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The Hound of the Baskervilles — Week 1 of 8 Chapters I & II.  Read along with us in The Weekly Serial app

You've just met him in Chapter I, doing his party trick with Dr Mortimer's walking stick, deducing the owner's life from a few scratches in the wood. I used to think that scene was just Doyle showing off Holmes for readers who hadn't met him yet.

Reading it again this time, I'm not sure that's all it's doing. It feels more like Doyle making sure you know exactly who this man is, right before sending him somewhere very dark indeed.

By the time Dickens sat down with five real Scotland Yard detectives for this piece, detective fiction as a genre didn't exist yet. There was no Holmes, no Poirot, no template for what a fictional detective was supposed to sound like. Dickens was simply fascinated by these actual men and wanted to know how their minds worked, so he invited them into a room, let them talk, and wrote down what they said.

What comes through is genuine admiration bordering on something warmer. Dickens is charmed by their confidence, their memory for faces, their easy authority over rooms full of people who'd rather they weren't there. He lets each man tell his own story in his own voice, barely intruding as narrator, which was unusual for him.

It's worth sitting with what this piece actually is: a writer meeting real detectives for the first time, before the word "detective" carried…

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In the summer of 1851, Charles Dickens went looking for a story the way he always did: he went and stood in the middle of it. He arranged to walk London's worst streets after dark with a real Scotland Yard inspector, a man named Charles Frederick Field, and simply wrote down what happened. On Duty with Inspector Field isn't fiction dressed up as reportage. It's the other way round, journalism that reads like fiction because Dickens couldn't help but write it that way.

Field takes him through the rookeries: the courts and lodging houses where London's poorest lived stacked on top of one another, places respectable readers of Dickens's magazine would never set foot in themselves. Field knows every room, every landlord, every face. He doesn't ask permission to enter. He doesn't need to.

There's a moment early on where Field walks into a lodging house full…

Charles Dickens did not believe in ghosts.

He said so, repeatedly, and he meant it. He was a rationalist, a reformer, a man who trusted evidence over superstition. When people around him swore they'd seen the impossible, Dickens was the one who wanted to examine the room, check the timeline, find the ordinary explanation hiding underneath.

Which makes it strange that he spent twenty years unable to stop writing about the impossible.

It started with detectives. In the 1850s, Scotland Yard's new Detective Branch was still a novelty, and Dickens was fascinated by it. He rode along at night with Inspector Charles Field through the worst parts of London, watching him read a room, a face, a lie, in seconds.

Dickens wrote it all up for his magazine, Household Words, presenting Field to readers as something close to a magician who simply happened to work for the police.

Then, strangely,…

Mary Elizabeth Braddon had a secret of her own.

While she was writing Lady Audley's Secret in 1861, she was living with a man named John Maxwell. They had children together.

Everyone who mattered assumed they were married.

They weren't.

Maxwell already had a wife. She was still alive, living apart from him, and could not be divorced under the law at the time. Braddon knew. Maxwell knew. Almost no one else did.

So when critics accused Lady Audley's Secret of glamorising deception, of making bigamy and hidden identity feel almost sympathetic, they had no idea how close to home it was.

Holmes had been dead for eight years.

Not retired. Not travelling. Dead. Killed by Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls in 1893, in a story Doyle had written specifically to get rid of him. He’d told his mother it was the only way. Holmes was taking up too much space in his head, crowding out the historical novels he actually wanted to write.

Twenty thousand people cancelled their subscriptions to The Strand Magazine in protest.

So when The Hound of the Baskervilles began serialising in 1901, it wasn’t just a new mystery. It was an event. Holmes was back.

Doyle had found a clever escape hatch: set the story before Reichenbach. Holmes wasn’t resurrected. He’d never died.

This was just... a case Watson had forgotten to mention.