Death at the Workhouse

by Emily Organ

  “Perhaps he did? And presumably it had the bags of sand inside which he swapped with her body.”

  “He was supposed to take away five coffins, and yet he left with six,” pondered James. “It’s possible isn’t it?”

  “An alternative method would be to have stolen her in the middle of the night.”

  “Working under the cover of darkness would have helped, but how did the culprits gain access to the dead house?”

  “Perhaps they stole a key,” I suggested.

  “There are only two keys, apparently, and neither has been stolen.”

  “Perhaps Mr Plunkett colluded with the bodysnatchers.”

  “That’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “He could have agreed to meet them at the dead house in the middle of the night and opened the door of the dead house for them. Or if she was taken by the undertaker, he could have overseen the swapping of her body for the bags of sand.”

  “He’s certainly suspicious,” said James. “And everything he has told us could be a fabrication. We’ll need to question him further, along with Hicks and his men. They and Mr Plunkett were best-placed to carry out this crime.”

  Chapter 36

  “The bodysnatchers have returned!” announced Edgar, his eyes opened dramatically wide. “I knew this would happen again someday.”

  “I don’t believe there are any bodysnatchers,” replied Frederick.

  “Then who stole the body from the coffin?”

  “Someone who wished to play a prank.”

  “What sort of prank?” asked Edgar.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps he planned to seat the poor deceased woman in a chair at his home, announcing to visitors that his wife is uncharacteristically quiet and asking whether they can spot anything the matter with her.”

  Edgar gave a laugh while I felt my stomach turn.

  “That’s a horribly disrespectful comment,” I said.

  “Stealing a woman from her coffin is disrespectful, Miss Green!” retorted Edgar. “Potter is only trying to make light of the situation. What I don’t understand is how the chap got her out of there. Did he carry her out like a sack of potatoes? Surely that would have raised a few eyebrows?”

  “Not if the theft was carried out at night,” said Frederick. “Few people would have seen anything in the dark.”

  “I think she must have been removed in a coffin,” I said, “in which case no one would have become suspicious.”

  “Who could get away with carrying a coffin out of the workhouse?” asked Edgar. “It’s no easy task, and the perpetrator would have needed a horse and cart to transport it away. And not just any old cart either; it would have had to be a covered one or he soon would have been questioned by someone if he’d been travelling along Hoxton Street with a coffin bouncing about in his cart.”

  “The only person who could remove a coffin without being challenged is an undertaker,” I said.

  “Goodness, what a thought! Does that mean none of us is safe? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How many undertakers are snatching away our bodies and replacing them with bags of sand?”

  “Hopefully very few,” I said.

  “This is the problem with these new mortuaries they’re building everywhere,” said Edgar. “Once you’re put in there, you’re not safe, are you? One is far better off under one’s own roof.”

  “And that is the usual practice for most people,” I said. “It’s only the poor and destitute who have no homes to rest in who end up in the dead house.”

  “And the undertaker helps himself to them,” said Edgar, “like a hungry spider!”

  “I would agree that the undertaker is a likely suspect,” I said, “but there is no concrete evidence as yet, and we will have to let the police investigate. There’s a good deal of work for them to do. The pauper burials in Tower Hamlets cemetery are being exhumed to find out whether any more coffins contain bags of sand. The staff at the workhouse are being questioned, as are the undertaker and his men. And the medical schools are also being visited by the police.”

  “Those doctors must take responsibility for this,” said Edgar. “They demand bodies and feed on them like ghouls!”

  “The students need to learn about anatomy,” I said, “and they need to practise surgery. I can’t say that I agree with the way the system operates, but I do recognise that doctors need to be properly trained. Even if Miss Lloyd’s body happens to be discovered at one of the medical schools, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the school is in the wrong. They may have bought her remains in good faith that all the correct procedures were followed.”

  Miss Welton entered the room and handed me a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. I felt a sinking sensation in my chest.

  “I don’t know who delivered this,” she said, “but one of the compositors found it just inside the doorway downstairs. It has your name on it.”

  “I thought it might,” I replied.

  “Well, open it, Miss Green!” said Edgar excitedly.

  “There’s no need. It will be yet another malicious gift.”

  “Better than no gift at all!” joked Edgar.

  “You do talk a lot of nonsense,” I retorted.

  “I don’t understand,” said Miss Welton. “A malicious gift?”

  “Yes. Here, let me show you,” I said, tearing off the paper, which happened to be from the previous day’s Morning Express. “This will be an instruction book on the art of writing or journalism. The anonymous sender wishes to suggest that my skills in those areas are somehow deficient.”

  “That isn’t particularly nice,” commented Miss Welton.

  I examined the green, leather-bound book in my hand. “A Guide to the Profession of Writing,” I said. “Just as I thought.”

  “It’s a nice-looking book,” said Miss Welton.

  “I suppose I should be flattered that my tormentor likes to spend his money on me.”

  I opened the book to see my name written on the title page, just as it had been in the previous two books.

  “And you don’t know who it’s from?” said Miss Welton. “How very odd!”

  There was a knock at the newsroom door and James walked in.

  “Inspector Blakely!” announced Edgar. “What can we do for you? I’m assuming it’s me you’ve come to speak to,” he added with a wink.

  “Of course, Mr Fish,” replied James. “I’ve come to ask whether you’ve heard anything from the detective priest.”

  “There’s a detective priest now? How exciting!”

  “Have you heard anything from him?”

  “Erm, no. I can’t say that I have.”

  “I assume you’re asking about Father Keane, James,” I said with a smile.

  “I am indeed, Penny.”

  “I haven’t heard anything from him either, but we could call on him together and find out what he has learned.”

  I tucked the book into my carpet bag.

  “The priest is actually a detective?” asked Edgar with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “He’s someone I asked to help with asking a few questions down at the workhouse.”

  “Fancy asking a priest to do your dirty work for you!” replied Edgar with a laugh. “Why haven’t I thought of that before? I wonder whether I could ask Father O’Hallaghan at St Dominic’s to write my dull article on the Afghan Boundary Commission!”

  “How’s the investigation progressing?” I asked James as we climbed into a hansom cab on Fleet Street.

  “Mr Plunkett, the dead house porter, has been questioned, as have all the staff in the workhouse. There was an interesting absentee, however.”

  “Who?”

  “The workhouse clerk.”

  “Mr Lennox?”

  “Yes. He hasn’t been seen since the drama of yesterday evening, and when the constables called at his home this morning his wife informed them that he’d left town to attend to an aunt with a sudden illness.”

  “You k
now where he is, then?”

  “Wales, it’s believed. A telegram has been sent to a local police station, and we have two men journeying there as we speak.”

  “He must have had something to do with it! I never did like the man.”

  “It may just be coincidence that he’s run off, Penny. But it’s an interesting coincidence all the same. The facts we know so far are that Miss Lloyd died on the women’s ward in the infirmary shortly before six o’clock that evening, then the porters placed her body in a shell and took her to the dead house. Mr Plunkett assisted them by placing her body in a coffin, which was nailed shut, and her name was chalked on the side. Mr Plunkett swears by his story, and there have been no inconsistencies in his retelling of events. If he is lying, he’s quite accomplished at it.”

  “And the undertaker, Hicks?”

  “Ferguson’s men have spoken to him, and he seemed just as horrified as everyone else. He’s incredibly upset by the suggestion that he might have had anything to do with it.”

  “Though that is exactly what a guilty man would say. The only way Miss Lloyd’s body could have been removed from the dead house was in a coffin.”

  “We can’t be sure about that. There appears to be a genuine horror among everyone we’ve spoken to about this terrible event. I think this is the action of just a select few; maybe only one or two people.”

  “And what of the medical schools?”

  “Officers have visited five of the twelve so far, and unfortunately there has been no sign of Miss Lloyd’s body nor a record in the dissection registers. There are seven more to visit, so there is still some hope that the body will be found. However, the medical schools are adamant that they operate within the formal agreements set up between the poor law unions and coroners for each district.”

  “There is also the possibility that Miss Lloyd’s body is in Cambridge.”

  “I haven’t ignored that possibility. I sent a telegram to the medical school there but haven’t received a reply as yet.”

  “It’s interesting, don’t you think, that Shoreditch Poor Law Union has voted not to sell unclaimed bodies to medical schools? Yet having spoken to Dr Macpherson I know that there is plenty of competition among the medical schools for supply. Someone, perhaps Mr Lennox, has clearly been selling bodies regardless of the board’s decision.”

  “Whether it’s Mr Lennox or not, I think there can be little doubt that someone at Shoreditch Workhouse has struck up an arrangement with another party. Perhaps the arrangement hasn’t been established with a medical school directly. It could have been set up with an undertaker. The men involved are effectively body dealers.”

  “Shoreditch Workhouse appears to be having more than its fair share of problems,” I said. “They have to be connected, don’t you think? There is no doubt in my mind that the bodies of Mr Connolly and Miss Lloyd have suffered the same fate. And then there are the murders of Mr Patten and Mr Walker.”

  “How can their murders be connected to the theft of corpses?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I feel certain that there has to be a link somewhere. Perhaps one or both of them knew something and the murderer wished to silence them.”

  “That’s assuming your theory of a third person being involved is correct. At the moment there is little evidence to suggest that the two men did anything other than fight each other to the death.”

  “Perhaps the third person murdered them so their bodies could be sold?”

  “I’d say that would be extremely unlikely. Don’t forget that in the case of a suspicious death there is an inquest, which also involves a post-mortem examination. I cannot imagine the medical schools being interested in a body that has undergone a post-mortem.”

  “I see. Well, I also keep thinking about poor Bill, the young chap who died suddenly of heart problems in the night. I wonder what his fate was. Perhaps his body was unclaimed and subsequently sold.”

  “I suppose we would need to find out what the records say about him.”

  “Did you speak to that hopeless poor law inspector, Mr Weyland?”

  “Yes I did, and he agreed to look into what had happened to Mr Connolly.”

  “Oh good! Thank you, James.”

  “And I should think his ears have pricked up even more now that we have the case of Miss Lloyd to investigate. There can be no doubt that there’s something fishy going on. Did I see you with a book in your hand when I entered the newsroom? It’s not another one of those anonymous gifts is it?”

  “I’m afraid it is.” I pulled the book out of my carpet bag and handed it to him. ”Yet another mystery to solve.”

  Chapter 37

  James and I disembarked from the cab outside St Monica’s Church in Hoxton Square.

  “What are you hoping Father Keane can tell us?” I asked.

  “I’m just interested to hear whether he has come across anything useful. You asked him to find more witnesses to the murders in the stone-breaking yard, did you not?”

  “Yes. I hope he’s found someone who saw something.”

  “Maybe he can also help us with this latest incident.”

  Father Keane greeted us both with a wide smile as I introduced James. The priest led us into the vestry, which consisted of a small desk, a few chairs and a large mahogany wardrobe. He arranged the chairs in the centre of the room and we sat down.

  “When we last spoke, Miss Green, we couldn’t have possibly foreseen the dreadful incident that has occurred this week!” exclaimed the priest. “Horrific, isn’t it? That poor woman and her family.”

  “It really is awful, and there is a great deal of work for Inspector Blakely and his colleagues to carry out now,” I replied. “We wondered whether you’d found out anything that could help the investigations. I know I specifically asked you about the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker, but it’s possible that you may have uncovered something else as well.”

  “Possibly. Until now I have mainly been concentrating on the deaths in the stone-breaking yard, and I’ve had some interesting conversations with several inmates.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Well, a few names were mentioned.” Father Keane went to fetch a notebook from his desk and sat down again as he leafed through it. “There’s no doubt that a few people passed that way at around the time of the men’s deaths, which is rather unusual, don’t you think, given that they failed to come forward as witnesses at the inquest?”

  “I think Inspector Ferguson rushed his investigation a little,” I commented.

  “And sometimes people feel wary about speaking to police officers,” added James. “They may consider a familiar friendly face such as yours, Father Keane, as more approachable.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “So who was near the stone-breaking yard at the time?” I asked.

  “I found a man who said that he crossed the stone-breaking yard on his way to the coal store at about nine o’clock. His name is John Price.”

  “And what did he see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did he have a lantern with him?”

  “Yes, I believe so. He would have needed one to find his way across the yard in that darkness.”

  “And he presumably returned to the main block shortly afterwards,” said James.

  “Yes. He went to fetch a pail of coal.”

  “So Mr Price crossed the stone-breaking yard twice that evening,” summarised James. “The first time at nine o’clock and the second time, walking in the opposite direction, a short while later.”

  “Yes. I suppose I should have asked him what time it was when he returned to the main block,” said Father Keane. “I can only imagine that it was a short while later.”

  “So he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary,” said James, “but he must have passed quite close to where the men’s bodies were lying by that stage.”

  “Fairly close, but the most direct route
from the main block to the coal store is along one side of the yard. The two men were found on the other side of the yard, and Mr Price’s route wouldn’t have taken him near them. Had he diverted and searched about with his lantern a little he would have found them, I suppose. But he didn’t because there was no need to, was there? He was merely there to fetch some coal, and it was a route he had taken many times before.”

  “The lanterns intrigue me,” I said. “Mr Patten took a lantern out into the yard for him to work by, and Mr Walker also took a lantern with him. But by the time Horace looked out of the storeroom there was no sign of either lantern. He said that it was completely dark in the yard.”

  “And it was still dark in the yard at nine o’clock when Mr Price crossed it,” added the priest.

  “Mr Patten’s lantern would presumably have had enough light in it for at least three hours, which was the amount of time the labour master had ordered him to work,” I said. “Therefore, someone purposefully extinguished his lantern.”

  “He might have put it out himself,” said Father Keane.

  “But why would he do that?” asked James. “The man expected to work from eight o’clock until eleven o’clock that evening; that was what he had been instructed to do. If he did extinguish the lantern himself then we will need to consider why he would do such a thing.”

  “Mr Walker was seen entering the stone-breaking yard at a quarter past eight o’clock,” I said. “And he also had a lantern with him. Did anyone see where he went after he left the main block?”

  “I can’t find anyone who saw him after he left the men’s day room and stepped into the yard,” replied the priest.

  “But at ten minutes past eight the yard was in darkness,” I said. “That’s what Horace told me, at least.”

  “He may not be correct,” said James.

  “Let’s assume for a moment that he is,” I said. “It suggests that Mr Patten’s lantern was extinguished within ten minutes of him beginning his work in the yard. Did he extinguish it because he knew Mr Walker was about to venture out into the yard?”