Note the change.
My review below, a three star review, stands as written.
However, my teenager, a high school senior, grabbed this book the instant I set it down, and proclaims it to be "...even better than I thought!" She is using it to acquire extra credit in world history class, and speaks about the various murderesses as if they were family members. This one, she thinks was vindicated; that one, she has NO sympathy for.
So from our household, the average is now four stars; three from me, and five from Emiko.
"True crime" is a big house with a whole lot of rooms. Some true crime books are deliciously prurient; others are as dusty as the top of a ten foot tall bookcase. In this case, the title ("unspeakable") and the jacket artist lead the reader to believe we are really going to get down and dish the dirt, and what is more...it's all true!
Instead, what we have here is a very well-written, well-documented, extremely scholarly if surprisingly dry bit of research, maybe the author's advanced degree work. The collision between the teaser and the product are somewhat jarring. This was a First Read sent me free through the Goodreads program and the publisher. I would have abandoned it more readily had I not felt a duty to get through it.
What would have fit the bill without ruining the author's hard work is a good piece of juicy narrative nonfiction. Put in the documentation, but pick up the pace! As is, the book is sometimes a feminist treatise that all but blames Victorian society's social contract for slut-shaming as an understandable excuse for murder in the case of unsuitable, unmarriable mates of the lower classes (sorry, no sympathy here), or a self-defensive maneuver against constant verbal abuse, without the loss of a high standard of living that came with the ornery groom. A baby born out of wedlock gets snuffed when an abortion can't be obtained.
At other times, the pace quickens a bit, as if the author is about to get excited and take us along with her, but then her dispassionate researcher's mind grabs hold of her--stop it right now, you're getting worked up!--and we go back to the librarian's hushed monotone.
The font, while suitably Victorian, is really tiny and hard on the eyes.
It may be that I am being unfair to Hartman; she has done a good deal of work here, and the fault may lie with Dover or whoever is publishing and promoting her work. All I know is that I expected this to be a fun read, and it wasn't. I kept pushing it away in favor of other reading, as if postponing the book might make me like it better once I returned to it.
A strong, scholarly effort that should have been marketed as such. Not a Halloween read.