It is 1924, and in England, Mycroft Holmes summons his brother Sherlock and Sherlock's wife, Mary Russell, to a meeting. Mycroft has a request on behalf of the government: go to India to find Kimball O'Hara, the Kim of Rudyard Kipling's book. No, not a fictional character, but a flesh-and-blood man who was part of British Intelligence in India for many years, and has been missing for three years. With a Bolshevik Russia making restless noises to the north and Indian hill rajas ever susceptible to turning their coats and going over to the Reds to help them oust the British, Kim is needed.
So Holmes and Russell go off to India, where they receive yet another assignment: to go to the hill state of Khanpur, whose maharaja, Jumalpandra 'Jimmy', seems to be up to something sneaky. Therefore, disguised as itinerant magicians and assisted by a cheeky little imp named Bindra, the couple set off from Delhi...
I've read a few Holmes tributes over the past few years, and I approach each new one I come across with some hesitation. Laurie R King's book (this is the first I've read, though it is the seventh in the series) is not exactly a homage to Holmes, because its central character is the narrator Mary Russell. And she is no Watson. She is Russ, equal (or so it would seem) in every way to Holmes himself. In dexterity, deftness, resourcefulness, everything. But then, why bung in Holmes, anyway? If you're writing about the greatest fictional detective, why relegate him to an adventure which doesn't require him to do any sleuthing? Because that's what The Game is: an adventure story, not a detective story.
And an adventure story that jars at every twist and turn. As an Indian, reading badly-researched books set in India can be thoroughly off putting, and this one was right there at the top. As soon as I saw that 'Jumalpandra' (which, if you know Hindi, sounds like a cross between the Hindi words for a laxative and 'to break wind'), I knew this was not going to be an easy ride. And it wasn't. Not with someone called Rambachadur. Not with descriptions of saris worn tucked into little more than a string, and with a scarf draped over the head and shoulders. Not with the awful Hindi mentioned (thankfully only occasionally) as being spoken by supposed natives. Not with the many other errors relating to food, geography, costume, local tradition, etc. (And the tone of the narrator, while possibly true to the period, struck me as offensive and patronising by turn).
My cribs with the book didn't stop there. The maharajas, true, did lead lives of debauchery more fantastic than fiction can probably make it, but the description of the maharaja's excesses in The Game are just too over the top to be believable. It's almost as if Laurie King decided that if she were going to set a book in the exotic East, it had to be as exotic as she could make it. Leave no stone unturned, so to say.
Plus, I found something very icky about a 24-year old woman married to a 63-year old man. Even if the man is Sherlock Holmes. A domesticated Holmes, perhaps, though, who seems singularly adept at combing Mary Russell's long hair and pinning it up.
If you like the Holmes canon, give this as wide a berth as you possibly can. And if you're Indian, the same applies. Avoid.