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A house full of women in the Victorian age might not be a brothel; I think it is entirely possible it was a female only boarding house for single and widowed women, probably of respectable station and occupations.
It's possible there was a brothel at 62 Berner Street. I may be reading too much into it, but according to this news report, it was a house full of women with a landlady called Madame Munts.....
Morning Avertiser 13th Nov;
At the Marlborough-street Police Court yesterday, before Mr. Hannay, William Avenall, 26, chimney-sweep, Adam and Eve-court, Oxford-street; and Frederick W. Moore, 28, carver and gilder, Carlisle-street, Soho, were charged with being disorderly and with assaulting Henry Edward Leake, an oil and colourman, of Gilbert-street, Oxford-street, on Saturday night.
Leake said that on Saturday evening, about five o'clock, he went into a public-house at the corner of a street, when several persons accosted him. The prisoners accused him of being "Jack the Ripper," and told him that they were detectives in private clothes, and that they should arrest him as the Whitechapel murderer. They took him outside and dragged him in a brutal manner through Castle-street as far as Newman-passage. They struck him with a stick, and he implored them not to be so brutal. They would not let him go, they said, until they knew who he was and where he had been. He told them he had just delivered two gallons of oil at 62, Berners-street, whereupon they said they would take him back and ascertain if his statement were true. He resisted as best he could, and they struggled in the streets together for about three-quarters of an hour. Persons looked at them, and when the prisoners called out, "He's Jack the Ripper. We are detectives." they made off, and did not attempt to render him assistance. He got no protection, and was shaken and bruised until he felt quite disabled. When he got near 62, Berners-street he managed to get away from his assailants and spring down the stairs of that house into the basement, got into the kitchen, and momentarily lost sight of his pursuers. A number of young ladies were at tea, and when Avenall followed and told them they had a strange man in the house, and that he (Avenall) was a private detective, they became terribly frightened, and screamed loudly for the police. Avenall dragged him up the stairs, exclaiming "He's Jack the Ripper."
Madame Munts, the landlady of 62, Berners-street, deposed that the man Leeks had been in the habit of bringing oil, soap, wood, and other articles to the house, and she therefore knew him. Being unacquainted with the prisoner Avenall, she sent for a constable, and he was taken into custody. Leeke became so unwell after the affair that he had to take to his bed.
In defense Avenall said that he and his friends were in the public-house, when they saw Leeke sitting in a corner. He had his head down, and was mumbling something to himself. As he seemed strange in his manner they asked him what was the matter, and he replied, "Don't bother me; I'm in serious trouble." They asked him if they should see him home, and when he told them he lived at 62, Berners-street he (Avenall) doubted it, as he did the chimney-sweeping there, and knowing that it was only occupied by females he expressed his intention of taking him there to ascertain if that statement was correct. On reaching the house Leeke ran down the steps into the basement and shouted to the inmates, "There's a strange man in the house." He (Avenall) followed, and finding Leeke crouching in the cellar, dragged him out. Madame and all the young ladies screammed until one of them, recognising the prosecutor, exclaimed, "Why it is our little oil man," and then they became less excited.
The prisoner Moore said that when he descended the steps he tried to pacify the ladies, telling them that it was only a foolish joke.
Constable Downey, 364 D, said that he saw Avenall holding the prosecutor outside the house in Berners-street. He (Avenall) called out, "Here he is; I have got him. This is 'Jack the Ripper' ; I mean to take him to the police-station. If the b____ police can't do their duty, I can." Being asked who he was, Averall said he was a private detective. The prisoner Moore rushed out of the house, but was pursued and taken into custody. Eventually both the men were conveyed to the police-station. The prosecutor was sober, but the prisoner Averall had been drinking.
A witness for the defense was called, who stated that when the prosecutor entered the public-house, someone exclaimed. "Here's a funny little man; perhaps he's Jack the Ripper." On being questioned, Leeke said his name was Smith, and that he was a tinplate-worker. That statement being doubted, it was resolved to ascertain who and what he was, and in this way the affair commenced.
Mr. Hannay said it was a very dangerous thing for people to personate detectives, and directed Inspector Ettridge to see whether the prisoners could not be further charged with that offence. Very serious results might have arisen out of the affair, which required further inquiry, and he would therefore adjourn the case for a week, allowing bail in the sum of 10£. For each of the prisoners.
This contemporary description of Berner Stret seems to indicate it was fairly quiet but still mostly squalid; the courts leading off of it being difficult to police, and let out in tenements;
After another few minutes we were in what my companion tersely described as a beastly locality. A long, ill-paved, narrow, badly-lit street. The lamps are few and far between, and show a flickering, sickly, yellow light.
After the glare of Whitechapel road, the darkness seems trebly bad. The houses are small and squalid, and teeming with life. Late as it is, one must walk carefully for fear of falling over half-naked infants, who crawl about the broken pavements.
Soon we leave the groups of horrible children behind and the thoroughfare looks deserted, and is so quiet that our footsteps ring out startlingly distinct on the still night air.
We cross over, and Mr. B---- points out a door apparently leading into a house, but when he pushes it open I see to my astonishment that it encloses a court, or narrow alley.
I peep down it, and as well as I can see in the blackness - for there is no lamp in the entry - I notice that there are houses at each side. Filthy, ramshackle cottages, evidently let out in tenements, for they seem swarming with human beings.
"You see", says Mr. B----, "there are any amount of these alleys about, and while the police are patrolling the street the Lord only knows what goes on in the courts that branch from the man thoroughfare.
"For instance we passed a couple of constables a few minutes ago; well, they are not able to visit and properly inspect every alley in Berners street. Why, we should want at least a score of men for that duty alone. Look how dark the entries are. If a murder were committed in the street the murderer could easily escape observation by staying in one of the alleys till the first hue and cry was over, and then he could mix with the crowd and get off."
in Dew's memoirs, he speaks of Berner Street as being subjected of some kind of gentrification; meaning while it remained working class, the paupers had left. It used to have the Tiger's Den nickname, like other streets in different times.
There may have been rooms for rent in private residences in Berner St as Joshua suggests. However, large licensed common lodging houses were, at least nominally, under police supervision and the list below doesn't show any in Berner St.
It's far from conclusive, but I can't see any on the 1890 insurance map. Apart from the IWEC and two Board schools, it appears to consist of private dwellings, with a couple of pubs, shops and an office. It's possible some (or all) of the houses were rented out as rooms, a la 29 Hanbury Street, but no large doss-houses as far as I can tell.
There's a few tenements in neighbouring Batty Street, if that helps?
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