A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (6 page)

Polly had craved risk to spice up her life for some time, yet she hadn’t got much out of it; gin from neighborhood boys and a look at the trinkets they kept between their legs in exchange for a glance at her dairy. The last time she did that, she was lucky to get away with her virtue intact. She wanted better sorts of risks, ones that might truly pay off in the long run. Yes, looking out for worthwhile risks might make her days a bit brighter.

With that, Polly found herself looking forward to the coming day. She rolled into a more comfortable position in her bed and slept.

* * *

The next day when she awoke, Papa was gone. The strongbox lay open and empty behind the blanket curtain. Eddie arose shortly after Polly.

“Did you hear him go out?” he asked.

“No.”

Eddie went to the fenced court beside the lodging house to see if Papa had taken his barrow when he left. If he had, then he’d be in Fleet Street near Farringdon Circus. “He didn’t take it,” Eddie said when he came back.

Papa didn’t return for two nights. Polly was beside herself with worry.

The first day of their father’s absence, Eddie took the barrow to Fleet Street and worked it on his own. Polly asked her neighbors if they knew what had become of Papa, but nobody did. Unable to fully concentrate on her piece work, Polly barely finished a dozen pelts. When Eddie came home that night, he said he’d heard that Papa was arrested.

“What would he—?” she began, but he cut her off.

“Nobody I spoke with knew anything.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Try not to worry. He’s good at looking after himself.”

Polly maintained the routine household schedule, serving Eddie breakfast and dinner, and preparing him bread and cheese to take with him while he worked the barrow. Though unsettled by her father’s absence, she had a sense that he’d be all right, and she had to admit to herself that with the drama of the mystery, and the idea that he’d done something nefarious, she’d felt more alive than at any other time in her recent past.

* * *

Polly’s father came home the afternoon of the third day.

Eddie hadn’t returned yet from working the barrow.

When Papa came through the door, Polly dropped the cup she was rinsing in the wash basin, and hurried to his side. “Where have you been?” She bounced from foot to foot, while he set down a bag of his tools and took off his jacket.

“I cannot say,” he began.

“Cannot or will not,” she asked with a sly smile.

“I am not allowed to talk about it, but if you’ll keep it a secret, I’ll tell you that I now have a friend at the police court in Lambeth Street. I also owe that friend a great debt of service. That’s all I can say for now. One day, I may tell you more.” Although his features betrayed little, she thought he seemed rather pleased with himself.

Later, Polly asked Eddie what he knew.

“Very little,” he said. “Papa doesn’t want us to talk about it.”

The box was gone the next day. Papa didn’t say what he’d done with it.

Polly chose to believe that her father had taken a risk, committed a crime of some sort, and got away with it because he had a confederate within the police court. Papa might knock her about for discipline, but he’d never truly harmed her. Polly didn’t believe he meant to harm anyone. She knew he’d repent whatever sins he committed with his crime, and the Lord would forgive him.

In the following week, Papa fed his children extravagantly. They had mutton four nights in a row. When questioned about the food, he said, “I’ve saved a little back and thought to see you two happy and healthy after the scare I put in you.”

Delighted with his warmth, Polly began to see her father in a new light. She assumed that the crime he’d committed had paid off, yet over the ensuing months, she saw no further evidence of profit from his adventure. Whatever else he’d earned might have gone toward paying off a debt. Even so, her father had risen in her estimation, and she was further inspired to consider new risks.

* * *

Life returned to its dull grind until one afternoon, a few weeks after Polly’s eighteenth birthday in 1863. Her brother arrived home early with one of his clients, a young man named Bill Nichols.

“I made new keys for Mr. Nichols,” Eddie said to Polly, “but failed to bring them to Fleet Street today.”

“A good thing your lodgings are on my way home,” Bill said, and then he seemed to think for a moment before concluding, “or I should not have the pleasure of meeting your sister.”

Polly smiled.

Heavy and pale, Bill wasn’t handsome. His light blue eyes held flecks of brown. They bulged from their sockets a bit. The pores of his nose and cheeks were deep and blackened.

He seemed to notice when Polly looked at the dark stains under his nails and in the creases of his fingers.

“Printer’s ink,” he said. “I work for Messrs. Pellanddor and Company.”

Polly nodded. She knew the company was a printer of stamps and monetary notes, and had offices nearby.

She would have guessed Mr. Nichols’s age to be about twenty-five, yet he’d begun to lose his dark brown hair. Although also marred with a few spatters of ink, his garments were of better quality than those her brother and father wore. His black shoes and felt hat also appeared to be a finer grade. A watch chain looped from the fourth button of his waistcoat and disappeared into the pocket, so she presumed he owned a watch. The chain appeared to be silver. The man clearly did well enough for himself.

Polly became embarrassed as he looked about their tiny room. Everything her family owned was old and worn. The room stank of cooked cabbage and boiled trotters. Still, no hint of disdain passed his features.

“Allow me to tell you a joke I heard today,” he said abruptly, and both Eddie and Polly showed interest. “Disappointed with the way he treated her, a woman said to her husband, ‘You loved me so before we wed.’” Bill gave a winning smile before finishing. “‘Yes, I did,’ the husband said, ‘and now it’s your turn to do the loving.’”

All three laughed.

Polly thought Bill showed an interest in her.

Is he one of the risks I’ve been looking for? Perhaps he’d like to share his life with me.

Deciding that anything would be better than what she currently had, Polly became determined to do whatever possible to catch his eye. When he wasn’t looking, she pinched her cheeks to bring out the rosy color. She stood with her hips thrust to one side to offer more curve to her form. She smiled and showed her even teeth. Bill allowed his eyes to linger on her several times, and her hopes rose.

Before taking his leave, Bill turned to Eddie, paid him, and received three shiny brass keys. “You did a good job,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Eddie said. “You know where to find me should you need my services again.”

He moved to exit the room, and Polly’s hopes fell.

Before passing through the threshold, he turned back, facing her. “I would be most pleased if you would join me this evening for a supper at The Old Bell.”

“Yes,” Polly said a bit too loudly. She became embarrassed.

“Eight o’clock, then?” Bill asked with a satisfied smile.

“Yes,” Polly said more evenly.

Bill tipped his hat, turned, and left.

Eddie poked Polly in the shoulder with an elbow and beamed at her.

“Thank you,” she said. Polly grabbed Eddie and kissed him on the cheek.

6

The Dead Lie Quiet & Still

Polly found her piece work more tolerable as she and Bill Nichols courted. Having their time together to look forward to helped the hours of drudgery go by more swiftly.

Over the course of the next year, she noted that he was good with money. That seemed promising to one who had been poor her whole life. Bill Nichols saved up to take Polly on outings and to buy her gifts of clothing, a pendant watch, and a green agate cameo brooch depicting an angel in flight. He liked fine food and took Polly to eat extravagantly at a couple of the finer taverns.

Although Polly would have welcomed sexual advances from Bill, he didn’t make any. She told herself that was a sign of his respect for her. He asked her what sort of outings she might like, presented her choices, and seemed to genuinely want to hear her opinions.

Wherever they went, Polly clung to him for fear that he might get away. She considered her clinging an expression of affection, and her enthusiasm for his company a sure sign of love. As he allowed her to draw close, hope grew in her that he did indeed want to share his life with her. Polly decided that her future wasn’t set, after all, and that the daily drudgery she’d known all her life would soon fall away when he proposed marriage.

“You and Bill are quite the pair these days,” Eddie said to her one evening as she dressed in preparation for another outing with her beau.

“I’ve never wanted so much to be with anyone before,” Polly said. She spun around, allowing her new skirts to billow out. “Bill Nichols has opened up the world for me. We’ll have a good life together should he choose me. I have the hope that he will.”

Eddie’s smile reflected her own happiness.

That night, after watching a performance of popular music at the Royal Standard Music Hall, Bill backed her up against the exterior wall of the building while the crowd exiting the theatre flowed around them. His face gleamed with sweat and his clothing, dampened by rain before the show, smelled of mildew, but she readily kissed his smiling face.

He pulled back, looking briefly unsure of himself, and asked, “Will you be my wife?”

Instantly, she decided that accepting his invitation was a risk worth taking. “Yes,” Polly cried.

Nearby faces within the crowd quickly turned toward the sound of her voice. She smiled for them, pleased to have an audience in her moment of happiness.

Bill pulled her close and kissed her again.

* * *

Polly and Bill were married in January of 1864. A week later, Bill took her to see her future home. The place was about a mile away from the lodgings Polly shared with her family, south of the Thames in Scoresby Street, just off Blackfriars Road. They entered a blackened red brick building that had once been a large home. The interior, dark and grim, had been minimally prepared for new tenants. Stains on the pitted floorboards had not been removed. Sagging green wallpaper rumpled up a corner over the entrance doorway with the beginnings of water damage showing through. The only interior doorway, which had no doubt once led into other rooms within the old house, had been filled in with brick and mortar. A thin gap appeared between one side of the door frame and the mortar. Polly thought she might shove through the threshold with enough force. She heard the murmur of conversation coming through the crack, perhaps from her future neighbors. Clearly, she and Bill would have just the one room.

He watched her as she moved about. Polly smiled for him a couple of times, trying to conceal her disappointment.

The single window of the chamber was so filthy with soot, the structures across the lane outside appeared as silhouettes against the bright haze of the sky. With the Southeastern Railway running just south of Scoresby Street, the window would never remain clean for long. Polly ran a hand along the window sill and looked at her blackened fingers. The accumulation of soot was a problem throughout London, yet much more so right next to a railway. While Polly presumed she would become used to the noise of the locomotives, she knew that keeping the room clean would be a struggle.

Although she thought she’d hidden her dissatisfaction with the room, Bill must have seen it on her face. “Is it not good enough for a woman such as yourself?” he asked.

Polly saw the edges of outrage in his features. “I’ve lived in humble rooms all my life. Surely—”

“You know nothing of my finances,” he said curtly.

“Do you—” she began, with the intention of asking if he had reason to worry, but he cut her off again.

“Nor is it your place to know.” Clearly Bill had become angry.

Polly felt shut out. Did he push her away because he had something to hide or was his response reasonable for a proud man with his affairs in order?

“We’ll start out simply,” Bill said, “and save until we can afford something grander.”

Polly nodded and dropped the subject.

Bill smiled stiffly. “We’ll not talk of it again.”

Polly realized that she had merely assumed Bill did well financially.
If he will not discuss it,
she thought,
I won’t know if we’re in trouble until disaster strikes.

Later, she considered praying to ask God to help her new husband find success and happiness in life. Then she decided that because her own fortunes were bound up with Bill’s that the prayer would be too self-serving. Instead, she said the penitent prayer from Mr. Shaw’s card.

* * *

With marriage, Polly discovered sex. The experience was more frustrating than it was pleasurable. Awkward in bed, and single-minded in his efforts to find his own sexual release, Bill most often left her frustrated. Shyness prevented her from finding release by her own efforts in his presence within their small room. She was certain he wouldn’t react well to such a thing.