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

by Alan M. Clark

  “We were married at the time,” Polly said.

  The nurse frowned. “I see.”

  She drew her chair up beside the bed and awkwardly fed Polly a spoonful at a time of porridge. Polly avoided looking her in the eye. She brooded.

  * * *

  She didn’t care if the woman took her husband’s affections. Polly didn’t want them, yet she did want some of what came with their marriage. Bill had to provide for her, and couldn’t divorce her without evidence of adultery. Apparently, the traces of that were so well hidden, even Polly had been unable to find them after a year of searching.

  What bothered her most about Nurse Flake was that the woman had a good way with the children. She treated them as if they were her own. She laughed and played with Percy and Alice when they came in from school. Although they treated her like a friend, when she gave commands, they complied readily. She’d made felt toys for them as well, a yellow lion for Percy, and a white swan for Alice.

  The older children couldn’t have been pleased with Polly for a long time, especially during the last year. She had been so worn out from her desperate search that she gave them little time or energy. Her presence had been the bare minimum required on most occasions, and at times woefully inadequate. She could not remember the last time one of her children had approached her with eyes filled with delight.

  In the evenings, when Bill came home, she listened to him talking in low tones to Nurse Flake. Polly believed she heard tender feelings expressed between them, even though she could not make out their words. Bill slept in the bed next to Polly at night without touching her. The reasonable explanations might have been that he thought she should be left alone while recovering from her exhaustion or that he’d been instructed to do so. Polly thought he’d lost interest in her. The more she considered the idea, the more she hoped that to be true.

  Over the days of her confinement to bed, she increasingly felt like a stranger in her own home. When the nurse or any of her family spoke to her, Polly showed little emotion. Her weariness continued, and she drowsed fitfully.

  “Polly, dear,” Bill said to her, “are you still with us? You seem to have traveled to a distant land.” She didn’t respond.

  * * *

  On her sixth day of confinement to bed, she was awakened as Nurse Flake brought her a visitor. Polly hid her excitement upon seeing Estell enter the room carrying a large carpet bag.

  “Mrs. Nichols,” she said. “Good to see you.”

  In the year and a half since Polly had last seen her, Estell had grown into a woman.

  “I am busy folding nappies,” the nurse said, “so I’ll leave you two.” She turned to Estell. “I’ve been told not to get Polly excited, but she suffers a melancholia. I should think a lively response from her would be most welcome.”

  “Yes, nurse,” Estell said, dutifully.

  “Shall I take your bag for you?” Nurse Flake asked.

  “No, thank you. I won’t be long.”

  As soon as the nurse left the room, Polly allowed her eyes to go wide. She opened her arms. Estell sat on the bed and hugged her. When she pulled away, glad tears streamed down the younger woman’s face. “Because of you, I have good work,” she said proudly. “A position! I’m a clerk for the Sedulential Assurance Company.”

  Polly had never heard of such a thing, a young woman entrusted with record-keeping. “How?”

  “You taught me to read and write. I’m very good at it. The company gave tests for female employees, and I won a position.”

  “I’m so very proud of you.” Polly pulled Estell close and hugged her again. When the younger woman pulled away, Polly wasted no time asking, “How’s Tom? Where is he?”

  Estell’s smile turned grim. “My income supports us now. We’re in York Street, Walworth. We lost Nancy over the winter, poor girl. She began coughing one day and didn’t stop until her little heart did. Tom took it hard. He’s not done well since last you saw him.”

  Where Polly had lived on Trafalgar Street was part of Walworth. Although she’d searched the area—a mere two miles away—evidently, she’d not done a thorough job.

  “I’ll come right away,” Polly said.

  “Yes, perhaps that’s best,” Estell said, her eyes becoming large. “Your nurse speaks freely of things she should not. I’m glad she has done. She said your husband spoke to the doctor, and they decided that if you didn’t come out of your melancholia soon, they’d send you to Bedlam.”

  Estell used the local pronunciation for Bethlem Hospital, the centuries-old madhouse. Polly felt her mouth drop open and her eyes focussed beyond Etsell on the intangible distance where memory lived. In an instant, she saw how Bill might have fancied a form of insanity growing in her for a long time, possibly years. She understood his reasoning as she thought of her secretiveness, her drinking, her indifference to him, and so many evenings lately when he came home to find her exhausted. Within the last year, she’d taken to going to bed early so she didn’t have to spend time with him, and also so she’d awaken early the next day and be ready to continue her work or resume her search as quickly as possible. She’d got so that she rarely spoke to him or the children. He probably saw the changes in her as a retreat from the world.

  She’d walked past Bethlem Royal Hospital in Lambeth on several occasions. Perhaps the days were long past when the madhouse had been so defined by the tumult and din of its inmates that the facility fairly rocked on its foundation and the new word “bedlam” was coined. At present, the hospital kept its greens beautiful, and allowed some of its inmates to stroll among the trees while supervised. The current common wisdom held that the patients were well treated, but Polly had heard that the “tours” of the asylum for those who wanted to gawk at the raving lunatics still took place. She had no desire to become a part of the entertainment.

  Then again, Bill may know I’m perfectly sane, yet he needs an excuse to be rid of me so he can take up with Nurse Flake. Pretending happiness could spoil their plan.

  No, if they don’t have the excuse to put me away in the madhouse, they might turn to murder. Polly imagined the nurse bringing her a teaspoon of poison in the guise of medicine.

  “I have to get out!” Polly said. “I must escape.”

  “I’ll help,” Estell said. “Place what you’ll need to take with you in my bag. I’ll go ask the nurse if she’ll allow me to walk you in the courtyard.”

  “She’ll never allow it.”

  “I can be very persuasive.”

  While Estell talked to Nurse Flake in the next room, Polly quietly dressed, and assembled a few necessities, including the money she’d skimmed off her printing over the years. She opened the carpet bag to find the interior full of Estell’s belongings. Polly was still struggling to get her possessions inside and close it when she heard footsteps coming toward her room. Frantically, she gave another shove and tried to close the bag, yet it remained open, a chemise spilling out, when Estell entered alone. Polly sagged in relief.

  Estell nodded to her as she crouched and stuffed the chemise down further and shut the bag. She stood and gestured for Polly to follow.

  In the front room, Nurse Flake sat at the table feeding Henry bread softened in milk. Eliza sat on the floor at the nurse’s feet tearing open the neck of the elephant with her teeth. Nurse Flake had already repaired the toy once before. “Don’t walk fast. If she feels the least bit drained, bring her in immediately. Leave the bag with me for now.”

  “No, nurse,” Estell said, “I am delivering it to a neighbor at the other end of the building. As why I stopped by.”

  “Well,” Nurse Flake said, “I think Polly might make it to the other end if she wants to.” She gave an encouraging smile.

  Polly thought of Percy and Alice. They wouldn’t be home from school for several hours. She wished she could say goodbye to them. She looked at her two youngest. She would miss them, but they would be much happier with Nurse Flake.

  Estell gave her an even look, and Polly hid
her sadness. She allowed the young woman to take her through the door and out of the Peabody building.

  29

  Reunion & Departure

  When Polly and Estell arrived at the room in York Street, Walworth, Tom was stuporous with drink. He sat at a table against the wall. A glass of gin and his hammer rested on the tabletop before him. Seeing Polly, his haggard face brightened briefly, but then he scowled and he placed a hand on the handle of his hammer. “I don’ wan’ ’er here,” he slurred.

  “She’s with me,” Estell said. “She’ll sleep with me. You needn’t talk to her if you don’t want to.”

  “I’ve left Bill and the children,” Polly said. “He has a mistress, a nurse who will take good care of them. They don’t need me any longer.”

  His brow lifted with a look of cautious hope. “Come, ’ave a drink, then.” He held up a bottle of gin, and leaned his chair back against the wall so that the seat’s front legs and his feet lifted off the floor.

  “No, thank you,” Polly said.

  Tom’s brow knitted and his eyes darkened. “Then, I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you wish, you sodden lout,” Estell said. She approached Tom and Polly followed.

  “Get out,” he shouted, waving his arms. His seat wobbled on its hind legs, and he steadied himself against the wall with his left hand.

  “No,” Estell said. She quickly hooked a front leg of his chair with her foot and pulled.

  With the sound of wood twisting and cracking, Polly jumped back as Tom and his seat toppled into a heap. He lay on the floor groaning.

  Polly gave Estell a hard look.

  “Being nice to him does no good when he’s like this,” the younger woman said.

  “Well, you needn’t be cruel either.” Polly knelt and tried to pull Tom off the remains of the seat. One leg and two of the chair’s stretchers had broken loose.

  “You ought to fix that chair straight away,” Estell said, “or you should have nowhere to sit. Polly and I will be using the other two.”

  The continued hard feelings surprised Polly. She’d thought Estell loved her brother.

  Tom moaned as he rolled off the chair leg to get away from Polly. “She treats me like a wretch, she does.”

  “That’s because you are,” Estell said. She held out her arms. “It’s my income what pays for all this, such as it is. Should you find work and contribute to our income, you’ll have a say in what goes on here—not until.”

  Listening to the young woman, Polly began to understand and respect her. She’d rarely seen a woman take charge in a household and the sight brought a smile to her lips.

  “You’re leaving,” Tom said, “so what do you care?”

  Polly looked at Estell.

  “Not for two months.”

  “I shall never see you ’gain,” Tom moaned. “I’ll do wha’ever I want.”

  Polly kept her eyes on the younger woman. Estell clearly became uncomfortable.

  “I were going to tell you once you got settled. The company as employs me has opened offices in New York. They want me there to help. They believe I am…well, I’m good at sorting things out.” She smiled proudly, then frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  “You might have told me,” Polly said angrily. “You want someone to keep your drunken brother so you won’t feel bad about going.”

  “No!” Estell said. She pressed her mouth into a hard line and looked at the floor. “You love each other. Yes, he needs help and I’ll not be able to give it soon. I’ve taken care of him for a long time.”

  Tom had rolled onto his stomach and become motionless.

  “I didn’t mean to trick you,” Estell said. “You love him,” she added pitifully.

  Tom began to snore.

  Looking at him, Polly swallowed her anger. “Yes, I do.”

  * * *

  As fall began in late September of 1880, Polly saw her father. She told him about her flight from Bill and about Tom and Estell.

  “It’s not right you should leave your husband for another man,” Papa said with a stern look. Then his expression softened some. “He weren’t a good husband, though.”

  At least he doesn’t take Bill’s side.

  “He came looking for you,” Papa said, “but I didn’t know where you were.” His stern look returned. “You’ve abandoned your children.”

  “No, I haven’t. Bill and the nurse plotted together to take them. If I’d stayed they would have done me in. I were certain she’d poison me.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Not clearly, but they wouldn’t have put it out in the open, would they? At the very least, Bill would have put me in the madhouse. The nurse said as much.”

  “So says the sister of your lover.”

  “She’s not the sort to mislead. If I was sent to Bedlam, what good would I have done my children then?”

  Papa looked at her for a long time.

  “One day, I’ll take care of them again,” she said, “but for now, Nurse Flake has them. I watched her for nearly a week. She’ll do a good job of it, if you want to know the truth. Better than I did, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “Is that demon still after you?”

  “How do you—” Polly cut herself off, then couldn’t keep herself from asking, “The Bonehill Ghost?”

  Papa narrowed his gaze as he looked her in the eye. “Ah, Mr. Macklin,” he said.

  Polly nodded. She had the urge to leave immediately and return to Tom.

  “I have not thought of him for many years,” her father said. “Your grandfather knew him. Mr. Macklin were a drunkard. Met a terrible end. Your grandfather would have told you the Irishman fell off the Blackfriars Bridge because he were besotted. Those who loved him believed so, and he were buried in hallowed ground. Others say drink destroyed him, that he leapt to his death, and it were a mistake to put him in hallowed ground. Misery loves company. They say he serves the devil now, preying upon those who drink too much.” Papa raised one eyebrow. “Is he after you?”

  Polly glared at her father. He’d never thought the Bonehill Ghost haunted her. She decided against explaining herself. “I haven’t had a drink in well over a year.”

  Papa kept his eyes on her. Polly tried not to blink. After a lengthy pause, he said, “I have opened a lot of locks for Magistrate Walters over the years. He sits at the Lambeth Street court Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. For a beak, he’s a decent sort. He’ll help us with your separation from your husband.”

  “What kind of locks?” Polly asked.

  “I’m a locksmith,” he said indignantly.

  “Does he often lock things and throw away the keys?”

  “They would be things he doesn’t have keys for and can’t be opened with a betty, things taken from family people. In his work with the police, he comes across plenty of things as needs a locksmith. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Family people? You mean criminals.”

  Papa didn’t respond.

  Then Polly remembered something about the incident involving the strongbox. “Magistrate Walters is your friend at the Lambeth Street Police Court. You told me about that after your arrest years ago.”

  Papa’s lips drew back in a grim smile. “He saved me from going to prison, saved us all, you and Eddie too.”

  “What happened?”

  “Billy and Rob Bowker, brothers and dragsmen they were, threatened to harm Eddie if I didn’t crack that peter. It were the third such lockbox I’d opened for them, each while under the same threat. I knew they’d bring more, and didn’t want any part of it. The push in the box was a great sum, hundreds of pounds. I took it to the police at Lambeth Street, told them I wanted to talk to Magistrate Walters about it. He weren’t there. They held me two days. The third day I would meet the Bowker brothers in the afternoon to hand over the opened strongbox, and I were worried if I missed the meeting time what they’d hurt Eddie.”

  Realizing that Papa had no other choice but to help the criminals, Polly
felt ashamed of herself for having once believed that he’d eagerly embraced wrongdoing.

  “Walters, he came in the morning of the third day, I told him about the Bowkers and their box, and we plotted to capture them. I’d cracked a box for Magistrate Walters once too, did it for nothing because I thought I might need his help one day. Good thing I did. When the Bowkers come back for their box, hidden constables waited for them. The brothers went to prison. I’ve had a debt of service to the Magistrate since. He’s done well by what I’ve opened for him over the years. He values my service enough to do me a kindness from time to time.”

  Without her father explaining completely, Polly understood that Magistrate Walters had enriched himself with treasure from the boxes Papa had opened for him over the years, boxes no doubt taken in raids on criminal enterprises.

  “You were right when you called me a criminal. I know it’s wrongdoing, what I do for him, even though he’s with the police court.”

  “You’ve done it for your family,” Polly said. “No one could fault you for that.”

  He nodded slowly, perhaps not agreeing with her completely. “If you’ll stay the night, we’ll try to see him tomorrow. I won’t bring up the children with Walters—it would be asking too much, I think.” His eyes became hard again. “I expect you to sort that out on your own later.”

  The next day, they arrived early at the Lambeth Street Police Court, and waited through much of the day before they were brought before Magistrate Walters. In moments, they obtained for Polly an order of legal separation from her husband on the grounds of persistent cruelty and a maintenance order that would require Bill Nichols to pay her one pound, three shillings per month unless he successfully contested the orders within thirty days. In the brief discussion Papa had with the Magistrate, Polly remained silent.

  With Polly’s help, Papa then wrote to Bill telling him about the legal proceedings and threatening to assemble the witnesses—particularly the neighbors from the Trafalgar Street rooms and the Heryfords—needed to have him convicted of persistent cruelty should he try to contest the orders.