This week I welcome Antoine Vanner to my blog where he is writing about murder most foul.
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I have always enjoyed George Orwell’s essays, not only for the variety of the topics and the clarity of his arguments but the simple elegance of their English. One of their charms is that he often fastens on a simple incident or social phenomenon and proceeds to draw a powerful philosophical or political lesson from it. As such, though they were written over half a century ago, the majority continue to have direct relevance to our own time (Try “Notes on Nationalism”).
One of Orwell’s most interesting essays is “The Decline of the English Murder”, which has an unforgettable beginning – what could have been the opening of a novel no less than of an essay:
“It is Sunday afternoon, preferably before the war. The wife is already asleep in the armchair, and the children have been sent out for a nice long walk. You put your feet up on the sofa, settle your spectacles on your nose, and open the News of the World. Roast beef and Yorkshire, or roast pork and apple sauce, followed up by suet pudding and driven home, as it were, by a cup of mahogany-brown tea, have put you in just the right mood. Your pipe is drawing sweetly, the sofa cushions are soft underneath you, the fire is well alight, the air is warm and stagnant. In these blissful circumstances, what is it that you want to read about?
Naturally, about a murder.”
I remembered this when I stumbled in this cartoon from a 1849 edition of the humorous magazine Punch, which shows that the tradition was well-established a century before Orwell. It shows a pater-familias in a slum lodging reading for his wife and seven children and holding them enthralled:
Punch in this period was not exactly given to punchy captions (no pun intended!) and this case was no exception as it reads:
Father of a family (reads): “The wretched Murderer is supposed to have cut the throat of his three eldest children, and then to have killed the baby by beating it repeatedly with a poker ***** In person he is of a rather bloated appearance, with a bull neck, small eyes, broad large nose and a coarse vulgar mouth. His dress was a light blue coat, with brass buttons, elegant yellow summer vest, and pepper-and-salt trowsers. When at the Station House he expressed himself as being rather ‘peckish’ and said he would like a Black Pudding which, with a Cup of Coffee, was immediately procured or him.”
The incidental detail in the drawing is also notable – the Bible has been thrown on the floor and lies unnoticed, a mallet and chisel are there also, conveniently, should of this particular father decide to emulate the murderer and a cut-throat razor is prominently displayed on the mantelpiece. Above it are portraits – probably torn from a magazine – of what were often referred to as “celebrated murderers”, in this case Greenacre and Courvoisier.
Another Punch cartoon of the period is a commentary on the popularity of such portraits. A ragamuffin is purchasing an illustrated newspaper which is advertised by a poster proclaiming: Full particulars, Dreadful Murder, Portrait of MURDERER
Another line of business associated with such crimes – especially when executions took place in public up to the mid-1860s – was the sale of alleged “Last Confessions” by hawkers who moved through the enormous crowds that gathered to watch. The illustration below shows on such vendor.
A good example of the genre verses referring to Francois Bernard Courvoisier, a French valet who murdered his employer, Lord William Russel, in 1840. Courvoisier’s is one of the portraits over the mantelpiece in the cartoon referred to above. The lengthy account of the crime was apparently set to music (to a tune called “Waggon Train”) and there was a chorus in which everybody could join in – it must have made for a jolly evening at the tavern if not for a Sunday afternoon’s sing-along with the children.
Interest in such crime was not confined – as the Punch cartoon implies – to the “lower orders”. High-profile trials were followed as avidly as the O.J. Simpson case was to be followed in our own time. Refined intellectuals like Nathaniel Hawthorne, George Eliot and her partner G.H. Lewes were all fascinated by the murder-trial of Madeleine Smith murder case in 1857. The chilly bluestocking Jane Carlyle wrote at length, and breathlessly, to her even frostier husband Thomas about the same case. Both Dickens and Thackeray attended public hangings at least once (Dickens was disgusted) and even the arch-litterateur Henry James was still writing at length about the Smith case to a friend in 1914.
The tradition survives in the British Sunday newspapers but it is in the endless sequences of television documentaries about crime that carry it forward most effectively into the 21st Century. Interviews with victims’ families, with police, with local journalists and, on occasion, with perpetrators, often illustrated not just with gory photographs but with dramatized reconstructions, are in their way no better or no worse than the reading material being enjoyed in the 1849 slum.
Human nature does not change and the thirst for sensation is never slaked.
Antoine Vanner
Antoine Vanner is the author of the eleven-volume (so far) Dawlish Chronicles series that feature the adventures of a Victorian-era officer of the Royal Navy and his wife. Vanner’s fiction reflects deep knowledge of all political, military and social history of the 19th Century as well as of the “cutting edge technologies” of the time. His plots are linked to real events and real characters, often in settings in which he has lived and worked. His protagonists, Nicholas Dawlish R.N. and his indomitable wife, Florence, are confronted by difficult ethical choices as they balance ambition and conscience.
Britannia’s Amazon
Most of the Dawlish series is set overseas, but Britannia’s Amazon is set in the London of murders and murderers that Antoine describes above.
While her husband is overseas, Florence Dawlish finds herself plunged into brutal contact with the squalid underside of complacent Victorian society. The story plays out in a world of extreme wealth and limitless poverty, marriages of American heiresses to British aristocracy and children starving in foul garrets, crusading journalists and hideously disfigured match-girls, arrogant aesthetes and ineffectual benevolence.
Many Napoleonic wars enthusiasts dismiss Napoleon as a tyrannical megalomaniac who was good for nothing but war and who achieved little that benefitted France. This ignores the introduction of the prefecture system which enabled effective government across the whole country, his reform of the civil legal code which has a significant impact on legal principles across Europe even today, and his enthusiastic support of technical improvements across a range of scientific endeavours.
I’m writing this now because I have been reading Valerie Poore’s excellent blog about barge life in the Netherlands. She’s recently been writing about the history of some of the canals on the French-Belgian border and Napoleon’s name comes up time and time again. It was Napoleon who pushed for the Canal de Saint Quentin to be finished, a project that connected Paris by water to the coalfields of Belgium. It was originally conceived in the 1730s but abandoned due to other political priorities. Napoleon resurrected the scheme in 1801 and, with his drive and support, it was opened in 1810.
The Canal de Saint Quentin was just part of Napoleon’s vision for expanding the canal networks that linked France with its neighbours. In 1806 he gave orders to build the Canal de la Sensée (originally Censée) to link the Scarpe River and the Escaut River (English: Scheldt). Work didn’t start, though, until 1819, long after his defeat at Waterloo. It was open to navigation in 1820 and is still a working canal today.
This reminded me that when Napoleon invaded Egypt, in part to provide an overland route for his armies to march to India, he considered the idea of building a canal to link the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Suez. He had his surveyor, Jacques-Marie Le Pere carry out a survey on the feasibility of excavating a canal north from Suez. Unfortunately, attacks from Bedouin combined with extremes of temperature and vicious dust storms meant that his findings were false. He concluded that the Red Sea was almost 33 feet higher than the Mediterranean and that any attempt to link the two would lead to massive flooding. Only later was his error detected. The sea levels were in fact almost the same and just over 50 years later the Frenchman, Ferdinand de Lesseps, was to start construction of the modern canal. The historian Paul Strathern claims, though, that “the modern inauguration of this project, and the French involvement in it, certainly originated with Napoleon.”
It wasn’t just canals that Napoleon was enthusiastic about. Like all great generals going back to the time of the ancient Persians, he recognised the importance of roads in moving troops around his growing empire. Military roads were built connecting France to Germany, Italy, Spain and so on. In Croatia, the road known as ‘Napoleon’s Road’ or the ‘French Road’ was built primarily thanks to Napoleon’s military commander and duke of Dubrovnik, August Marmont. The 61km road extends from the south-east of Orebić to the north-west of the peninsula. Communication axes were an absolute political priority for Napoleon. Natural boundaries, such as the Alps between France and Italy, were traversed using post stations that allowed mail transit from one side to the other.
Within France, roads linked Paris to the regions, consolidating the capital’s grip on the provinces.
Napoleon’s enthusiasm for construction projects didn’t stop at roads and canals. He identified the lack of a proper sewage system as one of Paris’s main problems and, under his rule, the first vaulted sewer network was built. It was only 30 km long, but it marked a major step forward in the disposal of Paris’s waste and he regarded it as the most important thing he did for the city. The sewers followed the pattern of the streets above and were labelled with street names so you could and still can navigate the city as straightforwardly underground as above. Here’s part of it, which I photographed on a fascinating underground adventure.
So besides bringing years of war, economic turmoil and political repression to virtually all of continental Europe, what did Napoleon do for us? The answer is: more than you think.
Paul Strathern (2008) Napoleon in Egypt Vintage Books: London
Europeana Napoleon and urbanism in the 19th century: Protecting oneself https://www.europeana.eu/en/exhibitions/napoleon-and-urbanism-in-the-19th-century/protecting-oneself-destruction-and-reconstruction-of-the-city
It’s summer and everybody has better things to do with their time than sit and read my blog post. My beloved and I have been away for a couple of days having much more fun than if I’d stayed home writing.
We’ve been to Bristol, so our trip has had a historical element ranging from exploring Iron Age hill forts to an afternoon on the SS Great Britain (launched 1843) and time spent admiring the Clifton Suspension Bridge (completed 1864) from every angle. We rounded it off with a visit to Britain’s twee-est hamlet, Blaise Hamlet. Built as a model village in 1809, I thought it was beyond saccharine but if King Charles has his way, the solution to the housing crisis may see us all living like this!
Iron Age
This is the remains of the inner ramparts of the Iron Age fort at Leigh Woods near the Clifton Suspension Bridge
Here, after more than two thousand years, you can still see the ditch between two ramparts
Steam Age
The SS Great Britain was the first steel built ocean going ship to be powered by by a propellor rather than paddle wheels.
Clifton Suspension Bridge
Blaise Hamlet
The cottages here all all inhabited: we suspect by hobbits.
I visit quite a lot of historic sites around Britain but surprisingly few that relate directly to the periods that I write about. So my trip to Kew Palace this week was particularly enjoyable. I visited before, many years ago when it was rather a sad shadow of itself but this is the first time that I have seen it since it reopened to the public after major renovation in 2006. It’s been restored to its appearance in the early 19th century, slap in the middle of the Napoleonic wars, so a visit there is quite definitely a visit to a house being shown as it was lived in during James Burke’s time.
It may be odd to present this as if it was just an ordinary private house when it was in fact the home of King George III. However, this was very much a private home. (It was originally built in the 17th century for a successful merchant.) There was no architect as such. The builders put it up in line with the general direction of the man having it built. This was common in the 17th century.
Kew had been leased by the royal family since 1728, being used as “overspill” accommodation for the growing numbers of royal children. It was never the seat of the court and there are not the grand throne rooms and reception rooms of other historic royal palaces. George III loved the place. It was used mainly as a summer home. It was a private space where he could spend time with his family and it was conveniently situated close to some of the farmland which he managed. (George III was an enthusiastic agriculturalist and a strong supporter of new agricultural techniques being introduced in the later 18th century.)
When George III first went mad (to this day nobody knows for sure what was the matter with him), Kew Palace provided a quiet retreat where he was attended by doctors away from the glare of court life. He spent much of his time isolated in a separate wing of the palace which has since been demolished.
After the king was moved permanently to Windsor in 1810, Kew Palace was less often used although his wife, Queen Charlotte, was visiting Kew (passing through on her way from London to Windsor) when she was taken ill. She never left, dying there in November 1818. The armchair in which she died is still on display in the palace.
Kew, then, gives a fair impression of how a wealthy family would have lived around 1804.
The kitchens of the palace were in a separate block, originally linked to the palace by a covered walkway. Although Kew palace was principally a summer residence, carrying the food from the kitchens to the house must have meant that it arrived quite cool. Georgians were not that concerned about their food being very hot, although food warmers and chafing dishes would have reheated it to some extent.
The kitchens were abandoned for decades but Queen Victoria, visiting the palace, was enthusiastic about the idea of opening them to the public. They now provide I wonderful picture of the kitchens as they were in 1818.
Even in the recent hot weather, the cold room where food was stored remains chilly being a semi basement. Meat would be hung from the hooks in the metal beams.
Here’s the bakery. The small oven in the centre of the picture would be heated with wood in the oven. The ash would be cleared out and it would be used to bake bread. As it cooled, pies would be baked in it and, finally, desserts that needed to be cooked at a lower temperature would be put in.
Georgians did like a lot of pies, although the menus (lovingly hand copied from the original records in the nearby National Archive) showed an awful lot of roast meat, particularly mutton. Very different menus were served to the different ranks within the court with the King and Queen’s own menu featuring such delicacies as larks, grouse and crab, as well as venison and partridges.
The main kitchen represented the best in the kitchen technology at the time with the spit being turned by the rising draughts from the fire, thus sparing the need to have a small child constantly turning it.
One room in the kitchens is unusual in that it contains a bath. When George III was being treated for his illness at Kew, his doctors said that he should have regular hot baths. With no provision for heating large amounts of hot water in the palace itself, the king had his bathtub installed in the kitchens where hot water was readily available. The bathtub shown in the photograph is supposed to be his actual bathtub, although the wooden cover is now missing. The cover did not only keep in the heat, but meant that George could read and write in his bath.
I enjoyed my visit to Kew palace. I hope you can share in my pleasure at seeing Georgian life close to.
James Burke’s world
Burke never visited Kew Palace, but the real-life Burke, like the Burke of my novels, certainly mixed with some very well-placed men in this period and he would have visited houses like this.
There’s much more to Burke than a soldier-spy. He was a diplomat (see New research on James Burke) and well-connected with figures such as the Duke of York, who lived in Kew Palace as a child.
Learn more about James Burke and his world in my books: all available on Kindle and in paperback. You can read for free if you are subscribed to Kindle Unlimited: My books.
I’ve just realised that I’ve hardly ever written about Marble Hill House. I’ve written a lot about the park, but hardly anything about the house itself. This is a peculiar omission, especially as I’ve started doing some volunteer work over there so I’ll be spending a lot of time in the house and may well want to write about it in the future. So here’s an instant introduction to the place.
Marble Hill House sits by the river at Twickenham – a stretch known in the 18th century as ‘the Arcadian Thames’ where a string of great houses were built along the water highway from Westminster to Hampton Court. Most are now gone, but the wonderful Jacobean Ham House on the Surrey bank still faces Marble Hill and the one remaining wing of the once splendid Orleans House is a few hundred yards further along the river on the Middlesex side.
Marble Hill House was started in 1724. It was built for Henrietta Howard, the mistress of George II. She was no passing floozy, but a professional courtier who was a Woman of the Bedchamber to Queen Caroline and was highly regarded by many of those at court as a discreet and intelligent member of the innermost royal circle.
Henrietta Howard
Although she had made a successful career as a courtier, she did not particularly enjoy the life and planned to retire to Marble Hill and live quietly there. For years she was intimately involved with the design of the house and gardens.
The building is small. She did not intend to keep a large household and wanted to live in a very different style from the splendours of the Georgian court. In any case, she was short of money and building work was frequently delayed while she raised funds.
The house was built in the Palladian style, which was just becoming fashionable. Although it is small, it is exquisitely proportioned.
Building was completed in 1729 but Henrietta was not able to leave the court until 1734.
One factor that had kept her in the security of court life was her determination to avoid the attentions of her husband. She had married very young to a man who had abused and beaten her and she had sometimes had to rely on the king and queen to protect her from him. In 1733, though, he died and by 1735, free from both her husband and her royal lover, she married George Berkely, the youngest son of the Earl of Berkely and MP for Hedon in Yorkshire. She was too old to have children by then, but the couple were devoted to each other and she moved nieces and nephews into Marble Hill where they lived very happily as a family (albeit it one with a degree of coming and going among the younger family members).
George Berkely died in 1746 but Henrietta continued to live at Marble Hill until her own death in 1767. She had not only been involved in court and political life, but was the centre of an intellectual circle that included the playwright, Gay; the poet, Pope; and the novelist, Swift. Her private memoirs are regarded as one of the best guides to life in the early Georgian courts and the house at Marble Hill (the designing of which had been one of her main pleasures in her later years at court) still stands as one of the finest Palladian villas in England. (A quick Google search suggests several other contenders for this title but it is certainly a fine example.)
From 20 June, Amazon are increasing the print costs on their paperbacks. Inevitably this means their authors have to review what they are charging for the books.
All my Burke books are currently £8.99 which I judged as being roughly the “going rate” for this sort of paperback. To provide some context, the Sharpe series of Napoleonic war stories are £9.99 each.
At the moment, I make more money on sales of my Kindle e-books than I do on the paperbacks. You could argue that I should not bother with paperbacks at all. They’re more hassle to format, the covers (which I pay for) are more expensive and I pay for ISBN numbers for them. And, after all that, I don’t sell that many. But all writers, I think, want to see their books available in paperback. There is something about seeing the physical product of your work that is immensely satisfying and it’s lovely to have them siting there on my bookshelf or being able to inflict copies on my friends. ‘Look, Mom, I’m a real author!’
So I’m going to carry on with the paperbacks. But I am no longer going to effectively cross-subsidise them from the Kindle sales. From now on, they have to pay their way. So from 20 June, my Burke books will all cost £9.50 each.
£9.50, in these straitened times, may seem a lot but at London prices that’s three cappuccinos. (Price at Pret.) Very little of that goes to me. I get a higher proportion of the £3.99 you pay for a Kindle copy, which is why the Kindle version makes me more money (though obviously less than £3.99).
I could go on about how long it takes to write a book (particularly historical fiction), but I’m not going to. I don’t have to write them. If I wanted to make money, I could join Pret and sell you those cappuccinos. I’m just pointing out that selling my paperbacks for under £9.50 doesn’t make economic sense, even in the mad world that is publishing.
So what can you do if you do want to read a paperback copy of one of my books but you don’t want to pay £9.50 for it?
Here are some possibilities:
Order it from your local library. They can buy a copy (they may get a discounted price) and I still get paid but you read for free.
Put in a bulk order. If your book club wants to read any of my books (not just the James Burke ones), contact me (tom@tomwilliamsauthor.co.uk) and I can arrange a bulk order at a discounted price.
Buy directly from me. I can now take credit/debit card payments. I’ve tried putting a button on my landing page offering to post ‘Burke in the Land of Silver’ for £7.99 but so far I’ve had no takers. This is partly because I’ve not really promoted this offer. It’s by way of an experiment to see if the technology works and by the time I’ve paid postage, I’m not even sure that it will make me any money. But I’d love someone to try it. Failing that, email me with your credit card number and your address and I’ll send you any of the Burke books for £8.50. I’ll even sign them if you want.
And remember that all my Burke books are available on Kindle for £3.99 (or free if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited).
