“Amen,” Polly concluded uneasily.
“Amen,” Mr. Shaw said, then cleared his throat. “Is that the manner in which you pray daily?”
“Yes,” she said, and he frowned.
Although Polly did believe in prayer, she didn’t pray daily. If she didn’t get what she wanted, she presumed that God could only hear and respond to so much, and that others more worthy had taken his attention. She and her family went to church rarely. They craved a day of rest from work, and Sunday was usually that day.
“Your prayers are all for you,” Mr. Shaw said.
Polly didn’t understand why he said that. She tilted her head questioningly.
“You prayed for your fingers to be stronger, for a husband to make you happier, and to be protected from illness. You only asked for your father to be happier so that he should treat you better. Do you always pray only for your own betterment?”
Polly understood, and saw the truth in what he said. She was selfish. Her father had been right, yet the problem was much worse than he’d made out. Uncomfortable with the revelation, she was dumbstruck. The intoxication of the gin had fled, and she felt suddenly out of control.
Mr. Shaw clearly saw her distress. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t think our Lord responds to selfish prayers,” he said quietly.
Polly, lost in thoughts of her past efforts at prayer, staggered to her feet and sat back down in the chair. She thought about when her mother was dying. Her prayers of that time were the first she remembered offering on her own. “Please, O Lord, don’t let her die and leave me motherless.” She had not been praying for her mother, but for herself.
Polly looked up at Mr. Shaw, and felt naked before him. She had revealed an ugly flaw in her character to an official of the Church. Yet the shame of that notion paled in an instant, replaced with a deep mortification as she realized she’d stood before God her entire life with such a deficiency.
A stinging tear formed in Polly’s eye.
No wonder she had such a terrible life. God would not look upon her favorably, had perhaps never smiled upon Polly since her birth. No wonder a demon had been sent to torment her several years earlier.
“I pray only for others,” Mr. Shaw said, “never for myself.”
Polly half-heard him. How had she come to such a sad state? Was there no way out of misery, then? She sobbed briefly before controlling her voice to ask, “Is there no time when I can pray for myself?”
He touched her cheek and smiled sadly. “Only in the most dire of circumstances. In a situation in which there is imminent danger and there is no time to find help, I should think. I believe He will respond only when we are imperiled and have no other to turn to.”
Polly wept openly for a time, unashamed to do so before the Churchwarden.
He shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with her reaction. “Pray for your father, and when he is lifted up so you shall be,” he said.
As she became calm, he too settled down. “Here is a penitent prayer that helps me,” he said. Mr. Shaw pulled a card from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Polly. “Say it with me.”
She read aloud from the card as he recited the prayer:
“Almighty God, of great goodness,
“I confess to you with my whole heart
“my failure to uphold your commandments,
“my wrong-doing, my unworthy thoughts and words,
“the harm I have done others,
“and the acts of kindness and proper deeds left undone.
“O God, forgive me, for I have sinned against you;
“and raise me up again;
“through Jesus Christ our Lord.
“Amen.”
“Keep the card and ask for forgiveness for your selfish ways often,” Mr. Shaw said, “and He will smile upon you.”
Polly decided he spoke wisely. He stepped back. She rose unsteadily to her feet and slipped the card into a pocket of her skirt.
“I shall not tell your father about what happened here today, if you will learn to pray for others, and promise not to drink again until you’re older.”
Polly wiped away her tears and nodded. She looked Mr. Shaw in the eyes. He was a good man.
“Yes, I shall—I’ll learn how to pray for others,” she said. “I can but try.”
Mr. Shaw did not seem to notice her omission of the promise not to drink. He moved to the door and opened it for her.
She gave him a grateful smile, then left the office to make her way home.
* * *
After her conversation with Mr. Martin Shaw, Churchwarden, Polly ceased to pray for herself. Instead, she prayed for the well-being of her friends and family, most fervently for her Papa. God did not choose to lift him up, and, consequently, her work load remained the same. Still, she persevered in her prayers, usually following them with the penitent one from the card Mr. Shaw had given her.
When bored, she scolded herself for being selfish.
Please, O Lord help others who labor to find their work fulfilling.
When she had coughing fits, sore hands, and an aching back from sitting for hours hunched over her work, she did her best to ignore the discomfort.
Merciful God, ease the suffering of those who become ill from their labors.
5
Risk
In the early evening of a day in May of 1862, Polly heard her father coming up the stairs of the lodging house to their second floor room. She opened the door for him. He carried something box-shaped, wrapped in a blue woolen blanket, the burden evidently heavy.
“I left my barrow in the lane in front.” He groaned as he set the box down beside his bed. “I’ll fetch it to the court and be right back. Leave that alone.” Papa gestured toward the odd package.
“What does it—”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned and left.
While Polly spooned potatoes into a bowl in preparation for supper, Eddie came in. Curious about the package, he began tugging at the blanket.
“Leave it be,” Polly told him. “Papa doesn’t want it disturbed.”
By the time she put her spoon down, Eddie had got the blanket off. Seeing the iron box underneath, a thing held together with rivets and metal straps, she forgot about Papa’s instruction. A heavy padlock with three keyholes was fitted through a hasp that held the straps in place and the lid of the box closed.
“It’s a lockbox,” Eddie said. “No, a strongbox.”
They heard their father hurrying up the stairs, and Eddie tried to cover the heavy chest up with the blanket again. He had not succeeded before Papa entered the room.
“Get away from that.” He turned and glared at Polly. “What did I tell you?”
“I told Eddie what you said.”
Papa grumbled, and shoved the box under the bed.
They ate their supper of potatoes and a bit of cold chicken Eddie had brought home with him. Then Polly cleared the table.
“Go out until bedtime,” Papa said, “the both of you. Don’t return until nine o’clock.”
He’d never asked for such a thing before. Polly thought the request a curious thing. Eddie had a confused look. They gazed at their father silently for a moment.
“Go!” he said.
Polly knew better than to question their father when he was in such a commanding mood. She and her brother filed out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the lodging house into the street.
Polly looked silently to Eddie for answers.
“When certain men come to talk to him at the barrow, he sends me away. Papa doesn’t want me to know what they’re saying, I think. I’ve watched from a distance.”
Intrigued and worried, Polly asked, “Who are they?”
Eddie shrugged. “A tall fellow with black hair and mutton chops. Another with no hair on his head, tattoos instead, but he’s hiding them under a hat. He’s a big, strong one with a mean look. I think they’re family people.”
�
��Criminals?”
Eddie nodded.
The worry had turned to fear, with a chill feeling in her gut. “What do they want?”
He shrugged again. “They look like they’re threatening him and he tries to calm them. It happened again at the end of the day. That’s why I weren’t with him when he come home.”
“What more?” Although she asked for it, Polly wasn’t certain she wanted to hear more.
“There’s lots of trouble along Fleet Street, especially near Farringdon Circus, lots of family people looking for advantage. Most of it comes to nothing. Papa’s good with his fists—I’ve seen him defend the barrow and our purse more than once. Try not to worry.”
“What about the box?”
“Something they want opened. As long as the Miltonians—”
“The police?” She had visions of her father arrested, being imprisoned, she and Eddie cast into the streets to fend for themselves.
“Yeah, if they don’t catch wind of it, Papa will be all right.”
Polly covered her eyes so her brother wouldn’t see how upset she’d become.
Eddie took her hands away from her face and looked her in the eye. “You are home too much.”
She nodded vigorously and grimaced to keep from tearing up.
“A pity,” he said, “but I suppose there’s nothing for it.”
Polly chose to believe he was being sweet to her in his own way. As he turned and walked off, she looked to take courage from his words and found none to be had.
Trying to keep her fears at bay, she wandered up and down the darkened lane until she heard church bells striking the nine o’clock hour.
Polly returned to her family’s room to find that Papa had hung up the blue wool blanket that had been wrapped around the strongbox across one corner of the room as a curtain.
“Don’t lift the blanket,” he said sternly.
“Yes, Papa.”
She heard him working on something metal—the lock of the strongbox, she presumed—with metal tools. The light of a lamp behind the blanket reflected off the cracked plaster of the ceiling. By that dim illumination, Polly dressed in her nightclothes and got in bed. She lay awake, unable to sleep for all her worry, listening to the sounds of her father’s work.
Eddie came in and received the same warning that she had from Papa. Polly heard him move about for a time, and eventually get into bed.
Then a curious thought occurred to her: Something exciting has happened. It might turn out bad for all of us, especially Papa, but it isn’t dull. Something is at risk.
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.
A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Page 4
