The Worst Street In London Part 5

The cheapness and availability of gin made the spirit extremely popular with the poorer cla.s.ses and by the 1720s, London was awash with the stuff. Londoners didn't necessarily have to sit in a gin shop in order to obtain their daily fix. Bottles of the spirit could be purchased virtually anywhere. Street vendors sold it from barrows along the city's major thoroughfares and there were even reports of employers giving gin to their workforce in order to keep them in a compliant state of mind.

Setting up as a gin vendor in the early 18th century was a relatively easy task. No licence was required and there were virtually no restrictions on where or how the commodity could be sold. In 1734, Joseph Forward stood trial at the Old Bailey accused of theft. He was found not guilty of the crime, but the report of the trial demonstrates just how simple it was to set up as a gin seller. Forward's accuser (his landlady, Mrs Ann Chapman) stated in court that a sheet, two candlesticks and a pair of tongs had gone missing from her house after the defendant and his wife took lodgings with her while working at the annual Bartholomew's Fair a huge, annual extravaganza held in Smithfield over four days in August.

Chapman testified 'the Prisoner and his Wife hired a Room from me by the Week on the last Day of April. They staid till Bartholomew-tide, and then he set his Wife up in Bartholomew-Fair to sell Gin and Black-puddings.' Regrettably the Forwards' moneymaking scheme did not go according to plan. Mrs Chapman explained, 'some body stole (Mrs Forward's) Bottle of Gin, and then she was broke'. It was this misfortune that had apparently forced the Forwards into stealing Mrs Chapman's goods however, the jury did not believe her story and found in favour of the defendant.

Due to the excessive quant.i.ties of gin available, prices remained low and Londoners gradually became increasingly reliant on it to get through their day. Many poorer members of the populace would nip out for gin in the same way as we would pop out for a pint of milk today. Gin was an essential part of their daily diet and the resulting drunkenness began to have genuinely horrifying results. Sensational reports began appearing in the newspapers of drunken nurses mistaking babies for logs and putting them on the fire and inebriated mothers killing their children so they could spend more time in the gin shops.

By 1730, it became clear that the country (and London in particular) was in the grip of a gin epidemic and something had to be done to curb the public's insatiable appet.i.te for the drink. A previous attempt to control public consumption of gin through taxation had achieved little so the Government decided to introduce more drastic measures. In 1736, the second Gin Act was pa.s.sed through parliament. Ministers saw that those most addicted to gin were the poor and so they decided to raise the retail tax on the spirit to 20 s.h.i.+llings per gallon (it had previously run at 5 s.h.i.+llings per gallon). In addition to this, gin retailers were now required to take out an annual licence, at a cost of 50.

Generous rewards of 5 were to be awarded to anyone who informed the authorities of illegal trade. The idea behind the ma.s.sive tax increase and annual licence fee was to make gin prohibitively expensive, thus stopping the ma.s.ses from buying it. However, the retailers and distillers were not about to give up their lucrative businesses without a fight. Working on the (correct) a.s.sumption that very few members of the public would risk the wrath of their alcoholic neighbours by ratting on the gin suppliers, most gin shops continued to sell the spirit either under the counter or disguised as an exotically named 'medicinal' beverage. Popular brands at the time included 'My Lady's Eye Water' and 'King Theodore of Corsica'!

Unsurprisingly, the 1736 Act did little to stop the gin epidemic and if anything, consumption increased. Various solutions to the problem were discussed including an ill-advised campaign to encourage drinkers to switch to beer, using Hogarth's famous engraving 'Gin Lane' to ill.u.s.trate the perils of gin drinking. In the end, it was an economic crisis that ended the gin epidemic rather than any Government influence.

During the 1750s, a series of poor grain harvests pushed the price of gin's basic ingredient to an alarming level. As the cost of grain soared, workers were laid off and farmers began supplying the food industry instead of the gin distillers whose alcoholic beverage was not considered as important a commodity as bread. With growing unemployment and higher food prices, the public had less disposable income and so gin consumption began to fall dramatically. Seizing the opportunity to kill off the epidemic for good, the Government pa.s.sed yet another Gin Act, this time lowering the licence fees but severely restricting the number of outlets from which gin could be sold. This time, their efforts worked and by 1757 the gin craze was in its death throes.

However, gin never entirely disappeared from London's streets. Some gin shops survived the mid-eighteenth century recession in trade and by the dawn of the new century, London's burgeoning population was beginning to discover the delights of gin once again. As the city became increasingly overcrowded and living conditions deteriorated, the public sought escape through alcohol-induced oblivion. Seemingly oblivious to the horrors of the gin craze less than a century previously, the Government actively a.s.sisted the gin shop owners in attracting more custom by halving the cost of spirit licences and drastically cutting the duty payable on spirits. By 1830, around 45,000 spirit licenses were being issued in Britain per annum and production of gin had increased by over 50% in little more than five years.

As business took off, the gin shop owners began to give their premises a makeover. Realising that their customers needed a respite from their often dark, squalid homes, they set about making their premises as light and bright as possible. Their interiors were brilliantly lit and large, etched-gla.s.s windows were fitted to the shop-fronts so pa.s.sers-by were stopped in their tracks by the light flooding out onto the dark street. Inside, mirrors lined the walls to create a sense of s.p.a.ce and reflect the light. To the poor, these gin shops, with their bright facades and glitzy interiors were like palaces and became known as such. Charles d.i.c.kens visited some of London's gin palaces while writing Sketches by Boz (1836) and described the one thus: 'All is light and brilliancy... and the gay building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the plate-gla.s.s windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are two side aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within a light bra.s.s rail, and bearing such inscriptions as "Old Tom, 459", "Young Tom, 360", "Samson, 1421" the figures agreeing, we presume, with gallons...

'Beyond the bar is a lofty and s.p.a.cious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, equally well-furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at the top with wicker-work to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits and "compounds".'

d.i.c.kens' description of a gin palace in the 1830s is surprisingly familiar. To this day, the Victorian gin palace survives throughout London and beyond and with it endure the myriad pleasures and problems a.s.sociated with social drinking in Britain. The current alcoholic craze may not be for gin, but it presents the authorities with the same social problems as befell their predecessors. Despite the Government's best attempts, it appears that drinking to excess is an endemic part of British society and will never be eradicated.

While the gin palaces thrived, the old taverns were gradually being replaced by the forerunner of today's pub the beer house. In 1830, the Beer Act lifted restrictions on producing and selling beer and just like the gin palaces before them, beer shops began to spring up on street corners. Trade was good and successful shop owners expanded their premises, sometimes dividing up the bars into 'Public' (for the workers), 'Saloon' (for management) and 'Private' (for their most influential patrons). The most favoured tipple at the beer shops and public houses of Spitalfields was Porter, a dark beer that had been developed in the eighteenth century. London Porter was strong and got the drinker in an inebriated state without them having to spend too much money. Consequently, it became extremely popular with the working cla.s.ses: by 1835, The Black Eagle Brewery in Brick Lane was producing 200,000 barrels a year. Porter remained popular with the labouring cla.s.ses until World War 1, when grain rations all but prevented the production of strong beers in England and the market began to be taken over by Irish brewers such as Guinness.

By the 1850s, there were literally thousands of pubs, beer houses and gin palaces in London. In working cla.s.s areas like Spitalfields, there could be four or five down one street. Naturally, the sheer number of pubs, particularly in cities, made compet.i.tion fierce. Publicans sought new ways to encourage more customers through the doors and once inside, to stay for as long as possible. One of the most successful strategies involved putting on entertainment. An ever-increasing variety of acts were booked and nineteenth century drinkers could expect to be entertained by singers, jugglers, magicians, comedians, contortionists, the list was endless. It was from these pub entertainments that one of the most popular of all Victorian pastimes was born the Music Hall.

Music Halls were an integral part of the social lives of the working cla.s.s. However, they vanished almost as swiftly as they arrived. Despite the valiant efforts of a few music hall groups and distant memories of a television programme called The Good Old Days, the British Music Hall is now obsolete. This is in a way unsurprising because it epitomised a moment in history that is now almost beyond living memory. However, in its heyday, the Music Hall was an incredibly important element of society.

Music Halls first began to emerge in the mid-nineteenth century. In December 1848, a pub landlord named Charles Morton acquired the Canterbury Arms in Upper Marsh, close to Lambeth Palace. Morton had previously worked in theatre and decided to provide entertainment at his new pub in the form of 'harmonic meetings', where gentlemen were invited to come and listen to singers in an informal atmosphere. The harmonic meetings proved to be very successful and in order to increase business, Morton organised 'Ladies' Thursdays', which were so successful that he used the profits to build a new hall on the bowling green at the back of the old pub. The Canterbury Arms' motto was 'One quality only the best' and Charles Morton worked hard to maintain a high standard of entertainment. He employed an in-house choir and regular soloists to perform operatic favourites and guests were provided with baked potatoes (for which The Canterbury became renowned) to soak up the alcohol. In addition to the musical entertainment, Morton operated a bookmaker's from the pub to satisfy his guests who enjoyed a flutter at the races.

In 1856, Morton ploughed his profits back into the business and rebuilt The Canterbury in a much larger and grander style. The new building comprised a main hall and a gallery and was decorated in a sumptuous, palatial style. The walls were adorned with paintings of such quality and value that The Canterbury was nicknamed 'The Royal Academy Across the Water' by one of its patrons. Out went the baked potatoes as the new hall had large tables at which visitors were served a more varied menu.

The increased size of the stage meant that more ambitious productions could be staged. Gounod's Faust was sung for the first time in England at The Canterbury and Morton was responsible for introducing Londoners to the work of Offenbach. Not all the entertainment in The Canterbury was so highbrow; interspersed between opera and ballet performances were displays of tightrope walking, bicycle tricks and animal shows. It was this variety that became the essence of Music Hall as a genre.

Landlords across London took note of the success of Charles Morton's Canterbury Music Hall and soon similar establishments were springing up all over the capital. In 1857, Edward Weston converted the Six Cans and Punch Bowl Tavern on High Holborn into Weston's Music Hall and a year later, the Royal Panopticon of Science and Art in Leicester Square was converted into the exotically-named 'Alhambra Palace' and promptly let to an American circus because the owner, one E. T. Smith, could not obtain a theatre licence. However, a year later, Smith managed to obtain a licence and promptly gave the circus their marching orders. He then set about converting the interior into a theatre. The circus ring became the dining area and the original Panopticon organ, which had loomed over the hall for decades, was sold to St Paul's Cathedral. In the gaping hole that was left, Smith built a stage. The Alhambra Palace Music Hall opened in December 1860 and one of its first major attractions was a trapeze act performed by Jules Leotard, the man who gave his name to the style of dancewear.

Following the success of his first venture across the river in South London, Charles Morton decided to go west and in 1861, opened the Oxford Music Hall on the site of an old tavern called the Boar and Castle Inn, close to the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Morton used The Canterbury as a blueprint and The Oxford was an instant success. Spurred on by this, Morton decided to sell The Canterbury to a man named William Holland, who promptly redecorated the hall and invited patrons to come and spit on his new thousand guinea carpet! The sale of The Canterbury made Morton financially very secure, but this was to be short-lived as, a month after the sale went through, The Oxford was gutted by fire. Inadequately insured, Morton was forced to sell what remained of the building in an attempt to recoup his losses and never built another music hall.

By the 1870s, there were over 300 music halls all over London. Some were purpose built, like the Alhambra Palace and The Canterbury, others had been straight theatres in a previous life and others were literally the back rooms of pubs. The sheer diversity of the music hall venues meant that there was also a great diversity of talent. Obviously the established stars worked the larger halls almost exclusively while the less popular acts and artists still honing their skills were left to work in the smaller establishments.

This hierarchy provided a good training ground for would-be music hall stars and because the profession did not require any expensive qualifications it attracted a great many talented performers from less than privileged backgrounds. In fact, most of the stars from the heyday of the music hall were from Bethnal Green and Whitechapel rather than Kensington and Chelsea. The most famous star of all happened to be a cousin of Spitalfields landlord Johnny c.o.o.ney. Her name was Marie Lloyd.

Marie Lloyd was born Matilda Victoria Wood on 12 February 1870 in Hoxton. She loved performing in front of an audience from an early age and while still a child, toured with a minstrel group called the Fairy Bells. As she reached adulthood, Matilda realised that she wanted to make a career out of performing and thus began the laborious task of creating a fan base in the local music halls. Her first performance was at the Grecian Saloon in Islington where she sang a couple of songs under the exotic stage name of Bella Delamare. Matilda was paid nothing for this performance, but it did secure her a trial at Belmont's Sebright Hall in the Hackney Road. The proprietor was impressed enough to immediately offer her a week's engagement in return for the princely sum of 15 s.h.i.+llings.

Matilda worked hard at the Halls, sometimes appearing at three in one night and very quickly her career began to take off. The stage name Bella Delamare was dropped in favour of the simpler and apparently cla.s.sier Marie Lloyd and a star was born. By the time she was 18, Marie Lloyd had married a part-time racing tout named Percy Courtenay and had begun to frequent Johnny c.o.o.ney's pub in Hanbury Street after performing at the local music halls such as the Royal Cambridge in Commercial Street. It was probably here that she and her fellow artistes first met Dorset Street landlord, Jack McCarthy and his son, John.

It is not hard to imagine the impression Marie Lloyd made on John McCarthy junior, who at the time was still in his teens. Determined to mirror Lloyd's success, John junior changed his stage name to Steve McCarthy (probably chosen because his mother's maiden name was Stevens) and worked hard on his comedy song and dance act in the smaller halls. It was at one of these halls that he met the girl who was to change his life. Her name was Minnie Holyome but on stage she called herself Marie Kendall.

When Steve McCarthy and Marie Kendall first met, both were struggling to make a name for themselves. Due to his father's burgeoning bank balance and local social standing, Steve possessed a fair degree of confidence that Marie lacked. Although considerably more talented than Steve, she was from a poor home and her parents had struggled to support her in her quest for fame.

Marie Kendall was born in Bethnal Green in 1873 to parents of Huguenot extraction. The unusual surname of Holyome was a corruption of the French Alyome and like so many of the original residents of Spitalfields, her family had originally been skilled silk weavers. However, by the time Marie was born, the silk weaving trade was all but vanished and the family had fallen on hard times. Her father tried a variety of jobs, from fish curing to wood carving, in order to provide for his family and there never seemed to be enough money to go round. However, despite their poverty, the family was close, happy and determined to support their children in their choice of career.

The music halls played a very important part in East End society. As we have seen, most working-cla.s.s families endured exceptionally hard lives. By the time they entered their teenage years, they would be working up to six days per week for very little money. The lack of a good income meant that they were forced to live in dark, damp, cheerless homes that were often cold and overcrowded.

Like the gin palaces, East End music halls were designed to be the complete opposite of the audiences' homes. Bright lights illuminated their frontages and the interiors were warm and sumptuously decorated. These 'mini palaces' offered a much needed escape from life's daily grind at an affordable price (admission charges could be as little as 3d). Consequently, they were an extremely popular form of entertainment in Spitalfields and the surrounding areas.

Despite reasonable admission prices, a trip to the music hall was considered a treat for most families. In July 1886, little Minnie Holyome persuaded her mother Mary to take her to a local music hall to celebrate her twelfth birthday. Keen to give her daughter a night to remember, Mary Holyome sc.r.a.ped together the 12d needed for two seats in the front stalls at the Bow Music Hall on the Bow Road. On the bill that night were a turn called 'The Sisters Briggs' who entertained the audience with a song called 'Don't Look Down On The Irish' (a reference to the racist views held by some older members of the population.) Like most music hall songs of the period, this number had a simple, easily remembered chorus to which the audience were encouraged to sing along. Little Minnie picked up the melody quickly and sang along with such volume and enthusiasm that it stopped the Sisters Briggs in their tracks. After the performance, the Sisters came front of stage and told Minnie's mother that her daughter's exceptional singing voice could prove to be her fortune.

Mary Holyome took the Sisters Briggs' advice with a pinch of salt and took her daughter home, no doubt hoping she would forget what had been said. But Minnie didn't forget and pestered her parents to allow her to train as a music hall singer.

The style of singing in music halls was very different to popular singing today. Microphones were unheard of and artistes had to compete with noise from food and drink being served and an often boisterous and drunken audience. In addition, the songs' lyrics were often highly amusing satires on current affairs and so needed to be heard clearly. Consequently, music hall singers had to enunciate their words extremely precisely in order to be heard over the din of the auditorium. In addition to a good, strong voice and excellent diction, music hall singers had to be supremely confident.

Audiences were notoriously demanding and would regularly pelt artistes they didn't approve of with food, crockery or any other missiles they could lay their hands on. Terrified of the indignities their young daughter might suffer at the hands of the crowd, Mr and Mrs Holyome wisely packed Minnie off to J. W. Cherry's Music Hall Academy, Pentonville Road, for three months so she could learn the basics of performance. This act demonstrates how committed the Holyome's were to their children; music academies were not cheap and at the time, the family had very little money to spare.

Happily, the Holyome's investment in their eldest daughter paid off. Almost as soon as she completed her course at the academy, Minnie secured her first engagement, by coincidence at the same venue as her encounter with the Sisters Briggs. The concert had been staged to raise funds for local tradesmen and Minnie appeared as a male impersonator (a very popular turn at the time), performing three songs written for her by Fred Bullen, the orchestra leader at the Sebright Music Hall. Minnie impressed the proprietor so much that he engaged her for the following week for 18s.

Following her stint at the Bow Music Hall, Minnie (who had temporarily changed her stage name to Marie Chester) practised her act in a number of small halls throughout the United Kingdom. She also went on tour to Europe, appearing in Germany and Holland. On her return to Britain, she changed her stage name to Marie Kendall and continued to secure work as a male impersonator, appearing quite low on the bills. She also often took the role of Princ.i.p.al Boy in pantomime.

As she approached her twentieth birthday, Marie began to despair of her career ever taking off. She had little trouble getting work in the small halls, but was badly paid and those close to her felt her talent was being underused. In October 1892, she met up with her friend Flo Hastings and complained that her career was not going as well as she had initially hoped. Flo listened intently and then suggested that Marie should dispense with the male impersonation act in favour of 'going into skirts' (performing as a woman). In later years, Marie admitted that she didn't like Flo's advice but took it, feeling that she had nothing to lose. It was to be the best move she ever made.

Early in 1893, Marie secured a role in a drama called After Dark, which was playing at the Bedford Music Hall in Camden Town. A singer named Charlie Deane was also working at the Bedford, performing his. .h.i.t song One of the Boys, a laddish ditty that the male half of the audience loved. Marie and her mother heard the song and thought it would be wonderful if they could persuade Deane to write a female version. One morning, they b.u.mped into Deane at York Corner and Mary asked him if he would write the song for her daughter. 'She's a decent little turn,' said Deane, 'and if I can help her I'll be happy to do so'. So it was that Charlie Deane wrote One of the Girls and Marie Kendall got her first hit.

Over the following year, Marie's fortunes turned around. She secured herself a new agent and was soon earning 2 10s per week and playing to packed audiences at halls up and down the country. It was at one her many engagements that she met Steve McCarthy.

Marie Kendall and Steve McCarthy were married on 5 February 1895. Due to their Huguenot roots, Minnie's parents were understandably dead against her converting to her husband's Catholic faith, so the couple were wed at St Mary's, Spital Square; a Protestant church. Steve's sister Margaret and a friend named Robert Buxton acted as witnesses. Steve listed his father John as being a general dealer, a reference to their shop at 27 Dorset Street. Marie cheekily stated that her father William was a 'gentleman'.

By the time of their marriage, Marie Kendall was rapidly becoming one of the country's most successful music hall stars, while Steve had to content himself with having his name much further down the bill. At a time when very few married women enjoyed anything remotely resembling an independent career, Marie's success must have been a bitter pill for Steve to swallow. To his credit, Steve did his utmost to further his wife's career, even being responsible for the discovery of what was to become her biggest hit. However, privately he resented her success and the financial independence it afforded her and his resentment often turned to violence. Even on their wedding day, Steve attacked Marie in the back of a Brougham, cutting her forehead open; an incident that was to repeat itself throughout their married life.

Chapter 20.

The Landlords Enlarge their Property Portfolios.

As Steve and Marie embarked on married life, Jack McCarthy senior had to contend with marked changes in the way he ran his Dorset Street property. In 1894, the police handed control of common lodging houses over to the London County Council. This handover heralded a sea change in the way that this particular business was run. The police had long since regarded common lodging houses as the resorts of criminals rather than homes. Consequently, any inspections concentrated more on the list of inmates than the sanitary conditions therein. This had meant that landlords like Jack McCarthy were under absolutely no pressure to keep up any standard of cleanliness or hygiene.

Once the LCC took over inspections, everything changed. The council officials demanded that all walls in the common lodging houses had to be lime-whited and cleaned every six months 'to remove the evidence of vermin around the beds, etc.' In addition, the makes.h.i.+ft bunk-beds and oilskin mattresses were abolished in favour of proper beds and new, clean bedding. The mixed-s.e.x lodging houses (known colloquially as 'doubles') were also banned since they had long been recognised as being thinly disguised brothels. Most importantly, the new, cleaner lodging houses would be inspected on a regular basis by council officials.

This dramatic change in the way common lodging houses were run had a dramatic effect on the entire business. Many of the smaller lodging house keepers, especially those who rented the properties, simply could not afford to make the changes and gave their businesses up. Others saw a dramatic decline in revenue as their 'doubles' were closed down in favour of single-s.e.x accommodation.

Jack McCarthy gritted his teeth and made the necessary changes, no doubt treating the council inspectors with the utmost reverence whenever they appeared and giving them the two-finger salute on their departure. He even used left-over lime-white to give Miller's Court a facelift. Whether or not he covered up the bloodstains on the wall of Room 13 remains a mystery.

The arrival of the council inspectors in Spitalfields resulted in many of the older lodging houses being abandoned by their previous lessees. Never one to miss an opportunity, Jack McCarthy used the situation to his advantage and started buying up more property. The lease on a ma.s.sive lodging house on the corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane came up for sale in the spring of 1894, which was duly snapped up by McCarthy. This huge old property could hold up to 141 lodgers and so represented a sizeable revenue. Jack McCarthy presented this new acquisition to his brother Daniel and continued his search for more bargains.

For many years, he had coveted the two houses next door to his shop at 27 Dorset Street, which had been run as a lodging house by Alexander McQueen and his wife for over 20 years. The McQueens had been reluctant to relinquish control over the property, but the new legislation (no doubt coupled with further pressure to sell from Jack McCarthy) finally forced them to reach a decision. McCarthy bought the leases of number 28 and 29 Dorset Street in 1884 and by June, had registered the two houses in his name. These two properties were even more ancient than number 27 Dorset Street and had probably been built in the first half of the 18th century. They had mansard roofs and tiled attics, in which a silk weaver's loom had once worked. Back in the 1840s, the ground floor of one of the houses had been used as a shop by one of the first Jewish immigrants to the area.

By 1894, the houses were a shadow of their former selves. At some stage, their gardens had been built over and now two mean cottages stood where once there had been trees, gra.s.s and flowerbeds. The ground floor of one of the cottages served as the kitchen for all the lodgers, thus making the tiny court a very busy place at mealtimes. In total, the two houses plus the two cottages at the rear were capable of accommodating 50 lodgers.

McCarthy's Dorset Street neighbour William Crossingham, took advantage of the new council legislation too and bought up more property. By this stage, McCarthy and Crossingham owned or let virtually the whole of Dorset Street and the Courts that ran off it. And despite the recent expense of refitting their lodging houses to meet the new council requirements, both men continued to make a lot of money.

Chapter 21.

The Worst Street In London.

By the 1890s, Spitalfields was one of London's most crime-ridden areas and Dorset Street was its worst thoroughfare. Charles Booth's researchers described it as the 'worst street in London' and many local people, including tough, well-built men, were scared to go there. Even policemen only ventured into the street in pairs. It appears that Jack McCarthy and William Crossingham did very little to improve the image of the street they virtually owned. This was with good reason.

Dorset Street's near-mythical notoriety meant that the residents could carry out their business relatively undisturbed, and that made the dilapidated properties that lined the street ideal venues for illegal gambling dens, brothels, and the storage of stolen property. The courts served as makes.h.i.+ft rings for bare-knuckle boxing bouts and could be fenced off for illegal dog fights. McCarthy and Crossingham's property empire opened up possibilities for all manner of business activities. The trouble was, few of them were legal.

Despite the remarkable control McCarthy and Crossingham had over Dorset Street, they were becoming increasingly isolated. By 1895, this little street was a gentile ghetto in an area that had become overwhelmingly Jewish. That year, one of the last surviving silk weaving firms left Spitalfields for leafy Braintree in Ess.e.x, taking sixty weavers and their families with them. Later in the year, a map of Jewish East London was compiled. What it revealed was startling: three quarters of the area immediately north of Dorset Street was populated by Jews and 95% of the households immediately south were Jewish. In contrast, less than 5% of Dorset Street inhabitants were Jewish.

Most of the Jewish immigrants that now populated Spitalfields were honest, hardworking, law-abiding people who did their level best to maintain peace with their non-Jewish neighbours. However, the sheer numbers of immigrants that flooded into this relatively small area during the latter part of the 19th century meant that some new residents would cause trouble.

The 1890s saw the arrival of the first organised gangs of Eastern European immigrants. Once settled in Spitalfields, these gangs set about organising protection rackets. They generally picked on their fellow immigrants, particularly those who had set up small shops and demanded money in return for 'protection'. Although plenty of Spitalfields residents were involved in many nefarious activities such as prost.i.tution and illegal gambling, there is no evidence to suggest that they ever hara.s.sed shopkeepers. Therefore quite who the new gangs were protecting the shop keepers from remains unclear and it must be surmised that the 'service' was purely an attempt at extortion.

The most notorious gang to emerge from the area in the 1890s were the Bessarabians, otherwise known as the 'stop at nothing' gang. The gang was made up of Eastern Europeans and Greeks who, in addition to running protection rackets, forced respectable Jewish families to pay them hush money. If the family refused, the Bessarabians could ruin a family's reputation within the Jewish community by spreading rumours about them.

The Bessarabians also ran prost.i.tution rings and operated illegal gambling establishments. Within a short s.p.a.ce of time, their criminal activities had won them quite substantial rewards and more than a modic.u.m of local influence. However, their nemesis was about to materialise in the form of another Eastern European gang called the Odessians.

Over in Brick Lane, there was a restaurant called the Odessa, which was owned by a Jew named Weinstein. One day, the Bessarabians turned up at the restaurant demanding protection money. Weinstein, who was a big man with gangland connections of his own, refused to give in to their demands and attacked the gang with an iron bar, putting several Bessarabians in hospital. Word got around the Brick Lane area about Weinstein's heroism and a group of Russian youths formed the Odessian gang in a bid to put a stop to the Bessarabians' rackets. Before long, the Odessians were inundated with requests from shop and pub owners who were being intimidated. One such man was the owner of the York Minster Music Hall, just off the Commercial Road. The owner told the Odessians that the Bessarabians planned to sabotage that night's performance because he hadn't paid their protection money.

That evening, the Odessians lay in wait for their rivals, who showed up during a Russian dancing act. A vicious fight broke out, the police were called and several members of each gang were arrested. Once in custody, some gang members decided to talk, which resulted in the gang leaders becoming so sought-after by the police that they had to go into hiding. With no leaders available, their 'businesses' disintegrated. However, some of the original gang members managed to escape on s.h.i.+ps bound for America, where legend has it, they became instrumental in shaping the now notorious Chicago underworld of the 1930s.

Gang warfare did little to improve the atmosphere of Spitalfields and, as the end of the 19th century approached, Dorset Street and its surrounds reached their lowest point. This once proud, prosperous street had been reduced to a den of iniquity, where prost.i.tutes openly plied their trade, thieves fenced their pickings and violence was an everyday occurrence. The arrival of the Eastern European Jews had made an already bad situation worse as non-Jews created their own ghetto in the mean street and courts that had escaped population by the immigrants. The redevelopment of the once dreadful Flower and Dean Street pushed even more of the dregs of society into this little street. Locals humorously referred to the road as Dossett Street due to the fact that it was comprised almost entirely of doss houses. Soon this small, seemingly insignificant thoroughfare began to attract the attention of the press once again.

Local clergyman and social reformer Canon Barnett, referred to Dorset Street in a letter to The Times in 1898. He described the residents as men and women who seemed to 'herd as beasts' and declared the road to be the 'centre of evil.' During the same year, a researcher ventured into Dorset Street on behalf of the social investigator Charles Booth. Accompanied by a policeman, he made his way around the doss houses, courts and alleyways and later described what he found: 'The lowest of all prost.i.tutes are found in Spitalfields, on the benches round the church, or sleeping in the common lodging houses of Dorset Street. Women have often found their way there by degrees from the streets of the West End. He (the policeman accompanying him) spoke of Dorset Street as in his opinion the worst street in respect of poverty, misery, vice of the whole of London.'

Chapter 22.

The Murder of Mary Ann Austin.

It appears that by the turn of the century, the police had all but given up attempting to maintain any sort of public order in Dorset Street and had pretty much left the road to police itself. An explanation for their defeatist att.i.tude can be found in the events surrounding the death of a young woman named Mary Ann Austin, an inmate of William Crossingham's lodging house at number 35, in May 1901.

At about 10.30pm on Sat.u.r.day 25 May, Mary Ann Austin arrived at Crossingham's lodging house with a man purporting to be her husband. Despite the fact that the lodging house was supposed to be reserved for women only, the deputy let the couple a bed after the man produced 1/6d (an exceptionally large amount of money to pay for such accommodation.) The couple were shown to bed number 15 on the third floor of the lodging house and promptly retired for the night. At approximately 8.30am the next morning, a female lodger came rus.h.i.+ng into the deputy's office claiming that Mary Ann had been viciously attacked. The deputy's wife (one Maria Moore) went immediately to the third floor to find Mary Ann groaning in agony from several stab wounds. Her erstwhile male companion was nowhere to be seen. Mrs Moore sent for a doctor immediately but instead of also calling the police, she summoned William Crossingham's brother-in-law, Daniel Sullivan, who ran another of Crossingham's lodging houses just round the corner in Whites Row. On arriving at the scene, Sullivan decided against summoning the police and set about destroying any useful evidence before the doctor arrived.

First, he dressed the dying Mary Ann in another lodger's clothes and arranged for her own clothing to be burnt. He then moved her downstairs to a bed on the first floor, presumably so the murder site could be cleaned up. By time that the doctor arrived, any incriminating evidence had been successfully removed but poor Mary Ann was in a very bad way. The doctor immediately arranged for her to be taken to hospital but it was too late to save her. Mary Ann Austin died of her injuries on Sunday 26 May.

The subsequent inquest into the murder of Mary Ann Austin proved to be frustrating and baffling for both the police and the coroner. The man that took the bed with Austin on the Sat.u.r.day night was found and identified himself as her husband, William, a stoker by profession of no fixed abode. However it seems more likely that he was simply a casual acquaintance of Mary Ann, who had promised her a bed for the night in return for s.e.xual favours. William was promptly arrested for her murder; a crime he vehemently denied committing. Whether William Austin really did kill Mary Ann is a moot point. However, the subsequent fiasco at the inquest clearly shows the complete lack of respect the inhabitants of Dorset Street had for the authorities.

At the start of the murder inquiry, all witnesses lied about the circ.u.mstances surrounding Mary Ann's death including the fact that the body was moved and evidence destroyed. They only changed their story in court when alternative accounts of what happened proved they were lying. Daniel Sullivan's account of events was so inconsistent that the coroner was moved to conclude that he had 'run as close to the wind as you possibly could'. Despite the best efforts of the police to find reliable witnesses, the coroner was forced to conclude that there was no reliable evidence to convict William Austin of the murder and the prisoner was released.

The fatal stabbing of Mary Ann Austin joined the long and ever-growing list of unsolved crimes perpetrated in Dorset Street at the turn of the century. However, the inquest fiasco shows conclusively that by this time, Dorset Street was run exclusively by its inhabitants. The lodging house keepers and their employees took on total responsibility for dealing with any crimes committed within the walls of their establishments and any outside interference was to be avoided at all costs.

Despite the residents' dislike of outside interference, Mary Ann Austin's murder prompted yet more unwelcome attention for Dorset Street from press and well-meaning members of the public alike. Two months after the murder and subsequent cover-up, Dorset Street received its most d.a.m.ning indictment to date when one Fred. A. McKenzie wrote about the street in the Daily Mail under the heading 'The Worst Street In London'. Mr McKenzie trod the same path as many 'social investigators' before him, taking an uneducated and frankly sn.o.bbish stance against the street's beleaguered residents, laying much of the blame at the feet of the dreaded lodging house keepers and resorting to sensationalism in order to drive his point home. Nonetheless, his article does paint a clear picture of the depths to which Dorset Street had sunk by the turn of the century and ill.u.s.trates that the social deprivation that had first come to the public's attention during the Ripper murders had most definitely not been addressed. Under the heading 'Blue Blood', Mr McKenzie wrote: 'The lodging houses of Dorset Street and of the district around are the head centres of the s.h.i.+fting criminal population of London. Of course, the aristocrats of crime the forger, the counterfeiter, and the like do not come here. In Dorset Street we find more largely the common thief, the pickpocket, the area meak, the man who robs with violence, and the unconvicted murderer. The police have a theory, it seems, that it is better to let these people congregate together in one ma.s.s where they can be easily found than to scatter them abroad. And Dorset Street certainly serves the purpose of a police trap. If this were all, something might be said in favour of allowing such a place to continue. But it is not all... Here comes the real and greatest harm that Dorset Street does. Respectable people, whose main offence is their poverty, are thrown in close and constant contact with the agents of crime. They become familiarised with law breaking. They see the best points of the criminals around them. If they are in want, as they usually are, it is often enough a thief who shares his spoils with them to give them bread. And there are those who are always ready to instruct newcomers in the simple ways of making a dishonest living. Boy thieves are trained as regularly and systematically around Dorset Street to-day as they were in the days of Oliver Twist.'

While there was undoubtedly some truth in what Fred McKenzie wrote, his overdramatic prose, combined with ludicrous exaggeration (according to him, Dorset Street 'boasts of an attempt at murder on an average once a month, of a murder in every house, and in one house at least, a murder in every room') really got the goat of both the lodging house keepers and their tenants. In response, Dorset Street resident Edwin Loc.o.c.k convened a protest meeting. The initial date for the meeting was set for Wednesday 17 July (the day after the article had appeared) but the room was not large enough to accommodate the sizeable crowd that attended and so it was adjourned until the following Monday. In the meantime, bills were posted throughout Spitalfields stating that the new meeting would be held at the Duke of Wellington pub in Shepherd Street. The sole speaker at this protest would be none other than Jack McCarthy, described by the local press as 'a gentleman who holds a considerable amount of property in the neighbourhood'.

On the evening of the meeting, a sizeable crowd arrived at the pub including numerous Dorset Street residents, a handful of representatives from local charities and, quite bravely, the writer of the article that had so inflamed the inhabitants Mr McKenzie. Jack McCarthy's response to the article was both eloquent and lengthy. According to press reports, he spoke for two hours, taking McKenzie's article apart in a manner fit for a courtroom rather than the back room of an East End pub. Suffice to say, McCarthy refuted every indictment made by McKenzie but the picture of Dorset Street painted throughout his long diatribe is probably as inaccurate as the one imagined after reading Fred McKenzie's article.

Even knowing that he was largely preaching to the converted, Jack McCarthy's speech leaves the impartial observer with the impression that Dorset Street was inhabited almost solely by cheeky c.o.c.kney types who would not look out of place in a production of Oliver!, presided over by altruistic landlords only too willing to sacrifice their rental income in order to provide shelter for the needy. One suspects that the truth lay somewhere between these two gentlemen's colourful descriptions.

Despite the best efforts of Jack McCarthy, speeches in local pubs (however impa.s.sioned) were no match for the ma.s.sive publicity machine that was the national press. Dorset Street retained its dubious reputation as 'The Worst Street In London' and the authorities continued to leave the inhabitants to their own devices. However, the notoriety that Dorset Street and its surrounds suffered did add certain kudos to the already shady reputations of the men that ran the streets. In their little patch of London, the Spitalfields landlords enjoyed a huge amount of power and this power afforded them status. Men such as Jack McCarthy, Jimmy Smith and Frederick Gehringer were very well known around the area and due to the amount of control they wielded, they were generally respected by their dependents.

By the turn of the century, the landlords had reached the peak of their success. Unbeknown to them, the property empires they had worked so hard to build up were about to go into a slow but unstoppable decline. However, the first few years of the 20th century were probably the most financially stable that any of the landlords had previously experienced. All owned a sizeable chunk of property by this stage, there was no shortage of tenants and the authorities continued to ignore the squalid conditions that prevailed. Consequently, the landlords earned a lot of money and they quickly developed a taste for showing it off in most eccentric ways. Jimmy Smith had long since established himself as the 'Governor of Brick Lane', particularly in the eyes those who partic.i.p.ated in his illegal gambling activities. However, one night Jimmy had too much to drink and fell into a fire, severely burning himself.

The burns were so deep that they destroyed a great deal of muscle on one side of Jimmy's body, leaving him partially paralysed and no doubt in a lot of pain. However, once recovered, Jimmy did not let his disability stop him from going about his daily business. He employed a minder to lead him along as he patrolled his 'manor' and was one of the first people in the East End to own a motor car, in which he was ferried around by a chauffeur in a chocolate-coloured uniform.

Jack McCarthy also enjoyed spending his money on the latest fas.h.i.+ons and was described by contemporaries as looking most 'gentlemanly' despite his rough background in the slums of Southwark. He was well regarded by the workers at nearby Spitalfields market who referred to him as a 'real pal'. The local costermongers also enjoyed a particularly close business relations.h.i.+p with McCarthy, who allowed them to store their barrows in a shed next to 26 Dorset Street thus preventing them from being stolen overnight. In contrast, Arthur Harding, a local lad who wasn't beholden to McCarthy for anything (and was probably envious of his status) dismissed him as a 'hard man' and a 'bully'.

Frederick Gehringer was also well-known to the costermongers as he ran a barrow-hire business from one of his properties in Little Pearl Street. This sideline was to grow into a full-time business in later years as Gehringer progressed from barrows to horses and carts and finally motorised lorries. The Gehringer family was in the haulage business until well into the 20th century. Like Jimmy Smith, Frederick Gehringer enjoyed being flash with his new-found wealth and rumour has it that he enjoyed parading around his properties on a sedan chair.

The landlords' families also benefited from their increasing wealth and began to live a distinctly middle-cla.s.s existence. Men who had been raised in slums found they could give their own children a vastly superior start in life. In a bid to keep them away from the daily horrors of Dorset Street, Jack McCarthy sent two of his younger daughters (Annie and Ellen) to boarding school in Battle, Suss.e.x. This small school was run by Mrs f.a.n.n.y Lambourn, the wife of the preceptor tutor at Battle Town Grammar School. Here the girls were taught the 'three R's', learned how to sew and cook and also acquired a command of the French language; a skill that was not in much demand around Dorset Street since the Huguenots had departed.

However, as the new century unfurled, subtle changes in how and where Londoners lived and worked were underway. These changes would have a profound effect on Dorset Street, its surrounds and the way McCarthy and his fellow landlords made their money.

By 1900, better transport links in and out of the capital meant that it was no longer necessary for men and women to live within walking distance of their work. Spitalfields had for decades been a popular residential area not just for the dest.i.tute, but also for low paid workers whose employment was found in the City or along the banks of the Thames. As transport links improved, developers began to build new estates of affordable housing in parts of Middles.e.x, Kent and Surrey that until recently had been impossible to commute from. Suddenly it became possible for workers to move out to the new suburbs such as Charlton, Norwood, Wembley, Finchley, Ilford and still retain their jobs in central London. This sea change in the way people lived and worked would eventually have a devastating effect on the fortunes of the Spitalfields landlords.

While the very poor remained in the area, those who had once relied on their furnished rooms and two-up, two-down cottages were lured away to the suburbs, never to return. This economic change was coupled with the fact that many of the houses the landlords let out were literally falling to pieces. The once middle-cla.s.s properties had been in a pretty bad state when the landlords had acquired them twenty years previously. Since then, they had been ill-used by the tenants and neglected by their owners remember that McCarthy didn't even bother to paint over the bloodstained wall in Mary Kelly's room, let alone embark on any serious renovation work.

In addition to the population changes and the dilapidated state of many properties in Spitalfields, traffic around Spitalfields Market was still causing increasing problems. On market days, there were so many carts, vans and barrows around that the streets became impa.s.sable. Market customers complained that they couldn't get close enough to the market to pick up their goods, non-market related shops moaned that their customers couldn't get through the melee (thus losing custom) and thefts from unattended vehicles were commonplace.

By the 1890s, the newly-formed London County Council could clearly see that widening the streets around the market would solve two problems in one fell swoop. Firstly, wider streets would ease traffic congestion considerably, and, secondly, it would give them the opportunity to get rid of the dreadful courts and alleys that surrounded the market for good. The only problem was that the market did not belong to the council.

Undeterred, the LCC began introducing bills in Parliament that they hoped would give them the power to purchase the freehold on Spitalfields Market. In 1902, their wish was granted and the freehold was bought from the trustees of the Goldsmid family (the current owners). The leaseholder, Robert Horner (who had run the market since the 1870s), proved a more difficult nut to crack. After much negotiating, Horner reluctantly agreed to relinquish control of the market for 600,000 a ma.s.sive sum in those days. However, his agreement contained many caveats and for the next ten years, the situation at Spitalfields Market remained the same as the LCC and Robert Horner battled it out.

The landlords and residents of Dorset Street realised that it was only a matter of time before their lives and businesses would be seriously affected by the proposed redevelopment around the market. However, the daily struggle to simply stay alive prevented most of the residents from worrying too much about the fact they may soon be made homeless. Jack McCarthy and William Crossingham didn't lose too much sleep over the proposed expansion either. By the beginning of the new century, they were reaching retirement age and their thoughts were inevitably turning to more leisurely activities than the hard and sometimes violent profession of slum landlord. In addition to this, running common lodging houses was getting to be an increasingly frustrating business.