#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Holmes
Pardon me, Ma Kaali. One of the rare Doyle works, I am rendering three stars.
The Adventure of the Three Gables is one of those late-period Holmes stories where you can sense Arthur Conan Doyle was running on fumes, yet still managed to pull together an atmospheric little case.
I read it in 2003, and even then I remember thinking it felt different from the sharper, earlier tales—it’s as though the machinery of the detective story is still there, but the heart isn’t quite beating as strongly.
The setup is undeniably classic Holmes: a widow, Mrs. Maberley, living in a quiet house called Three Gables, suddenly finds herself at the center of an odd proposition. She is offered a generous sum to sell not just her house, but all of its contents, sight unseen. Immediately, Holmes’ antennae start twitching, because what could possibly be so valuable inside a house that someone wants to buy everything wholesale?
It’s the kind of strange premise that Doyle excelled at conjuring, luring the reader in with a sense of domestic normalcy about to be overturned.
But once the case gets moving, the cracks show. The heavies who confront Holmes—especially the character of Steve Dixie—are written with a mix of caricature and unfortunate racial stereotyping that has not aged well at all.
Even back in 2003, I remember wincing at it. Doyle, otherwise so good at sketching out human types with brisk efficiency, seems careless here, and the dialogue comes across as clumsy. It is one of the reasons why Three Gables is often ranked toward the bottom of the Holmes canon.
Still, there are things to appreciate. Mrs. Maberley herself is a compelling figure—a woman who has lived a colorful, independent life, now suddenly under threat for reasons she doesn’t understand. Holmes treats her with an unusual gentleness, which gives the story a little more warmth than its plot might otherwise warrant.
The twist, when it comes, is not a shocking deduction so much as a revelation of human spite: an old flame, driven by jealousy and humiliation, wants to destroy evidence of his past connection with Mrs. Maberley’s family. Instead of grand crimes or hidden treasures, we get smallness—petty vengeance and ego. It’s less “detective thriller” and more “social melodrama.”
Reading it as an adult in 2003, I actually found that human pettiness angle fascinating. Most detective fiction thrives on grand puzzles, but here Doyle exposes something very banal: how destructive pride and envy can be.
Holmes himself seems faintly irritated by the case, almost as if he, too, recognises that there’s nothing particularly clever to solve. His deductions feel lighter, less dramatic, but the moral undercurrent is there—truth has to be uncovered, even if what lies beneath is only squalid and sad.
It’s also worth noting that by the time Doyle wrote The Three Gables, he’d already written far more inventive stories, and one can’t help but feel he was repeating himself. There’s no Moriarty, no grand chase through London, no ingenious locked-room twist—just a rather straightforward investigation with Holmes more a curious onlooker than a driving force. Yet for all its flaws, the story lingers in memory, perhaps because it feels closer to life.
Not every crime is spectacular; sometimes it’s just about wounded pride, old love affairs, and the lengths to which people will go to save face.
Therefore, while The Adventure of the Three Gables will never be anyone’s favourite Holmes tale, I still think it earns its place in the canon.
It’s a quiet, flawed, but oddly telling piece of the puzzle—showing both Doyle’s weariness with his great detective and his enduring fascination with the dramas hidden inside seemingly ordinary households.