SON OF HOLMES by John T. Lescroat (Donald I. Fine: $15.95). Why not “Uncle of Bulldog Drummond”? This slight tale of espionage in World-War-I France has more in common with Edwardian tales of derring-do than with the fabled denizen of 221B Baker St. A preface would have us believe the story is an historical document “proving” that Holmes did indeed pass his genius along to a second generation. That turns out to be the sole reference to the great detective, except for one character’s repeated references to “my father.” One expects a pastiche of Conan Doyle, but it’s not there, not in plot, characterization or style. On its own, the book is an innocuous enough time-waster, but if there were truth in advertising for book titles, California author Lescroat would be tottering on the Reichenbach Falls.