Justice Hall by Laurie R. King (A Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell mystery)

As much as possible, I try to offer fairly objective reviews for this blog.

True, a review is by definition subjective, but what I mean is that I make a conscious effort to focus on a book's writing and narrative style, how well the author folds research into the story (or how well-researched a novel is), setting, the development of characters over time, etc. The more “technical” aspects, I suppose.

It also means I try to keep knee-jerk opinions to a minimum and examine why I like or dislike something. I’m well aware that (especially when it comes to Doyle's Sherlock Holmes or Robert Louis Stevenson or a few other of my sacred cow authors) I can be a harsh, unforgiving, nitpicky, stick-in-the-mud puritanical pedant. 

Hard to believe, I know, but I do in fact try to reign that in.

That said, sometimes I’m just going to enjoy a book precisely because of certain settings, plot elements, time periods or other literary elements. Much to my surprise, Justice Hall is one of those of books.

As I’ve explained in another post, The Moor nearly made me give up this series altogether. O Jerusalem, however, played right into my lifelong love of MiddleEastern culture. [1] So to say King is becoming a bit of a hit-or-miss author for me is an understatement.

Enter Justice Hall, a book that combines two of my favorite Middle Eastern characters from the series with my all-time favorite mystery setting, a grand English manor. Upon first glance, it's not exactly a setting portmanteau I'd think would work, but King manages to make the two diametrically opposed worlds and the tension between them play together wonderfully. It’s a neat trick, and I can’t help but mentally tip my hat to author Laurie R. King for pulling it off.

The plot has all the elements needed to make it a fun, albeit a tad predictable, read for the mystery lover. Secret passages, a traditional English hunt, a huge, grand gala, a war-torn love story, family secrets. Like a traditional dish of comfort food untouched by the gluten free movement that uses real butter, King has crafted a shamelessly indulgent (and satisfying) piece of genre fiction.

There is a panoply of interesting, diverse characters, a well-plotted, complex mystery and several other artfully constructed settings besides Justice Hall as well. I found some of family genealogy aspects yawn-inducing but I know plenty of people simply love that kind of thing. And, in all fairness, it is the focal point upon which the plot turns.

Another compelling element of this installment is how King handles the time period. The struggle of an upper-class society attempting to find its footing in the turbulent wake of social changes brought by World War I is not a focal point of the book but is adequately explored through telling details such as the preparations for a huge party and the more casual dress and demeanor of houseguests. (I tried not to think this installment was not a mercenary attempt by King to capitalize on the Downton Abbey craze).

One aspect of this installment, one that I can’t help but wonder if it contributed to my deep enjoyment of this book, is that Sherlock himself is largely absent for a large part of it.

I have commented before on how unnecessary and pointless I find Mary and Sherlock’s marriage to be. In addition to being fairly far-fetched (and I say this as a woman whose husband is 10 years older than her), it is poorly handled and simply doesn’t do anything to further any of the stories or the characters.

Improbably in this installment, for example, Mary has to be reminded at one point that Sherlock, not being as young as he used to be, may take longer to recover from injuries. Again, as woman with an older husband (I am 34, my husband is 45), believe me – you can’t be in an intimate marital relationship and not pick up on something like that, let alone forget it. I don’t care how fit or healthy Sherlock is; a 20-year-old young man is simply not that easily confused with a man in his forties.

In addition, the relationship is extraordinarily cold and passionless anyway, which means when it does come up it gets in the way.

Russell and Holmes’ relationship feels like an intimate friendship between a girl and a mentor; why not just let it be that? I’m not looking for a romance novel and don’t need any bodice ripping, but for a young woman who is so willing to dive into life-threatening adventures the notion that she is essentially asexual is discordant.

We expect that from Holmes, of course, but for me Mary’s haughty, cold-fish nature only exacerbates the grating Mary Sue aspect of her character (speaking of the Mary Sue tendency, she has an absolutely eye-roll inducing part to play in an otherwise excellently done traditional English hunt).

At this point, I wish Mary would discover she’s a lesbian and fall passionately in love with a woman, or even another, younger man, or at least admit her marriage with Holmes is merely one of convenience so they can stay in the same hotel room or whatever when need be. It is the only thing that demotes these books from a fairly well-done pastiche to borderline adolescent wish fulfillment fan fiction. 

[1] My obsession and love of the Middle East began after reading a special edition of National Geographic from my grandfather. (Oh how I loved his bi-yearly deliveries of that heavy stack of glossy, wonder-filled pages!) 

Specifically, a special edition on the disappearing traditions of the Middle East. I think I was in third or fourth grade, possibly younger. There was one particular photo of a lone, robed Pashtun chief, robes billowing, walking away from the camera amidst gaping-mouthed modern tourists on a paved road that I will never forget. But it was the sidebars that got me – the folklore, the beautiful script I couldn’t read, the explosive colored mountains of spices, intriguing stories of women with "faces like the moon" and treasure that was likely to be coffee or spices as jewels...I was determined to travel the Middle East as a nomadic adventurer when I grew up. 

Obviously, that is a dream deferred for a litany of reasons, but with every report of ISIS destroying Syrian artifacts or other Middle Eastern treasures, my heart simply breaks. 

O Jerusalem by Laurie R. King (A Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes mystery)

Anyone familiar with the Sherlock Holmes canon, or even  Christopher Morley's wonderful introduction to it, knows one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's most delightful and infuriating tricks was to open an adventure story with a tantalizing hint about another adventure that, alas, never got written down.

Watson always had an acceptable excuse for this, of course. There simply wasn't enough time, or the details of the case were classified or the mystery involved persons so distinguished the tale simply could not be put to paper during Watson's lifetime due to national security interests. Or, the case notes were locked in a vault in the bank.

Of course, we Holmesians (or Sherlockians, since, irritatingly, no one seems to bother with the distinction anymore) loved Holmes and Watson all the more for it.

King has taken a different tack in the fifth installment of the Mary Russell Sherlock Holmes pastiche series, giving us an entire volume dedicated to an adventure only alluded to in The Beekeeper's Apprentice.

And it is a treat.

Much like in The Moor, Holmes and Russell spend much of the book wandering in early 20^th century Palestine drawn into a mystery that, naturally, brings us a glimpse of T.E. Lawrence, Gen. Edmund "Bull" Allenby and two spies-cum-Bedouin guides.

Both the guides are well developed characters, fascinating in and of themselves and keep the story going even during long, rather dry stretches of travel. King uses them as vehicles to explain Arabic and Bedoiun culture, but thankfully the pair never become caricatures of themselves, a tricky feat King pulls off exceedingly well.

Those who have studied Middle Eastern history or culture (I should admit here that I did, both before and during college, and of course afterwards to the extent I can) will appreciate King's discernment in what she chooses to highlight and use during the course of her novel.

The mystery itself was pretty good, though not great by mystery reader standards, laden with international intrigue and coated with a likely bitter resentment that stems from the fallout of World War I. There is a fun, but subtle, reference to Moriarty (though he has nothing to do with adventure, of course) that readers of the Canon will appreciate.

Perhaps because there are four characters, or perhaps because it pre-dates Russell and Holmes' marriage, or (quite possibly) because I have been fascinated with the Middle East long before current events threw it into our headlines daily, I found this to be an wonderful, immersive reading experience.

All of King's usual skill – character creation and development, historical research blended artfully into a fictitious story, sweeping settings and vivid landscapes – are present in this book.

I found Sherlock to be, as usual, as close to himself as can be expected in a pastiche and Russell's religious devotion and passion softens the edges of both their cold, analytic minds. 

The passage in which Russell describes seeing the Dome of the Rock for the first time from a hill above Jerusalem, as a Jewish woman, is beautiful and moving. But at no point is Russell proselytizing, either.

I have always found Russell's interest and academic devotion to theology, and her sincere comfort in religion, to be a wonderfully balancing counterpoint to Holmes' sometimes icy, but crystalline clear, vision of the world. It is one of the things that keeps me reading the series and in this book I found that attribute shone brilliantly.

Another of King's talents this installment illustrates more than others is her ability to keep the reader in the story using realistic detail in her character's stream of consciousness. For example, Russell has to get used to eating while in a kneeling position and, due to all the walking they do in desert, gets badly blistered feet. King never forgets these facts but doesn't dwell on them unduly, either. It helps gives a sense of time.

Though Mycroft is hinted at, the reader is disappointed. Sigh. Although Caleb Carr did an impressive job with Mycroft in The Italian Secretary, I would like to see how King handles him.

Perhaps the next installment.

The West End Horror: A Posthumous Memoir of John H. Watson, M.D. "Edited by" Nicholas Meyer

Finally, a wonderful Holmes pastiche! And I say that as someone who is probably a bit hyper-defensive of Holmes and Watson. Normally I'm ridiculously pedantic when it comes to my beloved Holmes and Watson...the fact that people even have the sheer nerve to try to impersonate or resurrect them rankles me automatically.As I've admitted openly in previous posts, when it comes to the Canon I'm a pedantic purist (and apparently an alliterative one at that). If the pair must be visually portrayed, only Jeremy Brett will do.

But this, I have to say, was pitch perfect in plot and narrative style and a great one-sitting read. You see, it's 1865 in London and a rash of strange occurrences are shaking up the dodgy theater district, including a murder, a socialite getting her throat slashed, two corpses disappearing along with a plastic surgeon. To solve the mystery, Holmes and Watson find themselves meeting a host of interesting people: Bram Stoker, Ellne Terry, Bernard Shaw, Henry Irving, and of course, Oscar Wilde.

Oh, and the suspect's name? You guessed it: Jack. 

The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr

I'm ridiculously pedantic when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, for obvious reasons. I never much like pastiches, either. My theory is, why can't we just leave a good thing alone? 


That being said, this is an excellent Holmes and Watson pastiche. Carr has a good feel for Doyle's narrative style and (this may be what sold me on the book) we get to see much more of Mycroft, who makes all too short of an appearance in the original Holmes collection. Importantly, Carr seems just as true to Watson as he is to Holmes--he is portrayed as the intelligent, staunchly loyal medical man that he is. 


The book also incorporates a lot of action (those who yearn for Victorian train travel and political espionage will not be disappointed) and, although a good read, this is when the reader is most reminded that it is indeed a pastiche. However, the book is no less enjoyable for that.