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

by Alan M. Clark

  Bill lifted her by the arm. The bottle fell from her lap upon the brick floor with a hollow clink.

  Bill inhaled deeply. “You drank my gin?”

  “No!” Polly said.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Bill dragged her out of the privy as she clawed at the wooden threshold to get away. He threw her down and struck at her with his cane. Polly dodged out of the way and tried to rise. He swung again, and hit her shoulder, knocking her onto her right side. She held her tongue to keep from awakening the neighbors. He landed a solid blow to her ribs that forced a cry out of Polly.

  “Quiet,” he said, and struck her in the face. “This is between you and me.”

  As Polly got her feet under her, he brought the cane in low, using both hands to plunge the staff into her gut, and knock the wind from her in a great bellow. She fell backwards, striking her head on the cold, hard ground. Her skull seemed to ring like a bell and a taste of iron filled her nose and mouth.

  She lay on her side, unable to move for a time, watching as the door to their rooms opened and Papa came out. He looked at her briefly, then spun on her husband and struck him in the face. Bill went down and Papa followed him. He crouched over Bill and struck him in the head repeatedly. Billowing vapor shot out of Papa’s mouth and nose with every angry breath.

  As neighbors began to emerge from their rooms to watch, the back lane filled up with people.

  Then, Cynthia Dievendorf, who lived two doors down, was cradling Polly’s head.

  Gerald Guinn, who lived next door in the opposite direction, tried to pull Papa off Bill. Once her father allowed himself to be hauled away, Polly’s husband seemed a dark, lifeless lump, except for the light, rolling mist of his breath in the cold air. His blood ran black in the moonlight, giving off a lazy vapor of its own.

  She knew nothing more until she saw warm daylight coming through the front window of her room. She lay in her own bed. Polly ached all over and didn’t want to face the world. She saw no sign of Bill. Cynthia sat in a chair that had been moved from Papa’s room to a position beside Polly’s bed. Alice sat in Cynthia’s lap.

  Before they noticed her wakefulness, Polly closed her eyes and willed herself back to sleep.

  15

  While She Was Out

  The Bonehill Ghost chased Polly for several days and nights through the empty streets of London. With the sun barely visible through the London particular, which hung heavily in the air everywhere, she had a vague sense of the passage of time. Unlike the incident in her childhood, when the demon had chased her with no goal but torment, she knew that this time he’d come to take something from her.

  Polly called out for help as she ran. She saw no one and nobody answered. The sound told the demon exactly where to find her. As she tried to find her way home, he repeatedly thrust his devil face at her from out of the choking haze. Sometimes, she heard the slosh of the demon’s bottle, the rattle of its chain around his neck, and his rapid steps behind her. Other times, silently and with his powerful smell masked by the fog, he surprised her, leaping out of hiding with a chortling laugh and a flash of blue flame. To avoid madness, Polly turned away before her gaze and mind fixed on his red, glowing eyes. Mile upon mile of dank, abandoned thoroughfares, mired in horse dung and running with raw sewage, passed beneath her feet. Brooding brick buildings and rotten wooden houses with darkened windows loomed on either side, some leaning so far out over the street, she feared they would fall on her as she passed.

  Although Mr. Macklin would have what he wanted, giddy with drink, he prolonged the chase for the fun of it. Polly wanted the pursuit to end, yet was too afraid to allow that for the longest time. Her bare feet became raw and bloody, her lungs choked with poisons from gulping the foul air.

  Finally, exhausted, she stopped running abruptly. As she stood gasping for clean air and not finding any, Mr. Macklin dashed out of the yellow pea soup mist, his dark features pinched and twisted into a cruel grin. “You have something of mine,” he said. He didn’t use her father’s voice as he’d done on his first visit. Then he looked down at her gut.

  Until that moment, she’d assumed he intended to take her soul. Polly realized too late her mistake. He’d come for something else, a thing precious indeed. She had only an instant of horror to react. Polly tried to turn away. He exhaled a blue flame that blinded her, and snatched the tiny child from her belly with rusted metal claws.

  “The soul of you, a hole in you, as what your screams beseech,” he sang in his jeering Irish voice.

  While the agony of iron penetrating her abdomen took away all thought, the plucking of the child from her womb brought an emotional devastation that eclipsed physical pain.

  Polly awoke screaming and clutching at herself.

  * * *

  Cynthia Dievendorf lay across Polly, restraining her. “You’re safe,” she said repeatedly.

  “My baby,” Polly cried. She bucked beneath the woman. “He’s taken my baby.”

  Surprisingly strong for such a small woman, Cynthia held Polly against the straw mattress until the fight left her. The woman’s oily dark locks hung in Polly’s face. Cynthia’s features, at first frightening from the strain of exertion, became calmer. Her warm brown eyes gazed into Polly’s for a moment. Then, they retreated as the woman pulled away and got off the bed.

  Polly’s head ached severely. A deep soreness in her muscles suggested she’d lain too long in bed.

  She recognized her room. Darkness lay outside the window. The table had been moved from Papa’s room to a position beside the bed next to the chair. A lit lamp rested on the tabletop. A book lay open beside it.

  “My baby,” Polly said again, her voice a croaking whisper. She tore open her night gown to look at her abdomen. Instead of claw marks and rent flesh, no more than a faded greenish-yellow bruise marred the smooth skin of her belly, no doubt from the strike of Bill’s cane.

  “Lost,” Cynthia said. “I’m sorry. You had a miscarriage. You passed her on your second day in bed.”

  Another girl, Polly thought. A sense of loss overwhelmed her and she wept. Cynthia held Polly’s hand.

  Bill had no doubt killed the child when he’d struck Polly in the gut. The demon had come after the soul of the little girl, unless his visit had been nothing but a bad dream.

  No, that my baby was lost in the nightmare, too, means it was more than a dream.

  With her recent prayer gone so horribly wrong, Polly assumed the manner of the loss had been God’s answer, one meant to punish her. She’d turned her own husband into an unwitting child killer. When last she’d seen him, he appeared dead. Had she turned Papa into a killer as well?

  I am responsible, O Lord. Please do not punish Bill, Papa, or my unborn for my sin. If the Bonehill Ghost has the soul of my little one, reclaim her spirit and comfort her in Heaven. I shall live in misery for what I’ve done. Amen.

  Even as she prayed, she wondered why God would listen to her. Polly wept until her eyes stung from lack of tears. Even then, her sobbing continued.

  Cynthia released Polly’s hand, stood, and put a kettle by the fire. “Tea will help.”

  Polly gathered her thoughts and ceased to sob. At the first chance, she’d take Bill’s half pint of gin from where she’d hidden it in the back of the wardrobe and throw the bottle into the vault of the privy. She would never drink again. Although abstinence was the logical solution to the bulk of her problems, and she made the commitment without hesitation, she did so with doubts that she would not explore until she felt much better.

  Cynthia returned to her seat, and held out a small mirror. Polly reluctantly took it. Cynthia nodded encouragement.

  Looking at her reflection, Polly saw no fresh wound on her face. The scar on her forehead—the one she’d got at age thirteen from drunkenly bashing her head against the brick of the lodging house—appeared red and sore, but didn’t feel tender when touched. She’d received the wound on the evening of her first encounter with the Bonehill Ghost. Polly wondered if her
second encounter with the demon had turned the scar red.

  As the water began to boil, Cynthia returned to the fireplace.

  “How long have I been here?” Polly asked.

  “Seven days. A doctor came. He said if you didn’t awaken by Wednesday week, you ought to go to hospital. Today is Wednesday. Your father were preparing to take you in his barrow tonight.”

  “My children—”

  “—are with your husband.”

  Polly had intended to ask about Bill next.

  “I believe he has found a new home for you and the children,” Cynthia said. She measured tea into two cups.

  So Bill had recovered enough from the beating Papa had given him to be out looking for a new place to live.

  “My father?”

  “He’s here each night—should come home in a few hours.”

  Papa hasn’t been hauled to the drum and locked up.

  Would Bill send her away with the children to live somewhere else? If so, where would he live? No doubt he wouldn’t want to stay with Papa.

  Polly thought of the tinplate toys for the children, hidden away in the back of the wardrobe. “Did the children have Christmas?”

  “I don’t know. They were away with Mr. Nichols. I believe he is with his sister.”

  Bill hated his sister, Rebecca. Polly knew he must have truly wanted to escape to seek her help.

  Polly choked back shame as she thought of how she’d spoiled Christmas. She didn’t want to think about the children’s disappointment. If they hadn’t received their toys, perhaps she might yet see the surprised delight on their faces. She supposed that depended on how much they knew about what had happened.

  “You’ve been here—” Polly began.

  “Since that night,” Cynthia said. Crouched on the hearth beyond the foot of the bed, she poured hot water from the steaming kettle into the cups. “I lost my baby boy the day before, and needed to do some good for my own heart.”

  Polly watched a tear fall from Cynthia’s eye and catch the firelight. The woman quickly wiped the droplet away.

  “I’m sorry,” Polly said. She knew Cynthia’s husband was away in the Orient with the Royal Army. “Thank you for staying by me.”

  Cynthia smiled miserably.

  The Lord might not hear me, Polly thought, but an unselfish prayer couldn’t hurt if it came from the heart.

  She thought her words through carefully before beginning.

  Loving God, help Cynthia’s heart to become whole again. Care for our infants, taken before they had a chance at life. Polly followed that with the penitent prayer.

  16

  Negotiations & Changes

  For the following week of her recovery, rarely was Polly out of the sight of either Cynthia or Papa. She feared Bill would come home anytime and find the half pint of gin in the wardrobe. If he did, there would be no living with him. Polly didn’t believe she could create an explanation he’d swallow. Finally, following several days of worry, she found a moment when no one watched her. Polly quickly disposed of the gin down the privy.

  Her father had found lodging a half mile away in Maydwell Street. He’d moved most of his possessions to his new room. On the 6th of January, 1876, Polly stood with Papa out front of the rooms in Trafalgar Street on the morning he would leave with the last load in his barrow.

  “Bill will come this afternoon to fetch you and the household to your new lodging,” he said.

  Polly had been away from her husband for two weeks. She feared the moment when she would be reunited with him. “I want to go with you,” she said.

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. “There isn’t room for you and the children. You’ve cast your lot with Bill. I told him if he strikes you again, he’ll have me to answer to. Don’t be afraid to tell me about it.”

  Polly nodded, looked at the paving stones at her feet.

  “You have a demon after you,” Papa said.

  Startled, Polly looked up to catch his eye.

  He touched her face. “Don’t let him take your soul. Careful with the drink.”

  Papa had rarely been tender with Polly, and the gesture caught her attention.

  Did he mean the Bonehill Ghost or that alcohol was the demon? Since she’d awakened in her bed, with only the bruise on her belly, Polly had entertained some doubts about the reality of her recent dream involving Mr. Macklin. Having seen only the welt didn’t mean the demon’s attack and theft of her infant’s soul wasn’t real.

  She wanted to know exactly what Papa thought. If he meant Mr. Macklin, she wanted to know how he knew. She would ask, but if he referred to alcohol as the demon, she’d find herself in a dreadful discussion about her drinking. Troubled, yet unwilling to risk opening up the subject, Polly merely smiled sadly and said, “Yes, Papa.”

  He took up his barrow and moved westward along Trafalgar Street.

  Although Polly had difficulty taking the notion seriously, she wondered if alcohol and the demonic Ghost were one and the same? Mr. Macklin was, after all, a drunk.

  * * *

  Polly had imagined Bill would glare at her and begin a punishing tirade of grievances and demands for change, yet when he arrived in the afternoon, he gave no indication that he wanted to reflect with her upon the hard feelings and violence that had occurred between them. Supporting himself on a different cane, seeming neither angry nor remorseful, Bill hobbled around calmly, inspecting her efforts to pack up their household. She wondered if the cane with which he’d beaten her had been damaged, or if he had decided for her feelings, or his own, not to carry the staff. Possibly, the owner had simply asked for the cane to be returned.

  Bill had a few abrasions on his cheeks and a swelling on one side of his jaw. He also had a crooked plum-colored nose. Papa must have broken it.

  For all her fear, the worst Polly got from her husband was a sullen indifference, which seemed to evaporate when she looked him in the eye and spoke. “How will we get our things to the new lodging?”

  Although Bill seemed relieved that she’d spoken to him, his restless gaze gave her the impression he had difficulty looking at her. “I’ve hired a wagon,” he said. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Please prepare the children. We’ll all ride.”

  * * *

  Within the week, the Nichols family was situated in their new lodging. Bill had rented a flat of four rooms on the ground floor in D block of the Peabody buildings in Duke Street. The four-story brick building had been erected as part of an estate built in 1871 with funds donated by American industrialist and philanthropist George Peabody. Numerous blocks of the buildings were going up in several of what had been some of the worst rookeries in London.

  Polly felt fortunate to have the opportunity to live in one of the fresh, clean, and spacious flats. The largest room of the four measured sixteen feet by ten feet, and the three smaller ones were each thirteen by ten. Bill paid the superintendent, Mr. Hess, and a porter, Mr. Silvers, to look the other way when the printing press was moved in. At least until the family grew and needed the space, Polly would have an entire room dedicated to her printing. The boys and Alice shared a bedroom. Since the largest room held the flat’s small stove and sets of shelves built into the walls, they located their kitchen and dining area there. The room also served as a parlor. At least part of the room that Polly used for her printing would become Alice’s bedroom in due time.

  The landing outside the flat’s entrance provided a sink and a water closet that the Nichols family shared with their nearest neighbors, the Heryfords, a couple in their middle years with sons that were young men. The roof of the building held laundry facilities and baths.

  On January 13, Polly had the chance to give the tinplate toys to her children. Her long-awaited delight blossomed as she watched her children play. John and Percy took their toys to the garden court that the Peabody buildings surrounded. Other boys of the buildings joined them, bringing their own toy miniatures.

  “I am Gulliver,” John shouted. />
  “I am Gulliver’s twin!” Percy said.

  Arm in arm, they stomped around the imaginary town they had built from sticks, rocks and leaves. The other boys made wee, Lilliputian voices, and ran their toys between John’s and Percy’s feet.

  Alice found a friend who was fascinated with the horse and carriage. They spent most of their time playing with the toy indoors. Many tiny courtships occurred in that carriage and one passion-fueled murder and suicide.

  Relieved to find the children had no resentment toward her, Polly suspected that since they’d slept on the night of December 20, 1875, they knew little about what had occurred.

  Although he still had a limp, Bill went back to work.

  A month after the family took up their new lodging, the superintendent, Mr. Hess, approached Polly while she rinsed clothing in the laundry. “May I hire you to print two hundred of this in Foolscap Folio?” He handed her a printed copy of The Peabody House Rules with two new rules added in script at the bottom of the page.

  “Yes,” Polly said. “How soon?”

  “Saturday?”

  “That’ll be two and a tanner,” she said.

  “All right, then.”

  Once he’d gone, she read the list. Certainly, Bill must have received a copy when they’d arrived, yet he’d merely told her what regulations he thought she should follow, rather than offering it to her to read. The list included a rule that forbade opening a shop of any sort within the building. That included, she believed, a printing shop. Another rule stated that the porter and superintendent would be summarily dismissed if they received any sort of gratuity.

  Plenty of mothers who lived within the building were willing to share the minding of children. All the tenants had employment. The gate to the garden courtyard which gave access to the building was locked at eleven o’clock at night. Each adult tenant had a key to the gate. The whole arrangement provided a feeling of safety to Polly. For her, the world had become fresh and new again.