Sherlock Holmes The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle | Thoughts on Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes The Hound of the Baskervilles* by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle | Thoughts on Chapter 3

(*First published in a serialized fashion by The Strand Magazine August 1901 - April 1902. SPOILERS AHEAD)

We begin the third chapter, "The Problem," with Watson noting his own horror at the horror of it all thus far. This is a fun thing Doyle does often, he tells you how to feel. Whether to be horrified, on the edge of your seat, or simply just overly-impressed by the importance of whatever--he'll go ahead and spell it out for you. Speaking of which this article is an amazing article, sure to be the most important installment of this series. You will be amazed by it, as was I.

But he doesn't need to do that there (although I might here) because well, see the previous chapter's absolute pearl-clutching ending. Still, he does and that's nice. Also what's nice is we get to the nitty-gritty portion of Holmes' interview with Mortimer. And too (at last) to the reason for his visit. Nicer still, is we get a better lay of the land, of Yew Alley, the moor, and the slight village it all holds, including the Stapleton's abode, and etc. I'm no longer confused. But someone is or was:

"It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes," relates Mortimer. This is on account of the cigar ash seen dropped in his place. Twice. Holmes is impressed and sees a cut of jib similar to his own in that deduction. I will say that depending on the cigar the Sir was smoking, that does seem like a lot of ash, particularly the short end of that guesstimated time. A cheroot Indian cigar** might drop thatta way but a finer say Cuban would most likely take longer than the allotted amount to twice drop.

We just don't know. What is known, however, is known-so a few lines later and that is Holmes' view on his own investigatory limitations as M comes somewhat clean on suspecting the supernatural. "In a modest way, I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task." But perhaps, only. Humble pie. Almost certainly delivered at least a good portion tongue-in-cheek, but still so good. Now for the crux, as H asks why M seeks his help in supernaturalist dealings.

It's advice that is sought. What to do with the next Baskerville heir due at the depot in seventy-five minutes. Sir Charles Baskerville had been gone farming to Canada prior to being flagged down, and he is not simply the next but also the last heir. We gotta get this one right, boys. Thankfully, no one left in Holmes' care has ever met their untimely demise whilst under his watchful eye. Oh, no... that's not accurate at all. Gulp. Nevertheless, it is the advice of H that Charles gets taken to the Hall of his ancestry.

He'd be just as safe there, after all, as in London. For, as H reckons it, "A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing." It then seems M is no more fully in love with H's approach any more than vice-versa in the opening chapter's Bertillon however unintentional jab. So plans are made to meet back up in twenty-four hours, at that time with Sir Henry in tow. In the interim, Holmes places an order, as he tells W to vamos on his lonesome.

"When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco?"

Bradley. Could this be of one Charles Bradley, who worked in tobacco, snuff, and cigar making? He was the son of Joseph, who also was a tobacconist as well as a grocer. Charles himself was also an adherent of a popular prophetess named Joanna Southcott, even going on to essentially sponsor her greatest disciple, one John 'Zion' Ward. He put him up, and paid for his printing fees, among other things. Letters from Ward to C Bradley (and his son) were edited together into 16 volumes by CB Holinsworth between 1899 and 1904.

Enough of this, though. Well, maybe a quick bit about Southcott (1750-1814) of Devon, England. She was a self-proclaimed (of course) prophet, whose movement out-lasted her life by quite some 100-plus years. By 1814, her followers numbered some 100,000 souls and at the age of 64, she announced her pregnancy. This unsurprisingly did not come to fruition, as she instead died. Her religiosity began in The Church of England, went over to the fun-loving Wesleyans, then began her famed prophecies.

So then, this Ward character wiggled in as the Messiah or Shiloh she foresaw herself birthing.

I don't mean to be overly superficial about my information there, but then again, I do. Back to HOUN, if the first chapter lulled us, and the second rattled us--this third prepares us. We have a clearer lay of the land, as does Holmes. His coming via a 'very large' ordinance map, two pots of coffee, and... let me just share with you one of my favorite quotes in all canon... "My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco."

Same, H. Same.

It is then we get another uptick of horror. As I covered under the chapter two header, Sir Charles was not tip-toeing but running. "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart--and fell dead upon his face." The structure here is notable. Typically, one might use short impactful sentences here. In order to show action. Instead, ACD opts to elongate the emotion, to have the words tumble out as if the horror itself were a growing thing and perhaps slowly-so.

An elongated horrific now. But also a growing thing. Perhaps one might read the moor as such, pushing slowly through the gate, down the alley. Trying at its boundaries, champing at its bit. Succeeding in increments. And worthy of note is that all this occurs within only a 'particular district.' It's a big moor. A more-ish moor. I probably need my own map.

We are here, I feel, being introduced more fully to the main character of this novel. The moor itself. All this must have been felt by Sir Charles, so what on earth would have had him standing there, packed for London on the morrow, during the hours of evil, nervously puffing his cigar. Nervously, is the pace you'd need to corroborate that length of time and ash. Watson hands Holmes his violin and we wait until the next meeting. I recall an old scene from some sitcom, a man in a prison cell plays his harmonica. "What are you in for?" a fellow inmate asks, and the response comes "Ambience."

ADDITIONAL HOUN:
Thoughts on Ch. 2
Thoughts on Ch. 4

::: very :::

** On the Indian Cigars of Sherlock Holmes and the Trichinopoly Cigar

Online sources for this article: The Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia (The Hound of the Baskervilles), JSTOR (The Bradleys of Birmingham: The Unorthodox Family of Michael Field by Jackie EM Latham), Wikipedia (Johanna Southcott)