Sherlock Holmes is snowed in, vibrating with boredom, and basically one violin solo away from throwing himself out the window of 221B when Nicholas Meyer drops Sherlock Holmes and the Real Thing in our laps. Cue a landlady with a rent complaint that sounds about as exciting as soggy toast... except the missing tenant is an artist, bodies start dropping like bad sketches, and suddenly Holmes and Watson are skating into the most murderous corner of the art world.
And let me tell you, this isn’t the glamorous champagne-and-galleries art world. This is the shady back-alley version where dealers are shysters, mistresses are walking plot twists, and everyone has a knife tucked under their smock. Meyer has stacked the suspect list so high you could hang it in the Louvre. Every time you think you’ve pegged the culprit, someone else looks just as guilty, and Holmes is over here quietly smirking while you trip over red herrings.
Watson, meanwhile, is fully living his “I can fix her” era with Juliet Packwood, the mysterious woman who drifts into the case like a walking caution sign. He’s blushing, fumbling, absolutely head over heels, while Holmes is busy recreating forgery techniques with chemistry experiments that probably violate several health codes. Watson’s soft, lovesick energy is the perfect chaotic foil to Holmes’s razor-wire brain, and honestly it gives the story its pulse.
The real clever twist though is the way Meyer leans into the theme of forgery itself. The whole case is about fake paintings, but also, hello, the book itself is a forgery, a Conan Doyle imitation passed off as “the real thing.” It’s the kind of layered cheekiness that makes you stop mid-chapter and mutter, “Okay, fine, that’s smart,” before diving back into the bodies in the snow.
Now, as far as mystery mechanics go, this one isn’t quite a jaw-dropper. It’s more “solidly twisty” than “oh my god, my monocle just fell off.” But it’s got atmosphere for days, a blizzard trapping everyone in a chilly snow globe of secrets, and enough corpses and cutthroats to keep the stakes high. It’s a perfect winter read, the kind where you want to burrow under a blanket and let Holmes monologue you into submission.
The narration? David Robb is serving straight Victorian drama with a splash of grit. His Holmes voice has that sharp, almost surgical crispness, while his Watson has a warm, open quality that makes you believe this man would fall in love with a mysterious stranger mid-murder spree. The pacing is smooth, the mood immersive, and he handles the sprawling cast without anyone bleeding into each other. Meyer even sneaks in his own vocal cameo, which feels like a cheeky wink from the author, not a distraction.
At the end of the day, this is less about a mind-bending solution and more about the vibe: a chilly, deadly romp through art, forgery, and human folly, with Holmes as our sardonic guide and Watson once again proving he cannot resist a pretty face. A comfortable 3.5 stars from me, enjoyable with just enough bite to keep the blood pumping.
Whodunity Award: For Making Me Deeply Suspicious of Both Oil Paintings and Men Named Rupert
Big thanks to HighBridge Audio and NetGalley for sliding me this early audiobook like a forbidden forgery tucked under a coat. You enablers know exactly how to keep me out past curfew with Holmes and Watson.