No Police Like Holmes by Dan Andriacco Read Free Book Online

free agent, not by choice, but Mrs. Chalmers wasn’t. I didn’t give Big Sister the satisfaction of verbalizing that to her, however.
    â€œTell me about her,” I said. “Who is she, besides Mrs. Woollcott Chalmers?”
    â€œShe’s a very smart lady, and very talented - a classical violinist with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. She also runs an arts center, which is where she met Woollcott. He was a board member and a widower.”
    â€œDid he pursue her or did she pursue him?” Idle curiosity.
    â€œShhhh,” said Kate, the person who had initiated the whole conversation. Mac was at the lectern now, in his element. Except for his beard, he looked almost Churchillian: stout, a few inches below my height, dressed in a tweed suit and bow tie, master of all he surveyed. He winked at my sister, put on his glasses to read his notes, and bellowed:
    â€œâ€˜Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!’ If those familiar words lift your spirits and gladden your hearts, ladies and gentlemen, you have come to the right place. Welcome to the first annual ‘Investigating Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes’ colloquium.”
    â€œACD/SH Colloquium underway , ” I tweeted from my iPhone.
    I looked around as Mac talked on. A few people were already dressed for the Victorian costume contest to be held that evening - a man in a derby, for instance, and a woman wearing a white dress, a straw hat, and a VOTE FOR WOMEN banner across her ample bosom. Bob Nakamora, the camera-toting Japanese-American from Mac’s party the night before, wore a sweatshirt with a drawing of Sherlock Holmes on the front. Just as he put the Nikon up to his face to take a picture, a flash went off to my right. Somebody was taking a picture of Bob taking a picture. I looked over and saw, to my surprise, Lynda Teal behind the camera.
    She was dressed in a short tan skirt and a red blouse. Black and silver earrings matched the buckle on her black belt. Her hair, naturally curly and the color of dark honey, was chin length, a little longer than I was used to seeing it. Not that I noticed. I looked away and pulled my mind back to Mac’s spiel.
    â€œIt’s no surprise that Holmes was a commanding figure in his own age, the late Victorian,” he was lecturing. “The Great Detective was above all a man of logic and science at a time when science seemed to have all the answers, not just more questions. He battled speckled bands and hounds from hell with only the faithful Watson at his side - and yes, he nearly always won. Today, however, the world faces far more frightening monsters, man-made creations of our laboratories and bomb factories. How do we explain the continued popularity of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street in these jaded and dangerous times?
    â€œCould it be that Holmes is hero and father figure in a period that sorely needs both? Even though Holmes sometimes fails he is always a reassuring presence. When he is around we feel that everything is all right. And, of course, Holmes is always there when we need him, never farther away than a wire to summon him and a train to get him there. For these reasons and many more, we must agree with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law, E.W. Hornung, who so famously said, ‘Though he might be more humble, there’s no police like Holmes.’”
    I groaned inwardly as the Sherlockians chuckled. So, I thought, Conan Doyle had to put up with a brother-in-law, too. I felt his pain.
    Just then Lynda walked past, apparently not seeing me, and grabbed an empty seat about three rows away. I watched her strike up a conversation with the man next to her - early forties, light brown hair, tanned skin, professional smile and a Rolex watch. He looked like he’d gotten lost on his way to the cover of GQ . As they chatted, Lynda pulled out her notebook.
    â€œWho’s the guy Lynda’s talking to?” I whispered to