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

by Alan M. Clark

  “I dropped it when I saw the Porter coming for me,” she answered, then added quickly, “I’m certain someone else has found it by now.”

  Mr. Overguard shoved Polly into a chair beside Alice.

  Mrs. Fielder stood over the two inmates and looked at Polly. “I should think you might find one or as many as two buttons of the same type, but three? There is no doubt in my mind as you took them from the laundry.”

  She turned to Dumps Alice. The young woman didn’t look up. “Watching through a window of the women’s dayroom,” Mrs. Fielder said, “I saw the exchange.”

  The Matron had known of the trade, yet had waited until the end of the afternoon work period to administer discipline. At least Polly had been able to give the cigar and cigarette ends to Mary Ann Monk before the work period commenced.

  Turning back to Polly, Mrs. Fielder said, “I could have charges brought for destruction or theft of workhouse property what could have you in prison.”

  Polly tried to imagine the suffering in prison. The punishment must be worse than what she experienced in the workhouse, but she couldn’t quite imagine how. Still, there would be a lot of people there, some of them innocent, that she might help. Surely, they were in greater need of good deeds than those in the workhouse. Polly would deserve whatever she got, her suffering a worthwhile sacrifice for the help she’d given to Mary Ann.

  “Since this is your first serious offense, however—” The Matron turned away, became silent for a time as she looked out the window into the Girl’s Yard. “—each of you shall have two meals withheld and spend a day in a refractory cell.”

  She turned to Mr. Overguard. “Take them to the cellar and place them in the cells at opposite ends so they cannot speak to one another.”

  The Porter walked them out, through two halls, past the women’s dayroom, and the kitchen to the gloomy stairs that led down into the damp darkness of the stone cellar. Mr. Overguard lit a lamp hung beside the door at the head of the stairs, took it in his left hand, and led the way, glancing back to make sure his charges followed. Polly had been in the cellar before on errands for the kitchen. She suffered no fear. Nor, apparently, did Dumps Alice.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the Porter opened a stout wooden door. “In you go,” he said to Alice. She entered without complaint and he shut the door and slid a bolt into place to lock her in.

  Polly and Mr. Overguard walked on for some distance, making their way past the covered bins of vegetables for the kitchen, an area of discarded furniture and other household castoffs from the live-in staff, and shelves filled with dusty boxes of written records. A periodic sound of scurrying betrayed the presence of rodents. The Porter batted cobwebs out of their path. As they passed another cell, Polly heard a sound of movement coming from behind the stout wooden door.

  She followed Mr. Overguard into a section of the cellar that she had never seen, where a part of the stone foundation had given way and allowed a small cascade of debris to enter the chamber. An open bin filled with mildewed gray rag, no doubt made from old workhouse uniforms, stood against the stone wall. Numerous buttons, like those she’d traded for tobacco ends, littered the floor around the bin.

  Finally they came to another cell. The door stood open and Polly stepped around the Porter and entered. Mr. Overguard stared at her curiously, holding the light out to get a better look. She used the opportunity to look at the cell, knowing there would be no light once he left. Polly saw a worn wooden pallet against the sweaty stone wall and a stained bucket on the dirt floor.

  “I’ll bring water,” the Porter said as he shut the door and slid the bolt into place.

  She had never known such complete darkness. I might just as well have been dropped into a giant pot of black ink. Polly waved her hand before her eyes, but couldn’t see it. She felt for the pallet and sat on its edge.

  Still, she remained unafraid. Somehow, she’d got what she’d wanted.

  What might Mrs. Hooks think if she could see me now?

  Of all the sacrifices she’d made for others in the workhouse, her current punishment seemed most proper. To suffer for performing a good deed was what she’d needed all along, what she most deserved. If the situation felt so right, then surely God looked upon her favorably.

  Feeling contented, Polly lay back on the hard wooden pallet and slept.

  38

  A Position

  Upon her release the next day, Mr. Overguard took Polly to the Matron’s office.

  “I gave you the minimum punishment, Mrs. Nichols,” the woman said, “because I know you’ve been a generous and helpful presence here. I now offer you an opportunity, and I hope you’ll not make a fool of me.”

  “No, ma’am.” Polly didn’t want to be given anything. She didn’t deserve a gift of any sort, but she kept that opinion to herself while she listened.

  “The Clerk of Works for the police headquarters in Wandsworth, Mr. Cowdrey and his wife, Sarah, are looking for a domestic servant, and I’ve suggested they consider you for the position. You would have room and board. You’d cook and clean and do the shopping for wages of three and ten pence per week.”

  Polly frowned. She had no desire to help those who didn’t truly need. That would do her soul no good.

  “Don’t you want the position?” Mrs. Fielder asked with a scowl. “You would turn your nose up at a warm bed and more than three shillings? When I suggested you might go to prison yesterday, you had a better response.”

  Polly did remember her desire to help those in prison, and with the memory came an idea. If she took the position and then robbed Mr. Cowdrey, he’d surely have her arrested and sent to prison where she might do more good.

  “Please, excuse me, Mrs. Fielder,” she said. “If I have a sour look, it’s because my stomach is unsettled. Yes, the position would be most welcome. I’m very grateful you thought of me.”

  The matron seemed satisfied. “They are well-respected members of their community, they are religious, and they are teetotalers, so there shall be no drinking in their home. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fielder, I do.” At least while with the Cowdreys, Polly would not be tempted with drink. Pleased with the turn of events and the plan she formed, Polly smile quietly to herself, careful not to allow the matron to see her eagerness.

  * * *

  The Cowdrey home, a modest brick building with gardens in front and back, looked cozy in its middle-class neighborhood of new homes. When Polly arrived in the early evening of May 12, 1888, both Samuel and Sarah Cowdrey answered her knock upon their door. They were a gray-haired couple maybe ten years older than she, Mrs. Cowdrey a little plump and Mr. Cowdrey thin and stoop-shouldered.

  “Please come in, Mrs. Nichols,” Mr. Cowdrey said. “Welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you,” Polly said as she stepped inside, carrying a small travel bag with her few possessions. The interior, not the least bit fancy, had plain furnishings. Aromas of simple foods hung in the air. The walls and woodwork had a fresh coat of paint, and the floor shone with a fresh polish.

  Mrs. Cowdrey must have seen Polly looking at the framed tintype above the fireplace mantle of a group of constables. “We have no children,” she said a bit sadly, “but Sam likes to think of the men he works with as family.”

  Mr. Cowdrey smiled and nodded.

  Good, a man whose family is the law.

  “We have a room prepared for you,” Mrs. Cowdrey said. “Please come with me and I’ll show you.”

  The room was about eight by ten feet, with a little window opposite the entryway. A small bed and a cabinet occupied most of the floor. Polly saw that she would be comfortable.

  “It’s lovely,” she said.

  “Have you eaten?” Mrs. Cowdrey asked.

  “No, ma’am, but my understanding is that I’m to do the cooking.”

  “Not this evening. You’ll start tomorrow. Tonight you’ll dine with us.”

  Polly had not expected such generosity. She felt a tight
ening of her throat and a flash of shame.

  Mr. Cowdrey seemed to notice her discomfort. “Well, I should think you’d want to get settled in, Mrs. Nichols. Come, Sarah, you can show her the kitchen after supper.”

  “Thank you,” Polly said as they exited the room.

  “I’ll call you when supper is served,” Mrs. Cowdrey said, shutting the door behind her.

  Polly didn’t feel good about what she would do to these fine people. Yet, they would recover easily, and her plan would send her where she’d do much more good.

  Polly sat on the bed and closed her eyes. Loving God, although Mr. and Mrs. Cowdrey have grown old, help them to have a family before it’s too late. If she cannot become pregnant, please have some poor woman leave her bundling child on the doorstep.

  I might have left Alice for Mrs. Cowdrey, but not Eliza—the sweet child was too easily given to fright.

  Polly felt a bit odd toying with such notions in the midst of prayer. Her weariness had caught up with her.

  While most of the time Polly thought herself powerless to truly influence the resolve of the Lord, she also hated to think that her words might set him on a course that went against the desires of those for whom she prayed. Wondering whether Mrs. Cowdrey might not want a bastard, she quickly added to her prayer, If Mrs. Cowdrey would find that desirable.

  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.