A Lukewarm Investigation Begins
In Gods of War, James Lovegrove’s crime novel, Sherlock Holmes is now in his sixties. No surprise, then, that his joints creak and crack like an old staircase. And chubby Dr. Watson? Let’s be honest—he’s not exactly in top shape anymore either. Lucky for them, they barely need to do anything in this story.
The great detective, get this, can’t even be bothered to pull off the biggest cliché in every Holmes story—using his signature method to deduce, without breaking a sweat, what extraordinary adventures his long-lost buddy had on his train ride—because, supposedly, he’s “too excited about the new case.” Which, by the way, turns out to be nothing more than a pathetic little burglary.
(Feels a bit cheap, doesn’t it? I mean, how hard would it have been for Lovegrove to throw in that Watson’s seatmate across the aisle was an elderly, half-limping horse trader from Devonshire on his way to buy feed for his prize stallion, Oxhead—while to his right sat a spinster in a pheasant-feathered hat, off to visit her sister, who suffers from trichotillomania, casually reading Northanger Abbey, fourth edition.
Cost him nothing.)
Laurel and Hardy Back on the Case!
Things pick up a little once our two half-baked detectives stumble into another case — but not by much. The two figures, who honestly feel like self-parodies at this point, bumble through a series of awkward screw-ups and slapstick missteps before uncovering a mystery that would feel cringe even in a teen fantasy novel. And let’s not forget: the “big reveal” in Gods of War is entirely free of excitement or any remotely surprising twist.
The two geriatrics potter around aimlessly for two-thirds of the book. Then Holmes suddenly takes a trip, comes back, and casually announces that he’s solved everything. You, the reader, just sit there blinking—wait, he even figured out stuff I didn’t know needed figuring out?
Hooray for Anachronisms!
James Lovegrove’s writing style more or less mimics Conan Doyle’s now, ahem, less-than-fresh prose—aside from a few painfully out-of-place, wildly anachronistic expressions (at one point, a simple fisherman, no less, says Holmes “isn’t exactly my BFF”).
Some of Gods of War’s side characters also feel like they accidentally wandered in from the wrong century—like the overly emancipated costume shop girl who sinks her life savings into a small-town costume business (gotta love that market research!), or the pettily malicious, scheming policeman who seems to have taken a wrong turn out of a children’s cartoon.
At the Slowest Speed Imaginable!
But all of this is peanuts compared to one absolutely unique literary feat — something I’ve never encountered in my decades of reading: Ladies and gentlemen, meet the man — James Lovegrove — who writes IN SLOW MOTION.
Check this out:
“I was ten years older than her, but we fell in love. A few months later, her behavior changed, so I broke up with her.”
In this book, that takes ten pages.
Something that should be a sentence turns into half a page—minimum. Every little thing is explained to death. If characters arrive at a house, you’re getting at least one full page on the building’s history plus everyone’s totally irrelevant thoughts about it.
If Aleister Crowley, that raving occultist, happens to be mentioned in passing, brace yourself—because you’re about to get two full pages on the eccentric fellow’s entire body of work. And if a character is asked what time it is, sure, they’ll tell you—but they’ll also feel compelled to explain who they inherited the watch from, where they bought the leather strap, and how, three weeks ago, they forgot to wind it and ended up late to Auntie Maggie’s tea party.
Sounds boring?
THAT’S BECAUSE IT BLOODY FREAKING WELL IS!!!
Rating: 4.5/10
Gods of War (The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Titan Books #5) by James Lovegrove
296 pages, Paperback
Published in 2014 by Titan Books
—
You may also like:
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
—
Mr Holmes’ 21st century successors:
Jack Reacher (see: Blue Moon by Lee Child)
Robert Hunter (see: The Crucifix Killer by Chris Carter)