And so, my first book concludes on day three of this challenge.
In truth, I could have completed this book on day two, as it's relatively short—only fourteen chapters in total. Yet, it wasn’t the length that slowed me down. It was the structure—specifically the shift in tone, setting, and narrative focus in the second half—that gave me pause.
The book is divided into two parts. The first follows a fairly straightforward detective narrative, culminating in the arrest of the murderer. It's a classic setup, with all the hallmarks of the genre that Arthur Conan Doyle helped define. But just as the reader expects some form of resolution or perhaps a courtroom drama to follow, the story takes a dramatic and unexpected turn.
The second half, titled The Country of the Saints, opens not in London or any recognizable extension of the mystery setting, but in the Alkali Plains of Utah. Suddenly, we are no longer dealing with Holmes and Watson or the immediate consequences of a murder. Instead, we follow a man and a young girl rescued by a group of Mormon settlers. At first glance, this feels like an entirely different story. There’s no preamble, no smooth transition—just a jarring shift that feels like stepping into a different novel altogether. This narrative detour left me momentarily disoriented. Only later, as familiar names from the murder case begin to resurface, do the threads of the two storylines begin to weave together. The identities of the victims and the motives behind their deaths begin to emerge in this retrospective saga.
It becomes clear that Doyle intended this flashback to provide the deeper emotional and ideological context for the crime. Yet the execution of this device, especially by modern standards, feels abrupt and arguably inelegant. The sudden pivot to historical drama from detective fiction can be disorienting for a reader unprepared for it.
It’s worth noting that Arthur Conan Doyle was in his late twenties when he wrote this story—his very first Sherlock Holmes novel—and reportedly completed it in just a few weeks. Given its brisk production, it’s perhaps understandable that some structural choices might come off as unrefined or experimental. Still, it’s fascinating to see the ambition behind this storytelling technique, even if it feels disjointed.
Historically, A Study in Scarlet was written during a time when public perceptions of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (commonly referred to as the Mormon Church) were shaped largely by fear, rumor, and a lack of firsthand knowledge. Many popular accounts of the time portrayed the faith and its followers in a highly sensationalized, often hostile manner. Doyle’s depiction is no exception. His portrayal of the Danite Band—a secretive group alleged to have existed within the early Mormon community—and their acts of violence feeds into this narrative of religious extremism.
When later asked about his portrayal of Mormonism, Doyle defended his work, claiming that all the information he included about the Danites and their supposed murders was historically sourced. He felt that, since the events were documented in existing texts, he had nothing to apologize for or retract. However, he also acknowledged that this was a work of fiction, and as such, the dramatization of these events was likely heightened for narrative effect. He reportedly said that it was better to leave the matter alone.
Interestingly, a descendant of Brigham Young—the second president of the LDS Church and a central figure in the book’s second half—later alleged that Conan Doyle had privately apologized for his portrayal of the Mormon faith. Whether this is true or not, it speaks to the long-lasting impact and controversy surrounding this part of the novel.
As for my own perspective, I approach this depiction with some caution. I have no strong personal opinions about the use of the Mormon faith as a backdrop for what is, essentially, a tale of cult-like behavior, coercion, and revenge. I’ve encountered stories of various faith groups—Mormonism included—that showcase both the inspiring and the extreme. It’s important to remember that nearly any religious tradition can be framed as "cultish" when viewed through a lens of fear or unfamiliarity.
That said, I do feel that the specific framing in this story—where an entire religious community is cast as oppressive and vengeful—could easily have been replaced with a fictionalized frontier society, detached from any real-world faith. The core narrative would still hold. The emotional power, the themes of escape, revenge, and loss would still resonate. Attaching it to a specific and still-practicing religious group adds a layer of ethical complexity that modern readers may find problematic, especially when the depiction leans heavily on outdated or biased accounts.
Despite these issues, I recognize the historical context of the work. It is both a product of its time and a window into the cultural assumptions of that era. It reminds us of the responsibility that comes with writing about real groups and histories—even within fiction.
So while I may have taken longer to finish this book than expected, the pause it prompted was worthwhile. It gave me a chance to reflect not just on the mystery, but on how stories are shaped by their times, and how those stories in turn shape our views of others.
Verdict: A flawed but fascinating first entry—historically revealing, structurally uneven, and culturally provocative.
The novel’s first half shines with the intrigue and sharpness that would later define the Sherlock Holmes legacy, but its second half, though ambitious, stumbles under the weight of its tonal shift and controversial portrayal of real-world religion. I respect its historical significance and boldness for a debut, but the disjointed narrative and dated cultural framing left me more contemplative than captivated. Worth reading for its legacy—but with a critical eye.
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