Page 54 of Disturbing the Dead
I glance at Gray, who only shrugs.
“The Bloody Register?” Jack says. “The Newgate Calendar?”
“Oh,” I say. “I know what that is. I’ve never heard it called the Bloody Register, though.”
“That was the subtitle. The Malefactors’ Bloody Register.”
“But you said they’re old, and the calendar is still being published.”
“That version doesn’t count.”
From Isla, I know that The Newgate Calendar started out as a simple bulletin, published by the Newgate Prison, listing executions. The title was co-opted by others who churned out chapbooks on the lives of famous criminals, and those are what Jack’s mother would have been reading.
The “Newgate Calendar” went through several iterations, finally becoming a penny dreadful that ended a few years ago, according to Isla. The Calendars, though, also sparked a literary movement of “Newgate novels.” This part I know from my English prof dad.
Dickens’s Oliver Twist was considered a Newgate novel in its time, meant as a compliment by crime readers and an insult by authors like Thackeray. On that note, let me just say that I devoured the work of Dickens and have never been able to finish a Thackeray, and if that makes my tastes decidedly lowbrow, so be it. My father didn’t raise a literary snob.
“So how does this relate to these stories about Dr. Gray?” I ask.
“Because The Newgate Calendar was a way for people to read about horrible crimes and tell themselves it was their duty, as good Christian folk.”
I remember that part. The Newgate Calendar was considered acceptable for children because the stories were framed as cautionary tales. Of course, that’s not why anyone was reading stories about things like child killers—both those who murdered children, and murderers who were children themselves.
“Okay,” I say. “I get it now. If the stories about Dr. Gray are marketed as detective fiction, suitable for women and children, then they provide a way to read about murder while pretending it is not a prurient and unsuitable interest in violence.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think an interest in violence is particularly unsuitable unless one is looking for a how-to guide on committing it. Even then, since detective fiction ends with the killer always being caught, if that’s one’s interest, it’s more of a cautionary tale.”
Jack stretches her leg under the table, her boot knocking mine as she does. “Like the Newgate Calendars.”
“So would the main market for this be women? Possibly under the guise of reading adventurous tales to their children?”
“From what I hear, yes.”
That isn’t surprising. Women are the primary consumer of true crime in the modern day. It’s not prurient interest as much as self-preservation. They aren’t looking for ways to commit murder. They’re looking for ways to avoid becoming a victim of it.
“Most of it is fiction, though,” Jack says. “The accounts of real detectives are quite a rare thing, although there were the McLevy books, a few years ago.”
When I raise a brow, Gray is the one who answers. “James McLevy was the first Edinburgh criminal officer. He published a couple of popular books on his past cases.”
Jack nods. “Which is why my writerly friend would be put out by the thought of someone else writing up your cases. They may have a small audience now, but in the right hands, they could be just as popular as McLevy’s adventures. And even more lucrative. Which is why you should let my friend write the authorized accounts. They’d give you… Oh, ten percent of the earnings.”
“I would like to hire you to find the writer of these tales,” Gray says. “I will pay you a stipend for the investigation, with a reward if you find them.”
“Uh…” I look at Gray. “She’s already charging people—including us—for introducing them to herself.”
Jack sighs. “You are convinced I am a writer. It is most flattering. I wish I were.”
I note that she doesn’t say she isn’t. I’m not pursuing this. There’s little point in it… yet.
I look at Gray. “What’s to stop her from taking your stipend to not find herself?”
“I am not the writer of these new accounts,” she says, and I note she doesn’t say her friend isn’t that writer.
“That is why it is a stipend,” he says. “With the proper payment coming when Jack finds the culprit. That payment being that I will grant her friend exclusive information on my future cases—for their crime broadsheets. The stipend is that she will have exclusive information on this case. For her writerly friend.”
“You do know how to deal, Dr. Gray,” Jack says. “If I find this writer, my friend gets to take over? Authorized purveyor of your fine tales of derring-do?”
