Dangerous

 It must have been a little north of 15 years ago that I dipped my toe into the very murky waters of the Byron legend.  I had been putting together some notes to mark the 200th anniversary of the not-so-good Lord's swim across the Hellespont, in the wake of Leander.

Other than that, and a hint of the lurid tales that followed him, I knew little; had never then read, and still haven't Childe Harold; more a fan of Robert Byron.  That said my researches then resulted in my becoming a huge fan of Richard Halliburton.  He too had crossed that dangerous stretch of water, just like Paddy Leigh Fermor.

I digress.  Byron, Lord, that was the subject matter.  And indeed a subject known in much greater detail to Essie Fox, for she it is who penned Dangerous.  She takes us to Venice, to Byron's haunts and all his many lurid pleasures.

 

She crafts her tale around his writings, his contemporaries, and before you know it we are deep in historical crime writing.  Deep in the sights, and sounds, the smells too, of Venice two centuries ago.  The hedonistic lifestyle of the anti-hero.  And his hangers-on.

I'm at risk of too many spoilers, so engrossing is this tale.  The crime team appear on the scene, though they have but a bit-part in this tale.  Wallowing in a cell; then another cell, from which he considers another swim, across The Lido.

Unveiled and unmasked, in what follows, this tale has Byron and his entourage in all their glory, seeking to right the wrongs that have besmirched his 'good name'.  Crafted around the people and places, with just a little invention here and there, Dangerous is a cracking read, a ripping yarn.  Essie Fox has delved deep, and sucks us in to Venice two centuries ago, the waters dappled with fragments of Byron's life and style, from cradle to grave.  

Much as I delved deeply into Halliburton 15 years ago, a new writer to me then, so I think I may still be reading Essie Fox, a new writer to me today, 15 years hence.  Dangerous is masterful. 

It may be time that I read again The Flying Carpet, sampled once more that sheer joy that Halliburton and Moye Stephens had as their aim as they took their little bi-plane round the world.  Perhaps too I should be reading again Elly Beinhorn's Flying Girl, and not just for the section where their wing-tips met in those heady days.

But for now I think I'll away and see what else young Essie Fox may have in store for me.  I may be some time...