The Girl in the Ragged Shawl. Cathy Sharp

have killed him,’ Toby vowed.

      ‘Exactly so.’ Arthur smiled at him. ‘I knew you were of the same mind, my dear friend. In our society the whore is thought of as the lowest of the low, but who brought her to that state? Men – and a State that cares nothing that a woman may be starving and forced to sell herself to feed her children.’

      ‘Yes, true enough, we are all culpable, but the ladies of the night do have a choice in many cases – the children sold into these places do not, Arthur. It is the children we must protect.’

      Arthur reached forward to fill his wine glass. ‘We are in agreement. Thank you, Toby. I shall put your name at the top of my list – and I know of one or two influential ladies who will add theirs, but it is men we need, because for the most part they have the money and the power.’

      ‘I shall ask my father and brother to add their names. They will not do more, though of course I can usually extract a few thousand from my father for a good cause.’ Toby smiled, because he knew that his father indulged him. ‘I find the ladies are more vociferous when it comes to demanding change.’

      Arthur raised his glass. ‘To your good health, Toby. Now tell me, have you visited the theatre of late?’

      Arthur looked at himself in the dressing mirror as he prepared for bed. It was three in the morning and Toby had just departed to visit a certain widow of whom he was fond, and she of him. Their arrangement had lasted more than a year and Arthur thought it might endure for some time because the pair were suited in many ways, and Toby was too restless to marry.

      He envied his friend in having found a lady so much to his liking. Arthur had thought of marriage once or twice but at the last he had drawn back, perhaps because he was still haunted by that time … No, damn it! He would not let himself remember that which shamed him even now. It was gone, finished, and he had become a better man, and yet he had not married because of his secret. He could never wed a young and beautiful girl, for he would soil her with his touch, and as yet he had not found a woman of more mature years of whom he might grow fond. Perhaps it was his punishment that he could not find love in his heart.

      He had good friends, several of whom were married ladies that he might have taken to bed had he so wished, but he lived, for the most part, a celibate life. Yet he enjoyed many things – sharing a lavish dinner with his friends was a favourite pastime, as was visiting Drury Lane and the other theatres that abounded in London. On occasion he had even visited a hall of music, where singers and comedians entertained while drinks were served. He found it amusing and it helped him to see much of the underlife that ran so deep in Victorian society. It was seeing the plight of women thrown out of the whorehouse to starve because they were no longer attractive enough to serve the customers that made him feel he must do something to help, at least a few of them.

      Mixing with a rougher element at the halls of music brought him in touch with the extreme poverty that the industrialisation of a mainly rural nation had brought to England. It had begun a century before, becoming worse as men who had been tied to the land followed the railways looking for work and then flocked to the larger towns, bringing their women and children with them. The lack of decent housing and living space had become more apparent and the poor laws which had once provided help, with at least a modicum of dignity, had failed miserably to support a burgeoning population. Public houses catered to the need to fill empty lives with gin, which brought temporary ease to those suffering from cold and hunger. It was because the towns and cities had become too crowded that the old laws were no longer sufficient to house and feed those unable to support themselves, so the workhouses had been built. All manner of folk, weak in mind and body were sent there, as well as those who simply could not feed themselves.

      Arthur frowned as he climbed into bed and turned down the wick of his oil lamp. He’d long ago had gas lighting installed downstairs but preferred the lamps for his bedroom. His thoughts were still on the workhouse. It had been thought a marvellous idea to take in men, women and children who were living on the streets or in crumbling old ruins in cities and towns; to feed them, clothe them, and give them work, though production of goods made cheaply by the inmates was disapproved of by the regular tradesmen, who felt it harmed their livelihoods. Indeed, it should have been a good solution, but it was being abused. Women like that Simpkins harridan abused their power. Arthur frowned as he closed his eyes. His instincts told him that she had beaten the boy that died and locked that poor girl in the cellar – but was that all she was up to?

       CHAPTER 3

      Joan Simpkins was in a foul mood. She had sharply reprimanded by her brother, because he’d been warned that if there were more deaths they would be investigated and he could lose his ward-ship of the workhouse.

      ‘You must curb your temper,’ he’d told Joan after the latest meeting of the Board of governors. ‘I’ve been informed that we’re bein’ watched and if they find we’re mistreating the inmates we’ll be asked to leave.’

      Joan felt her temper rise. Nothing annoyed her so much as knowing that those mealy-mouthed men and women, who understood little of what the poor were actually like, taking her to task. The Board consisted of gentlemen, prosperous businessmen, wives of important men, and even a military officer – and what did they know of the stinking, coarse wretches she was forced to deal with every day? Even when water and soap was provided some of them didn’t bother to wash, and some thought it dangerous to take off the shirt they’d worn all winter until it was mid-summer – and the women who came to the workhouse bearing an illegitimate child got no sympathy from Joan; they were whores and wanton and deserved to be treated as such. She made them wear a special uniform that proclaimed their sin and, if she had room, segregated them from the others in a special ward and made them scrub floors until they dropped the brat.

      Now, she glared at her brother. ‘That wretched girl accused me of causing that stupid boy’s death. I had to make an example of her. If I hadn’t nipped it in the bud there would’ve been a rebellion. If something like that reached the ears of that interfering man Arthur Stoneham …’

      ‘Well, well, I daresay you had your reasons. However, Mr Stoneham has been very generous to us, Joan. He paid for the installation of new water pipes and we’ve not had a return of the cholera since then. He has granted us money towards some very necessary repairs to the roof and that will give the men work for weeks and us extra money.’

      It was all right for her brother, Joan thought resentfully. Robbie was weak and lazy. He always took his cut of any money that came in. The funds for running the workhouses were raised by taxing the wealthy, which caused some dissent, but others saw it as a good thing that vagrants were taken off the streets, and made donations voluntarily. Joan did not share in her brother’s perks and was only able to save a few pence on the food and clothing she supplied to the women and children in her ward. If it were not for her other little schemes she would not have a growing hoard of gold coins in her secret place.

      Joan hated living in the workhouse. The inmates stank and their hair often crawled with lice when they were admitted. Most of them obeyed the rules to keep themselves clean, but there were always some who were too lazy to bother. It was all very well for Mr Stoneham and the doctor to say the inmates should be given more opportunities to bathe. Heating water cost money and so did the soap she grudgingly gave her wards. She needed to pocket some of the funds she was given for their upkeep, because one day she intended to leave this awful place.

      Joan had dreams of living in a nice house with servants to wait on her, and perhaps a little business. Once, she’d hoped she might find a man to marry her, but she was now over thirty and plain. Men never turned their heads when she walked by in the market and she resented pretty women who had everything given to them; like the woman who had brought that rebellious brat in and begged her to keep her safe from harm.

      ‘One day I’ll come back and pay you in gold and take her with me,’ the woman had promised, her eyes filled with tears.

      She’d crossed Joan’s hands with four silver florins and placed the squalling brat in her arms. As soon as she’d gone, Joan had given the brat