending episodes of House season 4, there are three big questions left over:

• Will House and Wilson mend their friendship when House solved the case—but still lost Amber?

• Why was House drinking himself into oblivion at five in the afternoon?

• What will happen to the relationship between House and Cuddy?

We’ll do our best to answer these in the next three sections.

The Cracking of the Friendship

“I thought I’d met all your friend.”

“Who could come tonight? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none. I do not encourage visitors.”

There Are Friends, and Then There Are Friends

Both Holmes and House are highly dependent on their respective Watson or Wilson, and, as Cuddy once mentioned to House, “I thought I’d met all your friend.”

Unfortunately, this did not mean that either of them appreciated the only friend they cared to accumulate over the years; indeed, both take their W-companion for granted.

This is not a good base for a friendship to survive getting as earth-shaken as House’s did—or as Holmes’ did with Watson when he decided to fake his death at Reichenbach, but more on that later. Even for the patient Watson, this always-present rift eventually resulted in a parting that would not be resolved for over a decade.

For something as traumatic as Amber’s death, and House’s incidental involvement in the cause as well as the failed rescue, and the fact that Wilson is not the hero-worshipper that Watson was, this probably means a permanent break may occur much sooner. Say, before season 6.

Pushing Things to the Breaking Point

The next point of comparison is the level of commitment that Watson had with Mary, and that Wilson had with Amber. How much does Wilson hate House, or would Watson hate Holmes, when/if their respective loves died?

It’s been noted that Watson may have grown bored of Mary, leaving her alone many times for adventures with Holmes—as was the case for Wilson and all his ex-wives. But let’s think about the moment—when Amber’s and Mary’s cases were active, and when both men were guaranteed to care deeply. Suppose that Mary had died during The Sign of Four?

And let’s suppose that Holmes was also incidentally involved with Mary’s death, as House was with Amber’s.

I think this would have brought the Holmes-Watson relationship to the breaking point, as even before Reichenbach there were signs of arguments (as when Watson took temporary lodgings away from Baker Street) and bitter disappointment (as when Holmes screwed with Watson’s sympathies by pretending to be dying from a horrible disease, just for the sake of a case in “The Dying Detective”).

Actually leading to the death of a client he loved would break Watson’s hero-worship of Holmes as superman of the law; it would be too much.

And if it would break Holmes and Watson, it will surely break House and Wilson.

Doom and Gloom, O Noes?

Nothing lasts forever—not friendship, but also not the breaking of friendships. Well, no, actually that’s a lie. But not in the case of Holmes and Watson, and probably not in the case of House and Wilson.

Oblivion in the Tender Mercy of Drugs

“Why’d you get so drunk at 5 in the afternoon alone?”
“I need a reason?”
“What are you running away from?”
“When I’m drinking without you, what am I running away from? Hmm. One of those imponderables.”

… Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature.

The Downhill Slope

Why did House drink himself into oblivion at five in the afternoon?

Why did Holmes increase his cocaine usage after Watson left?

Did they need any particular reason?

Probably not. It’s more a case of House and Holmes being high maintenance—and once their W-companions no longer have time to maintain them, their inherently self-destructive natures take hold. It’s a matter of gravity, not a matter of what pushes them down the hill.

Their self-destruction may arguably also be attempts to get attention, likely conscious ones since both House and Holmes are master manipulators of other people’s emotions. House tried to dial up Wilson when he was drunk for a ride home, and instead got Amber (thus leading to her death), while Holmes could probably draw the connection between extreme self-neglect and Watson showing up (a la “The Reigate Squires” and “The Devil’s Foot”).

It’s Darkest Before the Dawn

For Holmes, eventually obsession with Moriarty came along, and then “The Final Solution”. By the end of the story, he’d dragged Watson into Switzerland while running from an arch enemy, and it ended with Watson believing Holmes had been killed while fighting Moriarty, both of them plunging into the deadly depths of the raging waters of the Reichenbach Falls. That took a lot out of Watson.

Then, three years later, Holmes returns and surprises Watson in his study, causing the doctor to faint dead away for the first and only time in his life. Quite a re-entrance.

It’s never shown in the canon, but that readjustment between friends must have taken a while to work through, and happens to be the subject of many a pastiche and exploratory essay on “The Final Solution” and “The Empty House”.

But despite all that, Holmes did return a changed man. At first this resulted in a certain gentling of his character into someone who Watson could reconcile with, however terrible and cruel was Holmes’s three-year deception.

Will something similar happen to House, or rather, will House do something comparable? He almost certainly has to in order to change himself. Some things you can only do by yourself—and some things must be done utterly alone.

“People Don’t Change.”

The reunion between Holmes and Watson, as good as it was for a few years, did not last. Holmesian scholars will recognize the time when the last “normal” Holmes story was written, when Holmes’ unstable nature re-asserted itself, and when the final bitterness of Watson came to the forefront.

Eventually Holmes and Watson split up, and would not reunite once more until “His Last Bow”, over a decade later.

Which means that whatever change House does manage to effect, it will not last. As is commonly said on the show, “People don’t change.”

Relationships: Other People

“Nothing matters. We’re all just cockroaches. Wildebeasts dying on the river bank. Nothing we do has any lasting meaning…. So you give up on something real, so that you can hold on to hope. The thing is, hope is for sissies.”

“Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow—misery.”

Letting the Center Not Hold

In many ways, House and Holmes share similar outlooks on life—i.e., it’s hopeless.

Then their Wing-men leave them. There might be a reunion. There might even be change. But nothing lasts forever, and friendships are unfortunately things.

Human beings are social animals. Loneliness gets to even those of us who don’t seek companionship. For people like House and Holmes, the dichotomy of needing a close friend, yet a prickliness that denies people getting close in the first place, is not a healthy thing. Something needs to give.

Whatever needs to give, however, it can’t give while they’re supported by their respective Wilson or Watson. For them to truly change—or to decide to seek an ultimate solution—they must not have enablers. It’s cruel, and sometimes results in suicide or something close to it.

But somehow, House and Holmes are both too damn stubborn to die—as Moriarty in either the show or the books would tell you.

Reaching Out

The final breakup with Watson was followed up just a few years later by Holmes’ early retirement and retreat—nay, perhaps even flight—to the countryside. Away from London, where he had always been at home; and away from cases, which he had always devoured rapaciously.

But something even stranger happened, out there on the Sussex Downs, near the coast. Holmes made a friend in Harold Stackhurst—the day he came out there, in fact. It was quite an achievement for the man who had but one friend in University, and that only after he had spent most of a year moping alone; or for the man who made no friends except for Watson for most of his life.

Additionally, this was a friend with whom he was on such terms that not only could he drop by Stackhurst’s in the evenings without announcement, but Stackhurst could do the same. For Holmes, this is practically sheer instant intimacy.

In fact, given his familiarity with multiple people in “The Lion’s Mane”, he may have made multiple friends. Which is just downright weird. (Indeed, the concept weirds Watson out in Bert Coules’ radio play adaptation of the same story.)

Will House do the same—reach out to someone? Perhaps even reach out to Cuddy, or to any of the other doctors on his old staff or his new one? He’s done this before when Wilson wasn’t available, albeit rarely; and despite its rareness, he does it more often than Holmes did at the same points in their lives.

My Final Predictions

To sum up:

1. House and Wilson will break up.

2. House will get to a dark place.

3. There may, or there may not be, a reunion, which either breaks up again or is never as intimate as it was before Amber’s death.

4. House will reach out to someone, probably Cuddy, or perhaps any of the old “ducklings”, or even the new ones.

Things will be hard. This is okay. Sometimes things have to be hard. But whether House will truly, truly, for reals change is still up in the air.

As an additional bonus, here’s my prediction of how the House, M.D. series will ultimately end: with his retirement, in homage to Holmes’ retirement to his bees in the Sussex countryside.

Or, you know, not.

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A House, MD and Sherlock Holmes Special: Predicting House Season Five Based On the Sherlock Holmes Canon

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Previously we looked at how Doyle revealed character depth in the flow of the story, rather than breaking flow to drop in character information.

Today, we’ll look at Doyle’s skills at description, atmosphere, and suspense as we lead into that part of any story, so maddening to many a writer: the middle.

Let us type.

About the Muddled Middle

It isn’t called “the muddled middle” for nothing. The middle of the story is a treacherous plot mire for the unwary writer, who has to make the beginning meet the end in some sane way, and bring about the story to a conclusion without losing the main thread. It’s easy to get lost and, like unfortunate ponies and villains caught unwares on the Grimpen Mire, sink into the slush.

Doyle’s middles rarely fail to please; indeed, the detective story lives for the middle. And it’s in the detective story that, in one’s desires to provide all manner of red herrings and alternate hypotheses and, let’s face it, out-and-out tricks, it’s even easier to lose the plot in the middle.

It helps, after the beginning (e.g., setting the stage for the rest of the story) is done, to start to dive immediately for the action.

Sliding Into the Middle

It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures.

Doyle could have chosen to follow Holmes on his excursion and give us the gory details. Thankfully he doesn’t. We still get the details, but we don’t get the extraneous action that risks leading us away from the plot—which, right now, is to get to Stoke Moran.

“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife’s death was little short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort.

Establishing motive in definite terms, the better to make it clear that things are not just likely to, but certainly will, move in bad directions soon.

“And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”

Holmes alludes to the seriousness and duration of their planned undertaking—Watson’s packing heat, and their excursion onto the dangerous Canon animal-infested grounds of Stoke Moran will last into the next day.

The Start of the Middle

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we engaged.

But note that while we are moving directly to the middle, we’re not simply landing at Stoke Moran right there and then. There are various reasons for this, which will be coming up shortly, but one reason is simply building suspense—moving from the safety of London and the pleasant spring day to the grimmer events of Stoke Moran.

Indeed, one reason I think the Sherlock Holmes stories are so popular is that each story encompasses one vital part of the Hero’s Journey: moving from the familiar, everyday world—the comfort of Baker Street and, here, the open countryside—into the dangerous, other world of adventure and darkness. We ease into the story, look forwards to leaving for adventure—and look forwards to returning from the other world. Those are among the most satisfying of beginnings, middles, and endings.

I’ll note that it doesn’t take much description in order to share a spring afternoon with Watson in the trap; just a few words and very little in the way of adjectives, the minimum necessary to differentiate some important details. Like the fact that the sun is bright; the clouds are fleecy. We’re engaged by sight, but also by smell—the moist earth, pleasant rather than dungy. And the shoots are not simply described as being present on the trees and hedges, but being thrown out—some action-as-description.

And nothing else is needed to get the job done; and any more would detract.

My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

“Look there!” said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the gray gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

Again, just enough description to get the job done of setting up a visual reference to Stoke Moran. Enough to establish that the action is happening somewhere concrete, rather than just a white room—yet not so much that the actual plot is lost. Description travels light here.

“Stoke Moran?” said he.

“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver.

“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are going.”

“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

We spend the right amount of time easing into the countryside, building up setting, and not a moment too soon we’re back into the action:

“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.

A minor note on stretching and shrinking; note that in the countryside, up until now, Doyle has been using the techniques of “show” for storytelling—information is revealed in dialogue, characters move and talk in real time rather than summary. “Show” is used there because these elements are important; whereas he compresses leaving the trap in a (relatively) short sentence because it’s not at all important.

This is one element of pacing. (It’s similar to one we saw at the beginning in Part 1.)

“I had thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word.”

And another minor note: the logical element of the cover story of being architects (done subtly by Holmes, who doesn’t declare out loud: “We Are Architects On Our Way To Stoke Moran” but leaves the meaning to be implied).

Keeping track of logical details, even small ones, is important. This would have been an easy detail to leave out (”But what if he gossips that some unusual people are visiting Roylott’s? Wouldn’t Holmes have thought of that?” That sort of thing). It’s another reason why so many new writers lose it entirely in the muddled middle.

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.”

Just an aside—note that Doyle matches actions to dialogue here; “shaking hands with us warmly” is part of the dialogue tag (the phrase indicating who is speaking). This is done sparingly, as it should be, but in the right places—very often to set up the scene with a new character.

“We have had the pleasure of making the doctor’s acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

This is also the right place for summary—and a very short one—of what transpired 500 words previously, when Roylott made his memorable entrance. There is no need for repetition.

“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”

Referencing our point a couple paragraphs ago, there are no dialogue tags here, because they aren’t needed (except when there is ambiguity in who is speaking, in which case a plain tag without additional descriptors is used). And there won’t be for some time, because the scene’s already been set up between these three.

“So it appears.”

“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?”

“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him tonight. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”

A note specific to the Holmes stories: often Dr. Watson is present, but not present in terms of being an active character. When someone is speaking, it’s more often than not Holmes; but notice that these words wouldn’t have come out of Watson’s mouth anyways. Voice is more than enough to distinguish between the two.

Description in Dual Roles

The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

Note that in contrast to Watson’s sparse but sufficient description of the summer day, or their approach earlier to Stoke Moran, he dives into detail here. This is in most part because this description is highly relevant to the upcoming parts of the middle, and partly for the atmosphere of portraying Stoke Moran in its declining years. Above I’ve highlighted in italics the parts that are atmosphere, and underlined the parts that are, basically, plot-orientated.

“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to be Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”

“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”

“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does snot seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end of the wall.”

“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.”

“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?”

“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”

“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?”

Note that after the description, to again set up our new scene, we are no longer in “tell” mode, but in full-out “show”. In dialogue, Holmes actively queries Miss Stoner, instead of Watson simply summing up what happened. In a mystery, this has the purpose of letting the story unfold for us, and allow us to walk with Holmes in his investigation; but in any story, this also serves the purpose of keeping the audience interested. Regardless of whether we’re reading a book or watching a movie, the human mind is attracted to and fascinated by motion, which is why “show” is a strong principle in storytelling.

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.”

Is this “tell” or “show”? We begin with summary of a nearly show sort, as Watson details what Holmes did, but end with full show with dialogue.

In either case, it’s also pacing. The summary here keeps the narrative speed consistent with the previous dialogue constant, and breaking back into “show” is also consistent with narrative speed.

Pacing is a difficult and subtle thing at times. This is when the experienced writer shows their intuition garnered from wrestling with this kind of technique repeatedly, because knowing how to pace comes with practice—lots of it. And even then, pacing is still difficult at times, and this is what second and third and etc drafts are for.

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the paneling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes traveled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

The high level of detail in the description here tends to be limited to mystery stories, and only when the details are relevant. For every other genre, and for most of the time in a mystery when the details aren’t under active investigation by the main characters, you do not need to inform people that the carpet is a Wilton, or where the furniture is exactly, etc.

Note also that Watson does not simply use dry description; he also adds color, such as talking about the brown and worm-eaten oak paneling of the room, a technically unnecessary detail—but it keeps things from getting boring.

A mention: there’s a “floating body parts” sentence here: “his eyes travelled round and round and up and down”, which makes it sound like his eyes got up and walked about by themselves. Overdoing this kind of bodily movement metaphor can give that usually unintendedly humorous impression, especially when it’s a cliche (”he rolled his eyes”).

“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last, pointing to a thick belt-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow.

“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”

“It looks newer than the other things?”

“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”

“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”

“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves.”

“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards.

Note that description isn’t limited to stationary objects or appearances, but also to motion. Description of motion can, indeed, be counted as a kind of show. Remember: moving objects are great at capturing reader attention.

Sherlock Holmes’ eccentric and eager investigative attitude at times, when hot on some scent, is perfectly illustrated here. There’s a reason why Watson amusedly compares Holmes to a hound from time to time.

Then he did the same with the wood-wrk with which the chamber was paneled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.

“Won’t it ring?”

“No, it is not even attached to a wire.”

Should Doyle have used some other phrase than “running his eye up and down the wall”? Maybe. On the other hand, people probably understood what he was getting at, and by this point in the story most folks don’t really care, as the oddness (the window that can’t open, yet her sister died in her room somehow; the bell-rope that has no use; Roylott’s method of making Miss Stoner move to her sister’s bedroom) is starting to pile up and we’re in full-fledged middle mode.

Not to say that you should let go of sensible, non-cliche writing at this point—on the contrary. But even Doyle was inclined to do it. The muddled middle strikes again.

“This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is.”

“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”

“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very singular points abut this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”

“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.

“Done abut the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.

“Yes, there were several little changes carried bout that time.”

“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.”

Doyle’s pacing is impeccable here. He focuses on the strange items turning up, not hurrying through them at all—meticulously letting Holmes pick each strange thing apart. It’s classic suspense-building, whether it’s in Victorian mystery serials or 21st century science fiction movies.

Next time we’ll watch Doyle ratchet the suspense up several notches, and show why he masters the muddled middle.

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Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 4: Description with Purpose

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So, given that Holmes has an iPod, what is he playing on that thang?

One of these things is not like the others; one of these things just doesn’t belong. Can you tell me which thing is not like others before I reach the end of this ….

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He’s Probably Listening to Blasted Wagner Again

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• the information dump as extended inner story; and
• pacing between inner and outer story.

Today, we’re going to look at Doyle’s adeptness at revealing character depth through multiple narrative means.

Let us type.

The Red Herring

Let’s clear up the last bits of scene from last time, where Holmes finishes exploring Julia’s thoughts about the circumstances of the death of her sister:

“Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?” [asked Holmes.]

“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”

“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled band?”

“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to those very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used.”

Here, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle lays in his red herring. I don’t think it’s the most subtle of red herrings, but at this point in time no one has any idea what a speckled band might mean at any rate. And that’s what matters when red herrings appear—perhaps they may mislead, but adding psychological uncertainty is always a plus.

Holmes’ Insight

Despite much being made of Sherlock Holmes being a cold, calculating machine, he is adept at looking beneath appearances, to the personality and problems beneath. This is a skill that any private investigator needs to polish, because so often problems are solved by psychology as well as by examination of the crime scene (which Holmes does both of in this story).

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.”

“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice.”

Percy Armitage has seen nothing, and his skeptical attitude at the beginning of this story carries over here. He’s a normal man, with average insight.

Julia, however, has what was called the intuition of women; and so does Holmes. He’s not a normal man, and takes her more seriously than even her own fiance.

A lesser writer may have let the inner story end there, with the most traumatic events past and done with. But Doyle won’t let the tension wind down:

“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”

“Yes, all.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

Doyle has done several things here.

• First, he’s accomplished a version of “raising the stakes”—via movement in time, bringing the trauma to the present.
• He’s added a strong, memorable point of characterization to the main villain, whom we have not even seen yet.
• He’s demonstrated another facet of Julia’s character not yet emphasized—the abuse has scarred her more than just that single night, however terrible it may have been.
• He’s shown Holmes to have a depth of understanding that normal men miss—including her fiance and Dr. Watson. Not only this, he shows Holmes troubled—and sympathetic.

All that in very few words indeed.

“This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?”

“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”

“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”

“By no means.”

“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do with yourself?”

“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming.”

“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”

“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room.

At this point I want to make a small side note as to the importance of the narrator’s voice. We’ll be covering more of this in times to come, but while much of the Sherlock Holmes stories focus on Holmes—how could they not, while Watson is playing his Boswell—Watson’s voice, or rather, Doyle’s voice as Watson, is always present. Even if in a scene his dialog is no more than three words for every 500 of Holmes’, he’s the one who decided the staging, the characterization, and the final image of her gliding from the room.

First-person narrative does not take away the narrator, but incorporates him into a role that is both inside and outside of the story.

Continuing on:

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”

“Dark enough and sinister enough.”

“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.”

“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?”

“I cannot think.”

“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gypsies who are intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines.”

Editor! Editor! That’s all actually one sentence! *groans and dies*

But on a more serious step…. We’re watching Holmes and Watson bat about various notions, and we get to peer into their thinking processes. Holmes is analytical in nature, and he notices and holds onto details very well. Watson is more focused on the atmospheric nature of the crime, and acts as Holmes’ sounding board.

This is yet more characterization in combination with a form of information dump, the Characters Analyzing Stuff Dump. With great characters, the latter sort of dump is much easier to deal with than the former.

“But what, then, did the gypsies do?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I see many objections to any such theory.”

“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away….”

Note that Watson also serves another purpose in the story; he acts as the reader might, asks the questions that the reader asks, wants to go into danger as the reader does (with the difference being that Watson has to pack a revolver and the reader might need some tea and a comfy chair).

There are certain advantages with having a narrator and character all rolled up in one.

“…. But what in the name of the devil!”

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.”

No offense to the wonderful Mr. Paget, but his illustration does not do justice to the description that Watson has given the villain of our piece. Part of this is because Watson is drawing upon simile and metaphor of the most evil and insidious kinds that he can imagine. Like the description of Julia Stoner, the description of Dr. Roylott focuses on communicating one aspect of the character.

“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.

“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion quietly.

“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.

“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.

“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my companion imperturbably.

“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”

My friend smiled.

“Holmes, the busybody!”

His smile broadened.

“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”

Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.”

“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

Dr. Roylott does not speak so much as bark, with every sentence short and fierce, in decided contrast to the calm and lengthier ones of Holmes and Watson. His characterization is partly established through language, even without the shouting and raging.

Holmes’ reactions to Roylott’s barking jeers establish Holmes’ character as a brave and cheeky bastard. We love him the more for it.

“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

“Fancy is having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.”

Cheeky, brazen, has problems with authority (and despises the police). That would be Holmes; and not one speck of this has had to be uttered by Watson as description. It’s all done through dialog, which impresses us more, even if it’s not as efficient as a simple summary—it’s far more fun this way.

Next time, among other things, we’ll explore Doyle-as-Watson’s descriptive methods, which will play a large part in the reader envisioning the scene of the crime, both in terms of atmosphere and in terms of physical presence.

Until then, beware of vulture-nosed doctors with hunting-crops.

a

Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 3: Revealing Depth

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A question from the Holmesian.net forums: “Since many of you are in love with Holmes, what would it be like to go on a date with him? Where would you go? What would you do? details, please.”

I have decided to entertain you all with my answer.

Dinner would be nice. He could entertain me talking about food, wines, violins, anything. I suck at all three of those topics. Music in general, a little less; I’m learning more about music these days for sekrit projekt.

I assume he’d be going out with me because of some ulterior motive, rather than ravishing beauty coupled with sparkling intelligence.

If Watson is hanging about, I would double-check to see what kinds of looks he’s giving us. If Watson just seems interested, curious, and bordering on polite voyeurism, I will update my opinion to that of “Holmes lost a bet”. If instead Watson’s looks also include a wary looking around for something else to happen, or perhaps additionally well-meaning worry, it’s obviously all connected to some random case I know naught of.

On the other hand, if I do know something of a probably interesting and high-profile case, and Watson is giving me mean looks, I know I’m in trouble and should exit as quickly as possible. If policemen turn out to be about, there is nothing that a quick but firm boot in the family jewels will not take care of. I assume in this case I’ll have underground contacts, and can flee to the continent after leaving the ultimate incriminating evidence in the office of some government official whom I hate, and who would have adequate motive anyways.

If Watson is not present at all, and is not even possibly present in disguise, I am probably going to be used to gain access to my brother/uncle/grandfather/whatever male relative is around me at the time. Oh well, at least relations will be enjoyable while they last, and he is ruggedly handsome in a hawt kind of way.

If none of the above apply, I’ll keep the relationship quiet and cool. I’m not fond of the idea of love, and probably neither is he; just a casual acquaintanceship will be enough for me.

Even so, it’s all probably just so that he can get some information that only I know.

He’ll have to pay for it with expensive dinners and nights at the theater though.

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A Date with Sherlock Holmes

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• opening the story;
• non-direct dialog;
• laser-focused description;
• establishment of character.

Today we’re going to look at how Doyle attacks one of the most difficult methods for any fiction writer: the information dump.

Let us type.

Setting Up the Case

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.

Those of you who have been here before know that we are about to enter the very maws of one of the most dangerous speed bumps known to the narrative arts: information dump. Whether you need to explain some underpinning of a particular technology in science fiction, to the background of the case in your murder mystery, you can’t simply dump all the information out to the reader in report form. That would overwhelm the reader because he doesn’t know the story like the writer does.

It’s important to master the art of distributing gnarly amounts of information in the best way possible–one that doesn’t slow down the narrative or, worse yet, stop the pace entirely.

On the subtlety scale, Doyle doesn’t score well; then again he never meant to disguise the information dump, but to keep the story flowing through it.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper;

The language here can be described as lurid, and active and illustrative verbs are chosen–”crushed under a heavy mortgage” instead of the more passive and less visual “came under a heavy mortgage”; “dragged out his existence there” instead of “lived a long time there”; etc.

Actually this is a technique to be carried out beyond just dealing with information dump–Doyle chooses his words with economy and care, to impress the most impact as efficiently as possible.

…but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

For the Victorian age, a very sensational account. Even for our own age, beating a butler to death is still shocking.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money–not less than 1000 pounds a year–and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died–she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

Note that Doyle doesn’t let up on the accumulation of relevant items: the large sum of money, the death of the mother, Roylott’s establishing himself back at Stoke Moran. Never let information dump spew information that isn’t directly relevant (or at least seemingly relevant) to the story at hand–obvious for a mystery story, but also necessary in other genres. It’s nice to know that Aunt Susie loved peppermint ice cream, but it had better mean something significant, and mean something soon.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbors, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at least he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

Also note that this information dump isn’t simply a listing of facts–mother married Roylott in 1827, mother died in spring 1828, that sort of thing–but comprises in itself a story, with a beginning, middle, and end–with Dr. Roylott as the main character. Turning an information dump into a story is one of the best ways to turn possibly flaccid material into a captivating, living part of the main narrative–a technique used by Doyle to great effect, as well as by Heinlein.

“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save he wandering gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

Another item that adds to the popularity of “Speckled Band” in the canon is that the villain is not at all dull. Holmes is not up against someone normal or even, arguably, sane, and that adds spice to the adventure. Plus there are those dangerous Canon animals.

“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.”

“Your sister is dead, then?”

“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you.”

We’re now truly starting the main story-within-a-story, which appears in nearly every Sherlock Holmes story. Unlike some modern-day writers, who start with the crime and then bring in the detective, Doyle liked to start with the detective–indeed, due to his choice of first-person point of view through Watson, he had to. The bookending of normality on both sides of the adventure is what gives the tales their comfortable structure.

And perhaps this also provides a key to the enduring quality of the Canon: in every story, the movement from familiar fireplace to unknown adventure is an initiation of the Hero’s Journey (a la Campbell); and the subsequent return the closing of the journey’s loop. Mystery stories that start with the murder risk losing this valuable narrative structure, which serves to lure the reader in with curiosity, then drag him by his lapels into the unknown.

“You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor.

“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.

We’re playing the action/reaction game again, this time with Helen’s and Holmes’ positions reversed.

“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?”

“Perfectly so.”

The interruption did not need to be made; technically the passage would be fine without it. However, we’re breaking up the long explanation by Helen with interjections from Holmes. This serves another purpose as well, as we’ll see later.

“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’

“‘Never,’ said I.

“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’

“‘Certainly not. But why?’

“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from–perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would ask you whether you had heard it.’

One of the most important takeaways from how Doyle’s best stories-within-stories work is how much more focused and leaner they are compared to the rest of the surrounding narrative. The inner stories never overshadow the main point of the story–which is that Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day or, as another way of putting it, Seeks the Elixir (another reference to the Hero’s Journey).

“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’

“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’

“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’

“‘Well, it is of no great consequence at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?”

“Always.”

“And why?”

“I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”

“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”

The inner story is intruded upon by the outer story again. Holmes asks natural questions, but they could easily have been covered without being asked after by Helen. The choice to break the inner story briefly shows us that the outer story has not simply stopped.

“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all he hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Paragraphs Are Your Friends. Sigh.

That’s the other thing about retyping the text instead of merely reading it again. Even if you dearly love a story, having to type through parts like this reminds you of the sore spots that you quickly glide over as a seasoned veteran of repeat readings.

Type that pain.

Still, it’s important to note that even with the huge seamless paragraph, Doyle keeps our interest because the conflict is rising conflict; that is, the pressure keeps rising, rather than simply staying level–even if the pressure is at 90%, the conflict isn’t rising if that pressure isn’t rising progressively up to 100.

Also, during this rapid rise, Holmes does not interrupt, because that would be as disastrous as installing a speed bump at the Daytona race track–and nowhere near as interesting.

As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognized me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was something else she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown.

We’re nearing the end of the rising conflict and the climax of the story within a story.

When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he poured brand down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.”

“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”

The climax of the inner story has passed; then and only then does Holmes interrupt and the outer story breaks into inner story for pacing purposes.

Note that Doyle paces the inner story by breaking out into the outer story, and manages to keep everything moving: the inner story continues moving forwards because Holmes only breaks in between scenes, taking the place of sequel; the outer story keeps moving forwards in parallel because of these breaks.

Forwards momentum–one of the most important characteristics of a successful yarn.

“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”

“Was your sister dressed?”

“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”

“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?”

“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.”

“How about poison?”

“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”

“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”

“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”

After bringing the inner story to a fever pitch, Doyle blends its denouement gradually into the main narrative.

Next time, we’ll explore Doyle’s technique for turning the corner–uncovering previously hidden depths in circumstances and character.

Until then, don’t let the mysterious whistling drive you mad.

a

Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 2 - Dealing with Information Dumps

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3. Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 1 - Beginning with Style First in a series of articles deeply analyzing the writing...

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When I first started writing fiction again in the middle of 2007, after a hiatus of over a decade, I realized that I had lost the cadence and flow of writing a story. Story writing is inherently an entirely different process from that of non-fiction. As a result, I had a tendency to stall, and stall badly.

The damage was spectacularly bad on a couple of short mystery stories I wrote. I was filled with sadness and despair, but I kept going ’cause I’m like that.

One day, I stumbled across the thread of a wise writer, by the name of James D. McDonald, over at AbsoluteWrite called Learn Writing with Uncle Jim. One of his suggestions is to retype the first chapter of a novel:

Now, retype the first chapter. Do this with your writer’s eye, not your reader’s eye. Think about the lengths of the sentences, the lengths of the paragraphs, the sounds of the words. Think about the order of the scenes. Notice the dialog. How are the dialog tags rendered? Where is the point of view?

The point of this exercise is this: Have you ever gone to an art museum and seen the art students sitting there with their easels and oils, copying the great masters? The point isn’t to turn them into plagairists, or to make them expert forgers. The point is to get the feeling into their hands and arms of how to make the brush strokes that create a particular illusion on canvas. Writing is no less a physical skill than painting.

I thought that was pretty crazy, and didn’t try it at first.

One day I decided, what the heck.

Well, I don’t think it’s crazy anymore.

So let me take you on my journey of retyping “The Adventure of the Speckled Band”. Originally this was a thread over on AbsoluteWrite, but I’ve decided to expand on my anlysis–I took a few shortcuts back then–and this time finish off the entire story.

And while “Speckled Band” is not Pride and Prejudice or The Brothers Karamazov, it is an indisputable favorite of the Canon across multiple Sherlockian/Holmesian polls, and one of the best early stories. And since I’m writing a mystery serial I thought it’d be wise to walk in the footsteps of one of the most successful of mystery writers.

As it turns out, Doyle knew quite a bit about writing short stories–not just detective mystery short stories. His word choice, pacing, characterization, and structuring are at times impeccable, and always–throughout this story–at least well done. The fame of Sherlock Holmes is no mere fluke; I should have known that, but I had never searched the depths of it.

(Plus it’s not like there are many teachers or professors out there who would even consider exploring Doyle in this amount of depth.)

So let us follow in his footsteps as he writes one of the most famous Sherlock Holmes adventures.

Let us type.

Getting Knocked Up

The first thing I learned is that it’s quite alright to not start out running from the start, as long as you’re able to pull the reader in with foreshadowing and just all around decent writing:

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran.

Beginnings are one of the hardest things in any kind of writing, because that’s where you either interest the reader, or lose the reader’s attention entirely. Screwing up the beginning of your act in any art almost guarantees no one’s going to care about the rest of it. We need to hook the reader in, somehow; promise excitement, interest, adventures.

Starting slowly for beginning writers is a problem because we don’t hook the writer in from the start, however subtly, and of course our writing is shot from the start. The standard advice is to start up in medias res and throw action on the table as soon as possible–which actually starts to become repetitive and almost rote once you’ve read a slush pile of these.

Doyle, on the other hand, shows us that we can walk in–as long as we walk in with style and promise.

Here, Doyle (or, for those of us who like to play The Game, Watson) is implying, with the color of a Watson voice, that the case you’re about to read is going to be one of Holmes’s interesting cases—and since the first sentence covers a bit of Holmes’s eclectic tastes with respect to picking out what jobs to handle, you know this has a good chance of being weird. And then you hit the last sentence, and you know for sure this will be weird. It’s classic build-up.

Hmmm, you say. On, you read (or type)….

After providing slightly more background in just a couple sentences (alluding to more stragosity and singularness), note that Doyle is a very weird Victorian writer, because he immediately hits the first scene:

It was early in April in the year ‘83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

One definition of scene I ran across (in Self-Editing for Fiction Writers):

1. happens in real time,
2. happens in a real place,
3. has specific characters.

Especially a lack of (1) means that you’re summarizing rather than letting the action play out properly. People generally want to see what’s happening; summarizing improperly is cheating your readers.

This scene starts slowly, but there’s already conflict to keep the reader interested. A lesser writer might have left out the bit where Watson was annoyed, but starting out with his annoyance at being roused early is still conflict—subtle conflict. It makes you wonder what bickering might happen next, or more to the point, why Holmes is bothering Watson so early in the morning. A story question, I believe Frey calls it in How to Write a Damn Good Novel.

Scenes without conflict risk falling flat. Scenes that keep up some sort of conflict, almost any kind of conflict, no matter how small, drag you in.

On with the motley:

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”

“What is it, then–a fire?”

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”

Dialogue follows very quickly; we’re not even five paragraphs in. Again, Doyle showing off his modern rather than Victorian flavor.

I think in The First Five Pages, an agent was mentioned who scans through pages for the first dialogue scene and reads that before he reads your first five. Dialogue is difficult to do, perhaps one of the most difficult of showing-the-story methods (for they are all harder than passive summarization, which is why the shortcut of summary is so tantalizing even if it short-changes your readers), so a writer who can get it right has potential. A writer who doesn’t….

And of course it helps if he doesn’t have to dig into page 20 to find your first bit of dialogue.

Dialogue not only informs but is also one of the best methods for showing the personality of a character. In these two paragraphs, not only is the plot advanced, but we already get a sense of Holmes’s sense of humor—something that gets strangely forgotten these days. It contrasts strongly with the Watson voice, which we’ll see later as well. We would recognize Holmes vs. Watson in a dark room.

Another important thing to note–which also contributes to the showing of character–is that the dialogue is not direct (another reference to Frey). Here’s the example with direct dialogue:

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s an emergency.”

“What is it, then–a fire?”

“No; a client. A considerably excited young lady has arrived and insists upon seeing me. I presume she has something interesting to communicate. Should this prove to be an interesting case, I thought you might be interested.”

Bad dialogue scene, STAT! Someone has removed all the bubbly! Flat like flat champagne, which is very flat indeed. The back and forth, the wit, in the original version we like much better. It’s also much harder to come up with; it’s one of those details that drives an author crazy. But as they say, it’s the little things that count.

One final thing before I end this part:

“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”

And with that, the first scene is resolved–importantly, it’s resolved in favor of forward movement. You want to keep moving forward, even if it’s just a little at a time; still water is usually only good for mosquitoes.

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

Okay, this is obviously summary. But it’s the right place for telling: connecting two scenes (the second of which will be very large), and modifying pace.

Meeting Helen Stoner

“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”

You may see a redundant adverb here in ‘”Good-morning, madam”, said Holmes cheerily’. Is it? It’s not a recommended practice if your dialogue already expresses what your adverb describes (’”I’m not having any more of this!” he said angrily’, for instance). And too many adverbs in this manner are also tiresome to read (’”I’m starving,” he said hungrily. “Me too,” she said jokingly. “Are there sausages?” he asked wonderingly. “No, I think not,” she said unsurely.’).

Like a writer with good style, Doyle doesn’t pair up dialogue with an adverb very often. And “cheerily” is not redundant; here I take it to mean “in a cheery voice”, which does modify how Holmes is speaking, a modification not entirely evident from the dialogue.

Also notice that some action is embedded in the dialogue; or, rather, a reaction is embedded in dialogue that implies some other action, not previously mentioned, that the speaker is reacting to. This can remove needless duplication and keeps things rolling along. In all things, moderation, of course; but this is something that is part of Doyle’s style.

“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.

“What, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

Build-up at work again. Now, describing the client: Watson does not launch into full-blown detail, but describes just enough to get the important ones. Every detail is focused on one point—to communicate her fear. Nothing about beautiful eyes and luxurious locks and perfect skin with a mole on one cheek here. That would be straying and distracting. Here, Doyle is focused like a laser.

“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.”

Do we need the soothingly? Probably not. The beat (Self-Editing for Fiction Writers) of Holmes leaning forwards and patting her forearm, and his reassurances, are enough to show us that aspect–and far more illustrative than any mere adverb can suggest.

“You know me, then?”

“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”

Swain calls this action/reaction. Holmes observes, client reacts, usually in progressive stages of surprise (and no, it doesn’t go on too long). This technique spices up what fans of the Canon call “the impress-the-client deductions”, that would otherwise be a speed bump in terms of story pace.

There are actually very few ins