Death at the Workhouse

by Emily Organ

  “Finlay is in Columbia Road and Hicks is in Harman Street.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr Barnes. Have you ever known this sort of thing to happen before?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “A confusion with the burial records?”

  “Oh yes, it happens quite often. It usually amounts to a mistake with the record-keeping. ”His face assumed a sombre expression, which I imagined was routinely used for mourners. “I do hope his relatives receive answers to their questions.”

  My walk to Columbia Road took me through a series of narrow, cobbled streets lined with terraced red-brick houses and furniture workshops. An acrid smell from the nearby chemical works lingered in my nose, and two men loitering outside a public house made coarse comments as I passed.

  George Finlay and Co. Funeral Service was a smaller establishment than Mr Barnes’. When I arrived I could hear sawing from an adjacent workshop, which I guessed was where the coffins were made.

  Mr Finlay had a careworn face that didn’t quite match his smart attire.

  “You are contracted by Mr Barnes to bury the deceased workhouse inmates, is that right?” I asked.

  “The paupers. Barnes does the ones with all the feathers and attendants and carriages with four ’orses an’ the suchlike. I do the paupers.”

  I told him about the Connolly family, and he scratched his stubbled chin as he listened.

  “I’ll ’ave a look in the book,” he replied as he walked over to a small desk and began leafing through records. “Just before Christmas, yer say?”

  “Yes. The twenty-third of December.”

  “Joseph Connolly?”

  “That’s right. Or possibly Joe.”

  “He ain’t ’ere.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. If ’e’d died on the twenny-third I would of picked ’im up on the twenty-fourth, earliest. For that day I got Mr Coleman, seventy-six, Mr Barrett, fifty-one, Mrs Allen, eighty-two, and Miss Redmond, thirty-six.”

  I wasn’t sure why he had felt the need to tell me their ages.

  “Four people in total?”

  “Yeah, four of ’em. And no Connolly.”

  “Is it possible that you might have picked him up on the twenty-fifth?”

  “I takes a day off Christmas Day. For the twenty-sixth I got three of ’em but none of ’em’s named Connolly.”

  “It seems that quite a few are buried each day.”

  “I’d say between three and five.”

  “Is it possible that Mr Hicks buried Mr Connolly?”

  Mr Finlay huffed as he closed the book shut. “He might’ve.”

  “How common is it for burial records to be inaccurate?”

  He scowled. “None of my records is wrong.”

  “I don’t understand why the workhouse says Mr Connolly was buried when there is no corresponding burial record.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m blowed if I knows.”

  At Hicks and Son on Harman Street the younger Mr Hicks informed me that his father was currently taking a consignment of paupers’ coffins to Tower Hamlets Cemetery. He looked through the firm’s records and confirmed that Joseph Connolly had not been listed there.

  Harman Street was only a short walk from Shoreditch Workhouse. As I left the undertaker’s I felt rather despondent as there was little I could do to help the Connolly family with news of their loved one. I paused at the corner of Harman Street and Kingsland Road and looked in the direction of the workhouse. The only other course of action I could think of was to return to the place from which I had been told to steer clear.

  Chapter 25

  I approached Shoreditch Workhouse via the administrative building; a large red-and-cream edifice on Kingsland Road. It was in this building that I had met with the board of guardians.

  The porter at the reception desk fetched Mr Lennox for me, and I braced myself as the bald, grey-whiskered clerk descended a flight of stairs with a stern look in his eye. I prayed that Mr Hale was busy in the main part of the workhouse and wouldn’t discover me here.

  “Miss Green?”

  The clerk did not invite me into an office to speak. Instead, he stood obstructively in the hallway waiting for my explanation. I kept it as brief as possible and told him what I had learned about Joseph Connolly.

  “The police have been informed,” I added slightly menacingly. The clerk seemed to concede that it was too sensitive a subject to dismiss out of hand.

  “It sounds as though there has been an error in the record-keeping,” he said.

  “That seems most likely,” I replied. “But I’m sure you can understand that the Connolly family will need to know what has happened to Joseph.”

  “I remember them enquiring here, and my recollection is that they weren’t notified of his death as he hadn’t given us their details. But before I check our records again, may I ask why you’ve involved yourself in this matter, Miss Green? It feels as though you’re pursuing some sort of vendetta against the workhouse, and I can’t for the life of me think why.”

  “There is no vendetta, Mr Lennox. Please let me assure you of that. I’m simply investigating because at the present time this doesn’t seem to be a serious enough matter for the police to pursue and I’m not sure who else would be willing to look into it.”

  “Perhaps the poor law inspector, Mr Weyland, would?”

  “Well, I shall certainly contact him if there appears to be a problem. But at the present time it may have been nothing more than a misunderstanding.”

  “And if there is a problem you’ll be writing about it in your newspaper, no doubt.”

  “If it’s a big problem then yes, I shall. But it’s difficult to say at this stage, Mr Lennox. My hope is that it can be cleared up easily.”

  “Let me show you the records we hold for Mr Connolly,” he replied, leading me up the staircase to his office.

  The glass-fronted cabinets there housed countless leather-bound volumes. He noticed me surveying them.

  “Over a hundred years of records,” he stated proudly.

  “Really?”

  “A workhouse first opened on this site in the year 1778,” he said. “The current buildings are modern, of course; they’re only about twenty years old. But despite the changes that have taken place over the years, the administrators of this workhouse have always prided themselves on their record-keeping.”

  “In that case it’s rather unfortunate that there appears to have been a mistake in them,” I said.

  “But it may not be our mistake, Miss Green. In fact, I’m tempted to lay the blame with the undertakers.”

  “There seems to be a complicated arrangement between them,” I said. “I understand that your contract is with Barnes, but there are two others who are contracted to him.”

  “That’s quite typical, I’m afraid,” he replied, gesturing toward a seat positioned at the front of his desk. He sat opposite me and placed a pair of half-moon spectacles on his nose. “It’s no wonder there is a bit of confusion at times. Let me show you the admissions forms, which are copied from the admissions book each day.”

  He leafed through a pile of papers and presented me with a sheet with Joseph Connolly’s name on it.

  “There you can see all the details he gave us when he was admitted to the workhouse on the tenth of December last year. You can quite clearly see that under the heading ‘Name of family or friend’ there is written the word ‘None’.”

  “Yes, I do see that,” I replied, “but I don’t understand. Mr Connolly has a large family who care about him very much. Why would he say that he had none?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Perhaps there had been a disagreement between them? Or perhaps he didn’t want anyone to know that he’d had to fall back on the workhouse for help?”

  “But his family knew that he had stayed here a few times,” I said. “That’s what prompted them to come here looking for him when they hadn’t heard from him for a while.”

  “The
n who knows?” he replied. “We could probably spend all day speculating on the whys and wherefores. The fact of the matter is that he didn’t leave any details of anyone we could contact in the event of his death.”

  “And what of the record of his death?” I asked. “Do you have that information correctly entered?”

  “Of course.” He lifted a book from the far side of his desk, placed it in front of him and opened it up. “You’ll have to remind me when he died.”

  “On the twenty-third of December.”

  It didn’t take him long to find the entry. “He’s here all right.”

  He turned the book round and pushed it toward me so I could read the record for myself. I saw that it stated his name, age and date of death. The cause of his death was given as heart failure.

  “And I believe I told his family that he had been a patient in the infirmary for a week leading up to his death,” added the clerk. “Dr Kemp keeps detailed records in his infirmary. Does this answer your query?”

  “The records here certainly seem well kept, Mr Lennox.”

  “They are indeed.”

  “It says here on the record of Mr Connolly’s death that he is buried in the Tower Hamlets cemetery,” I said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you be certain that he is buried there?”

  “The workhouse doesn’t oversee burials, Miss Green. That’s down to the undertaker. When inmates die they’re placed in the dead house. If the family can pay for the funeral they make the necessary arrangements with whichever funeral service they wish to use. In the case of a pauper, the contracted undertaker collects and buries them.”

  “And the fee is paid by Shoreditch Union.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But Tower Hamlets cemetery has no record of Joseph Connolly.”

  “That is rather unfortunate.”

  “And neither do the undertakers.”

  Mr Lennox gave me an open-handed gesture. “That’s something which is beyond our control I’m afraid, Miss Green. You’ve seen for yourself how rigorous we are here with our record-keeping. If only other agencies followed suit!”

  “I cannot understand what’s happened to him,” I said. “How can a dead man simply vanish?”

  Chapter 26

  I returned home on the omnibus, puzzling over the supposed disappearance of Mr Connolly. He and his family had been failed by someone, but by whom?

  “A parcel has arrived for you, Miss Green,” said Mrs Garnett as I stepped into the hallway. “For some reason it’s been wrapped in newspaper.”

  She handed me the small parcel, which was tied up with string, and I recognised the newspaper from that morning’s edition of the Morning Express. My heart gave a thud. The parcel appeared to be the size and shape of a book.

  “There’s nothing on the label to say who it’s from,” my landlady continued. “All it has is your name on it, not even an address. Someone must have delivered it by hand. I heard a knock at the door, and when I answered it no one was there, but this had been left on the top step.”

  “How strange.” I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. “Thank you, Mrs Garnett.” I turned to walk up the stairs.

  “Aren’t you going to open it to find out who it’s from?”

  “I will when I’m in my room.”

  I noticed a flicker of disappointment pass across her face.

  “Oh, all right then, Mrs Garnett. I’ll open it now so you can see who it’s from. But it wouldn’t surprise me if the sender has chosen to remain anonymous.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because I have already received a gift rather like this. It was a book, and the person who gifted it left no name.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because it isn’t a nice gift; it’s a threatening one.”

  Mrs Garnett gave a nervous laugh. “A threatening gift? You’re the only person I know who could possibly receive a threatening gift, Miss Green. You do get yourself caught up in some odd business!”

  I untied the string and carefully unwrapped the newspaper, hoping there would somehow be a clue somewhere as to the identity of the person who had left the book on the step.

  The book was entitled The Art of Prose, and I turned to the title page to see my name written there in the same handwriting that had been inscribed in the previous book.

  “They’ve put your name in it but not theirs,” stated my landlady.

  “That’s correct. It’s all rather strange.”

  “It looks like a useful book,” said Mrs Garnett. “Quite instructional.”

  “Yes, but the implication is that I am not a particularly accomplished writer.”

  “So the anonymous person has given you this book to imply that you need to improve your writing.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mrs Garnett sucked her lip. “How puzzling.”

  “It is rather, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps it’s from an admirer.”

  “This person is no admirer, Mrs Garnett.”

  “You never know; he might be.”

  “It’s highly unlikely. You will let me know if you see anyone acting suspiciously outside the house, won’t you? It unnerves me that the sender of this ‘gift’ has discovered my address.”

  “If I see anyone acting suspiciously I shall call the police!”

  “Good idea, Mrs Garnett.”

  “Are you expecting someone to be hanging about out there then? I can’t say I would like that at all. I can’t be doing with any suspicious strangers loitering outside my house.”

  “I certainly hope there won’t be. But someone left this book on the doorstep, and it would be extremely useful to find out who it was. They may do the same thing again. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone when you answered the knock on the door?”

  “No one. There was a carriage passing by on the street; I suppose the driver might have seen someone. But I didn’t think to ask him at that moment as I was too busy looking out for whoever might have called at the door. There were two people in the street but both appeared to be going about their usual business. They didn’t look at me and neither of them was running. The person who knocked at the door must have run away very quickly.”

  “Either that or they hid down the side of the house.”

  “Oh, do you think they might have done that? I suppose they could have done, couldn’t they? I didn’t think to look down there.”

  “If it happens again it’s probably worth having a quick look, but be careful as we don’t know who it could be.”

  “The cowardly sort, I’d say, if they’re leaving threatening gifts on your doorstep and then hiding so no can see who they are. If it happens again I’ll look down the side of the house, taking the poker from the fireplace with me.”

  “I’m only interested to know what the person looks like. There would be no need for a confrontation, Mrs Garnett.”

  “If they’re down the side of my house I shall confront them. They shouldn’t be hanging around there!”

  “Be careful. If you did happen to encounter anyone it would be enough just to ascertain what they look like and call the police. It wouldn’t be wise to get involved in an altercation.”

  “There’s never a dull moment with you, is there, Miss Green? We’ve had a few funny types around here over the years. I wish that I fully understood what it is you do to upset these people.”

  “I simply try to write the truth, Mrs Garnett. Not everyone appreciates that.”

  “Strange. You’d think that would be a good thing, wouldn’t you?”

  I went up to my room and let Tiger in through the window. She rubbed her cold head against my hand, then took up her favourite position in front of the little stove at one end of the room.

  I sat at my writing desk and leafed through The Art of Prose, hoping that it might somehow contain a clue about the person who had delivered it to me. But, unsurprisingly, there was nothing.

  Surely this person was known
to me. He or she clearly knew where I worked and where I lived.

  I locked my door, ensured that the window was locked and sat down at my desk again. I tried to reassure myself that this person had no wish to harm me physically, but was merely trying to intimidate. I wished that I knew the reason why.

  I tucked the book into a drawer and tidied away some papers on my desk. Among them were the notes I had made on Gray’s Anatomy. The detailed anatomical pictures within the book sprang to mind, followed by an unwelcome thought regarding Mr Connolly. I dismissed it as I had no wish to dwell on it. Then I rolled a piece of paper into my typewriter and began typing a letter to the poor law inspector, Mr Weyland, about the missing burial records.

  Chapter 27

  I told James and Eliza about my attempts to discover the fate of Joseph Connolly as we met in the foyer of the Steinway Hall that Saturday night. We had tickets to see a piano recital starring Mr Clifford Harrison.

  “Undertakers are a strange bunch,” Eliza commented. “And they’re never at risk of going out of business, are they?”

  “It seems one of them has taken the body of Mr Connolly from the workhouse dead house and failed to bury him,” I said.

  “He was a pauper, wasn’t he?” asked James.

  “Yes.”

  “And his body was unclaimed by his family because he hadn’t provided the workhouse with their details,” continued James. “You do know what happens to unclaimed bodies, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and you have mentioned something which is really beginning to bother me. Unclaimed bodies become the property of the Poor Law Union, which will either pay for a common funeral or…”

  “Or what?” queried Eliza.

  “Sell the corpse for dissection.”

  “Oh, don’t say such things, Penelope!”

  “Students of medicine have to learn their profession somehow,” I said. The detailed pictures from Gray’s Anatomy appeared in my mind once again.

  “I thought the days of Burke and Hare were long behind us!” protested Eliza.