A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Read Online Free PDF Page A

the sleepless hours before dawn when she awoke too early and could not find sleep. She thought a lot about the euphoric feeling and the giddiness she’d had at first when she’d drunk the gin on her thirteenth birthday, and decided that the next time she drank, she’d be careful not to have too much. Polly knew boys in the neighborhood who found a drink from time to time. George Prescott had made eyes at her. She might persuade him to share his gin.
    Polly felt particularly disagreeable one day in July of 1861. “Papa,” she cried, “I am miserable with my work.”
    “Everyone is miserable with their work,” he said. “Don’t be selfish.”
    His reaction surprised her, and she became silent. The idea that she was selfish troubled her since she had difficulty recognizing the trait within. Polly did her part and resented the suggestion that she didn’t. Still, the accusation stung and she didn’t know why. She felt as if she’d been carrying a terrible secret and forgotten about it until someone found her out.
    “Should you be a good girl,” Papa said, “you’ll rest in Heaven.”

4
    Selfish Prayers
     
    August 31, 1861
     
    The notion that she was particularly selfish continued to trouble Polly for some weeks. She didn’t want such a terrible trait. Selfish people had few friends and suffered unhappiness. Yet Polly couldn’t seem to step back from herself and assess the truth until the day she met up with trouble from an official of her church on her false birthday.
    “I’ll have to tell your father about this,” the man said, “unless you’re willing to tell me why you do these things. I should know if you lie.”
    Polly tried not to show her fear. She believed him to be a churchwarden for St. Bride’s Parish. If that were true, he was young for that role. He’d caught her drinking gin with George Prescott and two of his pals behind a tool shed in the churchyard. The three boys had fled. Too drunk to move fast, Polly stumbled. The man had batted the bottle of gin out of her hand and the vessel had fallen and spilled its contents into the dirt.
    He took her forcefully by the arm in a powerful grip, and drew her away from the shed. The bright afternoon sky, charged with white haze, blinded Polly as she emerged from the shade.
    He led her along the flagstone walk and through a door into the back of the church. Although her family belonged to the parish and she’d been in the church many times, she’d never seen these rooms. As they moved down a hall, she heard activity in a couple of rooms, but didn’t see anyone else. At the end of the hall, they entered a rectory office. The room smelled of polished wood and old men and had furniture made of lathe-turned and hand-carved fine hardwoods. Needlepoint upholstery covered the chair cushions. The desk, also hand-carved, and larger than the bed in which her father and brother slept, stood in front of a tall leaded window with fine drapery.
    The man took a simple wooden chair from one corner of the room, placed it before the desk and gestured for her to sit. Polly complied, fighting off her slight intoxication in order to sit upright in the chair. She glanced at the exit several times, trying to decide if she’d get away with making a run for it.
    He shut the door.
    “I am Mr. Martin Shaw, Churchwarden,” he said, standing over her with a stern look. “This is the second time I’ve caught you profaning Church property.”
    She’d seen Mr. Shaw in church on a Sunday, sitting in the pews with the middle class parishioners. He had indeed surprised Polly and her friends once before, about two weeks earlier. She and her young men had got away that time.
    “As long as I do my work,” Polly lied, “my Papa toils too hard to care what I do.”
    His expression remained unchanged. He was an earnest man, of average height and a thin build. His dark clothes, his long, sober face, framed by the rectangles of side whiskers, spoke of a man who believed the world