The Blue Carbuncle

Want to read this along with me? This essay is part of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, published in 1892. I used the epub version found on Feedbooks.com.

It’s the start of the Christmas season, and every Christmas, I run into images of the Victorian ideal of Christmas, which inevitably slides into renditions, quotes, and readings from A Christmas Carol. People mention Scrooge and his ghosts, and hold that up as the ideal story of the holiday season. But through my life, my favorite Christmas story hasn’t been that Dickensian classic, but rather “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.” Other Sherlockians might dismiss the story as one of the weaker cases in the book, but it has always held a special place in my heart, and I’ve read it dozens of times throughout my life. (And yet, I still notice little things each time I read it, like the fact that Holmes tends to crumple papers into a ball when he’s done reading them.)

This case starts off with a scenario in which a crime isn’t committed, and Watson specifically mentions three previous stories in which this is the case.¹ Later we learn that a jewel theft is committed, but we’re starting to see Doyle draw connections between his own previous works and build this elaborate chronology around Holmes – even, as we’ve already seen, if it’s fraught with inconsistencies and conflicts.

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The Man with the Twisted Lip

Want to read this along with me? This essay is part of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, published in 1892. I used the epub version found on Feedbooks.com.

Now we come to a story about opium addiction and opium dens, that strange oddity of prim and proper Victorian society. Opium dens were dirty, terrible places (much like crack houses are today), but yet they were perfectly legal for many years – in fact, many people at the time didn’t even think that opium was addictive. The scene with Watson in the den trying to recover his friend is fascinating, and Doyle (through Watson) doesn’t flinch in his unrelenting opinions of these drug dens and the effects of opium on its users. Inevitably, one has to draw a parallel between this den and Holmes’ own addictions, and Holmes even remarks on it himself.¹

Aside from the opium den, though, this story is unusual and interesting in a couple of other ways. We’re treated to a rare stretch of Watson’s own adventuring outside of Holmes, and he proves to be as capable and forthright alone as he is with his friend when he goes without a moment’s hesitation into a drug den to retrieve his patient. The story also never once strays into Baker Street, and we get a glimpse into Watson’s domestic life, something only implied or hinted at previously.²

The story centers on disguise. Although Holmes himself is in disguise only briefly (and, admittedly, his transformation for Watson borders a bit on the fantastic for my tastes), Holmes’ knowledge of stagecraft is instrumental in solving the case, and we are given some interesting details about the craft of disguise in the Victorian age. Interestingly, many Sherlockians over the ages have considered the concept of a beggar making that much money to be unrealistic, but recent studies have shown that entertaining and deformed beggers today can pull down quite a bit of money, so in this Doyle is way ahead of his time.

We meet another policeman, Inspector Bradstreet, and learn that some of the policemen actually respect Holmes and his work.

We also get another peek into Watson and Holmes’ relationship:

“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ‘Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant.”

There’s another scene that I find a bit unusual for the canon, however. It’s when Holmes is talking with Mary St. Clair, and she is convinced that her husband is still alive, based on her intuition. Holmes responds with

“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view.”

If Holmes is serious, he’s admitting that women’s intuition is actually a valid tool in investigation, which seems contrary to most every axiom he’s mentioned thus far. I’m more inclined to think he’s being sarcastic here, but if so, it’s a very subtle indication that he’s sometimes frustrated with his clientele. Besides, he solves the mystery by making a pillow fort and smoking a lot, so Holmes is certainly racking up eccentricities in this story.

I know I’ve mentioned a lot of continuity controversies in the canon so far, but this story contains one that seems to get a lot of play in the Sherlockian community, and yet I don’t think it’s a big deal at all. It all stems from one line, spoken my Watson’s wife:

“Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”

“James,” here, is clearly a reference to Watson, introduced in A Study in Scarlet as Dr. John Watson. There has been a lot of discussion about who James is and how he figures into the canon – so much so that the topic warrants a separate article in The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, Vol. 1. And yet, I always just assumed that “James” was just a nickname for John. I guess everyone has their own opinions on what’s controversial.