Death at the Workhouse

by Emily Organ

  “They are,” said James. “But these days unclaimed paupers’ bodies are sometimes sold to schools of dissection. Perhaps the medical schools’ dissection records need to be checked.”

  “Oh, how awful!” said Eliza.

  “If Joseph Connolly’s body was sold to a school of dissection the workhouse has falsified its records,” I said. “The workhouse records state that he was buried at Tower Hamlets cemetery.”

  “Maybe that’s what the superiors at the workhouse believe,” said James. “They may have instructed the undertaker to bury Mr Connolly at Tower Hamlets cemetery, but perhaps he decided to make a little more profit.”

  “What a morbid conversation,” said Eliza. “Is the suggestion here that the workhouse paid the undertaker to bury the chap and that he took the money – funded by our rates, I might add – and then made more money by selling the poor fellow to a medical school?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said.

  “How terrible. I think the medical school should be held to account! They shouldn’t be purchasing mortal remains from those shameless individuals! If there was no market for corpses these awful undertakers would never do such a thing. Surely it must be illegal! Can you not arrest the undertaker, James?”

  “Only if we can prove that he has committed a crime.”

  “Of course he has! He’s sold the corpse of a man he was paid to bury!”

  “It’s only a theory at the moment,” said James, “and a case that certainly requires closer examination. You’ve informed the poor law inspector, haven’t you, Penny?”

  “Yes, I’ve written to him.”

  “He has the power to summon an inquiry,” said James. “And if he finds evidence of wrongdoing he will be able to act. If a crime has been committed we can also get involved.”

  “I’d say that a crime has undoubtedly been committed!” protested Eliza.

  “We can’t yet be certain that this is what happened,” I said. “And even if it did, we would need to find out which undertaker sold the corpse. At the moment there are two potential undertakers, or possibly even three. Although I can’t be sure of exactly what has happened, I feel sure that at least one of the people I’ve spoken to over the past few days was lying to me.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Eliza. “When there’s money to be made people can be very economical with the truth. What’s most upsetting, though, is that money appears to be being made from people who are too impoverished to influence their own destiny; not only in life, but beyond it as well! No one would wish to have a common funeral, but instead to be cut up into lots of little… oh goodness, I can’t bear to consider it.” Eliza held a handkerchief up to her mouth.

  “I understand the dissected remains are given a respectful burial,” said James.

  “Bits,” retorted Eliza bitterly. “Just little bits and pieces. Can you imagine that happening to a loved one of yours?”

  “I can’t, and we must consider ourselves fortunate in that respect. Although Penny made a good point when she said that medical students must have some examples to learn from.”

  “Why can’t they just learn from books like everyone else?”

  “Surgeons need to practise somehow,” I said. “I just wish there was a better way because it doesn’t seem at all fair that the unclaimed bodies of paupers are being used. People should have a say in the matter.”

  James sighed. “I must say that I’m looking forward to a little bit of Brahms this afternoon to lighten the mood.”

  “Me too!” agreed Eliza.

  “I haven’t told you yet that I received another book,” I said.

  “Oh no! Where was it left this time?” asked James.

  “What book?” asked Eliza. “Is this another subject to dampen our spirits, Penelope?”

  They listened as I began to tell them about the Art of Prose. I was interrupted by an instruction for us to take our seats.

  Chapter 28

  “Does my letter give you cause for concern, sir?” I asked the poor law inspector. Mr Weyland was a plump-featured man with grey whiskers and thick wavy hair parted on one side. He had a languid manner about him, as if his job bored him and he would rather be doing something else. His office at the local government board in Whitehall was smart but small, and I wondered whether he had aspirations of a more important role and a bigger office from which to conduct it.

  “I can’t say that I’m overly concerned,” he replied. “This incident may have been little more than lax record-keeping. I visit Shoreditch Workhouse once a month and am always reasonably pleased with what I see there. There is room for improvement, of course, but then there always is.”

  I told him briefly about my experience of staying on the casual ward. “It’s not right that vulnerable women and children must endure those conditions, Mr Weyland.”

  “I agree that it’s not right that anyone should live in poverty, Miss Green. The workhouse is the very last resort for people, and I understand why a lady such as yourself, from a comfortable, middle-class background, would find the conditions there quite distressing. In fact, I would have advised against you ever going anywhere near the place, as sudden exposure to such harsh realities can be extremely upsetting to someone who is unaccustomed to such hardships.”

  “My profession has taken me to many interesting places, sir, and while I realise I have been fortunate enough never to experience the difficulties of living in poverty, I also have a basic instinct for what seems right and fair. In an ideal world, nobody would live in poverty, but sadly at the current time it’s a reality, and I believe there could be an improvement in conditions for everyone who is forced to spend their days in these places.”

  “Conditions have improved quite immeasurably over the past thirty years or so, Miss Green. I realise you are too young to fully appreciate that. But when my career began twenty-eight years ago, workhouses really were dreadful places to be. They are much better establishments these days.

  “Now, with regard to your specific concerns, I would say that you have raised an issue which I suspect to be an isolated case. The workhouse is not always run perfectly of course, but I’d say that this particular issue falls within an acceptable margin of error.”

  “Would Mr Connolly’s family accept that explanation, sir? That the disappearance of his body falls within an acceptable margin of error?”

  “Of course not, but then families are always emotional about these matters.”

  I bit my tongue, trying my best to suppress a rude retort.

  “And besides, the error may lie with the undertaker,” he continued.

  “Can you investigate the undertaker?”

  “I have the authority to check that undertaking services covered by the contract between the undertaker and the board of guardians meet the necessary standard.”

  “It’s rather a confused situation because the undertaker, or funeral furnisher as he calls himself, who is contracted to the Shoreditch Workhouse has two undertakers to whom he contracts the day-to-day business of paupers’ funerals.”

  “That’s not so unusual.”

  “But it means that accountability becomes rather diluted.”

  He gave a shrug. “So what do you suggest, Miss Green?”

  “Will you visit the undertakers involved?”

  “If it can be demonstrated that their record-keeping is consistently poor I could raise the issue with them.”

  “So will you do that?”

  “I can only act if I receive a sufficient number of complaints about a particular undertaker.”

  I felt a ball of frustration growing in my stomach. “So in the meantime, one or more of these undertakers can continue with their poor record-keeping and nothing will be done!”

  “I only have your word for it that there is any poor record-keeping, Miss Green. And while I don’t doubt what you have told me, the case of a single burial not being written down when it should have been falls within—”

  “An acceptabl
e margin of error?”

  “Yes, I would say so.”

  “And what of the workhouse’s claim that the deceased was buried at the Tower Hamlets cemetery when neither the undertaker nor the cemetery warden have any record of it?”

  “Investigating individual cases is rather time-consuming, Miss Green—”

  “But they must be investigated nonetheless, don’t you think? I’m particularly concerned for the relatives of Joseph Connolly, who were not only distraught that the workhouse hadn’t informed them of his death but that they also found no burial record at the cemetery.”

  “The poor record-keeping may also have been the fault of the cemetery, you know.”

  “So what can be done about it?”

  Mr Weyland gave a sigh, picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink pot. “I shall write a memorandum to all concerned and remind them of their duty to keep detailed records.”

  I had to hold my breath for a moment to prevent myself from exploding with anger. His indifference was infuriating.

  I decided to provoke him. “Perhaps Mr Connolly ended up on the dissection table,” I suggested.

  Mr Weyland started. “Good grief, Miss Green! What makes you say that?”

  “If the body of a pauper lies unclaimed in the dead house for more than two days, it’s sold to the medical school. Isn’t that right?”

  “Not exactly.” He lowered his voice as if we were discussing a secret. “Bodies that remain unclaimed after a period of forty-eight hours pass into the possession of the relevant poor law union. The pauper may be buried or the body may be taken to a medical school.”

  “And sold for dissection.”

  “That is entirely at the discretion of the poor law union, and I must add, Miss Green, that the board of guardians at Shoreditch Union has decided against any such arrangement with the medical schools.”

  “So Shoreditch Workhouse does not sell bodies for dissection?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how widespread the practice is? How many bodies do the poor law unions sell to medical schools each year?”

  “I really have no idea, and I must say this is rather a ghoulish topic to discuss so openly.”

  “Do the poor law unions derive an income from the sale of paupers’ bodies?”

  “Only a nominal amount, Miss Green, and it can then be spent on relief for the poor. Now, I really don’t see why we’re discussing this topic. It’s quite obvious that Mr Connolly’s body has not been sold to a medical school, and we are merely talking about a mistake to do with record-keeping.”

  Mr Weyland’s assurances did little to placate me. I thought of Bill, the young man who had died suddenly from heart problems the night Eliza and I had stayed on the casual ward, and the mysterious deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker.

  “Do you think there are more deaths at Shoreditch Workhouse than at other workhouses in London?”

  “We are in the grip of winter, Miss Green. The death rate among paupers is high at this time of year. As I have already said, when a person is used to a comfortable, middle-class standard of living the number of pauper deaths can come as quite a shock.”

  “But what do the figures tell you?”

  He dropped his pen onto his desk in agitation and leaned forward. “Which figures, Miss Green? Do they tell me what exactly?” He was clearly growing tired of our conversation.

  “The numbers of people who have died at Shoreditch Workhouse compared with those at other workhouses. You receive reports with these figures in, do you not?”

  “Yes I do, but I won’t receive the figures for winter until March, so until then I will be unable to comment. Do you intend to publish this news story? It doesn’t contain any real news as far as I can tell.”

  “And what of the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker?”

  “They have already been dealt with by the police and the coroner.”

  “But doesn’t the incident concern you?”

  “It’s a sorry tale, that’s for sure. And tragic events such as this do occur in workhouses. There really isn’t anything for me to add.”

  I told him about Bill, and he scratched his brow impatiently while I spoke.

  “Another sorry tale, Miss Green, and I extend my sincere condolences. Now, will that be all?”

  I realised that any further attempt to challenge the poor law inspector would only antagonise him. I couldn’t hope to achieve anything further.

  “Yes. Thank you for your time, Mr Weyland.”

  Chapter 29

  I arrived outside St Monica’s in Hoxton Square at sunrise the following morning and surveyed the church’s narrow facade with its tall, arched window. The bare trees in the square were white with a heavy frost.

  I stepped inside the church and prepared what I was about to say. No one seemed interested in investigating the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker any further, but I couldn’t simply forget about them. I remained convinced that a third person had been involved, but if I couldn’t freely wander about the workhouse asking questions then I had to track down someone who could.

  The interior of the church was long and narrow with a high ceiling supported by a timber frame. Light filtered through a round stained-glass window above the altar and incense clouded the air.

  I sat in a pew and bowed my head, as if in prayer. I hadn’t been raised in the Catholic religion but it seemed like a reverential thing to do while I waited for someone to appear.

  Before long, a nun stepped out of a small door and started tending to the candles on the altar. I got up from my seat and walked quietly over to speak to her. I kept my voice as low as possible, but I still managed to startle her when I spoke.

  “Excuse me. Could you please tell me where I might find Father Keane?”

  She took a moment to recover herself. “I didn’t see you there!” she replied in a whisper. I noticed that she had large, owl-like eyes. “Father Keane, you say?”

  I nodded.

  “May I ask who you are?”

  I introduced myself and rummaged around in my carpet bag to find one of my cards which she examined closely.

  “I met him briefly at Shoreditch Workhouse while I was on a tour led by one of the guardians, Mrs Hodges. He might recall me, though our introduction was a brief one.”

  She appeared to relax slightly in response to this revelation. “I shall fetch him for you now, Miss Green.”

  I sat back down to wait, and a few moments later Father Keane stepped out through the small door. He wore a long black coat that was buttoned up and a lengthy black collar edged with white.

  “Miss Green?”

  I rose to my feet. “I was hoping that you might recall me from our brief meeting at the workhouse, Father Keane.”

  “I do indeed. I believe you’re the lady they call ‘the troublesome reporter’.”

  I felt my heart sink. “Oh dear, do they? Did you hear that description from Mr Lennox? Mr Hale? Or perhaps Mrs Hodges? I think I’ve managed to upset a few people there.”

  A smile spread across his boyish face. “Please don’t worry, Miss Green. I read your article about the casual ward and it concerned me greatly. You are only considered troublesome because you are quite rightly questioning the way the workhouse is being run. I agree that there is a real need for certain conditions to improve at the workhouse, and my colleagues and I will do what we can to bring them about.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Now, how can I help you?”

  “I have some concerns I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Father Keane patiently listened as I explained my theory about the deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker. I stated that I was concerned about the fate of Mr Connolly and mentioned that Bill’s sudden death also seemed rather odd. Father Keane occasionally nodded as I spoke. To my relief, there was nothing about his demeanour to suggest that he thought my theories were baseless nonsense.

  “Do you think I’m right to be concerned?” I asked him.

  �
�There may be cause for concern. The workhouse is quite well run, but I’m all too aware that it is not without its problems.”

  “I should like to investigate a little further, Father Keane. However, I have already annoyed the staff and it is unheard of for reporters to roam freely around the workhouse; especially lady reporters. How often do you visit the workhouse?”

  “I’m quite a regular visitor. I go twice or even three times a week.”

  “I should like to establish whether any other inmates saw anything suspicious at the scene of Mr Patten and Mr Walker’s deaths, or in the surrounding areas. I think Horace in the storeroom could potentially be a useful witness. Have you encountered him?”

  “The simpleton, you mean?”

  “I believe that he knows what he heard, even if he is of limited intelligence.”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? I gather you would like me to ask around.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind doing so I’d be very grateful indeed, Father Keane. You may need to be careful about the way you ask. If anyone on the board of guardians suspects that you’re asking questions on my behalf they’ll take a dim view of the situation.”

  “I can understand why they wouldn’t want their authority questioned or undermined in any way, Miss Green, but I can assure you that I shall be completely discreet. People usually trust a priest, and we have the freedom to walk about the workhouse without anybody challenging our presence. We’re there to help, of course, and I understand that you also wish to help. If untoward events are occurring then something needs to be done. I know that those on the board mean well, but sadly the lives of the poor are not afforded the same level of respect as the likes of us. And the poor, unfortunate individuals lack the education to speak up for themselves. They need people like us to help them.”

  “Thank you for being so helpful and understanding, Father Keane. I have found these past few weeks quite difficult, and I wish now that I had spoken to you sooner!”

  “The door is always open here at St Monica’s, Miss Green.”

  “My next request may seem rather odd to you, Father, but would you mind keeping this arrangement a secret for now? If people find out that I am still continuing with this work, I fear they would try to put a stop to it.”