Death at the Workhouse

by Emily Organ

  “The fact that someone is a pauper does not mean they would find the conditions acceptable,” I retorted. “News reporters such as myself can speak up for people who are unable to make their voices heard. If a pauper complains about the conditions at a workhouse, he or she is rebuked. When a newspaper does it on the pauper’s behalf the people responsible are forced to listen.”

  We paused in the entrance hallway. Mr Hale towered over me, and I resisted the urge to take a step back.

  “We are not the reason these people are poverty-stricken, Miss Green. We are part of the system that provides relief to them. We help them. Is it so impossible for your newspaper to acknowledge that? Now, I don’t know why you have singled out Shoreditch Workhouse as a target for your ire, but if you’re unhappy with the system your time would be better spent down at Westminster haranguing the people who put these systems in place. If I find you hanging around this workhouse again I shall involve the police and make an official complaint to the Morning Express newspaper. Good day to you!”

  Chapter 16

  “Horace, the man who works in the storeroom, told me he heard shouting in the stone-breaking yard the night the two men died,” I told James. “And he says he was in the storeroom until ten o’clock that evening, so he must have seen or heard something else. I think he may be an important witness, and I’m quite surprised that Inspector Ferguson and his men have neglected to speak to him.”

  I was standing beside James’ desk in his dingy office at Scotland Yard. A cloud of tobacco smoke drifted over us from a police officer who was smoking a pipe nearby.

  “What have you been doing, Penny?” replied James. “You can’t just wander around a workhouse trying to find out if someone else murdered those two men!”

  “No one else intends to, do they?”

  “But this is just an idea of yours. It’s a whim—”

  “It’s not a whim! I know the inquest is closed, but its findings may well have been wrong.”

  “Or they may have been right.”

  “But there is definitely some uncertainty!”

  “In your mind, perhaps.”

  “Is there no uncertainty in yours?”

  “A little, I suppose.”

  “Can you be sure that the events decided upon at the inquest describe exactly what happened?”

  “No, I cannot be sure of that.”

  “So there is some doubt over whether the right verdict was returned.”

  “Only a tiny bit.”

  “Then we need to do something about it, James, and Horace can help us.”

  James shook his head. “How do you know you didn’t plant an idea in his head? Witnesses must be questioned in the proper manner. It’s imperative that the person asking the questions doesn’t make any suggestions as to what the witness may or may not have seen.”

  “I know how to speak to potential witnesses!” I snapped. “I merely asked him whether he saw anything in the yard that night, and he replied that he had heard something. He heard shouting, and that was all he told me. I don’t know what time he heard the shouting or how long it lasted for, but I think that would probably best be discussed with a police officer or yourself, James.”

  He gave a low sigh. “It would be useful to make further enquiries, I suppose. That way we could establish for certain whether he was there or not when the two men lost their lives. But I’ll have to speak to Inspector Ferguson about this, and he won’t be happy.”

  “Then perhaps he should have done his job properly in the first place!”

  “Perhaps he already has. He will not appreciate the Yard suggesting that he reopens the case.”

  “Fine, then don’t speak to him!”

  “Don’t be like that, Penny.”

  “You seem quite determined to disagree with everything I’ve suggested regarding this case!”

  “I don’t disagree with you, and there is a possibility that the deaths haven’t been investigated thoroughly enough. However, you seem so convinced that I feel the need to encourage you to consider all possibilities. The words of this Horace fellow have played into your hands, and now you are convinced that your theory is correct. But we must keep our minds open to other—”

  “Just as Inspector Ferguson has? And the coroner?”

  “Please don’t convince yourself of this one theory, Penny. Perhaps events unfolded in a way that we haven’t even considered yet.”

  “Perhaps they did. In which case Inspector Ferguson needs to start all over again.”

  “We can’t order him to do so, can we? But I can certainly have a conversation with him about it and see what he thinks.”

  “Could you not speak to Horace yourself?”

  “I probably could if Inspector Ferguson has no wish to do so, but I must be careful not to tread on his toes.”

  “So you’ll speak to him?”

  “Yes, I’ll speak to him.”

  “Should I come with you?”

  “Perhaps not. Ferguson is unlikely to be impressed by my suggestion that he hasn’t investigated the case properly, and he’ll be even less impressed by the presence of a news reporter. I don’t know how you managed to walk around the workhouse and speak to a potential witness without being spotted.”

  “I was spotted. Mr Hale found me there.”

  James groaned and placed his head in his hands. “I can’t imagine that he was particularly happy with you.”

  “You’re right, he wasn’t. Apparently, if I set foot in the workhouse again he’ll report me to the police. That’s not such a serious problem because you are the police, aren’t you?” I smiled.

  He lifted his head and gave me a stern glance. “The closeness between us doesn’t give you the right to ride roughshod over protocol, Penny.” I felt the smile leave my face. “Don’t ever assume that you can do whatever you like and rely on my position to get you out of hot water.”

  “I would never think that, James!”

  “Good.” He began to tidy the papers on his desk into a neat pile.

  “But I’m sure that Horace could provide a crucial clue as to what happened that night.”

  “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.” James rose to his feet and retrieved his overcoat from the coat stand. “Just be careful how you go about this one, Penny. Be very careful indeed.”

  Chapter 17

  “Unfortunately, my solicitor thinks that I need to change my petition for divorce,” said Eliza as she made herself comfortable in the chair beside my writing desk that evening.

  Tiger, my cat, observed her from beneath my bed.

  “He thinks that a simple cause of cruelty wouldn’t be enough.”

  “But he assisted a criminal!” I said. “And he expected you to live on earnings obtained from a criminal source. If that’s not cruelty, what is?”

  “Physical cruelty.”

  “Oh, I see. And was he never physically cruel?”

  “No, though I wish that he had been now so the divorce could be over and done with.”

  “Don’t say that, Ellie! You cannot mean such a thing. It would have been dreadful if he’d been physically cruel to you.”

  “And yet his criminal behaviour seemingly isn’t cruel enough. My solicitor has explained the problem I face, Penelope: the simple fact that it is easier for a man to divorce his wife than it is for a wife to divorce her husband.”

  “I have heard as much before, but I still think you’re perfectly entitled to a divorce, Ellie.”

  “You might think that, but a judge may not. George could petition to divorce me for just a single act of adultery on my part, yet I cannot divorce him for adultery.”

  “But he hasn’t committed adultery, has he?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no. But even if he had it would need to be combined with another offence, such as bigamy or desertion.”

  “Or cruelty.”

  “Indeed, or cruelty. But as I say, that usually pertains to acts of physical cruelty, which George has never committed.”

>   “So what does your solicitor suggest?”

  “He thinks I would have a far better chance if I were to petition for adultery and cruelty, at the very least.”

  “But how can you petition for adultery?”

  “I would need to prove somehow that he had committed it at some stage during our thirteen-year marriage.”

  “Oh goodness, Ellie. How would you even begin to prove that?”

  “By finding a woman with whom he has committed adultery.”

  “But are there any?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if you found one, would she admit to it?”

  “I should think it unlikely. There would no benefit for her in doing so, especially if she happened to be married herself. So it seems that my hopes of obtaining a divorce from George are rather remote.”

  “Is there any chance that George might petition for a divorce from you?”

  “Not at the moment. He’s still holding out hope for a reconciliation. Only last week he sent me a great long letter professing his deep regret and undying love for me. It only served to make me like him even less. There’s something rather unattractive about desperation, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, there is. Well, I can think of one other possible solution, Ellie.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you find yourself a chap to commit adultery with yourself.”

  “Penelope! What a suggestion!”

  “Just one act of adultery and George could petition for divorce from you.”

  “I suppose he could. But would he?”

  “I’d like to think so! Why would he wish to remain married to you if you’d done such a thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Penelope. It’s too scandalous to even consider! I have my reputation to think of, and besides, I never encounter any eligible men to be adulterous with. The thought that I would even consider such a thing is dreadful enough! Where do you get these ideas from?”

  “I was trying to think of a viable solution.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting idea, but I cannot possibly consider it.”

  “So instead you will attempt to find a woman with whom your husband may or may not have committed adultery?”

  “I could begin with looking through his old letters and diaries, couldn’t I? He left them all at the house. Perhaps there’s a love note amongst them. That would be very convenient, as it would count as evidence that could be used in the courtroom.”

  “But consider how you would feel if you discovered such a note, Ellie. Don’t forget that you loved the man once, and I’ve no doubt that you still harbour some affection for him now.”

  “I suppose it would be rather upsetting, but I want to be able to divorce him, and at this present moment my hands feel quite tied.”

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. I answered to find Mr Torrance standing there in his smoking jacket.

  “Oh, good evening, Miss Green.” He forced a smile from beneath his thick moustache that I didn’t reciprocate. “I’m here to inform you that it is past the curfew time.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” I replied. “I haven’t worked at my typewriter at all this evening, and nor will I now that the hour of eight o’clock has passed.”

  “Ah, but there is still noise.”

  “What sort of noise?”

  “Loud chatter.”

  “I’m merely having a conversation with my sister,” I said. “I wasn’t aware that it was loud in any way.”

  “Oh, but it is quite loud.”

  “My sister has visited me here more times than I care to remember. You have never complained before, Mr Torrance.”

  “That was before the curfew was agreed.”

  “I thought the curfew merely referred to my typewriter.”

  “No, it refers to all noise, Miss Green.”

  “That wasn’t my understanding of it at all.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “We can hardly agree on a curfew for typewriting noise and yet allow all other noise to continue late into the night!”

  “The only noise here is the conversation taking place between myself and my sister, and neither of us have raised our voices once. I don’t know how you would be able to hear our conversation unless you were standing on a stool immediately beneath my floorboards and listening in with the aid of an ear trumpet.”

  “There’s no need to be facetious, Miss Green.”

  “I’m not being facetious. I’m merely highlighting the ridiculousness of the situation. I’m entitled to converse quietly with any visitors to my room.”

  “I think Mrs Garnett needs to introduce a few rules about visitors to tenants’ rooms.”

  “She already has rules in place, and rest assured, Mr Torrance, that I am not breaking any of them.”

  His moustache gave a twitch as he handed me a tatty envelope. “I accidentally picked this up amongst my pile of post the other morning.”

  My heart skipped a beat when I saw the Colombian postmark.

  “Thank you, Mr Torrance!” My words were more gracious than I had intended, as I was so pleased to finally receive word regarding Francis.

  “I shall be speaking with Mrs Garnett about this infringement of the curfew.”

  “You do that, Mr Torrance. Goodnight.”

  I shut the door on him and walked over to the desk to show Eliza the letter. My fingers fumbled as I ripped the envelope open.

  “Oh, Penelope! Is he still alive? I don’t think I can bring myself to hear the news! Is it good or bad?”

  I opened out the letter. “Good, I think. I feel sure that this is Francis’ hand.” I checked the signature at the bottom of the letter. “Yes, this is from Francis! He has survived his fever!”

  “Oh, thank goodness!”

  I read the letter aloud to my sister. “‘My dearest Penny and Eliza. A little misfortune has befallen me, and for these past three weeks I have suffered with a most terrible tropical illness. I am grateful to Anselmo for writing to you and informing you of my predicament, though I hope his letter didn’t give you too much cause for concern. I find that my health is recovered just enough to be able to write this letter and to reassure you that I am gradually recovering.

  “‘Alas, I remain bedridden, and although I am gaining strength with each day that passes I do not yet know when I will be able to resume my journey to Cali to visit the European orchid grower I mentioned in my previous letter. If my recuperation delays me for too long I may ask Anselmo to travel on ahead of me and bring whatever news he can of this elusive European.

  “‘If all goes to plan I shall be on my way again before long, and I hope to bring you more encouraging news very soon. With fondest regards from your faithful friend, Francis Edwards.’”

  I glanced up at my sister, who was wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh, poor Francis. He must have suffered terribly! And to think that he has been so poorly in a foreign country with little idea as to whether he would live or die! It’s simply awful.”

  “But he’s recovering now, Ellie, and I’m sure he’ll be able to resume his travels very soon.”

  “When is the letter dated?”

  “The twenty-fourth of December.”

  “Christmas Eve. Goodness, how miserable it must have been to spend Christmas Day in bed. Is there an address on the letter?”

  “Yes. Mr Valencia’s home in Borrero Ayerbe is given, but hopefully Francis has moved on from there by now. This letter was written a month ago. We can only hope that he has made it to Cali by now.”

  “And if he hasn’t?”

  “We shall just have to wait until we receive word from him, Ellie. That is really all we can do for the time being.”

  Chapter 18

  I worked in the reading room at the British Library the following morning, researching the details I had not fully understood from Dr Macpherson’s lecture at the School of Medicine for Women.

  I heard the doughy-faced reading room clerk, Mr Retchford, scolding someo
ne for talking above a whisper, and as I watched him bustle about imperiously I recalled the days when Francis Edwards had worked here. I had valued his help, and although it had only been four months since he had departed for Colombia it already felt like a long time ago. I prayed that he was fully recovered and closer to discovering my father’s fate.

  Not having found the information I needed, I left my desk and climbed the elaborate iron staircase up to the galleries that encircled the domed room. After a quick search I happened upon a book entitled Gray’s Anatomy, which I decided to take back to my desk. When I returned I found another book lying there.

  “Excuse me, does this book belong to you?” I whispered to the man sitting next to me.

  He shook his head.

  “Did you see who placed it here?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  The desk on the other side was empty, so I asked the man sitting opposite whether he had seen anyone place the book there.

  “No,” came the reply.

  “What’s the problem here?” came a harsh whisper from behind me.

  I turned to see Mr Retchford glaring at me.

  “It’s Miss Green, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “You’re disturbing the other readers.”

  “Someone left this book on my desk and I was trying to find out who its owner might be.”

  I set down Gray’s Anatomy and picked up the other book. I was surprised to see that it was entitled A Practical Guide to Journalism.

  Mr Retchford took the volume from me and examined it, his nose wrinkling as if there were a bad smell in the air.

  “This doesn’t belong in here,” he announced. “It doesn’t have a British Library bookplate inside it.”

  He handed it back to me and I leafed through the pages. Its condition was almost new, unlike many of the books in the library, which were well-thumbed.