by Emily Organ
“I believe she was,” replied Mrs Hodges tartly, “but the vast majority of workhouse girls make for good servants. There is clearly a bit of bad blood in Miss Hopkins.”
“So what do you think to all that, Miss Green?” asked Mr Buller. “Perhaps your readers would like to hear about the good work we’re doing with the girls and young women.”
“What about the young men?” I asked.
“Apprenticeships,” he replied. “They don’t initially receive a wage, but if they show promise these opportunities may lead to employment. We work so hard to get these people off our hands, and when they complain that the gruel is tasteless and the bread is stale we explain to them that there is always an alternative. Perhaps you’d like a tour of the workhouse, Miss Green? I think it is important for you to see that the casual wards are only a small part of it.”
“Thank you, I should like that.”
I was accompanied on my tour by Mrs Hodges, along with the master, Mr Hale, and the matron, Mrs Hale. The latter observed me quizzically in the corridor outside the boardroom.
“You’re an acquaintance of Miss Russell’s aren’t you, Miss Green?” she asked.
“I am indeed.”
“And you were here just last week visiting patients in the infirmary, were you not?”
“Is that so?” asked Mrs Hodges.
“I don’t recall you mentioning that you were a news reporter on that occasion,” said Mrs Hale.
“Oh really?” I replied with wide-eyed innocence. “Well, the intention of my visit was to assist Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies rather than to carry out any reporting.”
“And during your previous visit you stayed on the casual ward,” continued Mrs Hale. “Your face is certainly quite familiar to me now. Were you not accompanied by another woman during your stay here?”
“Yes, my sister. I didn’t feel brave enough to stay here alone.”
Mrs Hale gave a dry laugh, and by the haughty look she gave me I deduced that she didn’t care for me much.
Mr Hale was tall, like his wife, and walked with a stoop. He had a brooding presence, and I sensed that he hadn’t warmed to me either. He led us on a brisk tour of the women’s wing, where the elderly sat sewing in the day room, and the women and girls in their grey workhouse uniforms swept and dusted the dormitories. Inmates were peeling potatoes in the kitchen and kneading dough in the bakehouse. I could hear lively conversation just before we entered the laundry, but when we stepped inside the voices fell silent. Some of the women were slaving away at steam-filled tubs, wringers and mangles. Others were pressing linen with irons at long tables.
“Why are the blankets and nightgowns from the casual wards not washed with the other laundry?” I asked Mrs Hodges.
“They are,” she replied.
“They can’t be,” I said. “They’re filthy!”
“There isn’t always time to wash them,” said Mrs Hale, “but they are always stoved.”
“I didn’t see any being stoved.”
She glared at me as though I were an insolent child.
A series of featureless yards sat between the workhouse buildings and perimeter walls. These were exercise yards segregating the men and women, boys and girls. Another yard had been set aside for stone-breaking, where the sound of hammers against rock was almost deafening. A long shed ran along one side of the yard, the wall of which featured an iron grill.
“The men have to break the stone small enough to fit through the holes in the grill,” explained Mr Hale. “They must break half a yard a day, or more if they are being disciplined.”
Some of the men were clearly well practised at the work, while others appeared to be struggling. Their arms and shoulders seemed too weak to wield the heavy hammers.
“And what of those who are too infirm to break the stone?” I asked.
“We give them women’s work,” replied Mr Hale with a mocking smile. “They pick oakum, beat carpets, bake bread and that sort of thing.”
“Inmates over the age of seventy are permitted to spend their time in the day rooms,” said Mrs Hodges, seemingly keen to demonstrate that the workhouse offered some degree of compassion.
After leaving the stone-breaking yard we encountered one of the priests Dr Kemp had mentioned. Introduced to me as Father Keane, he was about thirty with a clean-shaven, youthful face. Mrs Hodges was keen to explain the good work he and St Monica’s carried out on behalf of the workhouse. The tour concluded with a visit to the two classrooms, where girls were taught as well as boys. Even the children fell silent when we entered the room.
“We look forward to reading your next article on the subject of Shoreditch Workhouse,” said Mrs Hodges as I took my leave. “I think it’s quite important that your readers understand the full picture, don’t you?”
“I must say that I was impressed by the infirmary when I visited last week,” I said. “Dr Kemp appears to be doing a good job.”
“Well there you are, you see. Are you planning to publish something about it?”
“The decision lies with my editor,” I replied, “but I shall certainly mention it to him.”
Chapter 11
“Miss Green, this is Mr Torrance,” said Mrs Garnett when I arrived home that evening.
I had climbed the stairs to my room only to find my landlady and the tenant with the large moustache blocking my way. He wore a smoking jacket over his shirt and waistcoat.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Torrance,” I lied.
He gave me an officious nod.
“We thought it was about time that a typewriting curfew was agreed upon,” said Mrs Garnett.
“Now? I’m only just returning from the office.”
“It’s a good a time as any, isn’t it? Mr Torrance will retire for the evening shortly.”
“And therein lies the problem,” he interjected through his moustache. “It appears that Miss Green keeps the hours of a night owl.”
“How about nine o’clock?” I suggested.
Mr Torrance shook his head. “Too late, I’m afraid.”
I turned to my landlady for support. “I think nine o’clock is quite reasonable. Don’t you agree, Mrs Garnett?”
“Well, if Mr Torrance says that it’s too late, then I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Can’t you move your bed, Mr Torrance?” I asked gruffly.
He scowled. “The only other location would be next to my window, where there’s a terrible draught.”
“You could fold up a few sheets of newspaper and push them into the gaps,” I replied.
“That would hardly be a long-term solution, Miss Green.”
“May I ask what time you propose?”
“An eight o’clock curfew.”
“Do you retire at eight o’clock every evening, Mr Torrance?”
“I do indeed. And I rise at five. You are quite welcome to begin your work at five o’clock. I don’t mind hearing the typewriter while I’m breakfasting.”
I forced a smile. “How very accommodating.”
“An article about the good work of the Shoreditch Union sounds like a defence of their position,” said Mr Sherman. “There’s no doubt that the public has a low opinion of workhouses and their conditions, and reformers strongly believe that changes need to be made. To state that the workhouse is an effective solution for managing those in poverty is to suggest that the system should continue as it is. Nothing could excuse the misery of those casual wards, and publishing an article on the supposed good work of the union merely lets the board of guardians off the hook.”
“They were quite keen for such an article to be printed.”
“I’m sure they were! They have a reputation to uphold, after all. But the fact of the matter is that many of these boards have been poorly run over the years. And has the workhouse system achieved any perceivable change? There are still queues of people at their doors despite the miserable conditions. And for every person queueing at the workhouse door there are many who daren’
t go anywhere near it. Only last week we reported on the story of a man who froze to death in the doorway of the Alhambra Theatre, and all because he couldn’t face returning to the workhouse. A freezing cold doorway – and likely death – was preferable to him!
“They may be doing good works in training young women to become maids and suchlike, and I’ve no doubt that some of those guardians are well-meaning. However, to report on the supposed good work they’re doing is simply to deflect from the problem at hand. The problem is that these are hellish places, filled with misery. Prison inmates receive better treatment!”
“The guardians have a tough job, Mr Sherman,” said Edgar.
“Of course they do.”
“There is only so much money in the ratepayers’ pot.”
“So there is. And perhaps there should be more.”
“I think you’d have a difficult task persuading hard-working, everyday Londoners to pay higher rates so the work-shy can eat better, sir,” said Edgar.
“Very few people in the workhouse are work-shy,” I said. “Some are unable to work because of old age or illness, while others have suffered an accident or misfortune. And there are many children there.”
“It’s different for the children, of course, but many of the adults are simply drunks,” Edgar replied. “Surely you’ve seen all the inmates from the Strand Workhouse for yourself on liberty day, Miss Green. What do you suppose they do with their free time? They spend it at the public house, that’s what! Don’t ask me where they find the money to spend on drink, but find it they do.”
“They beg,” Frederick chipped in.
“Ah yes, many of them do that. And even worse, they make their children beg! Sometimes they wrap them in dirty bandages and sit them in the street, instructing them to pretend to be poor, crippled orphans! They’re showered with coins in no time, and then mater and pater spend it all on gin.”
“A few of them may do that,” I said, “but not many. The majority have found themselves in difficult circumstances for one genuine reason or another. Those people would give anything to have regular work and a proper home.”
“I consider them the minority,” said Edgar. “If a man puts his mind to it he can always find work.”
“Not if he is too elderly or infirm,” I said.
“What we’re really talking about here are the deserving and undeserving poor,” said Edgar. “No one has any problem with the deserving poor, and we’re all agreed that they deserve help. But when it comes to the undeserving—”
“I think this debate could rage on all day,” interrupted Mr Sherman. “In the meantime, Miss Green, we won’t be publishing anything that serves to defend how the board of guardians manages relief for the poor. I don’t bear a personal grudge against its members; I suspect all poor law unions are run in the same manner up and down the country.”
“And it’s the only system that works,” added Frederick.
“In what way does it work?” I asked. “Poverty still exists.”
“Of course it does, and it always will. There will always be the haves and the have-nots, and then a whole horde of people in the middle like us.”
“So you see no need at all for reform, Frederick?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “None. It is what it is. If you can’t fend for yourself, you end up in the workhouse. If it wasn’t for the threat of the workhouse, we’d have a good many more people claiming poverty.”
“Interesting point, Potter,” said Edgar. “If the workhouse was a pleasant place one wouldn’t be able to threaten people with it, would one?”
“Not at all. It would be the same as saying to someone, ‘Find work or you’ll end up at Claridge’s.’”
Both men gave a hearty laugh.
Mr Sherman sighed. “Get back to your work please, everyone.”
There was a knock at the newsroom door, which Mr Sherman flung open to find James standing on the other side.
“Inspector Blakely!” he said. “And what can we do for you?”
“I have news for Miss Green,” he replied, removing his bowler hat and giving me a gentle smile.
“Is it relevant to her work?”
“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t wish to disturb her otherwise.”
“Good,” replied Sherman. “Then what is it?”
“I was called out to a murder this morning.”
“Oh no!” I said. “What happened?”
“It was the result of an argument between two men, but I thought you might be interested to know about it, Penny, because of the location.”
“Where did it occur?”
“At Shoreditch Workhouse.”
Chapter 12
James instantly had the attention of everyone in the newsroom.
“A fight, you say?” said Mr Sherman. “Were there weapons involved?”
“No conventional weapons, no. A shovel was involved but the cause of death was strangulation.”
“Have you made an arrest?”
“Not exactly. The culprit died from his wounds.”
“Goodness. Does that make it a double murder?”
“Well, no. It means that the victim put up a good enough fight to cause fatal injuries to the other.”
“How do you know that he was the victim?” asked Edgar. “Perhaps he had attempted to murder the other chap first?”
“The other chap, or the culprit as we might refer to him, was a known troublemaker.”
“And both men are dead?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. You may be interested in attending the inquest, Penny. It’s to be held this evening at the Green Man public house on Hoxton Street, just opposite the workhouse entrance.”
“Thank you, James. I’ll be there.”
An inquisitive crowd had gathered in Hoxton Street by the time I arrived at the Green Man that evening. The inquest was held in an upstairs room where the jurors were seated around a table. There was limited room around the table for everyone else to stand, so I joined the other reporters in the corner of the room and readied myself with my notebook.
A police inspector with grey whiskers and gold-rimmed spectacles entered the room, accompanied by James and a young constable. James and I caught each other’s eye and exchanged a smile.
The coroner, Mr Welby, entered the room with his two assistants and everyone fell silent.
We waited while the jury was led out to the workhouse’s dead house to view the bodies of the two men who had died. Then they returned to the room and official proceedings began.
“This morning at half-past seven o’clock, Mr Lawrence Patten, aged twenty-four and an inmate at Shoreditch Workhouse, was found dead in the stone-breaking yard,” the coroner began. “Beside him lay the body of Mr Thomas Walker, aged thirty-one, who was also an inmate of the workhouse. As the deaths of these two men were the result of a singular incident, I shall consider both in the same inquest. I would like to call Mr George Simms as a witness, please.”
A young, nervous-looking man in a rough suit rose to his feet and removed his flat cap.
“Mr Simms, may I confirm that you are an inmate at Shoreditch Workhouse?”
“Yessir.”
I could see his hands trembling as he held his cap tightly.
“Can you describe what you discovered in the stone-breaking yard this morning?”
“Yessir. I was walkin’ to the coal store an’ I saw the pair of ’em laid out.”
“And at what time was this?”
“First light; abaht ’alf past seven, sir.”
“And what was your immediate thought when you saw Mr Patten and Mr Walker lying on the ground?”
“Surprise. Din’t know what to fink!”
“Was it obvious to you that they were both dead?”
“Yessir. They both looked dead a’right.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I called for the master!”
The coroner also called for the master of the workhouse.
“What was your first thought, Mr Hale, when you saw the bodies of these two men?”
“That they’d come to blows.”
“You didn’t suspect a third party?”
“No, Your Honour. I’d had words with Walker in the past about fighting.”
“They had fought each other before?”
“Not each other. But Walker was handy with his fists, if you know what I mean.”
“When were the two men last seen alive?”
“Patten was put to work at eight o’clock yesterday evening by the labour master, Mr Cricks. The work was given as punishment for the use of foul language, and he was told to shovel pieces of stone from one heap to another for the duration of three hours.”
“So Mr Patten was last seen by Mr Cricks at eight o’clock yesterday evening in the stone-breaking yard.”
“That’s correct.”
The coroner furrowed his brow. “If Mr Patten was put to work at eight o’clock for three hours then surely the labour master would have checked that his work was complete at eleven o’clock that evening? Once the three hours had passed?”
Mr Hale shifted from one foot to another. “Well he should have done.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No, I don’t believe he did.”
“Do you have any idea why not?”
The Master cleared his throat. “I believe he finished his duty early that evening.”
“So where was he?”
“He was off-duty, Your Honour.”
“Where does he spend his time when he’s off-duty?”
“On this particular occasion he was in The Unicorn public house.”
The coroner pursed his lips. “I see. Is that what he told you?”
“I know it for sure, Your Honour, I saw him there myself.”
The coroner raised an eyebrow and gave a sigh.
“Mr Patten was the sort to be trusted to work for three hours, Your Honour,” continued the Master.
“Had Mr Cricks returned to the stone-breaking yard, then the sorrowful scene would have been discovered much sooner,” commented the coroner. “Perhaps it could even have been avoided?”
