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WHAT IS TO BE DONE ABOUT
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT?
Towards a
'Public Criminology'

EDITED BY
Roger Matthews
What is to Be Done About Crime
and Punishment?
 Roger Matthews
Editor

What is to Be Done
About Crime and
Punishment?
Towards a 'Public Criminology'
Editor
Roger Matthews
University of Kent
Canterbury, United Kingdom

ISBN 978-1-137-57227-1 ISBN 978-1-137-57228-8 (eBook)

DOI 10.1057/978-1-137-57228-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016936722

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2016

The author(s) has/have asserted their right(s) to be identifi ed as the author(s) of this work in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether
the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and trans-
mission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication
does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant
protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book
are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or
the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any
errors or omissions that may have been made.

Cover illustration: © Photocase Addicts GmbH / Alamy Stock Photo

Printed on acid-free paper

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by Springer Nature

The registered company is Macmillan Publishers Ltd. London
 Contents

1 Introduction: Towards a Public Criminology 1

Roger Matthews
References 6
2 The Violence Divide: Taking “Ordinary” Crime
Seriously in a Volatile World 9
Elliott Currie
Introduction 9
“Lidless” Capitalism and the Violence Divide 10
Some Possible Futures 17
Toward Globally Engaged Criminology 26
References 29
3 Domestic Violence: The Increasing Tensions Between
Experience, Theory, Research, Policy and Practice 31
Nicole Westmarland and Liz Kelly
Introduction 31
Developing Responses 32
Multi-agency Work 35
Defining Domestic Violence and Abuse 37
Problems with Legal and Policy Responses to Domestic
Violence 39

v
vi Contents

What Is Coercive Control and Why Is It Important? 41

Listening to the Voices of Survivors 42
The New Law on Coercive and Controlling Behaviour 48
Moving Forward, Making Connections 49
Conclusions 53
References 53
4 Critical Realism and Gang Violence 57
John Pitts
The Mythical Gang 57
Cognitive Dissonance 59
Critical Realism and Gang Violence 61
Explaining Gang Violence 62
Nihilism and Gang Violence 64
The Social Field of the Violent Gang 66
Realistic Interventions to Stem Gang Violence 68
Time and Change 69
Co-ordinated Enforcement and Social Action 71
Ceasefire UK 73
Adoption and Adaptation 75
Embedded Interventions 82
Conclusion 83
References 84
5 Middle-Range Radical Realism for Crime Prevention 89
Nick Tilley
Crime Prevention Successes 90
Critiques of Current Orthodoxies 92
Middle-range Radical Realism for Crime Prevention
(MRRR for CP) 101
An Agenda for MRRR for CP Research, Policy and
Practice 110
Conclusion 116
References 116
 Contents vii

6 Policing: Past, Present and Future 123

Ben Bowling, Shruti Iyer, Robert Reiner, and James
Sheptycki
Introduction 123
What Do the Police Do? 125
Who Does Policing? 129
What Powers Do the Police Have? 131
What Is Good Policing and How Can It Be Achieved? 136
How Does Policing Impact on Different Social Groups? 140
Who Polices the Police? 144
Conclusion: What Is to Be Done About the Police? 148
References 151
7 Seven Ways to Make Prisons Work 159
Francis T. Cullen, Daniel P. Mears, Cheryl Lero Jonson,
and Angela J. Thielo
Introduction 159
Improve Prison Life 163
Value the Goal of Offender Change 175
Intervene Effectively with Prisoners 179
Conclusion: Toward a Criminology of Imprisonment 184
References 185
8 Five Steps Towards a More Effective Global Drug Policy 197
Caroline Chatwin
Introduction 197
Acknowledge the Limitations of a War on Drugs Strategy,
and the Unintended Consequences it Has Produced 198
Recognise the Importance of Reducing Drug Related Harm,
of Upholding Human Rights, and of Giving Public Health a
More Prominent Role in the Formulation of Policy 202
Encourage the Development of Innovative Strategies of
Drug Policy Control 206
Ensure that Drug Policy Innovations are Evaluated and
Evidence on Their Effectiveness is Shared Widely 209
viii Contents

Broaden the Horizons of the Drug Policy Debate 212

Conclusion 215
References 216
9 Taming Business? Understanding Effectiveness in the
Control of Corporate and White-collar Crime 223
Fiona Haines
A Brief Political Economy of the Control of Corporate
and White-collar Crime 224
The Second Frame: Beyond the Law? 232
The Third Frame: Changing the Premises of Control 239
Conclusion 243
References 245
10 Cybercrime 4.0: Now What Is to Be Done? 251
Michael R. McGuire
Introduction 251
Cybercrime 1.0–3.0 252
Cybercrime 4.0? 254
Cybercrime 1.0–3.0 Precedents and Portents: What
Happened 255
Cybercrime 1.0–3.0 Precedents and Portents: What
Was Done and What Has Worked? 260
The Challenge of Cybercrime 4.0? 268
Conclusions: 4.0 and Beyond… 275
References 275
11 Addressing Prostitution: The Nordic Model and
Beyond 281
Helen Johnson and Roger Matthews
Introduction 281
The Nordic Model 283
The Liberal Critique of the Nordic Model 286
Beyond the Nordic Model 288
Conclusion 303
References 304
Index 309
 Notes on Contributors

Ben Bowling is Professor of Criminology & Criminal Justice and Deputy

Dean of the Dickson Poon School of Law, King’s College London. His books
include Violent Racism (OUP 1999), Racism, Crime and Justice (with Coretta
Phillips, Longman 2004), Policing the Caribbean (OUP 2010), Global Policing
(with James Sheptycki, Sage 2012), Stop & Search: Police Power in Global Context
(with Leanne Weber, Routledge 2012) and the four-volume Global Policing and
Transnational Law Enforcement (with James Sheptycki, Sage 2015). He has been
an adviser to the UK Parliament, Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Equality
and Human Rights Commission, the European Commission, Interpol and the
United Nations.
Caroline Chatwin is Senior Lecturer in Criminology at the University of Kent,
where she runs third year and master’s level courses on ‘drugs, culture and con-
trol’. She is a leading international scholar in the field of European drug policy,
and has a single author research monograph, Drug Policy harmonization and the
European Union, published with Palgrave Macmillan. She has also researched
cannabis markets in the UK, internet research methods, older cannabis users
and policy responses to new psychoactive substances.
Francis T. Cullen is Distinguished Research Professor Emeritus and a Senior
Research Associate in the School of Criminal Justice at the University of
Cincinnati. His recent works include Environmental Corrections: A New Paradigm
for Supervising Offenders in the Community, Correctional Theory: Context and
Consequences, and Reaffirming Rehabilitation (30th anniversary edition). His

ix
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x Notes on Contributors

current research interests are in correctional policy, theoretical criminology, and

the organisation of criminological knowledge. He is a past president of both the
American Society of Criminology and the Academy of Criminal Justice Sciences.
Elliott Currie is Professor of Criminology, Law and Society at the University of
California, Irvine, and Adjunct Professor in the Faculty of Law, School of Justice,
Queensland University of Technology. He is the author of Confronting Crime: an
American Challenge, Reckoning: Drugs, the Cities, and the American Future, Crime
and Punishment in America, The Road to Whatever: Middle Class Culture and the
Crisis of Adolescence and The Roots of Danger: Violent Crime in Global Perspective,
and co-author of Whitewashing Race: the Myth of a Colorblind Society.
Fiona Haines is Professor of Criminology at the University of Melbourne and
Adjunct Professorial Fellow at the Australian National University. She has exten-
sive expertise in white collar and corporate crime, globalisation and regulation.
Her current projects include research in Indonesia and India, analysing local
grievances against multinational enterprises for human rights abuse, and research
in Australia analysing community protests against coal seam gas. Her most
recent book is Regulatory Transformations: Rethinking Economy Society Interactions,
Hart Publishing, 2015, co-edited with Bettina Lange and Dania Thomas.
Shruti Iyer is an undergraduate research fellow at King’s College London,
currently pursuing a degree in politics, philosophy and law.
Helen Johnson is a consultant researcher and lecturer with a PhD in criminol-
ogy on emotions and desistance. She specialises in the use of innovative qualita-
tive methods and her research interests include emotions, role transition,
desistance, gender, repertory grid technique, personal construct theory and
prostitution. She has over ten years of experience and is involved in a number of
research (and related) projects on improving service provision for vulnerable
populations, in particular exiting prostitution.
Liz Kelly is Professor of Sexualised Violence at London Metropolitan University,
UK, where she is also director of the Child and Woman Abuse Studies Unit
(CWASU). She has been active in the field of violence against women and chil-
dren for almost thirty years. She is the author of Surviving Sexual Violence (1988),
which established the concept of a ‘continuum of violence’ and over seventy book
chapters and journal articles. In 2000 she was awarded a CBE in the New Year's
Honours List for ‘services combating violence against women and children’.
Cheryl Lero Jonson is Assistant Professor in the Department of Criminal
Justice at Xavier University, Cincinnati. Her recent works include Correctional
 Notes on Contributors xi

Theory: Context and Consequences and The American Prison: Imagining a Different
Future. Her current research interests are the effects of imprisonment, the use of
incentives to downsize prison populations and the effectiveness of active shooter
responses.
Michael R. McGuire has developed an international profile in the critical study
of technology, crime and the justice system, in particular issues around cyberof-
fending and cybercrime. His first book Hypercrime: The New Geometry of Harm
(Glasshouse, 2008), involved a critique of the notion of cybercrime as a way of
modelling computer-enabled offending and was awarded the 2008 British Society
of Criminology runners-up Book Prize. His most recent publication, Technology,
Crime & Justice: The Question Concerning Technomia (Routledge, 2012) was the
first book in the field of Criminology and Criminal Justice to provide an overview
of the implication of technology for the justice system and complements a range
of applied studies in this area, including the comprehensive UK Review of
Cybercrime conducted for the Home Office. He is currently preparing the
Handbook of Technology, Crime and Justice (Taylor Francis 2016) together with a
monograph The Organisation of Cybercrime, which will provide one of the first
detailed studies of the use of digital technologies by organised crime groups.
Roger Matthews is Professor of Criminology at the University of Kent. He is
author of Realist Criminology (Palgrave Macmillan 2014) and Exiting Prostitution;
A Study in Female Desistance (with He. Easton, L. Young and J. Bindel, Palgrave
Macmillan 2014). He was also an advisor to the All-Party Parliamentary Group
on Prostitution and the Global Sex Trade in 2014 and co-author of Shifting
The Burden: Inquiry to Assess the Operation of the Current Legal Settlement on
Prostitution in England and Wales (London: HMSO).
Daniel P. Mears is the Mark C. Stafford Professor of Criminology at the
College of Criminology and Criminal Justice, Florida State University, USA. He
conducts research on a range of crime and justice topics, including studies of
offending, juvenile justice, supermax prisons, sentencing and prisoner reentry.
His work has appeared in Criminology, the Journal of Research in Crime and
Delinquency, and other crime and policy journals and in American Criminal
Justice Policy (Cambridge University Press), which won the Academy of Criminal
Justice Sciences Outstanding Book Award, and, with Joshua C. Cochran,
Prisoner Reentry in the Era of Mass Incarceration (Sage Publications).
John Pitts is Vauxhall Professor of Socio-Legal Studies at the University of
Bedfordshire. He has worked as: a school teacher; a street and club-based youth
worker; a group worker in a Young Offender Institution; and as a consultant on
xii Notes on Contributors

youth crime and youth justice to the police and youth justice and legal professionals
in the UK, mainland Europe, the Russian Federation and China. In the last
decade, he has undertaken research on violent youth gangs and acted as a
consultant and researcher on gangs to central and local government, police
authorities and think tanks. He is currently researching young peoples’ pathways
into organised crime in a northern city.
Robert Reiner is Emeritus Professor of Criminology, Law Department,
London School of Economics. His recent publications include: Law and Order
Polity, 2007; The Politics of the Police, 4th ed. Oxford University Press 2010;
Policing, Popular Culture and Political Economy: Towards a Social Democratic
Criminology, Ashgate 2011; Crime Polity, 2016.
James Sheptycki is Professor of Criminology, McLaughlin College, York
University. He has written on a variety of substantive topics in criminology,
including domestic violence, serial killers, money laundering, drugs, public
order policing, organised crime, police accountability, intelligence-led policing,
witness protection, transnational crime, risk and insecurity. He is currently
engaged in research concerning guns, crime and social order.
Angela J. Thielo is Assistant Professor in the Department of Criminal Justice
at the University of Louisville. She is currently completing her PhD in criminal
justice at the University of Cincinnati. She co-edited a special issue on
‘Downsizing Prisons’ that appeared in Victims & Offenders. Her recent publica-
tions focus on attitudes toward correctional policy, with a special focus on public
support for the rehabilitation and redemption of convicted offenders.
Nick Tilley is a member of University College London’s Jill Dando Institute.
He is also an Adjunct Professor in the Griffith Criminology Institute, Brisbane.
His long-term research interests concern theoretically informed applied social
science. He has focused mainly on policing, crime prevention and realist research
methods. Current projects relate to the international crime drop, what works in
crime reduction and the prevention of youth related sexual abuse and violence.
Nicole Westmarland is Professor of Criminology and Director of the Durham
University Centre for Research into Violence and Abuse. She has researched
various forms of violence against women and her book Violence Against Women—
Criminological perspectives on men’s violences (Routledge, 2015) brings together
different forms to look at the overlaps between them. Her ongoing work includes
a project aimed at increasing police understanding of and responses to coercive
control.
 List of Tables

Table 11.1 Police recorded crime by offence in England and

Wales 2009–P2015 298

xiii
 List of Boxes

Box 1: Current Westminster Government Definition of Domestic

Violence and Abuse 37
Box 2: Pattern of Attrition in Recorded Domestic Violence Cases,
Taken from Hester (2006) 40
Box 3: What the Term ‘Integrated’, as a Minimum, Refers to
(from Coy et al. 2008) 52

xv
 1
Introduction: Towards a Public
Criminology
Roger Matthews

There has been a recent shift of emphasis towards making social scientific
investigation more policy relevant. University departments and funding
bodies are increasingly using terms like ‘impact’, ‘deliverables’ and ‘outputs’
and more frequently aim to identify the beneficiaries of research studies.
There has also been an important and timely debate in the social sciences
about developing a ‘public criminology’ that is able to contribute to con-
temporary policy debates (Burawoy 2005; Currie 2007). Some leading
criminologists have argued that the criminological industry is becoming
increasingly socially and politically irrelevant and has little to contribute
to the major debates on crime and justice (Austin 2003; Cullen 2011).
Others have put the case for making criminology more policy oriented
by asking ‘What is to be done?’ (Burawoy 2005, 2008). This debate raises
important questions about the role of the academic researcher.
In line with this renewed emphasis on linking theory to policy this
collection aims to encourage academics, researchers and students at all

R. Matthews ( )
University of Kent, Canterbury, UK

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2016 1

R. Matthews (ed.), What is to Be Done About Crime and Punishment?,
DOI 10.1057/978-1-137-57228-8_1
2 R. Matthews

levels to think about the policy implications of their work. Considering

questions of policy, it is suggested, moves investigation from a purely
descriptive or detached stance and encourages researchers to engage more
directly with the issues that interest them. This often results in the production
of more satisfying and useful forms of investigation and analysis.
Despite the recent shift in emphasis towards policy relevance there still
remains a large body of professional criminologists who are reluctant to
engage in the policy process, either because they feel it is not their role or
they fear that their suggested reforms will fail and that this will compro-
mise their credibility. The major barrier, however, to making a significant
contribution the policy process comes not so much from a fear of failure
or co-option but the reality that a great deal of criminological investiga-
tion is poorly conceived and researched. Indeed, there is a growing body
of criminological material that has been described as 'So What?' crimi-
nology (Matthews 2009). This material tends to be theoretically weak,
methodologically inadequate and has little or no policy relevance.
One of the most notable developments in criminology in recent years
has been the demise of theory and an increase in weak forms of con-
ceptualisation. Key terms are often taken at face value and are not dis-
aggregated, with the consequence that concepts like ‘crime’ and ‘race’
remain broad generic categories that lack specificity. Operating with
these taken for granted, common sense categories results in the object of
study remaining vague and undifferentiated with the consequence that it
becomes difficult to formulate clear and detailed forms of analysis and, by
implication, sound policy options. The main problem, however, is that
weak forms of conceptualisation result in a lack of direction and focus to
the research. In addition, the use of inconsistent and inappropriate cat-
egories serves to construct a blurred conceptual grid through which the
social world is apprehended. Unfortunately, no amount of methodologi-
cal manipulation can overcome these conceptual deficits (Sayer 2000).
Thus there is a need to link theory, method and policy to produce forms
of ‘joined up’ criminology that can combine theoretical sophistication
and methodological rigour with policy relevance.
There is also a significant body of self-styled ‘critical’ or ‘radical’ criminol-
ogy that does not feel it necessary to engage in detailed empirical inves-
tigation. Instead, evidence is used selectively and sparingly. This results,
 1 Introduction: Towards a Public Criminology 3

as Elliott Currie points out in Chap. 2 in this book, is a form of ‘liberal

idealism’ that produces speculative forms of expose criminology and gen-
erally refuses to take crime and victimisation seriously (see also Zedner
2011). As Currie suggests we are, however, at a crossroads both socially
and politically, as well as criminologically. If criminology is to have any
purchase on pressing contemporary issues it needs to develop a global
response that is able to address the structural roots of crime and associ-
ated forms of suffering. In particular, the continuing level of violence
around the world, especially in its more hidden forms, continues to pres-
ent a major challenge to criminologists.
Nicole Westmarland and Liz Kelly develop a similar theme in their
examination of domestic violence. As the authors point out in Chap. 3
domestic violence is one of those hidden ‘private’ forms of violence which
surveys repeatedly show is endemic and highly gendered. Despite the
widespread nature of domestic violence the rate of prosecutions and
convictions remains remarkably low. Moreover, the strategies that have
been employed to date to address this issue have proved to have a limited
effect. Westmarland and Kelly argue that there is a need to move beyond
current conceptions and policies on domestic violence and focus greater
attention on the perpetrators.
Another area of violent activity is gang rivalries. This form of inter-
personal violence and intimidation often remains hidden but can have
a significant impact on the quality of life of people living in affected
neighbourhoods. As John Pitts argues there are liberal idealists who try to
deny the existence of gangs or claim that the media somehow ‘construct’
the notion of ‘the gang’. In contrast, Pitts suggests in Chap. 4 that gangs
are a serious problem in certain areas and their activities impact dispro-
portionately upon the poorest and most vulnerable sections of society.
Addressing this issue, he argues, requires a multi-agency and multi-faced
sustainable strategy.
A consistent theme that runs through the chapters in this book is that
positive and progressive reforms are not only possible but that there are
numerous examples of specific reforms being beneficial in the past. In
pursuing this theme Nick Tilley argues we should acknowledge that, in
relation to crime prevention, there have been a number of ethical and
effective gains in recent years. A key element in developing effective crime
4 R. Matthews

control policies, he suggests in Chap. 5 following Robert Merton (1949),

is to develop middle range theories. That is, move away from a preoccupa-
tion with finding the root causes of crime to forms of explanation involv-
ing lower-level forms of theorising that can be tested through empirical
research. This form of ‘radical realism’ challenges many of our preconcep-
tions about the nature of theorising and also the relation between theory
and policy formation.
For many the immediate response to crime and interpersonal violence is
to summon the police. However, in recent years the role of the police and
their effectiveness has been increasingly called into question. Some com-
mentators see the police as part of the problem rather than the solution.
Benjamin Bowling, Shruti Iyer, Robert Reiner and James Sheptycki ask the
critical questions of what exactly do the police do and what type of police
force do we want. In a world in which the uniformed police are only part
of the wider policing process the authors argue in Chap. 6 that: the remit
of the uniformed public police should be broader than crime control;
their powers should be restricted in terms of the use of force and intrusive
surveillance; and that the police need to develop new technologies, more
transparent modes of accountability, improved data gathering techniques
and more sophisticated forms of intelligence-led policing.
Alongside the police most people think about imprisonment as a
‘natural’ response to serious crime. However, the problems facing the
prison system are such that it is increasingly seen as being in a state of
‘crisis’. Hundreds, if not thousands, of publications over the years have
pointed to the detrimental effects of imprisonment, on prisoners, their
families, their neighbourhoods and society in general. In fact, it is dif-
ficult these days to find anyone defending incarceration. However, there
is a real paucity of studies that seriously discuss penal reform. For those
who do engage in penal reform there is call amongst liberal idealists for
the abolition of prisons and the suggestion that they should be replaced
by community-based penalties, although researchers have shown that
these options are equally ineffective in reducing recidivism and costs.
Unfortunately, the alternatives which are suggested by the abolitionists
to deal with serious and persistent offenders are not seen as appropriate
in the eyes of the general public, while criminologists warn about the
dangers of ‘net widening’. Thus, in contrast to this apparently ‘radical’
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 1 Introduction: Towards a Public Criminology 5

approach, Francis Cullen, Daniel Mears, Cheryl Jonson and Angela Thielo
argue in Chap. 7 that a range of realistic and practical steps can be taken
to make prisons less damaging and improve the quality of outcomes.
With over two million people incarcerated in the USA and the steady
increase in the prison population in the UK the time has come for a serious
rethink of the use and purpose of imprisonment.
One of the most difficult issues in relation to policy development
has been that of drugs. In fact, the drugs debate appears to be bogged
down by hyperbole and an apparently endless stream of circular argu-
ments. The rhetoric of the ‘war on drugs’ is now wearing thin and, as
Caroline Chatwin argues in Chap. 8, there is an urgent need to broaden
the debate and take into account harm minimisation strategies, while
upholding human rights and giving public health a more prominent role
in the formation of policy.
An equally challenging issue, which has received limited attention
from criminologists over the years, is developing a consistent and effec-
tive response to white-collar and corporate crime. In addressing this issue
in Chap. 9 Fiona Haines notes that the harms caused by white-collar and
corporate crime have to be considered in a context in which these activi-
ties are embedded in a system of material and ideological benefits that
condition the way in which both governments and the general public
view these transgressions. Consequently, she suggests that there are three
basic options to consider when addressing the issue of white-collar and
corporate crime. The first involves better regulation of activities, such as
introducing anti-trust measures. Second, the development of forms of
responsive regulation and problem solving. Third, the development of
a more fundamental reordering of how businesses ply their trade and a
corresponding shift in the modes of regulation.
In many respects the criminological landscape appears to be chang-
ing. As some forms of recorded crime are decreasing in some locations
new forms of transgression are becoming more prominent. In Chap. 10
Mike McGuire, like Fiona Haines, identifies a range of responses that
are available for limiting the extent and impact of cyber crime. This can
involve technical responses, criminal justice interventions and the devel-
opment of a more informed and engaged public. However, McGuire
argues that the game is changing and a more connected and increasingly
6 R. Matthews

intelligent network of operators are emerging, such that the provisions

that have been put in place to date are looking increasingly inadequate.
The response to this changing situation requires, he argues, more than a
technical fix and he calls for a more nuanced social and political strategy
that holds transgressors to account.
Finally, Helen Johnson and Roger Matthews address the deeply divided
issue of prostitution or ‘sex work’. They argue that there is an identifiable
link between the form of conceptualisation of this issue and the policy
choices. On one side the ‘abolitionists’ support the Nordic model that
criminalises buyers and decriminalises the women involved in prostitution,
who are seen as victims. This policy position follows from the premise that
prostitution is a form of violence against women. The liberal ‘sex-work’
lobby, on the other hand, favours a policy of decriminalisation or legalisa-
tion and do not think that sanctioning buyers is appropriate. In Chap. 11
Johnson and Matthews outline the Nordic model and identify the critique
presented by the liberal ‘sex-work’ group. They argue that, while the argu-
ments against the Nordic model are unconvincing, in countries like the
UK an effective policy on prostitution needs to incorporate a version of the
Nordic model while also going beyond it.
Overall, it is anticipated that although each of these chapters focuses on
a specific issue this collection will encourage readers to think more seri-
ously about the relation between theory and practice and to develop an
approach to criminological issues that is more engaged and more useful.

References
Austin, J. (2003). Why criminology is irrelevant. Criminology and Public Policy,
2, 557–564.
Burawoy, M. (2005). For public sociology. The British Journal of Sociology, 56(2),
259–294.
Burawoy, M. (2008). What is to be done? Theses on the degradation of social
existence in a globalised world. Current Sociology, 56(3), 351–359.
Cullen, F. (2011). Beyond adolescence-limited criminology: Choosing our
future. Criminology, 49, 287–330.
Currie, E. (2007). Against marginality: Arguments for a public criminology.
Theoretical Criminology, 11(2), 175–190.
 1 Introduction: Towards a Public Criminology 7

Matthews, R. (2009). Beyond ‘so what?’ Criminology: Rediscovering realism.

Theoretical Criminology, 13(3), 341–362.
Merton, R. (1949). Social theory and social structure. New York: Free Press.
Sayer, A. (2000). Realism and social science. London: Sage.
Zedner, L. (2011). Putting crime back on the criminological agenda. In
M. Bosworth & C. Hoyle (Eds.), What is criminology? Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
 2
The Violence Divide: Taking “Ordinary”
Crime Seriously in a Volatile World
Elliott Currie

Introduction
Almost twenty-five years ago Jock Young described crime as a “moral
barometer” of society—a “key indictor as to whether we are getting
things right, achieving the sort of society in which people can live with
dignity and without fear” (Young 1992, p. 34). Today, the pattern of
violent crime around the world provides a particularly troubling reading
of how far we are from “getting things right” in our contemporary global
society, and it cries out for serious attention and action. But whether we
will see that sustained attention, much less social action, on the scale we
need in the coming years is by no means certain.
There are strong forces operating both within and beyond the discipline
of criminology that place formidable obstacles in the path of tackling
global violence with the seriousness it deserves. But, at the same time,
there are glimmers of hope that the field may be deepening and maturing

E. Currie ()
Department of Criminology Law and Society, University of California, Irvine,
CA, USA

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2016 9

R. Matthews (ed.), What is to Be Done About Crime and Punishment?,
DOI 10.1057/978-1-137-57228-8_2
10 E. Currie

in encouraging ways. There are several possible futures for criminology

in an increasingly volatile world: and which of those futures we get will
depend a lot on us; and what kind of future we get is not just an abstract
academic question. It is important—not just for those of us who are
in the business of studying crime, but for the lives of great numbers of
people outside our ranks, and for the fate of values that we cherish, or
ought to—that values include social justice and the reduction of needless
human suffering and insecurity.
In fact I will go so far as to say that we are at a point when the choices
we make about what our field really stands for, what it is really about,
may be more important than they have ever been. We are at a moment
in global history where the potential for the erosion of many of those
core values is very real and is, in some ways, accelerating—a time when
the consequences of some of our most problematic social and economic
choices are becoming more and more visible, when a great many global
chickens are coming home to roost.
I want to sketch out some aspects of where I think we are, and then
ask whether criminology will be capable of stepping up to do the job
that’s needed. I suggest several possible scenarios, good and bad, for what
criminology could look like down the road; and suggest some elements
of the kind of criminology that can most usefully grapple with the global
trends that are now upon us.

“Lidless” Capitalism and the Violence Divide

The overarching context for understanding global violence in the twenty-
first century is the rise and spread of what we might call “capitalism
with the lid off” (or what I sometimes call “hit the fan” capitalism). We
have now been through several decades of that remarkably unrestrained
version of global capitalism, which has changed the world in ways that
are profoundly relevant for those of us who study crime and justice. It
has relentlessly widened social and economic inequalities, both within
countries and between them. It has transformed the nature of work in
ways that have exacerbated a spreading crisis of economic insecurity in
advanced and developing countries alike. It has forced the movement of
vast numbers of people both within and between countries on a scale that
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“Oh, Cara, Cara! How could you?” murmured her parent, with
uplifted hands.
“Well, I believe most people know I’ve friends—men friends. Fritz
was crazy, when he saw me speaking to Captain Seymour; but think
of the awful, awful life I lead here, and other English girls have such
good times! I’ve done no harm whatever—I’ve only amused myself.
And why not?”
“Getting out of your bedroom window at night, and sitting in the
garden with strange men from the Paradis!”
“Now, who can have told you that?” she asked sharply. “Jost?
though for ten francs he swore he’d hold his tongue; treacherous old
devil!”
“Never mind who told—I know everything.”
“Do you, Mum? I doubt it. I’ve had lots of affairs since I was fifteen,”
and she eyed her mother with amusement. “Yes, it’s in my blood.
You asked me to tell you things—and I will.”
Now that the ice was broken, Cara felt tempted to shock her mother;
she would enjoy the sensation.
“Since you were fifteen?” repeated Letty in an incredulous whisper.
Cara nodded, with smiling complacence.
“Yes, first, there was the violinist, an Italian, who said he was a
Count. He gave me chocolates and flowers,—till I spotted him in the
orchestra; but even then I was gone on Pablo. After Pablo, the nice
German boy from Heidelberg; he wrote me verses, and gave me a
ring. There was also Anton Baer, who took me up Pilatus when you
thought I was in bed at the Baers, with a sprained ankle; and Major
McKenzie, who spoke to me on the boat; and Captain Seymour—and
always, always Fritz.”
As Letty stood pale and rigid, as if turned to stone, Cara concluded:
“After all, I’ve done no harm; one is young but once!”
“No harm, Cara? I think you have broken my heart! A girl of
seventeen making herself notorious. Do you know that you are the
laughing-stock of men at the Paradis; who discuss you, and hold you
very cheap?—no harm in losing your good name!”
“As to broken hearts,” retorted Cara, who was now plaiting her hair
vigorously, “I don’t believe in them; and I’ve heard enough of that
rubbish from Fritz to last a lifetime.” The term ‘laughing-stock’ had
stirred her keenly, and she went on, her temper at white heat: “As
for my good name, I can take care of that; and, my darling Mum,”
and she drew herself up, and tossed back a plait, “you are the last
person to talk of ‘a good name.’”
“What do you mean, Cara?” Letty asked faintly.
“I mean,” speaking with deliberate emphasis, “that I know.”
Her mother took two steps backwards, staggered blindly, and sat
down on the side of the bed,—her face as colourless as the
counterpane.
“Yes, I must say, I think you should not have kept it from me, Mum.
Of course, I don’t think any the worse of you, dear.” She would have
taken her mother’s hand, but Letty pushed her from her, with
impatience, and her trembling lips put the question:
“Who told you?”
“Miss Plassy—she said I ought to know.”
“Yes, go on,” urged her mother in a stifled voice; “be quick and tell
me.”
“She told me that my name is Blagdon. My father is enormously rich,
and that you ran away with an officer when I was a kid, and were
divorced, and a year later, you came and stole me from my nurse,
and brought me off here. That’s the story!—it sounds crude, but she
swore it was true and in all the papers. I can get over the divorce all
right,” continued Cara, with an air of superb generosity, “but really
and truly, Mum, I cannot forgive you for kidnapping me, and
bringing me off abroad, to lead this wretched, poverty-stricken life.”
“Cara,” cried her mother, rising to her feet, and speaking with
unexpected violence, “you have heard a garbled tale—only one side.
Now you shall hear mine,” and standing erect, confronting her
daughter, she poured forth the story of her wrongs, her misery, and
her married life.
Her eloquence—the eloquence of a bursting heart—was such, that
even Cara for a moment felt moved, ashamed, yes, and repentant.
So overwhelming was the effect of her mother’s picture of a blighted
youth, a life of solitude, and her passionate attachment to herself,
that Cara for once betrayed into real personal feeling, fell into her
mother’s arms, overcome by a storm of unparalleled emotion.
At last, with sobs and caresses from Letty, murmurs of penitence
and adoration from Cara, mother and daughter, exhausted by this
violent strain, separated at last, to seek what rest they might.
For hours Cara lay watching the window with hard restless eyes,
turning over her mother’s story in her mind, and weighing it
remorselessly. As time passed, her feelings had subsided; it was one
thing to be touched by a beautiful face, an impassioned pleading,
and unfortunate history; it was another, in the dim, pale dawn, to
recall facts—remorseless facts. The fact of the divorce—the fact that
her mother had stolen her—the fact that she was an heiress—the
fact that she, Cara, with all her beauty, good birth, and cravings, was
poor and insignificant, and living on a few francs a week at a
detestable old Swiss farm. Of course, she was fond of the Mum;
certainly she was fond of her; and she had had a horrid life,—but
probably she had not known how to manage people. Probably?—
why, of course not—she never could manage anyone! She, Cara, had
her own life to lead, and must strike out for herself. Meanwhile she
resolved to be very kind and good to the Mum,—and to keep no
more trysts. What brutes of men to talk! For the future, she resolved
to remain under her mother’s wing; it would be too ridiculous for a
great heiress to make herself cheap!
Letty as she lay also watching her window, never slept at all; her
thoughts were too active. She recalled Cara’s manner, her callous
admissions, her bombshell, and subsequently her surprising
breakdown. This, she knew from experience, to be but a temporary
affair—there had been former scenes and reconciliations, from which
Cara had, as on the present occasion, emerged victorious!
 CHAPTER XXXIII
“SO she has known for a whole fortnight and kept it to herself,” said
Mrs. Hesketh with luminous eyes. “I had no idea that Cara was
capable of such amazing self-control. This accounts for her
inexplicable silence, sullenness, and studied insolence to me.”
“Of course, the information was startling,” pleaded Letty. “Her whole
little world turned upside down; the child has taken the news
amazingly well, and is so sweet and affectionate. This morning she
asked me to tell you that she is very sorry and ashamed of her
rudeness to you, and intends to turn over a new leaf.”
“I am not sure that I have much faith in these new leaves,” rejoined
Mrs. Hesketh ungraciously; “but I am prepared to accept the olive
branch. You say the girl is sitting at home sewing, whilst you are
abroad? You appear to have changed places.”
“Only for once. It was so important that I should see you. Now Cara
has been enlightened, perhaps it is for the best—it had to come
some day.”
“And malicious Miss Plassy has spared no details—you have no
further disclosures to fear. Bring Cara to dinner to-night, I should like
to have a talk with her, and we will smoke the pipe of peace.”
For the next ten days all went smoothly. Cara no longer yearned for
solitary excursions into Lucerne; on the contrary, she appeared to be
glad of her mother’s companionship, and had figuratively attached
herself to her apron string!
Meanwhile, arrangements for a move were in progress. Mrs. Hesketh
had written home, announcing the arrival of two friends, ordering
alterations in the house, and entering into treaty for a new motor.
A whole month had passed, and there had been no reply to Cara’s
filial appeal—an appeal which had cost hours of thought, and been
written and rewritten again and again. Her heart and her hopes
sank; this condition was salutary, the girl—like all bullies—was
absurdly elated by success, whilst failure bowed her to the earth. In
despair of her father’s favour and rescue, she now turned to her
mother, whom she contemplated by the light of her illuminating
story. She dwelt on that passionately pleading figure, that ringing
voice, those piteous eyes, and appealing hands; and could not but
believe that every word she uttered was true. Her father’s silence
was ample proof of his unnatural character; he must be a brute! And
she herself had witnessed one of the principal scenes in her mother’s
history. That afternoon on the Schiller, when they had met the
handsome English officer, who implored her mother to agree to
something, and her mother had not consented; now she learnt that
he had asked her to marry him, and leave her, Cara, at school—and
the Mum had refused. She recalled his urgent air, and her mother’s
tears. It was evident that she cared for him—and no wonder! Had
she been in her mother’s place, his offer would have been accepted
—bien sur! And the Mum was so pretty—no matter how shabby or
simple her clothes, she always looked well-born—a lady to the tips of
her fingers. Everything she accomplished was so neat, so finished:
her room and belongings so orderly; such a contrast to her own
apartment, which was always untidy; she never could find anything,
and flung away hats, stepped out of skirts, kicked off shoes, and left
the Mum to clear up, and put her things straight. She seemed at last
to realise, what her mother stood for in her life, and became
thoughtful, helpful, and affectionate. She ran errands, carried
parcels, and was altogether another and softer Cara. These were
indeed halcyon days for Letty! She brought her good news to the
bedside of her friend, who was confined to her room with a serious
bronchial attack.
“The child is so changed,” she said, “so warm-hearted, loving, and
confidential. She has confessed everything to me; all about those
odious men, and how they taught her to smoke, and supplied her
with cigarettes and chocolates, and took her trips in motor-boats.
She declares she only went with them for the fun of the thing, the
thrilling excitement of adventure, and possible discovery! She will
never deceive me again as long as she lives—we are to have no
secrets from one another.”
Here Mrs. Hesketh murmured something inarticulate into the down
quilt, and her visitor continued:
“And she is so interested in Sharsley, and asks me to tell her all
about the place, and about Thornby and Oldcourt. Oh, Cousin
Maude,” and she sank on her knees by the bed, and took her hand
in hers, “I am so happy at last! I am well repaid for my strivings.
Cara and I are now all in all to one another.”
During this interview, Cara had been waiting for her mother in the
lounge—she was now full of these touching little attentions. As she
waited one of her English acquaintances happened to enter, paused,
and bowed with ironical ceremony. Then he approached, and said in
a jocular key:
“Hullo, Goldylocks! what are you doing here? Why so proud?”
Goldylocks raised her eyes, stared at him fiercely, and resumed her
study of a picture paper; and after a momentary hesitation, Captain
Seymour felt compelled to pass on. Cara had done with these odious
free-and-easy men, who joked with her, flattered her, and then
talked her over, and laughed at her behind her back. That thought
acted as a lash, and kept Miss Blagdon’s exuberant impulses in
check.
Presently her mother reappeared, and as they climbed the hill
together, arm in arm, she said:
“Cousin Maude is so much better, the doctor thinks she may move in
ten days, and we will travel with her. You know the school idea has
been abandoned, and you can easily keep up your music, and
French with me. I do hope you won’t find Thornby too dull; there is
no one in the village now, except the Dentons.”
“And your aunt—the hunting lady?”
“No; she lives in Brighton, I am thankful to say, but the poor old Holt
is closed. Cara,” and her mother halted on the little plateau, “Mrs.
Hesketh has been frightening me. She asks, if your father claimed
you, what would you do?”
“Why you know, Mummy,” throwing her arm round her waist, “I’ll
never, never leave you!” and she covered her face with kisses.
“If you had been a boy, darling, of course I’d never, never have
dared to carry you off; but I wanted you so badly, and he did not;
you were left alone with your nurse in a corner of that great big
house, your father ignored you; he dislikes girls—even grown-up
girls.”
“Yet he married a girl, Mummy. Why you were only my age—
seventeen!”
“Yes, dear, but your father soon got tired of me. At seventeen, I was
years younger than you are; I was painfully timid, silly, and
undecided—and——”
“You are undecided still; but there is no one in all the whole world,
as clever and good, as my own beautiful Mum,” and Cara bent her
fair head, and kissed her mother on the lips.

Hugo Blagdon was now a stout, irascible, red-faced man of fifty-

seven, who for the sake of his health was every year compelled to
take ‘a cure’ at Carlsbad, and here Cara’s letters followed, and found
him. As he casually opened number one, then glanced at the
signature, his complexion changed from red to purple.
“What the devil does this mean?” he muttered.
He was soon in possession of full information. In Cara’s fine bold
hand, she assured him that only within the last twenty-four hours
she had learnt her own and her mother’s story, and that her father
was still living. She went on to say, that she was weary of exile, had
a craving to see her native land, and him; described herself as tall
and fair, very fond of outdoor sports, and games, and hoped that he
would soon write to her, send for her, and allow her to know him,
and remained his affectionate daughter, Caroline Blagdon. ‘P.S.—
Please address Miss Glyn, Poste Restante, Mitzau. I am sending you
my photograph.’
“By George!” he exclaimed when he came to the end of her epistle,
“a grown-up daughter, and she writes with spirit; no milk and water
about her!” Yes, and here was her photograph. It was many years
since he had experienced such a thrill of expectation, as when he cut
the string, and uncovered a cabinet-sized photograph which
displayed a handsome girl, with a resolute jaw, broad shoulders, and
large hands. It must be confessed, that the likeness did not do
justice to the sitter’s best points—her hair, complexion, and teeth.
“Not bad-looking,” was her father’s verdict. After gazing at it for a
long time, studying the dress and details, he put both letter and
photo into his breast coat pocket, and went off to his bath.
No need to do anything in a hurry; letter-writing was the mischief,
and dangerous. He would take his time,—and he did. Several
anxious epistles from Les Plans remained unnoticed, and hence his
daughter’s despair. It was evident that there was nothing before her,
but the prospect of a dull life in an English village, and she decided
to make the best of circumstances.
Her father, meanwhile, had resolved to motor to Lucerne for his
‘after cure,’ but not commit himself in any way. He would first look
round cautiously, and see how the land lay.
Hugo Blagdon in his magnificent car arrived early in September, and
put up at the National. After an excellent lunch—concluded with
coffee and liqueur—he strolled forth on the Quai, and stared
frowningly on the lovely scene; the mountains and hills of all shades
of blue, the lake gay with traffic; finally he went into the Casino
gardens and bestowed his heavy form upon a seat. The band was
playing, and the place was crowded. He debated with himself the
question of a bock—yes or no—the verdict was ‘no’: he had recently
lost ten pounds in weight and must keep himself down. Bye and by,
among the crowd, he was glad to recognise a racing acquaintance,
and signalled to him to join him at his little table.
As they sat, discussing jockeys, weights, and other matters, the man
said:
“This is a great season, I have never seen the place so full, nor so
many pretty frocks, and faces. Hullo—look there!”
Two ladies were crossing the gardens, both tall and both wearing
summer hats, and white gowns; their air and good looks
distinguished them from the crowd.
For a moment Blagdon stared with stolid incredulity, then he hastily
put down his cigar, for he had recognised Letty! A beautiful, self-
possessed Letty, with an air of fragile grace, who, although laden
with several parcels, carried herself like a queen; the girl, of bigger
build, with clouds of hair and marvellous colouring, was his
correspondent Cara,—she looked every day of twenty!
He was actually gazing at his own wife and daughter—so were
others; the pair had been accosted by friends, and stopped to talk,
and this afforded the spectators an opportunity to admire.
“By Jove, Englishwomen are hard to beat! I bet those two are
English,” said his companion. “The elder is the best looking—a
handsome woman. The young one seems full of go, and what teeth
and colouring! But she hasn’t her sister’s figure.”
Here indeed was an entirely different individual to the cowering Letty
of fourteen years previously, and how well she had worn! Now she
would shine in any company—his wife—yes, and his daughter. She,
too, was ripping: so sure of herself; he watched her gay gestures
and broad smiles, her well-cut frock, and neat figure—rather on the
heavy side. What a complexion! By George, she’d make ’em all sit
up! Yes, he decided to claim her—a handsome wife was one thing: a
handsome daughter, reflected still more credit on a fellow.
Cara was a Blagdon—his own flesh and blood, and he was sick of his
old associates.
“I say, Blagdon, you are not very gay; the after cure depressing?
Eh?”
“No, I’m all right,” with a shake of his great shoulders. “I’m just
thinking of a good thing I’ve come in for.”
Repton stared. Was old Blag off his chump? had he been drinking?
“Oh, it’s only a filly of mine, a rare one, that will show ’em all the
way,” and he chuckled to himself.
“Ah, then, I’ll look to you for a tip!”
Blagdon noted the break-up of the party, which concluded with
cordial hand-shaking, and adieux. Subsequently mother and
daughter walked away talking together eagerly—evidently the best
of pals. He rose instantly, followed, and kept them in view. In the
Swan Platz, opposite Cook’s, the two separated; Letty to cross the
bridge, the girl to enter the Arcade: here he saw her disappear into
a shop, and waited. As he waited, he meditated; he was full of
impatience to claim this creditable daughter; in face her mother, in
manner and figure a Blagdon. What—cold thought—would Connie
say?—Con, more or less lived with, as well as on him. She had the
Blagdon will, tongue, and temper. Well, from the girl’s air and off-
hand manner, he expected she could hold her own; and by George,
he had done a lot for Con, from first to last, and paid her debts over
and over. It was time he did something for his only daughter,—who
had not cost him a farthing since she cut her first teeth. As he
conferred with himself, the girl came briskly out of the shop. He had
been pretending to be looking into the window, and at once
accosted her.
“I say,” he began, staring hard into her face, “aren’t you—er—
Caroline—Blagdon?”
She stood stock still, and surveyed him with startled eyes, and a
heightened colour.
Could this heavy, elderly man, with a large, reddish face, be her
father? Why Kaspar at the landing-stage looked more distinguished.
Of course his clothes and voice were all right—but——
She nodded curtly.
“I got your letters,” he resumed, “and as I was in Germany
motoring, I thought I’d come on here and look you up. Seeing is
believing. I’m your father, you know.”
“Yes—are you?”
“I say, let’s walk about a bit, where we can talk. Where’s your
mother? I bar meeting her.”
“She has gone across the bridge to say good-bye to some friends;
we are leaving next week. She won’t be back for an hour. I’m to
meet her at the five o’clock boat.”
“Oh, so then we have a clear hour! Come along to the National.”
For a perceptible pause Cara’s hesitation was obvious: she neither
spoke nor stirred—and her reluctance enormously enhanced her
value in her father’s eyes.—However, as she said to herself, she
might as well hear, what he had to propose—no harm—in that!
As they strolled together past the shops, Blagdon was gratified to
note how many eyes were bent on his companion. This was the sort
of girl that appealed to him; she was well turned out, too, and
walked as if the whole earth belonged to her.
“Lived here always?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, since I was four. Now I’m seventeen.”
“And look every day of twenty or more,” he exclaimed with habitual
brusquerie.
“Do I? And you,” considering him with cold, undaunted eyes, “I
suppose are sixty—or more?”
Blagdon’s face assumed a deeper hue. His neck appeared to swell,
an apoplectic seizure seemed imminent; he was not accustomed to
be thus bearded.
However, for once, with a violent effort, he restrained himself, and
answered:
“A fellow’s the age he feels—a woman the age she looks.”
“That’s rubbish!” declared his bold companion, “and was certainly
invented by a man!”
“I say, young lady, you seem to have a fairly sharp tongue!”
“A sharp tongue and a sweet temper,” she retorted.
It was evident to her electrified and humbled parent, that the girl did
not care a brass farthing whether he reinstated her or not! The
saucy young woman was entirely independent, and made no secret
of her attitude. The chances were, that if she had been appealing,
eager, and slavish, he would not have been so anxious to claim her—
but Cara had taken her father’s measure, with a very sure eye.
“Well, here we are,” he continued, leading the way up the steps;
“come into the lounge, and let’s get to know one another. I saw you
and your mother together just now—you seem to be tremendous
pals.”
“So we are,” said Cara, as she threw herself carelessly into a
comfortable chair. “My mother has been awfully good to me.”
“Eh? Well, at any rate, she ran away with you, and now,” coming and
standing directly before her, “what do you say to giving me a turn?”
“What do you call a turn?” she enquired, looking back into his eyes,
with a true family stare; the girl had a spice of the devil in her, that
was certain.
“You will live with me in Hill Street,” he announced pompously; and
seeing that this fact made no impression, “have a motor, and a
maid.”
“Yes?” The ‘yes’ was cool and indifferent.
“As many frocks and gewgaws as you want, and theatres and
dances—those are not in my line. I’ll take you racing; I’ve a string of
horses in training.”
“I love racing,” she admitted. “I’ve only seen races once, and that
was here.”
“Bah!” with a gesture of contempt, “a set of platers! And so you are
on the move at last?”
“Yes; we are going to live with Mrs. Hesketh.”
“That old beldame! Well, you can choose between Thornby and
Sharsley. I won’t have any half measures—you understand that?”
“Am I to be mistress of the house?” she asked hardily. “I have an
aunt, I believe?”
“You have very much an aunt—she’d make two—but she will move
into her own flat. You look as if you could hold your own, and sit at
the head of a table, and square on a horse.”
“I daresay I can soon learn English ways, and I’m sure I could ride—
but I don’t like leaving mother.”
“I daresay not! You don’t know what is good for you—and you can’t
well bring her along, can you? It must be one of us, or the other—
Glyn or Blagdon!”
“Yes, I know,” and Cara rose, and walked slowly over to the window,
and looked out. She was weighing the vital question, ‘father or
mother’? As she stood irresolute, her eyes fell upon a splendid motor
drawn up below the hotel—le dernier mot of luxury, and
extravagance.
“That’s my car,” announced her father, who had followed, and was
now looking over her shoulder. “If you decide on me, we will go off
this evening, and I must give the chauffeur instructions about
getting to Dover. You and I will go straight to Paris, and there you
can rig yourself out before we go home—and the sooner we make a
start the better.”
“Do you really mean, that we are to leave here to-day?” stammered
Cara; who had been thinking of debating the matter, and making up
her mind, at leisure.
“Oh, yes—it’s now or never.”
Cara turned pale and then red.
“I want to get back for the Leger; you can settle into Hill Street.”
Noticing her change of colour, he became more urgent. “Your
grandmother’s lot will take you up—the old Scropes are tremendous
swells, and your cousins the Calthorpes and Montfords will trot you
out and present you at Court, and all that sort of thing—balls, and
so on. Of course, you are a bit young; but, as I tell you, you look old
—old enough to sport the Blagdon diamonds; and the family
diamonds are quite top-hole! There isn’t a finer show in any opera-
house.”
Presentations at Court, diamonds, French frocks, balls, races, the
command of a large establishment—Cara felt that her head was
swimming! What were her mother and Oldcourt in comparison to
such dazzling temptations? Of course, she was behaving badly; but
in this world everyone must play for their own hand. The Mum had
made terrible mistakes, and ‘revoked,’ so to speak. Because she had
spoiled her life, why should she, Cara, do likewise? She felt
confident, that she could get on all right with this burly, rough sort
of father, and was not the least afraid of him.
“Yes, by Jove, you and I will make a bolt; give your mother the slip,
and pay her out in her own coin, ha! ha! She’s given to running
away.”
“If I come to live with you, you must never say a word against the
Mum.”
“The word ‘must’ is never to be used to me,” he answered savagely.
“But why not?” demanded Cara, looking up at him with twinkling
eyes, and an enchanting smile.
What cheek she had! and what teeth! Absolutely perfect. Slightly
mollified, he resumed:
“If you are a good girl, I think we shall pull along together all right,
and I’ll say this for your mother, she had a snaffle mouth,—though
she did bolt. Of course, you are inexperienced in English customs
and housekeeping, but you have the cut of a girl who will soon know
the ropes.”
“If I go with you to-day, what am I to do for clothes? All my things
are up at Les Plans.”
“I can lend you a motor-coat to travel in, and you will be in Paris in
the early morning. We’ll start at six, and dine on the train.”
“Very well,” she said gravely; “so be it.”
“All right, that’s settled, Cara,” and he gripped her hand with a
gesture of possession. “Give me a kiss on the bargain!”
She glanced round apprehensively—they were alone in the lounge,
then offered her square jaw, to his lips.
“By Jove, I’m glad to have you, my girl!” he said with hearty
satisfaction. “When a man is getting on a bit, he feels the want of
someone about him—someone belonging to him—and that he—er—
can be proud of.”
As Cara and her father stood side by side, the five o’clock boat
moved slowly from her moorings, and came out into the lake,
exactly opposite to where they were stationed.
“It’s the Stadthof. There goes mother!” said Cara with a slight catch
in her breath, “wondering what has become of me; that is her I am
sure—the figure at the end. She expects to see me tearing along the
Quai. Don’t you see the lady with the blue sunshade—looking back?”
“No, my sight is not as young as yours,” he answered gruffly. “She
may look and look, but you have done with her, you know, and have,
what is called, burned your boats! Now, come along with me, and I’ll
buy you a little souvenir of the occasion!”
The souvenir, took the form of a superb diamond ring, which Cara
placed with ecstasy upon her third finger. The purchase had been
speedy—since Blagdon, a moneyed man, always knew exactly what
he wanted—and as they emerged to the water-side, Cara gazed
nervously down the lake. Yes, the steamer, bearing her mother out
of her life, was still in sight. Her eyes, as she watched it rounding
the promontory, were blinded with tears; when she had brushed
these away, she looked once more, but the Stadthof and her pretty
Mum, had disappeared, as far as she was concerned, for ever.

Having accomplished her errands and visits, Letty arrived punctually

at the Bahnhof Pier, and looked eagerly around for Cara and her
parcels; but no Cara appeared—she was not even in sight as the
boat cast off. Letty and her daughter were dining that evening with
Mrs. Hesketh, and at the Paradis she anxiously awaited her. Cara had
missed a boat on several occasions, and come by the next; and now
every time the great revolving door swung, she expected to see her
enter. Time went on, dinner was over, the nine o’clock steamer had
passed by, brilliantly illuminated.
“What can have become of Cara?” said her mother. “I know she was
going to the Convent—it is not like them to keep the child so late.
Shall we go and wait in the lounge?”
When the ladies entered, the hall, the concierge came forward with
a thin blue telegram, addressed to ‘Mrs. Glyn,’ and handed it to
Letty, who tore it open with shaking fingers. As her eyes glanced
over the contents, she gave a faint exclamation and dropped the
paper. Mrs. Hesketh picked it up instantly, and read:
“Leaving for Paris with father. Good-bye. C. Blagdon.”
 CHAPTER XXXIV
THE shock of Cara’s desertion prostrated her mother, and for many
days she remained at the Paradis, blanched and shaken, a stricken,
ghost-like guest. Her friend (now completely restored) had taken the
helm of her life in her hands, and was making rapid preparations for
their departure to England.
“My poor dear child,” she said, “I am desperately sorry for you. That
your wound is deep, I know. ‘How sharper than the serpent’s tooth it
is to have a thankless child,’ so said old King Lear; all the same, you
will get over it.”
“No, never, never!” replied Letty with energetic emphasis; and her
voice and face were unrecognisably hard.
“Certainly you will. I speak from experience. When my little boy died
——”
“Your boy!” interrupted Letty, lifting her head; “I never knew you
had a child!”
“I do not speak of him, but he was my treasure: a darling. When he
was three years old he fell out of a window, and was killed before
my very eyes. Then, indeed, I would gladly have laid me down and
died—but here I am! trying to encourage you to rise again and plod
along the highway known as Life. If Harry had lived, he would be
your age; it is thirty-five years since they closed the coffin-lid upon
his little angel face. To add to my agony, my husband declared that
the accident was my fault; the child was watching me mounting my
horse, he overbalanced, the nurse grabbed at him, but only his sash,
remained in her hand.”
“How dreadful!” cried her listener with streaming tears.
“Yes, dear, you may weep a little for me; but as for yourself, you
must dry your tears, and enter upon another life.”
It had been mooted on the mountain-side, in farm-houses and cow-
houses, that the rosy-cheeked English girl, claimed by a rich father,
had forsaken the pretty mother who for thirteen years had toiled for
her support. Ah, a wustus maden!—(a bad girl).
A surprising amount of kindly sympathy was felt and shown; many
little farewell gifts were left at the Paradis, addressed to ‘Frau Glyn,’
and one afternoon Letty nerved herself to ascend to Les Plans, for
the last time, in order to take leave of its inmates. There they were,
all ready to welcome her! the Josts, Freda, the Frau herself, and a
new dog—another Karo. In the low-roofed sitting-room, when Letty
and Frau Hurter were alone, she said:
“All my little things here, my chair, and lace pillow, work-basket,
harmonium, and tea-service I hope you will accept.”
“But, mein liebe Frau, I never sew or play tunes. I am old, and my
fingers are like wood.”
“Fritz’s wife will be young?”
“Fritz—ach ye! He knows. My cousin writes he is as mad, and off his
head; he says he goes to America, he cannot live here, ever—
without her. The boy comes to say good-bye in two days, and then
we are forsaken—you and I, by those for whom we would give the
life’s blood.”
“He will get over it, dear Frau. Fritz is so young. Ask him to come
and talk to me, and I will do my best, to persuade him to stay.”
“Yes, it may do good, since he loves you—we can but try,” she
paused to wipe her eyes on her apron; “but as for you, dear lady,
my heart aches. It seems but yesterday, when you stood out there in
the garden in the sunshine a girl, with Mitli in your arms. What you
have been to her ever since, the good God, and I, alone know. Now
she has deserted you; try and put her away from your thoughts.—
You are still young, you have your own life.”
“I am going to make another home; but what can replace a child?”
cried Letty, rising as she spoke. “I want to see her room, and settle
about her things.”
“Her room is dusted and in order, otherwise as she left it. We will go
there now,” and Frau Hurter climbed the stairs, and threw open the
door into an empty chamber.
There were Cara’s familiar frocks hanging on familiar hooks; her
silver-backed hair-brushes (a birthday gift) on the dressing-table; a
hat with the pins still sticking in it, as it had been cast down, lay on
the bed. There was a little writing-table and blotter—both spattered
with ink—and peeping in at the window that hoary old pear tree—
the accomplice of the girl in her midnight flights.
“Ach ye!” exclaimed Frau Hurter in a lachrymose key, “there is the
blouse you made her; the skirt you embroidered, the little slippers.—
Freda and I will pack everything, and send them down by Jost.”
“No, no; I could not bear to see them again,” protested Letty,
making an effort to choke back her tears. “Please keep all, except
the books and writing materials, and personal treasures,” gathering
them together in feverish haste.
“Here are dozens and dozens of letters,” announced Frau Hurter,
who was diving into a deep drawer.
“What of them, meine Frau?”
“Let them go too.”
“To England! Why not burn them?”
“No, no, we will stuff them into this silk work-bag, and tie them
securely—let the child have all she values. I will send a maid to-
morrow to pack, and forward everything to London.” After a pause,
and a last look round, she added, “I have been very, very happy
here, dear Frau, and I love your country—but I am leaving it in a
few days,—never to return.”
The two women clasped hands, and Frau Hurter, the stony-faced,
suddenly drew her fellow-sufferer into her bony embrace, and kissed
her with a sort of dry and concentrated passion.
As Letty walked down the hill that lovely September evening, she
halted for a farewell look at the gleaming lake and range of
mountains—a scene beloved and familiar as the face of a dear
friend. How many hundred times had she climbed this well-worn
path—since the day she had first carried Cara to the farm! Here on
this very spot, the little plateau under the pear trees, had Cara
thrown her arms about her, assuring her with warm kisses that “she
would never, never, never leave her own darling Mum!”
As a pair of sad eyes, rested on the matchless prospect, the sun was
setting behind Pilatus,—who stood forth grim and rugged, against a
flaming background of red and gold—a glorious afterglow spread
itself over the slopes of the Rigi, changing its strata of granite to
rose-colour, the intervening pastures to a cloudy blue. Then very
gradually, as if by the touch of a magic wand, a delicate ethereal
haze dissolved the entire scene into an exquisite shade of amethyst,
—the curtain had fallen, and a glorious September day, was
numbered with the past.
The air was still: the sleepy tinkling of a little stream, a far-away
hoot of some steamer approaching a landing-stage, the faint sound
of a chapel bell were the only sounds that broke a curiously
reverent, and impressive silence.
Presently beautiful Hesperus, wrapped in her misty mantle, came
gliding along the mountain-tops, and hung her bright star in the sky,
and Letty continued her way.

Blagdon’s arrivals and departures were notoriously abrupt, and after

a busy and exciting three days in Paris, he appeared in Hill Street
with his unheralded companion; looking forward with a sort of brutal
glee to ‘taking a splendid rise out of old Connie.’ He had merely
announced his immediate return, ‘bringing a friend.’
It was eight o’clock when he entered his smoking-room, closely
attended by Cara (who had been not a little impressed by her
father’s wealth, the appearance of the home, and its group of silent,
dignified men-servants—a home where she was to reign as
mistress). Here, sunken in an arm-chair, with a dog on her lap, a
cigarette in her mouth, a sporting paper in her hand, they
discovered Lady Rashleigh. She was greatly changed; her figure was
shapeless, her hair a foxy grey, her skin coarse, and deeply lined—
altogether, especially in a shabby deshabille, she deservedly earned
the adjective ‘Blowsy.’ Yet at race meetings, in a well-cut coat and
handsome furs, Con Rashleigh was still regarded as a wonderful
woman for sixty—pity she had let her figure go!
“Hullo, Blag!” she exclaimed, as she removed her cigarette, “so here
you are! Have you seen this Handicap—why—who’s this?” surveying
her niece with an aggressive stare. Hugo occasionally introduced
startling acquaintances. “Who have we here?” throwing down the
Pom, and rising heavily to her feet.
The stranger was a tall, handsome girl with a vague resemblance to
someone—why, to Letty, to be sure! In an illuminating flash she saw
it all! Blag had sprung one of his jokes on her, and brought home the
daughter!
“It’s only my little girl,” he announced with indescribable pride; “five-
foot-six in her stockings. She has chucked Switzerland, and come to
live with me.”
“Ah, so this is Cara,” drawing her towards her as she spoke.
Ciel! How her aunt smelt of whisky, and tobacco;—just like a man,
thought the girl as she passively submitted to her kisses.
“Why did you not prepare me? Why keep this pleasure to yourself?”
continued Lady Rashleigh with ostentatious composure.—In that
brief moment she had decided to be civil to the new-comer, and
make no scene. Hugo was undoubtedly struck, but his fancies never
lasted; he would tire of his novelty before the month was out, and
she resolved to sit tight in Hill Street—the flat was let. This well-
grown interloper knew nothing of English society, and she
determined to keep her in the background, and rule her, as she had
done the pink-cheeked little fool, her mother.
But it was not long—in fact, less than five minutes—before Connie
Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old
block, as hard and ruthless as herself, and with all the cocksureness
and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she
talked glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly
animated as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her
father looked on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was
there ever such a complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie
Rashleigh stared and listened with a feeling of dismal apprehension
—which apprehension proved to be but too well founded, when at a
hint from her father, Cara, in a trailing tea-gown, sailed into the
dining-room before her aunt, and sank into a chair at the head of
the table.
“Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is
installed as the mistress of the house—the robes, and the keys—eh,
Cara?”
His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon!
And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to
subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and
grace she could assume.
“Champagne, Carter—the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will
drink Miss Blagdon’s health and welcome.”
From this hour war—internecine, secret, and deadly—was declared
between aunt and niece; but the victory was ever to the young. Cara
ruled her father, dominated the household, and openly despised her
predecessor.
Cara was a ‘female bounder,’ in the opinion of that lady, and brutally
selfish. She ‘grabbed’ everything: the best room, the use of the
motor, the carriage, the pick of Mudie’s books, and the most
comfortable chairs. She poured out tea, did the honours with
amazing self-possession, and left her aunt to enjoy the agreeable
sensation of being the odd one out,—and that, in the house in which
she had been born!
Hugo had a few words to say to his sister with respect to the new
mistress.
“Look here, old girl, you must make it all right for Cara. Take her
round the Scrope lot, and write to those in the country, and tell them
she is with me. I want her to get a flying start; and you know on
which side your bread is buttered,” he added with blunt significance
and doubtful taste. “After Christmas we are going to Monte Carlo,
and you must trot back to your own flat; the girl says this house
wants doing up, and that the curtains and paper in the drawing-
room, make her sea-sick.”
The curtains and paper, Lady Rashleigh’s joy and delight, had been
her own selection!
Mr. Blagdon did not (as his sister had hopefully anticipated) tire of
his new discovery; on the contrary, he was blatantly proud of his
daughter, of her youth, good looks, and animal spirits. She was not a
success among her grandmother’s set (and a little cowed by that old
lady), but for the sake of the family, they accepted this loud,
bouncing young person—they shrank from further scandal. The girl
carried herself well, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and
danced admirably. She might have been worse! Who could believe,
that she had been brought up on a Swiss farm? but then, these dear
ladies had no experience of the modern education which is afforded
in Swiss schools.
This quick-witted, adaptable damsel, soon picked up society and
racing jargon; she had the aplomb of a woman of thirty, ruled her
adoring father, banished her unruly aunt, patronised—yes,
patronised, the Slaters, and overawed Lord Robby—in short, a
domestic Queen Elizabeth!
It was a cruel blow to poor Lady Rashleigh to be compelled to
abandon her luxurious home, the use of a motor, gifts of money, and
the loan of jewels, in order to make way for a bold, aggressive
young woman, who was said to bear a resemblance to herself! She
retired in deplorably low spirits to what she was pleased to call ‘her
lair.’ A six-roomed flat, with two good sitting-rooms, two small
bedrooms, and the usual black hole for the accommodation of
servants. Cara paid her aunt a prompt visit—inspired by curiosity, not
affection. The suite, shabby and dusty, commanded an extensive
view of a garage; the drawing-room was well furnished, but had the
rakish air of a passée beauty; and sofas and cabinets, (evident spoil
from Sharsley,) blocked up too much space. The bedroom,—also
encumbered by Sharsley furniture, seemed to be half filled with piles
of shabby cardboard boxes of all sizes; here too were dozens of
dusty medicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes, and on the
dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a syphon, and the
latest edition of Ruff. Two little barking Poms ran in and out; and a
gloomy cook, with arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen doorway
staring with lowering eyes. Everything was untidy, neglected, and
squalid. No wonder Aunt Con preferred to hang on in Hill Street!
And so the months passed, and Cara tasted intoxicating delights of
which she had merely dreamt. Among her father’s associates, Miss
Blagdon enjoyed un grand succès. Here was no shrinking, awkward
hostess, but one whose dancing, skating, riding, and repartee found
many admirers,—whilst her influence over an adoring parent was
paraded with noisy ostentation. As for her mother—she stored her
comfortably away in the remotest garret of her mind. They had met
once; it happened in a block in Piccadilly. Cara, queening it in a huge
open motor, with furs and rug of sable; her mother and Mrs. Hesketh
in a station omnibus, with luggage on top. She had stared at her
Mum, and the Mum had bowed, but Cara was so taken aback by the
unexpected encounter, that she forgot to return the salute; then
there was a violent jerk, the policeman had given a signal, and the
omnibus passed on.
What a thing to have happened—she had actually cut her own
mother. How funny!
 CHAPTER XXXV
AS for Letty Glyn, she returned to Thornby bearing her maiden
name; a disgraced wife, who eighteen years previously had left the
village in such a blaze of triumph, that its reflection had illuminated
three parishes. The knowledge of her altered circumstances had long
been public property, and mothers whispered to their daughters as
she passed, the story of pretty Miss Letty, sometimes adding: “Aye,
she was a rare beauty, and carries her looks still!”
A paragraph in a society paper which penetrated to the Indian
frontier, informed Colonel Lumley that ‘Hugo Blagdon and his
daughter Miss Blagdon had returned to Hill Street from the Riviera.’
So Cara, the blue-eyed, had deserted her mother, and gone over to
the enemy! And now Letty was free, since ‘the cause and
impediment’ had abandoned her. He determined to go home at
once; but leave, what about leave? Camps and manœuvres were on
foot—he must bide his time until the autumn. Meanwhile, he wrote
and announced his plans and intentions to Mrs. Glyn, Oldcourt, and
she showed her friend part of a letter which said:
“I shall take three months’ ‘privilege leave’ to England, and I do not
intend on this, the third, occasion, to return alone.”
It was early in September when Colonel Lumley landed at Dover. As
he glanced through the day’s papers in the London train, his eye was
arrested by this paragraph: “Sudden death of Hugo Blagdon, the
well-known sportsman.”
It appeared that Mr. Blagdon had had a seizure on a race-course,
been conveyed to his hotel in an unconscious condition, and there
died. Here, indeed, was news!
That same evening Colonel Lumley went down to Thornby, where he
was warmly welcomed by his relatives. He dined at Oldcourt, and as
he and Letty sat once more at the table of a hostess who had once
rashly attempted to lend a hand to Fate—they were a striking pair—
though eighteen years had elapsed since their last meeting in that
very room. In spite of the cruel shocks of fortune, Letty was still a
beautiful woman; the line of her features, the delicacy of her skin,
the shine on her glorious hair, had not been tarnished. She looked
radiant in mauve chiffon, and wearing her mother’s Indian pearls.
Her fiancé, bronzed and in a way storm-beaten, was handsome; the
wearer of three well-deserved medals, and a leader of men—but the
simple girl of seventeen, and young, eager, and impassioned
Lancelot, were no more.
The following afternoon they walked together to the crooked bridge,
so well remembered by both; they recalled that winter sunset, the
spasmodic talk, the expressive silence of many years ago; between
then and now, what a stretch of wide experience!
“If I had only spoken out the last time I was here,” said Lumley,
“what a lot it would have saved us! I daresay we would have been
married in a couple of years, and when our hearts were younger—
though for you, Letty, mine has never changed!”
“Aunt Dorothy would never have allowed it,” replied Letty with
decision; “never. And you know how she persuaded your aunt to tell
me, that an engagement between us, would be your ruin.”
“Good Lord, what a woman!”
“I really married Hugo because I was terrified of her.”
“Yes, unfortunate child, and went straight out of the frying-pan, into
the fire.”
“But, Lancelot, I was the last sort of wife for Hugo. I always seemed
to do the wrong thing. I believe, he would have been quite happy
with a woman of his own world. I was an experiment; a mistake,”
and her lip quivered.
“A costly mistake for you! Poor Letty,” and he looked at her with
peculiar tenderness. Now at last she should have someone to protect
her; someone to stand between her, and the buffetings of Fate.
“Where is your aunt?” he enquired, “dead?” the tone was positively
hopeful.
“No, indeed, she is married again to a man ten years younger than
herself. They live at Brighton on her money; and I’m told,—though
this is dreadful gossip,—that he gambles and flirts, and leads her
rather a life; but he is very good-looking, and she adores him.”
“Impossible! She never adored anything in her life but a blue plate!
Letty, to turn to another much more interesting subject—you will
marry me soon, won’t you—in a week?”
“Oh, no, Lancelot—he was only buried at Sharsley on Friday. Let us
wait a month, since”—and she swallowed a lump in her throat—“we
have waited so long.”
“Well, all right, a month, so be it; a month from to-day.”
Later, as they strolled towards the village, Lumley said:
“When I passed through town yesterday, I lunched at the Rag, and
heard some fellows talking. They said Blagdon had been frightfully
hard hit over the Leger, and indeed lately all round. When the
numbers went up he dropped his glasses, turned purple, and
collapsed. The doctors and the girl got him home. I’m afraid it will
be a tremendous change for her.”
“Yes, poor child, it must have been a dreadful shock; but she will be
rich—Cara is well provided for.”
“I am not so sure; you know the property is entailed. Old Laban
Blagdon never dreamt that the place he was so proud of, would pass
to a New Zealand squatter.”
“He will sell it, of course.”
“Impossible; it’s strictly tied up; miserable man, it will be his white
elephant. Frances says the house is tumbling to pieces, and that
rabbits swarm in the grounds.”
Later that same afternoon, the Blagdon affairs were discussed in the
Rectory drawing-room by Mrs. Denton, her nephew, and Mrs.
Hesketh,—whilst the Rector took his friend Letty into the garden in
order to advise her respecting some important improvements.
“I had a long letter this morning from Doodie,” announced her
cousin. “You know she is always so deeply interested in legacies, and
wills. She tells me that Hugo Blagdon’s debts to money-lenders are
enormous; and the Hill Street house is mortgaged to the roof, and
must be sold as it stands—and if there is three or four hundred a
year for Cara, she may think herself lucky. She and her aunt are to
live together in the flat.”
“I wonder how that arrangement will work out?” said Colonel
Lumley, “and how Cara and her aunt will agree?”
“They will fight like the Kilkenny cats,” rejoined Mrs. Hesketh with
prompt decision. “Let us hope they will come to the same historical
end.”
“My dear friend,” protested Mrs. Denton, “I know you don’t mean
that! As for Cara, of course she is headstrong, but she is young, and
perhaps——”
At this moment the door opened to admit a maid carrying the tea-
tray. As she was immediately followed by Cara’s mother, and the
Rector, Mrs. Denton’s sentence remained for ever incomplete.

There was a quiet wedding at Thornby when, for the second time,
‘Lettice Kathleen’ was married by Mr. Denton. On this occasion, it
was quite a humble affair; there were no arches, no rice-throwing,
no champing grey horses, or gaping crowds; the newly wedded
couple, motored away from the church, and spent the honeymoon in
Devonshire.