by Emily Organ
“Well, I’ve a good mind to tell them what I think of their casual wards!” Eliza said indignantly. “The nightgowns and rugs could at least be washed! And the warden is so very discourteous.”
“Oh dear. We’ve heard complaints about him before. Is he still speaking to people in a rude manner?”
“Yes. He seems to be the sort of man who enjoys doing so.”
“When your article is published, Miss Green, may I suggest that you bring it to the attention of the board of guardians?” asked Miss Russell. “They’ll be interested to read it, as they’re not always aware of the finer points. The master and matron, Mr and Mrs Hale, are ultimately responsible for the day-to-day running of the workhouse, and they are the ones who must be held to account. The chairman of the board is Mr Buller, and you might be interested to hear that there is also a lady, Mrs Hodges, on the board. We think it’s wonderful progress, because she can help to improve the care of women in the workhouse and the attached infirmary.”
“That is certainly very interesting indeed,” said Eliza.
“When will your report be published?” asked Miss Russell.
“Hopefully next week,” I replied.
“I shall keep a look out for it. The Morning Express, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“It’s certainly a valuable thing to do. There have been accounts published regarding the men’s wards before, but not the women’s. I think that the more the public learns about what happens behind these walls the better the conditions will be for those poor souls who are confined within them. If either of you would like to assist us in our work we are often in need of more readers.”
“Thank you, Miss Russell,” I said. “We may just take you up on your offer.”
Chapter 5
“You look rather tired, Miss Green,” commented my colleague, Edgar Fish, when I arrived at the Morning Express offices that afternoon. He was a young man with heavy features and small, glinting eyes.
After leaving the workhouse, Eliza and I had visited the public baths, changed into decent clothes and consumed a large luncheon.
“I didn’t sleep very well on the casual ward,” I replied. “I don’t know how anyone manages to sleep in a place like that.”
“No doubt you’ve resolved never to find yourself in the sort of situation that could lead you to the workhouse,” he said.
“Absolutely. I don’t know what I’d do if I were ever to become that destitute. I don’t even like to think about it. I realise now just how lucky we are.”
“I spent the night in the casual ward at the St Giles Workhouse,” replied Edgar. “Do you remember that time when I was undercover in St Giles? I’ve never forgotten it; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever truly recovered from it.”
“And I don’t think you’ve ever stopped talking about it,” added our corpulent, curly-haired colleague Frederick Potter.
“That’s easy for you to say, Potter,” said Edgar. “What has been your most challenging experience to date as a parliamentary reporter? A particularly dull bill reading, perhaps? Or having to endure yet another debate on agriculture?”
“It is extremely difficult to get through some of those.”
“And I suppose you manage to endure them by taking a little nap,” Edgar continued.
“Not on those uncomfortable benches the reporters have to sit on.”
“Ah yes, the uncomfortable benches! A terrible state of affairs, wouldn’t you say, Miss Green?”
“I’ve managed to fall asleep on them once or twice, actually,” added Frederick.
“After some particularly strenuous drinking at one of the bars, no doubt.”
“Yes indeed. The drinking can be very strenuous, in fact. As is all the lunching.”
“Doesn’t your heart bleed for him, Miss Green?” asked Edgar with a laugh.
With the image of the children struggling to eat their gruel lingering in my mind I found it difficult to share the joke.
“Are you all right, Miss Green?” asked Edgar, noticing my dour expression.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
“How was it then, Miss Green?” asked our editor, Mr Sherman, as he entered the newsroom and left the door to slam closed behind him.
“Quite awful.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to reading about it, in that case.” His dark, oiled hair was parted to one side and he wore a blue waistcoat.
“A man died,” I added. “I saw him yesterday evening, and he seemed fine then. There were three young men all together, and they stayed on the men’s casual ward. Apparently, he was taken ill and admitted to the infirmary, and then he died quite suddenly. His friends told me there was a problem with his heart, but I found the whole episode rather odd and unsettling.”
I could feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes as I spoke.
Mr Sherman gave a deep sigh. “That is sad news indeed. Unfortunately, the lives these paupers lead mean that many are in poor health.”
“It’s probably rather common for paupers to keel over without warning,” added Edgar, “especially in the winter. Many of them have consumption, and they spend so much of their time worse for drink.”
“But it’s not fair,” I said. “If they had proper homes and sufficient food and warmth it simply wouldn’t happen. And besides, this man supposedly had something wrong with his heart.”
“Well, that could be something one is born with and could die from no matter what one’s living conditions are,” replied Edgar. “The chap was simply unlucky.”
“I’m afraid to say there isn’t a great deal you can do about it, Miss Green,” added Mr Sherman. “You cannot allow your emotions to get in the way of your reporting.”
“Impossible for a lady!” Frederick piped up. “Perhaps a chap should have done the reporting instead.”
“The purpose of asking Miss Green to do it was to obtain a report of the women’s casual wards,” replied Mr Sherman. “There have been plenty of reports from the men’s wards; we’re all tired of reading them. Now, on a lighter note, Miss Green, do you recall my suggestion of a weekly ladies’ column?”
“I can’t say that I do, sir.”
“I’m entirely sure that I mentioned it to you. Anyway, I noticed there is a trend for ladies’ columns in our rival publications, so I thought perhaps you could get onto it and write one.”
“And what should I include in it?”
“Anything that you ladies might be interested in. The latest fashions, perhaps? Menu suggestions? Tips and advice for running a household?”
“Three subjects I know very little about, sir.”
“You’re a writer, Miss Green. Surely you’ve learned how to make these things up by now.”
“I could do, but presumably there needs to be a measure of actionable advice in the column.”
“A little, yes, but I wouldn’t dwell overmuch on the matter, Miss Green. The ladies’ column is merely intended to add a little frivolity to the publication, and to ensure that our lady readers feel catered for. Fish, where have you got to with your article on Lord Wolseley’s mission to relieve Major General Gordon in Khartoum?”
“It’s almost done, sir.”
“One day I’ll ask you that question and you’ll tell me your article is complete. I’m truly looking forward to that day.”
“Me too, sir.”
“Well, get on with it then!”
I sat down at my desk with a pencil and paper and began to write down everything I could recall from my miserable stay at Shoreditch Workhouse. My fingers still felt sore from the oakum picking, and I felt extremely fortunate as I considered it unlikely that I should ever have to do such a thing again.
Chapter 6
A young police constable stood outside Lord Courtauld’s townhouse in Carlos Place, Mayfair. It was a grand six-storey townhouse with an elegant curved facade of red-and-cream brick.
I joined two other reporters who were busy questioning the constable. A housekeep
er with a stern face opened the front door to glare at us, then closed it again. Moments later she peered through one of the wide bay windows and scowled at us.
“A large number of valuables have been taken,” said the constable, “and a maid has gone missing.”
“What’s the maid’s name?” asked one of the reporters.
“Maisie Hopkins.”
“How long has she worked in this household?”
“About three years.”
“And what is her age?” asked the other reporter.
“She’s twenty years old.”
“So the maid has run off with the valuables?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“What sort of valuables are missing?” I asked.
“Quite a number of items, including silver marrow spoons, a butter dish and butter knife, wine glasses, and a purse containing gold rings and coins. An inspector from the Yard has been called in at the personal request of Lord Courtauld.”
“Do you have any idea where the maid is now?” I probed.
“None.”
“When did she run away?” asked the first reporter.
“Some time during the night.”
“Can you be any more specific?”
“We know that she retired at eleven o’clock last night and was nowhere to be found by six o’clock this morning.”
The front door opened again, and I felt a grin spread across my face as James stepped out, bowler hat in hand.
“Penny!” There was a sparkle in his blue eyes. “I should have guessed you’d be here before long.”
The constable and reporters stared at us both, surprised by the young inspector’s familiar tone. James walked down the steps to join me.
“So Lord Courtauld chose you above the inspectors at C Division,” I commented with a smile.
“Not me personally, but he requested the services of the Yard. The maid has stolen rather a lot of valuables, and it seems she has been doing so over the period of a good few months.”
“And no one noticed it earlier?”
“It seems not. There are a great many valuables in that home, so it was only when she ran away that suspicions were aroused.” He put on his hat. “I’m going to make some enquiries at the nearest pawnbroker’s shop. Do you have time to join me?”
“I’d love to.”
We exchanged a smile, and as we crossed the road together I could feel the gaze of the constable and reporters still lingering upon us.
“You survived the workhouse, then,” said James.
“It was rather grim.”
I told him about my stay there as we turned to walk between two smart shops and joined a path that took us through the gardens of the vestry hall.
“The workhouse is a horrible place,” said James once he had heard my account. “I pray that none of my acquaintances will ever find themselves there.”
“No one should,” I replied. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful if these people could somehow find a way out of their grinding poverty, but very few ever do. It’s all most of them have ever known.”
“The answer to London’s poverty lies beyond our capabilities, Penny.”
‘But that doesn’t mean we should just accept it!”
“No, we shouldn’t, and we must do whatever we can. For my part, I would afford the same level of respect to a tramp from the workhouse as I would to Lord Courtauld. I like to think that I treat people the same way no matter their class, but it’s possible that my conduct occasionally falls short. For your part, you’re writing about people in poverty and educating the middle and upper classes about the realities the poor have to face. That’s about all you can do.”
“I wish that I could do more.”
“What you’re doing is enough.”
A lone blackbird sang sweetly from a bare-branched tree. The sky was a dark grey, and lights glimmered in the windows of the buildings overlooking the gardens.
“You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve paid Charlotte the sum of four hundred pounds,” said James.
“I’m not pleased to hear that at all!”
“Neither was I pleased to pay it. But the breach of promise hearing ruled that I must pay her six hundred pounds, so we should both be pleased that there is only two hundred pounds outstanding.”
“What a lot of money,” I said angrily, “and she doesn’t even need it! I don’t think for a single moment that she would attempt to donate a portion of it to the poor who wait outside the workhouse every evening. We met an elderly lady who spent the entire night out in the cold. The workhouse wouldn’t even admit her!”
“We can’t expect Charlotte to share your views on philanthropy, Penny.”
“Do you think she might donate any of the money to people in need?”
“I have never known her to do such a thing in the past.”
“Exactly!”
“But she may do so in the future.”
“It’s unlikely.”
“What I began this conversation with the intention of saying, Penny, was that once the final two hundred pounds is paid we shall be free of any association with my former fiancée.”
“Good.”
“Which means that I can give other matters some consideration.”
I stopped. “You mean marriage?”
James laughed. “What else could I mean? Not a week goes by without you dropping a thinly disguised hint that it is your wish to tie the knot.”
“But is it your wish, James?” My heart began to pound excitedly.
He stepped toward me and took my gloved hand in his. “Of course it’s my wish.”
I smiled. “Good.”
He leaned in to kiss me, but the sound of a cough nearby made him draw back. The person from whom the cough had originated – a smartly dressed man with a walking cane – glowered at us as he passed by.
“That’s a shame,” muttered James. “I thought we were alone.”
“We’re not,” I replied, glancing at a couple who had just entered the gardens. “And we should really have a chaperone with us,” I added with a grin.
We continued on our way.
“Is your sister available to act as a chaperone this weekend?” he asked.
“Yes, I should think so.”
“This weather rather limits what we can do,” he said, glancing up at the leaden sky.
“Let’s go to Madame Tussauds!”
“Really?”
“Yes! I read that there’s a new portrait model of the Queen.”
“Then it will be even busier than usual.”
“And Elizabeth Gibbons has been added to the Chamber of Horrors.”
“The lady who shot her husband and claimed it was a suicide? That is exceptionally quick. Her trial was only last month!”
“They’re extremely clever at Madame Tussauds.”
“So that’s where we’re going this weekend, is it?”
“Of course!”
We found a pawnbroker’s shop on South Street, which was marked with the sign of three golden spheres. Gathered inside the wood-panelled establishment were several sorrowful-looking people, while three smartly dressed men briskly saw to their needs from behind the polished counter. Beyond it, glass-fronted cases filled with silver, jewellery and other valuable paraphernalia stretched right up to the ceiling.
One of the men appeared to notice in an instant that a detective had entered the shop. He gave James a nod, as if to beckon him over. He was a slightly built man with a greying moustache and keen grey eyes.
“How can I be of help, Inspector?” His face remained impassive, as if wary of giving anything away.
James introduced himself, then asked, “Are you the proprietor?”
The man gave a nod. “Mr Gregson.”
“You’ve heard about the thefts at Lord Courtauld’s home, I assume?”
“There’s been a theft there?”
“Yes, and a maid named Maisie Hopkins has gone missing. Do you know her?”
“But you’ve heard of Lord Courtauld?”
“Oh yes.”
“Has a young woman recently visited your shop to pawn anything?”
“Yes, quite a few of them have.”
“A young woman whom you suspect might be a maid? She may have had some silver spoons to sell or a butter dish. Or perhaps a purse containing coins and jewellery.”
“Yes indeed. We get all sorts in here.”
“Do you think Maisie Hopkins may have tried to pawn something here?”
“She might have. I can’t rule it out.”
“Has a young woman with brown hair and brown eyes visited your shop this morning with something valuable on her person?”
“Not this morning, no.”
“Do you recognise the young woman from my description?”
“It’s not much of a description, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“She would have been wearing the clothing of a maid.”
He shrugged. “I can’t recall having seen her.”
“But you think she might have visited your shop to pawn something in the past?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can you be any more certain than that?”
“I can’t say that I remember.”
“If I ask my officers to carry out a search of your premises, do you think they might find anything from the Courtauld household here?”
Mr Gregson’s expression hardened. “You’ll have to get a warrant if you want to do that, Inspector.”
“I will, but that won’t be much trouble. The magistrates at Marylebone Police Court are always quick and obliging with such requests.”
The pawnbroker scratched his chin. “Brown hair, you say?”
“And brown eyes. A young woman of about twenty years of age.”
“I think she has been in here, now you mention it.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“How recently?”
“I’d say about two days ago.”
“I presume you keep a record of all your transactions.”
“Of course.”
