Sherlock Holmes Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas by Gwendolyn Frame

Author:Gwendolyn Frame
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes christmas, sherlock homes short stories, sherlock holmes humour, sherlock holmes humor
ISBN: 9781780923390
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2012
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Day 17: The Actor

“Come along, Ed, and quit gawking at Irving.”

Sherlock did not deign to glance at his associate as he whispered back, “In a moment. I want to watch to the end of the scene.”

“Very well. Just don’t get The Governor riled when he’s done, there’s a good chap?”

Sherlock nodded irritably and kept his gaze focused upon Henry Irving, manager and star of the Lyceum Theatre, currently rehearsing for the next production. Irving was a brilliant actor - it was easy to see why people flocked to his performances. Sherlock had come here himself as a member of the audience before...

Before.

Now he was investigating a murder that had occurred just outside the theatre two weeks ago, and, to do so, he had gone undercover as a young actor named Edward Love. Just now, he really should be looking into one of the other actors, but the artist in him had been held captive by Irving’s rehearsal. He played Shylock magnificently, imbuing him with a dignity seldom found in performances of the character.

“The Merchant of Venice is one of my favourite Shakespeare plays. I have always liked Portia very much - her devotion, her intelligence, her wit...”

“Very much like you.”

“Sherlock Edward Holmes, have you no shame?”

“You know I haven’t. ”

He shut his eyes against the unwelcome memory, pushed it to the back of his mind. Annie Middleton had been dead for a year now, but memories of her still had the maddening ability to distract him from his work. Sighing, his hand rose to his chest to clutch at an all-too-physical ache.

He still missed her, terribly.

As he remained in his seat, watching Irving deliver his lines, Sherlock could not help but wonder who was the better actor: the man who could bring crowds night after night to a performance, or a man who could convince the world day by day that he was not dying on the inside of heartache?

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