Alistair Thomas Hargreaves had joined the Whitechapel police force in 1888, when the infamous Whitechapel murders began. He was young, enthusiastic and recently married to the beautiful Mary Moorehead. They lived in a small flat near Whitechapel, where she stayed and kept house while he went to work every morning and returned home every evening. It was the perfect life for a young couple just starting out. All that would change on August 31, 1888. Friday dawned with a late summer heat hanging in the air. It was an ominous sign of what the day would bring. By early evening, London would be mired in an ever-present feeling of fear that would loom over the city long after the final murder, nearly three months later. Alistair had just dressed and taken a sip of tea before there was a knock on the front door. . Mary was alarmed as he went to answer it. It was just after 5 a.m. and morning calls rarely brought good news. Alistair ran back into the kitchen, grabbing his coat and hat before kissing Mary on the cheek. “No time for breakfast, my dear. There's been a murder!" he hurried out the door into the approaching dawn. Daylight was creeping across the sky exposing the horrific scene but before Alistair and James could get close enough to take a look, they were pulled back and was told to control the small crowd of onlookers. It wasn't much of a job with only a few people lingering nearby looking at the body and the large amount of blood that had begun to dry on the cobbled alleyway. Violence and death mingled daily in the East End, so to many she was nothing more than a curiosity Mary Ann Nichols, known as Polly to her friends and family, was found shortly after 3.30am on Friday 31 August in Buck' ... in the middle. to the sheet… on top of the tea as the young men entered with the body. “What do we have here?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. He set the cup aside and approached the table. “You're not squeamish, are you? " he asked and removed the sheet. The smell was the first thing that reached Alistair. It was a mixture of alcohol, blood and fecal matter. He was a little relieved that he hadn't had breakfast. James, on the other hand, hadn't been so lucky. He turned and stood up in the corner, pulling out pieces of what he had eaten a few hours earlier. The stench of vomit added to Alistair's discomfort, but the doctor seemed nonchalant about James' reaction. "Spring, I see." The doctor responded nonchalantly. He had seen new and experienced officers, as well as some medics, revolt at the sight and smell of a dead body. He continued, making notes on a form and turned to the body.