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ten-cent-sleuth · 6 months

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A Galling Yoke, Part 10

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for the Taking the Blame / Framed / Admitting to Something You Didn’t Do and Good intentions that end in bad results squares on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Mature (for potential triggers, not for sexual content)

BEWARE THE CONTENT WARNINGS POSTED ABOVE.

Sleep evaded you for two days straight. The first night, you did not even bother lying down; you knew rest would not come after such a thought had passed through your mind, so you focused on inspecting, scrutinising, picking apart and building up that thought. There was no escaping it. As far as your certainty went, William was the killer. Well, the hirer of the killer; if he was guilty of any felony because of you, you had to do whatever you could to keep him from being punished for it.

As soon as the day broke, you sent a note to Jotyard, summoning your father posthaste. You tried to spend the rest of that day productively but were not nearly as successful as you would hope. You then tried to spend the night asleep but were entirely unsuccessful, listless and anxious as you were. However, Lord Coltidge arrived in the small hours before dawn, so your tossing and turning was not without reward.

Eschewing any preamble, you greeted your father in your sitting room with, “You want me to be blamed for the murder, do you not?”

The earl looked mildly surprised. “Yes. William wanted the true manner of Edmund’s death to come out, but my heir cannot be found guilty of murder. We compromised: I agreed to hire a detective to ‘uncover’ the truth, and he agreed to accept whatever culprit the detective could identify.”

Scowling, you nodded. You knew your father well enough that he did not have to explain that even as he drafted this agreement with your brother, he had planned to shift the playing board here and there so that William would not be the identified culprit. When you dredged up the affair and the mistress, Lord Coltidge found the perfect alternative: you.

And as your mind ran through the possible avenues leading forth from this moment, you found yourself, for the first time in decades, aligning with your father’s point of view.

If only Lord Coltidge had hired another investigator. Any other investigator. Then, perhaps you could guide this case to an open-ended conclusion with no concrete suspects, no arrests. But Sherlock Holmes would not rest until the case was resolved to his satisfaction. Generally, that meant a guilty party that made sense, and the only suspect who would make more sense than the caring brother of the deceased’s neglected wife was the neglected wife herself.

With a sigh, you clasped your hands in front of you and met your father’s wary, watchful gaze. “Allow me until the end of the week.”

To your grim amusement, the earl looked startled and confused for the first time in this conversation. “To do what, Daughter?” he questioned.

“That is my business,” you said, deriving some twisted gratification from finally allowing yourself to express the sternness and derision you felt towards your father. “All you need know is that by the end of the week, I shall go to Scotland Yard and confess as the murderess of Edmund Sulyard. My brother’s name—nor yours—shall not pass my lips.”

Lord Coltidge’s jaw actually dropped. Not wide open, but still. You almost laughed.

“Do we have an agreement?” you demanded.

“You— I—” The earl shook himself. “Yes, child. I shall not interfere with the rest of your week. Yes.”

Heavens, you couldn’t recall the last time he had called you “child”. It might have pleased you, in other circumstances. It should have enraged you, in these. Yet you found yourself feeling nothing at all. Pursing your lips, you gestured towards the door, and Lord Coltidge actually managed to bow and fare you well before departing.

You leaned your back against the wall, pressed your hands to your face, and breathed.

William or you. It was William or you.

It could not be William.

He had his life ahead of him, gold and aglitter. Yours lay in tatters behind you. Heir apparent to powerful titles and prosperous estates, handsome and kind and educated, he had a future. A disobedient and disregarded daughter, a childless widow on the shelf, you only had a past.

It had to be you.

Thus determined, you awayed to 221 Baker Street and pounded on the door as soon as you possibly could. It was still too early for a house call in the eyes of etiquette, but Sherlock would at least be up and would not mind.

Or if he did, he would have much bigger problems to preoccupy him soon.

“Your ladyship?” the detective himself greeted you upon opening his door, brow furrowed. “I fear I have no updates to—”

“I might have one,” you interjected, your heart starting to thaw from the numbness that had encased it mere hours ago.

Sherlock blinked but stepped aside to let you in.

The moment your eyes landed on the case board, the first hints of actual distress hit you: a wave of nausea, a sob building in your lungs, a tremble in the bad knee. Somehow, your fate was the easiest thing in the world to accept until you were here, in Sherlock’s flat, in Sherlock’s presence.

Drifting to the board, you pressed a hand to your chest to still the heart railing against you. Why must you suffer for what William did? it raged. Why must you sacrifice everything when you did nothing? Give in! Give in and tell Sherlock the TRUTH!

Your blood stampeded, your thoughts screamed, your vision swam. You wanted to give in. Angels above, you so desperately wanted to give in—

“No,” you whispered harshly, your hand curling into a fist at your chest. William was your brother. What was wanted didn’t matter. You loved him. It could not be him. You loved him. It had to be you.

“My lady?”

You turned around. Sherlock was watching you but was keeping his distance. You smiled.

“Forgive me for barging in on you in such a way, sir.”

“Of course; it is no inconvenience to me. You are always… That is, you are here about the case?”

“Yes.” It has to be you. Has to be, has to be, has to be. “May I trouble you for some tea? I believe this discussion shall warrant it.”

The furrow in his brow deepened. “Certainly, my lady,” he muttered, clearly hesitant even as he shuffled off to the kitchen.

You surprised yourself with how swiftly you moved once he was out of sight; though your breath trembled in your throat, your hands were steady as they dismantled the board of clues and ideas. And for once, you were glad the winter chill had a knack for stealing through London homes, for Sherlock’s fireplace was already blazing to ward it off. Throwing the numerous notes, photos, miscellaneous papers, and strips of string into the flame was the work of an instant.

“Your ladyship, what—?”

Your heart whirled around in your breast, but you did not move at his voice. In his haste to reach the hearth, he jostled you, and still you remained transfixed on the charring materials, on the puffs of smoke they gave as your case—your husband’s case—disappeared from all but your and Sherlock’s memories.

“Have you gone mad?” he cried, looking up at you from where he kneeled on the floor, his eyes wide and his hair askew. “It will take me days to rewrite and reorder all of my notes! And the coroner’s report—the anonymous letter— I have no copies of those! What evidence am I to present to Scotland Yard when I find the killers?”

You stared down at him. You wanted to comfort him, to reassure him that he would not be found lacking because he would have an unresisting confessant, but you had returned to feeling numb. More so, in fact, than when you had accepted your fate with your father. Indeed, how could you open your mouth to speak when your lips, your tongue, your jaw felt entirely detached from you?

Another moment passed with Sherlock’s bewilderment shrinking to small, soft concern. Climbing to his feet, he grasped at you and murmured, “Are you all right, my lady? Do you feel ill? Has something happened?” Close up, you could see his nostrils flare. “Has somebody… Did somebody tell you to do this? Have you been threatened?”

Heavens, he was so close. His touch was so cold.

“No,” you whispered. “No to all of your questions. I simply…”

“What?” he asked, his voice quieter and harsher than yours had been. “Simply what?”

You stared. It simply has to be you.

Sherlock let go of you with such revulsion that you almost staggered back like you’d been physically pushed. “I do not understand,” he said. “I do not understand at all! If your actions are your own, not born of illness, can you not explain them to me? If they are rational, can you not share the rationale? I trust you, my lady, but not blindly!”

At that, your heart, still beating against you in rebellion, quailed at last. “I ought to leave you now,” you said, moving back towards the door. “I see you need time to regain control of yourself, and it would not do for me to witness a man’s loss of temper.”

With a scoff, he stepped into your way. “It would not do?” he snarled. “Would that I were more surprised that you would turn your back to reality and hie away under the guise of decorum!”

You frowned but did not reply. Your nonverbal reaction seemed to be enough for him, however.

“Oh, yes,” he said, dry as the unforgiving desert. “Less than a fortnight ago, you accused me of always hiding behind logic, but it was not long in our reacquaintance before I saw that you have taken to hiding behind etiquette. The girl I knew—my friend, my dearest friend—would never have feared finding out the truth, whatever it was, whatever it cost!”

Hiding? “Act not like you know who I am,” you spat. Hiding? “Nobody—nobody—knows who I am.” Sometimes it feels I am the only one not hiding, exposed and alone.

He scoffed again, this time with the full force of his disdain. “Perhaps nobody else, but I am different. My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people do not know.”

“Oh, you are not all that different.” You rolled your eyes to punctuate your utter disinterest. “You may piece together my habits and my history within minutes—within seconds. But that is all external, all merely the world-and-me. You know naught what matters!”

Shaking his head, Sherlock stepped towards you. “No! No, you only think that because I have not commented on what I have noticed since we have reconnected in London.”

You shook your head as well, more surprised by his desperation than by his condescension.

He stepped closer. “Dismiss me not with so apathetic a face, madam,” he warned. “I have refrained from making deductions about the changes in you, but if I must prove myself to be a detective worthy of an answer—” His arm shook with rage as he thrust it towards the fireplace.

“Sherlock,” you tried; no gold he spun from straw could change your mind.

“The first peculiarity,” he cut in, “that stood out to me was the lack of footmen. It took me a few days to verify there were no others, but yes, it seems the butler is the only male in your entire household.”

“Sherlock—”

“Speaking of Mr Rogers, the man has not stopped watching me closely and shooting me dark looks, threatening looks, in all my visits to your home. He is not the only protective member on your staff: after our disagreement in the kitchen, after you watched my experiment with electricity and then fled, your cook saw your distress and castigated me for upwards of ten minutes for apparently causing it. I have never known employees to be so easily provoked on behalf of their employer!”

You had no response for that; you had not even been aware…

“And”—he waved an index finger in the air—“that employer is not what I expected either. I noted you did not withhold criticism of Sulyard as a person yet avoided talking about his effect on you. You did not want Mrs Rogers talking about it, either; you interrupted her—rather unlike you—when she wished to comment on his treatment of you.”

You started to feel lightheaded. “Sherlock…”

“In fact,” he exclaimed, “that you would fall down the stairs entirely by accident was dubious to me from the start—exacerbated by your distress when I asked about your injuries. Each peculiarity can and was taken as a quirk of an individual, but now that I am considering them as pieces of a whole, an image starts to form. Your household is defensive, you are guarded, because your husband was not merely self-centred and foolish as many husbands are, but actively violent and—”

His forehead creased, his lips parted, as he turned slowly towards you. The realisation in his eyes made you sick.

Sherlock, whimpered your heart as it plummeted to the floor and shattered.

He stepped forwards, and though you wanted to step back, your feet were cemented to the floor. Your every limb felt heavy, in fact; your every pore felt torn open, your every hair pulled to attention, your every layer wrenched out of your grip.

“My lady…” There were dozens of questions contorting his face, all of them based on Is it true?

“No, no, no,” you whispered. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t… After everything you’d done to keep him—to keep anyone—from finding out… To keep yourself from ever having to think about…

Shoulders tense but hands wide open, he stepped into your space and reached for you.

Abruptly, you were not numb anymore.

“No!” you yelled, batting away his hands. “How dare you? How dare you?”

“Petal,” he tried again, his voice cracking.

And suddenly, all you could think of was William. Dear, despicable, beloved, wretched brother! The protest in your chest flared back to life: Why must you suffer for what William did? Why must you sacrifice everything when you did nothing? Your eyes stung with liquid bitterness as you grabbed the edge of a chair and doubled over with the pain of so many injuries. Lord Coltidge marrying you off to an abusive blackguard without a thought for your needs or wishes. William Voss ruining his life, ostensibly for your sake, without even consulting you. And most mortifying of all, Sherlock Holmes stripping you of the bandages covering a thousand wretched wounds in his tactless attempts to prove you were known.

“How dare you,” you sobbed angrily.

“I… I simply—”

“What?” you snapped. “Simply what? You simply think you can fix any problem, mend any tragedy, by simply being the smartest person in the room? I am sorry to disappoint you, sir! Cleverness and presumption shall do naught for me! For I am finished, wholly finished, with those who think my life is theirs to dig through, theirs to upheave, simply because they see solutions or—or pathways that I do not. My problems are mine. How dare he— That is, how dare you— How dare anyone dismiss what I wish to do about them?”

Miserably, brokenly, Sherlock whispered your name—your real name, your Christian name, the name he had not uttered to you in fifteen years. Oh, you had struck him—laid him out, cut him open, though you hadn’t intended to. You squeezed your eyes shut and allowed a few tears to leak out. He had not wanted to hurt you either, you knew; nor had your brother or, really, your father. The only one who had ever meant you harm—and enjoyed inflicting it, at that—was your husband. And still, and still, and still.

What was wanted didn’t matter.

“I… I apologise, Sherlock,” you croaked out, peeling your eyes open. “It is… It is humiliating for you to learn of it this way, but I…should not be angry. It is good that you know. Now, you have your motive.”

He looked stricken. “You do not mean that. You cannot—”

“I can, and I do,” you told him tiredly. Moments ago, it had felt relieving, lightening, to react fully and deeply to your brother’s crime and its implications for the first time since it had been revealed or confirmed to you, but now, you only felt weariness. “I murdered Edmund Sulyard for beating and belittling me all the years of our marriage, and you cannot prove otherwise.”

Watching Sherlock’s jaw work and his eyes flit about, you knew there was no coming back from this. You had thought the impassioned conversation in your sitting room had damaged your relationship? That did not even look like a fight anymore! From now on, Sherlock would see you as a criminal if he believed your confession or a lying saboteur if he did not, and either way…he would see you differently now that he knew.

Either way…his friendship was lost to you.

Suddenly, you could no longer stand watching him. Watching him stare and struggle. Watching him slip away from you.

So you ran. So you ran despite your knee’s protests and Sherlock’s shouts alike, you ran until you had turned enough corners to have lost any pursuit he would have mounted, you ran to hail a hansom to drive you home. So you dragged yourself up your front steps, you pushed past the Rogerses’ greetings and questions, you limped to your chambers. So you slid to the floor, you wept and, God forgive you, you hid.

Hi. :) Thank you for reading, and thank you @marveldcmistress for betaing. I know this chapter is a doozy; I only hope it’s not horribly done. Feedback is always welcome! (And as always, a cookie to anyone who can spot the Arthur Conan Doyle reference.)

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

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bitter69uk · 12 days

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As the host of East London’s monthly Lobotomy Room cinema club (devoted to Bad Movies for Bad People), permit to occasionally suggest some joyful, trashy and neglected films from the celluloid underbelly for your viewing pleasure! This time: 1964 hagsploitation classick Strait-Jacket starring Joan Crawford as an axe murderess!

#lobotomy room #straitjacket #joan crawford #william castle #horror movies #hagsploitation #vintage sleaze #kitsch #graham russell #cult film #cult cinema #bad movies for bad people #bad movies we love #b movie #lgbtqia

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timdrakestanforever · 1 year

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I posted 32 times in 2022

That's 32 more posts than 2021!

27 posts created (84%)

5 posts reblogged (16%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@lostmelody123

@sleeping-lilies

@jurrassicpark

@mollyhats

@timdrakestanforever

I tagged 32 of my posts in 2022

#tim drake - 16 posts

#ask reply - 15 posts

#jason todd - 12 posts

#you're faking a smile with soup to go - 8 posts

#dick grayson - 6 posts

#damian wayne - 4 posts

#tim drake-wayne - 4 posts

#personal - 3 posts

#my fic! - 3 posts

#soup with a side of salt - 3 posts

Longest Tag: 99 characters

#i've just put a lot of time into the fic and people like that are just dumping on my fun and joy :(

My Top Posts in 2022:

OMG in your author notes I saw "murderess brother" 👀👀👀👀👀👀 she/her jason confirmed??? Even if it's a typo or something (s)he def drinks his respect women juice and I mean who wouldn't after reading p&p (did you hear wfa canonized that? they're really confirming the best stuff we always knew should be canon...). anyways I love your portrayal of jason todd over the past couple chapters!! (s)he's a little violent but you're right that (s)he's still probably got a little pit issues. I know you're a tim stan but I think you've got such a great plot thread about how jason can really say what needs to be said to all the bats in gotham!! honestly (s)he's kind of a girlboss for that

Okay honestly, I didn’t do that on purpose (I can’t spell worth a dime), but I’m going to go with it. She/her Jason confirmed. Also WFA is literally the best. I did hear they canonized that, which literally the best thing DC’s done since making Tim and Jason close friends and siblings 😍.

Oh thanks for your compliments on my Jason characterization. I am a Tim stan first, obvi, but Jason is pretty cool too. I’m so glad you love my work, and yeah Jason is seriously #girlboss.

6 notes - Posted February 22, 2022

WOW i thought you’d abandoned dc or something SO excited to see you back!!! have you read any comics recently? i think you’d love red robin (tim’s having a rough time, nobody’s got his back but he brings bruce back and proves them all wrong!!).

i read your fic more for tim than jason but if I had to give a Tim and Jason hc it would have to be that when tim’s forgiven jason he invites jason to the Drake hidden library and gives it to him (eventually jason redeems reading for him but before jason it was what his parents were always neglecting him for) :D happy to see you!!!

Oh thank you for sending me this awesome ask! I’ve been off tumblr a while so I didn’t see it, but it made me so happy. I still haven’t read any comics but Red Robin is on my list, I just need to find it first. Also I love your headcanon. It works so well for the two of them and I’m so glad that you were happy to see me :DDDD

7 notes - Posted June 5, 2022

I should post more on here. What are my followers Tim and Jason (platonic) headcanons? My favorite is that they met before Jason died and that Tim was always inspired by Jason alone 🥰🥰🥰

12 notes - Posted May 10, 2022

Tea is nice and all for Tim, but you know what he should be addicted to white rice. I mean he’s Asian-coded so it fits.

15 notes - Posted February 21, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Okay I know coffee is Tim’s thing and bread is Jason’s but I think together their thing should be soup. It would be just so cool. It shows how good a cook Jason is and how he much he takes care of Tim 😍

156 notes - Posted February 17, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #I'm sorry I haven't posted here in a while but a new chapter of you're faking a smile with a soup to go may be on the way

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stingslikeabee · 1 year

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It was a strange sight, certainly, and one Okamura hadn't intended for anyone to bear witness to. She was dressed in a matching rose gold - hued nightgown and thin robe. Her lengthy waves were loose, and much of the make - up was gone from her fair face. The heiress was sat on the floor, legs folded and turned to the side ; her bent arms rested on the thighs of the Frump matriarch, who she appeared to be listening to with childish wonder. Grandmama paused her knitting at a break in her words and reached out to cup the girl's chin. For a moment, the old witch thought she could hear a purr from the endearing murderess at her knee.

Ever since the heiress had arrived among them, she seemed to fit in splendidly ( color and clothing preferences aside ). Okamura got along best with Melissa given their proximity to one another these last months -- really, the brunette was the younger woman's closest friend now -- but she held a special fondness in her heart for the Frump matriarch. The way Melissa's mother welcomed her into their family broke through to the heiress so very easily. It was clear Okamura was attached to her and enjoyed the occasional night she spent at Daigo and Melissa's residence.

Okamura was thoroughly lost in the gentle embrace from the elderly witch, sank into the woman's legs with her jewel - tone eyes shining. She failed to notice Melissa in the doorway ( as she could have been for some time ). It was only when Grandmama released her, set her project in her lap, and gestured for Melissa to join them that Okamura realized they were not alone.

A rare bit of color stained the heiress' cheeks. She pulled back sharply and folded her hands into her lap. Even around her dear companion, such open affection was still difficult to share that suddenly.

"Your mother," Okamura began, neglecting the familiar Mama for the time being, "was telling me more about the gifts the women in your bloodline have. -- it sounds incredible, monaka. To be a Frump." Okamura sighed playfully, canting her head. "How does it feel? to have access to magic like that, Melissa?"

unscripted asks . always accepting

Melissa had decided to walk around the house in hopes to soothe the rather agitated babies, hand over the growing belly where her twins were getting closer to their birth with each passing day. There was no doubt in the witch’s mind regarding her pregnancy - the Frump twins of that generation would soon arrive, and the brunette knew all would be well. It was difficult to put into words - even to Daigo - how she felt; it was as if Hecate herself had opened a direct link to the mortal blessed with such task.

The woman decided to go to her mother, then - not because she needed help with anything (it helped not being the first time with child, after all), but because Eudora had also carried Morticia and Melissa once; surely the experience had been similar. Perhaps the oldest witch in the house would know how to better convey her thoughts and impressions to her husband, but the idea of going straight to Eudora was put on hold the moment Melissa crossed the threshold to the bedroom.

Okamura looked like a young, incredibly fascinated girl at the knees of her mother - their bond was unexpected, but not surprising once she had befriended the heiress. Clearly, all Okamura Azumi had lacked was warmth and understanding - things anyone with the name ‘Frump’ or ‘Addams’ provided in abundance. She was a talented con artist, with a sharp mind and a preference for poison that Melissa wholeheartedly appreciated; perhaps the only few things they didn’t see eye to eye on were color palettes and the ideal duration of an engagement.

At the interruption from Eudora herself, Melissa walked into the room - she too had a robe on, albeit entirely black with elaborate designs of spider webs and eight-legged creatures etched onto the silk with silver thread, creating the right illusion for an inattentive mind. Her long hair was braided, a habit she cultivated for sleeping sometimes. Smiling, the younger witched went over the pair and pressed a kiss to the resident grandmother’s temple, finding herself a seat alongside Okamura despite the early stages of her pregnancy - she should enjoy the freedom of movement while it lasted, after all.

But at the blonde’s question, Melissa frowned - and bit her lip, honeyed eyes downcast as if she was searching for an answer. Eventually, she focused her gaze on her friend again, pulling a hand of hers into the two paler, colder of her own. “Mon coeur, please do not take this the wrong way - but it feels absolutely ordinary. I have never been anything but a witch - from the moment I was born until tonight... This is the only life I know and, indeed, one I adore.”

Melissa’s thumb started to move over the back of Okamura’s hand, attempting to inject additional warmth - she hoped the heiress was not disappointed in her frankness. “I know you have not been aware of the life of an outcast for long - but for me, this is all there is. Perhaps if I had married a different man, or had spent time outside with normal humans... Maybe then I would be able to see ourselves in the same light. But as far as we are concerned, we’re normal. Tish and I are no more or less remarkable than anyone else in our family or circles of friends.”

Eudora had paused her work (intended for the twins Melissa was expecting) to watch the two friends chatting, and briefly nodded with a knowing smile. A hand went out to gently tap her own daughter over the head, a gesture from the time the brunette was a small spiderling herself. Chuckling, the witch offered a kiss to her mother in return, moving only her face and pressing lips together in an airy gesture that was a trademark of hers (and Morticia as well).

“You are, by far, the most intriguing and special one, Azumi. All the magic in the world couldn’t make most of our neighbors feel at ease among us and yet you fit here like heavy rain on a funeral,” Melissa winked at Okamura, meaning each and every word, “I know maman agrees - you are one of us, chérie. You may lack the name, but never the attitude.”

#rosegoldandsequins #v: Yakuza ; Addams Family AU #replied #some pretty foreshadowing hehe #also I'm officially keeping Eudora!#I love the sound of the name :)

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semper-legens · 2 years

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62. The Corset, by Laura Purcell

Owned: No, library Page count: 392 My summary: Dorothea Truelove is a young woman from a good family - but she doesn’t wish to marry as her father wishes. Instead, she dedicates her time to her two passions, philanthropy and the study of phrenology. The former leads her to Ruth, a teenager and murderess currently serving time in Oakgate prison. But is she a true murderer? Dorothea doesn’t know, but she wants to find out. My rating: 4/5

What is it with the Victorian era that we find so interesting? Much historical fiction is set in this era, and especially the historical fiction that I’m into. Is it because the Victorians aren’t so removed from ourselves? Is it because the Victorian era was a time of huge social and technological change that would prelude all that would happen in the 20th century? Is it because of the stories that come from this era, from fiction about Sweeney Todd, Jekyll and Hyde, Dracula, to the real-life stories of Jack the Ripper? Looking at those examples, it seems the Victorian era is a font for horror, and this book follows in that legacy, bringing a murder mystery with supernatural elements that will keep you guessing until the last page.

Our first focus character is Dorothea, a young woman not wanting to marry and instead focus on her passion - science, philanthropy, and phrenology. I love the inclusion of the latter, just because of how it throws into sharp highlight how terrible upper-class Victorians could be. Yes, Dorothea is forward-thinking and right-minded in a lot of things, but on the other hand she believes in this complete bullshit and genuinely thinks a person’s head shape shows their personality. And this contrast marks her character. She’s a philanthropist, visiting imprisoned women to bring them some comfort...and use them to further her pseudoscience, and for her own self-aggrandisement. Her obliviousness to a lot of what’s truly going on in her own and Ruth’s life really deepens the mystery being presented, and while she’s ultimately sympathetic, the reader can be forgiven for being exasperated by her at every turn.

Ruth, meanwhile, is our possible murderer, and hoo boy is her story dark. She’s a teenager but has been through a lot in her few years, from suffering neglect at the hands of her alcoholic father, to being practically sold to an abusive woman to help in her tailor shop, to being on the streets and forced to do whatever she can to survive. The main tension with Ruth is whether she’s correct or not about having a magical power to imbue anything she sews with her own emotions. It potentially leads to a lot of pain - her baby sister’s death, her mother’s blindness, the depression of a young bride, the strength of a corset she creates for herself. But at every corner, there is a reasonable, rational explanation. Does Ruth have this power, or is she wrong? The story keeps you guessing throughout, inviting you to come up with explanations as to how any tragedy might have occurred, while still leaving that modicum of doubt.

This book taps into a lot of the weirder parts of the Victorian era. From dresses that kill because they are dyed with arsenic to the deep social stratification in place that resulted in the suffering and deaths of so many of the poor to the legal abuse that servants suffered at the hands of their employers to the completely batshit scientific beliefs of the elite. The Victorian era wasn’t nice! And this book throws that into focus, never romanticising anything that happened. It does at times get a little grisly, dipping into the misery porn kind of category, but if you’re interested in dark Victoriana I’d definitely encourage you to check this one out, I enjoyed it immensely.

Next up, one of the weirdest books I’ve ever read - want some heavy-handed moralising about abortion?

#The Corset #Laura Purcell #bookblr #book blogging #book blog #4

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frumiousreads · 10 months

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Alright so hi, for those who don't know I love historical true crime and host a podcast about it (A Murderess Affair) but without being super promo-y I wanted to share who I talked about this past week.

Kate Leigh was born March 10, 1881 in Dubbo, New South Wales. She was the eighth child of Timothy Beahan and Charlotte Beahan.

Her father worked as a boot-maker. She was abused and neglected all throughout her childhood, which included time in a girls’ home at age 12 and gave birth to her daughter when she was a teenager in 1900, Eileen May Beahan.

And this is something I learned through an Australian Bio website but the so called “girl’s home” was actually more like a girls juvie.

She left (or was kicked out, who’s to say?) when she was 18 and soon ‘got into trouble’. She married in 1902 to a petty criminal by the name of James Leigh, who was known for illegal bookmaking and it’s thought that this is where she began to build her underground connections.

In 1905 both were arrested for assaulting their landlord but only James served time. While he was in prison, they “underwent separation”, or whatever the 1900 equivalent was for divorce.

Honestly, that was probably best for her at this point because she soon began to have some sort of relationship with a man named Samuel Freeman who only gave her more connections to the underworld.

In early 1915 Leigh was given to 5 years in prison for falsifying an alibi for Freeman and another man Ernest Ryan, both of whom were convicted for armed robbery.

Fun fact, these two were the first armed robbers to use a getaway car in the history of Australian crime.

What’s also interesting is that this was something she had a history of doing. She had a criminal record but it was specifically noted within that how she would provide bail and alibis for various gangsters and racketeers.

Once out of jail, she jumped immediately into the ‘sly grog’ trade. Essentially supplying moonshine during Australia’s very own Prohibition. From her home in Surry Hills in Sydney, Australia she became the head of organized crime.

She supplied a whole range of goods. Drinking venues, betting and gambling, prostitution, and starting in the mid 1920s, cocaine. She quickly earned the title “Queen of the Underworld”, and had a strong base of gangsters who were devoutly loyal to her.

She would often come to their aid and had impressive sharpshooting skills that helped her gain an advantage over those who would try and attack her.

In March of 1930, a rival gang broke into Leigh’s house, and she shot and killed one of them, “Snowy” Prendergast. She was not charged for this, but at some point in 1930 she was charged for cocaine possession and consorting, which I had to look up and apparently it’s when police think you are regularly associating with those in organized crime. Which feels like cheating to be honest. Like, that’s such a hand wavy way to arrest people.Now the reason for her arrest was interesting.

Apparently, she and Tilly Devine, her rival at this point, publicly denounced Leigh as a “dope pusher” and “white slaver” who was able to avoid charges because she had connections with those high up in the Labor Party. This was the motivating cause for her arrest, also probably motivated by those in the Labor Party who were mentioned and just couldn't let that association stand.

She was sentenced to serve 2 years, but only served 1 and paid a fine of 250 pounds. Now, sometime either right before or right after she was in jail, she also shot Joseph McNamara in December of 1931 and wasn’t charged with anything.

Since this was the Depression era, she was also smuggling stolen goods for resale, which she and two other men were convicted for but ultimately she was again, let out with a suspension of her sentence as long as she returned to her family in Dubbo for 2 years.

Despite being raided almost constantly by police and all of her minor convictions that she kept accumulating, her sly-grog trade continued through the 1930’s and 40s and dear god I’ve just realized that 1930 was almost 100 years ago. I need a minute. Jesus.

She had a legendary appearance, appearing in court with silver fox furs, large brimmed hats, diamond rings on her fingers and apparently “leathery” skin from working in the sun.

She married in January 1950 to someone known as “Shiner” Ryan who ultimately ended up dying in 1957. They only lived together for about 6 months in Sydney, before he got fed up I guess with her continuing the business and then moved back to Fremantle.

She declared bankruptcy in 1954 due to failing to pay about 6191 in pounds from taxes, but continued to live at Surry Hills until her death in February of 1964. She was survived by her daughter and buried in the Botany cemetery in a traditionally Catholic ceremony.

Until her death, the press painted her to be this sweet, kindhearted woman who provided social services and whom had really done no wrong. She was highlighted for her wartime patriotism and overall generosity.

I mean all of this could be true of course, but also let’s not forget the fact that she was essentially an organized crime kingpin who also had a massive blood feud with fellow kingpin Tilly Devine.And that's everything I was able to find about Kate Leigh.

Sources: https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/leigh-kathleen-mary-kate-7164https://www.discoverwalks.com/blog/sydney/top-10-facts-about-gangster-kate-leigh/https://www.discoverwalks.com/blog/sydney/top-10-facts-about-gangster-kate-leigh/

#history #women #women in history #true crime #facts #australia #story #am writing

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iablmeanie · 3 years

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#edward gorey #norman reedus #neglected murderesses

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sagitariusrising · 3 years

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Miss Q.P Urkheimer: brained her fiancé after failing to pick up an easy spare at Glover’s Lanes. Poxville, Kansas, 1936

#edward gorey #neglected murderesses #have I mentioned I’m obsessed with this series #norman reedus #is developing a tv series about these drawings #squeeful

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nevver · 2 years

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Neglected Murderesses, Edward Gorey

#gorey

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thisisnthappiness · 2 years

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Neglected Murderesses, Edward Gorey

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izzythehutt · 3 years

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Your opinion on marriage fascinatings me, so let me speculate and ask. You openly dislike divorce (fair enough, I do to) yet you defended the husband in Jane Eyre from 1) cheating (they were still married at the time), 2) locking her in the attic, and finally, 3) trying to divorce her.

Which makes me wonder... Would you still think the same if the roles were reversed? Say, a woman who did the same to her husband?

Also, I am not trying to come off as an ass and sorry if I do, I just find it really interesting.

I believe this is the post you’re talking about:

The tags do specify that him attempting to marry someone else is where I draw the line. It was an (obviously) fairly flippant post but for whatever it’s worth, I think him having a French opera-dancer mistress was also bad, though I didn’t say it. This wasn’t exactly detailed meta, I don’t think it’s fair to say I “defended” every crappy thing he did lol.

“Locking her in the attic” was really what this post was in reference to. Bertha is violently insane and a danger to everyone around her and so, for my money, his options are send her to some kind of institution where she will be treated horribly and probably die from disease and neglect (which would free him to marry again and therefore actually be to his benefit) or try to care for her himself to the best of his abilities. Which he does! He is not cruel or malicious in the material conditions he provides for her. He can’t exactly live with her as man and wife because she will straight up murder him. There is a certain school of Jane Eyre lit crit that puts forward the idea that locking Bertha up was for the sake of being cruel, when the novel makes it very clear it’s just the only option available.

Hiding the nature of their relationship from the general public is obviously his near-fatal flaw that bites him in the ass, and you could make the argument that part of her malice stems from knowing that he’s ashamed of her and is a form of cruelty, but you could also make the argument that Bertha would just be a murderess no matter what, so...

TL;DR: I meant Rochester provided her the best version of a “care facility” for the violently insane in 1840s England and not that he was a particularly good husband in any other respect

P.S. - As far as their marriage goes, considering her family and she hid her family’s mental instability from him deliberately before they wed, I actually think Rochester would have grounds to have it annulled anyway (though it does say in the book that he explored the legal grounds for separation and it went nowhere.)

P.P.S. - A hypothetical what-if genderswap of this scenario is to me a pointless thought exercise, because it just wouldn’t happen that way in the period the novel takes place in. A femme!Rochester in the 1830s wouldn’t have the freedom to do whatever she wanted with her insane husband—probably that decision would be farmed out to a male relation. Or he’d just strangle her in her bed before she even got the chance to try.

#jane eyre #edward fairfax rochester #charlotte bronte #jane eyre meta #i don't condone divorce but when violent insanity is in the mix it's basically the far outlier scenario #Anonymous

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bitter69uk · 2 months

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youtube

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mymanreedus · 3 years

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Norman Reedus and his production company, bigbaldhead, are developing the live-action AMC series “Neglected Murderesses,” based on the book by Edward Gorey, Variety has learned exclusively. Reedus will executive produce the project along with bigbaldhead’s JoAnne Colona and Amanda Verdon under the company’s recently announced first-look deal with AMC Studios. According to an individual with knowledge of the project, the team has been pursuing the rights to “Neglected Murderesses” for several years. It marks the first time the Edward Gorey Estate has allowed for an adaptation of the late author’s work. Furthermore, the Edward Gorey Charitable Trust has pledged that all profits earned from the series will be donated to a number of animal welfare organizations, given Gorey’s fondness for animals. The organizations include The Elephant Sanctuary, The International Fund for Animal Welfare, The National Marine Life Center, and many more.

Variety

#Norman Reedus #bigbaldhead #edward gorey #charity #so excited #article

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thenixkat · 3 years

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The Werewolf's Daughter

There was once a father who had nine daughters, and they were all marriageable, but the youngest was the most beautiful.

The father was a werewolf. One day it came into his head, "What is the good of having to support so many girls?" So he determined to put them all out of the way.

He went accordingly into the forest to hew wood, and he ordered his daughters to let one of them bring him his dinner. It was the eldest who brought it.

"Why, how come you so early with the food?" asked the woodcutter.

"Truly, father, I wished to strengthen you, lest you should fall upon us, if famished!"

"A good lass! Sit down whilst I eat."

He ate, and whilst he ate he thought of a scheme. He rose and said, "My girl, come, and I will show you a pit I have been digging."

"And what is the pit for?"

"That we may be buried in it when we die, for poor folk will not be cared for much after they are dead and gone."

So the girl went with him to the side of the deep pit.

"Now hear," said the werewolf. "You must die and be cast in there."

She begged for her life, but all in vain. So he laid hold of her and cast her into the grave. Then he took a great stone and flung it in upon her and crushed her head, so the poor thing breathed out her soul. When the werewolf had done this he went back to his work, and as dusk came on, the second daughter arrived, bringing him food. He told her of the pit, and brought her to it, and cast her in, and killed her as the first. And so he dealt with all his girls, up to the last.

The youngest knew well that her father was a werewolf, and she was grieved that her sisters did not return. She thought, "Now where can they be? Has my father kept them for companionship, or to help him in his work?"

So she made the food which she was to take him, and crept cautiously through the wood. When she came near the place where her father worked, she heard his strokes felling timber, and smelt smoke. She saw presently a large fire and two human heads roasting at it. Turning from the fire, she went in the direction of the ax strokes and found her father.

"See, said she. "Father, I have brought you food."

"That is a good lass," said he. "Now stack the wood for me whilst I eat."

"But where are my sisters?" she asked.

"Down in yon valley drawing wood," he replied. "Follow me, and I will bring you to them."

They came to the pit. Then he told her that he had dug it for a grave. "Now," said he, "you must die, and be cast into the pit with your sisters."

"Turn aside," father, she asked, "whilst I strip off my clothes, and then slay me if you will."

He turned aside as she requested, and then -- tchich! she gave him a push, and he tumbled headlong into the hole he had dug for her. She fled for her life, for the werewolf was not injured, and he soon would scramble out of the pit.

Now she hears his howls resounding through the gloomy alleys of the forest, and swift as the wind she runs. She hears the tramp of his approaching feet, and the snuffle of his breath. Then she casts behind her her handkerchief. The werewolf seizes this with teeth and nails, and rends it till it is reduced to tiny ribands. In another moment he is again in pursuit foaming at the mouth, and howling dismally, whilst his red eyes gleam like burning coals. As he gains on her, she casts behind her her gown, and bids him tear that. He seizes the gown and rives it to shreds, then again he pursues. This time she casts behind her her apron, next her petticoat, then her shift, and at last runs much in the condition in which she was born. Again the werewolf approaches. She bounds out of the forest into a hayfield and hides herself in the smallest heap of hay. Her father enters the field, runs howling about it in search of her, cannot find her, and begins to upset the different haycocks, all the while growling and gnashing his gleaming white fangs in his rage at her having escaped him. The foam flakes drop at every step from his mouth, and his skin is reeking with sweat. Before he has reached the smallest bundle of hay his strength leaves him. He feels exhaustion begin to creep over him, and he retires to the forest.

The king goes out hunting every day. One of his dogs carries food to the hayfield, which has most unaccountably been neglected by the haymakers for three days. The king, following the dog, discovers the fair damsel, not exactly "in the straw," but up to her neck in hay. She is carried, hay and all, to the palace, where she becomes his wife, making only one stipulation before becoming his bride, and that is, that no beggar shall be permitted to enter the palace.

After some years a beggar does get in, the beggar being, of course, none other than her werewolf father. He steals upstairs, enters the nursery, cuts the throats of the two children borne by the queen to her lord, and lays the knife under her pillow.

In the morning, the king, supposing his wife to be the murderess, drives her from home, with the dead princes hung about her neck. A hermit comes to the rescue, and restores the babies to life. The king finds out his mistake, is reunited to the lady out of the hay, and the werewolf is cast off a high cliff into the sea, and that is the end of him.

The king, the queen, and the princes live happily, and may be living yet, for no notice of their death has appeared in the newspaper.

Source: Sabine Baring-Gould, The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition (London: Smith, Elder, and Company, 1865), pp. 124-128.

http://www.werewolfpage.com/myths/WerewolfDaughter.htm

#werewolves

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