I wasn"t there to see it, of course, but the details of the following morning would quickly begin to come to light.
John McCarthy, one of my two favorite Whitechapel slum landlords, the landlord of the Irish lass, sat giving himself a hard time by going over his rent books. In time he worked his way down to an entry in his ledger, or more to the point, saw an annoying empty gap in his ledger had been ignored. McCarthy realized the renter – the squatter – in No 13 Miller"s Court, the young Irish lass, had not paid again. It put her at… good god, 29s in arrears.
“Tom!” McCarthy called out. His assistant, Thomas Bowyer, entered McCarthy"s office on the hop. “Get round the corner. Knock Miss High-and-Mighty up, and tell her I want my money. Don"t take no excuse. And don"t stare into them sta
