Acting on Impulse Read online

  THE END

  READING “LINCKES’ GREAT CASE”

  It’s not that it’s boring, exactly. It’s… fine. But as a devotee of Heyer’s crime fiction, especially her Inspector Hannasyde novels, it is somewhat disappointing to read this rather pedestrian tale of stolen documents and the pursuit of the very obvious thief that takes so, so, way too long to unfold.

  When it comes to Georgette Heyer, no matter what the genre, we expect more than “fine.”

  Of course, everyone has to start somewhere, even authors who saw such overnight success as Heyer, and because her first novel was such a tour de force, and is still in print nigh on a century later, it is easy to forget that she was so very young when she wrote it, and that even when this later story was published, in March of 1923, she was not yet even twenty-one years of age.

  The theory propounded in the introduction to this piece, that perhaps George Heyer had a significant hand in this somewhat plodding outing, is certainly one explanation for its somewhat lacklustre nature (with apologies to George Heyer, who was an author and poet and general polymath, and whom Georgette adored), but I would offer up an alternate theory: it’s all the younger Heyer’s own work, but is just not very good, because not all early work is. And perhaps it is very different to her “style” simply because she had not yet figured out what that was.

  Take, for example, her historical fiction novel The Great Roxhythe, published in 1922, and her 1923 contemporary novel Instead of the Thorn, both wildly different – and, it must be said, less successful – than The Black Moth. That The Transformation of Philip Jettan, now known, in slightly modified form, as Powder and Patch, was also published in 1923 showcases Heyer’s range of experimentation during this period of her writing career, and Linckes’ Great Case could very simply be yet another one of her attempts to find her voice, and her passion, and extend herself beyond the Georgian romps that evidently came so naturally to her.

  Certainly, the developing romance of Linckes and Tony, the privileged daughter of a government minister, is pure Georgette, although it is interesting that their class difference does not seem to make much of a difference here – it might be a subtle distinction, but the sprightly Autonia (erk, what a name!) appears to be a scion of the County set while Linckes is, though well-spoken, clearly a working man hailing from the stolid middle class—even if their fathers did go to school together. Although, honestly, quite what Tony finds to so admire about Linckes is perhaps a bigger mystery than who stole those dratted documents could ever be.

  The culprits are in many ways the most compelling characters of this narrative, for all that they are terribly incompetent and only get away with it for so long because Linckes is even more so. Sir Charles Winthrop is a smooth devil, and there are shades of the supercilious Duke of Andover/Avon model about him – it is understandable that Linckes falls into something of an infatuation with him, and we know that Heyer was very into male friendship narratives at this time, given The Great Roxhythe’s central pairing of the Marquis and his devoted secretary, Christopher. Far better developed than Linckes/Tony is Linckes/Sir Charles, especially since the morose Alec constantly keeps Linckes guessing, making it seem that Winthrop is blowing hot and cold, and making him all the more fascinating to a young and easily-impressed ingenu like poor Roger Linckes as a result.

  I’ve read more than my share of pulp detective fiction of this era, and Linckes’ Great Case is not wholly unlike much of what was being published at the time – in fact, it’s something of a cut above even the other stories published even in the very same issue of Detective Magazine in which it appeared. (“The Karlovna Jewel Mystery” by T. B. Donovan is especially dire.) The characters are two-dimensional, certainly. But they do have their charms, and occasional witticisms, and they’re not entirely inconsistent with Heyer’s later works. If only the mystery at the centre of this tale had been solved over the course of days and weeks rather than weeks and months, it might stand as an impressive first attempt at the field.

  But it’s not Heyer¸ not yet anyway, and that is what leads to the speculation that she didn’t write it entirely by herself – we don’t want to believe that someone so remarkable could have turned in something so relatively ordinary.

  But I think she probably did.

  And think that’s… fine.

  “THE BULLDOG AND THE BEAST”

  INTRODUCTION

  Heyer returned to The Happy Mag for her fourth excursion into short fiction. “The Bulldog and the Beast” was published there in March 1923, the same month that “Linckes’ Great Case” was published in The Detective Magazine, although the two stories are completely different from each other. Unlike “Linckes”, “The Bulldog and the Beast” is a romantic tale, and there is a noticeable difference between the two stories in style, tone, and execution. “The Bulldog and the Beast” is more tightly plotted than “Linckes” and the story is far more engaging. It is also a decided step up from either “A Proposal to Cicely” or “The Little Lady” for here it seems, Georgette Heyer had found her short story “voice.”

  From the first sentence we are amused and a little intrigued. Beginning with: “Upon the stairs which led to his flat, Hugh Ruthven met the bull-dog,” the story quickly evolves into a clever three-hander with Hugh, Mr. Sykes (the engaging and intelligent canine), and Katharine Testram, the bulldog’s adoring owner, all becoming inextricably linked. Mr. Sykes is instantly lovable and the way he directs the action is comical and clever. Sykes is the lynch-pin of the story and Heyer’s pithy romance is lifted above the average by his presence. Though there is instant animosity between the man-hating Miss Testram and the cynical Mr. Ruthven, both protagonists love Mr. Sykes and in Heyer’s world this is a sign of both good character and intelligence.

  Heyer had dogs through much of her life. From her mother’s beloved Dachshund to her own Pekingese (the very same who was perhaps the model for Chu-Chu San in “A Proposal to Cicely”) and her grandmother’s terriers, she knew and loved dogs from early childhood. As an adult, Heyer had a Sealyham terrier named Roddy; after Roddy came her adored bull terrier Jonathan Velhurst Viking (known as Jonny), and her magnificent wolfhound, Misty Dawn. Jonny would be her last four-legged friend, but Heyer would always have fictional dogs – delightful imaginary dogs who would come to life in her books. Mr. Sykes epitomises Heyer’s emotional connection to dogs and he would prove to be the fictional forerunner of the memorable canines that would eventually populate her Regency novels: Ulysses in Arabella, Tina in The Grand Sophy and Lufra in Frederica.

  Like those felicitous creations, Mr. Sykes is delightful and Heyer brings him endearingly to life. Sykes snorts and waddles and snuffles and squirms his way through the story as he tries his best to bring his belligerent owner and the man she detests together. Heyer is finally hitting her short story straps here and allowing her natural wit and humour a much freer rein. Her voice is crisp, her characters more fully realised, and the story flows from the first sentence.

  As always, class attitudes are inherent in Heyer’s depiction of upper middle-class people in 1920s England. Katharine is only poor because her once-wealthy father has invested his money badly. Her father has died and she must earn her living as a paid companion to a difficult great-aunt. Hugh Ruthven is one of Heyer’s independent men of means and, though he lives in a flat, he has a man-servant, a cook, and a parlour maid. Hugh also has a racing-car, is often at home during the day, and has no apparent need to work. This is the aspirational world so popular with readers after the Great War. Heyer needed only to sketch these details in lightly but she did so with a deftness that fleshes out her characters and evokes her readers’ empathy.

  “The Bulldog and the Beast” is the first of three short stories which would signal the tone of the clever comedic novels yet to come.

  THE BULLDOG AND THE BEAST

  UPON the stairs which led to his flat, Hugh Ruthven met the bulldog. They eyed one another silently for a moment, until the bulldog signified his