Sidney Horler - The Curse Of Doone

[dem bones]

Sidney Horler - The Curse Of Doone (Hodder & Stoughton, 1928)

Paperback Library edition, 1965

Handsome, heroic British Secret Serviceman Ian Heath is back in London after some nasty espionage business in Venice which almost got him killed and is planning for a short, peaceful holiday in the wilds. Some chance! On the platform of Victoria station, he accidentally steps on a young woman's toe. Heath is so impressed by her refusal to make a fuss that he finds himself thinking about her until the following evening's performance of Mischief at the St .James Theatre where, lo and behold, there she is again sitting in the audience - and she's being watched! By a man with a sabre scar across his face! Heath instantly decides that the swarthy spy is undoubtedly "an International crook of some standing" merely by looking at him. As the mystery girl leaves the theatre, the goon makes a move on her and tries to stick her with a hypodermic, but Heath is quicker, toughs the bounder up and bundles the girl into a getaway cab. The young woman takes his card but doesn't introduce herself. She's clearly as taken with him as he is her, but alas, she'll be leaving London tomorrow to stay with her uncle in the country. So that's that.

On the journey down to Devonshire Cicily Garretta can't get Ian Heath out of her mind. She's really not looking forward to her stay at her uncle's place as Doone Hall is a gloomy, foreboding pile in the middle of nowhere and the old man, Warren Murdoch, is a mad scientist who is always engrossed in his experiments. Her first night does little to reassure her, as she hears eerie screams in the dark and something like a giant bat hovering over the grounds. Can it be that the vampire legends surrounding the place - the so-called 'Curse of the Coxonfields' - are true after all? And the two house-guests are a peculiar pair to say the least! Already she's caught the family solicitor, Moses Grimstead, snooping at her uncle's keyhole and the younger Philip Voyce, author, clearly has designs on her but she's put off by his ridiculous wig. How unnerving it all is! If only someone strong, masculine, daring like Ian Heath were here to get to the bottom of the mystery!

Early on in the story, Mr. Horler takes time out to berate those critics who frown upon thriller writers for their reliance upon handy coincidence to get them out of a tight spot. Horler points out that coincidence plays a big part in life so they don't know what they're talking about! It doesn't quite numb the pain, but at least you're prepared for it when Horler introduces poet and poultry farmer Jerry Hartsgill, Heath's best friend, who calls him "a heathen without bowels" but nonetheless invites him to stay at his remote Devonshire hideaway conveniently situated, yes, right next door to Doone Hall! But before they can set off, Heath has to survive an attack by poison gas!

The going to date (p. 70 of 320) is slow but delightful. Horler seems to have been an earlier exponent of the Fanthorpe method and feels the need to explain every incident, no matter how mundane, over and over to up the word count. Sadly, I know the ending (one of the most audacious i've ever encountered) from previous acquaintance, but it looks like it's going to be fun getting there.

[pulphack]

ah, mr horler... yes, he does love to over-explain, but that is part of his charm, isn't it. and let's face it, both he and the Rev must have twigged to something as they had absolutely shedloads of readers in their day.

mr h was a graduate of the Amalgamated school of writers, having cut his teeth on a number of storypaper tales, lots involving footer. indeed, his style might come from that, as the likes of Charles Hamilton (aka Frank Richards, Martin Clifford, Owen Conquest, etc) and Edwy Searles Brooks (writer of Nelson Lee, the schoolmaster detective who encountered lots of spooky stuff - you really couldn't make these guys up could you - and was later a decades long crime novelist as Victor Gunn and Berkeley Grey) churned out reams of thrilling tales. Hamilton in particular evolved a style in which repetition was used for dramatic and comic effect to boost word count, which is either irritating or endearing, dependant on taste. mr h's use of exposition is also endearing, and echoes the great JT Edson's habit of editorialising mid-tale. however, using these techniques for ironic or satiric effect can open you up for criticism by those that miss the point (sorry, personal bugbear there!) - but i digress...

anyway, back to the point. mr h was not above purloining available heroes, having penned tales of Tiger Standish, the secret agent originally created by Sapper (creator of thick-necked Bulldog Drummond, a bit iffy politically in these PC times, but a great ghost story writer as the Dent collection by Jack Adrian from the late 80's reminds). he also saw himself fitting nicely into the mantle of Edgar Wallace, so much so that after the king of thrillers pegged it in Hollywood in '32, mr h purchased EW's work desk, making great play of it to reinforce this ambition in the minds of the public.

as EW's greatest success was during the 20's, when he signed with Hodder to produce a thriller a month, and they already had mr h, it all seemed set. trouble was, whereas EW had been very modern - his books may seem dated now, but from The Four Just Men he had been one of the writers to define the modern thriller novel in terms of pace, style, economy of prose, and the mix of sex, action and sadism that seems tame now was pushed a few boundaries at the time - mr h was still at his storypaper roots an edwardian, and had more in common with E Phillips Oppenheim, whose wordy spy stories seem arcane and charming now, but for so long just seemed unfashionable and 'ripe as cheese' (thank you Hugh Carlton Greene).

mr h still had a long and successful career, but doesn't even warrant the footnote that EW gets in fiction history (well, in this country - the yanks still recall him, and in europe he's still legend).

this sounds typical Horler, and i don't mean that disparagingly. charming and thrilling by turns, i'll be bound, and fun all the way. you don't see that many of his books knocking about*, but they're usually worth a punt.

*not sure why this is - my theory is that like a lot of pre-war bestsellers who weren't so big or republished post-war, many copies were gathered for salvage or destroyed during WWII, which is why it's hard to find some things from this period.

[dem bones]

Nov 26, 2008 23:38:28 GMT pulphack said:

ah, mr horler... yes, he does love to over-explain, but that is part of his charm, isn't it. and let's face it, both he and the Rev must have twigged to something as they had absolutely shedloads of readers in their day.

Charming for sure, and after a while his fondness to remind you of where we all are in the story has a kind of hypnotic effect.

" ... it seemed to be the voice of a mocking fiend. It took on speech: "The secret! Your uncle's secret! It's in danger!" That was what it said.

She must go to her uncle at once. That secret which he guarded so zealously and which was the whole of life to him - it was in danger and she must warn him!"

I'm so caught up in the action right now I don't want to spoil it by stopping every five minutes to take notes, which is always the sign of a good old fashioned page-turner. The only other stories i've read of Horler's are the shorts The Vampire and Black Magic but neither much prepared me for him in horror-mystery novel mode. He's definitely gone up several notches in my estimation so far with this one.