by Rule, Fiona
The Common Lodging Houses Act of 1851 had many failings, but probably its biggest fault was that it did not provide any regulation on the way the proprietors made their money. Consequently, prices for a bed were self-regulating. Anybody could go into business running common lodging houses, so long as they had a suitable property at their disposal. In Spitalfields, the downward slide of the local economy meant that by the mid-19th century, property prices were at an all-time low as no self-respecting house-hunter would even consider living there. The elegant master weavers’ homes that had been so lovingly designed and furnished in the 1700s were now suffering from severe neglect. Roofs leaked, plaster fell off the walls, the kitchen ranges were clogged with grease and floorboards began to fall away. In 1857, The Builder magazine reported on the collapse of a house in Dorset Street, which resulted in the death of a child and warned that virtually every house in the street was in a similarly dangerous state of decay.
Consequently, these houses (which had once only been within the reach of the reasonably wealthy) could now be picked up for next to nothing. The combination of inexpensive property and a huge demand for cheap housing made Spitalfields one of the key areas for men and women keen to make their living from the misfortune of the poor. Most of the new landlords were previously itinerant entrepreneurs who acquired their property with money won by gambling on the horses or, as Henry Mayhew described, ‘by direct robbery.’ Furnishings were often obtained from hospitals or houses in which contagious disease had been rife. The furniture from this type of place was cheap as no one else wanted to risk buying it for fear of infection. Aspiring property magnates with little or no collateral soon hit on the idea of selling shares of their business in order to raise the start-up capital. Advertisements appeared in the newspapers offering a 4% return to investors in common lodging houses. Once a project had a sufficient number of investors, the property was converted and quickly let out. Most of the investors in this type of scheme lived far away and had little or no idea of how their ‘customers’ were being treated. If they had, it is doubtful they would have slept easily, as this description by Henry Mayhew clearly illustrates:
‘Padding-kens (common lodging houses) in the country are certainly preferable abodes to those in St Giles, Westminster or Whitechapel; but in the country as in the town, their condition is extremely filthy and disgusting; many of them are scarcely ever washed, and to sweeping, once a week is miraculous. In most cases they swarm with vermin. Except where their position is very airy, the ventilation is very imperfect, and frequent sickness the necessary result. It is a matter of surprise that the nobility, clergy and gentry of the realm should permit the existence of such horrid dwellings.’ Mayhew then goes on to describe the lodging houses in glorious detail: ‘One of the dens of infamy may be taken as a specimen of the whole class. They generally have a spacious, though often ill-ventilated kitchen, the dirty dilapidated walls of which are hung with prints while a shelf or two are generally, though barely, furnished with crockery and kitchen utensils. In some places, knives and forks are not provided, unless a penny is left with the deputy or manager till they are returned. Average numbers of nightly lodgers is say 70 in winter, reducing to 40 in summer, when many visit the provinces... The general charge to sleep together is 3d per night or 4d for a single bed. There are family rooms that can be hired and crammed with children sleeping on the floor...
‘The amiable and deservedly popular minister of a district church, built among the lodging houses, has stated that he has found 29 human beings in one apartment and that having with difficulty knelt down between two beds to pray with a dying woman, his legs became so jammed that he could hardly get up again. Some of the lodging houses are of the worst class of low brothels, and some may even be described as brothels for children... At some of the busiest periods, numbers sleep on the kitchen floor... a penny is saved to the lodger by this means. More than 200 have been accommodated in this way in a large house.’
The Spitalfields common lodging houses catered for three major types of customer: those too ill or old to work, those too lazy to work and the common criminal. Consequently, the day-to-day running of them was not a job for the faint-hearted. Generally, lodging house proprietors employed a ‘deputy’ whose job it was to make sure that all inmates had paid for their beds and a ‘night watchman’, who acted as a bouncer, keeping unwanted individuals away. Both the deputy and the night watchman had to possess the ability to throw out anyone who could not pay for their bed, regardless of their situation. As this often meant ejecting pregnant women and sick, elderly persons, knowing full well that they would have to sleep rough, it can be assumed that lodging house employees did not possess much of a conscience.
The lodging house proprietors possessed even less concern for their fellow man. In addition to allowing desperate people to sleep in disgusting conditions, they made more money from their pathetic customers by seizing the local monopoly on essentials such as bread, soap and candles, which they sold on to lodgers at hugely inflated prices. Detective Sergeant Leeson, who patrolled the Spitalfields area in the late-19th century, wrote of the common lodging houses, ‘the landlords of these places...are to my mind, greater criminals than the unfortunate wretches who have to live in them.’
In addition to the wretched lodging houses, Dorset Street and much of Spitalfields became overrun with mean tenements that were let out on a weekly basis. These tenements were usually let out by the room, which came sparsely furnished with ancient and often dilapidated furniture. Thomas Archer wrote about such tenements in his report on ‘The Terrible Sights of London’, saying, ‘...each ruined room is occupied by a whole family, or even two or three families, houses which are never brought under the few and not very effective restrictions of the law, and where, from garret to basement, men, women and children swarm and stifle in the foul and reeking air. It is here that poverty meets crime, and weds it.’
These tenements were particularly popular with prostitutes as they provided the privacy required to service a client that was denied them in the huge dormitories of the common lodging houses. Landlords welcomed the prostitutes because they could charge higher rent to allow for the risk of them being found to be living off immoral earnings. As the number of prostitutes operating in Spitalfields dramatically increased in the second half of the 19th century, the landlords of the tenements realised that additional money could be made out of becoming more organised in the way they controlled their tenants.
Part Two
THE VICES OF DORSET STREET
Chapter 12
The Birth of Organised Crime in Spitalfields
The term ‘organised crime’ inevitably conjures up images of suit-wearing cigar-chewing, gun-toting gangsters such as Al Capone. However, this type of highly efficient, sophisticated gang leader didn’t emerge until the 20th century. The organised crime that evolved in Spitalfields (and many other parts of London) in the 1870s was on a much more primitive level. Far from being criminal geniuses, the leaders of the Spitalfields underworld were simply men who wanted to make money, but did not possess the education or background to go about it in a strictly legal manner.
By the 1870s, Spitalfields landlords were becoming highly organised in the way they made their money. Common lodging houses represented the legitimate, if morally dubious, side of their business, as did the chandlers’ shops (which sold household essentials such as candles, soap and oil) and general stores that proliferated in the area. However, the occupations and tastes of their lodgers created a huge demand for three services that were on the wrong side of the law: prostitution, the fencing of stolen goods and illegal gambling.
A typical tenant of a common lodging house in Dorset Street and the surrounding roads was male and aged between 20 and 40. By day he would find casual work at one of the markets, on a building site or down at the docks. All these places of work provided a copious, never-ending supply of commodities well worth pilfering. Disposal of stolen goods was easy and quick; the chandlers�
� shops and general stores were more than happy to purchase foodstuffs and household essentials, which were then sold on at the usual, highly inflated prices. The lodging house proprietors were also not averse to fencing, as the journalist Henry Mayhew discovered while investigating London’s poor: ‘In some of these lodging houses, the proprietor(s)... are “fences”, or receivers of stolen goods in a small way. Their “fencing”... does not extend to any plate, or jewellery, or articles of value, but is chiefly confined to provisions, and most of all to those which are of ready sale to the lodgers. Of very ready sale are “fish got from the gate” (stolen from Billingsgate); “sawney” (thieved bacon), and “flesh found in Leadenhall” (butchers’ meat stolen from Leadenhall market).’ If a more ambitious robbery was planned, the local shopkeepers’ in-depth knowledge of the population usually meant that a buyer could be found for virtually anything within hours.
By night, lodging house residents, being young, free and mostly single, sought the company of women. Recognising a gap in the market, the canny landlords installed prostitutes in their properties thus creating a new, highly lucrative revenue stream for themselves. Although the lodging houses were supposed to be patrolled by the police, this rarely happened, allowing brothels and prostitution rings to be run without impediment. In October 1888, the East London Observer complained of the common lodging houses that ‘No surveillance is exercised, and a woman is at perfect liberty to bring any companion she likes to share her accommodation.’ The newspaper then went on to blame the prostitutes for the proliferation of criminals in the lodging houses, which was unjust: ‘If loose women be prevented from frequenting common lodging houses, their companions the thieves, burglars and murderers of London would speedily give up resorting to them.’ As the lodging houses provided the ‘thieves and burglars’ with ‘no questions asked’ accommodation at an affordable price, it is unlikely they would have deserted them due to the lack of prostitutes.
As vice in Spitalfields’ lodging houses and furnished rooms increased, men known as ‘bullies’ were employed by the landlords. Their job was ostensibly to act as a doorman to the establishment, thus keeping undesirables away from the tenants. However, in reality, the bully’s main job was to ensure that punters didn’t leave without paying their dues. A typical bully was either ex-army or recently out of gaol. Some would work their way up the ranks until they had enough money to purchase a lodging house of their own. However, most were indolent ruffians who enjoyed lounging around during the day and exercising their muscle at night. Their only fear was of the police, which was unsurprising as many of them had a criminal record and would have easily landed themselves back in gaol after even the most minor altercation with the boys in blue. Consequently, the bullies avoided the police like the plague.
By the 1870s, Dorset Street was comprised almost entirely of common lodging houses, furnished rooms and general shops run by the landlords. Simply by catering for demand, the average Dorset Street landlord had, by the 1870s, quite a number of ‘employees’. In addition to the prostitutes who worked out of his properties (from whom he would have received a cut from any money earned in addition to the rent); there were ‘deputies’ who acted as lodging house managers, doormen or bullies and assistants for the adjacent general stores or chandler’s shops. Times were good and if a landlord was smart, a lot of money could be earned from these little empires.
The police found it easier to turn a blind eye to the goings on in the lodging houses and, without feedback from the police, the authorities were oblivious to the plight of the law-abiding residents. The only threat to the lodging house proprietors’ empires came from competitors, keen to expand their operations. Consequently, common lodging houses became highly sought-after by anyone who could raise enough money to acquire them. Enterprising young men saw how well established lodging-house keepers such as the Smiths of Brick Lane were doing and began to hatch plans to obtain their own properties. The only stumbling block was how to scrape together enough start-up capital. However, soon an Act of Parliament was about to bring their dreams much closer to reality.
Chapter 13
The Cross Act
Throughout the 1870s, the Government had become increasingly troubled about the extreme poverty and lawlessness that was prevalent in areas such as Dorset Street. Of particular concern were the properties in which the poor were forced to live. The politicians listened to the social commentators and developed sympathy for the honest poor who had to share living accommodation with prostitutes, thieves and conmen. In an attempt to improve matters, the Artisans and Labourers’ Dwellings Act (otherwise known as the Cross Act) was passed in 1875.
This act allowed the Government-run Metropolitan Board of Works (the predecessor of the London County Council,) to purchase and demolish large swathes of ‘unfit’ property, with a view to replacing the houses with more salubrious dwellings. The Board of Works responded to the act with enthusiasm and over the following two years purchased 16 slums comprising 42 acres, mainly located in the Boroughs of Stepney, Finsbury, Islington and Whitechapel (which included Spitalfields.) Many of London’s most notorious slums were demolished, including a massive site in Flower and Dean Street.
Despite its good intentions, the Cross Act produced disastrous results. It had been the Metropolitan Board of Works’ intention to sell the land on which the slums had once stood to housing charities. These charities would then build new, model dwellings in which the poor of the area could be re-housed. The new properties would be clean, bright and warm and with any luck, would have a miraculous effect on the inhabitants, who would eschew their life of crime in favour of a hard-working, God-fearing existence.
In reality, the only people to truly benefit from most of the slum clearances were the landlords of the properties earmarked for demolition. These canny property owners made sure their houses were packed to the rafters with tenants when the surveyors called in order to ensure maximum compensation for lost income. Once a property had been condemned, the landlord naturally lost all interest in repair and maintenance work thus subjecting his tenants to truly abominable conditions, while he used the money from the compulsory purchase to buy up more suitable housing close by that was not earmarked for demolition. When the condemned properties were ready to be demolished, the tenants were cast out into the street, while the landlord counted his compensation money – paid to him by the rate-payers of the Borough. The displaced slum dwellers, now desperate for somewhere to stay, crowded into the remaining lodging houses, thus lining the pockets of the landlords once again. The landlords responded to the surge in demand by raising their prices.
An estimated 22,868 people were evicted as a result of the Cross Act. Most were from the poorest sectors of the population whose irregular income or home-based work made them ineligible for the smart new model dwellings that replaced their previous homes. Consequently, many became permanently homeless.
The Cross Act also proved to be a disaster for the Metropolitan Board of Works. Between 1875 and 1877, the Board purchased property to the value of over £1.5 million. However, when the demolished sites were sold on to the housing charities, little more than £330,000 was raised. Realising that they were never going to recoup their losses through the charities, the Board of Works refused to sell some sites for affordable housing. In Spitalfields, many of the demolished slum sites were reserved for commercial development in a bid to gain a better price for the land. Few developers were interested and, despite some warehousing being built, the area did not benefit from the relocation of any major employers. Thus, Spitalfields acquired yet more destitute, homeless individuals on a permanent basis. The landlords, who had already received fat compensation payments for the demolition of their slum properties must have rubbed their hands with glee.
By this time, overcrowding in Dorset Street was worse than ever before. Rooms no larger than 10 square feet became home to two, three or even four families. Sleeping could only be achieved if done in shifts, the other tenants either spendin
g their time at work or in the pub. Despite their poverty, the tenants of these awful places did their best to give their children a decent start in life. Schools sprang up in even the most dangerous and overcrowded tenements, as evidenced by the report of Mr Wrack, a housing inspector from the Metropolitan Board of Works who visited Miller’s Court, Dorset Street in 1878.
On arriving in the court, Mr Wrack found that the ground floor of number 6 was being used as a school room during the day and a sleeping room at night. At the time of his visit there were 19 people in the 12 foot square room, namely 17 children, all under 7, the schoolmaster and his wife. This overcrowding, coupled with the fact that the room was directly adjacent to three privies and the communal dustbin, prompted Mr Wrack to deem the room an inappropriate place in which to educate children. He informed the schoolmaster of his findings and two days later the school was relocated.
By the closing years of the 1870s, Spitalfields resembled a bomb site. Large swathes of land in roads such as Goulston Street and Flower and Dean Street were a mess of bricks, mud and cement as developers built model dwellings for the housing charities. Other sites that had previously housed rookeries stood empty. Any private property-owners who could afford to sold up and moved out. Property values hit an all-time low. It was at this point that the area acquired a new generation of landlords. Most of these men had come from poor, working-class backgrounds. Some had come to London from Ireland during the famine. Others had lived in Spitalfields all their lives but had never before been presented with the opportunity to acquire property. All of them wanted to make money from housing the poor and destitute.
