by Emily Organ
My mind whirled with possibilities. Tiger jumped up onto my desk and pushed her head into my face, as if to suggest that this endless speculation was doing me no good at all.
I stroked her and thought about the workhouse. Was it possible that I was thinking too much about the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker? Having imagined there was a third man involved, perhaps I had convinced myself of something that had never happened. In my quest to pursue the truth, it was possible that I was misleading myself. Knowing when to continue my work and when to stop often proved difficult for me. However, the decision in the case of the workhouse had been made for me. The message from James and Mr Sherman was clear: I had overstepped the mark.
I resumed my quiet typewriting as soon as Tiger jumped down from my desk. I had no choice but to forget about the workhouse and the poor unfortunates who dwelt within it. Their situations were replicated countless times across London and the rest of the country, and I had to accept that there was little more I could do. But while I was determined to push all thoughts of Shoreditch Workhouse away, little did I know that events would soon turn my mind back to it.
Chapter 23
“Interesting news from Commercial Street police station,” whispered James, who had surprised me with a visit to the reading room. “A complaint has been received from the family of a man who died at Shoreditch Workhouse.”
“What sort of complaint?”
“Stop that!” came a hiss from behind us.
I didn’t need to turn around to confirm that the sound had come from Mr Retchford. I quickly pushed my papers into my carpet bag and rose to my feet.
“No talking in the reading room!” scolded the clerk.
I forced a smile at him. “We are just leaving,” I hissed.
A freezing fog hung over the courtyard of the British Museum.
“Rather inclement, isn’t it?” commented James. “Shall we seek refuge in the Museum Tavern?”
The smoky warmth of the tavern caused my spectacles to mist up. James and I sat at our usual table with a tankard of porter and a glass of sherry, respectively.
“I thought I was doing rather a good job of forgetting about Shoreditch Workhouse,” I said. “What’s happened now?”
“The family of a man who died there say that the workhouse failed to notify them of his death.”
“Oh dear, how awful. How did they find out that he had died?”
“They hadn’t heard any information about him for some time. They knew that he had stayed in lodging houses and in the casual wards of workhouses, so they made enquiries. After a while they discovered that he had died at Shoreditch Workhouse.”
“And the workhouse hadn’t told them?”
“No. But in their defence, workhouse staff can only inform the family if the deceased has left details of family members or close friends.”
“That’s right. They can only use what has been written down in the admissions book.”
“It’s possible that he gave no details, or that he gave incorrect details.”
“In which case, how can the workhouse be at fault?”
“Indeed. But it seems that there has been some careless record-keeping somewhere. The family asked to see a record of the man’s burial, which the workhouse had recorded properly. However, when they visited the cemetery there was no record of him being buried there.”
“So either the workhouse or the cemetery made a mistake in their records.”
“It would seem so.”
“You might expect one mistake to occur from time to time,” I said, “but two mistakes have been made here. The family weren’t notified and there is also a contradiction in the burial records. Perhaps this is a regular occurrence when it comes to the poor because the authorities don’t really care about them.”
“That may well be the case,” said James. “And it just so happens that this man’s family is particularly vigilant and keen to raise the issue with the police. I can’t say that it’s our job to get too closely involved; it’s something for the district’s poor law inspector to look into. In fact, I can’t see that any crime has been committed, but I thought you would be interested to hear this latest piece of news.”
“I certainly need to report on it.” I took a sip of sherry and sighed. “People shouldn’t be treated in such a way,” I said. “It’s just not right. The family reported the incident to Commercial Street station, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Inspector Ferguson would be happy to speak to me about it?”
“I doubt it.” James grinned.
“I haven’t been making many friends recently, have I?”
“Would you really wish to be friends with Inspector Ferguson?”
“No, I can’t say that I would.”
We both laughed.
“We should plan our next excursion,” said James. “Madame Tussauds was rather too busy for my liking.”
“You enjoyed the Chamber of Horrors, though.”
“Yes, that was my favourite part. I felt quite at home there! How would you like to go to a music recital next time?”
“I would like that very much, James. In fact, I don’t mind where we go. I enjoy any time we spend together when we don’t have to talk about criminals and suspicious deaths.”
“As do I, although you always seem to end up talking about them anyway.” There was a twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes.
“I do not!”
“It’s all reporters seem to want to talk about,” he continued.
I gave his shin a nudge with my foot beneath the table.
“Now, now. There’s no need for violence,” he added.
“We’ll have to work very hard on not discussing cases in the evenings,” I said. “It’s important that we have other interests in common.”
“Easy for me, Penny, but a little more difficult for you I think.”
“If you’re not careful I shall kick your shins again!”
“Is that a way to treat your…”
“My what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he laughed. “I was about to say the word husband, but we’re not at that stage yet, are we?”
“I wish you would hurry up and pay Charlotte her remaining two hundred pounds.”
“Just a few more months’ salary and then it’ll all be settled.”
I sighed. “I’m tempted to borrow the money and pay her myself.”
“It’s supposed to come from me.”
“Then I shall give it to you to pay her with.”
“Please don’t borrow any money, Penny. There really is no need.”
“Perhaps my mother will lend it to us. We could visit her and explain that we intend to marry, and that we could do it even sooner if she would be prepared to lend us two hundred pounds.”
“We can’t do that! What about my pride?”
“What about it?”
“Your mother needs to know that I can provide for you. If we’re asking to borrow money from the very outset of our marriage she’ll assume that I am an unreliable spendthrift.”
“There’s no need to worry about my mother’s opinion of you. She already thinks far worse of me!”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“I’m a working woman and a spinster. She gave up on all her aspirations for me many years ago.”
“But she must still be fond of you.”
“I don’t doubt that she is, but I can’t bear to see her expression of disapproval.”
“What does that look like?”
“She sucks her cheeks in like this.”
I pulled a face and James laughed.
“That’s quite an extreme expression of disapproval.”
“You wait until you meet her. It’s even worse in person.”
“What do you want, Miss Green?” asked Inspector Ferguson impatiently as he walked away from me down the station corridor with a pile of papers in one hand.
“Just one minute of your time, sir. I’
d like to learn more about the family that wasn’t notified that a relative had died in the workhouse.”
He stopped and turned to face me. “That’s not really a matter for the police.”
“Perhaps it isn’t, sir, but it’s certainly a matter for a news reporter.”
He sighed and shook his head. “You’ve already wasted my time with the case of Mr Patten and Mr Walker. What do I need to do to ensure that you will leave me alone?”
“Just give me the name and address of the family, Inspector, and then I shall look into their claims myself.”
“Don’t be bothering the board of guardians at the workhouse again, Miss Green.”
“I won’t.”
“Sergeant Wilkins at the desk will give you the family’s details.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your help.”
“I’m not helping you, Miss Green. I’m trying to get rid of you.”
I gave him a broad smile. “Well thank you all the same.”
The address the desk sergeant gave me was in Bethnal Green. The Connolly family lived in the upper rooms of a bow-fronted cottage that overlooked Regent’s Canal. It was bordered on one side by the Imperial Gas Works and on the other by railway lines.
Children in thin, ragged clothes paused from their games to watch me call at the door. Once I had introduced myself to the occupants, I was surrounded by a small group of women, all telling me who they were in relation to the deceased – sisters, aunts and even his mother – but I struggled to establish who was who among the clamour.
“What was his name?” I called out.
“Joe Connolly. Joseph or Joe. Some called ’im Joey.”
They told me he had been just twenty-four years old at the time of his death.
“When did you last see him?”
This question invited a whole host of responses, but I managed to deduce that it had been about two months previously. They had heard he had entered a workhouse but that was the last anyone had seen of him.
“It weren’t like ’im not ter visit ’is ma,” said a grey-haired woman wearing several headscarves. “They get liberty days in the work’ouse, and the fust fing ’e would of done was visit ’is ma.”
“Then you are his mother?”
“Yeah.” She gave me a look that suggested I should have already known this.
“When did you visit the workhouse?”
“This side o’ Christmas.”
“And you asked to see Joseph?”
“They told me ’e was dead!”
Her face crumpled and another woman embraced her tightly.
“Not only was ’e dead,” added the other woman, “but they’d already buried ’im!”
“Buried ’im and no one ’ad told us!” cried another.
“Whom did you speak to at the workhouse?”
“Dunno. Mr…”
“Lennox?” I suggested.
“Yeah, ’im. Mis’rable cove.”
“He’s the clerk,” I said.
“You knows ’im, does yer?”
“I’ve met him a few times.”
“Ask ’im what’s ’appenin’, then! Ask ’im what’s ’appened to our Joe! Ask ’im ’ow comes ’e’s dead and buried with none of ’is fambly knowin’ abaht it!”
“Did Mr Lennox tell you the date that Joseph died?”
“It were afore Christmas! Twenny-third o’ December. And ter fink that when it were Christmas none of us even knew ’e was dead!”
Fresh tears began to flow, and I felt a flush of anger at the injustice this family had suffered. They had been unable to say goodbye to their brother and son.
“Where did the workhouse say he had been buried?”
“Tower ’Amlets. So we went there!”
“And?”
“Weren’t no sign of ’im. Some warden took us to the newest bit, where they’re buryin’ folks, and there weren’t no sign of ’im! Warden said ’e’d ’eard no mention of our Joe!”
“Then Joseph is definitely not buried at Tower Hamlets cemetery?”
“’E ain’t there! But where is ’e? Are yer gonna ’elp us?”
“I’ll certainly try. And I’d like to write about this for the Morning Express newspaper if that’s all right with you.”
“The noospaper?” one of the sisters asked, her face lighting up.
“Yeah, write abaht it in yer noospaper so all the folks who reads it ’ear abaht Joe!” said the lady in the headscarves. “We need ter find ’im!”
“I’ll do what I can to help, and if I manage to find out where he’s buried I shall let you know immediately.”
“Thankee, m’lady!” she said.
“Miss Green will do just fine.”
“You’s a kind lady, Miss Green. Gawd bless yer!”
Chapter 24
I travelled by omnibus to the City of London and Tower Hamlets Cemetery in Mile End, keen to ensure that the Connolly family hadn’t been mistaken. I felt sure that they hadn’t been.
A cold wind whipped across the cemetery as I made my enquiries with the warden at the lodge beside the cemetery gates.
“I remember ’em,” he replied once I had asked him about the Connolly family. “They came ’ere lookin’ for a chap the workhouse ‘ad buried. But he ain’t ’ere.”
“Joseph Connolly?” I asked. “He may also have been known as Joe.”
“Yeah, they told me all that. I looked and there ain’t nuffink ’ere.”
“And every name is written in your burial register even if they receive a common burial, is it?”
“Yeah, ev’ry single one of ’em. We bury a lot o’ paupers ’ere, as yer might expect, but there ain’t no Joseph Connolly among ’em.”
“Does Shoreditch Workhouse bury many of its inmates here?”
“Yeah, an’ Whitechapel an’ all.” He gestured toward the nearby walls of Whitechapel Workhouse.
“Could he have been buried in another cemetery?”
“’E must of been!” The warden laughed. “’Cause he ain’t ’ere, that’s fer sure!”
“But does Shoreditch Workhouse use any other cemetery for pauper burials?”
“Not as I knows of; you’d ’ave to ask ’em yerself. Second thoughts, ask Barnes.”
“Who’s Barnes?”
“’E’s the undertaker or funeral director, whatever ’e calls ’imself. The one what’s got the contract wiv Shoreditch. Come ter fink of it, ’e’s got contracts wiv most o’ the work’ouses.”
“I see. He derives a good business from them, does he?”
The warden laughed again. “I’ll say!”
W. Barnes and Son’s was a smart establishment compared with its neighbours on Bethnal Green Road. Situated between a pie shop and a grocer’s store, the funeral director’s facade was constructed from sharply cut stone and polished black marble.
As soon as I stepped inside, a quietly spoken man in a smart black suit was by my side. A softness in his expression suggested that he was prepared to support me in my grief.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr Barnes, please.”
This wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. “Oh, I see. May I ask your name?”
“I am Miss Green of the Morning Express newspaper.” I retrieved my visiting card from my carpet bag and gave it to him.
“Very good, ma’am.”
He disappeared through a door at the back of the wood-panelled room and I seated myself on a plush cushioned bench to await his return. A pamphlet lying on an occasional table next to me outlined the services of W. Barnes and Son. I glanced through it and saw that there were several classes of funeral available. Special Class offered a hearse drawn by four horses, with four superior carriages each drawn by a pair. Once other provisions were included, such as the satin-lined, French-polished coffin and mourning attendants, the cost amounted to sixty pounds: almost ten times my monthly salary. By contrast, an eighth class funeral with a simple hearse and a pair was just fou
r pounds. I wondered how someone earning two or three shillings a week could possibly pay for even the lowest class of funeral. It was no wonder that so many were forced to settle for a common burial.
“Miss Green?”
I looked up to see a smartly presented man with a pale, clean-shaven face, dark hair and light grey eyes standing before me. He examined my card closely.
“I see that you’re from the Morning Express. What can we do for you?”
“I’m trying to solve a bit of a puzzle,” I replied.
Mr Barnes listened intently as I told him about the Connolly family, who had been unable to find out where their family member was buried. His brow furrowed as he listened.
“I understand your company is the contracted undertaker for Shoreditch Workhouse,” I stated.
“My company is a funeral furnisher rather than an undertaker,” he replied. “We have contracts with a range of institutions.”
“But you carry out the common funerals for Shoreditch Workhouse?”
“I contract undertakers to perform the common funerals.”
I frowned as I tried to fathom what he was saying. “Your company has a contract with Shoreditch Workhouse?”
“Among others, yes.”
“It’s Shoreditch Workhouse that interests me because that’s where Joseph Connolly died. His funeral would have been performed by one of the undertakers you have contracted, would it not?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And may I ask who that might be?”
“Let me see now.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling as he gave this some thought. “For Shoreditch I think we have Finlay and Hicks.”
“Is that the name of a single undertaker? Or two separate ones?”
“Allow me to write down their details for you.” He said this hurriedly, as though he wished to be rid of me as soon as possible, and disappeared behind the wood-panelled door.
I sat down and perused the pamphlet again. A short while later Mr Barnes returned with two neatly written addresses on headed notepaper.
