In the distance,
the bells of St. Mary-Le-Bow toll eleven o’clock. The narrow streets of London’s
East End are strangely deserted. Out of the swirling fog comes the clip-clop of
horseshoes on cobbles. A carriage appears. I squint, struggling to decipher the
gilded crest on the carriage door. From within the passenger compartment, a
gloved hand emerges. Wait—is that a gun, or....
I turn the page, my heart in my
throat, as the modern world vanishes into the foul-smelling mist. It's London, 1850. Soon a body will turn up--floating in the Thames or sprawled in a brick-walled alleyway. I settle in for another blissful sojourn in Victorian England.
Here are my Top Ten Reasons why Victorian England is the perfect setting for murder:
1. The Famous London Fog
Oh, those thick-as-pea-soup fogs—useful
for concealing pick-pockets and cutthroats, handy for the disposal of bodies,
and perfect for setting that deliciously sinister atmosphere we crave.
In 1833, Richard Rush of the Court of London wrote: “On
the 22nd of the month, accidents occurred all over
London....Carriages ran against each other, and persons were knocked down by
them at the crossings. The whole gang of thieves seemed to be let loose. After
perpetrating their deeds, they eluded detection by darting into the fog...an
opake, dingy yellow (from The Dictionary of Victorian London).” Reading
about it is healthier than breathing it.
2. Upstairs/Downstairs
Picture a grand house with a full
complement of servants. The Victorian social structure provides a treasure
trove of tantalizing possibilities—petty rivalries, class struggles, below-stairs’
intrigues, accusations of petty theft, and pretty housemaids to catch the eye of
the lord of the manor. And, of course, we need an oh-so-proper butler, a dour housekeeper
with a hidden past, a ridiculously handsome footman who captures the heart of
the lord’s nubile daughter, and that unfortunate scullery maid who finds the
body and screams like a banshee. These are creatures of myth in a world that
never existed. Maybe that’s why we love them.
3. Opium-Eaters & the Lure of Laudanum
A dark doorway in Whitechapel opens
into a smoke-filled chamber, the air fetid with sweat, bile, and the bittersweet
odor of opium smoke. Bodies lay strewn across low cots or two-tiered
bunks, class distinctions forgotten in the communal drug-induced stupor.
In an age when the science of medicine was evolving and the management of pain nearly impossible, opiates became part of life. Laudanum, a mixture of ten percent opium and 90 percent alcohol, has been called “the nineteenth-century aspirin.” Because of its bitter taste, laudanum was often mixed with honey, spices, and brandy—essential when lacing your rival’s seeded cake.
4. Potent Poisons
Poison was the first choice of many
Victorian murderers—especially women. Overbearing husband? Why not soak a
little flypaper and add arsenic to his Christmas pudding? Your husband’s bit-on-the-side
went and got herself pregnant? A nice box of chocolates laced with strychnine
should do the trick.
The strangest case of poisoning in
Victorian England has to be Adelaide Bartlett, whose husband, Edwin, died with
a large quantity of liquid chloroform in his belly. The question was, how did
it get there? No traces were found in his mouth or throat. Without evidence, Adelaide was
acquitted. Later, Sir James Paget of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital appealed to her
sense of public spirit: “Now that it is all over, she should tell us, in the
interest of science, how she did it.” Instead, Adelaide vanished—some say to
America.
5. The Village Doctor
What would a Victorian country-house
mystery be without a murder? And what would a Victorian country-house murder be
without the venerable village doctor? He’s an old friend of the family, naturally,
and eager to declare the cause of death in a way guaranteed to cause the
family—who haven’t paid him a farthing since before the Queen’s coronation—the
least possible fuss. A poisoning is put down to digestive troubles. If the victim
is found in his library, shot through the heart, the shooting was obviously a
tragic accident whilst cleaning his gun. No forensic examination will
be held. In fact, the body will be safely buried before the sleuth has an
opportunity to object.
6. Fascination with the Occult
Who killed rich but unpleasant Uncle
Nigel? Who would know better than Nigel himself? Let's get out that Ouiji Board.
7. The Age of Exotica
How many ways are there to kill
someone? In Victorian England, the possibilities are nearly endless—untraceable
poisons added to a glass of port, deadly snakes or spiders tucked beneath the
eiderdown.
During the nineteenth century, amateur adventurers and
explorers left England in great numbers to investigate new lands. Tales of strange (and impossible) creatures
fired the public imagination—as did sensational claims of miracle cures from exotic
substances like mumia (powdered mummies) and strange plants that delivered
an electrical shock strong enough to render a man unconscious. Victorian
England was particularly mesmerized by Dr. Serge Voronoff, a French
doctor of Russian descent, who claimed that monkey testicles (either grafted or
injected) could reactivate youthful vigor and even extend life. Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, himself a doctor, used the idea in his 1923 story “The Adventure
of the Creeping Man.”
8. What—No Telephone?
One of the benefits of Victorian crime fiction is the convenient lack of modern technology. Someone is found murdered. How are the authorities notified? In nineteenth-century England, you can’t pick up the telephone. You don’t own one, nor do you know anyone who does. Instead, a messenger is sent, probably on bicycle, to alert the local constable, who is probably tucked up in his bed. Perfect. The delay gives you plenty of time to move the body, rearrange the crime scene, and get everyone’s alibi down pat.
9. The Cult of Death
The Victorians were obsessed with
death, from anthropomorphic taxidermy to picnicking in cemeteries to memento
mori, the weaving the hair of a lost loved one into jewelry.
10. True Crime
Victorian crime fiction has nothing
on true crime stories from England in the nineteenth century. George Orwell in
“Decline of the English Murder” fantasized about settling down in front of a
fire with his pipe and a cup of tea and opening the News of the World.
“What is it that you want to read about?” he asked. “Naturally, about a
murder.” Jack the Ripper,
Dr. Crippen, the Mannings of the Bermondsey Horror, Frederick Seddon, Neill
Cream, Mrs. Maybrick—there was nothing the Victorians loved more than a good
murder.
Why do today’s readers still adore
the foggy streets of Victorian England, the top-hatted madman, and arsenic-laced
blancmange?
It’s elementary, my dear Watson.
[Originally published in CrimeReads]
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