Over Amelia Dyer's door hung a figure of Christ above the words "Suffer the little children to come unto me." She was a trained nurse and a heavyset, respectable matron who opened her home to unwed mothers. For a fee, she took in their babies until a good adoption could be arranged. Then a bargeman on the Thames fished out a paper parcel containing the body of an infant girl. On the wrapping was a nearly illegible mailing label that would eventually lead investigators straight to Amelia Dyer.
A crop nobody counted
Baby farming sounds almost pastoral. In practice it meant taking in infants for money. It was more than babysitting and less than adoption, something like foster care for profit with nobody checking. It boomed in 19th-century Britain, where working mothers had no daycare and the stigma of illegitimacy drove unmarried mothers to the baby farmer's door. The Poor Law Amendment Act made things worse. It restricted aid to workhouses, public poorhouses made deliberately wretched, where families were split up by age and sex. The state also stopped pursuing the fathers of illegitimate children for support. An unmarried mother who was forced out of work and barred from the workhouse might turn to prostitution, starve, or "make an angel of her baby."
The danger was built into the deal. Once a mother paid a lump sum up front, a living baby was an expense and a dead one was profit for an unscrupulous baby farmer. America had its own version. Philadelphia alone had hundreds of baby farms, and some had standing arrangements with undertakers, who charged eight dollars per tiny body and refunded four if the coffin was reused. What happened to those babies' bodies? Nobody knew. But the fact that coffins were being reused raised a disturbing question: if the infants weren't buried in those coffins, where did they end up? An 1892 newspaper report claimed that baby farms routinely carried life insurance on the infants in their care. At one establishment, a premium of just five cents a week promised a fifteen-dollar payout when a child died.
The nurse with a spare room
Amelia's early life reads like Victorian fiction. She was a shoemaker's daughter. Her mother, driven mad by typhus, died when Amelia was 11, and Amelia later apprenticed as a corset maker. She married George Thomas, a man so much older that both of them fudged their ages on the marriage certificate. She added six years and he dropped eleven. Was it love, or convenience? When he died in 1869, she was left with a daughter, Ellen, her nurse's training and one real asset: a house. She opened it to unmarried pregnant women, eventually turning the care of their babies into a business.
Her method was slow and quiet. She starved her charges and dosed them with laudanum, the liquid opiate known as "the quietness," which suppressed both hunger and crying. Some days six new infants arrived. In 1879 a doctor named Milne, called in to certify yet another death, decided there had been too many and went to the police. Ellen swore her mother was kind and only gave the youngest Godfrey's Cordial, a popular patent medicine that was essentially opium in sweet syrup. The coroner called the household "an infant's hell," but the jury wouldn't convict her of murder. She served six months' hard labor for neglect.
She learned from it. Doctors and death certificates were too risky, so she started disposing of the bodies herself. Some of these babies had no birth certificates. Officially, they barely existed, making their disappearances that much easier to conceal. She kept moving house to stay ahead of curious neighbors, and had a remarkable knack for ending up in insane asylums just when disappearing would be most convenient. By 1895 she had assembled a stage-set family: her daughter Mary Ann, called Polly; Polly's husband, Arthur Palmer; and Jane Smith, an old woman Amelia recruited from a workhouse to pose as "Granny."
Ten pounds and a mother's love
In January 1896, Evelina Marmon was a 25-year-old barmaid with a newborn named Doris and no husband. She advertised in the Bristol Times and Mirror for a respectable woman to look after her child for a while. Right beside her ad ran one from a Mrs. Harding: "Married couple with no family would adopt a healthy child nice country home terms ten pounds." Mrs. Harding was Amelia Dyer. Her letter promised, "I don't want a child for money's sake but the company and home comfort." Ten pounds was a fortune, nearly $4,000 today, and Evelina had hoped to pay weekly. Mrs. Harding wouldn't budge. Evelina handed over her daughter and a box of carefully folded baby clothes, rode with them as far as the next station, then turned for home sobbing.
Amelia never took Doris to Reading. At Polly's place in London, she wound the white edging tape that dressmakers used twice around the baby's neck, tied a knot and pulled. "I used to like to watch them with the tape around their neck, but it was soon all over with them," she later said. Doris was so small that a napkin served as her shroud. Mother and daughter went through the box, with its fawn-colored dresses and new powder puff, kept the best pieces for themselves and set the rest aside for the pawnbroker. Then they went to bed.
The next morning brought 13-month-old Harry Sergeant, chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed. His parents left him wailing, and Amelia said, "If it keeps whining like this I shall not stick it for long." The tape had run out, so she unwound it from Doris's neck, looped it around Harry's and finished it with a jaunty little bow. She packed both bodies into a carpetbag weighted with bricks and forced it through a riverside fence into the Thames.
Desperate mothers paid Amelia Dyer a lump sum to give their babies a loving home, which made each child worth more to her dead than alive. Estimates of her victims run as high as 400, and Britain hanged her for exactly one.
The parcel the river gave back
What she didn't know was that days earlier, a bargeman had pulled out a parcel holding a baby girl later identified as Helena Fry. The body hadn't been weighted enough, and the wrapping still had its mailing label. Detective Constable Anderson of the Reading police made out the faded name and address under a microscope. Police watched the house and sent in a young woman posing as a client. On April 3, Amelia opened her door to two officers. They had expected a house full of babies. Instead it was silent, and it stank of decomposing flesh. Dragging the river turned up six more children, including Doris and Harry in the carpetbag. Piles of letters, pawn tickets and baby clothes pointed to dozens of victims, possibly hundreds. "The white tape — that's how you could tell it was one of mine," she said.
At the Old Bailey, London's central criminal court, Jane Smith testified that Amelia often left with children and came home alone. Polly described a napkin-wrapped parcel under the couch in the shape of a child's head. Amelia pleaded insanity, and the prosecution pointed out that she only ever lost her mind when it was convenient. The jury took four and a half minutes. She was convicted of Helena Fry's murder alone. Despite the many other suspected victims, one conviction was enough to send her to the gallows. On June 10, 1896, as rain poured down on crowds gathered outside Newgate Prison, the woman known as the Ogress of Reading was hanged inside. She was 57.
A mask of kindness
Some estimates of her victims run as high as 400 babies. A year after the hanging, Parliament passed the Infant Life Protection Act, followed in 1908 by the Children's Act. These laws strengthened oversight of children placed in others' care, introducing stricter reporting requirements and helping bring the notorious baby-farming trade to an end. Some people even suspected Amelia of being Jack the Ripper. But while the Ripper terrorized London's streets, Amelia concealed her cruelty behind promises of kindness and compassion. She wrote to mothers about answered prayers. One letter made a promise that reads very differently now: "I will take the baby and trust to Providence." Then came the chilling qualification: "If it lives." Religious devotion was always her favorite costume.
