“Daft, are you, love?” Annie laughed, not unkindly. “Now, just tell me Polly, how would I get that sort of money?”
Polly winked and leaned close. “Well, as it ‘appens I just might be set to come into a small fortune, y’see. And I might be willin’ to share it.” She showed Annie the letters in her pocket and explained her scheme—and let on like she knew who the author was and was only willing to share the money because she was totally broke, herself, and needed a bed for the night. When she finished her proposition, Annie glared at her. “But Polly! That’s blackmail!” The anger in the other woman’s eyes and rasping voice astonished Polly.
She drew herself up defensively. “An’ if it is? Bloke should ‘ave thought of that before ‘e went about dippin’ ‘is Hampton into a bloke’s arse’ole! Besides, Annie, this ‘ere bastard’s rich as sin. And what’ve you got, eh? A dead ‘usband and a sickness eatin’ away at you, ‘til you can’t ‘ardly stand up. If we went to a magistrate, this ‘ere bloke would go t’prison. I’m not talkin’ about ‘urting a decent sort of chap, I’m talkin’ about makin’ a right depraved bastard pay for ‘is crimes against God an’ nature. An’ ‘ow better should ‘e pay, than to ‘elp a sick woman? I ask you that, Annie Chapman, ‘ow better to pay for ‘is sins than to ‘elp a woman ‘oo needs it most? Think of it, Annie. Enough money t’go someplace where it don’t rain ‘alf the year an’ the fogs don’t make it near impossible to breathe of a night. Someplace warm, even in winter. A decent ‘ouse wiv a roof over and enough to eat, so’s you aren’t weak all the time, wot lets the sickness gets a better grip than ever. Annie, think of it, enough money to pay a real doctor an’ get the sort of medicines rich folk ‘ave . . .”