This novel, about Florence Maybrick, the wife of one of the men suspected of being Jack the Ripper - from the title, I don't think it's giving anything away to say that in this book, that suspicion is proved correct - is mildly likeable but also sincerely frustrating. That is, I think, down to the main character. Poor Florrie has all the brains and survival instinct of roadkill, and she's never met a chance to help herself that she doesn't turn down. Granted, Purdy is somewhat constrained by history, and I've never read Maybrick's memoir of her time in prison, so I have no knowledge of her personality. She might well be as Purdy has imagined her; the alternative is that Purdy's used artistic license. I don't know, and I'm not sure it matters.

In many ways, Florrie here reminds me of Philippa Gregory's excellent portrayal of Katherine Howard in The Boleyn Inheritance - Katherine comes across as a good-natured, ignorant, and extraordinarily shallow girl thrust into a deadly situation and it's easy to feel for her. The thing is, Katherine dies at seventeen years of age, or thereabouts, so she never gets the opportunity to grow up. Florrie stays that same simpleton all her long life, and Purdy's portrayal of her middle-aged self weeping over her husband's grave, perfectly prepared to forgive his horrible actions because she loves him... the woman's an idiot. At least, this character is an idiot. The woman she was based on may not have been, but this story of her life... it's worth reading if you're bored and don't expect much.