'The God of the Hive': Another smashing good Sherlock Holmes-Mary Russell tale

"A child is a burden, after a mile," Mary Russell notes in the first sentence of Laurie R. King's new book, "The God of the Hive" (Bantam, 354 pp., $25). Russell means it quite literally, and — despite her calm demeanor — is definitely in the thick of things: She's carrying a toddler through rough terrain in the far northern islands of Scotland, while doing her best to steer clear of a killer.

The child is Estelle Adler, the precocious granddaughter of Russell's husband, who — as King's millions of fond readers know — is the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

The books Russell narrates (this is the ninth) have a terrific premise: in his retirement, Holmes has married a younger, Anglo-American woman with as much spark and brain matter as the great detective himself. They become genuine partners and, despite Holmes' stated hope of living quietly and keeping bees, manage to find plenty of trouble in various far-flung locales.

"The God of the Hive" picks up immediately where "The Language of Bees," King's last book about the pair, left off. Holmes discovered in that book that he has a son: Damian Adler, born of a brief affair between the detective and Irene Adler, the only woman who ever outwitted him. Damian became a gifted artist, married a Chinese woman and fathered young Estelle.

But now Damian's wife is dead, murdered by the leader of a cult she had fallen in with, and the killer and his loyal minions are determined to find the rest of her family.

Russell and Holmes, having tracked the killer to Scotland, are separated for much of this book. She and the child head south, aided by a brave American pilot. When the pilot's rickety plane crashes, the three take shelter with Robert Goodman, an eccentric who lives deep in the forest.

Meanwhile, Holmes, in a desperate bid to help his gravely injured son, has left Scotland by sea. He lands eventually in Holland in the company of a woman doctor (still a rarity in those days) who has come to the aid of Damian.

By the time Holmes reunites in London with Russell (who has the man of the forest in tow), their crisis has become intertwined with another — that of Mycroft Holmes, who has been cruelly cut off from his everyday life for reasons unknown.

Mycroft is, of course, Sherlock's older brother, an enigmatic and immensely powerful figure in the shadowy world of British espionage. It would be unsporting to say more, but there's something in store here, vis-à-vis the mysterious Mycroft, to shock us red-blooded Holmes addicts.

The writing of new Holmes stories is a thriving cottage industry within the mystery-fiction genre, but King's series stands out for several reasons. Her storytelling is robust, confident and lightly sprinkled with grace notes reflecting the author's background in theology. Her characters, major and minor alike, are always vivid.

Moreover, the partnership between Holmes and Russell is satisfying, intelligent and affectionate. And then there's King's ability to merge two-fisted action with scenes of tenderness — as when, at the close of this book, the great detective and his wife take a break from their ripping adventures to attend a tea party their not-always-burdensome granddaughter holds in honor of her dollies.

Seattle writer Adam Woog's column on crime fiction appears on the second Sunday of the month in The Seattle Times.