A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (29 page)

She thought for a moment and concluded with,
Don’t allow what I do here to harm them for long. Amen.

As she waited to be called to supper, Polly found paper, a pen, and ink in a drawer of the cabinet and sat to write her father so he wouldn’t continue to worry about her.

Dear Papa,

I write to say you will be glad to know that I am settled in a new position of employment, and all is going right up to now. My people have greeted me most warmly. It is a fine place, with trees and gardens back and front. All has been newly done up. They are teetotalers and religious so I ought to get on. They are very nice people, and I won’t have too much to do. I hope you are all right and young John has work. So good bye for the present.

Answer soon, please, and let me know how you are.

From yours truly,

Polly

* * *

Polly had worked for the Cowdreys for a little over two months when she put her plan into action. She took from their wardrobes the best clothes the couple had, articles she hoped were worth ten pounds. She went to the area of commerce in Wandsworth along High Street, and visited the shops that bought and sold secondhand clothing and offered the garments she’d stolen for sale. Although of greater worth, the articles, including a fine top hat, fetched her three pounds, eight, and tuppence.

Once Polly had committed the crime, she couldn’t help imagining that when caught she might hang for her offense.
If that’s all it takes, half of London would be topped. No, they’ll merely lock me away where I might do the most good.

Instead of returning to the Cowdreys’s home, Polly spent some of the wages she’d saved on a room in a doss house, and waited. When not sleeping, she spent time in the open about town, purchasing her meals from street vendors.

Two days went by before a constable approached her.

“Mrs. Polly Nichols?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered readily enough.

“Would you come with me to the police station?”

“Yes, I will.”

As they proceeded to the station, she noted that the constable treated her as if he thought she was daft. He spoke slowly and loudly, the words he used particularly simple.

He can think what he wants.
She smiled to think he helped her with her plan unknowingly.

* * *

Polly was held at the police station in a cell on her own, away from the other prisoners, all men.

“I’m sorry to say that the window leaked and has been boarded up until it can be repaired,” the constable said, “and I’m not allowed to leave you with a flame of any sort, so the cell will be dark. There’s water and a ladle in the bucket on the shelf, and….” He looked embarrassed as he gestured toward the tin pot on the floor in one corner.

Polly nodded.

“If you need help,” he said, “pound on the door and someone will come.”

Polly nodded. She entered and sat on a cot much like the one she’d broken when she’d last stayed with her father. The constable closed the door, leaving her in complete darkness.

As when she’d been locked in the cell beneath the workhouse, she remained unafraid. Polly had got what she’d wanted. Of all the sacrifices she’d made for others, going to prison would be the most meaningful. Again, her situation felt so right, she became certain God looked upon her favorably.

Her reaction, born of feeling instead of rational thought, left Polly elated for an indeterminate period. The delight slowly waned and was replaced with weariness, yet she could not find sleep. As time stretched on in the darkness, her thoughts began to unravel.

She had committed the serious crime of theft for monetary gain.
God might smile upon me when I get to prison, but He certainly won’t approve of how I got there.

And then a terrible question occurred to her:
Who am
I
to suggest what God should smile upon?

The blackness surrounding her began to solidify.

“Such pride!” she said aloud. “I have nothing in the world but foolish pride!”

Again, Polly felt naked before God, her ugliness plain to see. She knew He found her wanting.

The darkness—or perhaps Mr. Macklin—reached out and touched her, and she screamed.

The smell of cheap gin filled the tiny room, an odor both gut-wrenchingly noxious, and mouth-watering.

Polly’s heart tumbled and banged around in her chest as she heard his song begin.

“
The soul of you, a hole in you, as what your screams beseech,

“When darkness wants to sort you out—”

As before, she couldn’t tell if the words came from within her head or without. Gasping loudly for breath to push the panic back down, she cut the verse off, rendering the words incomprehensible. Little good that did, since she knew them by heart.

The door opened and light streamed in, blinding Polly. Startled, she shrieked again.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” the young constable asked.

Polly leaped toward the door. “You must let me out. I’ve suffered enough. I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, pushing her back and trying to shut the door. “I cannot let you out.”

The light fled as the door slammed shut. Polly returned to the cot, lay down, and hugged herself, making her body as small as possible so Mr. Macklin wouldn’t find her easily. He’d never before made an appearance without her being deep in her cups.

Glorying in martyrdom is drunkenness of a sort.

Terrified to think the demon might turn up at any time now, whether she was drunk or sober, Polly squeezed her eyes shut tight, though she could not shut out her punishing thoughts. She faced a painful truth: Her “good works” in the workhouse had been an attempt to change God’s opinion of her. Her reason for performing the good deeds wasn’t truly to help those in need, but to redeem herself in His eyes and secure a place for herself in Heaven.

Mrs. Hooks would not be proud of me. Did she indeed deliver a message from God or was that my own cruel fancy?

Polly could not win for losing, and with that realization she began to fear going to prison.

Please, Almighty God,
she began, intending to ask for help, then thought better of it, and stopped herself.

No, she would suffer the just punishment.

The hours of darkness stretched on interminably.

* * *

Finally the door to Polly’s cell opened. She assumed her time had come to face a magistrate. As the young constable escorted her through the corridor that led to the front of the building, Polly kept her eyes down to hide her shame. When they reached the entrance to the police station, the constable turned to her. “Mr. Cowdrey will not bring charges against you. You are free to go, but he advises you to leave Wandsworth. Your position in his household is terminated.”

Feeling the sudden relief that she would not go to prison, Polly staggered back against the threshold. The door gave some and she nearly tumbled over. The constable steadied her.

“Thank you,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes.

Another constable approached and handed Polly her small travel bag, then opened the door for her.

Exiting into a light drizzle, Polly was glad to have the rain so she wouldn’t have to feel the tears on her face. Despite her sense of relief, the shame of having distressed the Cowdreys darkened her thoughts. Her sins continued to pile up, creating a wall between Polly and her distant goal of redemption. Although she hadn’t had a drink for some time, she knew that Mr. Macklin was not prepared to forget her.

She sat on the footway along High Street as the rain grew heavier.

Almighty God, please protect the constables here from the Bonehill Ghost, who now knows something of the darkness of their gaol. Please allow Mr. and Mrs. Cowdrey to forget about me and what I’ve done, so they will trust others again. If Mrs. Cowdrey would truly like to have Eliza and you can find a way for that to come about, I would be happy for her to have the sweet girl. Thank you for the tears what fall from the sky today.

She ended with the penitent prayer.

Feeling foolish and small, defeated at every turn, she got up and wandered northeast.

39

A New Friend

Polly spent the rest of July, 1888, in Saint James’s Park, sleeping rough and begging. On August 1, she’d had enough of sleeping in the open with the unusually chill nights and the rain. Wanting to avoid entering the workhouse, she moved east and made a compromise: she would stay in the Grays Inn Workhouse casual ward in Holborn. Although an outdoor facility, the ward had a roof to keep out the rain. Following two wet, chill nights, sleeping in a stall padded thinly with damp, loose hay, Polly told herself she’d had enough of the workhouse entirely. She removed to Wilmott’s lodging house in Thrawl Street, Spitalfields.

The deputy of the common lodging, Mr. Bonfils, informed her that for the rate of four pence per night, Polly would share a bed with four other women. One of them, a woman about thirty-five years old, with dark, curly hair, busied herself scrubbing the floor with a wet coarse rag as Polly arrived in the room.

“Emily Hollund,” the woman said, looking up from her work.

“Polly Nichols.”

Raw-boned and pale, her hands red and her face splotched bright pink, Emily looked worn down, yet the face she presented was warm and friendly.

“I’ll not keep others’ pets for them, if I can help it,” Emily said with mock outrage. Seeing the question in Polly’s eyes, the woman added, “Chat, vermin, lice!”

Polly smiled and they both chuckled.

The bed had been stripped of its mattress and bedclothes, presumably by Emily. A bucket, containing water and another rag, rested on the floor beside her. Polly got down on her knees, took the wet rag from the bucket, and joined in.

“Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emily stopped scrubbing for a moment and said, “Perhaps we can help each other further. Are you looking for work?”

“Yes.”

“We will go our separate ways, but if we should meet each day to have a meal and share what has happened, we’ll feel better about our efforts.”

Polly smiled. As she realized that she liked the woman, she became suspicious; was Emily in fact Mr. Macklin trying to lull her into a position of trust?

“Two o’clock in the afternoon in the kitchen downstairs?” the woman asked.

No,
Polly told herself,
the demon would never be able to keep such a friendly face.

“Yes,” she said.

Emily smiled and returned to her scrubbing.

“Thank you,” Polly said. She desperately needed a friend. She assumed that no one who knew her history cared about her, except, possibly, Papa. Scrubbing away at the corner of the floor, she thought about all that she’d done to hurt others. She remembered Papa saying that she’d got what she deserved. He was right, of course. Strangely, within the discouraging thoughts, she found encouragement:
Mr. Macklin would not still seek my soul if the Lord no longer valued my spirit. There must be some hope for me.

* * *

Having met for midday meals over the course of three weeks, neither Polly nor Emily had had any good news about employment to share.

Sitting at the dining table in the kitchen of the common lodging, while the cook cleaned up around them, they talked quietly.

“Seems that getting a position is like wanting green eyes,” Emily said, laughing. “There’s no hope if you aren’t born with them.”

Polly smiled. Getting to know Emily had been a pleasure. She had an odd way of looking at the world that gave her words an unusual humor. Polly liked the idea of having a friend and confidante, and wanted to talk openly about her thoughts of resorting to prostitution, but she feared Emily might not receive them well.

“I’m thinking I should do well to take a room in the White House in Flower and Dean Street,” Emily said. “As netherskens go, there is no worse, yet it costs little and there a woman might share a bed with a man.”

Surprised, Polly hesitated, then asked, “Do you mean a client?”

“Yes.” Emily chuckled.

Polly relaxed, and let go of her fear. “I thought I might turn to that too, since my funds are all but exhausted. What’s the cost of the rooms?”

“A penny to hold the room, four pence for the night. The rooms have no window and hardly any door. The bedding is on the floor and wide enough for only one person. Of course, when there are two, one will be on top of the other.” Emily laughed.

Surprised by the woman’s enthusiasm, Polly decided that her friend looked for the best, even in the worst situations, an admirable trait.

She could not match Emily’s good cheer. Prostitution was a last resort, and the White House didn’t sound good. Still, the accommodations had to be better than sleeping rough.

Emily’s eyes became wide and she smiled. “If we should meet nightly—”