Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“I always smoke `ship’s’ myself,” I answered. ²

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?” ³

“By no means.”

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. ⁴ Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” ⁵ I said, “and I object to row because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.” ⁶

And this leads to a number of interpretations…

Option 1: Bull (Terrier) Puppy

The idea is that Watson owned a bulldog puppy, or maybe a bull terrier puppy, not necessarily little, who then disappears from the rest of the Canon. This absence could be considered… ominous. Many fans take this option, and both Bert Coules (BBC Radio Adaptation) and Guy Ritchie (Sherlock Holmes (2009)) ran with it, introducing such dogs in their own works.

And then what happened to the poor doggy?

Some propose that the dog was given away, because dogs hate Sherlock Holmes; in “The Adventure of the Gloria Scott”, one that took place before Holmes met Watson, Holmes has his ankles injured so badly by Victor Trevor’s bull terrier that he’s laid up for ten days afterwards. ⁷ Or perhaps Holmes felt a seething resentment unprovoked by the dog, although one would hope that would come out at an interview.

If a such an incompatibility did come up between Holmes and a puppy, what would happen? In Coules’ version, the puppy is given away; in Ritchie’s version, Holmes proceeds to experiment with the puppy. The latter actually reflects what a sociopathic boy does in the much later story, “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire” to a spaniel, which doesn’t make for a kind reflection of Holmes’ mind.

In my opinion, if there really was a dog, the problem of bull terrier + Holmes’ ankles came up. I don’t think Holmes would actually experiment on the thing, since he acts so lovingly towards Toby, a hound who attempts to track a strange interloper in The Sign of Four, and is unlikely to ever get evil on that little floppy-eared face’s ass. Perhaps Holmes is simply more of a hound person (and indeed, Watson often describes Holmes as a hound ⁸ in the stories) and reserves his hatred for other dogs.

Speaking as someone who actually did get attacked by someone’s ill-trained actual bull dog, but has had friendly encounters with dogs of the floppy-eared variety, I completely fucking agree with Holmes in this case.

THERE IS NO MIDDLE GROUND.

Where was I? Ah, yes.

Option 2: A Temper

Some object to the idea of the bull pup being an actual dog, because up ’til then Watson had been staying in a hotel, which wouldn’t have looked kindly upon dogs. (See this article at Sherlock Peoria, also the home of the sporadic web comic, Action Sherlock Brain Theater.)

Another option, then, is to take refuge in obscure slang. Apparently “having a bull pup” is slang for “having fits of quick temper” (see The Encyclopaedia Sherlockiana). However, as pointed out in the previous article, Watson didn’t show off his temper during the Canon, or else he would have pummeled Holmes long ago and left. Not even Ritchie’s Watson is that impatient, though he’s less patient than most Watsons.

Actually, perhaps that was part of the motivation behind leaving Holmes for Mary Morstan. And perhaps Watson—who always was quick to want to bring physical vengeance on Holmes’ enemies, such as in “The Illustrious Client”—really did have a short temper, but rarely wrote it in. We’ll never know for sure, thanks to the Watson Gap. ⁹

Word of God would have been useful here, don’t you think? ¹⁰

Option 3: Packing Heat

This is my personal favorite, from a that would have been awesome point of view: the bull pup was a gun.

Of course, we’re not referring to modern bull pup guns, which are assault rifles where the receiver is located in the stock.

Apart from the complete difference in time period between Watson and the modern SA-80 British bull pup rifle, this is highly unlikely to have been a convenient weapon of choice. Although it’s quite fun to imagine him with one during, say, “The Adventure of the Empty House.”

However, “bull pup” in this case is likely to refer to the British Bulldog Revolver, a rather popular type of revolver in the past.

The relatively short barrel makes this gun convenient to carry around. I’m not sure, however, that folks in Britain, even Victorian England, would have really objected much to a bulldog revolver. But I have no idea what the culture was like during ColonizationFail, and as Watson in that scene in A Study in Scarlet had no friggin’ idea what kind of a roommate Holmes would end up being, he might have taken the guy for an academic softie. ¹¹

If this really was the bull pup, then Watson took it with him on just about every adventure.

Actually, come to think of it, this interpretation makes the most sense to me. I wonder if the various interpretations of Watson that removed his capability with weapons led to the bull pup as dog idea later on.

Ah well.

Winner

You Know It’s True.

For the Rule of Cool overrules all other consideration in the world of pop culture fiction.

fine

Notes:

1. double parens [back]
2. What was worse: `ship’s or shag? Strong does not even begin to describe either. [back]
3. And here we see the proximity of Holmes’ chemistry hobby, next to the upcoming mention…. [back]
4. Yes, you are. [back]
5. Ding ding ding! Next to the mention of “bull pup”! [back]
6. The other set of vices is often speculated to be (a) womanizing and (b) gambling. If you take the tack that Watson was homosexual, (a) would still apply in terms of being oversexed. [back]
7. In this relative captivity, Holmes and Trevor became close friends, or at least close as Holmes counts friends, which considering that he’s made two in his entire life before retirement, may or may not be entirely accurate. Or they were lovers. Your choice. Psychological associations and weirdness could definitely ensue. [back]
8. INNUENDO? You choose! [back]
9. Dibs. It’s my reference to the problems of a first-person narrator if we take them to be unreliable. And we’re pretty sure, thanks to stories published years apart in the canon, yet depicting events happening less than a year apart, told with completely different perspectives on Holmes as a character (largely positive-ish, and then heading down into “why the fuck did you stay with this jerkass” category). Although, like anything else, there are multiple flavors of interpretation here. [back]
10. Of course, in Doyle’s case, Word of God would have been laughing in the face of any fan who asked. Because he didn’t give a crap. Welcome to Sherlock Holmes fandom, where the inmates run the asylum, because the asylum administrators all took off for the pub. [back]
11. Actually, now that I think about it, Holmes mentioning his chemicals, and Watson coming upon him in his biochem capacity, may have lead Watson to believe that Holmes was some kind of nerdy little geek. Oh, innocent Watson. [back]

Previously we discussed how Doyle deals with suspense and the rising of stakes.

This time we’ll look at his action sequences. In large part, however, “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” is one of the quieter, arguably saner stories in the Sherlock Holmes canon. But you know, it has a cheetah and a baboon in it.

Let’s roll.

Action! Action! Action!

Well, Doyle’s scenes, even in his quieter pieces, are not stilted; instead, it’s full of people running around, guns being fired, fights, screaming, sharp weapons being wielded and slicing through the air, and sometimes wild animals.

Doyle doesn’t waste time getting to the action after the suspense build in the previous several scenes.

About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.

“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the middle window.”

Notice we have motion here, not merely words.

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

First sentence in this paragraph, responsibly plugging a possible plot hole. Not strictly necessary, but nice not to worry about it.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, or unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.

“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”

Holmes was for the moment as started as I. His hand closed like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.

“It his a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”

Lest we think that Doyle is a calm and rational storyteller, remember: there is a wild baboon and a friggin’ cheetah wandering around at night. A baboon and a cheetah. I think honestly if it weren’t going to cause a big plot hole of “Why didn’t Dr. Roylott inspect the noise”, there would have been a fight scene at the very least. It’s not like “The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb” was actually sane.

Also note that characters react to things happening around them. Even Holmes.

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’s example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words:

“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again.

“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

The narrative is moving relatively quickly at this point, even though if we were there in person, it might be achingly slow. Such are the demands of storytelling; boring the reader is not a good thing.

In the next paragraph, we switch to taffying out time. Suspense-building again; we know they’re not in a good place, and here they are in the dark….

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelves struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

While time has been stretched out here compared to previous paragraphs, note that not one sentence is boring filler; every single one highlights the tension and the sense of danger. Doyle, as always during his action scenes, employs all the senses: sight, sound, smell, even touch and taste at times.

And now we move back into action; it’s a staccato of action, tense pause, action, tense pause, and then climax.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator. which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing.

FUCKING SNAKES!

He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled into one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

The last part of the paragraph sounded like the climax of a fairy tale. This isn’t a bad thing; most climaxes, at some point or another, do, because all a fairy tale does is build to climax. The climax is pretty much the point of a fairy tale, which spends most of its narrative punch there.

“What can it mean?” I gasped.

“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room.”

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr Grimesby Roylott, clad in a long gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

I’d repeat something about description, but I discussed that in a previous post.

“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

Aiya!

Although the exclamation about the speckled band might have been a touch over-dramatic, we do need explication about the resolution at this point for maximum impact of the revelation of the true meaning of the title of the story.

“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.”

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the nose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it.

I… so would not have done that. But Sherlock Holmes does. At least this way it won’t hurt others when they pull the room apart, unless they’re particularly stupid about handling the safe.

Also, this is a bigger plot hole than the one Doyle plugged earlier: the safe has no breathing holes mentioned. Snakes need air.

I usually pretend Watson has overlooked that bit, or the safe is a cheap and sucky one.

Wrapping Things Up

Some stories (novels included) like to end at the previous point, because resolution can be boring after a climax. But resolution is something readers desire strongly, and leaving it out is generally also a bad idea and can be considered a breach of contract—something you can do for an effect if you can really justify it, but otherwise not a terribly good idea.

Resolution, though, doesn’t have to be long—it just needs to be sufficient. And relatively clear as to what the hell happened. And too long of a resolution may simply annoy everyone all around.

Okay. Now would be a good time for Doyle to remember that paragraphs are his friend, but … ah well, it is Doyle.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gypsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creature from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would take a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainly that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.

(BREATHE)

“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terribly occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.”

(FUCKING SNAKES.)

“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”

“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimseby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weight very heavily upon my conscience.”

(“Snakish”?)

Watson ties up the necessary details, and not beyond that: what happens to Miss Roylott, what happens vis-a-vis the inquiry into Dr. Roylott’s death, and what Holmes had figured out during the entire story, as well as Holmes’ final thoughts about the events that occurred.

Holmes’ explanation of his deductions are really only nice when you don’t know/don’t remember all the details that led up to his conclusion, and afterwards is something that can be skipped over, because otherwise they’re kind of boring.

And here ends the tale.

Incidentally, “The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb” follows. Unfortunately, Holmes and Watson merely frame it, and aren’t involved in the main action, which is completely crazy and would have fit well into the action sequences of the Guy Ritchie film.

fine

Previously we looked at how Doyle dealt with description as we began to descend into the Muddled Middle that plagues so many works, including published ones.

Today we’ll deal with the aspect of suspense.

Man, it’s been over a year since I wrote the previous part of this series. Let’s hope I’ve actually scraped together enough experience to deal with this bit….

Suspense: Try to Have Some

I don’t want to blast people for this fault, especially when I’ve had (and who knows, may continue to have for years) this problem in my fiction. But suspense almost always makes the difference between a bad story and a good one. It doesn’t have to be garish—but there has to be something.

As Wilson comments in the Agony Booth’s recap of Star Trek V:

One of the immutable laws of drama is that you don’t make a story more exciting or suspenseful by lowering the stakes. (And not even the screenwriters of Star Trek: Insurrection could grasp that basic truth.) Despite Star Trek V‘s supposedly weighty subject matter, half of the scenes are played for laughs. So at no point do we feel that anything important is at stake, or that anyone’s life is in danger, and by the end of the film, the audience has been lulled into a bored, apathetic coma.

Truer words, etc. Actually, almost the entirety of that recap is a lesson on how to make your readers/viewers not care.

So does Doyle pass the test in “The Speckled Band”? Let’s find out.

Questions, Questions, Questions

The last time, Sherlock Holmes and Watson were about to conduct an investigation of Dr. Roylott’s rooms after the merely odd features of his stepdaughter’s. The scene that now follows begins to put these oddities into a more disturbing context, but we don’t yet know exactly what the danger is. We do know there is one, however.

Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his stepdaughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest.

“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.

“My stepfather’s business papers.”

“Oh! you have seen the inside, then?”

“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”

“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”

“No. What a strange idea!”

Oh, that Sherlock Holmes. Because non-sequiturs are awesome. At least, it’s a non-sequitur to Watson, the narrator, and thus conveyed as such to the reader without, for instance, attempting to assure the reader that Holmes is not crazy.

Indeed, the entire purpose of this is to raise the reader’s interest by suggesting questions—in Holmes’ most desultory, “Oh, you haven’t guessed at it yet?” demeanor.

“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on top of it.

At this point, I feel I have to say this: “Really, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Really?” Dr. Roylott is kind of stupid or lazy, it would seem; but then again, perhaps he simply didn’t think anybody would dare come visit—he’s made sure to cultivate a fear of the place, and of course all the servants are long since gone as well.

On the other hand, despite being so clunkily obvious, it works. Because while the first thought to most everybody is indeed a cat, most people don’t immediately think [SPOILER]. You know it’s a clue—it’s just not obvious what it means, yet. All part and parcel of fueling suspense.

“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is jut a bit cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention.

“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hello! Here is something interesting!”

I have to say: “Really, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? A cheetah and a baboon are plausible here at all? Someone would actually suggest this?” Although I would have to qualify that; Holmes does debunk this, but we have nothing to replace it with but a question. It’s not a big question, but bringing exotic animals along is either a giveaway to the attentive reader or ensuring unease in the reader.

By the by, I’ll note that some inexperienced writers wouldn’t actually put Holmes’ reaction to something strange here, simply segueing into something similar to the next paragraph, thus breaking the first-person narrative structure with the narrator mind-reading another character. Not a good idea.

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.

“What do you make of that, Watson?”

“It’s a common enough las. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”

“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”

I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie.

We have questions. Holmes has answers, sort of, or at least apparently so to us. And they don’t look to be nice answers. Indication of this darkness is necessary in order to keep a smooth build-up of suspense.

“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”

“I shall most certainly do so.”

“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance.”

The stakes are suddenly raised here. Very obviously, but after a build-up of anonymous dread, which is essential for making it seem less out of the blue and melodramatic.

One of the advantages of the detective/narrator structure for a mystery story is that the detective is often himself a mystery, in terms of what his thinking is: a riddle within the bigger mystery, offering implicit clues. The more arrogant the detective, the more implicit the clues and tantalizing his hidden thought process. This is why Archie Goodwin and Nero Wolfe worked so well together, and is why House works so well with the rest of the hospital as his foil.

A first-person smart detective story is actually difficult to pull off without annoying the reader all to hell; if we’re in his brain, why won’t he tell us crap? Unreliable narrators are all and well, but there has to be a damn good reason, or else you’ve pretty much betrayed the reader. There are other ways around having a POV that’s centered on the detective; for instance, Lord Peter Wimsey stories are third-person smart detective, and the narrator, while not a character in the story, plays a large role in selectively revealing intention and hiding the rest.

“I assure you that I am in your hands.”

“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.”

Well, it’s not going to be an enjoyable night, not even if you’re into Holmes/Watson. Also, didn’t the story start with Holmes walking into Watson’s room while Watson was asleep in his jammies without knocking? What are we supposed to think, Doyle?

Yes, I’m joking here, I know this is to watch out for [SPOILER], not to make out. But I can’t help myself. Blame the New Movie if you must.

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. ((But not really.)) I believe that is the village inn over there?”

“Yes, that is the Crown.”

“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”

“Certainly.”

“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.”

“Oh, yes, easily.”

“The rest you will leave in our hands.”

“But what will you do?”

“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which had disturbed you.”

“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.

“Perhaps I have.”

“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.”

“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”

“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.”

“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you, for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”

COMMA COMMA COM— *squashes down internal copyeditor*

Man, there were a lot of pictures illustrating this story. We don’t really get that anymore, more’s the pity.

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor’s voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

This could have been a boring segue into the real action-adventure meat of this story, such as it is, but Doyle chose to liven it up by reminding us who the villain is. Heavily telegraphed, but we remember the threat of Dr. Roylott, and it’s colorful. Consider this part of raising the stakes: not only does Holmes say earlier that Miss Roylott’s life is in danger, we see the physical evidence of at least the secondary (and very obvious) threat of her stepfather.

“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.”

Sorry. This is actually decent, if very telegraphed, suspense-building. There actually is suspense. Partly because Holmes is such a tease at times, but that’s mainly because he dislikes disgracing himself with an invalid hypothesis.

Also because he’s a tease.

Another note: the heightening of stakes is not merely told to us, but also fully supported, as the following brainstorm conversation between Holmes and Watson shows. If we didn’t have the following passage, then Holmes really would have been melodramatic, rather than dramatic.

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Your presence might be invaluable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me.”

“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.”

“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”

“You saw the ventilator, too?”

“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.”

“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”

“But what harm can there be in that?”

“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?”

“I cannot as yet see any connection.”

“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”

“No.”

“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.”

Watson caps off the current suspense, and Holmes finishes it off. There is the beginning of a quiet period mentioned, but it’s never shown—because that would have been boring, not suspense-raising.

Next Time…

… we’ll talk about action. Real, honest to gods, we have earned this, action.

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.

Last time, we looked at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s techniques of:

• 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.

Last time, we looked at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s techniques of:

• 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.

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”.

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 strangosity 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 instances of Holmes in the Canon deducing for paragraphs on end without an interjection from somebody (often Watson) to break up the otherwise monotonically increasing monotony and keep us interested in what he has to say. He may have a lot to explain, but Doyle paces his explanations well–something we’ll see much later when the story is wrapped up.

(There are some pastiches where Holmes goes on for one full paragraph that spans a couple pages. It makes me want to shoot myself through the head, but that’s just me.)

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to–none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light on the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.”

She resolves the client deduction phase, and continues the build-up. There is some background matter thrown in with Farintosh to establish Holmes’s reputation among others–another method of characterization. He’s a minor legend, and we have faith that he can help and that the story isn’t going to simply sink down the drain with an incompetent lead.

(That, too, is a downfall of many beginner stories: having a stupid main character, for then the writer can more easily plot to bewilder him. Really, really not suggested unless you have more aces up your sleeve than Doyle does.)

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.”

Again, dialogue is one of the best ways of showing character: Holmes is gallant, and also extremely polite and considerate towards Miss Stoner. We also learn that he’s been in the business for some time now.

“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”

“I am all attention, madam.”

More build-up, more legend-building for Sherlock Holmes. The reader is practically on the edge of their seat at this point. By now I was in some awe of how Doyle covered so many of the guidelines, implicit and explicit, to writing narrative. There is considerably more such awe as we continue the story.

Until next time, stay warm by the fire.

However, there’s one point I’d like to address. No spoilers here.

In the first part of the episode, someone (not Holmes) tells Watson to fire his psychotherapist. Watson, you see, expresses a lot of trauma in PTSD-style terms—flashbacks, psychosomatic symptoms, nightmares, stuff we haven’t seen yet and I’m not sure we ever will.

That someone tells Watson to fire his psychotherapist because he no longer has trembling fingers when he thinks of traipsing off after Holmes; that it’s not because he’s been traumatized by the war, but because he misses it. It’s not PTSD, but a thirst for adventure.

I really hope that’s just the character you wrote talking, Steven Moffat, because if it’s not, if this is your view… you’re a fucking moron.

How do I put this… since, as a PTSD sufferer, I am rather upset….

People who suffer from PTSD can often operate extremely well under stressful conditions similar to those in which they incurred the trauma.

Given that said conditions are often life-and-death or fatal ones, how the fuck else do you think that PTSD sufferers actually survive to have PTSD later on after the war? PTSD is, in its own twisted way, a survival mechanism that, for better or worse, works extremely well. The problem is, indeed, when life becomes normal, because trigger reactions and memories no longer fit.

I mean, hell. My oncall rotation is one where a mistake can cause millions of dollars in damage. I actually did have a choice to not go on a rotation that is so very vital to my company. But here I am, and been so for almost three years. Why the hell do you think I made that choice?

Basically, just because Watson’s limp wasn’t “real” doesn’t mean his trauma or his PTSD also aren’t real; and just because he has PTSD doesn’t mean he can’t function in a high stakes situation, just as he did on the show.

If you want a good portrait of how PTSD interplays with “thirst for adventure”, go digest Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey series. (I summarized it, too.)

Oh well. It’s unlikely to come up ever again, because it’s likely to never be addressed again. Another one for the What PTSD? box.

I am disappointed. And if Watson is magically healed of PTSD (just like his game leg!), then Moffat has just perpetuated more marginalization of actual PTSD sufferers. After all, real main characters can’t have PTSD.

The episode? Otherwise extremely good.

This series started here, and now ends on Holmesian Derivations, but I just felt it was fitting to list the links here, seing as “Retyping the Speckled Band” started here.

• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 1 – Beginning with Style
• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 2 – Dealing with Information Dumps
• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 3: Revealing Depth
• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 4: Description with Purpose
• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 5: Suspense is a Good Thing
• Retyping the Speckled Band, Part 6: Action, Climax, and Epilogue

And now I’m free! Free! FREE!

Also I think I found next year’s RickRoll.

(I know I got at least ONE person! ETA: I’ve never had someone cuss at me for rickrolling them before. I love firsts!)

I actually do love Rick Astley songs. Especially “Never Gonna Give You Up”, although for April 1st I tend to think along these lyrics instead of the normal ones:

We’re no strangers to 4/1.
You know the rules,
And so do I.
Playing pranks is what I’m thinking of,
And you’ll get this from every other site.

I just want to play with your feelings,
Gotta make you understand:
I’m gonna kid you up,
I’m gonna let you down,
I’m gonna run around,
And joke with you.
I’m gonna make you sigh,
I’m gonna say goodbye,
I’m gonna tell a lie,
And desert you.

It was a fun post to write.

Of course, it might come to pass, so it might actually be a prophetic April Fools joke after all….