A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (20 page)

* * *

Tom came home about half past three o’clock in the afternoon while Polly and Estell were in the midst of their lesson. He didn’t seem pleased to see Polly.

“I didn’t think I should see you again.” he said, taking his hammer out of his belt and placing the tool on the table. “Had you no thought of how I’d worry? I knew better than to come looking for you. But for your husband, I might have done. What became of you?”

“I fell in the courtyard at the Peabody buildings,” Polly said, “and struck one of the benches with my mouth.”

Tom frowned, his slight anger turned to concern.

“The pain was more than I could bear,” Polly continued, trying to remember all the parts of the story she had come up with and refined with Estell’s help. “I became feverish and was in bed for several days.”

Polly glanced at Estell who nodded encouragement.

“I thought I had a contagion and decided it best not to come here. Within a few days, I lost a tooth and my mouth got worse. A week later, I lost another tooth.”

“Show him,” Estell said.

Polly demurely opened her mouth to show the gap in her smile.

Tom looked down. He paced back and forth across the floor. Polly couldn’t tell if he would swallow the lie.

“Please, say something,” she said.

“And all this time,” he said, “I thought I had hurt you in some way, though I couldn’t think what I’d done.” He looked at Polly, and though his affection for her remained in his gaze, the haunted look he sometimes carried had returned.

Polly didn’t question the look. She hurried to him and he embraced her.

“I’m sorry you lost your teeth,” he said.

“I am too,” she said, relieved that he seemed to have taken the lie as truth. “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

“You’re just as lovely as ever.”

“That’s not the same as saying you’re lovely,” Estell said. She screwed up her face to mock them.

* * *

Polly took Bill with her to Jane Street at a time when Estell would be there taking care of Nancy while Tom was out. The young woman explained everything to Bill’s satisfaction, as she and Polly had planned.

“When may I meet your brother—Tom, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Estell said. “You can see him at the Salvation Smithy until seven o’clock in the evening every day of the week but Sunday. It’s just by the sawmill.”

“I know where,” Bill said. He turned to Polly. “I’ve got my answer.”

“Thank you,” Polly said to Estell.

“Yes, Mrs. Nichols. You’re very welcome. Anything I can do to help.”

Estell had played her part quite well, Polly thought. Still, Bill’s curt response to the young woman had her worried he’d seen through their pretense. Having turned off Jane Street onto Broadwall and heading back toward the Peabody buildings, Polly expected them to turn into Meymott Street to head for the Salvation Smithy. Bill continued toward home, and she decided not to question him.

* * *

As the year progressed, Polly’s children grew, seemed happy, and did well in school. Her printing business ran a bit slower. She didn’t mind the extra time. Estell became a good reader and began to compose written language well. Bill remained largely indifferent to Polly, yet he obviously found her useful since he made no effort to diminish her role in his life. He had ceased to talk about finding a new lodging. If he saw the Heryfords, he turned away from them. Polly found time to speak with Paul and Susan when Bill wasn’t around. She would always be grateful to them for what they had done to help her.

Polly and Tom spent as much time as possible together. Although at first he showed no concern that she didn’t want to drink, with time he began to press her to join him. When she refused, he seemed troubled, but he wouldn’t talk about the matter with her. The further along in her pregnancy she became, the more troubled he seemed to be and the more he drank. That gave her a clue.

“I’ll have to be away when the baby comes, as before,” she said, “but you know I’ll return to you soon as I can.”

Tom didn’t answer.

“You know I’ll come back, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t be foolish, Tom. I have you, the children, and no more.”

“Yes,” he said, “but what do I have? What if the child is mine, a little brother or sister for Nancy?”

“How will we know?”

“If he should have my likeness.”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes, perhaps.” He sighed. “I have nothing to complain about. I knew what I were doing.”

Clearly he didn’t trust her, but to explain that she loved him, seemed to Polly an awkward response while he was in such a mood. She let it go.

* * *

As before, a month before the birth, Polly complained about discomfort during sex. They ceased to bed one another. On January 2, 1879, close to the time in which she believed the child was due, she said goodbye to Tom.

“I’ll come back in a month,” she said.

He gave no indication that he wanted to say anything. Troubled, Polly turned away, and began walking home. Glancing back as she moved along Jane Street, she saw him watching her with a great sadness on his face.

* * *

Henry Nichols was born on January 15, 1879. Although Polly realized she couldn’t make a determination until his features developed further, she liked to think he was Tom’s.

Susan Heryford became quite helpful with both Eliza and Henry, as long as Bill wasn’t expected home.

Two weeks after the birth, she left her two youngest with Susan and walked to Jane Street to see Tom. No one answered. Discouraged, she went on to market to fetch bread, cheese, mutton and potatoes.

Several later attempts to visit the Dews convinced her that they had found a new lodging elsewhere.

Desperate, Polly went to the Salvation Smithy, and spoke to the master blacksmith, a sweat-slicked, blackened man.

“Gone south,” he said. “Don’t know where.”

“He left no word where he’d be?”

“No,” he said, turning away.

Polly’s heart seemed to sink through the dirt floor at her feet. She turned toward home, a bleakness in her outlook. All that she’d come to look forward to was gone.

27

Exhaustive Search

For several months Polly hoped that once Tom and the girls had settled, word would come letting her know their location. He couldn’t read or write, but he might have Estell compose a letter for him. Although she didn’t think she’d ever given the Dews her address, if they sent correspondence to Polly Nichols at the Peabody Estates, Duke Street, the message would probably reach her.

By early summer, that small hope had fled. Polly loved her children and counted herself as fortunate to have a home and plenty to eat, but without Tom’s touch, his companionship and loving gaze, Polly felt incomplete, as if she had nothing of her very own. She decided she must search South London for the Dews.

At first, Polly left Eliza with Susan Heryford. Carrying young Henry with her in a sling, she made short expeditions on foot to make inquiries at smithies close to home in Southwark. She imagined that when she found Tom, he’d be glad to see his son. Then she noticed that Henry had developed the same brown spots within the blue of his eyes that Bill had, and she could no longer fool herself that the infant belonged to Tom.

She managed her lies to Bill and Mrs. Heryford well, and kept up her responsibilities to her husband, the children, the household, and her printing clients. She made sure to locate along her routes suppliers of printing needs, as well as markets for food, and to avail herself of their goods when needed to save time on her outings and help provide an excuse for her activities. Having had no luck finding the Dews by the autumn of 1879, she began to expand her search of South London, trying to visit all the smithies she could find. Since Henry had begun to take solid food, she left both of her youngest children with Susan for longer hours. As wintry weather came on, she prepared a large fire in the stove early in the morning after Bill left for work on the days she would be gone so that the flat didn’t become too cold in her absence. Even so, Bill complained about the chill when he came home in the evenings.

As Polly began to neglect her printing duties in early December, she came up with a plan to put her press temporarily out of service. The large wooden lever, used to apply pressure when printing, had a small crack that she’d noticed ever since the device had first come into her possession. She’d often thought the flaw would become larger and the handle would eventually break in two, yet that hadn’t happened. Polly pushed a knife into the crack and twisted as she applied pressure to the lever. She worked at the thin opening for over an hour, her arms and hands becoming sore, sweat trickling down her face and back, until finally, the crack began to expand. Another hour passed before she got the lever to break in two. For good measure, she removed what remained of the lever, and bent the metal fitting on the end where the device was designed to meet the screw of the press.

“I’m certain what Papa can repair it,” she told Bill that evening.

“That will take some time,” he said with a look of frustration. “I’ll speak to those who have orders placed.”

“I’ll leave the little ones with Estell,” Polly lied, “and take the lever to Papa tomorrow.”

On her visit to her father, Polly took the time to begin her search through Camberwell.

Because Mrs. Heryford suffered loneliness and needed a sense of purpose, she was easily deceived. Her husband worked at Waterloo Bridge Station for ten hours at a time most days of the week. Her boys were grown and had left home. One had married and lived in Westminster, and the other had found a position as a waiter at an inn in Tottenham. The promise of having little ones to care for seemed to have an attraction that allowed Susan to overlook Polly’s increasingly flimsy excuses for going away and having to leave her children behind. With time, Susan even took on the duty of taking in the older children when they came home from school in the early evening if Polly hadn’t returned.

The press remained out of commission for a mere two months, and so by spring of 1880, Polly was neglecting her clients and Bill heard their complaints.

“Having to carry around an infant as well as a two-year-old,” Polly complained, “has given me such pains in my arms and back that the work is difficult. Please be patient with me while little Henry is so young.”

Since she’d given him no reason to believe she’d been drinking for well over a year, and she had never shown herself to be lazy, Bill seemed to believe her. Although cautious about interpreting his moods, she thought a pleasant change had come over him. He smiled more frequently and a spring appeared in his step. Had he received a raise in his salary? If he had, she knew he would keep the news to himself.

Bill knew other small printers to whom he gave the printing jobs that Polly couldn’t complete.

She pushed herself to reach as many smithies as possible each day she went out to search. The need to find Tom, having become more powerful than what she had for drink, occupied her thoughts day and night. She mechanically moved though her hours at home while her mind continued to scour South London for her love. Good rest and sleep became rare and increasingly difficult to find. She held down her growing frustration and presented the most happy and smiling face she could to her family.

Although Bill had shown little concern about her behavior, she felt the need to provide explanation for her emotional distance. “I have felt a bit ill of late,” she told him.

His face darkened with concern, and she decided that the lie had been a mistake. “Just light-headed, my thought hard to hold onto. I’m certain it will pass soon.” Then, she thought of something to add that might easily put him off the trail of the truth. “My monthly turns have ceased again and I might be with child.”

Bill nodded with a slight smile, his concern put away.

In truth, her monthly flow had ceased two months earlier, and yet other signs of pregnancy had not followed.

Having to travel farther and farther afield to check locations through the summer months, and continually pushing herself each time to look into
just one more
before going home, Polly began returning too late to fix supper.

Still, with mere suggestions that she might try harder, Bill was slow to anger, and seemed willing to ignore her erratic behavior. Polly thought perhaps he feared that if he gave room for his anger to be expressed he might find himself beating her, and end up arrested by the police. On the occasions when she’d prepared no supper, he went out to gather food from street vendors with little complaint. The children were pleased to eat the food from the street.

Polly had difficulty keeping all her lies to Mrs. Heryford straight. Susan began questioning her about the outings. On an evening in late summer the older woman had finally had enough. Polly had returned from Bermondsey to collect her children about six o’clock in the evening.

“Dear,” Susan said, pausing and clasping both Polly’s hands as they stood on the landing between their flats, “I love your children and enjoy keeping them, but I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that you aren’t honest with me about your reasons to go out and to be out for such long periods. I have shown tolerance because I know you’ve suffered and need my help. I do wish you would confide in me.”