The key facet of most crime and detective fiction is that we, the reader, should find ourselves in sympathy with the person who is the victim — or, more rarely, the perpetrator — of, some crime. Sometimes, though, that’s simply not possible.

Brace yourself for stupidity, it’s…

‘The Naval Treaty’ (1893)

The Case

A letter from an old school chum bring Holmes and Watson to Woking, where a tale of frank ineptitude and stupidity results in an international situation that only Holmes can unpick. But, cripes, it’s difficult to feel too much sympathy for the bloody idiot who set things in motion. Nepotism at its worst.

The Characters

Percy Phelps, alumnus; bloody idiot.

Joseph Harrison, brother-in-law apparent; a bit of a character.

The Timeline

Watson tells is we’re in “[t]he July which immediately succeeded my marriage”, which at this stage must be a reference to his wedlock with Mary Morstan, shortly following The Sign of Four (1890). So 1889? Or maybe 1890.

The Tropes

The Persian slipper of tobacco gets second mention, after ‘The Musgrave Ritual’ (1893). Was it mentioned in the canon prior to this collection? And is twice enough for something to become a trope?

We get two — at this point — unwritten cases mentioned early doors: ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain’ and ‘The Adventure of the Tired Captain’. I won’t remember when I get to it, but I’m intrigued whether ‘…Second Stain’ matches its description herein. Doyle must have believed there was just one story left to write and then he’d be free of Holmes forever (er, spoilers?!), so what are the odds of him actually paying attention to what he previously claimed when he came to write a story with that title?

Points of Interest

There appears to have been an Ivy Lane in London at around this time, though not in Brixton. Clearly the address exists in fiction, though, because Phelps goes there. I guess I was just intrigued whether the house was real and the basis of a pilgrimage by Holmes aficionados that continues to prove both baffling and frustrating to the people who live there. Not, however, to be.

It’s difficult not to like Joseph Harrison at first meeting, isn’t it? “For a moment I thought you had done something clever.” Cheeky bugger.

“He flew at me with his knife, and I had to grass him twice,” we’re told. What dooes the verb “to grass” mean here? Clearly not “provide information about” as in the recent vernacular. So…bring him to the ground? It seems odd that I’ve not encountered it used in this way before.

£10 in 1889 is slightly over £1,000 today. The idea that no-one comes forward trying to claim that amount of money for so simple a piece of information is insane. Crikey, a cabbie could easily claim to have dropped someone and just pocket the money. Were the Victorians that honest?

The Victorian were certainly wasteful, anyway. A man only has his boot resoled because he’s in dire financial straits, eh? Not for these people the attachment to some favourite shoes or just, hey, the refusal to waste resources. Either Doyle’s at fault here, or Holmes is, or the whole of Victorian society is. Take your pick.

Curried chicken for breakfast? And that’s a Scottish dish?!

Does it strike a discordant note with anyone else that Holmes reacts “with some asperity” when he thinks Watson is using his professional obligations to duck out of pursuing the case? I suppose it’s still relatively early days for these two and more tolerance would be learned in time, but it’s weird to me that Doyle, planning to retire the character as he was, would introduce this wrinkle. Or maybe it’s to show that this is in the early days that he does it. Hmmm, something to ponder.

What a numpty Percy Phelps is, though, eh? I’m sure this happened somewhere else in the canon, but it’s not like he wasn’t warned and didn’t bring his misfortunes upon himself.