Why did anyone attend a weekend house party in the 1930s? Surely it was just asking for trouble?
This write-up is slightly curtailed by the fact that I have just read of the demise of Amy Winehouse a few hours ago. Like her or love her, she was a troubled soul. And she wrote those songs of love and longing all by herself.
Maybe these words would be better placed in a review of Sylvia Plath but I just happen to be writing about Georgette Heyer. Heyer is also misunderstood. We all think of her as a hopeless historical romantic but she is just as capable of fine-plotting a mystery as Ms A C or Ms M A. This one kept me guessing until the end.