A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (2 page)

Even fragile Bernice rolled her eyes at that. Her uncle, Benjamin Sand, worked the sewers as a tosher. His two sons had recently joined the ranks of countless mudlarks, who scavenged along the banks of the river. They earned their crust working amidst the worst of the smell. “Would he have us shut up indoors in this heat?” she scoffed.

“Not me,” Polly said. “I’m with you.” For much of July, when the extraordinarily high reek coming from the Thames was at its worst, she’d stayed indoors. Fear of the various diseases borne on bad smells had fed the city-wide uproar over the Great Stink. Those who could, had fled London, at least temporarily. Parliament had shut down. While those of a higher station had the luxury of avoiding exposure, the lower classes took their chances in order to keep their livelihoods. Although much of Polly’s work was done indoors, she had become so lonely, hot, and miserable through July that enduring the odor for a bit of freedom didn’t seem so bad in August, especially as the stink had lessened somewhat.

“Bernice,” Sarah said, sneering, “you don’t have to have any of the gin. Leaves more for the rest of us.” As Bernice looked downcast, Sarah turned to Martha. “How did you get so much?”

Martha shrugged, pushed the red hair out of her round face, and pulled the jar out from under the hem of her skirt. “Last night, when Da sent me to the Black Dog with his bottle to fetch his drink, I poured off half of the pint into the jar. Filled his bottle back up with water, I did. He calls the publican a macer for giving me watered-down drink, but he never suspects me. I’ve done it twice before for my brother. Today, it’s for us. We’re celebrating Polly’s birthday.”

“That were five days ago,” Polly said.

“So, we’re late,” Martha said. “Let this be your
new
birthday.”

“Yes. Why not? Papa and Eddie didn’t remember me on the twenty-sixth. My new birthday is August thirty-first.”

“In honor of your birthday,” Martha said, holding the jar up in a toast. She took a sip of the filched gin, made a face, and passed the jar. Polly accepted the drink eagerly since she hadn’t had anything to eat since early morning. Her father had promised to bring home potatoes. Although Fridays were usually a short day for him, had he come home on time, she would not be with her friends, but busy fixing supper. She’d done her piece work, fur pulling, for the last ten hours. Polly relished the break in the monotony of doing what she considered her mother’s work. She had few fond memories of Caroline. With her death, Polly had left school and her friends there to begin a life of toil.

Polly raised the jar to her lips, held her breath, and swallowed quickly to avoid tasting the horrible liquid. Unadulterated and fiery, the gin forced a painful cough from her. She quickly offered the jar to Bernice. Predictably the girl shook her head. Polly passed the gin to Sarah.

Polly’s Papa wasn’t the drunk Martha’s Da was, nor as gullible. He and her brother, Eddie, locksmiths by trade, worked a barrow with a foldout workbench on the street most of each day. If she did her chores and her piece work, her father didn’t bother to keep up with her activities. In what precious free time the young girl had, she did as she pleased.

“Bernice lost the game last time, so she has to go first,” Martha said, “and then it’s my turn.”

Bernice smiled nervously, nodded, and swallowed hard. Sarah mocked her. Clearly, Bernice didn’t like the game, but as clearly, she wanted the other girls to like her. The late light caught her face as she narrowed her pale blue eyes with a defiant look, glancing left and right along the alley before beginning. “The Bonehill Ghost has been at it again. He violates at least one girl a night—” She paused, looked at Sarah, and added, “—always the selfish ones.”

Sarah huffed.

“He grabs them in his metal claws,” Bernice continued, “and makes them look him in the face. The girls fall insensible at the sight of his fiery eyes.” Finished, she looked down, apparently disinterested in the reaction her words had on the others.

Polly took Bernice’s words as fact because such stories about the Bonehill Ghost were common. The idea that he went after selfish girls was the only part of her statement new to Polly.

Sarah’s expression suggested she thought little of Bernice’s offering. Even so, she grinned and that made Martha grin. They had spoken of the Bonehill Ghost before. Martha had brought to their gatherings stories about the demon from her mother, who had been friends with Mary Evans, one of his early victims. “His name was Mr. Macklin,” Martha had said. “He was an Irish rummy who jumped off the Blackfriars Bridge, and was buried in hallowed ground at Bunhill Fields. Because he took his own life, he cannot rest. He’s half ghost, half demon, doing the Devil’s work, stealing souls. He goes about his work with a tippler’s glee. The glow of Mr. Macklin’s eyes is the devil’s brand. They are red because they’re bloodshot from too much drink. A bottle of gin that never empties, no matter how much he takes from it, hangs from a chain round his neck. His rummy breath is so potent, he can set it ablaze, and breathe blue flame. He’s not fixed firm to the ground, but bounds about, leaping over houses at great speed to catch his prey.”

Polly had thought the Bonehill Ghost sounded much like Spring-Heeled Jack of South London folklore. He had the same ability to jump high, the metal claws, and flaming blue breath. Such menacing spectres added a frightful element to the considerable mystery and danger of a London night.

Dusk descended and shadows crept up on the girls. Telling such tales at that hour, they knew they tempted fate, yet that was part of the game they called “Tell me a dreadful.”

Martha’s and Sarah’s grins loomed skeletal in the dimming light.
Their faces are enough to scare away death itself,
Polly thought. Since the Grim Reaper had crept close enough to steal family from each of the girls, perhaps defiance of death was what the game was all about. The contest started with the recounting of something dreadful. Then each of the other girls in turn had to add to the tale with a fact, a lie, or a guess. They drew liberally from local folklore in an effort to frighten. The first to flee for the safety of home became the loser, the winner the one who provoked the response.

Facts rarely surprised Polly, and she believed she could spot a lie. The folklore fell somewhere in between, punching holes in the wall between the prosaic world in which she lived and worked in daylight and the supernatural possibilities of the night. Polly found the glimpses through the holes exciting. She’d never lost the game. Occasionally, she’d won.

“Do you know what
‘violate’
means?” Sarah asked.

“Of course I do,” Bernice said. “You only ask because you want me to explain it so you’ll know.”

Sarah scoffed but dropped her challenge, a hint of worry in her features.

“My turn,” Martha said. She took a sip of the gin, coughed and wiped her watering eyes. “They say some of the girls who met up with Mr. Macklin got such a bad case of the vapors they’ve gone glocky and will never be right in the head again.” She looked around to assess the effect of her words.

Sarah responded with a shrug. Polly agreed that Martha’s addition, although no doubt true, was a weak play. Polly had heard of such severe cases. Diseases abounded in the dank, smelly gutters and gullies of the city and got into people through their noses. She couldn’t imagine, though, how the vapors might be dispensed from the eyes of the Bonehill Ghost. As she prepared for her turn, she remembered something about his breath.

She nodded sagely as if to confirm the truth of Martha’s words, an important play before elaborating with falsehood upon an opponent’s offering. “Throughout the city,” Polly said, “whether he’s seen or not, Mr. Macklin causes the worst cases of the vapors. The blue flame he blows on those poor girls isn’t just his rummy breath. By day, he leaps back and forth over the Thames, filling his chest with the foul air above the water. His burning breath carries with it the poisons of the river.” Then she thought of something that gave her a shiver.

“Oh, but like the blue of flame in daylight,” she said, “you cannot see Mr. Macklin in bright light.”

Martha glanced at Polly with mischief in her eyes, and nodded toward Bernice. The girl had bowed her head, perhaps in prayer.

Sarah fortified herself with another sip of gin before her turn. “One of the poor girls,” she said, looking rather pleased with herself, “one named Bernice, by chance, can no longer speak, and does nothing but stare into the distance and drool
all day
.”

Bernice gasped and looked up upon hearing her name. Martha and Sarah gazed at the girl in the half-light, their grins straining toward grimaces. Bernice’s eyes had grown so large, they seemed to glow in the gloom.

Polly got a ghostly chill, even though she believed Sarah’s offering a lie.
Good play
. Using an opponent’s name, and the unknown in Sarah’s statement—both brilliant.
What is the poor victim, Bernice, staring at all day? Something stuck in her mind, her memory—the moment she met Mr. Macklin!
Polly stifled a giggle.

She found herself glancing around to see if anyone or anything approached along the alley. Although she feared an attack from supernatural forces, she told herself she watched for ruffians who patrolled the back lanes, looking for the weak to prey upon. The stench of the two privies that stood within a fenced court at the eastern end of the lodging house was all that assailed the girls. When the gin came back around, Polly took a larger swallow to fortify herself, and passed the jar to Sarah Brown.

“It’s your turn,” Sarah said, poking Bernice with an elbow.

“Don’t,” the girl said, shoving Sarah’s shoulder. “I’ll take my time.”

Bernice remained quiet for a moment, then pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked up. She took a deep, steadying breath. “It could be the vapors,” she said tremulously, “but I think the Bonehill Ghost is like the Wampus Cat of the Cherokee Indians. My cousin Tom told me about her. He lived in America for a time. She’s half woman, half lion, an evil spirit in the forest with glowing red eyes. The Indians fear to find her while hunting. If you look the Wampus Cat in the eye, you’ll go mad. The Indians don’t care for the mad, so they just waste away.” She shuddered at her own tale, and looked embarrassed for having told it.

Pure guesswork,
Polly decided. Still, whether Bernice knew the truth of what she’d said or not, Polly thought the tale she told sounded right. Giddy from the gin, she nodded enthusiastically, and grinned her approval to Bernice. The girl offered a brittle smile and Polly stifled another laugh. Sarah sneered.

Taking a sip of gin before her turn, Martha made a sour face. “I think this foul brew was poured from Mr. Macklin’s bottle,” she said, turning to her left and spitting the liquid out. All but Bernice laughed out loud. “Forgive me,” Martha said, “that’s the best I’ve got.”

“No,” Sarah said, “You must take your turn or you’ll lose.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t be fair, would it?” Martha asked. “Give me a moment.” She became quiet for a time. As the moment stretched on and the darkness deepened, Sarah became impatient and poked her. Martha perked up and faced her audience again. “The Bonehill Ghost is stealing the souls of those who look him in the eyes,” she said slowly, ominously. “The demon, Mr. Macklin, can take the soul of an infant right out of its mother’s womb, and that’s why so many criminals are born with no conscience. Although I don’t know the tune, I know the words of a song he sings when he’s hunting souls:

“The soul of you, the whole of you, that’s all what you can preach.

“The soul of you, a hole in you, as what your screams beseech,

“When darkness wants to sort you out, no more or less shall do.

“I take my time, and when I’m done—”

When her voice trailed off, Polly and Sarah spoke in unison: “Finish it!”

“Sorry,” Martha said, “but the only ones to hear it sung all the way through are those poor girls who lost their souls and haven’t regained their wits.”

“Oh, Martha,” Polly said, laughing, “that’s good!”
A mix of truth and lies,
she thought. Polly assumed Martha had made up the song and had been unable to find within her imagination an appropriate end to it.
Yet the lie she told covering her failure—truly clever.

Sarah laughed as well. “Yes,” she said. “Makes up for all your mag-fibs.”

“You think I made that up?” Martha asked.

Bernice nodded vigorously, hopefully.

“How could I think of that so quickly? No, it’s truly his song. One winter evening when my mum was young, she dashed inside her home just in time to get away from a dark figure chasing
her
. She’d heard the song riding the chill breeze that pursued her indoors, and then a thump at the window. When she turned to look out, she found the words of the song written in the frost on the window pane. The end of the last line had been wiped clean by a bird that struck the window. The poor creature lay dead on the walk outside. It had broken its own neck to save her. If she’d heard or read that line, she might have gone mad. Mum wrote down the words before the frost melted.”

“Why haven’t we heard it before?” Sarah asked, scoffing.

“Mum told me the story last night and showed me the words.”

Polly decided that she’d been wrong—Martha’s explanation had the ring of truth. Despite the warmth of the evening, Polly’s small hairs stood on end and she had an urge to shelter indoors against the terrors of the night. She held herself in place, and tried to hide her fright.