Known to the Police

by Thomas Holmes

The hours passed, their task made progress, and at 11.30 they finished; but the factory was far away—nearly an hour's ride on the tram-car. Still, the younger one hurried with her bundle, only to find on arriving that the factory was closed, and that no work would be taken in till Tuesday morning. There was the rent to pay, the poor stock of provisions to be obtained, some little comfort to be got for the father, who had watched their brave but tragic struggle, and no money, after all.

My wife set food before them, and they made a pitiful pretence of eating. Their hearts were too full, though undoubtedly their stomachs were empty.

When I put a sovereign into the tremulous hand of the elder woman, they both broke down, and went away weeping.

A few weeks later the father died, and mother and daughter were left to comfort and care for each other.

Years have passed, and they still live and work together. Rising early and retiring late, they manage to "live." But the mother is getting feeble; her eyesight and powers for work are decaying. Never murmuring or repining, the daughter bears the brunt of the battle. She works, whilst her mother goes to and from the factory. And now—in June, 1908—another catastrophe has befallen them; for the feeble old woman has slipped and fallen from the tram-car, and lies at home with a broken arm and other injuries; but the daughter works for both.

Sometimes my experiences of women who have "come down" have been far more unpleasant, as the following instance may serve to show:

I received a letter from a titled lady asking me to inquire into the case of two sisters who had repeatedly appealed to her for help, and to whose appeal she had several times responded. This lady recognized the futility of sending a few pounds at intervals to two elderly women, of whom she knew nothing excepting that their father had once built a house for her. She knew, too, that their father had been in a large way of business, employing five hundred men at one time. Her ladyship also forwarded to me a letter she had received from the sisters, and asked me to find out what could be done for them, promising that if I could suggest anything reasonable, she would send me the necessary funds. Their letter was of the usual begging-letter style, telling of their own wrongs and poverty, and pleading for help on account of their dear lamented father.

Though their "dear lamented father" had been dead for twenty-nine years, I called at the address given, and found it to be an old-clothes shop in a very poor district. In the midst of old clothes and dirt I found the landlady. No, she said, the sisters did not live there. Sometimes they did a bit of needlework for her, and she allowed them to use her address for postal purposes. "They had a letter this morning?" I said. "Yes, there was one." "How many more?" "One only this morning." "Do they often have letters?" "Sometimes." "How many do they receive a week?" "What is that to you?" "Well, I come on behalf of a friend who wishes to help them. The letter they received this morning was from her, and there was money in it. How much did they give you this morning?" "Two shillings." "They work for you: why should they give you money?" "I have been good to them and lent them money; they owe me a good deal; but they have expectations." "Did you know they had 'come down' in life?" "Oh yes, I knew." "Now, tell me, where do they live?" "They are on the move." "What do you mean by that?" "On the move—looking for a place." "Where did they sleep last night?" "Somewhere close by." "Now, tell me truly as you would a friend, what do you think about them?" "I think they are a pair of unfortunate ladies. They have been robbed." "Would you help them if you could?" "Certainly I would." "Shall you see them to-day?" "Oh yes; they are sure to come in." So I gave her my address, and told her to ask the sisters to call on me. Woe to me! I did foolishly, and had to suffer for it. In the evening when I arrived home, one of the sisters was waiting for me. She had been waiting some time, to the consternation of my wife and the maid. The front door had no sooner been opened to her imperative tap, than she marched in without any ceremony, smelling, I was told, of the public-house and dirt. My wife said: "She is in the drawing-room. I could not ask her in here: we were just having tea." I found her without any difficulty. The evidence of my nose was enough. I opened wide the window, and then looked at her, or it, or something! I was just getting my breath, when, "Oh, you have heard from Lady ——, and she is wanting to help me." I said: "Yes, and you have heard from Lady ——. She sent you some money, and I see you have been spending it." "What do you mean, sir? I will let you know that I am a lady." I groaned and said: "You are letting me know it; I fully realize it." "Look here, sir; attend to me. I am going to keep a butter and cheese shop. I want twenty pounds to set me up. You must write to her ladyship for it." "Very good, then." "Now I want to tell you about our troubles;" and she did. It took me two good hours to get her safely outside the front door, after which I gave positive orders to the whole household that in future all business with this "lady" must be transacted on the doorstep, with a half-closed door.

She was a Welshwoman, and possessed a double amount of that nation's eloquence. Those two hours I shall never forget. It took all the diplomacy at my command to get her out; but she promised to come again and bring her sister. I was terribly alarmed at the prospect, but did not tell her not to come, for my courage failed me. However, she had given me her address, which, unfortunately, was close by; so, finally, I told her that, after hearing from Lady ——, I would call upon her and give her whatever help was sent. She called every day for a week, and every time she came my wife hid herself, and the servant was mindful of my instructions about the door. Nevertheless, our house was attracting some attention, for our respectable neighbours were alive to the situation. I often wished she had made a mistake, like poor old Cakebread did, and had gone to the wrong house; but I did not get even that scrap of comfort. At length I sent a note to her, telling her that I was going to call on her at ten o'clock next morning. This I accordingly did, and found that the sisters had obtained a room in the house of a poor but very decent woman who had four young children. The landlady let me in, and called to the sisters that a gentleman had come to see them. "Tell him we are not quite ready to receive visitors," I heard a familiar voice reply.

The landlady asked me to step into her room. I did so, and she carefully closed the door, and then burst out: "What can I do with them? How can I get rid of them? We shall be ill." "Have they paid you any rent?" "No; I won't take any. They gave me a shilling deposit before they moved in." "Give it to them back, and tell them to go." "They won't take it, and they won't go." "Tell your husband to put them out." "He won't touch them, and he blames me for taking them in." "Why did you take them in?" "We are poor; I am going to have another. I thought they were ladies who had 'come down.' They gave me a letter from a lady to read. Whatever shall we do?" "When did they come in?" "Just a week ago. They were drunk the first night. One had a black eye!"