Yes, she’d been known to enjoy a drink or two. Was it such a sin? Was it reason for Will to take her babies away? To run off with that woman and tell those damnable lies?
The things she’d sacrificed for those children. Working as a servant for those liars, the Cowdrys, who’d thrown her out on the street after accusing her of stealing money and clothing. Yes, maybe she’d nicked a shilling or two from the dresser top when she cleaned, not that they’d miss it, the rich bastards. But she’d never stolen a stitch of that woman’s ugly clothing, let her be struck down if it be untrue.
She’d slept on stone in Trafalgar Square. And yes, she’d given her body to those men who would pay to have it. They called her a mollisher. A dollymop. They judged her and turned their backs. But what did they know? She had five little mouths to feed. And who was going to do it—her husband? She’d given him everything. And what had the rotten bastard done? Left her for a nurse. The very nurse who’d delivered their fifth child. Taken her babies from her and told a bunch of stinking lies.
If you’d asked Polly what she was doing on the streets that night, looking fetching in her new bonnet, that’s what she would’ve told you. “I’ve got five mouths to feed.”
He seemed nice enough, this one. She’d met him in the Frying Pan.1 The same shithole she met all of them in. She’d had no choice but to come to the pub that night, having been turned away from the lodging house for want of a fourpence. No choice, no, sir. She told herself this, though chances were she would’ve found an excuse to go to the pub whether she’d been turned away or not. She hadn’t had enough money for a bed, but she’d had that new bonnet. And in a shithole pub, a new bonnet was as good as gold to the woman who wore it right.
He was tall, this one. Very tall, with kind eyes and a clean-shaven face. He hadn’t given his name at the pub, or maybe he had. Polly couldn’t remember, to be honest. He’d been pouring drinks down her like she was on fire. I’ll call him the Tall Man, she thought. He’d bought her another drink and another and another. He’d complimented her eyes. Her face. Told her what a lovely bonnet she had. I knew that bonnet would pay for itself. He’d put his fingers in her, right there, under the table. Told her he wanted to split her open and taste her.
“Well then, why don’tcha,” Polly had said, taking the Tall Man’s fingers and putting them in her mouth.
It was nearly three in the morning when Polly found herself stumbling along Buck’s Row,2 a dark and narrow cobbled street of brick warehouses on the right and modest working-class terraced houses on the left, the Tall Man beside her, smoking his pipe. The windows of the houses were dark. Most of the poor rabble had to be up for work in two hours.
Where were they going again? Bloody hell, she’d forgotten. His place, most likely. Or a rented room, if he was the married type, which most of them were. Polly knew it was a sin. Sometimes, if you must know, she felt no better than the nurse Will had run off with. But she wasn’t out here on the streets because she liked it. She didn’t want to hurt no one. She just wanted to see her five babies again.
They passed the Board School on the north side of the street, the tallest building in sight. Five stories of brick and glass, surrounded by a six-foot wall. Polly thought of the fortunate children sleeping inside. Dressed in their smart uniforms, learning their lessons. My Edward’ll go there someday. He’ll go there, and his brothers, too. When I get back on my feet, that’s where I’ll send ’em. It was a nice thought. One of the last Polly Nichols ever had.
They walked until the brick wall that bordered the schoolyard gave way to an unpaved drive. The Tall Man stopped. His pipe had gone out. He took it from his mouth, tapped away the ash and dottle, and put it in his coat pocket. It was particularly dark on this part of the street, but Polly could make out the closed gates of Mr. Brown’s stable yard. She knew those gates well enough. Mr. Brown was a regular customer, and Polly had crossed those gates on many a night, usually when Mrs. Brown was off playing whist with her sisters.
She turned back to the Tall Man and was surprised to find his face very close to her own. Much closer than it had been a moment ago.
“Do you know what I am?” he asked.
“Sure I do, love,” said Polly, tracing a finger from his chest down to his belt buckle. “You’re a big, strong beast, and I’m a helpless little lass.”
“Do you know what this is?”
“Yes…”
The Tall Man grinned.
“You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what’s happening.”
Polly could feel him through his trousers. He was, as she’d heard another unfortunate woman say, “harder than a loaf of day-old bread.”
“Sure I do, dear,” said Polly. “It’s already happening.”
“Yes… it is.”
He smiled at her. Polly knew this because she could see his teeth in the dark. She smiled back.
“We’re not goin’ to a boardinghouse, are we?” said Polly.
The Tall Man let a nervous little laugh escape his lips—barely more than an exhale.
“No,” he said. “No, we aren’t.”
“You wanna do it right here, don’tcha.”
“Yes…”
“Do it, then,” she said, grabbing hold of him over his pants. “Do it right here.”
The Tall Man pushed her backward, and she fell to the pavement, landing hard enough to scrape her back bloody, though she would never know it. “Careful, love,” said Polly with a laugh. Oh, to be drunk and properly prigged and paid when it’s done. It wasn’t all bad, this life.
He knelt in front of her, hiked her dress up, and ripped the buttons of her drawers open. Now he takes me, thought Polly. Now he hammers my nail for a minute or two. Three at the most. And then he pours into me and collapses on top of me like a sack of grain. Poof goes the pipe, and off he goes to his wife, leaving pretty Polly and her blue bonnet to pray the blood comes on time.
But none of that happened. Instead, the Tall Man grabbed a fistful of Polly’s hair with his right hand—Too hard! Too hard, he’s hurting me!—yanked her head back, elongating her neck, and cut her throat in two swift, powerful strokes, severing all but her spine.
Polly didn’t feel it. She was drunk, sure. But even if she’d been as sober as a judge, she wouldn’t have seen his left arm move the way it did. So quick, it was like he hadn’t moved at all. She didn’t feel any pain, either. Not at first. Only the strange sensation of needing to take a breath but not being able to. He was thrusting his left arm down at her, again and again, while holding her hair in his right. There was no flash of silver. No knife. Not that she could see. How is his arm moving so fast?
The pain came. A pain she could feel deep inside, as if he was dragging the blade of a knife along her bones, separating them from the muscle, one strand at a time. Pulling fingernails out over every inch of her body. It was a pain she’d known five times before, when her babies had come, and she’d felt that tearing and breaking and bleeding. When she’d been sure there was something wrong. It can’t possibly hurt this much. When she’d been sure that her body would never be able to put itself back together. But it won’t, Polly, she thought. Not this time, love.
Light-headed… Too much to drink…
The Tall Man was pulling something from her stomach. Polly thought of the midwife, pulling her babies out. Covered in blood, the umbilical trailing out behind them. But there was no baby this time. Only the cord and the blood.
My insides… he’s pulling my insides out…
The thoughts no longer belonged to her. They were somewhere else now, along with the pain. With no muscle or flesh left to support it, Polly’s head tilted back, lifting her eyes to the stars. It hung there, held in place by the stem of her exposed spine, a ripe apple hanging from the end of a branch. Her pretty new bonnet—It’ll pay for itself—slipped back over her brown hair as the life poured from the gash in her throat, spilling onto the damp street. The lights growing dim and the sounds distant. She had a thought. A lovely
thought of her Edward in that school uniform. What a handsome figure he would cut! What a fine student he would be! She had another thought, this one of her five babies in a small boat, holding on to one another in turbulent red waters. And then they were gone. Lost over the edge of the world.
So ended the forty-three years of Polly Nichols.
Henry woke to pounding from downstairs.
Someone’s at the front door.
He glanced over at the clock on his dresser. Six fifty-five in the morning. He’d gone to bed only an hour earlier. He put his head back on the pillow and let the pounding continue. They’ll give up and go away soon enough, he thought.
They didn’t.
“Damn it!”
He threw on a shirt and went downstairs, reminding himself along the way that he really needed to get around to hiring a maid. Leaving New York in such a hurry had whipped up a whirlwind of loose ends that Henry was still trying to sort through.
He opened the front door, shielding his eyes from the morning light. Three men in suits and bowler hats were on the other side, chains hanging from their pocket watches and gloomy expressions hanging from their faces. They all looked to be in their forties, and they all had fantastic mustaches. As annoyed as he was, Henry had to grant them that. Fantastic mustaches. He’d always preferred to keep his face clean shaven, even when whiskers were the fashion. He’d been twenty-five when he became a vampire. His beard had still been a splotchy and sparse one. Just as a man stops aging when he becomes a vampire, so does his beard stop thickening.
The shortest of the men stepped forward. He had a high-pitched voice that didn’t fit his gruff, broad-shouldered appearance.
“Henry Sturges?”
“Yes.”
“Frederick Abberline, Scotland Yard. These are my associates, Inspector Moore and Inspector Andrews.”
Understand, I was prepared for this. Every vampire with half a brain prepares for the day the police show up at his front door. I’d decided long before that I would be cooperative and courteous when they finally came. If asked to “go downtown” for questioning, I would gladly oblige. I’ve never understood those vampires who panic at the first hint of suspicion. Who kill detectives on their doorsteps and become fugitives. Why? Let them question you. Let them put you in handcuffs. Let them lock you in a cage if they want to. So what? What cage can hold you? What sentence can’t you outlive?
Remember, there were no forensics in those days. No databases or photo IDs. Provided you had the money, assuming a new identity and changing your address were relatively easy.
“Mr. Sturges, are you acquainted with a Mary Ann Nichols? Sometimes called Polly?”
Am I? I don’t believe so. I haven’t fed on any women here.
“No. Why?”
“Mr. Sturges, were you in Whitechapel last night?”
I don’t think so. Then again, I’m not sure exactly where Whitechapel is.
“No. What’s all this about?”
They’re frightened of me.
“Mr. Sturges… a woman was murdered last night. On Buck’s Row.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But what does it have to do with me?”
“You’re absolutely sure you don’t know a Polly Nichols?”
“I just told you I didn’t, sir!”
Henry collected himself. “Look, gentlemen,” he continued, “it’s very early, and I’ve had very little sleep. Now, I’m happy to cooperate in any way I can, if you’ll only tell me what any of this has to do with me.”
One of the other inspectors, Andrews, stepped forward. He was taller and leaner than Abberline, his thick brown mustache connected to muttonchops.
“Mr. Sturges, your card was found among the victim’s possessions.”
Andrews held something black aloft between his thumb and forefinger. He flicked it, like a magician displaying a jack of clubs and asking Is this your card? Henry wondered if the inspector had practiced this maneuver. Nevertheless, in this case, it was Henry’s card. White lettering on black stock. Unmistakable.
I was more intrigued than surprised. Whatever fate had befallen this “Polly,” I knew I wasn’t directly responsible for it. I hadn’t killed any women since arriving in London, or in recent memory, for that matter. But I had handed out a number of cards. I sifted through names, faces, trying to remember exactly whom I’d given them to. A haberdasher in Mayfair. A furniture maker in Buckinghamshire. A coachman or two. And Irving. Henry Irving. That was the name that jumped out in front.
The third inspector, Moore, was next to speak. His was the thinnest and least impressive of the mustaches.
“You say you’ve had very little sleep. Am I to take your meaning that you were out late?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Dining with friends, all of whom would swear to the same, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
Moore barely concealed his disappointment. The lead inspector, Abberline, stepped forward again.
“I can see that we’ve inconvenienced you, Mr. Sturges. Please forgive us. Perhaps we can make arrangements to sit later in the day, when you’ve had ample time to prepare yourself?”
I didn’t appreciate the insinuation that I needed time to “prepare.” Oh yes, you’re so clever, Inspector. You’ve caught me off guard. How will I ever keep my story straight?
Henry made arrangements to meet the inspectors that afternoon. He dressed quickly and set off on foot, well aware that Scotland Yard would likely have placed a tail on him.
I saw him almost immediately. It was Andrews—one of the men who’d been at my door. From my house, I made my way east, toward the river, then cut over to Parliament Square. He followed, taking care to keep his distance but doing a poor job of it. I diverted into the Westminster Bridge3 station, where I bought a third-class ticket and waited on the platform for the next train. Andrews bought a ticket, too. When the train arrived, the conductors stepped onto the platform and opened the coach doors. I presented my ticket and stepped aboard a third-class coach, making sure I sat nearest the door. Andrews presented his ticket and stepped into another third-class coach, behind mine. There were no automatic doors back then; the conductors simply called out that all were aboard and shut each of the coach doors before climbing aboard themselves. I waited for the train to begin moving, then, just before it entered the tunnel ahead, I opened my coach door and jumped back onto the platform. The conductor nearest me yelled—I don’t remember what, only that he was very upset. But not upset enough to stop the train. On it went, with Andrews still aboard. And what choice did he have? To jump off after me would’ve meant revealing himself.
Henry hurried back to the street and hailed a hansom cab.
“Eighteen Leonard’s Terrace, in Chelsea,” he told the driver.
He had to see Stoker at once.
“I’m not asking him that,” said Stoker.
“He’s one of the few men I’ve given a card to in London,” said Henry. “And as far as I know, the only vampire. If it was him, I need to know.”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t.”
“Stoker, I was with you all night. You can’t account for his—”
“I’ve known him ten years!” said Stoker, his face flushing red. “And I know what he is. But in those ten years, I’ve not seen him make a single error! Not one! Especially one so careless as dropping a bloody calling card! Nor have I seen him do anything remotely as vulgar as lay with a whore. If it were his desire, which, might I add, I’ve never known it to be, there are a thousand actresses in this city alone who would weep with joy at having their petals plucked by the great Henry Irving!”
Stoker’s breathing steadied, and his face began to drain back to its normal hue.
“Well…,” said Henry, “someone killed the poor girl and left my card on her body, whether intentionally or not. And I should very much like to know who and why.”
“I know someone who may be able to help. A friend, visiting from Portsmouth.”
“Oh? Is he a lawman?�
��
“A physician.”
“Christ, Stoker, the girl’s already dead. We don’t need a physician. We need a detective.”
“He’s not an ordinary physician.”
“How do you mean?”
“He has a rather… curious mind.”
Arthur Conan Doyle walked with purpose.
He always did, even if he had no purpose other than walking itself. He’d been “born with boundless energy,” his mother often said. An excitement that required constant exercise. In addition to running a medical practice and writing stories, Doyle was a cricketer, golfer, and goalkeeper for an amateur football club. He had a round face and cheerful eyes, and had it not been for his thick brown mustache, he might have passed for a teenager. His wife, Louisa, was expecting their first child. Some men cowered in the face of becoming fathers for the first time. Doyle was already looking forward to getting Louisa pregnant again.
After years of unsuccessfully submitting stories to various magazines, he’d just published his first novel, A Study in Scarlet, which featured a gifted detective named Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. John Watson.4 As a doctor and a detective novelist, Doyle had a keen investigative mind. He’d learned to develop it while in medical school, where he studied beside fellow authors Robert Louis Stevenson and J. M. Barrie. But it was one of his professors at the University of Edinburgh Medical School, Dr. Joseph Bell, who’d most impressed the young Doyle. Dr. Bell, or “Joe,” as his students called him, was a Scot known for his keen powers of deduction.
Doyle had a friend in Scotland Yard who knew the details of the Polly Nichols murder. Nichols was a prostitute, and the current thinking was that she’d been killed by a client—an all too common occurrence. Whitechapel was a rough part of London, especially for those women who walked the streets after dark. Official estimates put the number of prostitutes in Whitechapel at more than a thousand, and vicious attacks and murders were commonplace. Doyle learned that, in addition to Nichols, Scotland Yard was also looking at another recent murder, and trying to determine if they were dealing with the same killer.
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