Alas. Alas and alack. The first half, three-quarters of this novel were awesome
, a really lovely pastiche, maybe the best I've read so far, and the last few chapters veered off into an entirely different story that I was far less inclined to enjoy.
Holmes in India, with an Indian scholar-spy filling the role of Watson yet not trying to be
Watson oh frabjous day, a cracking good mystery, all sorts of atmospherics - A+A+A+. A real treat to read, especially hard on the heels of the Russellian The Game's Kim. I blame you, Steven Moffat] and [a:Mark Gatiss. And, yes, I must blame you, too, Arthur Conan Doyle. ::shakes fist::
ETA: I've figured it out. My problem is that this book fails to adhere to the oath of the Detection Club
: "Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them using those wits which it may please you to bestow upon them and not placing reliance on nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence, or Act of God?" I assumed I was reading a novel that adhered to these standards, so the Divine Revelation took me by (unpleasant) surprise.
Ah, leave it to Dorothy Sayers to hit the nail on the head. Jiggery-Pokery, indeed.