The Worst Street In London Part 1

The Worst Street in LONDON.

by Fiona Rule.

INTRODUCTION.

On a cold February night in 1960, 32-year old nightclub manager Selwyn c.o.o.ney staggered down the stairs of a Spitalfields drinking den and collapsed on the cobbled road outside, blood streaming from a bullet wound to his temple. c.o.o.ney's friend and a.s.sociate William Ambrose, otherwise known as 'Billy the Boxer', followed seconds later, clutching a wound to his stomach. By the time he reached the street, c.o.o.ney was dead.

The true facts surrounding c.o.o.ney's violent death are shrouded in mystery investigations following his murder revealed gangland connections with notorious inhabitants of the criminal underworld such as Billy Hill and Jack Spot. Newspapers suggested his death was linked to a much further reaching battle for supremacy between rival London gangs. However, the mystery surrounding c.o.o.ney's murder is just one of the many strange, brutal and perplexing tales connected with the street in which he met his fate.

Halfway up Commercial Street, one block away from Spitalfields Market, lies an anonymous service road. The average pedestrian wouldn't even notice it existed. But unlikely though it may seem, this characterless, 400ft strip of tarmac was once Dorset Street, the most notorious thoroughfare in the Capital: the worst street in London. The resort of Protestant firebrands, thieves, con-men, pimps, prost.i.tutes and murderers, most notably Jack the Ripper...

I first discovered Dorset Street by accident. Like many others who share a pa.s.sion for this great city, its streets have always provided me with far more than simply a route from one location to another. They are also pathways into the past that reveal glimpses of a London that has long since vanished. A stroll down any of the older thoroughfares will reveal defunct remnants of a world we have lost. Boot sc.r.a.pers sit unused outside front doors, hinting that before today's ubiquitous tarmac and concrete paving, the streets were often covered with mud. Ornate cast iron discs set into the pavements conceal the holes into which coal was once dispensed to fuel the boilers and ovens of thousands of households. On the walls of some homes, small embossed metal plaques remain screwed to the brickwork confirming long-expired fire insurance taken out at a time when fire was a much bigger threat to the city than it is in today's centrally-heated and electronically-powered world. For the history enthusiast, London's streets provide a wealth of treasure and their exploration can take a lifetime.

I had made many investigative sorties onto the streets of London before I ventured into Spitalfields, but what I found in this small, ancient district was unique and alluring in equal measure. At its centre lay the market. A far cry from the over-developed gathering place for the uber-fas.h.i.+onable it is today, at the time of my visit it was a deserted hangar filled with a jumble of empty market stalls. Across from the abandoned market, Hawksmoor's masterpiece, Christ Church, loomed over shabby Commercial Street, looking decidedly incongruous next to a parade of burger bars, kebab houses and old fabric wholesalers whose window displays looked as though they hadn't been changed for at least twenty years. In the churchyard, tramps lounged around on benches searching for temporary oblivion in their bottles of strong cider.

On the other side of the church lay the Ten Bells pub. Paint peeled off its exterior walls and the interior was almost devoid of furniture save for a couple of well-worn sofas and some ancient circular tables near the window. However, despite its rather unwelcoming facade, there was something about the place that made it seem utterly right for the area. Moreover, it looked as though it hadn't altered a great deal since it was built, so I decided to go in. Once inside the Ten Bells, the feature that became immediately apparent was a wall of exquisite Victorian tiling at the far end of the bar, part of which was an ill.u.s.tration of 18th century silk weavers. Next to the frieze hung a dark wood board that reminded me of the rolls of honour that hung in my old secondary school listing alumni who had achieved the distinction of being selected Head Boy or Girl. However, the names on this board had an altogether more horrible significance. They were six alleged victims of 'Jack the Ripper'. A discussion with the barman about this macabre exhibit revealed that all six women on the list had lived within walking distance of where we were standing and may even have been patrons of the Ten Bells. They had earned their living on the streets, hawking, cleaning and when times were really tough, selling themselves to any man that would have them, often taking their conquest into a deserted yard or dark alley for a few moments of sordid pa.s.sion against a brick wall. Unluckily for them, their final customer had in all probability been their murderer.

Of course, I had known a little about the career of Jack the Ripper before my visit to the Ten Bells. However, I had never previously stopped to consider the reality behind the story. The magnificence of Christ Church suggested that at one time, the area had been a prosperous and optimistic district. How had Spitalfields degenerated into a place of such deprivation and depravity that several of its inhabitants could be murdered in the open air, in such a densely populated area of London without anyone hearing or seeing anything untoward? My interest piqued, I returned home and began my research.

What intrigued me most about the Jack the Ripper story was not the ident.i.ty of the perpetrator but the social environment that allowed the murders to happen. As I delved deeper into the history of the Spitalfields, I began to uncover a district of London that seemed almost lawless in character. By the time of the murders, the authorities seemed to have almost entirely washed their hands of the narrow roads and dingy courts that ran off either side of Commercial Street, leaving the landlords of the dilapidated lodgings to deal with the inhabitants in whatever manner they saw fit. The area that surrounded the market became known as the 'wicked quarter mile' due to its proliferation of prost.i.tutes, thieves and other miscreants who used 'pay by the night' lodging houses, where no questions were asked, as their headquarters. These seedy resorts flourished throughout the district during the second half of the 1800s and were places to which death was no stranger. Even one of the landlords, William Crossingham, described them as places to which people came to die.

The sheer dreadfulness of the common lodging houses prompted me to investigate them further. During a particularly fruitful trip to the Metropolitan Archive, I uncovered the 19th century registers for these dens of iniquity, which gave details of their addresses and the men and women that ran them. As I turned the pages of these ancient old volumes, one street name cropped up time and time again: Dorset Street. By the close of the 19th century, this small road was comprised almost entirely of common lodging houses, providing shelter for literally hundreds of London's poor every night of the year. Most intriguingly, I remembered that the street's name also loomed large in the newspaper reports I had read about the Ripper murders, in fact the only murder to have occurred indoors had been perpetrated in one of the mean courts that ran off it. Dorset Street now became the focus of my research and as I uncovered more of its history, what emerged was a fascinating tale of a place that was built at a time of great optimism and had enjoyed over one hundred years of industry and prosperity.

However, with the arrival of the Victorian age came an era of neglect that ran unchecked until Dorset Street had become an iniquitous warren of ancient buildings, housing an undercla.s.s avoided and ignored by much of Victorian society. Left to fend for themselves, the unfortunate residents formed a community in which chronic want and violence were part of daily life a society into which the arrival of Jack the Ripper was unsurprising and perhaps even inevitable.

The Worst Street in London chronicles the rise and fall of Dorset Street, from its promising beginnings at the centre of the 17th century silk weaving industry, through its gradual descent into debauchery, vice and violence to its final demise at the hands of the demolition men. Its remarkable history gives a fascinating insight into an area of London that has, from its initial development, been a cultural melting pot the place where many thousands of immigrants became Londoners. It also tells the story of a part of London that, until quite recently, was largely left to fend for itself, with very little state intervention, with truly horrifying results. Dorset Street is now gone, but its legacy can be seen today in the desolate and forbidding sink estates of London and beyond.

Part One.

THE RISE AND FALL OF SPITALFIELDS.

Chapter 1.

The Birth of Spitalfields.

By the time of Selwyn c.o.o.ney's murder, Dorset Street's final demise was imminent. Within less than a decade, all evidence of its prior notoriety would be swept away, replaced by loading bays and a multi-storey car park. What remained of the 18th and 19th century housing stock was dilapidated and neglected. The general impression gained from a visit to the area especially after dark was of a seedy, rather threatening place with few, if any, redeeming features. However, Dorset Street, and indeed the whole district of Spitalfields, was not always a den of iniquity.

A closer inspection of the crumbling, filthy houses that lined its streets in the early 1960s would have revealed elaborately carved doorways, intricate cornices and granite hearths clues from a distant past when the area had been prosperous with a thriving and optimistic community. Its location was excellent for business as it was close to the City of London, Britain's commercial capital, and the Docks, the country's main point of distribution. Ironically, Spitalfields' main a.s.set, its location, was to prove the major factor in its decline.

Back in the 12th century, the area that would become Spitalfields was undeveloped farmland, situated a relatively short distance from London. It was known locally as Lollesworth, a name that probably referred to a one-time owner. Amid the rolling fields that stretched out towards South Hertfords.h.i.+re and Ess.e.x, farmers grew produce, grazed cattle and lived a quiet, rural existence. Unsurprisingly, the area was a popular retreat for city residents seeking the calm of the countryside and many rode out there at weekends to enjoy the unpolluted air and wide open s.p.a.ces.

Two regular visitors were William (sometimes referred to as Walter) Brune and his wife Rosia, the couple responsible for putting Spitalfields on the map. The Brunes appreciated the tranquillity of the area so much that they chose it as the location for a new priory and hospital for city residents in need of medicines, care and recuperation. In the mid-1190s, building work began by the side of a lane that led to the city, and by 1197 the area's first major building was completed. The priory was constructed from timber and sported a tall turret in one corner. It must have been an imposing site in a district that was otherwise open farmland. The Brunes dedicated their creation to Saint Mary and the building was known as the Priory of St Mary Spital (or hospital). Sadly, nothing of Spitalfields' first major building remains today, but it was known to stand on the site of what is now Spital Square. Until the early 1900s, a stone jamb built into one of the houses on the square marked the original position of the priory gate. The Brunes' efforts were recognised 800 years later in the creation of Brune Street, which occupies an area that would have once been part of the priory grounds.

To the rear of the priory hospital was the Spital Field, which was used by inmates as a source of pleasant views and fresh air. Our modern definition of a hospital is a place that tends the sick. However, in the 12th century, a hospital would have taken in anyone who was needy and could benefit from what the establishment had to offer. Consequently, the poor were attracted to the hospital and the Spital Field began a centuries-long reputation for being a place to which the underprivileged gravitated. By the 16th century, the hospital had become so popular that the chronicler John Stow noted 'there was found standing one hundred and eight beds well furnished for the poor, for it was a hospital of great relief.'

Over the next two hundred years, a small community gradually developed around the hospital. As the priory's congregation grew, it developed a reputation for delivering enlightening and thought provoking sermons that could be heard by all who cared to listen from an open-air pulpit. At the time, religion in Britain was an integral part of everyday life and the Spital Field sermons became a popular excursion for city residents. By 1398, the sermons preached at the priory during the Easter holiday period had acquired such a reputation that the lord mayor, aldermen and sheriffs heard them. By 1488, the lord mayor visited the priory so frequently that a two-storey house was built adjacent to the pulpit to accommodate him and other dignitaries that might attend.

Such was the popularity of the Easter Spital Sermons that they survived Henry VIII's Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1534. Twenty years later, Henry's daughter, Elizabeth I, travelled to the Spital Field to hear the sermons. The sermons continued to be preached outside the Spital Field until 1649 when the pulpit was demolished by Oliver Cromwell's army.

The remainder of the Priory of St Mary Spital was not spared during the dissolution and all property was surrendered to the Crown. In 1540, Henry granted a part of the priory land to the Fraternity of the Artillery. This land had previously been known as Tasel Close and had been used for growing teasels, which were then used as combs for cloth. The fraternity turned the land into an exercise ground, primarily used for crossbow practice. Agas's map of London in 1560 clearly shows the 'Spitel Fyeld' complete with charmingly ill.u.s.trated archers and horses being exercised.

By 1570, the lane next to the erstwhile priory had become a major thoroughfare known as 'Bishoppes Gate Street' and the area around Spital Field was redeveloped. The first new houses to be built were large, smart affairs with extensive gardens and orchards. These properties were occupied by city residents who could afford country retreats that were accessible to their place of work. As the old priory site became an increasingly popular residential area, the Spital Field was broken up and the clay beneath the gra.s.s was used to make bricks for more houses.

In 1576, excavators working in the Spital Field made a fascinating discovery. Beneath the topsoil were urns, coins and the remains of coffins, indicating that the site was once a burial ground for city folk during Roman times. Luckily for them, the excavators were not working under the same constraints that exist today and their discovery did not halt the breaking up of the field. Subsequently, the bricks made from the Spital Field clay were used to construct the first major development of the area.

While building work around the Spital Field continued, the area welcomed its first extensive influx of immigrants. During the 1580s, Dutch weavers, fleeing religious troubles in their homeland, arrived in the capital. Looking for a suitable place to live and carry out their business, they were immediately attracted to the new developments around the Spital Field. The area provided ample s.p.a.ce to live and work, and was sufficiently close to the city for them to trade there. Thus, the area received the first members of a profession that was to dominate the area for centuries to come: weaving.

In 1585, as the Dutch weavers were moving into their new homes, Britain faced a threat of invasion from Spain. Queen Elizabeth I hastily issued a new charter for the old Artillery Ground and merchants and citizens from the city travelled up Bishoppes Gate Street to be trained in the use of weaponry and how to command common soldiers. Their training was exemplary and produced commanders of such high calibre, that when troops mustered at Tilbury in 1588, many of their captains were chosen from the Artillery Ground recruits. They were known as the Captains of the Artillery Garden. The training centre at the Artillery Ground was so efficient that it continued to be used by soldiers from the Tower of London as well as local citizens long after the Spanish threat pa.s.sed.

As fate would have it, the Spanish threat of invasion inadvertently introduced the area around the Artillery Garden to a new wave of city dweller with the means to purchase a country retreat. By 1594, the entire site that had previously been occupied by the priory and hospital was redeveloped and, as Stow noted, it contained 'many fair houses, builded for the receipt and lodging of wors.h.i.+pful and honourable men'. This influx of new residents, combined with the constant presence of builders, allowed inns and public houses to flourish. The Red Lion Inn stood on the corner of the Spital Field and proved to be a popular meeting place as it was considered the halfway house on the route from Stepney to Islington. In 1616, the celebrated herbalist and astrologer Nicholas Culpeper was born in this inn. While a young man growing up in rural surroundings, Culpeper developed a fascination with the healing properties of plants and flowers and, after studying at Cambridge and receiving training with an apothecary in Bishopsgate, he became an astrologer and physician. He also wrote and translated several books, the most famous being The Complete Herbal, published in 1649.

While Nicholas Culpeper was enjoying his youthful love affair with nature, businesses around the Spital Field were gradually evolving from small, individual enterprises into organised companies. One skill much in demand was the preparation of silk for the weavers, otherwise known as silk throwing. In 1629, the silk throwsters were incorporated and put together a strict programme of apprentices.h.i.+p whereby no one was allowed to set up a business unless they had trained for seven years. This move raised standards of silk throwing immeasurably and weavers were a.s.sured that they would receive quality goods and services from their suppliers. The silk weavers became more organised and the quality of their work was recognised when the Weavers' Company admitted the first silk weavers into their ranks in 1639.

The year before the silk weavers were accepted into the Weavers' Company, King Charles I had granted a licence for flesh, fowl and roots to be sold on the Spital Field. This licence marked the beginning of a market that would exist, with only one brief interruption, on the same spot for over 300 years. The increase in traffic to and from the new market also played its part in introducing more people to the area and a thriving community was established. The Spital Field and the surrounding area became a prosperous hamlet on the outskirts of the city, populated by affluent workers, market gardeners, weavers and suppliers to the weaving industry. 'Bishoppes Gate Street' became a major trade route and the inns rarely had room to spare.

Chapter 2.

The Creation of Dorset Street and Surrounds.

In 1649, William Wheler of Datchet, a small town in Berks.h.i.+re, put 'all that open field called Spittlefield' in trust for himself and his wife. On their death, the land was to be pa.s.sed to his seven daughters. Wheler had acquired the freehold to the land in 1631 after marrying into the Hanbury family, who had purchased the freehold to the Spittle Field from the church in the late 1500s. At this point in time, the Spital Field was still very rural.

A small development of houses, shops and market stalls had sprung up along the east side of the field and two local residents named William and Jeffrey Browne had recently employed builders to develop the land they owned along the north side of the field. The resulting road was named Browne's Lane in their honour and exists today as Hanbury Street. The south and west sides of the Spital Field remained open pasture, used by the locals for grazing cattle when it was not too boggy. In addition to the grazing areas, a series of footpaths stretched across the field, providing routes to and from the shops and market stalls. It was also considered a good shortcut to Stepney church.

The owners of land around the Spital Field watched with great interest as the area gradually became increasingly built up. Despite the area being semi-rural, its proximity to the city ensured that new developments were highly sought after and let for decent rents. Therefore, many landowners decided to take the plunge and get the builders in. Two such men were Thomas and Lewis Fossan. The Fossan brothers lived in the city and had purchased land just south of the Spital Field as an investment some years previously. In the mid-1650s, they decided to utilise their investment and employed John Flower and Gowen Dean of Whitechapel to build two new residential streets on their land. Both streets ran east to west across the Fossan brothers' field. The southernmost road took on the names of the builders and became known as either Dean and Flower Street or Flower and Dean Street, depending on whom you asked. Today it is known as the latter. The other road was named after the landowners and became known as Fossan Street. However, this unusual name was replaced by the more memorable Fas.h.i.+on Street, the name it retains to this day.

By the 1670s, development of the Spital Field began in earnest. That year, a road along the west side of the field, named Crispin Street, was finished and in 1672, William Wheler's trustees, Edward Nicholas and George Cooke, asked permission from the Privy Council to develop the south edge of the field. Their pet.i.tion was welcomed by the locals as this part of the field was apparently 'a noysome place and offensive to the Inhabitants through its Low Situation.' What exactly was so 'noysome' and 'offensive' about the southern end of the field becomes clear when looking at an Order in Council dated 1669, where the 'inhabitants of the pleasant locality of Spitalfields pet.i.tioned the Council to restrain certain persons from digging earth and burning bricks in those fields, which not only render them very noisome but prejudice the clothes (made by the weavers) which are usually dried in two large grounds adjoining and the rich stuffs of divers colours which are made in the same place by altering and changing their colours.' Nicholas and Cooke offered their a.s.surances to the Council that 'a large s.p.a.ce of ground ... will be left unbuilt for ayre and sweetnes to the place'. Their proposal was accepted, the Lord Mayor noting that the 'Feild will remaine Square and open and the wettnesse of the lower parts (would) be remedied.'

Once permission had been granted, Nicholas and Cooke acted quickly. Over the next 18 months, they issued 80-year building leases for sites at the southern end of the field and three roads were quickly laid out: on the southernmost edge of the field, a road named New Fas.h.i.+on Street (later known as White's Row), was constructed. Closer into the centre of the field, running parallel with New Fas.h.i.+on Street, was Paternoster Row (later known as Brushfield Street). A third road was laid in between these two roads in 1674. It was originally named Datchet Street, after the Wheler family's place of residence, but for some reason, it corrupted into Dorset Street. The road that was to become the most notorious in London had been built.

Dorset Street started life as an unremarkable road, 400 feet long by 24 feet wide, lined with rather small houses, the average frontage of which was just 16 feet. The street itself was originally intended to provide an alternative way of getting from the west to the east side of the Spital Field when Nicholas and Cooke closed some of the old foot paths. However, traffic could also travel along White's Row and Paternoster Row when crossing the field, so it is unlikely that Dorset Street was particularly busy. It was probably just as well that the road did not experience heavy traffic, as it appears that some of the first houses were not well built. The demand for property in the Spital Field area meant that builders found it difficult to keep up with demand. Consequently, houses tended to be 'thrown up' and by 1675, the situation had become so serious that the Tylers' and Bricklayers' Company were called in to investigate. The investigators were appalled at what they found and a number of builders were fined for the use of 'badd and black mortar', 'work not jointed' and 'bad bricks'. It seems that the first major developments around the Spital Field were destined to have a short life.

Chapter 3.

Spitalfields Market.

As more and more people moved into the area around the Spital Field, it became clear that a more regular market would be a most profitable venture. Charles I had originally granted a licence for a market on the Spital Field back in 1638. However, it appears that this licence was revoked during the Commonwealth period (1649-1660) as between these dates only an occasional fair seems to have been held on the field. By the early 1680s, a plan for a market on the Old Artillery Ground was put forward by the Crown, but plans fell through and the market never materialised. However, in 1682, John Balch, a silk throwster who was married to William Wheler's daughter Katherine, was granted the right to hold two markets a week (on Thursdays and Sat.u.r.days) on or around the perimeter of the Spital Field. Thus the new Spitalfields Market was born.

Alas, Balch did not live to see his idea come to fruition as he died just one year after the market licence had been granted to him. However, in his will, Balch left his leasehold interest and market franchise to his great friend Edward Metcalf. Seeing the possibilities, Metcalf acted quickly and issued 61-year building leases to a number of developers and soon construction of a permanent market building was underway. Metcalf's design for the market included a cruciform market house situated in the middle of the Spital Field, around which were market stalls. In each corner of the field were L-shaped blocks of terraced houses. Four streets (known as North St, East St, South St and West St), radiated out from the market house, in between the L-shaped blocks. The market house itself was a grand building, built in the style of a Roman temple, possibly in reference to the Roman burial ground that had once occupied the field. Today, this building is long since demolished, but a miniature model of it can be seen on the silver staff belonging to the church wardens of Christ Church on Commercial Street.

Not long after the market was built, Metcalf died and the lease and franchise was taken over by George Bohun, a merchant from the City. Under Bohun, the market continued to increase in popularity as a place to trade meat and vegetables, and in 1708, was described by the commentator Hatton as 'a fine market for Flesh, Fowl and Roots.' By this time, the upper storey of the market house was being used as a chapel by the Spital Field's second wave of immigrants, French Protestants known as Huguenots.

Chapter 4.

The Huguenots.

In 1685, King Louis XIV of France revoked the Edict of Nantes, which had allowed non-Catholics freedom to use their own places of wors.h.i.+p and co-exist with their neighbours without fear of persecution. As a result, some areas of France became downright dangerous for people who did not hold with the Catholic faith, and Huguenot Protestants began to arrive in the City of London in their hundreds. Many of the Huguenots were highly skilled silk weavers and so the Spital Field, with its established community of weavers and throwsters seemed the logical place for the Huguenot weavers to settle. The first Huguenots to arrive at the Spital Field set up for business in the Petticoat Lane area. The historian Strype, who was himself from an old Dutch weaving family, noted that Hog Lane (as Petticoat Lane was then known) soon became a 'contiguous row of buildings' all occupied by Huguenot silk weavers.

The Huguenots were welcomed by Spital Field locals with open arms. In 1686, a public collection raised a ma.s.sive 40,000 for the 'relief of French Protestants' and the Dutch weavers and throwsters, no doubt remembering that they too had once been immigrants, helped the French weavers to set up business. Their generosity was no doubt influenced by the fact that the weaving industry in Spitalfields was enjoying a period of great prosperity and more weavers would present no threat to jobs.

The Huguenots soon developed a reputation for being extremely self-sufficient. In addition to producing absolutely beautiful silks, which were the envy of the world, they built houses, workshops, hospitals and even churches for themselves. In the period 1687-1742, ten French Protestant churches were built around the Spital Field. The last one seated up to 1,500 people, which gives an indication of how many Huguenots were living in the area by this time.

By 1700, the Spital Field had gone from being a sleepy, rural hamlet to the bustling centre of the silk weaving industry. Times were good and businesses were enjoying increasing prosperity. The Spitalfield weavers jealously guarded their craft and began to develop a reputation for insurrection, should their business be threatened in any way. In 1697, a group of weavers mobbed the House of Commons twice to show their support of a Bill to limit foreign silk imports by the East India Company. Their attempts to protect their industry certainly paid off, and 1720, it was a globally recognised fact that English silk was every bit as good as that made in France. Silk exports were at record levels and Spitalfields was acknowledged as the epicentre of this thriving industry. Flushed with success, the silk weavers began tearing down the old and often shoddily-built houses that lined the streets of Spitalfields and erected large, elegant homes that reflected their elevated status. These new properties were often used to both live and work in. The attics were built with large windows so that as much light as possible could flood in and illuminate the looms for as many hours as possible. Downstairs, sumptuous drawing rooms were used as showrooms for the weavers' work and buyers were entertained there.

The quality of these houses was such that many still stand today. Fournier Street contains some particularly good examples of 18th century weavers' homes, complete with restored attics and brightly coloured shutters at the windows. Number 14 was constructed in 1726 by a master weaver. It has three floors and a large attic with the customary lattice windows behind which once stood the loom. According to local legend, the silk for Queen Victoria's wedding dress was woven there.

Chapter 5.

A Seedier Side/Jack Sheppard.

Despite its newfound fortune and thriving industry, early 18th century Spitalfelds did have its seedier side. The wealth of many residents made the area very popular with thieves, pickpockets and housebreakers, many of whom set up shop in the locality so as to be close to their victims. In fact Jack Sheppard, one of London's most notorious criminals, was born in New Fas.h.i.+on Street (now White's Row) in 1702. Jack's father died when he was just six years old and the young lad was sent to Bishopsgate Workhouse as his impoverished mother could no longer afford to keep him.

At the time, Workhouses tried to place children in their care in apprentices.h.i.+ps, taking the view that once their training was completed, the child would become self-sufficient. However, Jack's initial placements were beset with bad luck. After two disastrous apprentices.h.i.+ps with cane-chair manufacturers he eventually found work with his mother's employer the wonderfully t.i.tled Mr Kneebone who ran a shop on The Strand. Kneebone took Jack under his wing, taught him to read and write and secured him an apprentices.h.i.+p with a carpentry shop off Drury Lane.

Jack showed an apt.i.tude for carpentry and for the first five years of his seven-year indenture, he progressed well. However, as he reached adulthood, he developed a taste for both beer and women and began to regularly frequent a local tavern named The Black Lion. The Black Lion was a decidedly unsavoury place, its main clientele being prost.i.tutes and petty criminals, but Jack seemed to enjoy its edgy atmosphere and before long, became involved with a young prost.i.tute called Elizabeth Lyon, known to her clients as 'Edgworth Bess'. Now with a girlfriend to impress, Jack decided it was time to supplement his paltry income by stealing.

At first, he concentrated on shoplifting, no doubt fencing the goods he stole at his local. However, as his confidence increased, Jack moved on to burgling private homes. At first the burglaries were very successful but in February 1724, the inevitable happened. Jack, Bess and Jack's brother, Tom, were in the throes of escaping from a house they had just burgled when Tom was discovered and caught. Fearful that he may be hanged for the crime, Tom turned informer and told the authorities his accomplices' whereabouts. Jack was duly arrested and sent to the Roundhouse Gaol in St Giles. It was from the top floor of this prison that Jack began to earn the dubious reputation as an expert escapologist; a reputation that would eventually bring him national notoriety. Employing his knowledge of joinery and making full use of his slender, 5' 4" frame, Jack managed to break through the Roundhouse's timber roof. He then lowered himself to the ground using knotted bed linen and silently disappeared into the crowd.

Although Jack had proved adept at escaping from gaol, he was less talented when it came to pulling off robberies undetected. By May 1724, he was in trouble again, this time for pickpocketing in Leicester Fields. He was sent to New Prison in Clerkenwell on remand and soon got a visit from Edgworth Bess. Bess allegedly claimed to be Jack's wife and begged the gaoler to allow them a little time in private. The sympathetic (and rather stupid) gaoler agreed and the couple immediately got to work filing through Jack's manacles, presumably using tools that Bess had concealed about her person. The couple worked quickly and soon managed to break a hole in the wall through which they clambered, only to find themselves in the yard of a neighbouring prison! Somehow, the pair managed to scale a 22-foot high gate and made off back to Westminster.

By now, Jack Sheppard's reputation was beginning to cause a stir and the subsequent publicity caught the attention of Jonathan Wild, an unpleasant character with strong links to the criminal underworld. Wild was a shrewd operator and consummate self-publicist, who had manufactured himself as London's 'Thief-taker General' by shopping his cohorts to the authorities whenever it suited him. Wild was keen to fence goods stolen by Jack, but Jack was not so enthusiastic about the proposed partners.h.i.+p and refused, thus prompting Wild's wrath. From that moment on, Jonathan Wild began plotting Sheppard's downfall.

One summer evening, Wild chanced upon Edgworth Bess in a local inn. Knowing Bess's fondness for liquor, Wild plied her with drink until she was so inebriated that she revealed Jack's whereabouts without realising what she had done. Jack was caught and once again imprisoned, this time at Newgate Gaol. At the ensuing trial, Jonathan Wild testified against him and Jack was sentenced to hang on 1 September 1724.

Although Newgate Gaol was more secure than the previous two, the threat of having his life cut short was enough to ensure that Jack effected a means of escape. During a visit from a very repentant Bess and her friend, Poll Maggot, Jack managed to remove a loose iron bar from his cell, and while Bess and Poll distracted the l.u.s.tful guards, he slipped through the gap to freedom. As a final insult to prison security, he left the gaol via the visitor's gate, dressed as a woman in clothes provided by Poll and Bess.

By now, Jack's escapades had attracted nationwide attention. This was a disaster for Jack because it meant there were very few places he could go without fear of being recognised. Just nine days after his escape, he was found hiding in Finchley and taken straight back to Newgate.

This time, the authorities were taking no chances and placed him in a cell known as the 'castle', where he was literally chained to the floor. During his incarceration, Jack (who by now had become something of a folk hero), was visited by hundreds of Londoners curious to meet the notorious gaol-breaker. This, of course, gave him the opportunity to acquire various escape tools donated by well-wishers. Unfortunately, these tools were found by guards during a routine search of the cell. Many men would have accepted defeat at this stage, but Jack Sheppard was made of stronger stuff. In fact he was on the verge of accomplis.h.i.+ng his greatest escape.

On the 15 October, the Old Bailey was thrown into chaos when a defendant named 'Blueskin' Blake attacked the duplicitous Jonathan Wild in the courtroom. The ensuing mayhem spilled over into the adjacent Newgate Prison and Jack saw his chance. Using a small nail he had found in his cell, he managed to unchain his handcuffs but failed to release his leg irons. Undaunted, he tried to climb the chimney but found his way blocked by an iron bar, which he promptly ripped out and used to knock a hole in the ceiling. Jack managed to get as far as the prison chapel when he realised that his only route of escape was down the side of the building a 60-foot drop. Showing incredible nerve, he decided to retrace his steps back to his cell to retrieve a blanket with which he could lower himself down the wall, onto the roof of a neighbouring house. He did this and after breaking through the house's attic window, walked down the stairs and out into the street, once again a free man.

This time, Jack managed to evade capture for two weeks until his fondness for drink proved to be his downfall. He was arrested on 1 November and sent back to Newgate for a third time. This time, the authorities were determined not to let him out of their sight and so Jack was put on permanent watch, weighed down with 300lb-worth of ironmongery. During his brief stay at Newgate, he was once again visited by all manner of inquisitive Londoners and even had his portrait painted. A pet.i.tion was raised appealing to the court to spare his life, but the judge was not prepared to comply unless he informed on his a.s.sociates, which he was not prepared to do. Jack's execution date was set for 16 November at Tyburn.

On the day of the hanging, Jack made one final escape attempt, hiding a small pen-knife in his clothing but unfortunately it was found before he was put onto the condemned man's cart. 18th century hangings were macabre, curious and ultimately barbaric affairs. They were regarded as public spectacles and were attended by hundreds of spectators. The general atmosphere was similar to that of a modern-day carnival and well-wishers cheered Jack on his way down the Oxford Road while men, women and children jostled for the best seats on the gallows' viewing platforms.

As Jack made his final journey, he had one last plan up his sleeve. He knew that the gallows were built for men of a much heavier build than he, so it was unlikely that his neck would be broken by the drop. If he managed to survive the customary 15 minutes hanging from the rope without being asphyxiated, then his friends and a.s.sociates could quickly cut down his body, whisk it away ostensibly for a quick burial and take him to a sympathetic surgery where he could be revived. Jack's final plan may have worked, had it not been for the heroic reputation he had acquired during his escape attempts. Sadly, once his body was cut down from the gallows, it was set upon by the baying mob of spectators, who by now had worked themselves into ma.s.s hysteria. Word got around that medical students were in the crowd, waiting to take Jack's body for medical experiments. Jack's new found fans crowded round his body to protect it from the student dissectors, making it impossible for his friends to reach him in time to revive him. By the time the crowd dispersed, Jack was dead.

With the exception of Jack the Ripper, Jack Sheppard has over the centuries become Spitalfields' most notorious son. His daring exploits have provided inspiration for numerous books, films, television programmes and plays, the most famous being The Beggar's Opera, which in turn formed the basis of The Threepenny Opera by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht.

That said, the punishment he received for his crimes seems extreme to our modern sensibilities. The early 18th century was not a good time to be caught committing an offence in London. During Jack's last year of escapades, no less than 41 other criminals were sentenced to death at the Old Bailey, while over 300 more were condemned to endure humiliating corporal punishments or exile. A wide variety of crimes were reported in the Old Bailey Proceedings for 1724: Simple Grand Larceny (the theft of goods without any aggravating circ.u.mstances such as a.s.sault or housebreaking) was by far the most common offence; 39% of convicted prisoners were found guilty of this crime. This was followed by shoplifting and pickpocketing (just under 12% and just over 9% of all prisoners respectively) and burglary (5% of convicted prisoners). Violent crime was relatively rare: five defendants were found guilty of robbery with violence, four were found to have committed manslaughter and just three were found guilty of murder. Other crimes brought to trial that year included bigamy, coining (counterfeiting coins), animal theft and receiving stolen goods.

Punishments for defendants who were found guilty varied enormously. In cases of theft and fraud, the strength of the sentence was usually commensurate with the amount of money involved. On 26 February 1724, Frederick Schmidt of St Martins in the Fields was brought up before the judge accused of coining. As the trial unfolded, it became apparent that Schmidt had been caught changing the value of a 20 note to 100. His accuser, the Baron de Loden, deposed that Schmidt erased the true value from the bank note then 'drew the Note through a Plate of Gum-water, and afterwards having dried it between Papers, smooth'd it over between papers with a box iron, and afterwards wrote in the vacancy (where the twenty was taken out) One Hundred, and also wrote at the Bottom of the Note 100 pounds.' The Baron also added that Schmidt boasted to him that 'he could write 20 sorts of Hands and if he had but 3 or 400 pounds he could get 50,000 pounds.'

The Baron's accusation was supported by Eleanora Sophia, Countess of Bostram, who had also seen Schmidt altering the note. It appears that Schmidt's boastful ways caused his downfall. The jury found him guilty of coining and, as this was a capital offence, he was sentenced to death. In contrast, later that year, John and Mary Armstrong were prosecuted for the lesser but potentially very lucrative offence of pa.s.sing off pieces of copper as sixpences. One witness deposed that 'the People of the Town of Twickenham (where the Armstrongs resided) had been much imposed upon by Copper Pieces like Six Pences' and when the defendants were apprehended, 'several Pieces of Copper Money, and a parcel of tools were found upon the man.' Fortunately for the Armstrongs, the jury did not consider their offence to be worthy of capital or even corporal punishment; both were fined three Marks for their misdemeanour.

Theft also carried a very wide range of punishments. On 17 January 1724, Edward Campion, Jonathan Pomfroy and Thomas Jarvis of Islington stood trial for feloniously stealing three geese. On 9 December the previous year, the prisoners were stopped by a night watchman who was understandably curious to find out why the men had geese under their arms. The men admitted to the watchman that they had taken the birds out of a pond. However, once they realised they were going to be prosecuted, they changed their story and said they found the geese wandering around in the road. The jury felt inclined to believe the night watchman's account and found the trio guilty as charged. The judge, no doubt hoping that a bit of public humiliation might make them see the error of their ways, sentenced them to be whipped.

While being publicly flogged was hardly a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon, it was infinitely preferable to the fate of another animal thief, who had appeared at the Old Bailey in January of the same year. The case was reported succinctly in the Court Proceedings, which in a way makes it all the more shocking to 21st century minds. The entry read, 'Thomas Bruff, of the Parish of St Leonard Sh.o.r.editch, was indicted for feloniously stealing a brown mare, value 5 pounds, the property of William Sneeth, the 25th of August last. The Fact being plainly proved, the jury found him guilty of the Indictment. Death.'

Throughout the 18th century, the death penalty was meted out for all manner of offences, from murder to pickpocketing. Hanging was by far the most common method of carrying out the sentence and mercifully most convicts did not have to wait more than a few weeks for their appointment at Tyburn. By the 18th century many of the more horrific, medieval methods of execution had long since been banned. However, for a few unfortunate individuals found guilty of Treason, two truly appalling relics from the Middle Ages remained. Women found guilty of either Treason or Petty Treason could be sentenced to be burned alive at the stake. Amazingly, coin clipping (filing or cutting down the edges of coins so more could be forged) was included in the offences for which being burned was punishment; three women were burned alive in the 1780s for this very crime. However, many other women who suffered this most dreadful of ends had been found guilty of murdering their husbands (which was considered Petty Treason).