by Emily Organ
“These issues are not necessarily trivial,” said Mr Sherman. “They constitute essential reading for the day-to-day life of a lady.”
“I suppose so,” replied Edgar.
“And the husband wishes to return to a well-managed home in the evenings, doesn’t he?” continued the editor. “So perhaps it’s not quite so trivial for him after all.”
“Well, yes. I agree wholeheartedly with that,” said Edgar. “The focus of my home is the cats more than anything else. Georgina spends all her time grooming them, tying little bows around their necks and shopping for the finest cuts of meat to feed them with.”
“Perhaps I could write about cats for the ladies’ column,” I suggested with a smile.
“Georgina would certainly enjoy that,” said Edgar. “In fact, she would probably be willing to become a guest writer for the column. If there’s anything she doesn’t know about cats it’s not worth knowing at all. In fact, she would do well to spend a little more time focusing on other household matters. She’s so busy fussing over the cats that she doesn’t always pay attention to what’s going on below stairs.”
“And what is going on below stairs?” enquired Mr Sherman.
“The servants please themselves, that’s what! The cook concocts whatever she pleases. She’s served us game three times within the past week, despite me telling Georgina that I dislike game. I’ve told her she needs to agree the menu with the housekeeper every Sunday evening, but it never happens.”
“Miss Green, I think some tips for managing one’s housekeeper should be included in next week’s column,” said Mr Sherman.
“I wouldn’t have the first idea about that,” I replied. “I could just about manage a few words on fashion, but housekeeping is something I know nothing about. Perhaps you could write some housekeeping tips yourself, sir. You have a housekeeper, don’t you?”
“Yes, but only for a small household. It’s just me, the housekeeper and a maid.”
“I don’t run a household at all, sir.”
“That’s an interesting point, Miss Green. I’m asking you to write the ladies’ column, yet you’re not exactly representative of the average lady, are you?”
I laughed. “No, I’m not.”
“I’ll happily jot down the housekeeper tips for you, Miss Green. Would that help?”
“It would indeed, sir. Thank you.”
“So while I tackle the trivial matters, how would you like to write about something a little more intellectual for the ladies’ column, Miss Green?”
“I should like that very much. What is it?”
“My brother informs me that one of London’s most eminent physicians, Dr Charles Macpherson of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, is to speak on anatomy at the School of Medicine for Women this evening. The invitation to attend is extended to all members of the fairer sex; not only to those who are studying medicine. His attendance at the school demonstrates the increasing significance of women’s medicine. I should think that a summary of his lecture would be of interest to our learned lady readers.”
“A medical lecture!” Edgar laughed. “I bet you wish you hadn’t complained about fashion now, don’t you, Miss Green? I expect you’d far rather write about hats than body parts!”
Dr Macpherson proved to be an engaging speaker that evening. He was able to maintain my interest in a subject to which I had previously given little thought. He was a short, affable man with an intelligent, hawk-like face and a quick wit. I glanced around the auditorium as he spoke, impressed by the number of interested female faces I could see.
Chapter 15
The following Tuesday I met Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies at the Shoreditch Workhouse infirmary and read to the patients once again. I had been worried that the frail Mrs King would no longer be there, so it was with some relief that I was able to read her a little more of Treasure Island.
“Stop interruptin’!” she scolded.
“What do you mean, Mrs King?”
“Miss Turner over there. She’s openin’ an’ closin’ that door, and I can’t ’ear the words.”
I looked across the room and saw the nurse locking a door in the corner of the room.
“What’s in there, anyway?” demanded Mrs King.
“Never you mind,” replied the nurse with a smile. “I’ll return to it once Miss Green has finished reading.”
“In and out of it all day, she is,” muttered Mrs King. “Gives me an ’eadache.”
“How was your meeting with the board of guardians?” asked Miss Russell as we walked over to the children’s ward. “I heard they spoke to you about your article.”
“They’re keen for me to write a second piece about all the good work they’re doing here, such as the scheme to help young women find work as maids.”
“And will you?”
“The decision rests with my editor,” I replied, keen to make it clear that the matter was out of my hands. “He is reluctant to publish an article which praises the board of guardians when the conditions here are still so bad.”
“I can understand why he would feel like that, but change cannot come about if we ignore the efforts being made to improve the situation.”
“Are they genuine efforts?” I asked. “Or are they just small gestures the board of guardians hopes will atone for the misery people suffer here? I dislike the general insistence that conditions have to remain bad – especially on the casual wards – to deter people from seeking refuge here.”
“It’s a dilemma. I can understand why the conditions cannot be too appealing.”
“But surely a bit of warmth, a comfortable bed and good food are required. I struggle to believe that fulfilling these basic human needs would result in people coming here in their droves.”
“There’s a great deal of debate to be had on the subject, and that’s why I think it a shame that your editor refuses to publish a second article. Perhaps the piece could be more of a discursive essay mentioning the positive work that has been carried out but also reminding people of the wider problems.”
I nodded. This seemed to me to be a good approach.
“After all, the problem stretches way beyond the walls of this workhouse,” continued Miss Russell. “There is so much poverty on London’s streets, and the population of the city’s slums is so great that the workhouses are unable to accommodate everyone who needs assistance. Just think of the thousands who must part with a sixpence to spend the night at one of those dreadful lodging houses.
“I think there is very little that a board of guardians can do all by itself. There needs to be an orchestrated approach from all the unions that administer poor relief, and the unscrupulous landlords of slum properties need to mend their ways too. The solution lies with the government, so we can only do what we are able to and report back on what’s happening. Articles such as yours could help with that, Miss Green.
“A good number of organisations are doing their best to improve the daily lives of the poor. There are countless charitable causes providing food, companionship and occasional shelter. If we can simply do a little to help someone in need feel better, our day’s work will be well spent.
“I suppose that’s all we can do, isn’t it? And we must keep reminding the government that changes need to be made. I read recently that the British Empire covers a fifth of the globe and encompasses more than three hundred million inhabitants, yet we’re unable to feed and clothe those living right on our doorstep. It doesn’t seem right, does it?”
We encountered Dr Kemp as we were walking from the children’s ward to the men’s ward and I told him that I had found his deposition at the inquest of Mr Patten and Mr Walker most interesting.
“In what sense?” he asked.
“It was the fact that the police officers at Commercial Street station refer drunkards to you, claiming they’re ill, that intrigued me.”
“I think it’s the fault of the police doctors rather than the constables themselves,” he replied. “The doctors are paid for each patie
nt they certify, so it’s an easy income for them.”
“But the police are duty-bound to put a stop it!”
“They are, but who are they to doubt a medical man’s word? Doing so could result in a genuinely ill drunkard being refused treatment at the infirmary.”
“So what can be done about it?”
“I wish I knew, Miss Green. I don’t have an easy answer; all I know is that the services of this infirmary are always under a great strain.”
“I think you have an unenviable job, Dr Kemp,” I said. “On the subject of the inquest, do you think the events of that evening occurred as the inquest described?”
“Yes, I should think so.”
“You don’t think that it could have played out rather differently?”
“In what way?”
“Perhaps a third person could have been involved.”
“Someone who got away, you mean?”
“Yes.”
He pondered this for a moment. “I suppose there’s a possibility. But the culprit would have had to overpower two men, and I don’t think that sounds likely. Sadly, we’ll never truly know what occurred in that yard, but many queer things have happened here over the years. It seems to be the way of the workhouse, I’m afraid.”
I could recall what the stone-breaking yard looked like from my tour of the workhouse, but in the light of the recent tragedy that had taken place there I wished to see it again to satisfy my curiosity. We finished reading to the patients and I parted company with Miss Russell before we walked to the entrance, informing her that I needed to visit the clerk, Mr Lennox.
I made my way along the covered walkway toward the building that housed the dormitories and day rooms. The stone-breaking yard could be accessed from the men’s wing of the building. I paused in the corridor and waited until there was no one about before slipping in through the doorway of the men’s day room.
A few elderly inmates gave me a cursory glance as I walked through the room, but I simply smiled and hoped to remain unchallenged until I reached the door at the far end. Beyond it I could hear the sound of hammer against stone. I opened the door a little way and peered out into the yard, where a great number of men were wielding their hammers against the blocks of stone and shovelling piles of it through the iron grill. Small flakes of ice floated down from the thick clouds overhead as the men laboured, their uniforms as grey as the sky.
I stood at the door for a while and surveyed the yard. There were three other doors that opened out onto it. One had a sign beside it that read ‘Coals’, and I surmised that this had been the original destination for Mr Simms, the man who had discovered the bodies of Mr Patten and Mr Walker. With the yard now busy, it was difficult to identify where the bodies of the two men had lain.
The second door was closed, but the third had been propped open with a barrel. Nearby, a large young man with close-set features stooped down to pick something up from the ground. A sign on the wall behind him read ‘Store’. As he wasn’t breaking stone, I wondered whether he regularly worked in the storeroom instead. There was no sign of the labour master in the yard; a fact that some of the inmates were taking advantage of as they sat on the ground and exchanged lively banter.
I decided to talk to the man standing beside the store. I sidled out of the doorway and walked around the perimeter of the yard, hoping to remain unnoticed. A few men glanced over and leered at me, but my presence did not appear to surprise them too greatly.
As the young man lingering beside the store saw me approaching, he stood to his feet, put something in his pocket and ducked through the doorway. I reached the entrance and peered inside the gloomy room, which was filled with shelves. Each was piled high with bundled items tied up with string. The small windowsill was covered with odds and ends, such as little bottles, broken clay pipes and discarded snuff boxes.
“Hello?” I ventured.
The young man was watching me from the far corner of the storeroom. I noticed that he was cross-eyed.
“I’m a missionary,” I said, feeling ashamed at my brazen lie. “Do you work here all the time?”
He nodded.
“I heard about the sad deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker,” I said. “Did you see anything yourself that night?”
He gave a slight nod.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“I heard,” he replied.
“What did you hear?”
“Shoutin’.”
“A lot of shouting?”
“Just some.”
“And did you hear anyone say anything in particular?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know who was shouting?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Did you hear anything else?”
He shook his head.
“What time were you here in the store until?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“I presume you crossed the yard when you left?”
He nodded.
“Did you see anything unusual in the yard?”
“No, it were too dark.”
“Has a police officer spoken to you about this?”
He shook his head, then turned away from me and began to examine one of the bundles on the nearest shelf. I took this as a sign that he was reluctant to talk any more. It was apparent that he struggled with conversation, and I guessed that he was perhaps a man of limited intelligence. However, there was a possibility that he could turn out to be an important witness to the events of that evening.
Aware that I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, I decided it was time to leave. I walked back toward the men’s day room and briskly sauntered through it again before stepping out into the main corridor.
“Miss Green?”
I felt a plummeting sensation in my chest as I turned to see who had become aware of my presence.
“Oh, hello, Mr Hale,” I replied cheerfully.
He stood over me, his shoulders hunched. I felt as though I were about to be admonished by a schoolmaster.
“May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I’ve been assisting Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies with reading to the patients in the infirmary.”
“We are a long way from the infirmary, Miss Green, and I have just observed you stepping out of the men’s day room. Women are not permitted to enter.”
“I do apologise, Mr Hale.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“I became a little lost, I’m afraid.”
“The men’s day room is clearly marked as such on the door. And even if you hadn’t taken the time to read the sign, it would have been quite obvious once you stepped inside the room that it was occupied entirely by men.”
I felt a warmth in my face as I struggled to concoct a sensible reply to this. Rather than continue to lie, I decided it would be best to tell Mr Hale at least part of the truth.
“I took a wrong turn when I left the infirmary, Mr Hale, and as I did so I realised that I was walking in the direction of the stone-breaking yard where the tragic deaths of—”
“I see.” He grinned insincerely. “And because you are a news reporter you were keen to see where the two men lost their lives, were you?”
“I can’t say that I was keen to see it, Mr Hale, but—”
“But you are a news reporter, and this is the sort of thing news reporters do. I might have guessed that the supposed assistance you have been giving Miss Russell was little more than a ruse to gain access to the murder scene.”
“No! That really isn’t true, Mr Hale. I volunteered to assist Miss Russell before the deaths occurred.”
“Did you speak to any of the inmates?”
“No. Well, I did speak extremely briefly with the young man in the storeroom.”
“Horace? Well, I’d be surprised if he spoke a single word to you. You managed to get all the way to the storeroom in the stone-breaking yard, you say?”
“It was just a brief visit.”
�
��Please come with me, Miss Green, and I shall escort you from the premises. I am quite astonished that you were able to enter the men’s wing of the workhouse without being challenged. Your conduct has been both reckless and improper.”
He strode on ahead, so I followed him out of the block and along the covered walkway. We marched through the infirmary and down the walkway that led to the workhouse entrance.
“I had hoped you were here to inform me that you would be writing an article about the good work of the workhouse, as the board of guardians requested,” said Mr Hale over his shoulder.
I had to quicken my step to keep up with his stooped form. “My editor has no plans for such an article to be written at the present time.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” he snapped. “Lurid details about the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker are of far greater interest, I suppose. The press would far rather print sensationalist nonsense than good news these days. However, I think it only fair after your criticism of the casual wards here at the workhouse that such an article were required to provide an alternative viewpoint. Not everything about the workhouse is bad, Miss Green.”
“I agree.”
“Then perhaps you can convince your editor of that.”
“He feels that if we were to publish an article praising the work of the workhouse, the criticisms we have made so far would be disregarded.”
“The majority of your readers will already have disregarded your article, Miss Green.”
I chose not to react to his provocation. “There is no doubt that improvement in the casual wards is needed,” I said.
“So you’re a workhouse inspector now, Miss Green. You do realise that an inspector visits us on a regular basis and is always content with the way we manage things here, do you not?”
“I’m sure you manage them as well as any other workhouse does, Mr Hale, but conditions need to improve at all the workhouses.”
He gave a dry laugh. “It amuses me that do-gooders and members of the press think they’re doing everyone a service by complaining about the conditions when they have hardly any knowledge of how poor relief works in this country. It’s all very well for people such as yourself, Miss Green, to loudly complain about such matters before retiring to your agreeable homes for the evening. I’m sure you would view matters rather differently if you were a pauper yourself.”