![]() ![]() ![]() I cant say that I was ever a great fan of Sherlock Holmes even in his original form as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Remy to the rooftops of Paris, Holmes hunts a killer-while the killer hunts him. She can provide the truth, but can anyone provide the proof? From the madhouse of St. Holmes must retrace the last months of Vincent’s life, testing his mettle against men like the brutal Paul Gauguin and the secretive Toulouse-Lautrec, all the while searching for the girl Olympia, whom Vincent named with his dying breath. Who could profit from Vincent’s death? How is the murder entwined with his own forgery investigation? ![]() And he’s bulldog-determined to discover why a penniless painter who harmed no one had to be killed–and who killed him. Officialdom pronounces the death a suicide, but a few minutes at the scene convinces Holmes it was murder. ![]() He doesn’t know that the dealer’s brother is a penniless misfit artist named Vincent, known to few and mourned by even fewer. He doesn’t know that the dealer, Theo Van Gogh, is rushing to the side of his brother, who lies dying of a gunshot wound in Auvers. When Sherlock Holmes finds himself chasing an art dealer through the streets of Paris, he’s certain he’s smoked out one of the principals of a cunning forgery ring responsible for the theft of some of the Louvre’s greatest masterpieces. ![]()
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