“The Adventure of the Three Gables,” or the Legal System Will Never Be Satisfied

This week’s delay is brought to you by August still being the new worst month of the year and Lisa of the Prolific Trek, who decided it would be a good idea to infect me with Deep Space Nine appreciation.  I’ve been binge-watching since Sunday; I just started season three Wednesday night.  (I’m up to episode 13 at the time of posting)  I…may have fallen into a Star Trek hole I’ll never crawl out of.  But, hey, it may lead to a lovely post about the Sherlock archetype in other media at some point, thanks to Odo.

So, I didn’t have the same problem with this story that the folks at Sherlock Peoria’s Chronology Corner did, meaning I wasn’t left entirely feeling like Holmes was a pod person or an imposter of some sort.  He didn’t come across as somehow not himself, at least to me.  And, unlike “Wisteria Lodge,” Holmes didn’t feel asleep at the wheel, either.  The case was even a fairly interesting one – I mean, who asks a widow to buy their house and every last thing in it, allowing her to take pretty much nothing with her?  That’s a new twist for the Great Detective, right?

What’s not so new, though, is Holmes allowing the bad guy to get off scot-free yet again.  This wasn’t a case of Holmes being outwitted, or circumstances preventing the crook getting what’s coming to him/her, or the motive being so altruistic or understandable that even the reader wants them to get away with it.  It’s not even (to me) a case of there being nothing to prosecute or prove.  A criminal did a bad thing, and the story ends without them having to pay for it.

For the record – no one dies.  No one is even mildly injured.  A house is burgaled, an older woman is upset and left a little – rightfully – terrified, but no one is physically harmed.  So maybe it’s not so bad that the person behind it all just gets a stern warning from Holmes and has to foot the bill for an old lady’s trip around the world.   But let’s look at what lengths the villain of this story – Isadora Klein, widow, fashion plate, and “the celebrated beauty” – is willing to go to for the sake of protecting her upcoming marriage to a duke:

  • She gets in bed with members of the London criminal underworld;
  • She uses them as a means to try to talk an old woman out of her house and all her belongings;
  • She is behind the burglary of said house when the old woman refuses to sell;
  • She is inadvertently behind an “enforcer” trying to threaten/intimidate Sherlock Holmes into staying off a case.

All of this, by the way?  Is to get her hands on the sole remaining copy of a tell-all book a former lover wrote after she broke his heart.

Now, let me back up: I know I’ve already talked about  – recently, even – blackmail and how delicate a woman’s reputation could be in the Victorian era.  The wrong word said to the wrong person, a mislaid letter that falls into the wrong hands, a glove left in the wrong carriage…it all could spell disaster for someone.  But, I kind of don’t feel as sympathetic for the widow Klein as I did for Holmes’ client – or the mysterious gunwoman – in “Charles Augustus Milverton,” and here’s why.  Isadora Klein has it made.  She inherited a pretty sum for her dead husband, she’s already rumored to have been involved in countless romantic entanglements, and any man that isn’t a complete fool likely already knows what he’s getting into with her.  The story of how she shattered Douglas Maberley’s heart isn’t going to undo Mrs. Klein.  It just might upset her future mother-in-law and potentially put a kink in her wedding plans.  Isadora Klein isn’t going to suffer if the truth gets out.  She just doesn’t want all her dirty laundry taking up permanent residence on anyone’s bookshelf, that’s all.

So yes, it bugs me that she gets left to continue living out her happy, unfettered existence without paying a single real price for what she’s done.  Sure, Mrs. Maberley gets to travel the world on her dead son’s ex-lover’s dime – Douglas caught pneumonia in Rome; I would’ve gone with consumption, personally, given the climate,  but what do I know?  Doyle was the doctor – but justice, in my opinion, doesn’t get served at all.  And that bugs me.  My sense of morality is apparently offended, just a little, by Holmes’ nonchalance with letting this criminal go free.  There is absolutely no reason to give her a pass.  She’s not already dying (like the murderer in “Boscombe Valley”); she’s not justified (Milverton’s murderess, to name the most recent); she doesn’t just avoid capture (“Five Orange Pips,” “The Greek Interpreter”) or not actually commit anything actionable (“A Case of Identity”).  Holmes just…lets her get away with it:

“Well, well,” he said, “I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as usual…”

Seriously, Holmes?  Seriously?  You’ve made it such a habit to let crooks go that compounding a felony is as regular and accepted as that?  Really?  For the second time in this project, I am compelled to shake a fictional character so hard his brain resets like an Etch-a-Sketch.  That should never be the sort of statement that ends with “as usual!”

God, I hate that!

The story ends with Holmes (presumably successfully) extorting five thousand pounds from Mrs. Klein to send Mrs. Maberley around the world in first-class style.  (We won’t talk about how that almost makes him a blackmailer, and how much he detests blackmailers, because I’m not up for Holmesian hypocrisy today.)  As a parting swipe, Holmes imparts a little advice to the widow about some of her life choices:

“Meantime, lady” – he wagged a cautionary forefinger – “have a care!  Have a care!  You can’t play with edged tools forever without cutting those dainty hands.”

Yup.  That’ll teach her, Holmes.  Nobody can continue a downhill slide in the face of a cautionary finger wag.

“Wisteria Lodge,” or “The Case of the Potentially Disembodied Detective”

So, I had a terrible realization when I got to the end of “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge:” I had no idea what to say about the story.  It’s not that the story’s uninteresting – it’s got disappearing people and foreign nationals and hidden organized crime bosses, after all; hard to be dull with all that on board – it just didn’t leave much of an impression.  I can’t even really tell you why it didn’t.  I could blame the fact I’ve been at this for almost seven months and have burned through most – but not all – of my favorite stories.  Or it’s just August and all the baggage that goes with the month now.  Or, maybe it’s a post-“Final Problem”/pre-“Empty House” malaise.  Who knows?

No, wait.  I know exactly what it is.  It’s something eluded to in Sherlock Peoria’s Chronology Corner’s defense of where they placed “Wisteria Lodge” in their timeline.  In case you haven’t gone there to check recently (like I haven’t, since I decided awhile back to ignore continuity, since Doyle already had), this story and “The Adventure of the Three Gables” are tucked in during the time when Holmes is presumed dead and is roaming Asia in search of enlightenment/the rest of Moriarty’s crime syndicate.  His theory?  Watson’s gone a little mad in the wake of his friend’s death, compounded by his wife’s potential ill health and the fact 221B is being kept up precisely as Holmes left it.  So, he’s running about, trying to continue Holmes’ good work, and maybe imagining that his dear comrade is still with him, participating in the investigations.  The chronologist’s logic?

Watson cracked. In Watson’s mind, Holmes was with him during the investigation of “Wisteria Lodge.” (And a couple of Chronology Corners from now, we’ll see that Holmes wasn’t the only person in the story whose presence was a Watsonian delusion.) It explains why [Inspector] Baynes seems to be doing all the work in this case, and Holmes’s peculiar distance from it … he was, in fact, very, very distant from it altogether. (For those of you who hate to see poor Watson gone temporarily insane, call it an astral projection from the real Holmes who was meditating in Tibet. That works, too.)

Before you start typing out your three-page response about why Watson is not insane or delusional – I know.  I’m not flying a flag for team “Watson’s Gone Mad” here.  I’m also not discounting that grief can mess a person up enough to do all sorts of uncharacteristic and outwardly insane things.  But what our chronologist sees as potential proof of his theory is exactly why this story is so blah to me – Holmes isn’t really Holmes in it.  At all.

Sure, he’s still there, making deductions, solving the puzzle, etc., but it’s a very nebulous sort of involvement from someone who is usually anything but.  It’s like his heart isn’t really in it.  He’s seriously phoning it in here.  Baynes, who is described as a fairly competent Yardie, sure, manages to figure out the solution largely on his own – and even comes to a couple of the conclusions before Holmes does.  Yes, I bolded AND underlined that statement because when does that ever happen?  This story (and the one following it, but we’ll get there when we get there), that’s when.

Listen – I think we’re pretty clear at this point that I am a John Watson fangirl to my core, but when I’m reading a Sherlock Holmes story, I’m doing so to experience the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes, filtered through the fond and forgiving eyes of his trusted sidekick partner though it may be.  “Wisteria Lodge” feels more like Holmes is one of the “also starring’s”, not the main attraction.  And while I’m sure Baynes is a lovely fellow and spends his spare time saving kittens from trees and helping old ladies across the street, he isn’t the marquee name here.  He’s sure doing the star’s share of the work, though.

If we’re discounting Watsonian delirium (and following a more traditional Baring-Gould timetable), what else causes Holmes to play passenger for this three-hour cruise? Well, here are a few possibilities, in no particular order and with no assurance of plausibility:

  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #1: He could be sick.  He’s essentially self-employed and this is the era before the NHS was established, so he can’t exactly always afford to pass on a case just for a sick day.  (Watson can’t just keep providing him free medical care, either.  Doctors have to make a living, too, plus he’s got a wife and household staff of his own to take care of now.)  Maybe Mrs. Hudson raised the rent because he’s being shooting holes in the plaster again.  Watson picked a bad batch of ponies.  For whatever reason, a paying client is more important than spending a few days on the couch recovering from the croup.
  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #2: We know he takes on more than one case at a time, right?  Takes them on back-to-back without a lot of rest in between?  At this point in his career, he’s being invited to consult on international matters and traveling all over Europe to do it.  Maybe the poor guy is just exhausted.  I’m exhausted just thinking about how busy that man potentially is.  At some point, you know his brain just says “Yeah, see, we’re done.  We’re just going to sit back and watch somebody else figure this all out for a while, thanks.”
  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #3: He’s just bored.  Sherlock Holmes has gotten to the point where dead bodies and disappearing servants just don’t blow up his skirt anymore.  Might be a sign he needs a vacation.  Take a few months off, Holmes; maybe death and mayhem will excite you like it used to again.
  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #4: It’s an imposter!  Holmes has been briefly replaced by a doppleganger and his performance in this case is what allows Watson to figure it out and rescue the real Holmes from whatever dark corner in which his replacement stored him.  See also, potential (but impossible) secret twin. Why impossible, you say?

Thank you, Internet, for not failing me in the gif department.


  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #5: Possibly the most far-fetched one (because dopplegangers and secret twins is highly plausible, of course), but my imagination won’t let me leave it off – Holmes is a ghost.  The only one who can see him is Watson, who is then relaying the observations to the others.  Others who just accept that Holmes is really there in a non-corporeal form and it’s not just Watson being insane.
  • Possible Explanation for Holmesian Disinterest #6: It’s only fair to follow the most far-fetched possibility with the most likely one – the writer was bored/sick/exhausted (but probably not a ghost or a pod person/secret twin).  Doyle may have been having an off day – or week, or month – and it came out in his work.  We already know he wasn’t overly fond of his creation; Frankenstein may have had more care for his monster than Doyle did at various points in his career, lets be honest.  But, there are still bills to pay and the primary way for a writer to pay those bills then, as is still true now, is to write.

Whatever explanation you decide to claim for you head canon – I kind of like the ghost one, for the record, and might store that away for later mischief – hang on to it, because you might want to dust it off again for next week.

Charles Augustus Milverton and The Final Problem, or “The Villain(s) in Your History”

Before we get started – yes, I do plan to find as many ways as I can to incorporate “Hamilton” quotes into my titles from here on out.  Consider that adequate warning.

There’s a great Clive Barker quote that I try to keep in mind during the character creation process.  He said, “I firmly believe that a story is only as good as the villain.”  (He also wrote, “Every body is a book of blood; wherever we’re opened, we’re red,” but I keep that quote around more as the credo of one of my villains than writing advice.)  Taken one step further, a hero is also only as good as his antagonists.  If you don’t give the main character something worthy to fight – be it a personal or thing or a more internally focused struggle – there’s no real conflict, or risk, or reason to care.  Batman is just a crazy dude in Kevlar and latex without his Rogues’ Gallery.  Princess Aurora is just another dull royal without Maleficent and her curse.  Likewise, Sherlock Holmes is just any other (albeit very clever) detective without some very bad men to stop.  And in Doyle’s London, there are no two worse men than Charles Augustus Milverton and Professor James Moriarty.

(Quick sidebar, based on a completely unrelated conversation that I still managed to make about Sherlock in the end – do you ever think Moriarty’s parents or school chums called him Jamie?  Unimportant, but food for (perfectly frivolous) thought.)

The Worst Men in London

So, who are Milverton and Moriarty?  According to Sherlock Holmes, they represent the most villainous men in London, if not the world.  Of Milverton, he says:

“Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow.”

Moriarty, on the other hand, brings to a mind a different, though oftentimes also venomous, creature:

“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them….But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers.”

Holmes definitely talks about Milverton in much less flattering verbage than he does Moriarty.  Milverton gets words like “creeping,” “venomous,” “wicked,” and “repulsion.”  Professor Moriarty, on the other hand, is “a genius” and “abstract thinker” with a top-notch brain of the first order and “extraordinary mental powers.”  That’s probably in part because Holmes has no love for blackmailers, which is exactly what Milverton is.  In the hierarchy of crime, blackmail is far more unsavory than even murder in Holmes’ view.  Moriarty, on the other hand, just facilitates criminal enterprise. Well, I say just.  He facilitates it all so brilliantly that Holmes considers him “an antagonist who was my intellectual equal.”  High praise from Holmes.  He doesn’t have such nice things to say about Milverton at all.

Another likely reason?  Moriarty’s the one Doyle is trying to set up as Holmes’ arch nemesis – not Milverton – so Moriarty has to be the equal, while Milverton is just the worst.

History Break – Truth in Fiction

Both men are based at least loosely on real-life people. Art dealer Charles Augustus Howell was rumored to be a blackmailer – rumors his biographer, Helen Rossetti Angeli, never found hard evidence to support.  Howell was a charming, charismatic man, questionably of Portuguese royal blood, with a reputation for stretching the truth now and then.  There were plenty of questionable circumstances that  contributed to his villainous reputation, though. His association with the man who attempted to assassinate Napoleon III and his well-timed decision to leave Britain just prior had some wondering if he wasn’t somehow connected to the plot.  Dante Gabriel Rossetti reportedly suspected Howell of selling forgeries of his paintings.  There were also accusations of embezzlement and general manipulative villainy that those who got to know Howell didn’t have too much trouble believing, apparently.

Then there’s his death in 1890: Howell was found outside a pub in Chelsea with a slit throat and a coin in his mouth, the latter sometimes used to identify the corpse as a slanderer.  There’s all sorts of inconsistency surrounding his death, though.  Some say he was found dead in that alley; others say he died in the hospital later.  The official cause of death was listed as pneumonic phthsis – aka, Tuberculosis – with the slit to his throat dismissed as having happened post-mortem.  The police apparently never actually investigated it and no coroner’s inquest was held.  If none of that specifically screams blackmailer to you, you’re not alone.  Most of that reputation came from the fact they found a collection of meticulously filed letters from very important Londoners in his rooms after his death.

It probably didn’t help his reputation that he was responsible for the  exhumation of Rossetti’s wife so the painter/poet could dig out the poems he’d buried with her.

Moriarty’s generally accepted inspiration, on the other hand, had a long, proven history of law-breaking. Doyle borrowed the criminal adventures of American Adam Worth when he created his own “Napoleon of Crime.”  Worth started out as a bounty jumper in the Civil War; he was declared killed in battle and took advantage of that fact by going around enlisting with various regiments under assumed names long enough to collect the enlistment bounty, then going AWOL.  This led to a career in pickpocketing, which developed into running a gang of thieves, which then led to bank robbery.  One of his heists, the 1869 robbery of the Boylston National Bank of Boston, involved tunneling into the bank’s vault from a store next door, likely the inspiration for the bank job in “The Redheaded League.”

Worth and his associate, safe cracker Charley Bullard, headed for Europe after the Boylston job to avoid getting pinched by the Pinkertons.  This is where Worth’s reputation really takes off.  What started off as pawn shop thefts in Liverpool became an illegal, cleverly hidden gambling house in Paris; when William Pinkerton helped the Paris police turn up the heat, the pair relocated to London, where Worth’s legacy was formed.  He built a virtually impenetrable web of criminality, a network of nogoodniks that pulled off major heists at his whim, but without ever knowing the name of the man in charge.  Worth’s organization flummoxed  Scotland Yard; they knew it existed, but proving it and finding the mastermind proved impossible.

In the end, it was trusting a couple untested partners during a last-minute robbery in Liege that got Worth nicked.  After serving his time and finding his former life lost, Worth looked up his old pal Pinkerton and told him the whole sordid story.  Which is probably how Doyle learned all about him.

I said “generally accepted inspiration” up above because we really only have the word of a Dr. Gray C. Briggs, who told a Chicago columnist that Doyle once told him Worth was Moriarty’s inspiration.  Like most second-or-third-hand information, take it for what it’s worth.  No pun intended.

What Makes a (Good) Villain?

So, why are these two men, Milverton and Moriarty, considered by Holmes (and readers/academics) to be the greatest foes Holmes ever tackles?  Well, in Moriarty’s case, it helps that he’s the weapon used to take our hero out in what was intended as his swansong.  But it’s more than that.  We’re shown, in the case of both, that these are wickedly clever men whose devious intellects nearly match – or, in Moriarty’s case, do match – Holmes’.  Why is Moriarty so successful and so difficult to outsmart?  Because he thinks just as Holmes does.  For every move that Holmes makes, Moriarty has a perfect counterpoint.  Why does it take Holmes seducing one of Milverton’s maids and then breaking into his house to foil his evil plot?  Because, while Milverton may be a scumbag, he is a very clever, careful, and paranoid scumbag.

Doyle takes great pains to set up these men as the epitome of evil.  It’s not just how Holmes describes them.  We meet both men and are given a chance to see their ruthlessness for ourselves.  Moriarty makes it clear to Holmes that his continued meddling in the affairs of dragons criminal masterminds will not end well, with “not end well” left purposefully vague and menacing.  The fact Holmes is stalked, assaulted, has his home set (briefly) on fire, and is then followed halfway across Europe (with Watson’s safety presumably also called into question) seems to support just how menacing that end will be.  Milverton never threatens Holmes directly, just the client that has hired him to retrieve certain incriminating documents.  Sure, the threat is only to interfere in a woman’s marriage, but in a world where reputation is everything and a woman’s social and financial situations are so precarious anyway, that’s the same as threatening her life.

So, the villain has to be a good match for the hero, capable of throwing him curves that prevent his success, and he has to represent real peril, however that word is defined in the context of the story.  It also helps, though, if it feels like maybe the villain exists as more than just evil for evil’s sake.  Culturally, we’ve moved past the days of Snidely Whiplash cackling menacingly as he ties damsels to train tracks, all while twisting the end of his fine mustache.  A little depth in a villain is a good thing.  Audiences like some gray mixed into all that usual black and white.  The bad guy should have just as much motivation to act as the hero, and “because he’s the bad guy” isn’t really enough.  What does he want?  Why does he want it?  What’s his problem with the hero, anyway?

He, by the way, doesn’t have to be a “he” either.  Just ask Maleficent.

And maybe that’s why I find Moriarty so much more interesting in the adaptations than in the canon, and why Milverton makes more of an impression.  We never get the build up we deserve with the Professor.  Never get to understand why he’s the villain, or what he wants, or why it’s so damned important Holmes doesn’t get in his way.  Doyle created the ultimate villain, an archetype that has become part of our cultural lexicon, but he left him unfinished.  Of course, he only built him in the first place to use him as a weapon.  Even when he revisited Moriarty in The Valley of Fear, the character still feels like little more than a prop to rest the real plot against.  With Moriarty, Doyle kept loading the pistol, but never quite managed to pull the trigger.
Wow. I just realized that, as of “The Final Problem,” I have also finished The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. That means two collections and four novels down, only three collections left. I’m also technically at the half-way point. That just means I can see the downhill half of this journey finally.  Isn’t it fortuitous that I start down the cliff just as Sherlock falls over it?  Sad thing?  I didn’t even plan it that way, it.just.happened.

Yes, there are Charlotte adventures due. They’re coming, I promise. No, she’s not falling off a cliff this week to her doom, leaving poor Watson heartbroken. Actually, now that I mention it…

No, wait. Never mind.


The Boscombe Valley Mystery, or, The Problem With Obvious Facts

As often happens, I was catching up on my podcasts while working on my notes for this week’s post.  I’d just finished Pod4Ham’s dissection of “Cabinet Battle #1” (from the second act of “Hamilton,” because earlier posts this week made my obsession there clear) when this week’s episode of Undisclosed started.  For those unaware, Undisclosed is a podcast featuring Rabia Chaudry, Colin Miller, and Susan Simpson that spent its first season looking into the Adnan Syed case and has moved on in season two to discuss the murder conviction of Joey Watkins.  This week’s episode, which focused on how the crime scene was handled the night of the murder, opened with Colin talking about “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” which is the story up for discussion this week.  The mention includes a quote delivered by Sherlock Holmes when he finally gets his first chance to look at the scene of the story’s eponymous mystery:

“Oh how simple it would have all been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it.”

That’s sort of the heart of the story, that quote.  While on the surface it’s just another murder mystery perfectly crafted for the sole purpose of letting Holmes show off for the reader, what it also is is a treatise on the importance of looking deeper than the first blush.  It epitomizes the Holmesian thesis – that investigation without careful observation and a scientific approach to the evidence is only ever half an investigation.  That old saying – that when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me – holds a lot of truth, and the local police of the sleepy little hamlet of Boscombe Valley make a lot of assumptions – erroneous ones at that – while investigating the death of Charles McCarthy.

Mr. McCarthy is found dead near the Boscombe Pool one afternoon by his son, James.  Cause of death?  Blunt force trauma to the back of his skull.  Police discover early on in their investigation that Mr. McCarthy had gone out to the pool to meet someone he had an appointment with at three.  They also find a witness that says they saw the deceased heading into the woods, and his son following not far behind a few minutes later with a gun in hand.  Another witness, a young girl who was wandering the woods that afternoon as well, tells police that she saw father and son arguing and that James raised his hand like he was preparing to strike him before the girl ran away.  She is also the person James ran into later when he came running out of the woods in search of help.  He had blood on his hand and sleeve.

The police immediately arrest James.  Their theory is that the two McCarthy’s fought and that, in a rage, James struck his father with the barrel of his gun, killing him (even though the witness saw him raise an empty hand, not his gun).  James’ gun being found next to his father’s body seems to support this theory.  Just as quickly as he is arrested, James is bound for trial by the finding of the coroner’s inquest.  He will be tried for his father’s murder.  He, of course, swears he’s innocent.

Holmes becomes involved with the case through Inspector Lestrade, who is contacted by a family friend who believes James didn’t do it.  Miss Turner, the daughter of Charles McCarthy’s oldest friend, reaches out to the inspector after having little luck getting through to the local authorities.  Despite thinking the case is a slam dunk, Lestrade engages Holmes and Dr. Watson, who of course leave London on the first available train.  Watson listens to Holmes’ recitation of the evidence while they’re in transit an is absolutely sure that James McCarthy is guilty.  Holmes, in one of his more famous quotes, disagrees:

“I am afraid,” I said, “that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of the case.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he said, laughing.

Of course, James doesn’t do much to help his own cause, in the eyes of the court, Lestrade, or Watson.  When arrested, he makes a statement the officers consider a confession – “that he was not surprised to hear [that he was being arrested] and that it was no more than his deserts.”  He also follows that up by swearing that he’s innocent, so it’s a pretty confusing confession.  Then, during the inquest, he refuses to answer any of the coroner’s questions about what he and his father were fighting about in the woods that afternoon.  The case is stacked well and truly against him by the time Holmes and Watson arrive.

Holmes takes the time to talk to Miss Turner and visit with his erstwhile client to get some much needed background on the situation.  He learns what the McCarthy’s argued about – Charles wishing for his son to marry Miss  Turner despite her father’s and James’ objections.  He also learns that James is in love with Miss Turner and other circumstances are the cause of his objection.  But it is the crime scene, not the witnesses, that provides Holmes the true answer to the events, even given the quote above about the state of the scene.

Half the solution comes from what Holmes knows of human behavior, but without the evidence he finds at the scene, he’d have no framework to hamg that knowledge on.

In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Holmes tells Watson “You see, but you do not observe.  The distinction is clear.”  That statement is the heart of the issue.  An investigator needs to do more than just see a body lying on the ground with a gun near by and immediately assume the two are connected.  Jumping to conclusions too soon inevitably leads to championing the wrong conclusion.  Also in “Scandal,” Holmes infamously tells us “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.  Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”  The witnesses provided the basis for a theory and the investigators twisted the available facts to suit it.

Of course, it’s the 1890s and scientific observation of a crime scene was an anomaly – and it is fiction – so maybe it’s understandable why the Boscombe Valley authorities didn’t dig deeper.  Modern investigators don’t have that excuse.  No one has it, really,  in Sherlock Holmes’ opinion.

(Here’s my unrelated-to-the-above observable fact based on this story and others I’ve read so far: the countryside is dangerous.  To be fair, I was half-led to this theory by “Torchwood” back in season one (and possibly had it reinforced recently driving  between dark cornfields during a GPS malfunction-fueled road trip detour).  Doyle never populated his version with psychotic, tourist-snatching cannibals, of course – though in an early story he apparently did inhabit a small Montana town with a man-eating plant, as I learned this week.. He preferred insanity, a little murder, and ghoulish hounds that want to eat your face.  The country he shows us is where all creepy yellow faces peer out of windows and phantom hounds with a taste for noble blood haunt the moors; suspicious burglary-homicides rock quiet, far-flung communities and men have their brains bashed in beside quiet pools in the middle of the day.  Maybe people in Doyle’s small towns have more to worry about than just an unobservant local constabulary.)

Owen Harper: I hate the countryside.  It’s dirt, it’s unhygenic.  And what’s that smell?

Gwen Cooper: That would be grass.

Owen: It’s disgusting.

-Torchwood, “Countrycide” Season One, Episode Six

“Can We Get Back to Politics Now?”

No, we’re not getting into politics.  If you’re not familiar with the musical “Hamilton,” the title comes from a line by Thomas Jefferson after some very unhappy and dark things happen in the second act.  It seemed appropriate to borrow it for this post for two reasons – the post this morning, and the content of this one.

I’ve mentioned a passing interest in the musical before, right?  Well, I may have spent part of my day filking part of it.  Filking, for the unaware, is the act of taking an existing song and rewriting it to make it about something else, usually a science fiction or fantasy property.  That’s where filking got its start, anyway.  I first played around with filking in my previously mentioned Highlander fandom days.  I may have tried to filk the entire “A Kind of Magic” album.  I made it three songs in, I think.  Thankfully, those efforts are well-hidden in a defunct forum and a more defunct Tripod-hosted website.

Given the theme of this blog,you can guess what the subject matter of my parody is, right?

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Holmesian v. Sherlockian

When you say the word “fandom” to someone, they’re usually going to think one of five things:

  1. I’m totally a *insert fandom here* fan! *Pairing* is my OTP! (One True Pairing – the pair of characters in a particular fandom that is nearest and dearest to your heart) 
  2. That’s just something bored teenagers who like Harry Potter do on the internet. 
  3. Isn’t that, like, Transformers porn? (if you didn’t know explicit Transformers fanfiction exists, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. A horrible, awful person exposed me to it years ago and I still haven’t forgiven her for it. She knows who she is. I’m not judging, by the way, just offering the warning. Also? Do a Google search for your favorite childhood cartoon at your own risk.) 
  4. That’s a hobby for obsessive nerds that started because someone wanted Kirk and Spock to get it on, I think. 
  5. Fan-what? 

(All based on actual responses I have gotten from people exposed to casual use of the word.)

Full disclosure – I cut my online fandom teeth in the Rysher “Highlander: the Series” forums back in the days before Yahoo ruined Geocities and when IRC chat rooms were where it was at. I remember trolling Livejournal and Fanfiction.net for all the good fanfiction. I was a bystander, not a participant, in the shipping wars in Harry Potter and the Great Rose vs. Martha Debate (and I wasn’t even into Doctor Who at the time). Yes, I am possibly one of those “you kids and your tumblr get off my damn lawn” people the youngins complain about on the interwebs.

Most people, if they don’t fall into category five, anyway, operate under the assumption that, whatever it is, it’s a fairly modern invention and the internet may somehow be to blame. But the thing is? Fandom’s been around a lot longer than that. In fact, Sherlock Holmes fandom has been alive and well pretty much since Doyle started serializing Holmes and Watson’s adventures in The Strand. And, like all fandoms that have been around more than a minute, it’s always had its issues. Nothing demonstrates the longevity or the ridiculousness of those issues better than the “Holmesian v. Sherlockian” divide.

Once upon a time, not too long after Holmes burst forth from Doyle’s skull ala Athena, fully formed and ready to roll, people who considered themselves learned fans of the Great Detective called themselves Holmesians. Well, people in Britain, anyway. Doyle’s American fans were referred to as Sherlockians. In the late 19th Century and most of the 20th, this was the basic gist of the divide; geography. Local Baker Street aficionados – like William Gillette, for example – were the former. Mark Twain, across the sea writing and publishing Holmesian pastiche set in the States, was the latter. It was just that simple. And, heading into the later part of the 20th Century, Sherlockian became a much more catch-all term for Sherlock Holmes fans in general.

Now, though, the two terms have taken on a bit more of a contentious context. While fans of the canon – especially those who like to consider their involvement more intellectual and analytical despite geographic location – still lay claim to Holmesian, Sherlockian’s become a much different word. It started when fans of BBC’s “Sherlock” began using the term to describe the fandom specifically surrounding the show. In the UK especially, Sherlockian translates as “those who appreciate the television show.” On a broader scale, it’s come to be associated with someone who comes at their Holmes from the screen adaptions – “Sherlock,” “Elementary,” the Ritchie-verse movies. And therein lies the contention. There are those who consider the newly converted, the fans brought in by Cumberbatch or Miller or Downey, jr., to be lesser. Their enjoyment and interest is less valid, their opinions even more so.

Exclusion and elitism is a real thing here. People who have been in the “fandom” – and I’m sure they likely object to the term, too; they “play the game,” damn it – consider Sherlockians to be interlopers and trespassers into their world. These aren’t “real” fans. They haven’t poured through the texts to study Holmes’ methods or suss out all Doyle’s tiny little references and clues. They quote Moffat or Ritchie’s version of the characters, not the “real” thing. They have no “street cred”, no voice, no right to a place at the table.

Sure, this concept isn’t new or necessarily unique to the Sherlock Holmes fan community. Any fandom that’s big enough, popular enough, or long-running enough has had to deal with exclusion and fannish classicism. Every group has that segment of people who go around wearing the “We Were Here First” badge a bit too proudly, or make sure everyone knows how many times they’ve watched all the movies or episodes or read all the books. The difference is, this isn’t just about internet bullies and Big Name Fans singling out the newbies and chasing them out of the yard. This becomes more an issue of a group perceived as just a bunch of old white dudes telling a fanbase that is heavily made up of young, female fans that they aren’t welcome, specifically because of their age or their gender or the assumptions to be made based on both; that because of those things, their opinions and thoughts and appreciation are invalid; that they don’t belong.

None of this is news to anyone who has been in online Sherlock Holmes fandom for more than five minutes. My decrying it isn’t new, either. Lots of people have had this discussion before. So why bring it up? Mainly as a springboard to discuss my own experience and the importance of finding your people, even in a sea of judgmental sharks.

I haven’t really dipped my toe into Sherlock online fandom.  I follow a few tumblrs.  I listen to the Baker Street Babes podcast.  Previous experience has me reluctant to dive back into waters I used to swim in like a pro.  I’ve very much remained an outside observer this time around.  And then, “Holmes on the Range” happened.

“Holmes on the Range” is the kind of group that those staid and starched arbiters of traditional Holmes appreciation would probably despise. We don’t get together and drink high-end Scotch in our deerstalkers – which aren’t even canon! – discussing the importance of Holmes’ choice of dressing gown in “The Blue Carbuncle” or the socio-political meanings therein. The basic purpose of our meetings is an excuse for this group of wonderful, silly, intelligent women I know to get together, eat good food, drink fantastic cocktails, and watch things related to Sherlock Holmes. That’s pretty much it. As a concept, it began brewing in my brain after a collection of people from my local NaNoWriMo group decided to get together to see “The Abominable Bride” while it was in theaters. It was so much fun I thought, hey, maybe we could do this again, but in my living room, with alochol and less innocent bystanders.  Others agreed.
 I made a Facebook group, invited everyone local I thought would enjoy it, and we negotiated out first get together.

Thus far, our blasphemous formula has included the first season of the BBC series, a relevant episode of Veggie Tales (“Sheerluck Holmes and the Golden Ruler,” in case you’re curious), and “Elementary, Dear Data” from Star Trek: the Next Generation. There’s been discussion of adding things like episodes of “House,” the Ritchie-verse movies, “Elementary,” and a certain Asylum Films movie adaption. Generally, there is also pre-meeting “homework” – a story (or two) from the canon that relates to the episode we’re watching. Discussion ensues, of course. Sometimes, it’s even relevant discussion. What it always is, though, is fun.

We all come at Sherlock from different perspectives. Some of us have read the canon before, maybe years ago, and got back into things because of the BBC series. Some of us never read a single story before we started but have seen associated media. And some of us study the canon, write pastiche about the characters, and decided six months ago that it would be super fun to re-read it all and blog about it in a year.   Some of us are casual fans who don’t care about shipping; others have deep and extensive thoughts on the true definition of Sherlock and John’s affection towards each other (#teamjohnlock!).  Some of us love Sherlock; others of us are more Watsonites.  We have all the bases covered, you might say.

We aren’t a traditional Holmesian society – ones registered with the Baker Street Irregulars get to call themselves scions and be all fancy about it – and that’s awesome. If we were? That would also be awesome. It’s not the purpose of the group that determines whether it is or not, or how serious it takes itself, or how long any of the members have been into the canon, or even whether all of the members are.  What makes it awesome are the people. HotR is made up of some of my favorite people on the planet and that is why I love it.  

And that’s kind of the point of fandom. Find something you dig, then find people out there who share your joy of it and appreciate how you choose to celebrate it. Cherish those people, because if you’re very lucky you’ll find amongst them some very good friends that your life would be rather dull and dreary without.

Go out and find your fannish bliss. And for God’s sake, don’t judge how other people choose to find theirs. Even if it involves intergalactic robots that can change into automobiles falling in love with humans.

For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, it’s not a game!

I interrupt your regularly scheduled Sunday, and push back the two posts that are otherwise going up today, to bring you this wonderful tidbit: The Sherlock Season Four trailer!

I have so many questions –

  • What/who is the demon?
  • Who died, because the look on Sherlock’s face 00:43 is definitely a “they just wheeled *blank* into the morgue on a slab” one.
  • What is Mary up to?
  • What the *bleep* did Mycroft do to piss off Mrs. Hudson?

Oh, and then there’s the obvious question: when in 2017 are we getting this??

The Copper Beeches, or, What About Violet?

I feel like I need to start this off by saying I have nothing against Irene Adler.  She is a fantastic character that we did not get to see enough of, in my opinion, and that pastiche writers since have embraced beautifully.  I love that one of the first people we see best Holmes is a woman, a very clever and slightly devious woman who uses his own skills and preconceptions against him.  I have endless adoration for “The Woman.”

What annoys me, though, is this idea that she is the only strong, capable woman Doyle gives us; that every other female character that crosses Holmes’ path is little more than a cookie cutter damsel in distress needing to be saved by the Great Detective.  When people have this argument, they’ll drag out Helen Stoner (The Speckled Band), Mary Sutherland (A Case of Identity), or Annie Ruscastle (The Cooper Beeches) as definitive proof of the hypothesis while holding up Irene as comparison.  Miss Adler, in their minds, is an outlier.  An anomaly.  She is the exception to the rule.  All other women in Doyle’s Victorian London are weak, desperate creatures that fade into oblivion next to Irene’s strength.

They forget all about Violet Hunter.

Violet Hunter is the kind of young woman that likes to be clear and direct and figure things out for herself.  By the time she calls on Holmes and Watson for advice, she’s already weighed the odd circumstances of her job offer – leave London to come be a governess to  governess to one child in a country estate and acquiesce to any odd quirks her employers might suggest – against her own lack of funds and the 120 pounds a year they’re offering for her services.  She knows something about it seems strange and is looking for someone to tell her whether her suspicions are warranted or silly.

This is the same advice sought in “The Stockbroker’s Clerk;” it’s a similar situation to the one presented in “The Redheaded League,” as well.  The main difference between Violet’s situation and Mr. Jabez’s and Mr. Pycroft’s is that the exorbatant pay is being offered for actual, related work – just with a few odd circumstances involved.  Unlike her male counterparts, she’s at least not being wooed by a ridiculous premise attached to an unexpected sum of money.  She’s a governess being asked to take care of a child – while sporting a specific haircut and occasionally sitting in front of a window in someone else’s dress listening to her employer tell her funny stories.  That’s a bit more credible than being asked to copy out the encylopedia or the phone book.  At least the job she’s taking on makes sense.  Mostly.

Holmes sends her on with a vague warning that things may yet end up dangerous, even if he doesn’t know where exactly the danger lies, and Violet ensures him if things go wrong, she will send word.  Not very long after, he gets a summons to the Copper Beeches.

Violet Hunter is an observant, clever woman capable of noticing there are strange things afoot.  When Holmes and Watson arrive, she provides them a thorough, exacting account of her days in the Rucastle house.  She provides them enough information that Holmes has the entire case solved before he ever sees the scene.  When he arrives on scene, he already expects to find Annie Rucastle tucked away in that locked wing and a fairly good explanation of why.  He’s able to make such a clean deduction because Violet not only provides excellent information, but also because she is brave enough to find a way into that locked wing and investigate its contents, based on a hunch.  Violet may not cleverly disguise herself to play with Holmes and then slip away unseen into the night, but she matches Holmes’ curiosity and observation at the very least.  She isn’t who Holmes and Watson have to swoop in and save – she’s the one that precipitates the rescue mission.

Of course, another woman – Mrs. Toller, the cook – manages that rescue mission entirely on her own before the boys of Baker Street arrive, providing another example of a woman in the canon operating outside the damsel in distress boundaries.  Sure, she does it as much for a monetary motive as a humanitarian one, but that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme.

I’m not sure why Violet gets ignored.  Watson describes as an attractive woman, so it’s not because she’s plainer than Irene.  She possesses a more conventional career for a woman of the era; does she thus get left off because she’s too common?  Too boring in comparison to the infamous adventuress?  Is the story just less exciting?  I don’t know.  But I definitely think Violet gets the short end of the fandom stick sometimes, and she really shouldn’t.