A STUDY in MORALITY: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE's SHERLOCK HOLMES a Thesis Presented to the Faculty of San Diego St

A STUDY IN MORALITY: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S

SHERLOCK HOLMES

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A Thesis

Presented to the

Faculty of

San Diego State University

______

In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

English

______

Tishna M. Asim

Spring 2016

iii

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to Dr. Quentin Bailey—the Holmes to my Lestrade. Thank you.

ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS

A Study in Morality: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes by Tishna M. Asim Master of Arts in English San Diego State University, 2016

Sherlock Holmes inhabits a rarefied position in the global cultural landscape. There are hundreds of fictional detectives, yet he is considered the best and most enduring of his brethren. He is considered the archetype of genius detective, and his allure spans borders and generations, even today, one hundred and thirty years after his inception by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He has attained mythical status, both in popular-cultural and academic circles, from his instantly-recognizable profile, complete with deerstalker cap and magnifying lens, to his legendary address at 221B Baker Street in London. Yet the Holmes of myth represents a misreading of Doyle’s original sixty stories. Instead of the cold, unemotional, misogynistic automaton that seems cemented in public imagination, the textual Sherlock Holmes is much warmer, more spiritual, and more humane than his myth suggests. This thesis will demonstrate the humanity of Holmes as he exists in the original works, tracing his professional relationships, his views on justice, and his attitudes toward women, to establish a true reading of the famous sleuth. Doyle’s original texts depict a gliding evolution by Holmes toward increased morality, spirituality, and fairness, as he serves justice and the greater good. In contradicting the myth, this thesis offers an alternative view of the man himself as he always existed on the page—brilliant in reasoning and scientific deduction, but also kind, responsible, and inherently good. The real Sherlock Holmes, as he exists in Doyle’s canon, is certainly worth mythologizing.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

ABSTRACT ...... v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... vii CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION: (RE)MAKING A MYTH ...... 1 2 NO “I” IN TEAM ...... 17 3 “A GOOD MAN AND A ROGUE” ...... 36 4 AIDEZ LA FEMME ...... 59 WORKS CITED ...... 75

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank the inimitable women of the SDSU 2016 Thesis Support Group: Tricia, Bonnie, and Chelsie, you made this whole process fun and enlightening. Thanks, too, to Dr. Edee Benkov and Dr. Mike Borgstrom. I knew I was lucky to call you my mentors, but I’m even luckier to call you my friends. Thanks for your support, insight, and kindness. It’s been an honor and a privilege to work with you. Special thanks to Dr. Quentin Bailey, for three years’ worth of enlightenment, humor, and fun. From my first semester to my last, it’s been such an honor to work with you and learn from you. I also want to thank my family for their unflagging support, constant encouragement, and unconditional love: Christina, Paul, Tanya, Shawn, Stephen, Charlotte, Timur, Taner, and Vicki. I hope to always make you proud. Finally, to NNH, my unwavering light amidst all this dark London fog, thank you for always guiding me home, and for sharing me with Mr. Holmes for so long. I love you.

CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION: (RE)MAKING A MYTH

Almost one hundred and thirty years after his inception by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the character of Sherlock Holmes still captures the imagination and fervent admiration of millions of fans worldwide. From his debut in 1887 as the only consulting detective in the world, to his final case in March 1927, Holmes’ popularity has only gained momentum, resulting in numerous television shows, movies, comic books, video games, and fan clubs. He has the ability to bridge the seemingly-insurmountable gap between hormonal Tweeters and staid, cerebral academic scholars; his panache is more timeless than that of most celebrities, and his name is synonymous with intelligence and stylish deductions. He has, in short, risen to mythical proportions. More than this popularity, though, he has attained a unique position in history: people believe—or at least desperately wish—that “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (and their retinue, right down to Billy the Page) were real; that their adventures really happened” (Dundas 232). However fantastic, this desire is widely held: T.S. Eliot said that “Holmes is real in a way that only the greatest fictional characters ever achieve” (Clausen 66, emphasis in original), demonstrated by the “letters of admiration and requests for help [which] are still addressed to the mythical rooms” at 221 B Baker Street (66).1 The address and its inhabitants are so well known that “there must be very few people over the age of ten in the English-speaking world who have never heard of” Sherlock Holmes (66). Given that the complete stories have been translated into 60 languages, Holmes’ fame now reaches global proportions. Audrey Jaffe pinpoints the phenomenon, stating “no writer

1 Eliot himself was so inspired by the stories that he based “his poetic mystery cat Macavity on Conan Doyle’s villain Moriarty” (Dundas 16).

2 is more famously effaced behind his creation than Conan Doyle, who, as a world of Sherlockania attests, seems to have created an actual person rather than a fictional character” (419). Doyle and Holmes are so synonymous that most people forget that the Holmes stories “represent little more than 10 percent of Doyle’s total output” (Orel, “Introduction” 3). Doyle fades into the background: many readers indulge in a game “which posits as its basic assumption a conviction that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are historical figures, and that Doyle is a figment of their imagination—or at best, acts as Dr. Watson’s literary agent” (2). Holmes has outlived Doyle, despite Doyle’s attempted murder of his most famous character in 1894. Ellen F. Higgins concurs with this mythos, calling Holmes “a universal hero, a ubiquitous and instantly recognizable cultural symbol” (135)—truly a Mythologized Holmes. However well-intentioned this homage may be, the character which inspires such mania seems entirely divorced from the actual, textual character who appeared in Doyle’s original stories—those sixty stories which have been “elevat[ed]…to the status of a ‘Sacred Canon’” (Orel, “Sherlock” 169) by every generation since (and even during) Doyle’s writing of them. This thesis will demonstrate, in part, how the Canonical Holmes conflicts with and complicates the much adored Mythologized Holmes, and establishes why the distinction is important. This thesis further asserts that the Canonical Holmes is a much more evolved, warmly spiritual character than his cold, emotionless pop-culture persona allows; the Mythologized Holmes is prized, in part, because of his icy hauteur and inhumanity, even though both of those traits are largely absent from Doyle’s texts. Yet despite bearing little resemblance to his textual source, the Mythologized Holmes continues to captivate worldwide audiences. Who is this globally-recognized myth? Stephen Knight asserts: “Everyone knows the traditional image of Sherlock Holmes…a deerstalker hat, a checked Inverness cape, large curved pipe and a magnifying glass…[and] the world famous icon is complete” (“Great Detective” 55, emphasis added). Holmes, “neither the first nor the last of his kind, remains the archetype” of genius detective (Accardo 14), and while the deerstalker cap has produced some controversy (given that it is never once mentioned over the course of sixty stories), this image of Holmes is eternally etched on the social and cultural landscape of the planet. Just as his appeal knows no geographical borders, his accessibility is universal: the tales,

can be read by a child for the story alone, can be read by a teenager for a sense of construction, and can be read by an adult for his knowledge of why we are intrigued by those dogs that did not bark in our night. (Winks 93) This demographic-less, ageless, global appeal has led to the proliferation of films and television shows, in particular, featuring diverse actors as Holmes: in addition to Benedict Cumberbatch, the actor who currently portrays Holmes on the BBC’s smash-hit television show Sherlock, Basil Rathbone inhabited the role in 14 films during Hollywood’s so-called Golden Age of the 1940s. Robert Downey, Jr., took up the sleuth’s pipe with Jude Law as his Watson in two Guy Ritchie-directed confections for Warner Bros., while a third one is currently in pre-production. Disney threw their deerstalker hat into the ring with Basil of Baker Street, the hero of The Great Mouse Detective. After his turn singing “On the Street Where You Live” to Audrey Hepburn’s Eliza Doolittle in the film version of My Fair Lady, Jeremy Brett resisted all type-casting as a frothy romantic lead by inhabiting 221B Baker Street for the remainder of his career in the Granada television series of the 1980s and nineties. Perhaps in his own attempt to resist type-casting, Sir Ian McKellan nevertheless donned the cloak of another mythical legend in his portrayal of Mr. Holmes in the 2015 film.2 Finally, the currently-running American drama Elementary on CBS drastically departs from its pop-culture brethren by positioning Jonny Lee Miller as the detective, whose “rather alarming heteronormative sex drive” (Dundas 257) contributes to the show’s other creative liberties—Watson is portrayed by former Charlie’s Angel, Lucy Liu, while Mrs. Hudson is now “a towering transsexual [landlady of the]…enviably shabby-chic New York brownstone” that is the new 221B Baker Street (257). These iterations seem tame in comparison to the fan fiction that abounds on the internet, the main focus of which seems to be sex—Zach Dundas likens the fare to Fifty Shades of Grey (265). Romantic interludes between Holmes and Watson are typical of this genre, but “a huge body of work, known collectively as Mystrade, centers on Mycroft and Inspector Lestrade deep in lust” (265). Not so elementary.

2 Incidentally, Holmes’ Inverness cape is shorter than Gandalf’s.

Yet creative license implies—requires—an original source: these entertainment- versions of Holmes all owe something to Doyle’s original texts as the foundation for their deviations, however tenuous the connection. But the question arises: if these pop-culture versions are mere adaptations of an original, then who is the real Sherlock Holmes? That investigation has been the province of many academic scholars, whose admiration for Holmes is scarcely less enthusiastic than their lay counterparts. Interestingly, the academic and popular answers are the same, demonstrating a parallel between literary research and mainstream entertainment. Both camps would agree on the very specific and oft-repeated hallmarks of Holmes: misogyny, unemotional coldness, anti-social behavior, aloofness, machine-like intellect, and occasional drug use. These elements of Holmes’ character are so entrenched in both academic and popular minds as to become part of the mythology of Holmes, hanging neatly alongside his deerstalker hat, cape, and pipe, those “accepted symbols for the Investigator…In fact, any two of these three will signify detection and discovery even to persons who have never heard of Sherlock Holmes” (Skene-Melvin 131). Michael Holquist adds to this: “The degree to which Holmes is pure mind may also be seen in the official iconography of him; in…illustrations he is all nose and bulging brow” (159), at once immortalizing his ability to sniff out clues and confirming the size of his brain (159). Apart from his trappings, though, he is eternally defined by calculating reason, chilly eccentricity, and inhumanity. Holmes’ actual, textual origin is an important clue in understanding his personality, because those early works serve as the foundational point for all subsequent mythologizing. Doyle “began A Study in Scarlet in March and finished it in April, 1886” (Carr 47), but several publishers refused it. Finally, “Ward, Lock & Co….[accepted it but] could not publish A Study in Scarlet [in 1886]…because the market was flooded with cheap fiction” (49). Once published—over a year later in the November 1887 edition of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, the tale “didn’t excite much comment in Britain” at the time (Dundas 37). However, in America, it was “met with enormous success” (Nordon 229). One American fan was Joseph Stoddart, a representative of “a new magazine from Philadelphia called Lippincott’s Monthly” (Dundas 75-6). Visiting London to “recruit British talent” (76), he commissioned work at a dinner party from two authors: Doyle, who would offer a second Holmes tale called The Sign of Four, and Oscar Wilde, who would create The Picture of

Dorian Gray (Flanders 455). Yet Doyle’s second attempt “had no success…it faded away with scarcely more critical attention that had attended A Study in Scarlet” (Carr 59). However, in July 1891, Doyle’s next offering to a new magazine called The Strand—“A Scandal in Bohemia”—struck gold: “Holmes blazed into popularity before autumn” (64). Doyle’s hero would soon become a thorn in his side, but by then, the die was already cast. Holmes would go on to enjoy undimmed popularity for the next one hundred and thirty years—and counting. One explanation for his meteoric rise in 1891 is that the stories satisfied the public desire for optimism amid social crisis and crime, as Rosemary Jann notes: “he surely owed much of his popularity to the reassurance offered…by the reiterated spectacle of successful detections, dangers contained, order restored, and values reaffirmed” (6). The years between 1886 and 1891—essentially, the period of Holmes’ birth—also coincide with the creation of several other enduring archetypes that, in contrast to Holmes, threatened the social order of their Victorian moment: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1886 and Dorian Gray in 1890. There is a third legendary figure who bears mention, not only for the fact that he is the only “real” person to threaten his society, but because he and Holmes are woven together during the twilight years of Victoria’s reign. This third figure emerged in the public consciousness in early autumn 1888—“a human shell without character or identity, a shrouded knife-wielding demon. He is the caped figure walking through the nineteenth-century fog with the Gladstone [doctor’s] bag by his side” (Rumbelow 287). He is, of course, Jack the Ripper. Though “the Whitechapel murderer operated for [only] ten weeks” (Flanders 466), his name carries instant recognition even today, much like Holmes.3 According to Flanders, “[t]he real legacy of Jack the Ripper was as an archetype, and it seems only appropriate that this faceless, internationally renowned killer should have become enmeshed with one of the most recognizable detective archetypes of all time…Sherlock Holmes” (462). Doyle never wrote

3 Of Jack’s ten-week murder spree, it is believed that only five victims actually bear the signs of his grisly modus operandi and can therefore be properly attributed to him, yet this fact often surprises people. So great is the legend that surrounds him, it is believed he was responsible for many more murdered prostitutes.

6 any stories in which Holmes faces off against the Ripper, but a world of fan-fiction fills that gap (Rumbelow 290).4 However, Doyle was not completely silent on the sensation which dominated the public’s attention in Holmes’ early years; he “did tell a reporter for the Portsmouth Evening News (4 July 1894) how he thought Holmes might have tracked the murderer” by examining the ink, paper, and vocabulary of the famous “Dear Boss” letter, one of three missives purporting—and believed—to have been written by the Ripper himself (Rumbelow 290).5 Even, Dr Joseph Bell, who was the model for Holmes, claimed to have solved the Jack the Ripper mystery…Dr Bell and his friend made independent investigations and placed their conclusions in sealed envelopes…They gave [the] name to the police and soon afterwards the murders came to an end—or so Bell claimed. (291) Like Spring-heeled Jack, Holmes was a legend in his own historical moment, “so potent that even in his own lifetime Doyle was almost swamped by it” (Symons 73). Yet as Jack the Ripper and Mr. Hyde demonstrate, Holmes was the necessary antidote to the social hypocrisy and murderous evil that dominated that cultural landscape—the stiff upper lip of the late-Victorian subject often concealed a row of very sharp teeth. That world desperately needed a hero, even if he was fictional. The need and “the myth [are] not less potent today” (73), which may account for Holmes’ continued fame. He offered reassurance, just as Jann asserts: of the first twelve serialized stories for The Strand, known collectively as The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, only three involve murder, four involve theft, two deal with blackmail for monetary gain, and the remaining three involve no crime at all. Importantly, those three murder cases are relatively bloodless, compared to the Ripper’s methods, as Nordon sums up nicely: “we never have to face unbearable scenes of slaughter…Some of the

4 Doyle never wrote about Holmes and Spring-heeled Jack, but he may have inspired him nonetheless: it is believed that, after murdering Catherine Eddowes in the early hours of September 30, 1888, Jack the Ripper scrawled words on a wall near the crime scene (in chalk, though—not blood), just as Holmes discovers the word “Rache” in Scarlet just one year before the Whitechapel murders (Flanders 441). 5 Another letter, perhaps more famous, is the letter addressed “From Hell,” which contained what is believed to be a piece of fourth victim Catherin Eddowes’ kidney (Rumbelow 121).

7 stories even make do without a corpse…Very often the problems he is given to solve are nearer to comedy than tragedy” (239). Judith Flanders situates the phenomenon most persuasively, when she argues that “the crimes [Holmes] investigates become quirky, even whimsical…[and] It may perhaps be that this lack of blood…made Holmes so popular. There was enough blood, enough violence, in Whitechapel, and in the newspapers” (438-9). Thus, public consciousness is soothed both by the content of the stories, and by the character of the hero—his manner is essential to his salutary effect, what Maria Cairney refers to as Holmes’ “textual healing” (67). Instead of a hot-blooded, sex-crazed lunatic suffering from syphilis, targeting prostitutes in the dead of night and slicing them up for revenge for his own condition, as was believed of the Ripper (Rumbelow 57), cool and calm Holmes “can unravel a detective puzzle without leaving his room” (Neill 614). In large part, his success depends upon his absolute difference from the passionate, ravenous villains of his day—the Rippers, the Hydes, and the Dorian Grays—so that he can actively “cleanse late Victorian England of its morally most unsavory and dangerous elements” (611). While each of the Holmes stories do “incite social anxieties” (Krasner 424) as all detective fiction does, those anxieties never reach the same level of horror as those sparked by Hyde’s transforming draught, the lascivious twist of Gray’s painted mouth, or the Ripper’s methodical modus operandi. As Jim Barloon contends, “Holmes is meant, generally, to assure readers, to make them feel, on some level, more secure” (34). What, then, are the specific attributes of this consoling hero that set him so far apart from his contemporaries? Scarlet depicts him as cold, calculating, entirely unemotional, and even mercenary. He enjoys watching the police blunder, laughing at their ineptitude. The police were not enjoying much popularity at this time, given their inability to track down the Whitechapel murderer; thus, Holmes mirrors his readers’ sentiments about the police. Further, his moods alternate between egotism and petulance, and he prioritizes his reputation above the concerns of justice. He is, essentially, a mischievous, proud diva-genius, “an egocentric drug-taking hero” (Symons 65). These textual traits fall very much in line with his mythology: calculating, cold, eccentric, and inhuman. While some of those traits mellow a bit in The Sign of Four, Holmes’ misogyny shoves its way to the forefront and establishes itself as one of his more memorable attributes. Many scholars agree that Holmes is a misogynist. Barrie Hayne contends that this “aversion

8 to women” causes Holmes to view all women as embodying that “irrational element which stands in the way of reason” (151). Hayne goes further in establishing the mythos: “Holmes’s instinctive and unbending misogyny [is] set against Watson’s no less stereotypical conventional reaction” toward women (151); in this way, Holmes and Watson are both integral parts of the legend—Watson loves all women, Holmes hates them all. Ian Ousby allows for a “courteous and mildly avuncular” Holmes, but then reinscribes the Mythologized image in the same sentence—Holmes is kindly and solicitous “despite his misogyny” (161). Readers and scholars seem to make allowance for this, as does Gian Paolo Caprettini: Holmes’s misogyny…has its basis in a theoretical need: if the detective wants his mind to be the mirror of that sequence of causes and effects which ended in a crime, he must get rid of every subjective element of nuisance. (330) Understandably, the man must have a clear head in order to solve crime—he is society’s savior, he cannot be mooning over women all day. Women are a nuisance to Holmes, according to Caprettini, which justifies the creation “inside himself of a barrier between pathos and logos” (330). As George Grella asserts, “his foibles are the understandable eccentricities of a man of genius” (350), and thereby escape real censure. This notion of Holmes’ animosity for women leads to another pair of common “facts” about him: that he has no personal life and is essentially asexual, a “most notable virgin” (Atkinson 47). Clausen asserts that Holmes’ life “is almost wholly intellectual…He never once falls in love” (66). Dundas positions Holmes as a man who “of course, takes no interest in matters hormonal except when they indicate motives” for crime (79). This image is so ingrained that Dundas uses the words “of course,” as though this asexuality is a given when describing Holmes. Jann calls him a “medieval knight [who is always] celibate” (43). Jaffe agrees, claiming “Holmes has no private life but only a bohemianism that dramatizes the absence of one” (425). She alleges that his work is his life (425) and substitute for sex, a sentiment echoed by John A. Hodgson, who describes Holmes as “a confirmed bachelor [whose] most significant difficulties with [women] were professional rather than personal” (7). Caprettini goes further, eroding Holmes’ humanity by referring to him as an “encyclopedia,” with a mind that mediates experience through “dictionary-type filters and division” (329); he must exclude all knowledge which does not serve him in his work, and

Caprettini sees Holmes as erecting a “rigid and insuperable [barrier]…against the risk of passions and particularly of ‘softer passions’” that might impede his attention to a case (329). Women and love certainly fall into that latter category of disposable information; Holmes’ brain attic allows no such fluff. His humanity is further stripped by Flanders, who describes Holmes as an “inhuman scientific machine” (316). Christopher Keep and Don Randall posit Holmes as one who “forgoes the safe and sanctioned pleasures of…heterosexual domesticity and chooses instead a needle” and cocaine as his preferred companions (219). Yet again, allowances are made in the face of Holmes’ genius and service to social safety: asexual and dispassionate as he is, he is a fitting antidote to the oversexed rapacity of his contemporary villains. As Ian A. Bell argues, “Sherlock Holmes himself may be a bit weird and cranky…but he is on our side despite everything” (8). Sally R. Munt describes him as “transcend[ing] his human prototype [Doyle’s mentor, Dr. Joseph Bell], becoming a representation of the ‘Nietzschean superior man’. Doyle felt his readers needed ‘a man immune from ordinary human weaknesses and passions’” (2). Julian Symons asserts “It was comforting to have such a man on one’s side” (66). But what all these scholars describe is not really a man—he is instead a brain, an idea, a symbol. His inhumanity is as integral to the myth as misogyny and shag tobacco stored in the toe of a Persian slipper. From here, all the other widely-accepted personality traits of the Mythologized Holmes easily fall into line: because he is a machine who hates women, he is necessarily cold in all situations. He is anti-social, quirky, and sometimes rude.6 Even though the textual Holmes is not a psychopath, sociopath, or Asperger’s sufferer, his legendary status requires some other-worldliness: “coiled in his armchair, wreathed in smoke…an exotic orchid of the imagination” (Dundas 83), Holmes has “such complete control over his emotions and so nonchalant an attitude toward everything around him that he is considered by some to be a heartless thinking machine, an indictment that his deep-seated misogyny only collaborates”

6 This perception of Holmes is so strong that, within the first 30 minutes of the pilot episode of Sherlock, Cumberbatch’s Holmes tells Inspector Anderson: “I’m not a psychopath…I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!” (“A Study in Pink”). All subsequent episodes play upon this framing.

(Conroy 36). This emotional distance is heightened when the sleuth is compared to Data, the android character of Star Trek: The Next Generation, because both represent “the quintessence of intellectual austerity” (Erisman and Erisman 96). On a darker note, Thomas M. Kitts links Holmes to Othello’s villain Iago, citing their shared disregard “for companionship…[or] wifely love” as one factor that makes them “unlikely kinsmen” (212). Kitts goes further: “Holmes and Iago consider themselves superior to common humanity, and enjoy using their intellectual abilities to control others” (217), though Holmes’ mischief is rather tame in comparison to Iago’s machinations. Relatedly, given his egotistical views on the rest of humanity, Holmes is the perpetual outsider, which is why Victorian audiences felt, in part, that he could solve the Ripper murders and keep the community safer than the police could ever do. The positioning of Holmes as an outsider becomes even clearer when considering the figure of Watson—that everyman who mirrors the life of the reader and is so essential to Mythologized Holmes. Watson is “[s]uch a typical Britisher and stolid Victorian [that he] stands in marked contrast…with the bohemian detective whose strange habits place him” in the realm of Outsider (Conroy 36). “Bohemian,” as ascribed to Holmes, always marks difference, whether it be with respect to class, bourgeois ideals of the Victorian period in which Holmes originated, or even with respect to obeying social codes and manners. Stephen Knight establishes this when he refers to Holmes as not only “a man of objective science: he’s also aloof, arrogant, eccentric, even bohemian” (“Great Detective” 55). He “belongs to no club…and is, in fact, the sort of isolated intellectual who today would be called alienated: introverted, frighteningly analytical, and often cynical” (Clausen 67). In his own time, Holmes’ anti-social preferences were an oddity, but because “[d]eduction…is [his] ruling passion[,]” he is forgiven for a multitude of social sins (68); “the isolated, disclassed genius is the one who saves the day” (72). Holmes’ position as a cultural outsider is essential to his role as society’s protector: his mind is “free from the assumptions of comfortable, law- abiding people…society can be protected only by someone who does not share its orthodoxies, who sees through the disciplines of respectability…who stands outside the normal system of rewards and punishments, who cares nothing for status and depends only on himself” (74). Kayman adds that Holmes never “seek[s] institutional [or social]

11 validation” (50). He has come to represent his whole species—the private gentleman detective—whose habits, like the cases they love, are outré: They have no wife, they have no children…they live in messy rooms, they lead an irregular life, they turn the night into day, they smoke opium or raise orchids; indeed, they have unconcealed artistic inclinations, they quote Dante or play the violin…these detectives are eccentrics and bohemians. (Alewyn 67-8) Yet even among his exceptional brethren, Holmes stands apart and ahead. He is entirely his own man: rude, woman-hating, sneering, machine-like, and above all, brilliant. Thus, the academic scholarship and the popular imagination both rely on the picture of Holmes that is presented in A Study in Scarlet, as though he has been cemented in time— in 1887, to be precise. It is that limited image of Holmes that continues today, virtually unchanged, as the widely-accepted definition: Clausen phrases it as a “pattern…set at the very beginning in A Study in Scarlet…[which] never changes in any essential way…If as a result he seems somewhat one-dimensional as a character, that is an essential part of the stories’ meaning” (68). Sally Sugarman concurs, arguing: “Many heroes are reshaped within changing historical contexts. King Arthur…Superman and Batman…[n]ot Holmes, however. He is always himself. Both he and Watson are fixed points in a changing age” (ix). Symons adds that Holmes “triumphs as a character from the moment we meet him” (65)—which is to say in 1887’s A Study in Scarlet. Yet that preserved-in-amber version of Holmes does not bear scrutiny when held to the light. As the text reveals, he is not a rigid, stagnant figure, and any argument about his unchanging nature reflects a misreading of Doyle’s work. Even his oft-quoted tagline— “Elementary, my dear Watson”—is never uttered: the “completion process of a live myth has run [the two separate phrases] together” (Knight, “Great Detective” 64). Thus, even the myth is a myth. A close textual reading of all sixty stories reveals the truth: Mythologized Holmes appears only once in the life of the character—in the first story, A Study in Scarlet. He never appears again. Every subsequent story, spanning the remaining three-plus decades of Holmes publications, presents a very different character—one who changes abruptly after his run in Scarlet. The Holmes from “A Scandal in Bohemia” and onward is entirely different— almost the complete opposite of his earlier incarnation—and this “new Holmes” is, in fact, the real, Canonical Holmes.

This distinction between Mythologized, cold Holmes and the more humane, Canonical Holmes is important, in part, because it reveals society’s prioritizing and privileging of hard science and pure reason, uncomplicated by emotional impulse. The cultural appropriation of Holmes’ coldness and mechanical brain reflects an ever-growing trend toward “progress” in policing and criminal jurisprudence—ballistics, forensics, DNA evidence, and CSI-type investigations have relegated the human elements, such as eyewitness testimony and character evidence, to the back-burner. Knight situates Holmes as: stand[ing] for science, that exciting new nineteenth-century force in the public mind…the overt techniques of science, the careful collection and rational analysis of information, were realised in Sherlock Holmes…through his knowledge of forensic facts and criminal history. (“Great Detective” 55) Cold Holmes is privileged, and his more human attributes are largely overlooked by both scholars and enthusiasts alike as being unnecessary to both his allure and his ability to solve crimes. The cultural and social implications of that (mis)appropriation of Holmes relates, not just to nineteenth-century attitudes, but also to current social trends of scientific progress and exponential technological growth. Mythologized Holmes was, and is, an infallible automaton—a computer. Yet, as this thesis will demonstrate, Mythologized Holmes is an aberration who bears no resemblance to the textual character. Why, then, is it important to locate the real, human, warm Holmes and reframe the narrative surrounding him? That answer is tied to justice, both in terms of what it means to Holmes and what it should mean to his readers: his humanity is essential to his success as a detective. He always makes the right decision because of his heart, in conjunction with that formidable brain. As a computer, he would see the world in absolutes—either guilty or innocent—which would result in injustice. But because Holmes has a deeply spiritual and moral sense of himself and his fellow man, he always finds the fairest and best solution. The more fully-rounded, evolved Holmes who appears in the stories exhibits the perfect balance between sense and sensibility—that ideal which modern justice systems should be, but generally are not. The critical and social implications of the real, Canonical sleuth are that Holmes himself should be the model for justice, not ponderous law tomes, the police, or the courts who are bound, computer-like, to some other code that frequently errs. Holmes himself says it best:

Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. (Doyle, “Abbey Grange” 1026) In setting up his views on justice, he simultaneously reveals his morality while outlining what an ideal justice system should be. As such, the real Holmes is a useful model for actual social and cultural progress, far more than any cold science could be. Far from remaining static as many scholars contend, Holmes’ character undergoes a gliding evolution over the course of the stories, running roughly in chronological order of publication, such that the sleuth of the post-Scarlet stories bears almost no resemblance to that first appearance, as if the cold, sneering jokester were a doppelgänger. This “new” positioning of Holmes is most evident when viewing his personality from three angles: his opinions about the police and his own profession; his views on justice and social order; and finally, his attitudes toward women and humanity at large. This thesis seeks to expose those myriad shifts that occur in Holmes’ character: Chapter Two will examine his professional relationships, focusing on his evolving attitudes toward the official police, as well as his own role in protecting society. Chapter Three will investigate his changing attitudes toward crime, justice, and spiritual good. Finally, Chapter Four will examine his sharpest change of all—from misogynist to champion of women—which thereby reveals how dynamic his true character is, in direct contrast with the cold, aloof automaton he is largely believed to be. Ultimately, the text reveals a warm, kind person who cares deeply about his society, justice, and humanity—a man worth mythologizing as a model for any society. In fairness, a handful of scholars do acknowledge his shifts, but their analyses fall woefully short of explaining his actual evolution as a character. For instance, Judith Flanders concedes a difference between earlier and later Holmes, but her analysis centers on class considerations and his increased wealth as a result of his fame (462-3). Barrie Hayne comes closer, when he concedes that “Holmes mellows toward his principal police antagonist…and Lestrade towards him” (146), but Hayne limits this discussion to a few sentences focusing on only one story, and does not further examine the evolution of that complicated relationship with the police—which is, itself, a large component of Holmes’ overall growth. Similarly, Stephen Knight concedes that “the later Sherlock Holmes becomes more respectable…gives up cocaine, goes for healthy walks, gets on better with the police and is much less barbed

14 towards Watson” (Form and Ideology 101). But Knight’s analysis ends there; he does not investigate any other changes in Holmes. Zach Dundas is closer to the mark in acknowledging a “kinder, gentler Holmes,” when he asserts: “maybe most surprisingly given his reputation as a caustic übermensch with no patience for mortal humans—Sherlock Holmes is basically a nice guy…genial, suave, and friendly. Holmes possesses terrific manners and an ‘easy, soothing’ way with people” (84). Each story, save Scarlet (and parts of Sign) actually depict this nice guy to some extent, though it seems that most readers coast right past those moments. Dundas limits his nice-guy review to those stories which appear before 1894, and thus his analysis fails to account for the last dozen-or-so stories that chiefly showcase the humanity and compassion of Holmes. Strangely, after giving Holmes some credit for his kindness, Dundas contradicts himself, returning to the traditional, “very distinct personality” of the cold Holmes (89). Only A.E. Murch captures the real Holmes, though the references are made in passing: Dr. Watson was at pains to present Holmes as unemotional, but in this he did his friend less than justice, for the great detective was often warm-hearted and impulsive, moved…to profound sympathy with human suffering. He was patient and courteous to his women clients and was even prepared to attach some value to feminine intuition, though he withheld his confidence…those who brought their problems to him were as impressed by his kindness as by his cleverness. (188) This thesis will support Murch’s points, while focusing on the text to explore the larger evolution that Holmes undergoes with respect to his professional and moral views, as well as his kindness. Many other scholars do note a distinct difference between the earlier stories (1887- 1894) and his return from “death” at the Reichenbach Falls (1903-1927), though these changes are largely ascribed to a sense that: Doyle had by [then] grown tired of Holmes and Watson [such that] the last two collections have [nothing] like the depth or richness of even the less ambitious stories in the earlier volumes…[and] Doyle’s waning interest is sufficient to explain the decline. (Clausen 87) Ousby asserts that the later stories represent a “period whose distinguishing feature is a decline in quality” (170). Hodgson agrees, contending that “with a few exceptions, [all the stories after 1905’s The Return of Sherlock Holmes] reveal a significant decline in quality from those written earlier” (11). Hodgson does not give any explanation for his opinion, nor

15 does he elaborate on which later stories reflect the glory of former days. He does report that “Doyle himself was never willing to acknowledge this [alleged decline]…‘[T]he last story is as good as the first,’ Doyle insisted” (11). Yet, in terms of Holmes finding his humanity, the last story is arguably better than the first, as subsequent chapters will examine. Hayne further asserts that “[o]ne insistent note [of change] after the return [of Holmes] is certainly that of self-parody…the tone [of the later stories] is very different…Holmes becomes more self-quizzical” and Doyle seems to be playing with comedy much more (151, 153). Hayne goes on, making his opinion clear about the merits of the later works: “But these four stories [narrated by Holmes himself], almost standing outside the canon, and certainly ranking low in any reader’s qualitative judgment of the sixty, give us the real Holmes” (155). Ironically, in condemning these four stories for being poor, Hayne does inadvertently hit upon the crux of Holmes’ evolution —the stories he narrates do give the reader the real Holmes—warm toward all people (especially women), steadfastly moral, and consumed with ideas of fairness, justice, and the greater good—if said reader is paying any attention at all. Echoing his fellow scholars, Dundas sees the later stories as “catch[ing] Doyle on the decline…Diehard Sherlockians have been heard to wish the Casebook [which ran from 1921- 27] didn’t exist at all” (200). Pierre Nordon asserts that Holmes “now gives us the impression of being a passive witness of events, rather than dominating and directing them. Henceforth we do not feel sure of his omnipotence” (242). Walter Raubicheck agrees with them all, prizing those stories “written in the last fifteen years of the nineteenth century and the first few years of the twentieth” (287). Alistair Fowler alone argues that “[t]he later Sherlock Holmes stories call for as much critical attention” as that demanded by the work of Doyle’s contemporaries, particularly Robert Louis Stevenson and Joseph Conrad’s later works, and thereby maintaining Doyle on the same level as his fellow late-Victorian “greats” (366). Unfortunately, though, few of his fellow scholars have taken up such work. Until now. In contrast to all these scholars (with the exceptions of Fowler and Murch), the following chapters will demonstrate the merit in all the stories after Scarlet insofar as they situate the real, Canonical Sherlock Holmes. As he moves through his career, Holmes’ personality thrives, which directly contradicts Nordon’s assertion that his personality suffers

(242). In the later stories, Holmes’ humanity is more frequently exercised and displayed, and he serves the greater good with as much energy and passion as in the earlier stories. In fact, that energy and passion is channeled into more spiritual and fairness-minded endeavors, instead of the petty one-upmanship that exists in Scarlet. Instead of revealing Doyle’s diminished talent or waning interest in his sleuth, the post-Scarlet stories contribute to Holmes’ overall gliding evolution toward a humanity that was always present, but frequently ignored; the later stories are especially essential to tracking his progress because they show clearly just how far he has come from that cold, detached snob who made his debut in 1887. Far from “the sense, in reading the late Holmes stories, of watching a play near the end of its run that has transferred to a smaller theater” (Clausen 88), those later stories actually showcase the star in his proper role, one that he spent nearly forty years perfecting, whose “exotic character humanises his scientific skills: a lofty hero [still], but crucially a human one” (Knight, “Great Detective” 55). As Krasner states, “Holmes mania has always involved the desire to lay hands or feet on something—to find the Baker Street flat, to count the stairs and feel the curtains—to reify a fictional into a real Holmes” (435). This thesis will reveal that real Holmes—Holmes as he exists, forever, on the pages that Doyle wrote. The real Holmes does not take anything away from the Mythologized Holmes—instead he adds to the legend and to the cultural importance of his fame: the beloved masterpiece is, of course, a brain, but a brain with a heart and a soul.

CHAPTER 2

NO “I” IN TEAM

An investigation of Holmes may take the reader down any number of paths—from his relationship with Watson to his minute knowledge of tobacco ash7—but his attitudes about his profession are an intuitive starting point, given the notion that Mythologized Holmes is merely a brain who detects. Thus, an inquiry into Holmes’ professional life serves as a useful barometer of his changing emotional and spiritual character after A Study in Scarlet, and there are two main threads of this evolution: first, his professional relationships and liaisons with various Scotland Yard officials; and second, his ego and pride in his work. His perspectives on the police in Scarlet show him to be mischievous (sometimes even malicious) in his guying of the officers and inspectors who come to him for aid, combined with a petulant acceptance of the media’s role in allocating credit for solved cases. But by the very next story, The Sign of Four, Holmes has shifted drastically, and continues to shift such that the last story shows a complete overhaul of all the sentiments he expressed in Scarlet. The later Holmes is content, even eager, to act both as mentor and invisible hand, fading politely into the background as the press and public laud whichever Metropolitan Police agent solves the case—with Holmes’ happily-uncredited help. A pattern, which will become familiar in subsequent chapters, emerges: the Holmes of Scarlet appears with a sneer and a flash, and then dies off, leaving a detective who is much kinder, humbler, and nobler in his professional endeavors and demeanor.

7 Holmes’ idiosyncratic knowledge of this, and other abstruse miscellany, was so ingrained in the public imagination that it approached reality, such that the French police “took Holmes seriously, going so far as to implement his methods of identifying tobacco ash in their police laboratories in Lyons” (Schütt 68).

How might one account for this great shift between Scarlet and all subsequent stories? Part of the explanation lies in Doyle’s own views of the police: the author “fancied himself, on occasion, to be a better sleuth than the detectives of Scotland Yard and the men who served in various local constabularies” (Orel, “Sherlock” 172).8 Another explanation may be found by examining the reputation held by London police before and during Holmes’ life, and this historical framing is important in understanding how Doyle portrays both Holmes and the official detectives throughout the stories. According to Christopher Clausen, “the prestige of the police was low when Doyle began to write” (74). David Taylor is more specific, summarizing the public perception of the police as a “persistence of hostility…in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries…[such that] violence against police was an enduring feature of Victorian society” (9). Far from viewing the police favorably as agents of civilization and peace, Britons were rebellious, violent, and outraged at what they felt was a rigged, class-based system of bought-surveillance by an increasingly-interfering government (Taylor 107). Three notable examples of this hatred for police arise just before Holmes’ own arrival on the London scene. First, the Turf Frauds of 1877 saw “three out of the four chief detective inspectors of the [Detective] Department [of Scotland Yard] appear[ ] in the dock at the Old Bailey…charged with passing information on police matters to a gang of racing swindlers” who in turn, concocted a pyramid scheme that targeted the working classes (Tobias 112). Second, in 1883, the “bombing of Scotland Yard was particularly embarrassing, although it hurt no one. There were no injuries precisely because there was absolutely no one in the building at the time, which certainly did not speak for the vigilance of the police” (Fillingham 174). Finally, public disgust reached a fever pitch as a result of the 1887 “Bloody Sunday” riot in Trafalgar Square, during which “[o]ver 400 arrests took place and there were some 200 casualties and three fatalities,” largely attributed to police brutality (Taylor 100).

8 Doyle himself proved the innocence of two falsely-arrested men, George Edalji and Oscar Slater (Orel 176).

This anti-police sentiment and discontent continued in 1888, during Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror. Instead of working together as a seamless unit to solve this and other crimes, the two divisions of London police—the Metropolitan Police (more commonly known, and sometimes interchangeably referred to, as Scotland Yard) and the City of London Police— were engaged in a heated, public struggle for victory that resulted in the exact opposite: the murders were never solved. This rivalry, “magnified out of proportion by the press” (Emsley 67), nevertheless caused a great deal of time and effort to be wasted, and perhaps most damaging, caused the outright “destr[uction] of prima facie evidence” in the case (Rumbelow 61).9 In all, Londoners believed the official forces to be comprised of blithering idiots, an image which was aided by newspapers and other media of the day. Further, it was widely felt that the police were “an essentially intrusive body…[an] invasion of the private sphere” (Fillingham 163, 164), Onto this stage, Holmes emerges as the discreet “gentleman detective…[who is] infinitely preferable to the police” (163), acting as the hero who can and does solve crime without waiting for the police to finish their internal quarrels. Holmes’ first encounter with official agents of the Metropolitan Police occurs early in A Study in Scarlet, and reflects the poor reputation and in-fighting that existed between officers at that time: Holmes explains to Watson that “‘[Inspector] Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders…he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too…jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent’” (Doyle, Scarlet 22). Before ever meeting the detectives, Holmes has guided Watson’s (and the reader’s) opinions about them: they are conventional in ways that Holmes is not, and prior to this point in the story, Holmes has just put on a dazzling display of deduction by determining the profession, habits, and history of a

9 Sir Charles Warren, then Metropolitan Police Commissioner, ordered the chalk words allegedly written by the Ripper to be erased before the photographer arrived—he claimed he was preventing riots, but it is believed that his true intention was to prevent City of London officials to take or receive any credit for the clue which fell in their geographical jurisdiction (Rumbelow 60-1).

20 messenger, all from simply observing his dress and manner from the window of 221 B Baker Street. Sufficiently impressed, Watson (and again, the reader) are prepared to align their sympathies with Holmes—if Holmes says these men are boringly conformist in their thinking, who would dare argue? Further, Holmes is cold in his derision of these official agents of the law, enjoying the petty professional drama. He does not care that justice may be delayed or diverted while the two inspectors race to solve the case; he is pleased at the chance to watch the comedy unfold so that he “‘may have a laugh at them, if nothing else’” (22). This callous, cavalier attitude is deepened when he remarks, rather peevishly, that his involvement will be a waste of time, despite being personally sought—even begged—by Gregson: “‘My dear [Watson], what does it matter to me? Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage’” (Doyle, Scarlet 22). In this first story, “Holmes is not prosperous, originally taking lodgings with Watson because he cannot afford rooms on his own” (Flanders 438). He has yet to make his mark on the public scene, and his financial situation is tenuous. Thus his reference to “pocketing” credit is not just about publicity. He has a very real stake in increasing his professional reputation and expanding his business. Pocketing credit is akin to pocketing fees from paying clients who will have heard of his prowess through the press, which, as discussed above, relished in any and all failures of the official police; in fact, Holmes tells Watson early in the story that many of his cases “‘are sent on [to me] by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee’” (Doyle, Scarlet 17). Thus word-of-mouth and referrals are the life’s blood of Holmes career, and this admission by Holmes establishes his main motivation in the early stories: money. Because Gregson and Lestrade are official inspectors, they cannot pay for his consultation, and instead must request (sometimes beg) for his advice and favor. When no payment is forthcoming, the inducement of a unique case is sometimes sufficient payment for Holmes, but he does keep practical considerations in mind in this story. As promised, Holmes does get his laughs in, too, at the expense of Gregson whose knowledge of German is inferior to Holmes’ mastery: when Gregson interprets the blood-

21 scrawled “RACHE” to be a clue pointing to a woman named “Rachel,” Holmes “ruffled the little man’s temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter [saying] ‘You certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out...’” (Doyle, Scarlet 29). His withering, sardonic tone continues, when he tells the officers that “‘[i]t would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to presume to help you…You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere.’ There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.” (30). Holmes is prepared to work independently on the case, but cannot resist one more chance at humiliating the police. As he and Watson are leaving the crime scene, he gives a finely-detailed physical description of the murderer, the murder “weapon” (poison), and certain important particulars about the crime scene. The officers, failing to understand Holmes’ method of observation and deduction, are “incredulous,” thinking his “clues” to be the ridiculous ravings of a lunatic (31). But Holmes gets the last word, “‘Rache,’ is the German for ‘revenge’; so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.’ With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open mouthed behind him’” (31). This barbed insult is intended to wound on many levels: first, he is calling into question the inspectors’ intelligence, for not knowing German as he does, and further playing on the public perception that police were dim-witted. Second, by alerting them to the revenge notion, Holmes has—with just one word—totally destroyed their only working-theory of the case, and finally, he is denouncing the whole of the police force’s wasted time and effort, considering he has just handed them all the answers (save the murderer’s actual name) that they will ever need. “Parthian” indicates “the ancient Parthian cavalry’s habit of shooting arrows rearward at the enemy,” indicating that this contentious relationship is even war-like at times. 10 Doyle’s use of the term “rivals” helps solidify Holmes’ opposition to the official police, as well as again demonstrating the in- fighting between the police themselves.

10 "Parthian shot". Dictionary.com Unabridged. Random, n.d. Web. 02 Mar. 2016.

The unfavorable picture of the police continues, when Holmes is able to bribe the constable who found the body into giving him a more detailed account of his discovery (Doyle, Scarlet 34). That truth and justice may be purchased is another acknowledgement of the very real reputations that surrounded late-Victorian police: those with wealth and power could buy justice and truth, and such buyers were frequently less scrupulous than Holmes. Further, this scene again pokes fun at the lack of intelligence on the part of the police: Constable Rance actually had the murderer in his physical custody but released him, thinking him a drunk passerby. As Holmes continues to investigate on his own, he follows a clue that leads nowhere, and is amused more than abashed at his own failing: …he burst into a hearty laugh [at himself]. “I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world…I have chaffed them so much that they would never let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know I will be even with them in the long run.” (43) Here again, Holmes displays his sense of mischief while referencing prior cases where he mocked the police, establishing this rivalry as a long-standing one, even though this is his first “published” case (by both Doyle and Watson). He can laugh both at the police and himself, but is careful to preserve his reputation for infallibility with everyone but Watson. While he “‘doesn’t mind telling a story against [him]self’” to his friend (43), he carefully guards his mistakes from public knowledge at this stage in his career, remembering the importance of public opinion. In each of these encounters, Holmes’ ego is implicated. There is a perpetual desire to score against the police. When Gregson excitedly proclaims that he has solved the case and is owed some congratulations from Holmes, Watson observes that “[a] shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive face” (Doyle, Scarlet 46). When Holmes realizes how far off Gregson actually is, he “gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a smile,” (46) offering Gregson a cigar, a drink, and his undivided attention, eager to hear Gregson’s errors as fodder for his mirth. Holmes is legitimately worried that Gregson’s success is real, because the official police will receive the credit in solving the case while Holmes remains unacknowledged. This must not happen if he is to establish his supremacy over them, and rustle up new business as a result. Gregson goes on to reveal the heated competition between himself and Lestrade:

Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amusement. “The fun of it is…that that fool Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether…” The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked. (48) This irony is poignant: both official inspectors are fools, and petty ones at that. They seem to care very little about apprehending a murderer still at large or serving justice to the victim, if there is any chance for one-upping their fellow. Watson observes that the inspectors were “blasé…in every detail of crime” (114). Holmes, too, is unconcerned with seeking justice, prioritizing the race to the truth only insofar as it will give him further ammunition in his battle against the police. Holmes plies his enemy with whisky and cigars, lulling him into the trap of revealing his own folly. Holmes praises the nitwit “in an encouraging voice,” all the while discreetly laughing at him (53). When the murderer strikes again, both the official inspectors are grim in defeat; their theories were built on sand, and they again appeal to Holmes for his insight. Their fear that the public will learn of their failure demonstrates their full understanding of the social implications at stake—the already-poor opinions of London police would suffer even more with these fresh debacles. Further, the inspectors seem to understand the importance of appeasing Holmes’ ego, stating “‘we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man’” (Doyle, Scarlet 60). Ever faithful to his dramatic methods, Holmes resolves the case spectacularly, handcuffing the murderer/cabdriver in the very sitting room of 221 B Baker Street while the astonished Gregson, Lestrade, and Watson look on in bewilderment (62). However stylish his methods, Holmes takes a practical view upon the whole case: “What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,” [he said] bitterly. “The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done? Never mind,” he continued, more brightly, after a pause. “I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There has been no better case within my recollection.” (Doyle, Scarlet 115) Here, Holmes is clearly ranking his ego and fame above the intellectual merits of the case; interesting cases do not fill his wallet as yet, and his bitter tone reflects this unfortunate anonymity. Watson feels this unfairness deeply. His admiration for his friend, in a way, prompts the whole series of stories: Watson tells Holmes “‘It is wonderful!’ I cried. ‘Your merits should be publicly recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won’t, I will for you.’ [Holmes replies] ‘You may do what you like, Doctor’” (119).

Knowing that the press, consumed with “a prurient fixation with urban violence, crime, and disorder” (Cairney 65), will place the professionals ahead of the amateurs, Holmes may see Watson’s offer as a chance to advertise himself. As he expected, the newspaper account of the crime extolls the official police, while relegating Holmes to a mere mention as “‘an amateur [who has] shown some talent in the detective line and who, with such instructors [as Gregson and Lestrade], may hope in time to attain to some degree of their skill’” (Doyle, Scarlet 119). As distasteful as such a reference may be to Holmes, he responds laughingly (119), guided by Watson to “‘make [him]self contented by the consciousness of success’” (120) until Watson can reveal his brilliance in print. On the whole, the Holmes of Scarlet comes off as grasping, apathetic in the face of two murders, and malicious. Watson makes good on his promise to publicly laud his friend, but his friend has changed a great deal by 1890’s The Sign of Four. Though the events of Sign occur shortly after those in Scarlet, the two-year publication lapse has wrought a sea change in Holmes’ attitudes about his profession and his rivals: he still expresses the same delight in interesting cases, but has mellowed significantly with regard to ego and competition. In declaring himself “‘the only unofficial consulting detective [who is] the last and highest court of appeal in detection’” (Doyle, Sign 124), he now expresses a reformed view of his consultation work: When Gregson, Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths—which, by the way, is their normal state—the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. (124) Far from lamenting his anonymity, he states it plainly, without the bitterness of old. The mental stimulation now eclipses all other concerns. He speaks of reward now in a purely metaphysical, spiritual sense, and while he still regards the official police as less brilliant than he, there is none of the disdainful malice or hostility that figured in A Study in Scarlet. In truth, he ranks himself above nearly everyone when it comes to intelligence. In terms of reward, his mercenary tendencies have also evaporated, such that “economic gain is never his primary motivation” (Rye 69) in this, or any other successive story. As much as Holmes has changed, Watson is still sometimes “irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to [Holmes’] own special doings…I had observed that a small vanity underlay his quiet and didactic

25 manner” (Doyle, Sign 125). Holmes has not yet totally thrown off his self-interested approach to his profession, which he will do over the course of the remaining stories as part of his evolution (which will be further demonstrated in subsequent chapters). For now, he spurns Watson’s brochure for being overly sentimental, while simultaneously benefitting from the publicity. His business prospects at the opening of Sign are healthy, which may contribute to his ego, but also contribute to his more magnanimous attitudes toward the press and police. This charitable spirit is called into action when Holmes recruits the sheer numbers of official force to scour the docks for a missing ship; despite needing them to do the tedious reconnaissance work that can be accomplished more swiftly than if Holmes acts alone, he now expresses some professional courtesy, bordering on kindness: “‘I shall probably call Athelney Jones…He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally’” (Doyle, Sign 181). Contrasting this moment with his prior glee at Gregson’s erroneous theory, the shift in Holmes is striking. When Holmes does call upon Jones, his terms are generous—“‘[Jones] is welcome to all the official credit [so long as he agrees to] act on the lines that [Holmes] points out’” (196). Jones is more concerned with justice than his Scotland Yard counterparts had been in Scarlet, and he eagerly accepts Holmes’ bargain, fulfilling his supporting role without ego or compunction at any odd requests. The inspector even dines with Holmes and Watson, “prov[ing] to be a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation” (197). This camaraderie illuminates the changed views of Holmes, as well as humanizes the official inspector. Having determined that Jones is a worthy recipient of his largesse, Holmes treats Jones, not just with professional courtesy, but much more kindly than he did Gregson; this Holmes never rejoices at Jones’ professional doom and works hard, though still on his own terms and in his own idiosyncratic ways, to help him succeed. When Jones is certain of that success, Watson remarks that it, was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes’s face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him. (208) All three men know that the credit for capturing the criminal is due solely to Holmes, but instead of railing against the official police claiming all the credit once again, Holmes seems merely bemused—even indulgent that his protégé should win. He confirms this

26 interpretation, when Watson asks him point blank “‘You have done all the work in this business…Jones gets all the credit, pray what remains for you?’” (236). The beneficent Holmes “stretched his long white hand up for [the cocaine bottle]” (236). The mental stimulation provided from the drug, along with hearing the strange tale of Jonathan Small and the Agra treasure are Holmes’ “credit for solving the case—the due reward for his labors” (Keep and Randall 218). He is well satisfied. However kind he is to Inspector Jones, the old rival Lestrade once again triggers Holmes’ mischievous manner in 1892’s “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor.” Mischief, though, is no longer tinged with malice, and Holmes is now only poking gentle fun at Lestrade: “Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. ‘Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?’ he asked…‘you have just as good a chance of finding this [missing] lady in [there as anywhere else]’” (Doyle 457). Despite this ribbing at his unnecessary exertions, Lestrade is still willing to relay his facts and ask for assistance, indicating that his relationship with Holmes is no longer acrimonious. Their race “‘[to] see which gets to the bottom of the matter first’” (459) is reminiscent of their competition in A Study in Scarlet, but unlike that case, the tenor of their relationship now prompts Holmes to refer to his opponent as “‘friend Lestrade’” (466), demonstrating the end “of genuine antagonism [and the start] of friendly rivalry between long-acquainted sparring partners” (Ousby 144). “Friend Lestrade” appears several more times in 1893’s “The Adventure of the Cardboard Box” (Doyle 360, 367). However, this story represents an interesting shift in the physical description of Lestrade. At the beginning of the story, he is described as “wiry…dapper, and as ferret-like as ever” (361), reminiscent of his first unflattering descriptions in Scarlet as a “little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow” (Scarlet 15) who was “lean and ferret-like as ever” (26), and 1891’s “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” where he is a “lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking” (314). These earlier descriptions convey a sense of under-handed stealth, and more closely align with Doyle’s descriptions of London’s criminal classes, rather than the police officer who tracks them. Comparing Lestrade to a ferret plays upon the digging, sneaking reputation of the police at this time, based on the popular belief that the police were more concerned with finding out the private secrets of decent people than keeping the streets safe from Jack the Ripper and his ilk. However, “The

Adventure of the Cardboard Box” of 1893 acts as a pivot point for Lestrade and his non- fictional brethren. By this time, police reforms and unionizations were well underway (Tobias 115-16), and Doyle captures both past and present reputations by first calling Lestrade a ferret (“Cardboard Box” 361) before shifting to a much more favorable symbol: the beloved English bulldog. Holmes opines that, though his friend is “‘absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and indeed, it is just this tenacity that has brought him to the top at Scotland Yard’” (368). N.C.W. Spence situates “the use of bulldog to denote the sheriff’s officer…based on the legendary tenacity of this breed of dog, [which] dates back…to the seventeenth century” (917). The imagery deepens when considering John Bull, the “symbolic figure representing England [often depicted as] a plump, middle-aged, clean-shaven man often dressed in a Union Jack waistcoat,” frequently with a bulldog at his side (Cull). This more favorable imagery continues in 1904’s “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” when “Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us…and he greeted us warmly’” (Doyle 1048). Thus Lestrade is now symbolized favorably, reforming the image of dedicated police officer faithfully serving England. Doyle’s stories track the public sentiments faithfully, as police officers went from being “[m]ercilessly lampooned in contemporary print” as a “poorly disciplined group of men…[with] little sense of identity and little commitment,” to a much more favorable position as “a well disciplined body…who had a clear view of themselves…[and their] distinct role and responsibility in society” (Taylor 15, 44). Given Holmes’ popularity as the symbol of English intelligence, the rivalry between the two men must be put to rest if they are to properly serve their nation as a cohesive team. This healing of old rifts is achieved in 1901-02’s novel The Hound of the Baskervilles: …a small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first class carriage. We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the practical man. (Doyle, Hound 138) Watson’s recollection of the past is a useful contrast for the present: scorn is now replaced with reverence in Lestrade, and his willingness to come at Holmes’ call is a sign of his faith in his old competitor. Similarly, Holmes sought London-based Lestrade to aid him at the remote, rural Grimpen Mire, instead of a more readily-available country constable; this

28 further indicates the level of trust that Holmes places in his former adversary. By 1908, when Holmes is called in to assist his brother Mycroft and Lestrade in “The Bruce-Partington Plans,” both Holmes and Watson consider Lestrade to be an “old friend…thin and austere’” (Doyle 402). He is no longer likened to any animal, but his appearance alongside Mycroft Holmes indicates his position as the right hand of government, given that Mycroft is not only “‘under the British government…occasionally he is the British government’” (400). Like Holmes himself, the image of Lestrade has undergone a similar overhaul, one whose opinion and advice is worth having. Holmes no longer waits for Lestrade to come to Baker Street for a consultation. Instead, in 1911’s “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” Holmes initiates contact, declaring he “‘will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard’” about the case (454). This willingness to meet Lestrade on his own terms (and turf) helps situate the continuing evolution of Holmes the Humble. The biggest shift in Holmes’ egotism occurs after his miraculous resurrection from the dead in 1903’s “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Watson learns that his friend has been in hiding for three years, faking his death while rounding up the last henchmen of Professor Moriarty’s gang, and only one (rather large) fish remains to be netted. To secure the arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran, Holmes needs the assistance of his old friend Lestrade. The reunion of the men cements Holmes’ evolution in both his attitudes toward the police and the relegation of his ego to the back- burner, such that the Holmes of Scarlet is the one who is dead and buried. Lestrade is genuinely pleased to see his old rival again, telling Holmes “‘I took the job myself. It’s good to see you back in London, sir’” (Doyle, “Empty House” 774). (This statement may indicate that Lestrade learned of Holmes’ return before even Watson did, which helps solidify the trust that now exists between Holmes and the official police.) The new tone of warmth and deference indicates a reformed heart on Lestrade’s part, as well; he no longer considers Holmes’ personality or methods to be the ravings of a lunatic, as he had implied in “The Noble Bachelor” several years earlier. Holmes, too, is glad to see the man he now views wholeheartedly as an ally: “‘I think you want [my] unofficial help [again]. Three undetected murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you handled it fairly well’” (774). Holmes resists the obvious barb that his older self would have seized upon, paying his compliment to Lestrade openly

29 and sincerely. Further, his reference to unsolved crimes indicates a new willingness on his part to help Lestrade as a teammate instead of a competitor, and this is reinforced by Holmes insisting that Lestrade take all the credit for the arrest of Moran and the many unsolved crimes that can now be tied to him and his ingenious air-gun: “‘I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got…the man the whole force has been seeking in vain’” (776). Anonymity is no longer distasteful to Holmes; the previous monetary incentives are moot since Watson’s chronicling provided him both business and fame. His triumphant return to the London crime circuit will increase both, and he can now afford to be very generous to Lestrade. Yet there is something warmer at work; these lines are delivered without irony or reservation—Holmes is genuinely happy for Lestrade’s coup in nabbing “[t]he second most dangerous man in London” (Doyle, “Empty House” 778), despite doing all the investigative work himself. This textual Holmes does not line up with scholarly versions of the Mythologized Holmes—Pierre Nordon asserts that “Holmes’s personality suffers” in the later stories (242), and Leslie Fiedler argues that “what appears to compel him now is not so much a desire to expose the criminal as a need to frustrate the smug and misguided police…[he is now] a hybristic loner” (xiv). Those readings of Holmes are not supported by the original texts, though: here instead is the “nice guy” Zach Dundas refers to (84), and his hubris has been replaced by humanity. “The Adventure of the Norwood Builder” fortifies the friendship, teamwork, and camaraderie of Holmes and Lestrade, while again minimizing Holmes’ ego. Published one month after “The Empty House,” in October 1903, Holmes is now wholly “averse…from anything in the shape of public applause” (Doyle 782). When Lestrade arrests the wrong man, an error “‘which would have ruined [his] reputation in the Force,’” Holmes happily steps in, [smiling, he] clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder. “Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.” (“Norwood Builder” 802)

Not only does Holmes save an innocent man from being hanged for murder, he saves Lestrade’s career and reputation—a reputation which Holmes unselfishly helped to build. At the close of the case, Holmes again reiterates his new desire for anonymity, as “‘the work is its own reward’” (802). One side benefit of Holmes’ improved working relationship with the police is his ability to work cases out in his own way, despite the seeming irregularity or folly of his methods. Lestrade expresses “‘we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard’” (Doyle “Norwood Builder” 786). Holmes proudly fills his uniquely unofficial place among the force, though he sometimes acts directly in their name, as in “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist,” published in December of 1903. In saving Miss Violet Smith, Holmes “‘represent[s] the official police until their arrival,” maintaining the criminals in his “‘personal custody’” (848). This marks another element of Holmes’ great transformation, from the man who once bristled at Dr. Roylott’s “‘insolence to confound [him] with the official detective force!’” in 1892’s “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” (409), to the man who proudly acts as police surrogate in name and deed eleven years later. Holmes no longer expresses any desire to stand apart from his fellow detectives, indicating a softening of his ego and a prioritizing of English safety and justice (which will be explored further in Chapter Three). Holmes’ relationship with Lestrade continually develops into one of mutually- beneficial support, allowing both men to further their shared goals of peace and justice in England. Lestrade becomes a social caller by 1904’s “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons:” “[i]t was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on the police headquarters” (Doyle 924). Even off-duty in the evenings, Lestrade is dedicated to his work, and this devotion to London justice reflects the improved working conditions and reputation enjoyed by London police at this time. When Holmes solves the odd case involving six plaster busts of Napoleon, both Lestrade and Watson are deeply impressed, with no hint of bitterness or professional envy. When his two friends clap for him, Holmes allows a brief glimpse of his heretofore absent ego, and the reader can easily note the drastic change that it has undergone: …we broke out with clapping…A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his

audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend. (943) Instead of flush with victory, Holmes is humble and gracious, almost embarrassed at his friends’ effusiveness as he further distances himself from his mythos as a friendless robot. His disdain for notoriety—what he once termed “credit” for solving cases—still reigns, but he briefly allows his close friends to see how moved he is by their admiration. Lestrade goes on in praise of his friend, further eliciting Holmes’ embarrassed pleasure at the compliments: “We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you…there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.” “Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had ever seen him. (945) Ego has been eclipsed by humility and grace, both in Holmes and Lestrade. The teamwork that began in the earlier stories after Holmes’ resurrection is solidified—Holmes is almost an honorary member of Scotland Yard, in a way, and he genuinely views the distinction respectfully. The softer professional side of Holmes is revealed, to coincide with his softer personal side (as will be discussed in subsequent chapters). While Inspector Lestrade is perhaps Holmes’ closest friend on the force, he does take particular interest in Inspector Stanley Hopkins, who appears in four stories, all of which were published in 1904 as part of The Return of Sherlock Holmes: “The Adventure of Black Peter” (February); “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez” (July); “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter” (August); and “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” (September). Readers are first introduced to Hopkins as “a young police inspector, for whose future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur” (Doyle, “Black Peter” 886-7). The relationship is marked by the mentor/student dynamic, and as such, Holmes’ manner with Hopkins is didactic, at times “sh[aking] his finger at the inspector” in an almost paternal way (893). Having taken Hopkins under his wing, Holmes finds himself “‘disappointed in [the young inspector…and] had hoped for better things from him’” (899), just as a father would disappointed in his son not reaching his full potential. Holmes’ ego is not implicated—he

32 has no fear that Hopkins’ potential failures might reflect poorly on him, but is entirely concerned for Hopkins’ career independent of his tutelage. When Hopkins finally realizes his blunder, he is contrite, apologizing, …with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now…that I am the pupil and you are the master…” “Well, well,” said Holmes, good humouredly. “We all learn by experience….” (903) No Parthian shots from this Holmes: as the case wraps up, Holmes gently and paternally urges Hopkins to apologize to the wrongly-arrested man, as though guiding a son on proper manners (906). Hopkins and Holmes team up again in “The Golden Pince-Nez,” which begins with a similar reference to Holmes’ “very practical interest” in the young inspector’s career (Doyle, “Golden” 965). Holmes is downright hospitable when Hopkins comes to call, despite the “wild, tempestuous night” that rages. Like a caring father, Holmes urges his “dear Hopkins [to] draw up and warm your toes…Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this’” (965). Influenza averted, Holmes and Hopkins discuss their case, and Holmes allows his pupil to take all the credit for its solution (987) and thereby improve his record and reputation in the force. When murder occurs at “Abbey Grange,” Hopkins calls again on his teacher. Holmes is only too happy to help for two reasons: first, his interest in Hopkins’ career compels him to give aid where he can. Second, Hopkins has a good track record for interesting cases, as Holmes notes to Watson: “‘Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons has been entirely justified…I fancy that every one of his cases has found its way into your collection’” (Doyle, Abbey Grange” 1010).11 This relationship has evolved into something more than master-and-apprentice, as Holmes refers to him now as “‘Friend Hopkins’” (1010, 1025). As with Friend Lestrade, the mutually-beneficial relationship with

11 Here is an example of classic Doyle cheekiness: Holmes mentions seven cases, but Doyle (via Watson) only gives the reader four.

Hopkins is also based on Holmes’ belief that Hopkins is worthy of his guidance and friendship; Doyle has now presented two very worthy officers for London’s review. In the four stories featuring Hopkins, Holmes is never egotistical or narcissistic in doling out his help; he has a sincere regard for Hopkins and his career. This sincerity causes Holmes to suppress the truth of certain facts at Abbey Granger manor from Hopkins, knowing that full disclosure will put his friend in a tight place: what I know is unofficial, what [Hopkins] knows is official. I have the right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information…. (1028) Ever solicitous of his friend’s career and reputation, Holmes serves justice without putting his friend in the untenable position of choosing between fairness and the strict letter of the law.12 Christopher Clausen writes of Holmes: “justice means not only robbing the police of their prey but showing them up as dunces” (76). While that is certainly true in Scarlet and of Mythologized Holmes, such a claim is not supported by the subsequent stories, as the relationship with Hopkins and Lestrade proves. Having forged a strong friendship with Hopkins and mending fences with Lestrade, Holmes is ready to forgive Inspector Gregson of Scarlet fame (or infamy) when the two reconnect in “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge,” published in August 1908 as the first of the eight stories in His Last Bow.13 Now Gregson is described as “energetic, gallant, and within his limitations, a capable officer…[with] bulldog eyes” (Doyle, “Wisteria” 328). Whereas Gregson was a pompous and irritating “little man” in Scarlet (29), he is now both capable and gallant, and Holmes meets him on equal ground without any of the pettiness that marked their prior dealings. As mentioned, the bulldog has long been a symbol of English tenacity and power, and the reference is again a complimentary one, just as it was for Lestrade; as a representative of England and Scotland Yard, Gregson radiates nationalistic pride and

12 Chapter Four will include further discussion of the legal implications of this case. 13 Incidentally, this bow is not his last; his encore takes the form of another story series and a fourth novel.

34 stolidity, using his considerable energies to serve and protect the realm. By August of 1911, Gregson and Holmes are sincerely happy to be working together again: “‘Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. ‘Journeys end with lovers’ meetings’” (“Red Circle” 389). The warmth of these words from Holmes is only matched by Gregson, who tells Holmes “‘that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel stronger for having you on my side’” (389). The two men work well together, and Watson notes that “[o]ur official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage,” reinforcing the brave, tenacious bulldog image of Gregson (391). By 1911, it is no longer fashionable or fair for Doyle to malign the police any longer, and thus his portrayals of Hopkins, Gregson, and Lestrade are patriotic, honorable, and courageous. This new favorable positioning of the police extends out of London, to the country constabulary that appear in several stories. In the country as in London, having Holmes’ help on a case is not a mark of weakness, but rather of honor: Inspector Martin of the Norfolk Constabulary has heard of the famous sleuth and would “‘be proud to feel that [he and Holmes] were acting together’” in solving 1903’s “The Adventure of the Dancing Men” (Doyle 818). In 1908’s “Wisteria Lodge,” Holmes works with Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary through Inspector Gregson’s referral, further demonstrating the largely- healed working conditions between disparate police agencies. Baynes receives most of Holmes’ favor in this story. Like country constable Martin in “The Norwood Builder,” Baynes is “‘[h]ighly honoured’” to have Holmes’ assistance, and in turn, Holmes considers him both “‘excellent’” and a “‘worthy collaborator’” (337, 355). When Baynes follows a red herring, Holmes pursues other lines, and when his theory is proven correct, he does not lord the victory over the officer; instead, he continues in his complimentary, paternal vein: “Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder. ‘You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition’” (350). Holmes’ interest in Baynes is wholly unselfish, just as it was with Inspector Hopkins. Later, in 1914-15’s novel-length The Valley of Fear, Holmes works closely with Metropolitan Inspector MacDonald, whom he affectionately refers to throughout the story as “Mr. Mac.” MacDonald, in turn, has been sought by “White Mason, the local officer [of the rural village of Birlstone], [who] was a personal friend, and hence MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than is usual at Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance” (Doyle, Valley 178). In framing the usual struggle

35 between city and country, Doyle is offering an alternative to the usual rivalry by showing all three detectives working well together. Gone are the days when “different parts of the bureaucracy could not communicate with each other” (Fillingham 164) and criminals slithered through the nets. Even when the two officials disagree on theories, they do so respectfully, asking Holmes to judge the merits of each scenario. Holmes, in “his most judicial style,” listens fairly, without pitting the two men against each other (Doyle, Valley 191). Holmes seems impressed by the country agent, referring him to as “‘the excellent local practitioner’” (213). Mr. White Mason is as-yet unaccustomed to Holmes’ eccentric methods, but Inspector MacDonald vouches for him, allowing Holmes to solidify his reformed character: “‘I have no wish ever to score at [the official force’s] expense’” (192). He is happy to “‘make my bow and return to London, leaving my results entirely at your service. I owe you too much to act otherwise; for in all my experience I cannot recall any more singular and interesting study’” (224). Holmes has now reached the point where his passion for his work exists without any jealousy or pettiness; his willingness to share his results yet again without acclaim or credit speaks to his improved character and suppressed ego. Further, the fact that Inspector MacDonald vouches for Holmes to his friend White Mason indicates just how favorably Holmes is viewed by Scotland Yard. Wherever he acts, Holmes’ reformed ego reflects his attitudes toward fair play, professional cooperation, and even kindness and friendship with members of the official forces. While he begins his career in resentment, spite, and egotism, traits which mark the Mythologized Holmes, he spends the remaining balance in a benevolent state of mind, such that he is almost correct when he tells Inspector MacKinnon, in 1926’s “The Adventure of the Retired Colourman,” that “‘to step right out of the case…and turn all [his] results over to [the police]…is always his custom’” (Doyle 735, emphasis added).

CHAPTER 3

“A GOOD MAN AND A ROGUE”

By expanding the picture of Holmes’ evolution from his very specific profession to his larger attitudes about crime and justice, a familiar pattern comes into focus: just as Holmes evolved and warmed from his callous, egotistical, and mercenary attitudes in A Study in Scarlet with respect to the police, he makes a similar progression with respect to crime and justice. He again moves from a mercenary view to a much more spiritual, moral, and even philosophical approach to detection as a means toward fulfilling his moral goals—protecting humanity, reestablishing social order, and providing solace to clients. In fact, this distinction—between detection as his profession and justice as his life’s work—is an important thread by which Holmes’ progress can be mapped. Over the remaining post- Scarlet stories, his priorities undergo a complete metamorphosis. Thus, Scarlet’s Holmes is not the true representation of his character, vis-à-vis his beliefs on justice, given the fact that he spends the remaining fifty-nine stories in an ever-deepening quest for nothing less than humanity’s salvation. Scholars agree that Holmes is that savior and champion of justice: Sandra Kromm positions Holmes “as guardian of an ordered society, using his remarkable powers of reason to remove a disturbing element” of crime (268). Christopher Clausen uses the same term to situate Holmes as “the guardian of a threatened society that his author means him to be” (68). However, to date, no scholar has traced the full canon to reveal just how important justice is to the textual Holmes, and how the views he expresses in Scarlet are antithetical to his image as Lady Justice’s guardian. These changes in Holmes help to situate him as a worthwhile model for detection and jurisprudence. Stamford, the peripheral character of A Study in Scarlet who first introduces Watson to Holmes, perhaps best sums up the detective’s entire character in this earliest story: “‘Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness’” (Doyle 6). Having just dazzled Watson with a hemoglobin test, Holmes seems more concerned with

37 his ego and legacy at the discovery, rather than the real-world implications of the procedure; he does pay them lip service, but his actions betray his words: [Holmes said] “Had this test been invented [before now], there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes…there was no reliable test [for stains upon clothing]. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes’s test…” His eyes glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination. (8) He proceeds to rattle off the names of famous unsolved cases where criminals might have swung had his genius been in time (8-9). Ian Ousby situates this early Holmes as “a suspect and repellent figure…motivated solely by a passion for scientific truth; the fact that his work may serve the interests of justice, or that it may have painful human consequences, is of no concern to him” (156) at this point in his career. This scene also showcases Holmes’ ego and vanity; he seems to care only about how the success might reflect upon him—fame and accolades play into his fantasy. He does not consider the victims in the cases, or make any reference to serving justice with his new technique. Instead, he seems more like a hunter, counting captured criminals as the trophies of his work. He imagines the praise instead of the peace that his work might bring to the world. Watson is “considerably surprised at his enthusiasm” for his own success, and the ego that so marked Holmes’ relationships with the police is on full display here, too. Holmes further displays his ego as he reveals his motivations to Watson early in the story’s second chapter. Holmes views himself as one-of- a-kind, claiming “‘I am the only one in the world. I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is’” (Scarlet 17). Not only does he question Watson’s intelligence in this declaration, but he places himself atop his self-forged pedestal. He mentions his sleuthing brethren, but only to demonstrate his primacy over them: Here in London we have lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault, they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. (17) His competitive streak, discussed in Chapter Two, recurs: Holmes is not “helping” these other detectives, nor is he serving justice of any kind; he is merely correcting foolish blunders of men less gifted than he.

These victories would seem ample payment to a man so focused on acclaim and reputation, but Holmes reveals a more mercenary motivation: “‘[clients] want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee’” (Doyle, Scarlet 17). His manner, whether toward clients or rival detectives, is superior and didactic. He speaks from an elevated position that he has crafted for himself, and Watson notes that “‘[though] this fellow may be very clever…he is certainly very conceited’” (19). Holmes’ detachment and conceit is motivated by his self-professed “‘extremely practical [concerns]—so practical that [he] depend[s] upon [his skills] for [his] bread and cheese’” (17). To be fair, these sentiments are imminently realistic, and might be forgivable, if Holmes did not deride the efforts of others. Even fictional detectives are subject to his scorn; he rebukes Watson: “No doubt you think you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin…[but] Dupin was a very inferior fellow”…Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq [too] was a miserable bungler,” he said, in an angry voice…“I could have [solved the case] in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid.” (18-19) The scathing, haughty attitude is motivated by Holmes’ knowledge that Poe and Gaboriau’s works garnered mass appeal—he dislikes the competition they pose, even if confined to the written page. At this point in his career, their reputations eclipse his own, which accounts for his bitterness. He resumes his instructional tone, as though he alone knows what methods are worthwhile for other sleuths. He comes across to Watson (and the reader) as bossy and petulant. This negativity in Holmes is cemented by his own words: “There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,” he said querulously. “What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the deduction of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it.” (Doyle, Scarlet 19) Holmes’ diatribe sounds sulky and peevish. He considers crime and criminals to be mere puzzles to solve, and views the whole detective profession to be a means for his glory. His preoccupation with fame (and the wealth that will come with it) supersede his interest in the actual work of solving crime, protecting the citizenry, and promoting peace and justice. He

39 does not consider the everyday crimes of England to even be crime; he only wants a challenge worthy of his considerable brainpower, so that he can dazzle the world just as he previously dazzled Watson. Such a crime does come in the form of the Lauriston Garden murder, but Holmes sees it more as an opportunity to humiliate the Scotland Yarders than to see justice served (as discussed in Chapter Two). At this early stage in his career, it is important to Holmes that the public—which, for now, includes the recently-acquainted Watson—consider him a magician; this secrecy, followed by the “big reveal” once all the facts are certain, becomes Holmes’ modus operandi in all subsequent stories, but here, Holmes is dramatically coy with Watson, again reinforcing the importance he places on the public’s perception of his art: You know a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick; if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all (Doyle, Scarlet 32). When Watson assures him, “I shall never do that…you have brought deduction as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world”… [Holmes] flushed up with pleasure at my words… I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty. (33) This phrasing by Watson unintentionally points to Holmes’ trivializing of crime and justice while prioritizing ego and drama, and Holmes echoes this irony: “There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for [a concert]”…Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound caroled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind. (37-8) Without missing a beat, Holmes discusses murder and music in the same breath, indicating that both are equal in his mind. While he does reference some sense of duty to seek out murderers, his cavalier attitude is almost indecent; Watson is much more affected by the murder than Holmes (39). Holmes’ mention of duty is brief, as though he pays it mere lip service, especially when contrasted with his earlier expressions of ego and pique. He seems to feel the same duty toward eating lunch. Holmes solves the case, but he alone appears unmoved by the murderer’s poignant tale of love, death, and justified revenge. Ever sentimental and susceptible to being “deeply moved by female suffering” (Haynsworth 461), Watson is “thrill[ed]” by the sad love story

40 and the death of a lovely woman (Doyle, Scarlet 113), while Lestrade and Gregson “appeared to be keenly interested in the man’s story” (114). No mention is made of Holmes’ reaction, other than Watson’s summary that “we had sat silent and absorbed…When [Jefferson Hope] was finished [relating his narrative], we sat for some minutes in…stillness” (114). Holmes is the first to speak, and his first question is wholly tied to his own ego: he asks Hope about his accomplice’s identity, keenly remembering—and evidently still smarting over—the false path said accomplice led him down. Even when Hope dies before the trial, Holmes expresses no emotion except scorn that the police will take all the credit for his capture (115). As he gathers all the threads for Watson’s (and the readers’) benefit, he reminds everyone that he “‘hardly expect[s] that you would [be able to follow his reasoning]’” (115). Despite receiving little public credit for the solution, his ego is intact, and he continues to crow about his superior intellect. The Holmes of Scarlet does not appear again in subsequent stories. Martin Priestman is unwittingly correct when he states “the second Holmes novel virtually contradicts the first” (315), though his critique is aimed at novella-versus-short story format which Doyle employed. But his phrasing is absolutely correct in terms of the characterization of Holmes. At the start of The Sign of Four, the reader is reassured that he still prioritizes his art above all concerns, as he tells Watson “‘I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for?...What is the use of having powers…when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace…’” (Doyle, Sign 130). Importantly, though, this ennui lacks the bitterness of old, and Holmes is merely commenting on the state of his world without feeling any need to place himself above the seething city. In fact, his fixation with brainwork is the only commonality he shares with his Scarlet self. His own phrasing of his profession best demonstrates the very great shift that has occurred in the four years that elapsed between the first and second stories: “‘[As t]he only unofficial consulting detective…I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection…The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward’” (124). There is no mention of fees, and while he notes that the official police are usually out of their depth (124), his statement is more objective and softer than his resentment against them in Scarlet. By likening himself to a court of appeal, Holmes positions himself as impartial and fair, without ego or agenda. He also serves as the higher court that can review and correct any

41 errors made by lower courts—in this case, the police. This is Holmes’ first mention, and therefore, his first valuing, of justice. Whereas before, his goal of solving crime was motivated by personal gain and public acclaim, Holmes now prizes the work itself, as well as his contribution to the greater social good. Further, Holmes is even able to praise his foreign counterpart, one François le Villard, “‘[who] has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service…[and who has] considerable gifts himself’” (125, 126). Gone is the supercilious tone and jealous sniping of the man who once wanted all the praise for himself, even against fictional contemporaries; Holmes’ opinion of Villard is magnanimous when contrasted with his earlier rivalry with Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. Some may argue that Holmes is hardly the champion of justice in this story, considering that he may have killed the murderous savage Tonga. Yet equally strong is the argument of self-defense: [Holmes said] “Fire if he raises his hand”…It was well that we had so clear a view of [Tonga]. Even as we looked he plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood…and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out together. (Doyle, Sign 204) Doyle never resolves the question of whose bullet actually killed the villain—Holmes’ or Watson’s—but their narrow escape from one of “those murderous darts” favored by Tonga justifies their action. No formal police or court proceedings ever flow from their act, which was done in the presence of several Scotland Yard officers. One could argue that, if Holmes’ bullet had been the fatal one, his act was heroic, saving not just himself or Watson, but all the officers aboard the ship, as Tonga may have aimed at any one of them. Hero or murderer, Holmes’ coldness does creep back momentarily: the poisoned dart, stuck into the planks on the deck, must have whizzed between us the instant we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the horrible death which had passed so close to us that night. (205-6) Holmes’ easy manner might be colder than Watson’s, but then that is not surprising. Holmes is able to detach himself from the dangers of his work, and this pragmatism is likely related to his professional desensitization; he is simply better at taking the violence of life in stride than Watson, still suffering from post-war trauma, is able to do. In any event, Watson’s fragility, his affinity for women, and his capacity to be moved by life’s drama is necessary to

Doyle’s positioning of Holmes—they are meant to be so different in this early story as to be nearly opposite. As the outsider who is able to “rise superior to petty influences” (139) of his late-Victorian London, Holmes needs his detachment because it lends him the objectivity that Watson (and perhaps the reader) can never attain. That objectivity will serve Holmes greatly in his quest for justice and fairness, and he is cultivating it early. His impartiality is displayed in Sign again, when Holmes expresses his desire that justice should be done in the case. He is not angry or resentful that Jonathan Small (the other villain who was working with Tonga) has led him, Watson, and much of the Metropolitan Police department on a merry chase along the Thames; he is polite and solicitous, telling Small …I ask you for a true account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you do I hope that I may be of use to you. I think I can prove that the poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before you ever reached the room. (Doyle, Sign 207) In referring to Tonga’s killing of Thaddeus Sholto, Holmes is clearly thinking in terms of exculpatory evidence for Small, who was not aware—was not even present in the room— when Tonga blew the fatal dart. Holmes has done his research on the poison, and is willing, even now, to make sure that fairness prevails for Small. When Small’s “fury and…passion” begin to boil over, Holmes is soothing: “‘You forget that we know nothing of all this…We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side’” (213). As the last court of appeal, Holmes is certainly open to hearing Small’s story, despite actually witnessing him dispose of the stolen property. Holmes is going further than fair play, though, by asking to hear Small’s tale; he is showing a great deal of respect and deference to the man whose crime so interests him. Small concedes Holmes’ courtesy: [Small said to Holmes] Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. (213) The respect between the men is mutual and poignant. Small’s story triggers in Watson, the utmost horror of [Small] not only for this cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned but even more for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it…Sherlock Holmes and [Inspector] Jones sat with their hands upon their knees, deeply interested in the story but with the same disgust written upon their faces. (Doyle, Sign 223)

This scene is markedly different from Holmes’ stoicism in hearing the tale of Jefferson Hope in Scarlet; his disdain of Small is now plainly written on his face. He has become more attuned to the vices and virtues of humanity, and more expressive in his judgments about criminals. This scene foregrounds Holmes’ further evolution. Holmes is much more of a human figure in the later stories, and Sign helps him on the path to his reformation. The Holmes of Scarlet steadfastly worked alone, often leaving Watson for hours on end, and certainly not consulting him. In Sign, however, Holmes continually asks for Watson’s presence and assistance at various points in the case: Watson accompanies Holmes and Mary Morstan to the Sholto residence, where they first learn of the Great Agra Treasure (Doyle 139, 151); next, Holmes considers Watson to be his partner in solving crime, when he remarks “‘we have half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it’” (158). The use of “we” and “Let us” demonstrate Holmes’ willing acceptance of Watson as a teammate, even if it means sharing credit for any solution. The two men travel all over London with Toby the bloodhound, seeking the track of their fugitive, and when the dog “‘act[s] according to his lights’” and loses the scent (178), the cold, aloof manner of Scarlet’s Holmes gives way completely: “Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other and then burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter” (177). This spirit of camaraderie between such different men as Holmes and Watson is essential because it will lay the foundation for further transformations of Holmes into the friendly, warm, justice- loving, and deeply spiritual man that he truly is. Doyle hints at the changes to come at Sign’s end when Holmes quotes Goethe, whose rough translation runs “Nature, alas, made only being out of you, though there was enough material for a good man and a rogue” (236).14 The roguish Holmes will be but a distant memory as the stories progress, giving way to a much more nuanced, human character that defends justice and works tirelessly for the good of humanity.

14 The original German, as Holmes recites it, reads: “‘Schade dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus dir schuf, Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff’” (Doyle, Sign 236).

The remaining fifty-eight stories reinforce the good man in Holmes as he prioritizes justice and fairness through several recurring plot patterns. In some stories, Holmes occasionally breaks the law with overtly criminal acts in his search for truth; in others, he withholds evidence from the police in order to ensure fairness in a case where the letter of the law would result in an injustice. Still other stories showcase his spirituality, which guides him to help clients in ways that go beyond mere detection, investigation, and reason. Whichever iteration, the real-world considerations of evidence, chain-of-custody, and adherence to proper procedure always factor into Holmes’ solutions, especially when he decides to flout the letter of the law in preference of his own sense of fairness. He is keenly aware of when the law—as a construct devised by men—is unequal to the task of ensuring justice, and his own moral compass (now wholly freed from ego and pettiness) is an unerring guide. Those stories in which Holmes himself commits a crime, usually aided by the loyal Watson, show that Holmes’ criminality always comes from the best of intentions: he “flouts the law only in the interest of mercy” (Clausen 79), or when truth is elusive and human lives rest upon that truth. In February 1893’s “The Yellow Face,” Holmes’ growing emotional intelligence leads him to help Grant Munro, a client who is tortured by his wife’s secrecy. Instead of sneering about matrimony or love, Holmes is compassionate: “‘[Watson] and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room, and…we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you’” (Doyle, “Yellow” 550). As confessor and absolver, fully aware of the religious and spiritual connotations that his words carry, Holmes seeks to be a peace-bringer, not just in terms of solving a case of missing jewels and freeing innocent men. Now human souls are the province of his benevolence. In Holmes’ world, to soothe a soul, a little burglary is needed, as Holmes explains to Watson: “‘[a]ny truth is better than infinite doubt…legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is worth it’” (562). Committing, and then justifying, crime will become easier and easier for Holmes, which establishes two important points about his character: first, that he knows the ends of justice will be served by his non-malicious, though still-illegal acts; and second, that his Scarlet personality, marked by mischief and aloofness, is so reformed that he is more willing than ever to place himself in a tenuous position on behalf of a client. Burglary does lead to truth, and Holmes discovers

45 the secret that Mrs. Munro so carefully guards: a mixed-race child from her prior marriage.15 He unmasks her, and this symbolic act speaks to Holmes’ ability to resist appearances and retain his objectivity, while everyone else is enslaved by their prejudices and preconceived fears. While Watson is first astonished and Mr. Munro is rendered speechless, Holmes is completely unaffected by the girl’s race and her presence in the village of Norbury. Holmes’ laughter during the unmasking is the opposite of callous; he understands the girl’s playfulness, and she and Holmes laugh together (563). Once the mystery is solved and Mr. Munro embraces the child as his own, Holmes deftly reads the social cues as he “plucked at [Watson’s] sleeve…‘I think…that we shall be of more use in London than in Norbury’” (565). Having intruded into the family’s milieu, Holmes knows when it is time to retreat again; the only crime in the whole story was Holmes’ own burglary. Much more sinister crimes occur in “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton,” published in March 1904. An “oleaginous blackmailer…as fussy-mannered as he is ruthless” (Dundas 259), Milverton collects the secrets and scandals of upper-class women, generally of a sensitive nature, and he impresses Holmes as one of the, the serpents in the zoo…slithery, gliding, venomous creatures…[even though] I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my career…the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow…He is the king of all blackmailers. (Doyle, “Milverton” 907) While Milverton is “‘[t]echnically, no doubt…within the grasp of the law’” (908), none of his victims will ever seek official help because of the risk of exposure. As “‘cunning as the Evil One’” (908), Milverton presents Holmes with an epic challenge, nothing short of that epic and eternal struggle of good versus evil. The imagery of a snake helps cement the idea that, for Holmes, Milverton is truly a devil, and therefore his mission is not just a chivalric rescue (as will be discussed in Chapter Four). Holmes must now become God if he is to defeat Satan, as Caprettini suggests: “Holmes is always called to play a role of mender or

15 The child, obeying her mother, made herself a mask, which, lacking artistic merit, caused the mystery in the first place when Mr. Munro chanced to see it staring at him from the window. The yellow face that engendered so much horror and fear was merely a poorly-executed child’s craft.

46 transformer…He can—as can heroes, semigods, priests, shamans—overcome and eliminate contradictions in reality” (334). Kirby Farrell goes further, calling Holmes “a demigod” (46), thereby enabling him to inhabit the powerful role of savior and protector against the evil Milverton represents. Jasmine Yong Hall invests Holmes with a “mastery over the physical world through rational knowledge” (299), which further solidifies the idea of his great power. To that end, Holmes is calculating and clever, despite some collateral damage that he inflicts along the way, namely, the heartbreak of a housemaid at Milverton’s home whom Holmes wooed (and then cast off) in furtherance of learning the household’s habits and layout. But Holmes intends to carry his misdeeds much further than this lover’s intrigue, by burgling Milverton’s house. Watson is initially resistant to allowing this, but Holmes wins him over by appealing to his sense of justice and morality: My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and, indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible…you will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. (Doyle, “Milverton” 913) Watson demurs, “Yes…it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.” [Holmes responded:] “Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?” (913) Holmes presses his advantage of knowing Watson as well as he does: throw a helpless (and preferably beautiful) lady into the equation, and Watson will risk anything. But Holmes does not want to expose him to the risk, telling Watson firmly: “‘You are not coming’” (914). Without missing a beat, Watson now plays his card of knowing Holmes: “‘Then you are not going…I will take a cab straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let me share this adventure with you’” (914). Holmes, of course, agrees, telling Watson “‘[w]e have shared this same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell’” (914). The comedic elements this story are only surpassed by the excitement of a

47 caper, as the two masked heroes creep silently into the house, laden with their burglar’s tools.16 Watson revels in the adventure: My first feeling of fear had passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had every enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting interest. (917) Holmes has convinced Watson of the justice behind their crime so thoroughly that Watson now believes Holmes’ reasoning to be his own (as does the reader). Interrupted and almost caught in the act of rifling Milverton’s safe, Holmes and Watson hide behind a pair of curtains in a classic trope of detective fiction. From that vantage point, they witness the entrance of a woman whose life Milverton destroyed by exposing her indiscretions, as she proceeds to murder him—in the library with the revolver (Doyle, “Milverton” 920-1). Having only moments to react, Watson’s first impulse is to seize the woman, but then he: felt Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon [his] wrist. [Watson] understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of [theirs], and that justice had overtaken a villain…With perfect coolness, Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire…until the safe was empty. (921) This scene demonstrates the two men’s differing definitions of justice: Watson holds to the letter of the law—that all murderers must be punished—while Holmes’ views are more nuanced, centered wholly around his beliefs about fairness and human decency. As he sees it, Milverton’s actions and character placed him outside the reach of human decency—he was not a man, but a snake who feasted upon weakness. The sheer number of damaging documents in Milvertson’s safe is testament to his continual threat to society; he would never stop of his own accord. Holmes must avenge the women Milverton ruined, and protect the

16 The humor continues, when Lestrade tells Holmes about the physical description of one of the burglars: “‘He was a middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.’ ‘That’s rather vague,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘Why it might be a description of Watson!” ‘It’s true,’ said the inspector, with amusement” (Doyle, “Milverton” 923).

48 ones who were in danger of sharing their sisters’ fate. It had to be “a duel to the finish” between the two men (Hodgson 287). Fortunately for Holmes, the actual killing was done by another’s hand, though his acts of burglary and suppression of evidence dirty his hands enough. When Lestrade, tasked with solving the murder, solicits Holmes’ assistance, Holmes acts as he never has before—and never will again: he refuses to help the police when directly asked. He reveals his views on justice to Lestrade: Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade…The fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case. (Doyle, “Milverton” 923) This response is not simply to cover Holmes’ own tracks. Just as Holmes could excuse his and Watson’s actions, he accepts the woman’s crime as a noble act in the pursuit of justice, even if he was not part of the drama. He is able to reconcile the most atrocious act that humans may commit against each other, even finding sympathy for the murderer. Holmes applies his rationale to this situation, just as he does all his cases: are the scales of justice balanced, now that an evil man is dead and countless innocent people are saved? Even Watson agrees that such a crime is excusable. Holmes is lamenting the fact that there are some cases for which the law can provide no redress, either because of the difficulty of obtaining proof, or because of class hierarchies that operate in society and courtrooms alike. Power, wealth, and influence often sway policemen, juries, and judges, at the expense of actual justice, as Holmes well knows.17 Holmes goes from concealing crime to committing it once again, in “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” published in December 1911. The circumstances of the case prompt Holmes to draft Watson for another caper: “‘We are, as usual, the irregular,

17 In “The Reigate Puzzle” (June 1893) and “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge” (August 1908), wealth and influence are used as tools to buy off the police; Holmes intervenes and the criminals are punished, despite their social position.

49 and we must take our own line of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measure are justified’” (Doyle 457), and those measures include forcible entry into the home of the criminals. When a warrant is demanded, Holmes does not refer to the police, though he had in a previous case (“The Solitary Cyclist”). Instead, “Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. ‘This will have to serve till a better one comes’” (459). Because a woman’s life is in immediate danger, Holmes “‘simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to keep within the four corners of the law’” (458). The exigency of these circumstances, combined with his revolver and Watson’s stick, all contribute to his belief that “‘[t]hrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just’” (458), demonstrating at once his knowledge of Shakespeare and his prioritizing of justice, even in the face of his own reckless criminality. Recklessness pays off, and the heroes are just in time to save the lady from being buried alive. Holmes’ law-breaking continues when he allows various criminals to escape the police court—not for any lack of evidence, but rather because his morality dictates an alternative outcome. The first of these cases is October 1891’s “The Boscombe Valley Mystery.” Holmes is ostensibly helping Lestrade, but in truth, Holmes serves justice according to his own definition. John Turner, the beneficiary of Holmes’ mercy, is a dying man whose only concern is his daughter’s love and welfare. Turner appeals to Holmes’ heart, and it works. Holmes tells Turner that, as he is “‘no official agent,’” he can act as he sees fit (Doyle, “Boscombe” 327). So long as the wrongly-arrested young McCarthy is saved, Holmes will keep Turner’s secret. Never the fool, Holmes does allow for some insurance, by having Turner dictate and sign a full confession (327), which Holmes assures him will only be used “‘at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed’” (327-8). After hearing the full tale of blackmail and extortion to which Turner had been subjected before finally killing his tormentor, Holmes is reflective and spiritual: Well, it is not for me to judge you…I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation…You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession [unless] forced to used it [to save the innocent man]. (330)

Holmes acts again as the soothing confessor, and while he previously judged Jonathan Small as a base villain in Sign, that meanness of spirit is missing in his attitudes toward John Turner. Holmes deepens the religious tone, invoking God directly: “God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think… There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes,…” (330) He now acknowledges the existence of some higher power because his ego has been relegated to the background; he can count his own blessings and bestow them upon others. He is easily able to reconcile the suppression of evidence because he knows his definition of justice and fairness will clash with the strict letter of the law. Holmes “decide[s] in his own mind whether or not the murderer had ethical justification for what he had done” (Orel, “Sherlock” 174), regardless of the prevailing penal laws of the day. His law is one of mercy and kindness, so long as no innocent individuals are hurt. Knowing that the murdered man was violent and detestable, Holmes can justify his murder going unsolved because his absence benefits society, and his mind is easy at allowing Turner to retain his dignity. Murder is not the only crime that Holmes will conceal. Set during the Christmas season, “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” published in January 1892, involves the theft of an immensely valuable, rare jewel which leads to the arrest of the wrong man. Holmes is keenly aware of the stakes involved: …we have…a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has place in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end…quick march! (Doyle, “Blue” 387) He is eager—anxious, even—to make sure that justice is properly served, but he never once denounces the police for error. He and Watson do march about the metropolis, and instead of turning the criminal, James Ryder, over the police, he brings him back to Baker Street. Holmes is understanding, almost paternal in his interview with the jewel thief: Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you…It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicious

would rest the more readily upon him…you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested (Doyle 393) By acknowledging the irresistible temptation that Ryder succumbed to, Holmes is making allowances for human frailty without any judgement or scorn; his tone is more of disappointment and regret for Ryder’s eroded morality. He is evidently moved by Ryder’s devastation and legitimate terror at “‘[being] branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me!’” (396), because he does help Ryder by allowing him to leave the flat without calling the authorities. Holmes’ explanation to Watson for his actions express his own trust in humanity: After all, Watson…I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If [the innocent man] were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. (396) In letting Ryder go free, Holmes is at least guilty of suppressing evidence; at most, he is an accessory to felony theft. Yet he is able to reconcile his own criminality by invoking the greater, moral good—that jails and “prisons were [the criminal] class’s universities” (Clausen 80), and the real crime would be to destroy any seeds of innocence that still exist in Ryder. Holmes can make the important distinction between a wayward man and a true criminal because he is an unofficial agent; unlike the police, he has no duty or obligation to the government entities charged with maintaining social order. Yet “order, if not always law, is upheld” (Clausen 73) in this story: the jewel is returned to its owner, the innocent man is freed, and the guilty man learns a valuable lesson—while still retaining his own freedom. Holmes’ Christmas spirit shines. Though Holmes has little faith in the justice system at this point, he nevertheless weighs cases according to a similar pattern when acting in his unofficial capacity: he listens to the evidence of various actors in the case, and remains objective. He is not personally invested in most cases, though he was happy to see Charles Milverton dead. On two occasions, he and Watson actually hold a mock trial, adhering to the spirit of English jurisprudence even if they do not agree with its letter. In the first such trial, which occurs in June 1904’s “The Adventure of the Three Students,” no crime is committed, but Holmes treats the university cheating scandal with the same attention and care that he pays to all his

52 cases. Fashioning a makeshift courtroom in the dormitory, Holmes arranges the chairs in a row of three, all facing the witness, such that he, Watson, and the professor are “‘sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast’” (Doyle “Students” 959). During the “small private court-martial…[and with] judicial appearance,” (959), Holmes listens with objectivity, even though he has already formed his (correct) theory of the case. When the guilty student breaks down under questioning, Holmes “said, kindly [to the sobbing boy] ‘it is human to err, and at least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal…Listen [to me], and see that I do you no injustice’” (960-1). The student, Gilchrist, confesses all, including his plan to leave school immediately, skip the examination at issue, and join the Rhodesian police. Holmes, feeling that justice has been served by this plan, keeps the secret and deflects scandal. His kindness shows through once more, when he tells the youth: “‘For once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you can rise’” (963). These paternal words of support and encouragement play into Holmes’ feelings of justice; he understands the temptation to which Gilchrist succumbed, just as he did with James Ryder so long ago in “The Blue Carbuncle,” and he hopes to bolster the young man’s spirits so that he will never again disappoint himself. Holmes’ next trial-by-fireplace occurs in “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange,” published in September 1904. Investigating the murder of Sir Eustace Brackenstall at the side of Inspector Hopkins, Holmes must weigh his options carefully: to alert the authorities to the real murderer of the abusive drunkard Sir Eustace, or to allow the killer his freedom, as a reward for ridding the world of a monster. The latter option wins, and Holmes readily accepts his own criminal part in the drama: No, I couldn’t do it, Watson…Once that [arrest] warrant was made out, nothing on earth would save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. (Doyle 1026) Holmes’ conscience and morality guide him here; in weighing what is right, he is willing to flout the law of the land rather than risking an unfair, unjust outcome. His caution is motivated by his fundamental human kindness, and this generous, warm spirit extends even to those people who would be denounced as mere criminals in the eyes of the police and judges. Holmes, however, does not see those “criminals” in such reductive, absolute terms,

53 but is able instead to plumb the depths of their humanity, using his own as a guide. He again laments the deficiencies of the courts, and rejoices that, as an unofficial agent, he is not bound by the same rules as Inspector Hopkins; unwilling to put Hopkins in a tight place, where he is torn between concealing evidence of “‘[being] a traitor to his service’” (1028), Holmes suggests a ridiculous theory to the officer. As Clausen asserts, “[u]pholding the social order is not the same thing as making human sacrifices to it, still less abandoning one’s own private judgment” (78). The distinction between order and law must be made by one who values justice above all social constructs; Inspector Hopkins, as good as he may be, would always be beholden to his profession, his superintendent, the Home Secretary, and so on. Holmes is only accountable to his own conscience, and risks his own liberty in preserving a guilty man’s freedom because fairness and justice dictate it. Holmes’ willingness to “make his judgment prevail over that of the authorities” (Clausen 78) is not done in a vacuum or out of meanness toward the police. Instead, he is fully aware of all the “mitigating circumstances” before he acts to save criminals (80). This “laxness in enforcing the law” is not a laxness in serving justice, and to this end, he and Watson hold a trial by jury in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. Holmes is candid with Captain Crocker, the actual murderer of Sir Eustace: I should not sit here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you. (Doyle, “Abbey Grange” 1029) Ever the lover and champion of truth, Holmes has no patience for artifice and bluster—he has reconciled to help Crocker if Crocker proves worthy of his trust. And Holmes does test him. He initially tells Crocker that, though he believes that, you acted under the most extreme provocation…[and] that in defence of your own life your action [may] be pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to decide…if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-fours…no one will hinder you. (Doyle, “Abbey Grange” 1032) But Crocker’s heart is true, and his love for Lady Brackenstall resists leaving her to suffer the indignity of a court proceeding as an accomplice to the murder of her odious husband (1032); he refuses to leave, willing to take full responsibility if only his lady is protected. To this, Holmes…held out his hand to the sailor. [He said] “I was only testing you, and you ring true every time…we’ll do this in due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently

fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?” “Not guilty, my lord,” said [Watson]. [Holmes replied,] “Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from me.” (1032-3) The voice of the people is the voice of God in this instance, at least, and Holmes’ invocation of the deity is no accident, given his increasing spirituality. This case finally and completely cements Holmes’ earlier comments, in “The Musgrave Ritual” in 1893: “‘…my name has become known far and wide…[and] I am generally recognized both by the public and the official force as being a final court of appeal in doubtful cases’” (Doyle 606). By casting himself as the judge, Holmes acts as the final—and only fair—court for the lovers. Holmes continues to help criminal who, like Crocker, prove themselves worthy of his mercy. In December 1910’s “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot,” he allows murderer Dr. Leon Sterndale to leave the country instead of turning him over to the police for his honorable killing of Mortimer Tregennis (Doyle 490).18 Later, in January of 1924, Holmes’ encounters in “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire” lead him to delicately bow out of a family drama surrounding a boy attempting to poison his baby half-brother out of spite and jealousy—without alerting the police to the many murder attempts (609). Finally, in November 1926, Holmes merely scolds the lovely and imperious Isadora Klein for her burglary of an old woman’s home (592), though he does make the lady pay for a lavish trip around the world for the poor woman whose home was burgled. While it may seem that Holmes allows too many criminals to slip their handcuffs, he does turn over criminals who strike him as morally-corrupt, in a more rigid adherence to British law and order than the previous cases might suggest. Beginning in October 1924 with “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,” Watson takes a bullet from American gangster “Killer” Evans (Doyle 624). Holmes rounds on Evans with a fury: “His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner…‘By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you

18 Tregennis, in his turn, was guilty of killing his sister and driving his two brothers completely insane by a cruel administration of an obscure, airborne poison, known as the Devil’s Foot.

55 would not have got out of this room alive’” (625). Far from a little house-breaking here and there, Holmes is now perfectly willing to murder Evans in cold blood, but thankfully, Watson’s injury is a superficial grazing. Despite an argument of self-defense by Evans, Holmes is not willing to give him one of his Baker Street trials: “‘[We can get you for] attempted murder, so far as I can see…But that’s not our job. They take that at the next stage…Please give the Yard a call, Watson’” (626). The understanding, compassionate Holmes of “Boscombe Valley,” “Abbey Grange,” and “Charles Augustus Milverton” is completely absent from this proceeding, perhaps because he is, for the first time, personally invested in the punishment of the evil-doer—Watson is directly harmed by Evans. Yet even when the cases are once again impersonal, Holmes reinforces and upholds the law, as in December 1926’s “The Adventure of the Retired Colourman.” When murderer Josiah Amberley tries to escape his crimes by a suicide pill, Holmes deftly: …sprang at his throat like a tiger and twisted his face toward the ground. A white pellet fell from between his gasping lips. “No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in order…It is only a few hundred yards to the [police] station.” (731) No dignified ending on his own terms for Amberley—Holmes is determined that he should live to experience every moment of his arrest, trial, imprisonment, and execution for the murder of his wife and her lover. By insisting upon Amberley’s continued existence, Holmes is simultaneously endorsing the British legal system; his discussion of “decenc[y]” and “order” solidify this notion, and Holmes blithely follows protocol. Understanding that “[l]aw and order become wholly unattractive when they produce injustice” (Clausen 81), Holmes does see that justice is served when Evans and Amberley face the legal consequences of their crimes. In the cases of Crocker and Milverton’s mysterious murderer, the crime of murder actually rebalanced the scales of justice, according to Holmes, and his treatment of Evans and Amberley is very much in line with his own views on justice. Whether he is obeying or defying the laws of the land, Holmes displays a growing spirituality in the post-Scarlet stories that help frame him as a servant of some higher power, making good on Watson’s reference to him as “our guardian angel” (Doyle, Baskervilles 115). For Stephen Knight, Holmes is the “suitably equipped hero to mediate psychic protection” (Form and Ideology 67). Ian A. Bell sees Holmes as “the reader’s personal custodian, guaranteeing safe passage” (8). Readers and clients alike gain solace from

Holmes. Holmes openly views himself as an agent of a higher power. In 1922’s “The Problem of Thor Bridge,” Holmes tell the falsely-accused governess to keep her spirits up: “With the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make England ring…meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through.” (Doyle 648) Whether or not the “god of justice” is “God” and “Justice,” the point remains that Holmes is merely a servant for truth, and his powers come from a higher source. As an agent of that higher power, Holmes has occasion to sooth and protect again, in January 1927’s “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger.” He and Watson hear the sad tale of a woman whose face is so mutilated after a circus accident that she is constantly veiled, as the title establishes. The woman tells Holmes: “I have not long to live, but I wish to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might be understood.” (Doyle 700) Hearing the woman’s “appeal for spiritual help…the detective displays appropriate powers of consolation” (Ousby 170), and after hearing her tale as a confessor would, he declares his profound sympathy for her plight: Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit. “Poor girl!” he said. “Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest.” (Doyle, “Veiled Lodger” 703) Holmes places his hope in a redemptive after-life, conceding that some power governs daily existence, which, he fervently hopes, is not wholly cruel and punitive. However, Holmes will take no chance. He is interested in saving the woman now and in the hereafter; as he is leaving, He turned swiftly upon her. “Your life is not your own,” he said. “Keep your hands off it.” [She replied,] “What use is it to anyone?” [Holmes said] “How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.” The woman’s answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped forward into the light…It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when the face itself is gone…Holmes help up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest…” (704) However ravaged her past may be, with her face as a lasting testament to her escape from evil, Holmes is not willing to let her die; he sees no dignity and no salvation in her suicide, and his deep sympathy and compassion are his only tools to convince her. He frames her life

57 as belonging to some higher entity. Ultimately, she sends Holmes her bottle of prussic acid, but leaves no note; Holmes knows then that he has saved her—face, body and soul, and the triumph he feels is not for himself. He has secured her safe passage over some final threshold. These actions are those of a fundamentally kind man, one who “displays a sympathetic concern about the outcome [of cases]…and lets his own mask slip often enough to persuade us of the, albeit eccentric, humanity within” (Kayman 49). Eccentric he may be, and like a good Briton, Holmes keeps a stiff upper lip where emotions are concerned, but the text reveals that his mask is rarely employed in post-Scarlet stories. He is open about his views on justice and morality, and he is never stingy with kindness.19 Yet despite his acknowledgment of each client’s humanity and dignity, Holmes still repudiates Watson for “attempting to put colour and life into each of [his] statements [of Holmes’ cases] instead of confining [him]self to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about [the cases].” (Doyle, “Copper Beeches” 492) This would seem to indicate that Holmes is still unemotional, and feels that Watson embellishments are unnecessarily sappy and dramatic. Watson, in return, grumbles internally at “the egotism which [he] had more than once observed to a strong factor in [his] friend’s singular character” (493), but Holmes, reading his thoughts, resists this classification. Holmes clarifies his feelings: No, it is not selfishness or conceit…If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond myself…You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales…I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial. (493) In the detective’s mind, “Watson persistently subverts Holmes’s ‘logic’ and challenges his determinations about why detection matters in the first place” (Haynsworth 461)—that is, to serve justice, not to sell stories or drum up business. Holmes’ own understanding of his work

19 Holmes’ kindness is on full display in “The Man with the Twisted Lip” (December 1891), “The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb” (March 1892), “The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet” (May 1892), and nearly every case discussed in Chapter Four.

58 is that it should transcend emotion and human drama because the stakes are so high—justice, morality, and spirituality are all greater than subjective human sentiment, and pure detection is a means to achieving those ends. He “cannot be sensational or colorful; to be sensational would remove him from the rational world” and the objective pursuit of justice (Hall 302). That prized objectivity, which Holmes uses to meet his moral goals of upholding order, is exactly what Watson’s summaries lack; in painting the picture of a juicy investigation full of colorful characters, Watson is trivializing the very great stakes—humanity, fairness, and justice—that are inherently involved, and of this, Holmes is critical. Caprettini does Holmes a disservice when he states “[Holmes’] aim is not ethical but logical” (334), as this chapter demonstrates. However, the two are not mutually exclusive—Holmes employs logic to enforce his ethics, and his critique of Watson’s work is actually an “expression of humaneness and humility” (Clausen 82) about his profession, as well as the certain knowledge that he is working for the greater good.

CHAPTER 4

AIDEZ LA FEMME

Humaneness and humility mark Holmes’ professional life—both in his relations with the police and his internal views on justice, as Chapters Two and Three demonstrate. Those same attributes define his larger character, especially with respect to women, when one looks closely at the textual Holmes. Yet the Mythologized Holmes is famous for his “monastic life” (Dundas 17) which “excludes all sexuality” (Knight, “Great Detective” 63) because “woman is a threat [to Holmes]; vigilance must be eternal” (63). As discussed in the introduction, scholars Hayne, Ousby, and Caprettini call Holmes an outright misogynist, and many of the pop-culture iterations of Holmes reinscribe that notion. Where does this well- known reputation as a woman-hater come from? A Study in Scarlet has no female characters, and thus Mythologized Holmes’ views on women do not arise from that story. They come instead from the second and third stories, The Sign of Four of 1890 and “A Scandal in Bohemia” of 1891, the latter of which mirrors that abrupt shift which occurred for Holmes regarding his professional views, discussed earlier. This shift with respect to women is important because it further demonstrates his growing spirituality and humanity. By the middle of “Scandal,” Holmes’ character and attitudes about women undergo a dramatic change—as though a death and rebirth occurs—and he continues on his gliding evolution for all the subsequent stories in the now-familiar pattern, moving from misogynistic, sneering, and cold, to chivalrous, even charming. This may indicate that Holmes simply took longer to evolve in terms of his attitudes about women, but there is another possible explanation: Doyle’s own views about women. Raised by a “spirited, forceful, intelligent woman,” Doyle was taught the importance of “the ideas and ideals of chivalry” (Hodgson 6). Mary Doyle raised her son “on a strong diet of national pride, genealogy, heraldry, and tales of chivalric valor and virtue…and imbued him with an utter respect for the ‘ancient standards’ of knight honor and courtesy” (6). The death of Doyle’s misogynistic Holmes in July 1891 (when

“Scandal” was published in The Strand) coincides with the publication of Doyle’s historical novel The White Company, in which he returned to the fourteenth-century world of knights, feudal estates, and chivalric codes. It may be that Doyle wanted Holmes to reflect the same attitudes about women that he and his other characters so valued, and thus, the reformed Holmes becomes “chivalric and genteel, though [he remains] a confirmed bachelor” (7). Investigating Holmes’ views on women necessarily involves a survey of his emotional intelligence, as the two are intertwined. His beliefs about love (either romantic or platonic), marriage, and emotion in general undergo a similar evolution, and the textual Holmes displaces and complicates the Mythologized Holmes’ reputation of a heartless woman-hater. The foundation for Holmes’ evolution on women lies in 1890’s The Sign of Four, which marks his first detailed interactions with that sex. Upon meeting client Mary Morstan, Holmes seems enthralled by her, and his actions would seem to mirror the intense interest that Watson feels for her: “Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features” (Doyle, Sign 131). Holmes seems passionate, almost sensual, as he takes a predatory pleasure in watching the young lady. His eyes devour her, his palms are twitching; he is aroused. But Miss Morstan is alluring to Holmes for quite different reasons than Watson, who is, by his own admission, a connoisseur of women whose experience “extends over many nations and three separate continents” (Doyle, Sign 131). To Holmes, though, she represents a reprieve from ennui that currently plagues him, pushing him to “‘a seven-per-cent solution’” of cocaine (123) that is the antidote for “‘stagnation [to which his mind rebels]…[and] the dull routine of existence’” (124). Miss Morstan’s arrival is the exact prescription for that “‘mental exaltation’” which Holmes craves (124). His passion for brainwork is the cause of his arousal, and Miss Morstan is simply a vehicle for his genius. His greeting to her is reserved and formal: “‘State your case,’ he said in brisk business tones” (132). She begins to relate the death of her father, pausing to “put her hand to her throat, [as] a choking sob cut short her sentence” (132). Holmes barely notices her emotion; instead of showing any sympathy or delicacy (or even offering her a handkerchief), he presses relentlessly on, peppering her with cold, factual questions. Her case interests him, but he is able to detach the case from the client. He does exhibit kindness in his own way, praising her

61 as “‘…a model client. You have the correct intuition [to bring all the pertinent documents with you] (134). His aloof, though sincere, compliment further distances himself from her, as he privileges the unemotional information that her documents contain over her tearful narrative. The ensuing private conversation between Holmes and Watson reveals their very different views about women—and clients—in general and Miss Morstan in particular: Holmes “‘did not observe’” (Doyle, Sign 135) her physical attributes that so engage Watson, who rebukes him as “‘an automaton—a calculating machine…something positively inhuman...’” (135). Holmes is nonplussed at the intended insult, stating that “‘[a] client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning’” (135). This is the first instance of Holmes expounding his opinions about his own internal beliefs, and it is clear that he attaches no significance to emotion, even repudiates it as harmful to his genius; therefore, he is not offended at Watson’s intended barb that he is a robotic, unfeeling machine. Holmes’ views on women and sentiment do not improve as the story progresses. While he does not balk at taking on a female client (Miss Morstan was referred by a prior female client, Mrs. Cecil Forrester) (Doyle, Sign 131), his attitudes deepen to outright misogyny in this story: “‘I would not tell [the women] too much,’ said Holmes. ‘Women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them’” (188). Watson denounces this sentiment as “atrocious,” but realizes he has no power to sway his friend’s opinion (188). Holmes is critical of femininity when he even notices it all. He has adjudged the whole sex to be useless to him and is content with his assessment. Upon learning that Miss Morstan is to become Mrs. Watson, Holmes …gave a most dismal groan…”I really cannot congratulate you…love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.” (Doyle, Sign 235) Holmes’ prioritizing of reason and detachment speaks to his sangfroid, as well as his to attitudes about the value of women as companions. His resistance to marriage denotes a disregard of social conventions, all of which fall beneath his investigation. Marriage is odious, in particular, because it too caught up in commonplace, prosaic domesticity.

Yet Holmes does concede the possibility of female intelligence; he values Miss Morstan’s methodical and far-thinking brain twice in the story, but femininity is still plagued with peril, because women are not to be trusted. While he can value a positive attribute in his client, that evaluation is made in a vacuum and engenders no further examination by Holmes of Miss Morstan’s larger character. The passion sparked by her case is unrelated to the woman herself. He fulfils Watson’s label of automaton; he is a brain without a heart—and all the happier for its lack. Miss Morstan acts as the necessary prelude to Holmes’ further beliefs about women, which factor prominently in the third story, 1891’s “A Scandal in Bohemia.” Just as The Sign of Four opens with a description of the female client, so too does “Scandal” present a female character—this time, the “villain”—Irene Adler. The story begins with the now- famous lines: To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman...In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was…the most perfect reasoning and observing machine…but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and sneer…for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. (Doyle 239) Doyle repeats Holmes’ emotional detachment, first established in Sign. Even though Holmes is privileging Miss Adler, he still holds her at arm’s length. These opening lines serve the dual purpose of luring readers with the promise of a beguiling female, while cementing Holmes as a cold automaton by again likening him to an intricate machine, one who has “such complete control over his emotions and so nonchalant an attitude towards everything around him that he is considered…to be a heartless thinking machine, and indictment that his deep-seated misogyny only collaborate” (Conroy 36). His self-imposed and self-satisfied ignorance about the realities of love, marriage, and women are clear from his statements to Watson in Sign, and his misogyny prevents him from investigating further; the whole subject is beneath him—until his path crosses Miss Adler’s. As “A Scandal in Bohemia” opens, Watson has,

seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other…while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books… (Doyle 239) The time lapse has had no effect on Holmes, nor has the happy marriage of Watson spurred any thoughts of securing his own conjugal bliss. His companions, in the absence of Watson, …alternate from week to week between cocaine and ambition…[h]e was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observations in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. (239) Holmes’ mental and emotional needs are fulfilled without relation to other people or their approval. Isolation is not oppressive to Holmes, so long as he has something to feed his mental fires—a case, when he can get it, and cocaine when he cannot. Holmes belongs to no clubs, and seems to be “as friendless a man” as Watson once was (Doyle, Scarlet 15); friendlessness is ideal to Holmes, who is not plagued by feelings of loneliness. In The Sign of Four, Holmes defines detection—his raison d’être—as “an exact science [which] should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner” (Doyle, Sign 125) as he treats all other scenarios. Importantly, he is cold and detached by choice; once Watson marries and moves away, he has no friends apart from his cocaine bottle and violin, and this ménage suits him well. His family and history are a blank at this point in the stories, and he is a happy bachelor with no children. Given his sharp views on marriage, romantic love, and the uselessness of the female sex, Holmes may well be asexual, if not downright anti-sexual. Holmes does have specific desires with respect to Miss Adler, however, but as with Miss Morstan, they are entirely business-focused; he has been retained by the King of Bohemia to determine where she is hiding a compromising photograph. Yet as the story progresses, his goals and attitudes toward her begin to shift. When he realizes that she has outsmarted and mastered him by leaving the country with the photograph, his astonishment quickly gives way to respect—an abrupt and unexpected sentiment from one who once believed that women are untrustworthy. Her act is duplicitous, and yet Holmes admires her for it, contradicting his earlier criticism of women’s deceit from one moment to the next. Upon learning, through Miss Adler’s letter, that she was wronged by the King during their

64 love affair, Holmes bristles with icy indignation at the thought of so worthy a woman receiving any slight from the boorish foreign royal: “‘From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed on a very different level to your Majesty,’ said Holmes coldly,” as the King laments that Miss Adler was too far beneath him socially to warrant a marriage proposal (Doyle, “Scandal” 262). Holmes chafes at the insult because he now views Miss Adler as a worthy adversary; Doyle biographer Pierre Nordon goes even further, situating Miss Adler “as the detective’s feminine counterpart, as he freely admits” (235). In removing her from the King’s level, he is openly and sincerely elevating her to his own. Further, he is now glad that she has succeeded in besting the King, thereby retaining her power over him by keeping the risqué photograph. Even though her success spells his failure, Miss Adler prompts a great shift in Holmes’ misogynistic attitudes by her intelligence and craft; “[w]hile Watson admires her beauty, Sherlock is enamored of her brains” (Kromm 276). When pressed by the King to accept some lavish payment for his work, Holmes—in another unexpectedly sentimental move—requests that one thing of the King’s “‘which [he] should value even more highly’” than costly jewels—La Adler’s photograph—posed alone and appropriate for a mantelpiece (Doyle “Scandal” 262). What would prompt such a surprising request? The reader knows that Holmes is disdainful of emotion and does not desire Ms. Adler sexually; he is well aware that she has had sexual encounters with the King of Bohemia, and knows first-hand that she is married to the lawyer Norton, having legally witnessed her wedding in one of his disguises (252). Thus, he knows she is out of his reach, romantically, if such a thought were even appealing to him. Instead, it seems more likely that her photograph will be a constant reminder of failure and narrow-mindedness, though this failure came at no real cost to himself, other than to change his views on women and their intelligence. Watson observes: the plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman. (262-3) Over the course of one story, his views on women at large have shifted drastically. Holmes’ “disdain for women and for the pulse of passion seems to evaporate in the warmth of his admiration for Adler” (Atkinson 48). His cold manner is beginning to thaw.

In “A Case of Identity,” published in September 1891, Holmes has occasion to put his warmer views on women to the test. His client is again a woman, and while he had never refused a case on the grounds that the client was a female, his behavior toward client Miss Mary Sutherland deepens the impression that he is changing his mind about that sex, becoming more charitable and kind. Though no crime is actually committed by her stepfather (who pretends to court Miss Mary only to jilt her, and thereby secure her fortune for himself), Holmes is outraged at his behavior: “‘I am very much afraid that [your actions are not actionable in the police court]. But between ourselves… it was as cruel and heartless and a trick in a petty way as ever came before me’” (Doyle, “Identity” 302). In recounting the facts of the case, Holmes becomes more and more agitated, until he finally descends upon the rogue with fury: “The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes…”yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders…it is not part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself…” (304) Miss Mary’s stepfather triggers a sense of chivalry in Holmes, which he has heretofore never expressed, and his indignation is genuine; he does not appear to be feigning his anger, as Watson observes the rising color in Holmes face (304). Chivalrous Holmes reappears in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches,” published in 1892. The story starts with a bored, irascible Holmes venting his spleen that his practice “‘seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies’” (Doyle 494), one of whom is his prospective client, Miss Violet Hunter. Importantly, his pique is not about the ladies at all, but instead reveals his frustration that interesting cases seem to have evaporated. Miss Hunter changes this; she consults Holmes on whether she should accept a governess position, as she has “‘no parents or relations of any sort from whom [she] could ask advice’” (495). Though Holmes initially feels the case “‘marks [his] zero-point’” (494) in terms of true brainwork, he is nonetheless “favourably impressed by the manner of speech of his new client” as she relates the strange circumstances of her job prospects (495). After her recital, he is sufficiently concerned on her behalf to advise her “‘that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for’” (499). Holmes exhibits a grave apprehension for Miss Hunter’s safety, treating her as frankly

66 and respectfully as he would treat his own kin. Knowing that Miss Hunter is an unmarried woman who lacks the protection of a husband or family, he accepts the case, foreseeing a danger which prompts him to again exhibit a sense of chivalry toward her, essentially casting himself as the only man upon whom she can safely rely: “‘But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help’” (500). When danger does come, Holmes is quick to rush, knight-like, to her aid. His favorable opinion of her grows, and he is not stingy or coy in his praise: “‘You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl…[I] think you quite an exceptional woman’” (513). This forthright approval of Miss Hunter further demonstrates the thawed heart of Holmes, and while Watson held out hope that Miss Hunter might turn Holmes’ head, the bachelor in Holmes wins out. Holmes “manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the center of one of his problems” (518). Having allowed for her feminine merit and treating her with familial kindness, even having rescued her from danger, Holmes’ heart disengages without qualm or complication. Eleven years later, a similar client (even sharing the same first name) appears in 1903’s “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist” to test Holmes’ softened views on women. Another governess, Miss Violet Smith is “young and beautiful, tall, graceful, and queenly” (Doyle 833) as she appeals to Holmes for help in determining who is following her during her weekly cycling trips. Her physical charms—which Holmes concedes when he remarks “‘that such a [beautiful] girl should have followers’” (838)—do not impact Holmes, and he continues to treat Miss Smith with the same professional courtesy he shows all clients, however lovely. But with respect to Holmes’ growing gallantry toward women in need, this story deepens the impression of a changing man: he examines the “‘spatulate finger-ends’” of her hands in a scientific, detached manner (833), but then turns his attention to her face, becoming almost mystical as he remarks “‘There is a spirituality about the face, however…This lady is a musician’” (833). Struck, though perhaps not romantically interested, by this spiritual face, Holmes feels now that it is his “‘duty to see that no one molests [Miss Smith]’” (843), and to that end, he acts frantically “‘to save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman’” (846), in this case, a forced marriage and subsequent rape. Here, Holmes is “woman’s protector, rescuing her from the villainous patriarch’s domination and defending her right to control over her own property and person” (Hennessy and Mohan

390). Thus, the persona of the sneering misogynist gives way to a kinder, nobler man who prioritizes a woman’s safety and honor, all while recognizing her inherent spirituality and personal worth. Holmes clearly understands the dangerous position of women in his society, especially for governesses who generally must live in their employers’ homes and submit to their will. In the case of governesses Miss Morstan, Miss Hunter, and Miss Smith, he is their last resort for aid, guidance, and actual rescuing. In that light, it is appropriate that Holmes should have no romantic interest in his female clients, so that he always remains available to help other ladies in distress, just as a knight-errant should. This knightly Holmes does experience a back-slide, though, in “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton,” published just one year after “The Solitary Cyclist.” Holmes reveals to Watson that despite not being “‘a marrying man,…[he] is engaged…[t]o Milverton’s housemaid’” (Doyle 912) by use of one of his many disguises. Having gained the inside information on the villain Charles Milverton which his new fiancée provides, Holmes has no compunction about breaking the girl’s heart once she has outlived her usefulness: He shrugged his shoulders [at Watson]. “You can’t help it…You must play your cards as best you can…However, I rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!” (913) This glib attitude toward the heartbreak he caused is reminiscent of the earlier Holmes, who prioritized his work above his—or anyone else’s—heart. Once again, brainwork trumps all, as Holmes ranks the needs of his client over the potential devastation of a pawn in his game. Though it is a consolation to him that his “fiancée” will find solace in the arms of another man, this move is colder than one might expect from a man who was so kind to the Miss Violets. However, Holmes does somewhat redeem himself in this story, working diligently for “‘a lady [who] is in most desperate need of his help’” to extricate herself from a socially- damaging blackmail situation (Doyle, “Milverton” 913). His burgeoning sense of courtesy toward women underlies his sometimes unkind acts toward them; he is able to justify the means (the fake engagement) because of the “high object of [the] mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous” to deliver this other lady safely from the jaws of the

68 blackmailer Milverton (917). Ultimately, Holmes burns all the incriminating documents in Milverton’s possession, thereby saving countless ladies from scandal and ruin, and this triumph is well worth the cost of temporarily hurting the feelings of a gullible maid. Holmes has always conceded that “‘the fair sex is [Watson’s] department’” (Doyle, “Second Stain” 1044), and thus it is hardly surprising that his solitary, feigned attempt at courtship is so flawed. Yet he nevertheless has a way with women, when the case calls for charm: he employs a “pleasant manner and frank acceptance” of the maid Theresa, successfully transforming her from “taciturn, suspicious, [and] ungracious” to “amiability” with a very loose tongue (Doyle, “Abbey Grange” 1024). Similarly, he “had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women,” which prompts his own house-keeper, Mrs. Hudson, to have “the deepest awe of him…however outrageous his proceedings might seem” (Doyle, “Dying Detective” 429). Finally, Watson remarks that, Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In [a very short amount of] time, he had captured the house-keeper’s goodwill and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years. (“Golden” 979) But like his fake engagement, Holmes’ manipulation of women through charisma always serves his greater goals of detection, and even in the case of the engagement, he does not employ his power for malicious ends. One could therefore argue that these acts are not manipulations at all, but rather careful questioning and intent listening to women, whom he now views, not distrustfully, but as important resources. By any classification, Holmes does have the ability to employ charm and finesse toward women if and when the case calls for it. Holmes continues to progress from icy derision to warm, solicitous care about women and their welfare, and this shift is especially clear in 1922’s “The Problem of Thor Bridge.” Holmes shows a sincere instinct of protection for Miss Grace Dunbar, another governess who is first pressured into an affair by her powerful employer, and then charged with the murder of his wife; both her life and reputation are at stake. Holmes finds her wealthy employer odious, and makes no secret of his disdain: “‘It is only for the young lady’s sake that I touch your case at all,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘…you have tried to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof [and protection]” (Doyle, “Thor Bridge” 637). In championing her cause, Holmes takes on the role of paternal protector, very like the care and interest he took in the cases of both Miss Violets discussed above. He is severe and forceful on her behalf,

69 rebuking the rogue who tried to ruin her. Once again resuming his role of the valiant “knight-errant [who] arms himself with rationality” (Jann 5), Holmes does prove her innocence, saving both her life and her virtuous reputation while establishing his changed views on clients as mere symbols. His ability to see the humanity in Miss Grace Dunbar and the spirituality of Miss Violet Smith—and his subsequent willingness to champion their causes specifically because they are so inherently worthy—reveal a decided shift in his attitudes from Sign and “Scandal.” Holmes continues his paternal-interest streak in “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client,” published in 1924. While acting on behalf of the father of yet another Miss Violet (this time Violet de Merville), Holmes tries to convince a young lady that her suitor is a rogue and murderer. Here, he seems genuinely moved by the lady, betraying uncharacteristic emotion as he recounts the case to Watson: I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent. I use my head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. (Doyle, “Illustrious” 525) That his nature now even provides such words as could relate to a daughter indicates a definite change in Holmes’ whole aspect, and further points to his overall evolution. Holmes claims here to have no use for his heart, but his compassion and sympathy belie his words. Only a heart would prompt him to treat Miss Violet as he does—with kindness and genuine care, referring to her in his own mind as his daughter. By contrast, Watson describes him thirty-one years earlier, in 1893’s “The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter,” as “an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was preeminent in intelligence…[with an] aversion to women” (Doyle, “Greek” 682). Yet the Holmes who deals with Miss Violet de Merville in 1924 is a different person altogether than that described in “Greek Interpreter,” and the previous women he valued, aided, and rescued are all stepping stones to his change of heart. “The Adventure of the Three Gables,” published in 1926, emphasizes Holmes’ reformation even further. Here, he faces an Irene Adler-like adversary, but this time, he does not immediately assume her to be deficient in craft and intelligence. He is frank with the villain Isadora Klein, telling her directly that he “‘ha[s] too much respect for [her] intelligence’” to trifle with her (Doyle 589-90). Instead of concocting an elaborate ruse with

70 multiple disguises to learn the truth, as he did with Miss Adler in “Scandal,” Holmes is direct and forthright, believing Miss Klein worthy of a respectful, direct approach. Though “still immune from sentiment” in the face of her beauty and wit (591), he deals with her graciously, even playfully, “wagg[ing] a cautionary fore-finger [and telling her to] ‘have a care! Have a care. You can’t play with edged tools forever without cutting those dainty hands’” (592). This Holmes is indeed a far cry from the distrustful, disparaging machine that once scorned feminine intelligence. By the mid-1920s, Holmes’ manner is altogether softer and kinder, more attuned to the possibility of spirituality, wit, and merit in women. He is willing to risk his own safety and even break the law for their sakes. 20 Though not a romantic figure, he nevertheless adopts the mien of a courtly knight in serving the greater good with respect to women. His heart has thawed, and is sometimes even consulted, as it was in the cases of sister-like Miss Violet Hunter and daughter-like Miss Violet de Merville; his approach to female clients (or adversaries) is softer and more open to recognizing humanity, which in turn reveals Holmes’ own growing humanity. The best illustration of this reformed soul occurs in 1926’s “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” one of only 4 stories narrated by Holmes himself. 21 This case takes place after his retirement from detection, and finds him in his “little Sussex home…[the] villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding a great view of the Channel” (Doyle, “Lion” 673, 674). Because of this remoteness from London and Watson, he must act as his own chronicler, and the self-reported nature of this story reveals a completely overhauled character; Barrie Hayne asserts that the stories Holmes narrates himself “give us

20 Holmes and Watson engage in criminal activity for the purpose of saving a woman’s life or reputation in the following stories: “The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches,” “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange,” “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist,” “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton,” “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client,” and “The Adventure of the Three Gables.” 21 Of the 60 stories, Watson narrates all but 5; Holmes himself narrates “The Gloria Scott,” “The Musgrave Ritual,” “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier,” and “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.” “His Last Bow” and “The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone” are told in third-person.

71 the real Holmes” (155), and thus, his expressed sentiments in these stories reveal a great deal about his inner character. By his own words in this story, Holmes demonstrates a significant departure from all that he once believed about isolation, feminine beauty, and companionship in general. He states baldly: “My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate all to ourselves” (674). Having just described the physical remoteness of his villa and its relation to the sparsely-populated village of Fulworth nearby, Holmes goes further than mere geographical facts: in using the word “lonely,” the implication is that he misses social contact and companionship. Pre-Scandal Holmes would have kept the description of his lodging to the bare coordinates and architectural features—precise and objective facts. That Holmes of an earlier day frequently rejoiced in the freedom from companionship and social obligations, as exhibited in his fondness for the Diogenes Club, where, many men in London…who…have no wish for the company of their fellows [retreat]…and [which] now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’s Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed. (Doyle, “Greek” 684-5) Though not a member of the club himself, Holmes “‘found it a very soothing atmosphere’” (685), which falls in line with the earlier image of him as aloof and detached by choice. As Watson related in The Sign of Four, Holmes was more than content to exist in isolation once Watson had established how own ménage with his new wife; it is likely that he did not even notice he was alone in those earlier stories. Yet the lapse of thirty-three years between “The Greek Interpreter” and “The Lion’s Mane” have changed Holmes so much that he now notices and remarks on his emotional isolation, in contradiction of Susan Elizabeth Sweeney’s assertion that “[t]he classic sleuth learns much about others yet little about himself” (235). He has learned the value of friendship and nature, as this story shows. Despite the loneliness of his house (both physically and spiritually), he does maintain warm friendships with several teachers from the nearby academy: he and Harold Stackhurst are on such easy terms of intimacy that they “could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation” (Doyle, “Lion” 674), and Holmes frequently swims with another teacher, Fiztroy McPherson. The sudden, inexplicable death of McPherson triggers Holmes’ old sangfroid and brisk, businesslike demeanor. However, this return to coldness has a different tenor now: it is clear that Holmes

72 is merely delaying grief while action is required. But grief does creep momentarily into Holmes’ narrative, and his sensitivity is on display in an unexpected way: “It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed” (Doyle 680). His love of nature is all the more poignant, when contrasted with his prior love (in 1893’s “The Naval Treaty”) of the seediest parts of London: “‘It’s a very cheery thing to come into London…[l]ook at those big, isolated clumps of buildings rising up above the slates, like brick islands in a lead-coloured sea…Light- houses…Beacons of the future!’” (Doyle, “Treaty” 717). Whereas he once loved the view of London’s teeming shacks, he has now “given [him]self up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which [he] so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London” (“The Resident Patient” 673). Nature has restorative powers for him, indicating a soul that is open to more spiritual considerations, though he is unable to enjoy her charms under the weight of Friend McPherson’s death. The words “poison” and “tragedy” combine to reveal just how deeply Holmes feels the loss of one of his only friends, for which the balm of Nature is no cure. His word choice also demonstrates the close communion that the two men shared; this Holmes has definitely noticed that his friend is gone. Most profound and striking, though, is the change Holmes exhibits in this story with respect to women. When describing Maud Bellamy, McPherson’s secret fiancée, to the reader, Holmes is openly appreciative of beauty: There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear- cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed. (Doyle, “Resident Patient” 681) These observations are eloquent and lavish, considering that Watson once described him as having a manner that was “not effusive” (“Scandal” 240). Though he does not wish to be one of her young suitors, Holmes is nonetheless surprisingly moved by her. Referring to her in the language of his beloved Nature betrays just how deeply she stirs him. He is far from unscathed after encountering her, and even remarks that, because of her “strong character as well as great beauty[,] Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete and remarkable woman” (“Resident Patient” 682). He revels in the trust and confidence she

73 places in him to solve the strange crime, and he in turn openly esteems her when he says, with no trace of irony: “‘Thank you [for your trust in me], said I. ‘I value a woman’s instinct in such matters’” (682). With that one line, Holmes has completely shed his former sneering self. By trusting a woman’s intuition about the death of her lover, Holmes is wholeheartedly changed. Holmes’ transformation is clearly revealed over the whole chronological course of the canon. In his role as detective, he stands out as the “century’s most promising healer” (Cairney 71), and it is fitting that he should heal himself, too. His early days as a “pure logician[ ]” (Sirvent 156) were punctuated by ego and an inhuman rejection of others, more “inhumanly dedicated to the principles of science” (Ousby 151). His later life reveals a warm, caring individual who is “moved as much by a passion for justice…as by a love of scientific truth” (151), and whose aloofness has been “mollifie[d]…by a whole series of…shifts” (Knight, “Great Detective” 56). Through those shifts—moving from rivalry to friendship with police officers, growing compassion and chivalry toward women, and a much more spiritual, humanized view of his own profession—Holmes demonstrates that he “is capable of loving something enough to go out into the cold to protect. He goes because of love, not duty. And at the end of his efforts…in behalf…of security, warmth, friendship, and order, he returns” to the familiar rooms at Baker Street (Herzinger 115). This character, who loves his work, his clients, his friends, and his London, simply does not mesh with his mythologized character, and certainly contradicts Jann’s assertion that “there is no real character development” for Holmes (29). He is a worthwhile and valuable model for friendship, kindness, and justice—far better than Mythologized Holmes ever could or would desire to be. These inconsistencies between scholarly and popular opinion and the actual texts themselves indicate a need for revising the myth by engaging in a close re-reading of the original texts. Ultimately, Holmes—real or Mythologized—is much beloved; alongside Watson, they have become “nostalgic figures…touchstone[s] from the old days” (Dundas 151, 187). Kim Herzinger puts a poetic spin on this wistfulness: we almost invariably want to locate the essential Holmes ‘in a romantic chamber of the heart, in a nostalgic country of the mind, where it is always 1895.’ There is something stirring about that gaslit, late-Victorian London; its very fog seems to render misery into nostalgic yearning. (111 citing Starrett)

Though Herzinger concedes that “[t]he London we love in the Holmes Saga is not, of course, a London which ever existed” (111), the fiction of that world perhaps deepens its allure. Holmes’ “popularity is increased by the romance for the trappings of Victorian England (the sitting room, the fog, the hansom cabs, and the elaborate dress and elegant manners)” (Higgins 138). While only twenty-six stories were actually published during Victoria’s reign, the majority of the stories are set in those twilight years of the century. Doyle himself “play[ed] the nostalgia card and ke[pt] the stories in an age that was not yet disturbed by war, changing politics and the mood of the new century” (Booth 249). Even the Baker Street flat is a myth—“there has never been a number 221B there” (Kaemmel 60) but thousands of people still make their pilgrimage. Ultimately, Holmes was always fictional, too, but that rather unfortunate fact simply adds to his mystique—if he never lived, he can never die. Even Doyle could not properly kill him. Doyle “increasingly often thought of Holmes as ‘merely a mechanical creature, not a man of flesh and blood,—and easy to create because he was soulless’” (Orel, “Sherlock” 175). Yet Doyle’s own writings betray this belief—Orel adds: “Holmes was not ever as two-dimensional as Conan Doyle pretended” (175), and the original texts support that analysis. If Zach Dundas is accurate—that “Arthur Conan Doyle originated Sherlock Holmes…[and the] rest of us, obviously, aren’t yet finished creating him” (17), then perhaps he does live, in that fantastical place of the heart. If so, then it may well be the right moment to remake the myth by carefully re-investigating the texts, by “turn[ing] the magnifying lens on” to the sleuth himself (Botta 217). The Holmes within those pages—the real, Canonical, Humanized Holmes—is certainly worth mythologizing.

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