Polly was saying in a deeply slurred voice, “Three times, Emily, I’ve ‘ad me doss money, but I’ve drunk it all. Every las’ penny of it. Three times. Never you fret, though. I’ll ‘ave my doss money before long, I will, and I’ll be back wiv you and the girls.” She patted her pocket and let out a drunken giggle. “Won’t be long at all, now.”
Whereupon Polly took her leave of Emily Holland and staggered away on a new course, down Osborn Street in the direction of the Shadwell dock fire, where she might presumably find paying customers in abundance. The other woman called a low-voiced “Good night!” after her and watched Polly for a moment longer, shaking her head sadly, then shrugged and pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and continued on her way, down Osborn Street in the opposite direction. James Maybrick waited impatiently until Emily Holland had disappeared into the wet night before moving down Whitechapel Road in pursuit, once more. John Lachley also broke from hiding.
Polly’s voice, badly slurred, drifted back to Maybrick. “Be nice, ‘aving an ‘ot fire to warm me cold fingers by.” She laughed drunkenly and reached the edge of the crowd which had gathered at Shadwell to watch the docks burn. Utter chaos reigned. Firemen swept continuous streams of water back and forth across the blazing dry dock and several doomed warehouses. Fire boats in the river added their drenching spray, trying to contain the inferno before it spread to any other warehouses with valuable contents.