Although Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote four Sherlock
Holmes novels and 56 short stories, the adventures of this great fictional
detective in print do not end there. Since the demise of his creator, many
authors have taken up the pen (or the typewriter, or even the laptop) to continue
the great detective’s career. Strictly speaking, these are regarded as ‘non-Canonical’
adventures (the ‘Canon’ in a Holmesian context being the works of Conan Doyle
and no-one else).
This even happened during Conan Doyle’s lifetime. When
his friend William Gillette asked him for permission to write a Sherlock Holmes stage
play in 1899, in which he wanted to take a few liberties with the character,
Conan Doyle famously replied: "You may marry him, murder him, or do anything you like to him"; incidentally, that play, which was called Sherlock Holmes, was the first time that the phrase "elementary, my dear Watson", later popularised by the Basil Rathbone filmes, was used.
Of the various Holmes pastiches over the years, two have
really stood out for me – a short story and a novel. The former is Colin
Dexter’s ‘A Case of Mis-Identity’, not a stab at telling one of the many
‘untold’ tales that Conan Doyle alluded to in Dr Watson’s narratives but never
wrote (which is what most would-be Holmes authors do, most notably June Thomson
who has written a very good series of books) but a clever retelling of ‘A Case
of Identity’ which is buried in the short story collection Morse’s Greatest Mystery. The novel is The Seven-Per-Cent Solution by Nicholas Meyer, which purports to
have been written by Watson in old age and tells the ‘real’ story behind the
Great Hiatus (the gap in the adventures between Holme’s ‘death’ in ‘The Final
Problem’ and his return in ‘The Empty House’); in Meyer’s version, Watson becomes
so concerned about Holmes’s drug problem that he and brother Mycroft trick the
great detective into travelling to Vienna, where he becomes a patient of
Sigmund Freud.
Other stories have him involved in various crossovers
with other works of late nineteenth-century fiction, getting involved in the
hunt for Jack the Ripper (a particularly popular subject-area), going to
America for a whole series of adventures, fathering a child with Irene Adler (it’s a boy, who grows up to become Nero Wolfe) and continuing to solve crimes after
retiring to do some beekeeping in a cottage on the Sussex Downs. A recent fictional
biography – a work of fiction written in the style of a biography of a famous
fictional character, taking the conceit of said character being a real person
to the extreme – by Nick Rennison has him playing a key role in the early
development of MI5 and MI6 (in this interpretation, Professor Moriarty becomes an Irish
nationalist whose importance is overstated by the Holmes brothers). Many
well-known people from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries make
guest appearances, and in turn Holmes and Watson have themselves made a cameo
appearance in one of the Flashman books. Recently, and rather timely given the
impending centenary of the First World War, there’s even one in which Watson
rejoins the Army in 1914 and ends up investigating a series of murders
committed on the Western Front.
This brings me to the main subject of this post, which is
a review of two Holmes pastiches, namely The
House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz and The
Holmes Affair by Graham Moore.
As with the novels mentioned above, The House of Silk is presented as having been written by Watson in
old age (and subsequently consigned, as these things are, to his tin dispatch
box in the vaults of Cox & Company at Charing Cross), when he looks back on
a case that he couldn’t write about in the 1890s because of the sensitive
nature of the case, although there are no Victorian celebrity appearances here.
Moriarty plays a cameo role, but he’s not central to the plot.
Instead, the sensitivity concerns the nature of the
mysterious establishment of the title – which I will not divulge here for fear
of spoiling what is a pretty good plot, but safe to say that it’s a dark secret
that is as offensive to our own time as it would have been to the Victorians.
When it comes to crime writing, Horowitz has a good
pedigree, having worked on the screenplays for TV shows like Agatha Christie’s Poirot and Foyle’s War in addition to his fiction
which is mostly aimed at the teenage market.
Conan Doyle’s style was well-mimicked, although some
modern-day sensitivities did creep in. For example, the Baker Street
Irregulars, Holmes’s gang of cheeky street-urchins, are portrayed in a way that
shows the harshness of their lives, living rough on the mean streets of
late-Victorian London. Indeed, this
version of Watson makes much of the social issues of the day which adds a new
dimension to the story.
My quibbles are minor. Horowitz says in the notes at the
end that he wanted to portray Holmes going into an opium den because Conan
Doyle had never done this, although I seem to recall Watson discovering Holmes
undercover in one in ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’ (which in turn formed the
basis for the crack-house scene in the most recent series of Sherlock). He also presents a list of
rules for anyone else wishing to have a go at writing their own Holmes
adventure, although he does spoil the effect of these by admitting that he didn’t
entirely keep to them himself.
All in all, a good effort that is certainly superior to
most Holmes pastiches that have been published over the years.
Moore takes a different approach, balancing two parallel
plots – the first is set in 1900 and involves Conan Doyle himself, while the
second is set in the present day (well, 2010) and concerns members of a Sherlock
Holmes appreciation society (itself quite the contemporary topic, what with the
increase in interest in the stories thanks to the TV series). In 1900, Arthur
Conan Doyle (he didn’t get knighted until 1902) investigates a series of
murders in London after receiving a letter-bomb in the post; meanwhile, in 2010
avid Holmes fan Harold White attends a prestigious ‘Sherlockian’ gathering in a
New York hotel, which is marred when one of the society’s leading members is
found dead in his room; this leads onto a hunt for a missing part of Conan
Doyle’s diary which covers the part of his life which is being played out in
the 1900 plot.
Now I’m not a fan of this split-plot device – I’d much
rather just have one thread to concentrate on. That said, it can make for a
very good story if it’s done well.
This, alas, isn’t. Of the two plots, I personally
preferred the 1900 adventure with Holmes’s creator. Still trying to move away
from the shadow of Sherlock Holmes seven years after killing him off, Arthur
(as he is referred to throughout the proceedings) finds himself having to use
the detection skills he bestowed upon his fictional creation, with his friend
Bram Stoker acting as a sort-of ‘Watson’. Throughout his adventure, during
which he visits Whitechapel, dresses up as a woman to infiltrate a women’s
suffrage meeting and is temporarily incarcerated in Newgate Prison, he meets
people who tell him how much they enjoyed the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, much
to his own irritation.
By contrast, the 2010 plot stutters and I for one found
it to be less interesting; like Arthur back in 1900, Harold is forced by
circumstances to have a go at being a detective, and uses his knowledge of the afore-mentioned
Canon to make his deductions while dealing with a freelance journalist (who,
naturally, may not be all that she seems) and a (fictional) descendant of Conan
Doyle himself.
Stories centring on Conan Doyle are not unknown – these
are usually about how he came to write The
Hound of the Baskervilles, the first Holmes adventure he wrote since he’d
given the detective the Reichenbach Falls treatment. Moore’s story touches on
this, as the events that take place do indeed prompt Conan Doyle to resurrect
his famous detective.
There are also a few things Moore gets wrong; American
words and spelling abound, and while I don’t find this as distracting as I used
to there are a couple of howlers which jar the 1900 plot; Moore manages to have
a London policeman in 1900 addressed as ‘officer’ rather than ‘constable’, and
there’s a laboured joke at the expense of women’s suffrage campaigner Millicent
Fawcett that centres on the assumption that Londoners in 1900 would have used
the word ‘faucet’ instead of ‘tap’. More seriously, in the present-day story Moore
somehow manages to have the body of a man found dead in suspicious
circumstances in New York repatriated to Britain and buried within two days.
This is obviously impossible, and it’s the sort of detail that a crime novelist
needs to iron out before their books are sent to the publisher.
In conclusion, I’d be interested if Horowitz writes
another Holmes adventure. Not sure I’ll be on the look-out for any of Moore’s other
works, though.
