Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Read online

  “Please stand up, madam.” whispered the usher.

  “That’s better. That is much better. Courtesy is a virtue and costs nothing. I am sure your mother would be proud of you.” Sister Monica Joan leaned forward, patted him kindly on the shoulder and rose to her feet.

  Cheers from the public gallery.

  “Be silent for His Lordship,” screamed the usher, striving to restore his authority.

  The judge entered, mumbled, “Please be seated,” and everyone sat down, including Sister Monica Joan.

  Counsel for the Prosecution addressed the jury. He outlined the facts as they were known and said that he would call as witnesses three jewellers from Hatton Garden who had lost jewellery, and eight costers who had lost sundry items from their stalls. He would also call a psychiatrist, who had examined the accused and considered her to be of sound mind and therefore responsible for her actions.

  The three jewellers were all reliable witnesses. The first, a Mr Samuelson, stated that he had inherited the business with its stock from his father. A rope of antique pearls and a diamond ring had disappeared from the stock four years previously. The police had been informed. The stolen jewels had never been recovered until the police had contacted him recently saying that a cache of jewellery had been found, and asking him to examine the jewels. With the help of his record books, Mr Samuelson had been able to identify the pearls and the diamond ring.

  The second jeweller stated that Sister Monica Joan had entered his shop three years previously and asked to see a tray of small items of little value, such as charms and trinkets. He had been called away to attend to another customer and left her alone with the tray, confident that, as the lady was a nun, it would be safe to do so. However, an assistant had seen the nun take a small item from the tray and slip it into her pocket. He had warned his employer, and together they had escorted Sister Monica Joan into a back room and challenged her. She had produced a small trinket, valued about two shillings, from the folds of her dress. The jeweller said that he had taken the item back and told Sister that he would not call the police on this occasion, but that she would not be admitted to his shop again.

  The assistant was called to the witness box. He verified everything his employer had said and identified Sister Monica Joan as the nun referred to. He said that he had not seen her in the shop since that day but had noticed her wandering around other shops in Hatton Garden. He concluded that she must have remembered that she was barred from entering his employer’s premises and therefore he rejected any suggestion that she was suffering from memory loss or senile dementia.

  Sister Monica Joan continued to knit and displayed no interest in what was being said about her. Sister Julienne, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of tears.

  The costers were called to give evidence. They were a colourful group of seven men and one woman. The first stepped confidently into the witness box to be sworn in, giving his name as Cakey Crumb.

  “Could you give your first name please?”

  “Well, I’ve allus bin known as Cakey. Wiv a name like Crumb, wha’ would you expec’?”

  “With what name were you christened?”

  “Cuthbert.”

  Shrieks of laughter from the costers, which were silenced by the judge.

  Counsel for the Prosecution continued: “Could you please describe your occupation?”

  Cakey stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his colourful waistcoat and drummed his fingers on his chest. “I’m a business man. Managin’ director of me own company. Bin a’ i’ since I was four’een, wiv a break for the war, when I was in the merchan’ navy; ’orrible, va’ was, real ’orrible. Never did like wa’er, I never. We was torpedoed an’ ’undreds of men was frown in ve wa’er. ’Alf of ’em drowned. ’Orrible i’ was to ’ear ’em cry for ’elp, poor sods. An’ then another time we was . . . ”

  “Yes, Mr Crumb. I am sure the court would like to hear your reminiscences, but we must confine ourselves to the case against Sister Monica Joan. You are a business man, you say?”

  “Yerst. Costermonger. I ’as me own cock sparrer, an’ sells in ve park its.”

  The judge interrupted. “Did you say you sell cock sparrows in the park its?”

  “No, no, m’lud. Cock sparrer is wha’ we calls ve barrer an’ park it is ve market.”

  “I see.” The judge made a note. “Please go on.”

  “I sells ladies fings, and vis nun, she comes up to me stall an’ afore you can blink an eye, she picks up a couple of bread an’ cheeses, tucks ’em in ’er petticoats, an’ is off round the Jack Horner, dahn ve frog an’ toad, quick as shit off a stick. I couldn’t Adam an’ Eve it, bu’ vats wot she done. When I tells me carvin’ knife wot I seen, she calls me an ’oly friar, an’ says she’ll land me one on me north and south if I calls Sister Monica Joan a tea-leaf. Very fond of Sister, she is. So I never says nuffink to no one, like.”

  The judge had laid down his pen long before Cakey had finished giving his evidence. “I think I am going to need an interpreter,” he said.

  The usher spoke. “I think I can help you, My Lord. My mother was a cockney and I was brought up with the rhyming slang. Mr Crumb has testified that he saw Sister Monica Joan take a couple of handkerchiefs – bread and cheese is the usual expression for handkerchiefs – off his sparrow, or barrow, and set off round the Jack Horner – corner, My Lord – down the frog and toad – meaning road – as quick as – I need not go on, my Lord, a harmless vulgarity implying no disrespect to Your Lordship – quick, stick – the rhyme is obvious my Lord.”

  “‘I am beginning to understand. Ingenious, very. But what was all that about Adam and Eve? We are not talking about the Garden of Eden, you know.”

  “‘To Adam and Eve it’ is a very common expression my Lord. It means ‘to believe it’, or the negative. Mr Crumb could not Adam and Eve the evidence of his own eyes.”

  “You are very knowledgeable, usher, and I am indebted to you. But that was not all the evidence Mr Crumb gave the court, and it has to be written down for the record.”

  The usher was standing up stiff and straight and feeling very important. All eyes were upon him. “Mr Crumb said that he told his wife what had happened. There are several expressions for wife – carving knife, trouble and strife, Duchess of Fife spring readily to mind – and she called him a liar – holy friar, My Lord, and said she would hit him in the north and south – mouth – if he called Sister Monica Joan a thief – tea-leaf was the rhyming slang used by Mr Crumb.”

  “I understand now. Thank you, usher.” The judge turned towards Cakey. “Would you say that that interpretation is substantially correct, Mr Crumb?”

  “Oh yerst, yers. That’s Isle of White.”

  “I suppose I am correct in understanding that it is . . . right?”

  The judge looked pleased with himself and smiled at Cakey. He motioned for the Counsel for the Prosecution to continue.

  “When did this all occur?”

  “Abaht a year ago, I reckons.”

  “And you never told no one – ahem, I mean, anyone?”

  “Nah, nah. I’m no’ daft. There’d ’ave bin a righ’ ’ole bull and cow if I ’ad. I don’t want me jackdaw broke, do I?”

  The judge sighed and looked towards the usher.

  “Mr Crumb did not tell anyone, My Lord, because he was anxious to avert a row with his wife, whom he felt was capable of breaking his jaw.”

  “Is this correct, Mr Crumb?”

  “Gor, not ’alf, an’ all. Got an Oliver Twist like a piston, she ’as. Knock yer ’ampstead ’eafs out soon as look at yer, she would.”

  “Mr Crumb, I was referring to the accuracy of the usher’s translation, not to your wife’s skill as a pugilist.”

  “Oh, I see. Well yers, ’e’s got ve lingo taped an’ all.”

  “Thank you, Mr Crumb. Usher, I should be grateful if you would attend closely to what the witness says and interpret for me, should it be necessary.”

  “C
ertainly, My Lord.”

  Counsel for the Prosecution continued. “Having said nothing for a year, why have you come forward now?”

  “Because I earwigged some of me mates ’ad seen ve same sort of fing; vis ole blackbird goin’ round ve markets, lookin’ all ’oly like, bu’ pinchin’ fings off stalls and then scarperin’. So we goes to ve grasshoppers, an vey took it to ve garden gate.”

  “I understand your evidence as far as the grasshoppers, Mr Crumb,” the judge interrupted. “Usher, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the meaning of the last sentence?”

  “Grasshopper, My Lord, is rhyming slang for copper, which Your Lordship may know is a colloquialism for the police. And the police referred the case to the magistrate – the garden gate.”

  “I understand.” The Judge turned to Mr Crumb. “If the police are grasshoppers and magistrates are garden gates, what, may I enquire, is a judge?” he asked politely.

  “Barnaby Rudge, m’lud.”

  “Hmm. Not too bad. Could have been worse, I suppose. We might have gone down in local terminology as a pile of sludge, or something equally unsavoury. All things considered, I think we have been let off quite lightly. Counsel, do you have any further questions?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  Cakey Crumb stepped down from the witness box, and a costerwoman took his place. She stated that she had seen Sister Monica Joan take three skeins of embroidery silk from her stall and hide them under her scapular. She continued: “I didn’t do nuffink abaht it because ve Sisters are well respected arahnd vese parts, an’ in fact saved my life when I was younger. The silks only cost a shillin’, an’ it just didn’t seem worthwhile to make a fuss. I jus’ thought to meself – poor ole girl, she’s goin’ off ’er rocker – an left it; but when I heard from the other costers that she’d been pinchin’ things left, right and centre, I decided to go in wiv them an’ go to the police. After all, we got a livin’ to earn, an’ thievin’ is thievin’ whoever ’s doin’ it. We can’t afford ’a be sentimental.”

  Five other costers told similar stories reporting the thefts of sundry items they had seen Sister Monica Joan take. Lastly, the coster who had instigated the proceedings in the first place was called. He told the court that he had seen Sister Monica Joan take a child’s bangle from his stall and hide it under her scapular. When he had challenged her, she had flung the bangle across the stall and stalked off. Five people were called to the witness box, each one declaring under oath that he or she had witnessed this scene.

  Things looked black for Sister Monica Joan, but she appeared completely unconcerned, as though the proceedings had nothing to do with her. She was knitting quietly, occasionally counting her stitches and noting them down on her knitting card. She would smile serenely at Sister Julienne who, in contrast, was in a state of real anguish.

  The day’s proceedings ended and the judge adjourned the court until ten o’clock the following morning.

  On the second day, Counsel for the Prosecution called the psychiatrist to the witness box. She stated that she had examined Sister Monica Joan and could find nothing suggestive of senility or mental deterioration. On the contrary, she found Sister to be exceedingly quick and accurate in her responses. Her memory was good and she had a clear perception of right and wrong. In conclusion, the psychiatrist stated that, on the balance of medical evidence, Sister Monica Joan knew what she was doing and was responsible for her actions.

  The general practitioner was less positive. He agreed with everything that his colleague had said but nevertheless had a feeling that something was amiss. He doubted if Sister Monica Joan could really be held responsible for her actions although he was unable to say exactly why. In conclusion, he said that the court should prefer the evidence of the specialists. He sat down next to the psychiatrist.

  Sir Lorimer Elliott-Bartram was called to the witness box. Sister Monica Joan looked up from her knitting, caught his eye and gave him one of her ravishing smiles, then lowered her eyes demurely.

  Counsel for the Defence asked the first question. “From your examination of Sister Monica Joan, would you say she is of sound mind?”

  Sir Lorimer paused for a long time before speaking. His pause was calculated for maximum effect. The jury was impressed and leaned forward attentively.

  “That is an interesting question and one to which I have given much thought over the years. On mature reflection, and after a lifetime of experience, with reference to Smellingworthy and Schmitzelburg on the subject and not forgetting the work of Crakenbaker, Corensky and Kokenbul as published in The Lancet, I have come to the conclusion that the sound mind is a figment of the imagination.”

  “What on earth is he on about?” whispered the general practitioner.

  “He is making, it up as he goes along,” the psychiatrist murmured.

  “Silence in court!” warned the judge. “For the benefit of the jury, Sir Lorimer, please elucidate. A figment of the imagination, you say.”

  “Indeed I do. Which of us can contemplate his friend and say: ‘He is of sound mind,’ gentlemen of the jury? Which of us can gaze upon the wife of his bosom and say: ‘Her mind is sound?’”

  The jury took notes and shook their heads.

  Counsel for the Defence continued. “Perhaps then you would say that the accused suffers from senile dementia?”

  “Most certainly not,” said Sir Lorimer indignantly. He was old himself and senility or senile dementia were words that he never used.

  “I have heard the evidence of the psychiatrist and would point out that normal sensory perception is far from being an objective picture of reality, but is conditioned and modified by many personal factors both sensory and extrasensory. In my opinion, psychiatrists make the problems that are to be solved.”

  “Could you enlarge upon that, Sir Lorimer?”

  “Certainly. Psychiatrists need to earn a living like everyone else. A similar syndrome can be observed in the fields of sociology and counselling. Left to themselves, most people will sort out their own problems. If it is suspected that someone else will sort them out, the problems multiply exponentially.”

  “The insufferable old hypocrite,” whispered the psychiatrist.

  Counsel for the Defence continued. “I have read your most erudite report, Sir Lorimer, and I am impressed by your reference to the Korsakaw Psychosis of Registration, Retention and Recall. Could you please enlighten the jury?”

  “Certainly. A prominent feature of Korsakaw’s Psychosis is that Registration may be interposed by Deregistration, preventing the proper interpretation of happenings. Retention for shorter or longer periods may differ markedly, and Recall may be either voluntary or involuntary.”

  “That rubbish goes back to 1910,” hissed the lady psychiatrist. “He ought to be struck off. I wonder if the General Medical Council knows about him?”

  “Silence in court,” said the judge. “Please continue, Sir Lorimer.”

  “Not infrequently psychological experiences are important as regards the origin of psychological symptoms. It is possible to ascribe to the psychological experiences that determine the genesis of the psychological symptoms aetiological importance in the production of the whole.”

  “This is an example of the three Bs,” mouthed the lady psychiatrist.

  “The three whats?” replied her colleague.

  “Three Bs – Bullshit Baffles Brains,” she hissed.

  Counsel for the Prosecution stood up. “May I enquire what all this has to do with the theft of valuable jewellery from shops in Hatton Garden?”

  “Here, here!” chorused the jewellers in the gallery.

  “Silence in court!” said the judge. “Sir Lorimer, with respect to your eminent position in the field of mental health, I was wondering the same thing.”

  Sir Lorimer continued. “Sister Monica Joan is a lady of great intelligence and fertile imagination. She was brought up in wealth and luxury. Association with her childhood is strong. If valuable jewellery was found in her possess
ion, I have not the slightest doubt that, by the Korsakaw Psychosis, the lady thought that the jewels belonged to her mother.”

  “Her mother!”

  “That is what I said.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” whispered the lady psychiatrist. “She put him up to it. I told you she is as sharp as they come.”

  “If it is true, it is a sign of senile dementia,” her colleague muttered.

  “Rubbish. The old girl’s up to every trick.”

  Counsel for the Prosecution continued. “A remarkable theory, Sir Lorimer. ‘Fanciful’ would perhaps be a better description. But it does not get us any nearer to answering the question about how the jewels came to be in Sister Monica Joan’s possession. Have you any theories, fanciful or otherwise, on that score?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “No further questions, My Lord.”

  Sister Monica Joan had continued knitting placidly all afternoon, occasionally muttering to herself as she made notes on her knitting chart. Sir Lorimer stepped down from the witness box and she smiled at him again. The time had reached 4.30 p.m. and the judge adjourned the court for the day to reassemble at ten o’clock the following morning.

  The court was crowded again on the third morning, when Sister Monica Joan was due to appear in the witness box. She was waiting in the dock, calmly knitting as before, and occasionally speaking to Sister Julienne, who was sitting beside her.

  The usher entered and, before doing anything else, he went over to the nun and whispered, “When I call: ‘Be upstanding for His Lordship,’ would you be kind enough to stand up, madam, please?”

  Sister Monica Joan smiled sweetly. “Of course I will,” she said, and she stood with everyone else.

  Counsel for the Prosecution opened the morning’s proceedings. “I wish to call Sister Monica Joan of the Order of St Raymund Nonnatus to the witness box.”

  A buzz of excitement ran through the courtroom and the jury leaned forward expectantly.

  Sister Monica Joan stood up. She wound up her ball of wool, stuck it on the end of the needles and placed it in her knitting bag, which she handed to Sister Julienne. “Would you make a note, dear. The next row will be row fifty-six. Slip one, knit two together, purl four, slip one, purl three, knit two together, pass slip stitch over, repeat to end.”