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We may also set aside any notions of fine writing. Dr. Grimesby Roylott, villain of The Speckled Band, has "a large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion." Not one or two evil passions, not 20 or 30, but every one.
Nor is credible narrative Doyle's long suit. Consider the tragedy of Isadora Persano, "the well-known journalist and duellist who was found stark mad with a matchbox in front of him which contained a worm said to be unknown to science."
Holmes' ego is as large as metropolitan London: "I cannot agree," he likes to say, "with those who rank modesty among the virtues."
If we eliminate elegant prose, narrative subtlety, believable scenarios and a warm protagonist, what is left? For one thing, there are lines of dialogue that generations have read once and recalled forever: "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Or this sequence: "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?" "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time." "The dog did nothing in the night-time." "That was the curious incident."
Then there is the cast of characters: Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, the ferrety Inspector Lestrade, the families with ancient rituals so hypnotic that T.S. Eliot stole one wholesale for Murder in the Cathedral. The openings are yet another enticement. Who can resist reading about the governess hired on condition that she cut her long hair and wear a certain blue dress? Or the red-haired man paid to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica in longhand? Or a spectral hound who appears after centuries, demanding the life of an innocent American? Holmes, of course, will find the solutions because he believes, with Architect Mies van der Rohe, that God is in the details. He will understand that RACHE scrawled in blood is a clue not that the killer's name is Rachel but that the word means "revenge" in German. He will be drawn to a case by noticing how deep the parsley has sunk into the butter. Watson will marvel at his deductions until Holmes shows why they are elementary.
And therein lies the key to longevity. The foe of Victorian malefactors does not rely on force or technology. He needs no Q to equip him with lethal gadgetry, no frantic car chases, no parish of adoring women. As Holmes insists, his conclusions are simply the result of work and cogitation. Watson could have reached them himself, if only he had looked a little closer and thought a little harder.
Doyle's genius was in creating a person not so different from ourselves -- then splitting him in half. One part is a fallible, well-meaning soul who works at a job, wages the battle of instincts vs. ethics and sometimes goes wrong. The other is the person we would aspire to be: morally correct, financially independent and underweight. One feels; the other knows. One is real; the other ideal. Many labels adhere to this classic combination: ego and superego, desire and conscience, Watson and Holmes.