Here’s a dozen short stories, the longest being Lord Peter’s riding on the mare Polly Frimpton to discover what happened to the bitter old man deceased who disliked both his sons, and made it hard for either to inherit. The most intriguing include the last story, where Lord Peter is reported dead, and “A Matter of Taste,” where in order to identify the real Lord Peter, out of three, the best wines are served. Only the real Lord Peter knows which wine is which, not the Château Yquem, 1911, nor the Montrachet-Aîné 1911, but Chevalier Montrachet of the same year.
These display Sayers’ extensive research to supply Lord Peter’s equestrian, vintage, crossword, and crime info. As for the longest, “Bone of Contention” I learned about horses, though I rode a pony a couple of years in youth at my grandparents’ Crockett Ridge, Maine farm. In particular, the “hames” through which the “traces” pass: our American name for the latter, “tugs,” and for the hames, I think “collar” or “bow” (as in oxbow).
As in longer Sayers’ fiction, I note profound criminal insights revelatory of our US pres during coronavirus, “He suffered from an inferiority complex, and he thought the only way to keep his end up was to keep other peoples’ end down. So he became a little tin tyrant and bully”(248). “The marvel to me is how they get away with it.” He did, until his vanity urged a portrait, and the painter put “the man’s whole creeping, sneering, paltry soul on canvas for everyone to see.”
Funerals are “all right for the young ones; they must have their amusements”(89).
Another insight worthy of Dickens, whose description of a French funeral is profound and amusing. Sayers invents plots, but also verbs, as when “the pale amber wine…trilled into the glasses”(175).
An American can almost forgive the British class system for the amusement it provides, as when a struggling Bloomsbury physician offers Lord Peter, “Only cold meat and salad, I’m afraid. My woman won’t come Sundays. Have to answer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I say”(149).
This American is further charmed by the earlier Twentieth Century which Sayers reflects, as when the “mechanic’s” (US “garage”) features a “magneto” and “starting handles” (89) such as we had on a 1917 Model T my grandparents bought in the 1950’s for a dozen chickens in Portland, Maine, and drove it back to Crockett Ridge, Norway, Maine. Literally back, on the small hills on the dirt road to the Ridge, backwards, since the car had no Low gear, so my grandfather had to back it uphill in Reverse. Ironically, on the road now named for him, Ralph Richardson Road.