Horowitz’ world of Holmes in Doyle-sanctioned The House of Silk By Angeli Arellano

Arthur Conan Doyle’s fiction, beyond establishing the world’s most beloved detective, firmly identifies itself by skimping on just enough in-text details for the reader to become sleuths themselves.

However, a faithful Sherlock Holmes adaptation draws a black-and-white against what can be called “the commonplaces of existence”—even placing the detective upon a well-held position above narrative continuity—and Anthony Horowitz doesn’t dare offend fellow fans by fracturing this pedestal.

Instead, the acclaimed screenwriter builds on what he believed was the primary appeal of Doyle’s stories: the Holmes and Watson friendship, their colorful world beyond Baker Street, and the occasional melodrama that remain tangled in every petty and provocative crime that our duo encounters.

Horowitz bookends with, liberally weaves throughout, and climaxes The House of Silk with a concupiscence in taking the detective’s adventures to page. His John Watson, being Watson enough, is just as critical of his own narrative as Holmes was in matters of crime—that despite the social seclusions that came pursuing justice, a detective was no bystander to the crimes he unraveled, and neither was a chronicler in that of integrity and authenticity.

Horowitz’ Victorian London, and Conan Doyle

The House of Silk has all the usual sights of detective fiction: secret codes, poisons, and locked-room escapes; brawns, disguises, and a touch of occult. There are siblings, by blood and by bond, both criminal and destitute. There are pubs, homes, and corridors of power from every social strata. But coupled with the scene and time shifts, leading dialogue, and a gothic romanticism that Doyle’s prose is singular for, Horowitz’ novel, at times, staggers forward like a plucky museum tour.

Newcomers might be surprised that Doyle’s canon is not as physically rigorous as this one. And as we pace to keep up with their expeditions, it seems clear our sleuthing duo has plunged into more legwork than any other canon instance.

Yet a colorful Victorian London reminds one of why the nineteenth century dominates the shelves of mystery fiction. The detective is both a tour guide and a critic of the times he toils about, and when it comes to Doyle, Horowitz doesn’t play loose.

Early on, Horowitz appeals to readers at any level of appreciation. Present are the best-known characters to meet Sherlockian hype, new voices and actors from multiple corners of the social fabric for lovers of such period, and a sprinkling of clues for savants who live and breathe the Doyle canon.

And there is a wild ride for those who either scoff at Holmes pastiches and scrutinize derivative works. In an essay accompanying some editions of the novel, Horowitz shares Ten Rules he strove to keep for a faithful adaptation, and invites the reader to judge “how well they were kept and, indeed, if they were worth keeping.”

The Ten Rules are as follows:

No over-the-top action.
No women.
No gay references either overt or implied in the relationship between Holmes and Watson.
No walk-on appearances by famous people.
No drugs – at least, none to be taken by Sherlock Holmes.
Do the research.
Use the right language.
Not too many murders.
Include all the best-known characters – but try to do so in a way that will surprise.
When publicising the book, never, ever be seen wearing a deerstalker hat or smoking a pipe.

Horowitz’ Baker Street and beyond

Horowitz crowds The House of Silk with red herrings dangled by the duo’s own inner circles, pulling up resistances to the great detective’s cold mind. But to a fresher eye, these simply rejuvenate each familiar face with a breath of self-awareness.

Mycroft Holmes, for instance, steps out of being a slovenly copy of Holmes’ keen sight and, never losing touch of Victorian norms, foreshadows the narratives’ extremes with the full conscientiousness of an older brother. “I hoped that my coming here,” Mycroft warns, “would underline the seriousness of what I say (…) You must leave it alone!”

Even Mary, Watson’s wife, gets to defend her role by voicing what every keen reader has come to criticize Watson for. “Sometimes I think you are fonder of Mr. Holmes than you are of me,” she jests, yet releases him from domesticity upon the siren call of adventure.

Horowitz similarly sets apart his Moriarty from Disney’s caricature of villainy. “There are other rules,” declares the criminal kingpin, “which are, to my mind, inviolable.” His unique role in this story tells us— and Watson himself— that Holmes’ greatest enemy was just as man as he was a deadly force, and that the same applied to his fellow lodger. And it’s this parallel that spurs Watson down his own attempt to play knight.

Horowitz’ Sherlock Holmes

The game is only truly afoot when Holmes’ conscience is strung out by the death of a child. Through a new character Horowitz imbues spirit to our favorite unofficial police force, and shatters Holmes’ dismissal of the ‘commonplaces of existence’.

“Where do you think any of us come from? What does it matter?” Wiggins speaks of his fellow Baker Street Irregulars, and perhaps for all those who willingly play into the hands of the powerful just to live another day.

“Childhood,” Watson muses about them, “is the first precious coin that poverty steals from a child.” Backed with this powerful—and wholly human grief— Horowitz’ shows readers how Sherlock Holmes can be as much a vigilante as he is a detective. Alex Rider might as well have given his creator a pat on the back.

Even in what seemed like his darkest hour, Horowitz reminds us of Holmes’ true heavyweight. “I saw a glint in his eye,” Watson remarks after a breathtaking turn of events, “…the fight was not over yet. Holmes had always been at his most formidable when the odds seemed stacked against him.”

Sherlock Holmes was relentless, in which his cold deductions are only the means to an end. But in every essential aspect, Horowitz also animates Watson\’s own quiet—but just as formidable—counterweight.

Horowitz’ John Watson

Doyle was groundbreaking in his detective stories for the founding, and firmly establishing, the character of the chronicler. It’s a compelling narrator that turns the chain of gruesome events into the very battleground that every upright citizen – at the mastery of their sentiments, flaws, and complacencies – faces, and what of a falling tree when no one is around to hear it?

Horowitz thus firmly grounds John Watson’s presence by having Holmes acknowledge his role. “I sometimes wonder,” the detective humbly remarks, “how I will be able to find the energy or will to undertake another investigation if I am not assured that the general public will be able to read every detail of it in due course.”

Meanwhile the narrator Watson—whom readers truly spend most time with in the canon—is at his moment of rebirth when Sherlock could not defend himself on the stand he put so many criminals on.

“It is curious to reflect now,” Watson writes from a figurative deathbed, “that each and every one of my chronicles ended with the unmasking or the arrest of a miscreant, and that after that point, almost without exception, I simply assumed that their fate would be of no further interest to my readers (…) I did not care. It was not part of my narrative.”

Conclusion

In The House of Silk it seems Horowitz pinned every short story on a blackboard, and picked out only the fragments most thematically provocative to modern readers. Nevertheless, the resulting mosaic moves Doyle from Romantic to Impressionist, and it’s now more compelling to see how—and to what lengths—can Holmes grasp every string within reach, and strain to stay ahead of the criminal underworld.

When the pieces finally fall into place, it’s a picture that shocks even modern mystery-fiction readers. Sherlock Holmes, the very image of curbing empathy and eluding nineteenth-century ideals for the thrill of a puzzle, is a deadly blaze when sparked by his conscience. And ever the mouthpiece, Watson exclaims: “What sort of country did I live in, at the end of the last century, I wonder, that could utterly abandon its young?”

John Watson, meanwhile elevates the role of chronicler to that of a stalwart friend. Upon unmasking Holmes’ unjust accuser, he reaches for his gun, and plunges toward the deep end: “For the only time in my life, I knew exactly what it meant to wish to kill a man. (…) I would gladly have shot him. I was still sorry I had missed.”

The pragmatic detective would have strongly advised against it, but the doctor wouldn’t have backed down from a duel when it came to defending his friend’s honor. Holmes wouldn’t have been more than grateful for this ally. And Conan Doyle—and his Estate—wouldn’t have been more grateful for Horowitz’ faithfulness.