Scribbler's Periodical

An Examination of 'Victor Hart'

An Examination of 'Victor Hart' by RK Lawrence

Extracts from the blurb:

"In a Futuristic-Victorian London, Ex-Carnie Victor Hart makes his living as a dinner party entertainer and mountebank, using the skills taught to him by his Romani mother- the Patterns. When tragedy strikes a wealthy friend, Victor Hart puts his skills to use in an alternative manner."

"Victor sees human behavior in a way few others can understand, but only as an outsider; certain parts of his humanity are missing and that disturbs him. As he solves each seemingly unrelated case, a dark pattern slowly begins to reveal itself, threatening the heart of the British Empire."
"A Steampunk-detective-noir, darker than most. The first volume features four thrilling cases; the first novel in a Duology."

Ah, my dears, now I present you with a devilishly decadent piece of work, and I allude to the man, not the manuscript. Nothing quite indulges me as greatly, as infinitely gluttonous, as purely insatiable as a fine and filigreed plot, constructed with sheer villainy at its core. It is as though our freakishly talented RK Lawrence has taken the marionette strings of an unsuspecting Victorian production, and then skilfully spun the fibres of literature into lengths and lengths of gloriously plotty conspiracies, with the intricacy of Venetian lace. And whilst it sounds like I've had a volume too many of Oscar Wilde (but really, you can hardly expect one to be in full command of their mental systems after that chap drops in for tea), I entreat you to delve into this repertoire of murder cases that are quite artfully designed to keep you bound to their narration.

As much as the murders of Victor Hart are meticulously devised, one of the undeniable affinities (I was going to say 'attractions', but I'm a morally upright woman, and such a thought would insinuate a rather poor decorum on my part. We will, of course, disregard my past futile attempts to infiltrate The Old Gentlemen's Club, and the multiple occasions that I have ridiculed an exceedingly treasured aunt's moustache- better yet, the aunt's exceedingly treasured moustache- not forgetting the peanut debacle at the Opera last night. If I were cultured enough to in fact attend the Opera, or more accurately, be admitted in to the Opera.) yes, one of the unquestionable fascinations of RK Lawrence's novel lie in Mr Hart himself. Our leading man is the product of a rather debauched lifestyle- he is detached, with a mind that both twists and unravels the stage before him. With an extraordinary talent for dissecting the cases he toys in his palm, Victor Hart's indifference to the victims is frightfully unsettling. The man employs some rather wicked devices to reach his ends, and manipulation comes to him as naturally as vision came to Escher. He is a morally lacking fellow, one who enforces little resistance to the vices of his age, damns the feelings of one and all, and plays with deception just as deviously as his nemesis. Naturally, we fell in love with him at once. Victor Hart's deliciously murky past is just up our dark (and regrettably) dodgy alley, and what with the ingenious progression of each case, RK Lawrence does rather have us dangling on the loose end of their elaborate lacework.

Victor Hart has achieved the sensation of Greater Significance, something very few new pieces can claim to have triumphed. To realistically execute a plot that that widens into a larger than life disaster, with higher stakes, infinitely more victims, and escalating risks; it is a true testament to talent. I do quite like it when someone waltzes onto my literary horizon and manages to convince me that the British Empire is starting to quake and no amount of Masonry can keep that foundation from collapsing. It's very clever. I applaud clever things. But one must be cautioned, this novel is not for the lily-livered. There are some fantastic horrors that stain its pages, ones that will no doubt having the more weak-willed members of the audience lowering their Opera glasses in alarm (and likely have the other half's attention riveted to the extraordinary artistic scenes of terror. By God, I swear, some of them do drive you to the Chloral at night). This is a dark, practical yet poetic book- not 'dark and poetical' in the odd sense that half the noodles out there currently possess. (Yes, indeed. A kind and benevolent piece of erudition here- 'dark and poetical' is not synonymous with slit wrists and depression, my young sprouts. Unless it's manic depression, with which publishing houses, and yours truly, have a field day.)

If Victor Hart isn't a modern day penny dreadful, I'll be damned. But in the grand scheme of things, it is an evolving masterpiece that grows infinitely more complex with every case. I implore you to step into this spectacular noir crime piece before the case closes- it's a dark, clockwork labyrinth, with a sadist in the centre and an equally devious detective on the hunt. RK Lawrence, I take my hat off to you. Arthur Conan Doyle, my good Sir- eat your Hart out.