stand out from among the Marys. “Polly” sounded fun-loving and gay. A man seeking female companionship might have chosen her over her companions simply because her name was Polly.
In the photograph affixed to the file, she lay in a box made of what looked to be galvanized tin. One hesitated to call it a coffin. A coffin was made for one person, and it was buried with them. This contained someone else’s remains a half hour before, and probably someone else’s a half hour later. The galvanizing process involved submerging the tin in molten zinc for durability. That box must have held hundreds of bodies. For all I knew, both victims had used the same one. There was no way to differentiate one box from another. There was no shroud, nor any form of lining; merely bare metal. No dignity, no personality, merely anonymity. How did you end here, Mary? I wondered. You were once so full of life and promise.
In fact, she was full of life an hour before her death, witnesses claimed. She’d been sitting in the Frying Pan public house, having a glass of gin, making jokes with her friend, and bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have enough money for a bed for the night. She did have a new bonnet, however, and on the strength of that she was certain to make up the money she needed. Mary was not beautiful, but she was presentable enough. She was in her forties in a profession whose members rarely reached fifty and lived in a district in which the average age of death was around thirty-five, yet she still lived. She was resilient. She knew the cruelty of life, but she was optimistic. She knew the dangers, or at least, she thought she did. She wasn’t prepared for her killer, but then who would be?
A friend, whose statement was in the file, had met up with her later in the evening, sometime around two in the morning. Mary had already served several clients on the strength of that new bonnet, but had just as quickly drunk the money away again. She was drunk and still hadn’t the ready for a bed. She was a confirmed drinker, an “alcoholic,” to use the fancy new professional term. She could not quit. Given the choice, she had chosen a drink over even a place to sleep several times that evening. She lived to drink and had died because of it. Had she spent the few pennies she made on her bed the first time she earned it, she’d have been safely tucked away when the Whitechapel Killer chose his first victim.
I put down the file and picked up another.
Annie Chapman, the second victim, was what is known as a casual prostitute. She made her living as a worker in crochet and by making and selling paper flowers, but in order to pay for the drink to which she had become addicted, she occasionally stepped out with men. She was a sad case. Annie was forty-seven, plump and consumptive, but well liked at her boardinghouse, where she was known as Dark Annie. In fact, one of the men she stepped out with was considering making the arrangement more permanent. The reputation left behind by both victims was that neither of them would be missed, but the truth was that Annie would be missed by many tenants and even by the landlords where she stayed. The sermons that preached that such a wicked life inevitably turns a woman into a shrill harridan were not strictly true.
Annie had found herself in a rare argument a few days before with another local woman which came to blows, leaving her bruised and feeling low. She had considered going to a casual ward on September seventh until she recovered. Three days later she was still feeling ill when the owner of her lodging house came asking for rent. He claimed she was drunk and told her to pay him if she intended to sleep there that night. She went out to make the few pence for her bed the only way she could. Unverified claims put her at the Ten Bells Pub on Church Street early the next morning, probably having spent the rent on drink like Nichols. An hour later, she was found nearby in Hanbury Street
In the photograph affixed to the file, she lay in a box made of what looked to be galvanized tin. One hesitated to call it a coffin. A coffin was made for one person, and it was buried with them. This contained someone else’s remains a half hour before, and probably someone else’s a half hour later. The galvanizing process involved submerging the tin in molten zinc for durability. That box must have held hundreds of bodies. For all I knew, both victims had used the same one. There was no way to differentiate one box from another. There was no shroud, nor any form of lining; merely bare metal. No dignity, no personality, merely anonymity. How did you end here, Mary? I wondered. You were once so full of life and promise.
In fact, she was full of life an hour before her death, witnesses claimed. She’d been sitting in the Frying Pan public house, having a glass of gin, making jokes with her friend, and bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have enough money for a bed for the night. She did have a new bonnet, however, and on the strength of that she was certain to make up the money she needed. Mary was not beautiful, but she was presentable enough. She was in her forties in a profession whose members rarely reached fifty and lived in a district in which the average age of death was around thirty-five, yet she still lived. She was resilient. She knew the cruelty of life, but she was optimistic. She knew the dangers, or at least, she thought she did. She wasn’t prepared for her killer, but then who would be?
A friend, whose statement was in the file, had met up with her later in the evening, sometime around two in the morning. Mary had already served several clients on the strength of that new bonnet, but had just as quickly drunk the money away again. She was drunk and still hadn’t the ready for a bed. She was a confirmed drinker, an “alcoholic,” to use the fancy new professional term. She could not quit. Given the choice, she had chosen a drink over even a place to sleep several times that evening. She lived to drink and had died because of it. Had she spent the few pennies she made on her bed the first time she earned it, she’d have been safely tucked away when the Whitechapel Killer chose his first victim.
I put down the file and picked up another.
Annie Chapman, the second victim, was what is known as a casual prostitute. She made her living as a worker in crochet and by making and selling paper flowers, but in order to pay for the drink to which she had become addicted, she occasionally stepped out with men. She was a sad case. Annie was forty-seven, plump and consumptive, but well liked at her boardinghouse, where she was known as Dark Annie. In fact, one of the men she stepped out with was considering making the arrangement more permanent. The reputation left behind by both victims was that neither of them would be missed, but the truth was that Annie would be missed by many tenants and even by the landlords where she stayed. The sermons that preached that such a wicked life inevitably turns a woman into a shrill harridan were not strictly true.
Annie had found herself in a rare argument a few days before with another local woman which came to blows, leaving her bruised and feeling low. She had considered going to a casual ward on September seventh until she recovered. Three days later she was still feeling ill when the owner of her lodging house came asking for rent. He claimed she was drunk and told her to pay him if she intended to sleep there that night. She went out to make the few pence for her bed the only way she could. Unverified claims put her at the Ten Bells Pub on Church Street early the next morning, probably having spent the rent on drink like Nichols. An hour later, she was found nearby in Hanbury Street
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