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Product Description
Product Description
BESTSELLING AUTHORS GO HOLMES—IN AN IRRESISTIBLE NEW COLLECTION edited by award-winning Sherlockians Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger
Neil Gaiman. Laura Lippman. Lee Child. These are just three of eighteen superstar authors who provide fascinating, thrilling, and utterly original perspectives on Sherlock Holmes in this one-of-a-kind book. These modern masters place the sleuth in suspenseful new situations, create characters who solve Holmesian mysteries, contemplate Holmes in his later years, fill gaps in the Sherlock Holmes Canon, and reveal their own personal obsessions with the Great Detective.
Thomas Perry, for example, has Dr. Watson tell his tale, in a virtuoso work of alternate history that finds President McKinley approaching the sleuth with a disturbing request; Lee Child sends an FBI agent to investigate a crime near today’s Baker Street—only to get a twenty-first-century shock; Jacqueline Winspear spins a story of a plucky boy inspired by the detective to make his own deductions; and graphic artist Colin Cotterill portrays his struggle to complete this assignment in his hilarious “The Mysterious Case of the Unwritten Short Story.”*
In perfect tribute comes this delicious collection of twisty, clever, and enthralling studies of a timeless icon.
Featuring stories from
Alan Bradley
Tony Broadbent
Jan Burke
Lionel Chetwynd
Lee Child
Colin Cotterill*
Neil Gaiman
Laura Lippman
Gayle Lynds & John Sheldon
Phillip & Jerry Margolin
Margaret Maron
Thomas Perry
S. J. Rozan
Dana Stabenow
Charles Todd
Jacqueline Winspear
*print-version only
Neil Gaiman. Laura Lippman. Lee Child. These are just three of eighteen superstar authors who provide fascinating, thrilling, and utterly original perspectives on Sherlock Holmes in this one-of-a-kind book. These modern masters place the sleuth in suspenseful new situations, create characters who solve Holmesian mysteries, contemplate Holmes in his later years, fill gaps in the Sherlock Holmes Canon, and reveal their own personal obsessions with the Great Detective.
Thomas Perry, for example, has Dr. Watson tell his tale, in a virtuoso work of alternate history that finds President McKinley approaching the sleuth with a disturbing request; Lee Child sends an FBI agent to investigate a crime near today’s Baker Street—only to get a twenty-first-century shock; Jacqueline Winspear spins a story of a plucky boy inspired by the detective to make his own deductions; and graphic artist Colin Cotterill portrays his struggle to complete this assignment in his hilarious “The Mysterious Case of the Unwritten Short Story.”*
In perfect tribute comes this delicious collection of twisty, clever, and enthralling studies of a timeless icon.
Featuring stories from
Alan Bradley
Tony Broadbent
Jan Burke
Lionel Chetwynd
Lee Child
Colin Cotterill*
Neil Gaiman
Laura Lippman
Gayle Lynds & John Sheldon
Phillip & Jerry Margolin
Margaret Maron
Thomas Perry
S. J. Rozan
Dana Stabenow
Charles Todd
Jacqueline Winspear
*print-version only
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
YOU'D BETTER GO IN DISGUISE
Alan Bradley
How long had he been watching me? I wondered.
I had been standing for perhaps a quarter of an hour, gazing idly at the little boys in sailor suits and their sisters in pinafores, all of whom, watched over by a small army of nannies and a handful of mothers, waded like diminutive giants among their toy sailing boats in the Serpentine.
A sudden breeze had sprung up, scattering the fallen leaves and bringing the slightest of chills to an otherwise idyllic autumn afternoon. I shivered and turned up my collar, the hairs at the back of my neck bristling against my jacket.
To be precise, the pressure of my collar put a stop to the bristling which, since I had not noticed it until that moment, made the feeling all that much more peculiar.
Perhaps it was because I had, the previous week, attended Professor Malabar's demonstration at the Palladium. His uncanny experiments in the world of the unseen were sufficient to give pause to even the greatest of sceptics, among whom, most assuredly, I do not count myself.
I must admit at the outset to an unshakeable belief in the theory that there is a force which emanates from the eye of a watcher that is detectable by some as-yet-undiscovered sensor at the back of the neck of the person being watched; a phenomenon which, I am furthermore convinced, is caused by a specialized realm of magnetism whose principles are not yet fully understood by science.
In short, I knew that I was being stared at, a fact which, in itself, is not necessarily without pleasure. What, for example, if one of those nattily uniformed nannies had her eye upon me? Even though I was presently more conservative than I once had been, I was keenly aware that I still cut rather a remarkable figure. At least, when I chose to.
I turned slowly, taking care to pitch my gaze above the heads of the governesses, but by the time I had turned through a casual half circle they were every one engaged again in gossip or absorbed in the pages of a book.
I studied them intently, paying close attention to all but one, who sat primly on a park bench, her head bowed, as if in silent prayer.
It was then that I spotted him: just beyond the swans; just beyond a tin toy Unterseeboot.
He was sitting quietly on a bench, his hands folded in his lap, his polished boots forming a carpenter's square upon the gravelled path. A solicitor's clerk, I should have thought, although his ascetic gauntness did not without contradiction suggest one who laboured in the law.
Even though he wanted not to be seen (a fact which, as a master of that art myself, I recognized at once), his eye, paradoxically all- seeing, was the eye of an eagle: hard, cold, and objective.
To my horror, I realized that my legs were propelling me inexorably towards the stranger and his bench, as if he had summoned me by means of some occult wireless device.
I found myself standing before him.
"A fine day," he said, in a voice which might have been at home on the Shakespearean stage, and yet which, for all its resonance, struck a false note.
"One smells the city after the rain," he went on, "for better or for worse."
I smiled politely, my instincts pleading with me not to strike up a conversation with an over-chatty stranger.
He shifted himself sideways on the bench, touching the wooden seat with long fingers.
"Please sit," he said, and I obeyed.
I pulled out a cigarette case, selected one, and patted my pockets for a match. As if by magic a Lucifer appeared at his fingertips, and, solicitously, he lit me up.
I offered him the open case, but he brushed it away with
a swift gesture of polite refusal. My exhaled smoke hung heavily in the autumn air.
"I perceive you are attempting to give up the noxious weed."
I must have looked taken aback.
"The smell of bergamot," he said, "is a dead giveaway. Oswego tea, they call it in America, where they drink an infusion of the stuff for no other reason than pleasure. Have you been to America?"
"Not in some time," I said.
"Ah." He nodded. "Just as I thought."
"You seem to be a very observant person," I ventured.
"I try to keep my hand in," he said, "although it doesn't come as easily as it did in my salad days. Odd, isn't it, how, as they gain experience, the senses become blunted. One must keep them up by making a game of it, like the boy, Kim, in Kipling. Do you enjoy Kipling?"
I was tempted to reply with that exhausted old wheeze, I don't know, I've never kippled, but something told me (that strange sense again) to keep it to myself.
"I haven't read him for years," I said.
"A singular person, Kipling. Remarkable, is it not, that a man with such weakened eyes should write so much about the sense of sight?"
"Compensation, perhaps," I suggested.
"Ha! An alienist! You are a follower of Freud."
Damn the fellow. Next thing I knew he'd be asking me to pick a card and telling me my auntie's telephone number.
I gave him half a nod.
"Just so," he said. "I perceived by your boots that you have been in Vienna. The soles of Herr Stockinger are unmistakable."
I turned and, for the first time, sized the man up. He wore a tight- fitting jacket and ragged trousers, an open collar with a red scarf at his throat, and on his head, a tram conductor's cap with the number 309 engraved on a brass badge.
Not a workman-no, too old for that, but someone who wanted to be taken for a workman. An insurance investigator, perhaps, and with that thought my heart ran suddenly cold.
"You must come here often," I said, giving him back a taste of his own, "to guess out the occupations of strangers. Bit of a game with you, is it?"
His brow wrinkled.
"Game? There are no games on the battlefield of life,
Mr. -"
"De Voors," I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
"Ah! De Voors. Dutch, then."
It was not so much a question as a statement-as if he were ticking off an internal checklist.
"Yes," I said. "Originally."
"Do you speak the language?"
"No."
"As I suspected. The labials are not formed in that direction."
"See here, Mister-"
"Montague," he said, seizing my hand and giving it a hearty shake.
Why did I have the feeling he was simultaneously using his forefinger to gauge my pulse?
"._._._Samuel Montague. I am happy to meet you. Undeniably happy."
He gave his cap a subservient tip, ending with a two-fingered salute at its brim.
"You have not answered my question, Mr. Montague," I said. "Do you come here often to observe?"
"The parks of our great city are conducive to reflection," he said. "I find that a great expanse of grass gives free rein to the mind."
"Free rein is not always desirable," I said, "in a mind accustomed to running in its own tram tracks."
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "A touch of metaphor. It is a characteristic not always to be found among the Dutch!"
"See here, Mr. Montague," I said. "I don't know that I like-"
But already his hand was on my arm.
"No offence, my dear fellow. No offence at all. In any case, I see that your British hedgehog outbristles your Dutch beech marten."
"What the devil do you mean by that?" I said, leaping to my feet.
"Nothing at all. It was an attempted joke on my part that failed to jell-an impertinence. Please forgive me."
He seized my sleeve and pulled me down beside him on the bench.
"That fellow over there," he said in a low voice. "Don't look at him directly-the one loitering beneath the lime. What do you make of him?"
"He is a doctor," I replied quickly, eager to shift the focus from myself. The unexpected widening of my acquaintance's eyes told me that I had scored a lucky hit.
"How can you tell?" he demanded.
"He has the slightly hunched shoulders of a man who has sat by many a sickbed."
"And?"
"And the tips of his fingers are stained with silver nitrate from the treating of warts."
Montague laughed.
"How can you be sure he's not a cigarette smoker and an apothecary?"
"He's not smoking and apothecaries do not generally carry black bags."
"Wonderful," exclaimed Montague. "Add to that the pin of Bart's Hospital in his lapel, the seal of the Royal College of Surgeons on his keychain, and the unmistakable outline of a stethoscope in his jacket pocket."
I found myself grinning at him like a Cheshire cat.
I had fallen into the game.
"And the park keeper?"
I sized up the old man, who was picking up scraps of paper and lobbing them with precision into a wheeled refuse bin.
"An old soldier. He limps. He was wounded. His large body is mounted upon spindly legs. Probably spent a great deal of time in a military hospital recovering from his wounds. Not an officer-he doesn't have the bearing. Infantry, I should say. Served in France."
Montague bit the corner of his lip and gave me half a wink.
"Splendid!" he said.
"Now then," he went on, pointing with his chin towards the woman sitting alone on the park bench closest to the water. "Over there is a person who seems quite ordinary-quite plain. No superabundance of clues to be had. I'll bet you a shilling you can't supply me with three solid facts about her."
As he spoke, the woman leaped to her feet and called out to a child who was knee-deep in the water.
"Heinrich! Come here, my sweet little toad!"
"She is German," I said.
"Quite so," said Montague. "And can you venture more? Pray, do go on."
"She's German," I said with finality, hoping to bring to an end this unwanted exercise. "And that's an end of it."
"Is it?" he asked, looking at me closely.
I did not condescend to reply.
"Let me see, then, if I may succeed in taking up where you have left off. As you have observed, she is German. We shall begin with that. Next, we shall note that s...
Alan Bradley
How long had he been watching me? I wondered.
I had been standing for perhaps a quarter of an hour, gazing idly at the little boys in sailor suits and their sisters in pinafores, all of whom, watched over by a small army of nannies and a handful of mothers, waded like diminutive giants among their toy sailing boats in the Serpentine.
A sudden breeze had sprung up, scattering the fallen leaves and bringing the slightest of chills to an otherwise idyllic autumn afternoon. I shivered and turned up my collar, the hairs at the back of my neck bristling against my jacket.
To be precise, the pressure of my collar put a stop to the bristling which, since I had not noticed it until that moment, made the feeling all that much more peculiar.
Perhaps it was because I had, the previous week, attended Professor Malabar's demonstration at the Palladium. His uncanny experiments in the world of the unseen were sufficient to give pause to even the greatest of sceptics, among whom, most assuredly, I do not count myself.
I must admit at the outset to an unshakeable belief in the theory that there is a force which emanates from the eye of a watcher that is detectable by some as-yet-undiscovered sensor at the back of the neck of the person being watched; a phenomenon which, I am furthermore convinced, is caused by a specialized realm of magnetism whose principles are not yet fully understood by science.
In short, I knew that I was being stared at, a fact which, in itself, is not necessarily without pleasure. What, for example, if one of those nattily uniformed nannies had her eye upon me? Even though I was presently more conservative than I once had been, I was keenly aware that I still cut rather a remarkable figure. At least, when I chose to.
I turned slowly, taking care to pitch my gaze above the heads of the governesses, but by the time I had turned through a casual half circle they were every one engaged again in gossip or absorbed in the pages of a book.
I studied them intently, paying close attention to all but one, who sat primly on a park bench, her head bowed, as if in silent prayer.
It was then that I spotted him: just beyond the swans; just beyond a tin toy Unterseeboot.
He was sitting quietly on a bench, his hands folded in his lap, his polished boots forming a carpenter's square upon the gravelled path. A solicitor's clerk, I should have thought, although his ascetic gauntness did not without contradiction suggest one who laboured in the law.
Even though he wanted not to be seen (a fact which, as a master of that art myself, I recognized at once), his eye, paradoxically all- seeing, was the eye of an eagle: hard, cold, and objective.
To my horror, I realized that my legs were propelling me inexorably towards the stranger and his bench, as if he had summoned me by means of some occult wireless device.
I found myself standing before him.
"A fine day," he said, in a voice which might have been at home on the Shakespearean stage, and yet which, for all its resonance, struck a false note.
"One smells the city after the rain," he went on, "for better or for worse."
I smiled politely, my instincts pleading with me not to strike up a conversation with an over-chatty stranger.
He shifted himself sideways on the bench, touching the wooden seat with long fingers.
"Please sit," he said, and I obeyed.
I pulled out a cigarette case, selected one, and patted my pockets for a match. As if by magic a Lucifer appeared at his fingertips, and, solicitously, he lit me up.
I offered him the open case, but he brushed it away with
a swift gesture of polite refusal. My exhaled smoke hung heavily in the autumn air.
"I perceive you are attempting to give up the noxious weed."
I must have looked taken aback.
"The smell of bergamot," he said, "is a dead giveaway. Oswego tea, they call it in America, where they drink an infusion of the stuff for no other reason than pleasure. Have you been to America?"
"Not in some time," I said.
"Ah." He nodded. "Just as I thought."
"You seem to be a very observant person," I ventured.
"I try to keep my hand in," he said, "although it doesn't come as easily as it did in my salad days. Odd, isn't it, how, as they gain experience, the senses become blunted. One must keep them up by making a game of it, like the boy, Kim, in Kipling. Do you enjoy Kipling?"
I was tempted to reply with that exhausted old wheeze, I don't know, I've never kippled, but something told me (that strange sense again) to keep it to myself.
"I haven't read him for years," I said.
"A singular person, Kipling. Remarkable, is it not, that a man with such weakened eyes should write so much about the sense of sight?"
"Compensation, perhaps," I suggested.
"Ha! An alienist! You are a follower of Freud."
Damn the fellow. Next thing I knew he'd be asking me to pick a card and telling me my auntie's telephone number.
I gave him half a nod.
"Just so," he said. "I perceived by your boots that you have been in Vienna. The soles of Herr Stockinger are unmistakable."
I turned and, for the first time, sized the man up. He wore a tight- fitting jacket and ragged trousers, an open collar with a red scarf at his throat, and on his head, a tram conductor's cap with the number 309 engraved on a brass badge.
Not a workman-no, too old for that, but someone who wanted to be taken for a workman. An insurance investigator, perhaps, and with that thought my heart ran suddenly cold.
"You must come here often," I said, giving him back a taste of his own, "to guess out the occupations of strangers. Bit of a game with you, is it?"
His brow wrinkled.
"Game? There are no games on the battlefield of life,
Mr. -"
"De Voors," I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
"Ah! De Voors. Dutch, then."
It was not so much a question as a statement-as if he were ticking off an internal checklist.
"Yes," I said. "Originally."
"Do you speak the language?"
"No."
"As I suspected. The labials are not formed in that direction."
"See here, Mister-"
"Montague," he said, seizing my hand and giving it a hearty shake.
Why did I have the feeling he was simultaneously using his forefinger to gauge my pulse?
"._._._Samuel Montague. I am happy to meet you. Undeniably happy."
He gave his cap a subservient tip, ending with a two-fingered salute at its brim.
"You have not answered my question, Mr. Montague," I said. "Do you come here often to observe?"
"The parks of our great city are conducive to reflection," he said. "I find that a great expanse of grass gives free rein to the mind."
"Free rein is not always desirable," I said, "in a mind accustomed to running in its own tram tracks."
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "A touch of metaphor. It is a characteristic not always to be found among the Dutch!"
"See here, Mr. Montague," I said. "I don't know that I like-"
But already his hand was on my arm.
"No offence, my dear fellow. No offence at all. In any case, I see that your British hedgehog outbristles your Dutch beech marten."
"What the devil do you mean by that?" I said, leaping to my feet.
"Nothing at all. It was an attempted joke on my part that failed to jell-an impertinence. Please forgive me."
He seized my sleeve and pulled me down beside him on the bench.
"That fellow over there," he said in a low voice. "Don't look at him directly-the one loitering beneath the lime. What do you make of him?"
"He is a doctor," I replied quickly, eager to shift the focus from myself. The unexpected widening of my acquaintance's eyes told me that I had scored a lucky hit.
"How can you tell?" he demanded.
"He has the slightly hunched shoulders of a man who has sat by many a sickbed."
"And?"
"And the tips of his fingers are stained with silver nitrate from the treating of warts."
Montague laughed.
"How can you be sure he's not a cigarette smoker and an apothecary?"
"He's not smoking and apothecaries do not generally carry black bags."
"Wonderful," exclaimed Montague. "Add to that the pin of Bart's Hospital in his lapel, the seal of the Royal College of Surgeons on his keychain, and the unmistakable outline of a stethoscope in his jacket pocket."
I found myself grinning at him like a Cheshire cat.
I had fallen into the game.
"And the park keeper?"
I sized up the old man, who was picking up scraps of paper and lobbing them with precision into a wheeled refuse bin.
"An old soldier. He limps. He was wounded. His large body is mounted upon spindly legs. Probably spent a great deal of time in a military hospital recovering from his wounds. Not an officer-he doesn't have the bearing. Infantry, I should say. Served in France."
Montague bit the corner of his lip and gave me half a wink.
"Splendid!" he said.
"Now then," he went on, pointing with his chin towards the woman sitting alone on the park bench closest to the water. "Over there is a person who seems quite ordinary-quite plain. No superabundance of clues to be had. I'll bet you a shilling you can't supply me with three solid facts about her."
As he spoke, the woman leaped to her feet and called out to a child who was knee-deep in the water.
"Heinrich! Come here, my sweet little toad!"
"She is German," I said.
"Quite so," said Montague. "And can you venture more? Pray, do go on."
"She's German," I said with finality, hoping to bring to an end this unwanted exercise. "And that's an end of it."
"Is it?" he asked, looking at me closely.
I did not condescend to reply.
"Let me see, then, if I may succeed in taking up where you have left off. As you have observed, she is German. We shall begin with that. Next, we shall note that s...
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews on Amazon.com (beta)
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3.4 out of 5 stars (29 customer reviews)
59 of 76 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars
A Big Disappointment...., Oct 27 2011
By Holmes Fan "Holmes fan" - Published on Amazon.com
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: A Study in Sherlock: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon (Hardcover)
When this book was announced several months ago, the concept sounded great: Find noted authors, such as Lee Childs, and get them to write Sherlock Holmes stories. Can you imagine what the creator of Reacher could have done with Holmes and Watson? It might have been one of the best Holmes pastiches ever. What finally showed up was a big let-down. I had hoped that this would be like some of the better Holmes anthologies of the past decade or so, including "Holmes for the Holidays," "More Holmes for the Holidays," "Murder My Dear Watson," "Murder in Baker Street," and others. Each of these had pastiches by noted mystery authors, such as Anne Perry, writing traditional Holmes and Watson stories in the correct period. This book, however, allowed most of the authors to write whatever they felt like, simply using Holmes as a jumping-off place.Only about one-third of the stories are anything like a traditional Holmes adventure. The Lee Childs story was particularly disappointing. I was really looking forward to seeing his take on our heroes. Instead, he wrote a story set in modern London. And don't be fooled - the Lee Child story is only seven pages. Just long enough to get his name on the cover and sell the book to some of his fans.
Another author, who apparently couldn't come up with an idea, drew an amateur comic book that runs on for far too many pages, and has nothing to do with the traditional Holmes and Watson.
Finally, the book ends with a Twitter interview between editor Les Klinger and Laurie R. King, the other editor, who is writing as her bread-and-butter character, Mary Russell. Russell is supposedly Holmes's wife in King's novels, and is now at least one-hundred-and-twelve years old, according to King's internal chronology. Pretty amazing for an extremely advanced senior to understand Twitter. The less said about this story the better.
I will be looking forward to the next true Holmes and Watson collection, whenever it appears. If you liked the recent British television show "Sherlock," which features characters based on Holmes and Watson BUT ARE NOT HOLMES AND WATSON, then you might like this book. (I believe that Mr. Klinger was an advisor for that show, so he probably encourages this type of non-traditional Holmes.) If you want the real thing, only parts of this book will please you.
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars
Not worth the money, Jan 9 2012
By T. Floyd "bookgirl" - Published on Amazon.com
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: A Study in Sherlock: Stories inspired by the Holmes canon (Paperback)
I am only a third of the way through this book and already am skipping through the book looking for anything resembling Holmes and Watson. Story quality is not great and feels thrown together. Really, pages of a sad graphic novel on why you couldn't write a Holmes story, really? I rarely get rid of books but this one is gone. Way better anthologies out there than this(i.e Marvin Kaye or Martin Greenberg). Save your money, seriously, especially if you are a Holmes purist.
31 of 41 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars
This Is One For The Rubbish Bin, Nov 4 2011
By Chris Apolant "Quill & Ink" - Published on Amazon.com
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: A Study in Sherlock: Stories inspired by the Holmes canon (Paperback)
I was so excited, as only a geeky Sherlockian can be, when I heard almost a year ago that Laurie King and Les Klinger had a new compilation in the works. All right, I will admit to some nervousness about Mrs King being involved with the project, because her take on Holmes is too far removed from the consulting detective of Canon for my tastes. That aside, I was convinced this had at least the potential to be one of the better short story volumes and never expected 'A Study In Sherlock' to even remotely be a publication intended to cash in on Holmes' recent surge in popularity.Everything I'd heard about this right before its release hailed this book as being fresh and innovative. After having read through it, I wonder if that wasn't a polite way of saying it had almost nothing at all to do with Sherlock Holmes - oh, don't get me wrong! I have NOTHING whatsoever against taking some creative liberties with the characters, and neither did Doyle, for that matter. But overall, this so utterly lacked the flavour of Canon, so consistently strayed from the original stories (or even any of the well done adaptations out there), I had a difficult time reconciling the vast majority of these as pastiches. A pastiche is a story that attempts, at least in part, to re-create some of what we all love about the Holmes Canon. This didn't even try.
For example, while the story in the form of a graphic novel set in the present day was an imaginative idea, I failed to take anything from it, and have seen better done graphic fanworks - which actually included the detective and managed to be more intelligent and engaging. I'm not so stodgy - at least, I don't think I am - that I cannot appreciate deviations, but a comic strip involving a pack of dogs featuring an appearance by Larry King did not strike me as being innovatively witty. Just stupid. Or the modern day story of a female detective named 'Sheila-Locke', which had all the hallmarks of a badly written genderswap fan fic, complete with a fifth grade Mary-Sue. Yup. This one was actually about a 10 year old modern girl named Sheila-Lock who apparently solves mysteries (which could have been better crafted by said 10yr old fan fic writer) though not even Holmes' deductive process came into play.
I truly wish this review was an exaggeration. I WANTED to enjoy this, to have some fresh Holmes mysteries to get caught up in, though of all the poorly done pastiches I've read, this is probably the worst. My advice would be to save your money for better, more intelligent and faithful delvings into 221B. This one is for the rubbish bin. I refuse to even sell it and inflict this nonsense on anyone else.
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