by Emily Organ
“Perhaps you could check them for us and find out what she pawned on that occasion.”
“I’ll have a look. Excuse me for a moment.” He disappeared through a door between the glass cases.
”These men rarely question the provenance of the items they buy,” muttered James. “In some cases they’re complicit with the thieves themselves.” I watched one of the pawnbrokers as he counted out a few coins for a woman who had just handed over a bundled-up package. I wondered what was inside, and how long it had taken the poor woman to make the difficult decision to part with it.
“I suppose many of these customers live in hope that they’ll be able to buy back their belongings,” I whispered to James. “But in reality I don’t suppose many of them do.”
“They’d have to buy them back with interest even if they did,” he replied. “It’s a rather desperate situation to be in.”
Mr Gregson returned. “I think she was here two days ago,” he said, “though she used a different name.”
“How do you know that it was her?” asked James.
“She pawned quite a valuable salt cellar, and that’s why I recall her. She was young and dark-haired.”
“Did she not strike you as suspicious at the time?”
Mr Gregson glanced around the shop, then lowered his face. “A good number of our customers appear suspicious, Inspector, but we’re too busy to question the origin of every item they bring in.”
James sighed. “What name did she give you?”
“Betsy Combe.”
“And has she visited you on any other occasion?”
“Her face did not appear unfamiliar when she visited with the salt cellar.”
“I shall take that as a yes, then. We believe this maid has been stealing from Lord Courtauld for some time. I’d like to examine your records, if you please, and make a note of everything she has pawned here.”
“Of course, though there’s still a possibility that she’s not the maid you’re looking for.”
“I’d like to have a look all the same.”
“Of course.”
“I should get back to work,” I said to James. “See you at Madame Tussauds!”
James rolled his eyes, then smiled. “See you on Saturday, Penny.”
Chapter 7
“Your workhouse article has been well received, Miss Green,” said Mr Sherman later that week. “We’ve had a good number of letters about it, many of them expressing concern about the conditions which paupers are forced to endure. We’ll publish a selection of them.”
“I’m pleased to hear that there has been some response,” I said. “Debate is all well and good, but something needs to change.”
“It will in due course. This is just the beginning, Miss Green. A little patience is required.”
With this in mind, I returned to The Land of Promise the following day in the hopes that I might encounter Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies again. If I could read to the inmates I would be able to access parts of the workhouse I had not yet seen.
I assumed that Miss Russell and her companion would arrive at eleven o’clock, as they had on the morning Eliza and I had first met them. I waited beside the workhouse entrance in the cold drizzle and was pleased to find myself in luck when a hansom cab drew up and the two ladies stepped out.
It took Miss Russell a moment to recognise who I was in my respectable attire.
“Miss Green! If only I’d told you my address you could have called on me,” she said with a smile. “I do apologise that you’ve been waiting in the rain for us.” She gave me her carte de visite.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I replied, handing her my card in return.
“I read the remarkable article you wrote about your stay here,” she continued. “It quite saddened me. I understand that those on the board of guardians were extremely interested to read it, and intend to discuss it at their next meeting.”
“They do? That’s wonderful news! I hope they might be encouraged to make some changes.”
“We shall see. It usually takes a long time for change to happen, as you are no doubt well aware.”
“Then we need to keep reminding them, don’t we? Would you like some help this morning with reading to the inmates?”
“Do you plan to write an article about it?”
“Not at this time, no. At the moment I’m simply interested in visiting other parts of the workhouse to increase my own understanding.”
“I see. I’m afraid it will only be the infirmary today. Is that good enough?”
“Of course. I’ve never been inside a workhouse infirmary before.”
“Well, do come and join us in that case.”
“Would you mind not mentioning to the inmates or staff members that I’m a news reporter? People are often suspicious with regard to reporters and their intentions.”
Miss Russell gave this some thought, and I wondered whether my choice of profession made her a little uneasy. “Shall I just introduce you as an acquaintance of mine?” she suggested.
“That would be most helpful. Thank you.”
We were met by the matron, Mrs Hale; the tall, steely-eyed woman who had issued me with my quota of oakum to pick. I felt an uncomfortable pang in my stomach as I feared she might recognise me from the casual ward, but she gave no such indication. Instead, she chatted quite politely as she led us along the covered walkway which ran between two high walls. Rain drummed onto the iron and glass roof above our heads.
Mrs Hale opened a door, and the walkway turned into a whitewashed corridor which led through a building that smelled of stale sweat and soap. Inmates in their grey uniforms glanced at us with interest as we passed them, books in hand. We soon left this building and entered another covered walkway. I observed through the rain spattered glass roof that ahead of us was a gloomy brown building. It was four storeys high with tall, narrow windows.
The gloomy building was the infirmary, and once we were inside it I felt pleasantly surprised by its cleanliness. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and there was a vague scent of carbolic soap.
Mrs Hale left us by the door to an office marked ‘Medical Officer’. We were greeted by a smiling nurse, Miss Turner; a lady of about forty wearing a crisp white apron and a tall cotton cap.
“Good morning, Miss Russell, Mrs Menzies.” These words were spoken by a man who had just stepped out of the office. He wore spectacles along with a dark jacket and waistcoat, and he had thick, fair whiskers. “And another volunteer, I see?”
Miss Russell introduced me to the medical officer, whose name was Dr Kemp. “Thank you for joining us,” he said to me. “I’m extremely grateful to Miss Russell and her friends for doing such a wonderful job of keeping our patients occupied. When they’re being read to they forget all about their illnesses and pains, and they give us a bit of peace for a while. It can be rather a struggle, as our wards are always full.”
“I expect you’re glad of the extra help,” I said.
“Oh, we are. The priests from St Monica’s in Hoxton Square are also regular visitors. We are fortunate that so many people are willing to give up their time to assist us.”
I remembered how dismal the casual ward had been and noted that the infirmary seemed to be a different place altogether.
Dr Kemp explained that it was divided into two wings: one for the women and the other for the men.
“How many wards are there?” I asked as we walked into the women’s wing.
“For the women we have the general ward, the lying-in ward, the nursery ward and the lunatic ward. For the men we have two wards: one for general patients and the other for lunatics. We also have a children’s ward and a small ward for fever and other infectious cases. We try to send fever patients to the fever hospital as quickly as possible, as we don’t want them infecting everyone else.”
“The winter must be a particularly busy time for you.”
“It certainly is, and we admit paupers from outside as well as from within th
e workhouse. There’s a great deal of influenza about, and a number of patients have bronchitis, phthisis, pleurisy and other conditions that afflict the lungs. These people usually have to endure cold, damp living conditions, which exacerbate their illnesses. We have no space for people to convalesce here, so we send patients to the convalescent hospital as soon as we’re able to.”
We entered the general ward for women, where the beds were placed so close together that there was barely any space between them. I was relieved to see that the blankets looked a good deal cleaner than the ones in the casual wards. Each bed contained a patient. Some were sleeping, while others coughed and grumbled.
“I shall take my leave of you here,” said Dr Kemp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Green, and I do hope that you’ll consider becoming a regular visitor to our wards.”
“Thank you, I should like to,” I replied.
As I watched him walk away, I felt a slight pang of guilt that I hadn’t informed him of the fact that I was a news reporter.
“This is Mrs King,” said Miss Turner as we approached one of the beds. “How are you feeling today, Mrs King?”
“No better.” She gave a hacking cough. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin was so delicate it was almost transparent.
“Hello again, Mrs King,” said Mrs Menzies, stepping forward. “Would you like to hear a bit of Treasure Island or Great Expectations?”
The old lady smiled. “Treasure Island! You’ve read me that one afore, and I enjoys it.”
“Would you like Miss Green to read it to you this time?”
“Yeah, I’ll ’ave the new ’un read it.” She turned her head and gave me a toothless smile.
Mrs Menzies handed me the book, so I opened it and began to read.
“What’s ’is name?” Mrs King asked before I had reached the bottom of the first page.
“I don’t know. He’s described here as the ‘brown old seaman’. I expect we shall find out fairly soon.”
“I knows ’is name, I jus’ can’t remember it.”
As I continued to read, Mrs King tutted. “’E drinks a lotta rum, that one.”
“I suppose most seamen do.”
“Yeah, they does. I wouldn’t want the likes o’ them staying in my inn.”
“Me neither.”
“They should of kicked ’im out!”
“I think they must have been too frightened.”
“He don’t frighten me. I’d of kicked ’im out.”
I soon realised that reading to Mrs King consisted of reciting a few sentences and then being interrupted to discuss them. Before long, her conversation became more general.
“I ain’t never sailed in a ship. Don’t spect I ever will now.”
“You might be surprised. There’s plenty of life left in you yet!” I said with a smile.
The old lady gave a loud laugh. “No there ain’t, and you knows it! You’re pulling me leg, you are. I’m dyin’! I won’t see out the week.”
“That may still give you enough time to sail on a ship!”
She laughed again. “It won’t, and you knows it!” The laugh became a cough, which alarmed me as I saw that she was struggling to breath.
“Are you all right, Mrs King?”
“No, I ain’t. I’m dyin’, I tell yer. But I’m one o’ the lucky ones, as the Lord’s given me four score years. Can’t do no better ’an that.”
She yawned, and I continued to read. It wasn’t long before the interruptions stopped and I noticed that she was sound asleep. I closed the book and observed her for a moment. Her gnarled hands were folded neatly on the blanket.
Miss Russell approached and smiled as she looked down at the sleeping Mrs King.
“I must have bored her,” I commented.
“I think you made her feel at ease. Thank you. Shall we visit the children now?”
Our appearance on the children’s ward created some lively interest, and when Miss Russell paused beside the bed of a little boy there was no stopping a number of others climbing out of their beds and clambering onto his.
“Be careful with Tom, he’s quite sick,” said Miss Russell.
The nurse brought some blankets over to cover the children’s shoulders as Mrs Menzies read from Gulliver’s Travels. The children sat and listened, wide-eyed.
“It’s the ladies what do the readin’!” announced an old man as we entered the men’s ward. “Come and read ter me. I need ter ’ear a good story.”
“Miss Green, perhaps you could read to Mr Dyers over there,” suggested Miss Russell, pointing toward a young man who was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling.
I walked over and introduced myself. His skin had a yellowish tinge and he moved his thin, chapped lips as if to say something, but he seemed to lack the strength. I decided to read David Copperfield to him, and before long I found myself quite enjoying the story.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Green,” said Miss Russell as we left the workhouse.
“It was no trouble at all,” I said. “I enjoyed it, in fact. Having experienced the casual wards, I had assumed the rest of the workhouse would be just as awful, but the infirmary seems very well managed.”
“It is; they do a marvellous job. Dr Kemp is excellent, though the board of guardians has no idea how fortunate they are to have him. He has implemented a number of changes since he took charge as medical officer, and it really shows in how well the infirmary is run. His job isn’t easy.”
“Do you visit the other inmates at the workhouse?”
“Occasionally. We always go when there’s a treat put on for them. That’s when there’s musical entertainment or a play, along with a good meal. Much of the time the fit and able ones must work, of course.”
“Picking oakum?” I asked.
“Yes. The women and children do that, as well as working in the kitchen, the bakehouse or the laundry. There are many other chores too, such as portering and carpet beating. And there’s stone breaking, of course, which the men do. Would you like to join us again sometime?”
“Absolutely!”
Chapter 8
“Where have you been, Miss Green?” asked my editor, Mr Sherman.
“I’ve been visiting Shoreditch Workhouse.”
“Again? But why? Your article about the women’s casual ward has already been published.”
“I was interested to see what the rest of it was like.”
“And what was it like?”
“I visited the infirmary and acquainted myself with Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies, who visit regularly to read to the patients there.”
“That’s nice of them,” Edgar interjected. “Did you read to the patients yourself?”
“I did, and I think they appreciated it.”
Mr Sherman sighed. “Miss Green, while I appreciate that your work this morning was that of a philanthropic gentlewoman, may I remind you that I employ you as a news reporter?”
“Yes, and I hadn’t forgotten it, Mr Sherman.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you had. Reading to sick people down at the workhouse is not part of your job.”
“But I could write an interesting account of the workhouse infirmary, sir.”
“Is it as miserable as the casual wards?”
“No.”
“Then we don’t need an account of it for the time being. The birthday party of Lady Agnes Courtauld, daughter of Lord Courtauld, will be held at the Metropolitan Hotel this afternoon. Could you please head down there and make a note of the attendees and the menu, and perhaps describe some of the gowns the ladies are wearing? I’d like you to include the piece in Saturday’s ladies’ column.”
Reporting on a birthday party was the very last thing I wished to do, but I knew that I had little choice in the matter. “Lord Courtauld is the man whose maid stole from him, isn’t he?” I said. “He’s having an eventful week!”
“He certainly is.”
Young ladies in bright gowns and furs stepped down from a row of carr
iages outside the Metropolitan Hotel. They skipped hurriedly across the wet pavement and in through the hotel doors. I waited for a convenient gap between them and followed in their wake.
“May I help you, ma’am?” asked a uniformed man who had immediately spotted that I wasn’t one of the guests.
I introduced myself and told him I was there to report on the event for the Morning Express newspaper.
“Is there someone I can speak to about the attendees and the menu?” I asked.
He told me Mrs Roberts was arranging the event and that he would find her for me. I waited in the foyer as the young ladies continued to arrive. I took out my notebook and pencil to make a note of any gowns that particularly caught my eye. One young lady wore a satin bustle dress, which shimmered in gold. Another wore turquoise with a bustle and train patterned with blue, green and gold, like the colours of a peacock’s tail. I was struck by how tiny many of the women’s waists were. Jewellery glittered at their ears, throats and wrists, and there was a lot of excitable chatter as they headed toward a room from which the music played by a quartet was drifting out. It all seemed rather extravagant for an afternoon tea party.
Mrs Roberts was a pleasant lady, and she was happy to share with me the names of the most distinguished guests.
“How nice to see the press take an interest in this happy event!” she commented. “All too often news reporters are only interested in reporting on misery and tragedy. I suppose it’s what the readers want. But an event like this should be celebrated; that of a young woman coming of age! It’s a happy event indeed, and I’m sure readers of the Morning Express will be delighted to read about it.”
“I shall mention it in the new ladies’ column, which will be published this Saturday.”
“What a marvellous idea! So many ladies read the newspaper now, don’t they? And there are so many pages filled with men’s business, such as politics, money and the law. That’s not interesting to us at all, is it? I think it’s a wonderful idea that the ladies will have a section of the newspaper all to themselves!”
