𝗥𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗴𝗼 𝗔𝘁𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗚𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗦𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗘𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗦𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗛𝗼𝗹𝗺𝗲𝘀

Friends of Robert Sharfman, a retired attorney living in Chicago, have expressed concern. “I knew he was a fan of Sherlock Holmes, but now he has long been missing,” said a stalwart chum who had last shared a pint and cigar with the 89-year-old retired attorney. “Could his adoration for Holmes be tied to his disappearance?

Sharfman’s three adult children were queried about their parent’s absence, but they brushed off the elder gentleman’s worries. “Father would never leave us without notice, " they assured the wo​rrier. He is a man of honor and responsibility. He surely will turn up soon.”

Alas, Sharfman, a member of the heralded Bakers Street Irregulars, could be found in flight. Another meeting, to be attended by his group of intellectual mates, beckoned.

If this cluster of friends used observation and deduction, techniques perfected by the famous detective created by Arthur Conan Doyle, they might’ve first secured Sharfman’s daily calendar, and on the day in question, learned that their venerated friend and father was on his way to Tokyo.

Perusing Sharman’s study on a ​recent visit to his flat, led me to this plaque on a wall, “The Baker Street Irregulars literary society is dedicated to the study of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Victorian world. Founded in 1934, the BSI is the oldest Sherlockian society in the world.  Membership in the BSI international group is by invitation only. We do not take membership applications.”

I remember reading the words, Sharfman watching my reaction, likely disappointed that I failed to register sufficient awe.

The writer of this piece is a friend of the person under scrutiny. In a meeting, prior to the current mystery, with recorder capturing the protagonists’ words, she learned that Sharfman, a voracious reader not only of Holmes, but also scribblers of politics and diplomatic history, had been a fan of Doyle’s for many years. But it was only more recently, with retirement and age factoring into the equation, that Sharfman had been engulfed. It was as if he had found a paradise and packed his suitcase to retire there surrounded by like Doyle aficionados.

“I learned the Bakers Street Irregulars were some of the smartest people I’ve met,” he confessed. His eyes bright, his voice wistful. He had appeared to happen upon a buried treasure. “I figure if I could hang out with them, maybe I’d get smart, too.” I chuckled, realizing it was whimsy.

Not satisfied with the answer, I plunged ahead. “But what is it about the books, 56 stories and four novels in all, that has drawn you in,” I said, relentless as a bloodhound on the scent of a serial killer.”

“It’s good literature,” he responded firmly. Was I a simpleton who couldn’t understand the language? Noting my silence, he continued, “The noble language, the themes, justice, fair play.”  He didn’t say it, but from the chagrin look on his face, he surely seemed to think me uneducated.

But despite Sharfman’s judgment, I could imagine the atmosphere of 19th century London. I saw fog, the River Thames, cobblestones. There were villains in gangways. Pickpockets scanning their marks. All sorts of dodgy souls darkening the scenes.

“Holmes use of forensics placed him ahead of his time,” Sharfman said, rousing me from my trance. I felt a kindergartener first learning the alphabet. I realized I’d have to up my game to gain this fan’s tolerance.

He leaned back in his chair, sighed and told me of his latest activity related to his fervor. “I’ve been granted access to papers at the Newberry Library,” he said, referring to our city’s prestigious independent research library. He was puffed up like a recipient of the Nobel.

“Can you imagine,” he said. “Me and intellectual nerds. Going through boxes of pages. Some so delicate, you must wear gloves.” I did imagine, and in my mind’s eye, saw a friend growing younger.

I could visualize him, in the same cohort of age (I am 86) engrossed in the writings of likely the most famous detective in the world. I could see Sharfman’s smile, his sense of importance, and the satisfaction of discovering a pastime and people that will be his favored companions as he edges closer to age 90.

Instead of a man of advanced age, I saw now sitting across from me a young man. Handsome with the love of a new liaison. Was I jealous? I am not ashamed to admit the pages of “A Study in Scarlet” have led me to “The Sign of Four.” Only two more novels and 56 stories to go.