text: James Maybrick wasn’t just a love rat, he was also a self-medicating hypochondriac who believed small quantities of arsenic to have an invigorating effect. When in 1889 he became ill, James’s response was to dose himself up with even more toxic potions; in the week leading up to his death, he was given no fewer than 20 harmful “medicines” by his doctors. The fatal dose was believed to lurk in a bottle of meat juice, this revolting beverage becoming central to the trial. Florence claimed that James had asked her to add arsenic to his dose, believing it would act as a restorative. While this was initially deemed plausible, the revelation that Florence had been entertaining herself with a flashy young man by the name of James Brierley made her actions appear deeply suspicious. Her habit of soaking arsenic-impregnated fly-papers for cosmetic use strengthened the claims of those who suspected her of mariticide. A bewildered Florence was soon arrested and taken into custody.
  As Colquhoun explains, a jury comprising plumbers, grocers, and farmers was “charged with determining one of the most complicated toxicological cases of the day,” trying to establish whether a man addicted to arsenic could have been poisoned by that very substance. In the absence of any hard scientific evidence, Florence’s infidelity soon obscured the facts of the case. Judge James Stephen, uncle of Virginia Woolf, thought Florence had done her husband a “dreadful injury” by having an affair, believing this sufficient grounds for convicting her. Given the death penalty was still in place for murder, this was a staggeringly harsh attitude. The trial became “a national morality fable, the inevitable result of too much spirit or too little independence, depending on your point of view”. For some, Florence was a foolish and impressionable young woman who had attempted to care for her cold-hearted husband; for others, she was a callous adulterer who sought to free herself from a loveless marriage. Queen Victoria, never one to sit on the fence, thought Florence’s infidelity proof of her guilt and demanded that she be judged accordingly. Ultimately, the verdict proved inconclusive, and the debate raged for decades afterwards.
  Colquhoun is rigorously impartial throughout her story, refusing to divulge her own verdict on Florence’s guilt, and presenting this labyrinthine case with clarity and verve. She doesn’t spare any gory details, although it’s hard to say whether the account of James’s autopsy or the forensic analysis of a profoundly dysfunctional marriage is more uncomfortable to read. There are no conclusive answers here, but through her effervescent narrative Colquhoun exposes bizarre medical practices, the public appetite for sensation, and the precarious position of the Victorian wife. Like Queen Victoria, I’m not one to sit on the fence: I thought Florence innocent of murder. She struck me as a naive and not very bright woman who was trying to relieve the ennui of her circumscribed existence through a fairly inept attempt at adultery. Even her own mother described her as a “woman of little penetration”. With hardly any money of her own, it was in her interests to maintain this sham of a marriage. You might not agree with my verdict, but you can’t fail to be stirred by a dramatic and moving story told by a gifted historian. This is quite possibly one of the most serious miscarriages of justice in recent times, although we’ll never know for sure. The Maybrick coat of arms bore the motto “Time reveals all” – but not in this case.
  Did She Kill Him? A Victorian Tale of Deception, Adultery and Arsenic by Kate Colquhoun is available in hardback and Kindle editions.
  Last year saw the 100th anniversary of the death of Emily Wilding Davison, the brave and determined suffragette who attempted to stop the King’s horse during the Epsom Derby. Many have decried the foolishness of such acts, believing that female suffrage would somehow have happened spontaneously, if only these silly women had been patient; others, however, knew that direct action alone would stimulate a response from an apathetic political elite.
  Elizabeth Robins, an American actress and author, advocated militancy as the only way of achieving equality, lending her considerable talents to the campaign. Her play Votes for Women! was performed to packed houses after premièring at the Royal Court Theatre in 1907. Directed by Harley Granville Baker, and with input from Henry James and George Bernard Shaw, the production was a resounding hit with critics. As part of her research, Robins attended numerous suffragette meetings and rallies, using some of the dialogue verbatim. In a scene set during a Trafalgar Square protest, the actresses playing the suffragettes even interacted with the audience – much to their delight.
  Having divided the proceeds between the WSPU and NUWSS, Robins decamped to the country and started re-writing the play to produce what is now her best-known work, The Convert, published in 1907. As an established novelist, Robins correctly predicted that this format would garner even more publicity for the suffrage cause. The dramatic structure of the play is evident in the novel, giving it tautness and pace; the lively and authentic dialogue also brings some of the atmosphere of the theatre production to the page.
  The story centres on Vida Levering, a society beauty who turns personal tragedy into political triumph by throwing her considerable intellect and energy behind the campaign. She also uses a guilty secret to gain the support of her ex-lover, rising Tory politician Geoffrey Stonor. In Robins’ novel, the militants are portrayed as noble women who care passionately about their cause, rather than as the bitter troublemakers of popular myth. The quotes from hostile men who turned out to heckle the campaigners are taken from real events, showing the danger these women were prepared to endure in order to stand up for their principles.
  Although this is a polemical novel, it is also funny and poignant, giving the reader a sense of what it would have been like to have witnessed these tumultuous and momentous times.
  We’re thrilled to have published a new critical edition of Sarah Grand’s The Beth Book, edited by Jenny Bourne Taylor. As far as we’re concerned, this is one of the most important novels of the nineteenth century (and actually Catherine’s favourite).
  First published in 1897, The Beth Book – Being a Study from the Life of Elizabeth Caldwell Maclure, a Woman of Genius, is a semi-autobiographical novel offering a portrait of the artist as a young woman. Grand’s compelling story recounts in vivid detail the childhood of her young heroine, Beth, a spirited and intelligent girl who challenges the constraints placed upon her.
  First published in 1892, Grania is the story of a fisherman’s daughter from the Islands of Aran, off the coast of Galway. Grania O’Malley’s life is circumscribed by family duty and her destiny as wife to her feckless fiancé, Murdough Blake. When she realises he wants her only for her money and property, Grania rejects him in favour of heroism, although with tragic consequences.
  With her unique poetic style, Emily Lawless evokes a vivid picture of island life, with its unforgiving landscape and grinding poverty.
  We’re very happy to announce a new critical edition of Elizabeth Robins’s rousing suffragette novel, The Convert. First published in 1907 The Convert was based on Elizabeth Robins’ hugely successful play, Votes for Women! which advocated militancy as the only means of achieving female suffrage.
  This edition includes a critical introduction by Emelyne Godfrey, explanatory footnotes, bibliography, and further contextual material.
  Now that I’ve finished writing my thesis on Florence Marryat (just a few tweaks and proofreading to go), I can take a more objective view of her fiction. Having read all 68 of her novels, it’s fair to say that they are not of equal merit; in fact, some are downright dreadful. With 7 children to support and a predilection for useless husbands, Marryat was obliged to write quickly, often completing a novel within six weeks and seldom revising her manuscripts. Her haste in evident in around half the novels, their pages yielding very little, even for this determined scholar. Every so often, however, Marryat would stun me with a novel of such originality that I was instantly reminded why I wanted to spend all this time and money on writing a thesis that perhaps half a dozen people will read.
  Anyway, I’m often asked, “what’s the best Marryat novel?” Of course, pronouncing on “the best” of anything is a tricky matter, as one person’s masterpiece is another’s stinker. Artistically, I think Love’s Conflict (1865) her best novel, as she took great pains with the structure, although some of its power was lost through editorial changes made by Geraldine Jewsbury. For sheer entertainment and stimulation, Her Father’s Name (1876) trumps all the others. This novel has something for everyone: murder, sleuthing, cross-dressing, lesbianism, and hysteria.
  The action opens in Brazil, with heroine Leona Lacoste dressed as Joan of Arc. Flanked by a toucan and a goat, she nonchalantly rolls a cigarette, pausing briefly to deflect a sex pest with her pistol. The reader is immediately alerted to the fact that this is no ordinary Victorian heroine. Accused of murder, Leona’s father commits suicide, prompting her to embark upon an international quest to clear his name. Obviously, a young lady couldn’t just go gadding about in the nineteenth century, so Leona dresses as a man and steals the identity of Christobal, a childhood friend who is desperate to marry her. She heads for London, managing to get involved in a duel during the crossing. With Leona there is no faffing about: she shoots her opponent straight in the chest. On arrival, she sneaks into her uncle’s house, posing as a merchant by the name of Don Valera. His adopted daughter Lucilla, a hysteric who has been confined to her couch since the onset of puberty, is overcome with lust, refusing to have any truck with the handsome doctor her parents wanted her to marry. Indeed, Lucilla/Don Valera is seemingly irresistible to nearly everyone, with all the society minxes falling at her feet.