my guest for Tuesday Talk - Susan Grossey, and her protagonist, Constable Sam Plank
Authors who set their books in the past tend to become
rather protective of “their” era, and I am no exception. I write historical financial crime novels set
in London in the 1820s, and when someone (very generously) compares them, for
instance, to the Mr Whicher books or the Sherlock Holmes stories, I am very
quick to point out that they are Victorian while mine are late Regency. And when I am researching a new book, I am
very strict with myself so as to avoid cross-contamination: apart from my
research, I do not allow myself to read or watch anything set within “a century
of Sam” (the hero of my books is Constable Sam Plank).
The Sam Plank novels are all about financial crime: “Fatal
Forgery” dealt with bank fraud, while “The Man in the Canary Waistcoat” tackled
investment scams. And for the third, “Worm
in the Blossom”, I decided to move on to blackmail. As for what would precipitate the blackmail,
I settled on child prostitution. But
when the book was published, it was suggested that it might be out of time –
that people in 1826 did not think of child prostitution in the way we do, and
would not have been outraged by it. To
be completely honest, I was a little worried about this myself when I started;
after all, in 1826 the age of consent was only twelve. But the more I read about the subject, the
more convinced I became that it was entirely possible – probable, even – that
my hero would not have been content to see adult men procuring young girls for
sex. Granted, having sex with a thirteen
year old girl was not illegal in 1826, but there is plenty of evidence to
suggest that it was considered shameful – and men who are ashamed of what they
do are perfect targets for blackmail, as they become in “Worm in the Blossom”.
The concept of “childhood” underwent enormous change in the
nineteenth century. The London Orphan
Asylum – whose institutional aims included the rescue of destitute orphans
“from the walks of vice and profligacy” – was opened in 1814 in east London. And indeed throughout the century, philanthropists
and churches worked to protect children from moral danger. Sam Plank, introduced to the world of
charitable works by a Quaker banker friend, would have been well aware of these
efforts, and, having seen as a constable the terrible conditions in which
abandoned children lived, would certainly have supported and promoted
them. Education was seen as the way
forward: London’s first official infant school was opened in Spitalfields in
1820, while the Cotton Mills and Factories Act of 1825 restricted the hours
that could be worked by children under the age of sixteen so that they could be
schooled – as well as demonstrating that the definition of “child” was not
linked in the public mind to that low age of consent. Modern and compassionate people in other
countries were similarly active; the Ontario Office of the Children’s Lawyer –
still active today – was set up in 1820.
In parallel, public acceptance of prostitution – for years
seen as a necessary service to satisfy male appetites – was shrinking rapidly. The Vagrancy Act of 1824 made it an offence
for a “common prostitute” to “wander in the public street or public highways,
or any place of public resort, and behave in a riotous or indecent manner”. And in a campaign now known as “the Ordeal of
St Sepulchre’s”, the residents of one lower middle-class London parish in the
1820s mobilised – successfully – against the brothels in their community.
Against this factual background, I placed my
characters. Constable Sam Plank is an
experienced magistrates’ constable, a quarter-century of service under his
belt. He sees the worst in society every
day, and longs to improve things – particularly for the most vulnerable. His wife Martha has a fondness for children,
having none of her own, and when Sam brings home a terrified young prostitute,
Martha sees a child and not a woman.
Sam’s boss, the magistrate John Conant, is known for his
forward-thinking, liberal and campaigning ideas, as are Sam’s banker friend and
his charitable Quaker associates. When
they see men with an appetite for young girls, they are troubled not by the
legality of the situation – no law is being broken, as long as the girls are
operating from brothels and not walking the streets – but by its shame. By the 1820s, the thinking classes are
already of the opinion that childhood goes beyond twelve, and they are starting
to agitate for changes in the legislation.
The fact that it takes decades for this to happen is no surprise; after
all, the first “freedom suit”, challenging the legality of slavery, took place
in Scotland in 1755 – a full fifty-two years before the Act for the Abolition
of the Slave Trade was passed in 1807.
The criminal masterminds in “Worm in the Blossom” are able to exploit
this change in taste: they make money from selling the girls, and then they
make money by blackmailing the men who buy them.
The huge changes of the Regency period were what drew me to
it in the first place – post-Austen, pre-Dickens, it is a remarkably untouched
era for detective fiction. Next on my
agenda is the altering attitude to art fraud; at a time when young ladies of
accomplishment spent their days in galleries copying great works of art, just
what was forgery? Sam is going to find
out…
To follow Susan’s writing blog – where she confesses all as
she works her way through the Sam Plank series – follow this link:
The published Sam Plank novels – “Fatal Forgery”, “The Man
in the Canary Waistcoat” (longlisted for the HNS Indie Award 2016) and “Worm in
the Blossom” – are available in paperback and numerous e-formats; for purchase
information, follow this link:
