The Barker Street Regulars

Conan Doyle, of course, had persuaded millions of readers to accept Sherlock Holmes as a virtual reality. Yet he didn’t convert me to spiritualism. He did, however, convince me of his sincerity and his sanity. I’d have liked to consult him myself. I wondered what he’d make of Irene Wheeler. He’d encountered fraudulent mediums. Would he spot her as one? If so, as a man of vigorous action, he’d certainly expose her fakery. Furthermore, he’d devise an ingenious plan to identify and punish the scoundrel who’d tried to murder the poor cat that now occupied my office. As the perfect ally, Conan Doyle had only one drawback: He’d been dead since 1930.
    The second incident occurred on Thursday night after services, which is to say at the end of the evening’s dog training at the Cambridge Armory. I’d left Rowdy home and taken Kimi to the advanced class. Steve had been working his pointer, Lady, in Novice, more to build her self-confidence than to prepare her for obedience competition, I might add. Anyway, after class, out on the sidewalk in front of the armory, Kimi checked out Lady, who immediately curled up in a quivering ball of submission at Kimi’s feet. Steve’s shepherd bitch, India, is a superb obedience dog. What’s more— and the two don’t always go together—India is wonderfully obedient in everyday life. She is utterly devoted to Steve and quietly protective of him. India is one of the least neurotic animals I have ever known. Lady, in contrast, actually leaps in fear at the sight of her own shadow. Terrified, love-starved, and unbelievably sweet, she was brought to Steve for euthanasia. With more justification than she realizes, she regards him as her defense against a world that is trying to kill her. It seemed to me symptomatic of Steve’s state these days that he’d shown up with Lady and left his tough-minded protector at home.
    Without preamble, I said, “It’s harassment. You could at least talk to a lawyer.”
    “These aren’t the first dissatisfied clients I’ve had. They won’t be the last. They’re entitled to take their business elsewhere. There’s no more to it than that.” He paused. “Negative attention can be reinforcing, too. I don’t need to tell you that.”
    It’s true. Take barking. Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap. The owner springs up, dashes to the dog, and yells, “Now, Fang, enough of that! No more noise! I am sick to death of listening to that racket all the time, and so is everyone else! Stop! Quiet! No-more-barking!”
    Now consider the opposite behavior, namely, not barking. When Fang is a good, quiet boy, what does the owner do? Nothing. And from a dog’s point of view, almost anything is better than nothing, and a dramatic display of attention is radically better than nothing. In fact, it’s such a big treat that Fang wants more. Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap.
    “Gloria and Scott don’t care about your response or nonresponse,” I told Steve. “They’re getting plenty of positive reinforcement elsewhere. Irene Wheeler is getting free publicity. This is not some minor behavior problem that is going to vanish if you ignore it. If a dog goes for your throat, you defend yourself. You don’t just stand there trying not to reinforce the behavior. Besides which, you are not the only person being hurt here.”
    “All I’m doing, Holly,” he said pointedly, “is minding my own business.”
    That’s how we parted for the evening.
    The third incident emerged from a series of minor episodes evidently presented for my viewing by some Higher Power who wanted to teach me a lesson in the difficulty of distinguishing between truth and make-believe. The incident itself, to the extent that it was one, was strictly internal and consisted of my concluding that I couldn’t make the distinction myself and couldn’t tell whether anyone else could, either.
    On Friday morning, Rowdy and I arrived in Althea’s room at the Gateway to find Robert and Hugh engaged in fantastic Holmesian speculations about Jonathan’s murder. In today’s episode of the Great Game, Robert and Hugh took turns playing the Great Detective.
    “Has there ever been,” Robert interrogated Althea, “a family connection with Australia?”
    Bending toward me, Hugh said in an undertone, “The possibility of a missing heir, you understand.”
    “None whatsoever,” replied Althea. “The return of long-lost kin from anywhere at all is entirely out of the question. Jonathan was Ceci’s heir and