“The Sherlockian”, by Graham Moore

 

368 pages, Twelve, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0446572583

The Sherlockian by Graham Moore revolves around two independent-but-connected mysteries involving the McGuffin that is a missing volume of Arthur Conan Doyle’s voluminous diary. The Modern-day mystery involves one Harold White, newly-minted member of the Baker Street Irregulars, the übergeek organization that all proper Sherlockians aspire to join. The mystery truly begins after Alex Cale, the world’s foremost Sherlockian, is found strangled in his room at the Algonquin Hotel the day he was supposed to reveal his discovery, the aforementioned McGuffin that was written from the time right before Doyle resurrected Holmes. Thus, the game is afoot (to borrow a phrase) as White – along with Sarah Lindsay, a reporter and his modern-day Watson – seek out Cale’s murderer and, perhaps more importantly, the missing McGuffin.

The Victorian-era mystery, which is written concurrently with White’s tale, involves Conan Doyle himself and his dear friend, Bram Stoker (yes, the Dracula guy) in pursuit of, at first, the culprits who sent Conan Doyle a mail bomb that nearly killed him and about whom New Scotland Yard hasn’t a clue (naturally). However, his search for personal justice devolves into an unplanned pursuit if a vicious serial killer who, apparently, targets vulnerable young women, the violence of which sets it apart from many of the original Holmes stories to Conan Doyle’s consternation (to say nothing of horror). And it is this constant back-and-forth between present sleuths versus past that drives the story along, as we watch Harold and Sarah search in one chapter for that which Conan Doyle is busily creating in another.

What to make of all this? Well, I think that fans of Conan Doyle and his creation may find this a truly interesting book, filled as it is with reams of Doyle/Holmes trivia and commentary: chapters begin with quotations from Holmes’ mysteries, while the dedication and scholarship of Holmes modern followers is part and parcel of the plot. As a kinda-Sherlockian and later-day Victorian wannabe myself, I expected to be equally riveted by The Sherlockian – alas, I was not. Despite Moore’s best attempts, there is no real sense of danger, intrigue or risk involving any of the characters: I just knew that Harold and Sarah were gonna be alright (as, of course, were Conan Doyle and Stoker). And after having reading the Author’s Note at the end of the book – wherein Moore divulges what is fact and fiction regarding this novel – I was struck by the fact that the inspiration for this tale is actually more engaging and exciting than what Moore created.

While not a bad book, The Sherlockian just felt flat, like a decarbonated Coke after its been left overnight: I’d still drink it, but while it may quench my thirst a little bit, I would still want something more refreshing.