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272 pages, Hardcover
First published October 25, 2018
“Who would want to butcher in his sleep this unobtrusive minor aristocrat, with his afternoons at Brooks’s and his restrained widower habits?”I’m not overfond of airports or aeroplanes – in fact, I would describe myself as having mild aviophobia – so tend, when flying, to struggle concentrating on a book for any length of time. I therefore take care always to slip something moderately light (in a literary sense) into my bag before leaving home in hope of distracting myself from squealing children, big-boned neighbours, unexpected turbulence and other minor irritants likely to arise at 40,000 feet.
“This is really too horrid!”From royalty to the most impoverished ragamuffin, Londoners were enthralled by every gory detail of Russell’s murder. It also provoked intense debate about censorship and in particular, a work of fiction: Jack Sheppard by William Harrison Ainsworth - when the suspected murderer was revealed to have read the novel before committing this apparently motiveless crime. Leading writers of the day, among them Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray were dragged into the controversy, and it seemed that literature itself had been put on trial.
(Queen Victoria)
“[…] such a wound could never have been inflicted casually; the knife must have been forced down hard, as on to a recalcitrant Sunday roast.”Many thanks to Viking for providing an advance review copy of this title.
Early in the morning of Wednesday, 6 May 1840, on an ultra-respectable Mayfair street one block to the east of Park Lane, a footman called Daniel Young answered the door to a panic-stricken young woman, Sarah Mancer, the maid of the house opposite. Fetch a surgeon, fetch a constable, she cried: her master, Lord William Russell, was lying in bed with his throat cut.
So much had been written about the contagion of Ainsworth's novel, so many column inches had been expended on quantifying the evil impact of the theatrical and the broadside versions and the shows at the penny gaffs, that the public had got used to seeing Ainsworth's book blamed for a sudden and steep increase in petty criminality, but having responsibility for a murder placed at its door took criticism of the book into a different stratum.
Charles Dickens, who was living nearby in Devonshire Terrace, must have followed the unfolding news with more than usual interest. He was writing a story – Barnaby Rudge – that begins with the brutal stabbing in his bed of the elderly Reuban Haredale, by an undiscovered intruder. Life, it seemed, was imitating art. And at his desk in Great Coram Street in Bloomsbury, the young illustrator and journalist William Makepeace Thackery was bothered by the noise of the news-seller's cries outside: “Here is a man shouting out We shall have this Lord William Russell murder,” he wrote to his mother, “a nuisance and so it is the stupid town talks of nothing else.” Little did he realize how much more talk there would be in the coming months, nor how closely this crime touched his own concerns.