Every Hour until Then, page 13
“I don’t want to go back to the US,” I told Calan as we walked across the main gallery of the London Museum toward the stairs that would take us to the second floor. “I could be on a ship heading home in just three days’ time. But there’s so much more to do here.”
“Hopefully Chamberlain can get a compromise,” Calan said, “though I’m in agreement with Winston Churchill. I don’t think appeasing Hitler is the answer. He’s a bully, and nothing is ever good enough for bullies. They take and take until someone stops them. Appeasement will only buy us a few more months. I think war is inevitable.”
I couldn’t let on that I knew he was right. I just didn’t know enough about the timeline to know when war would begin. Would it start in three days? Three months? Or three years?
“Is that all that’s bothering you?” Calan asked, his perceptive gaze on my face.
I smiled, despite the uncertainty of both my paths. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not one to confide in coworkers.”
“Ah,” he said. “This has something to do with a man, doesn’t it?”
“What?” I frowned at him as we climbed the large staircase. Again, the museum was quiet as people continued to prepare for war. Several of the volunteers had even stayed home. “Why would you assume my unwillingness to confide in you is because of a man?”
“If it was about a friend or an elderly aunt, or some such thing, you wouldn’t have trouble telling me. But if it’s about a man, I could understand your reticence. You might be afraid that I would get jealous.”
I laughed. “That is the least of my concerns, Mr. McCaffrey.”
He joined in my laughter, and I appreciated a moment of lighthearted banter. It was difficult to come by on days like today, but Calan had become a good friend and had made many hard days bearable.
When we arrived in the office we shared, Calan went to the folder with some of the Jack the Ripper letters, which was lying on the desk. “I plan to go through more of these today.” He shook his head. “It’s a daunting task to sift through them and determine which ones are real and which ones were written by imposters.”
“Sir Rothschild brought another file over from the Crime Museum yesterday. There are hundreds of letters to comb through. I can look over the other file while you’re working on this one.”
“Would you please?” he asked. “I’d like to put a few of them on display. The Dear Boss letter, the Saucy Jacky postcard, and the From Hell letter are the ones most likely written by Jack.” He had kept these aside, and I’d looked over them already. They were all written in similar handwriting, with words intentionally misspelled, and they each addressed information about the murders that wasn’t widely known to the public when they were written. The Saucy Jacky postcard was postmarked October 1, 1888, and referenced the Double Event, but it appeared to have been written before September 30th, which was the date of the murders. People in 1888 questioned if the Double Event was intentional or accidental. Had Jack targeted Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, or were they random victims? If they were both linked to the Freemasons, then I knew they weren’t random. It was one of the reasons I wanted to be on Berner Street tomorrow. To see if I could figure it out.
“The others are harder to pinpoint,” Calan said. “They were sent from all over the place, but they all have such similar themes and wording.”
“I’ll grab the other file from Sir Rothschild’s desk,” I offered.
I left our office and entered Sir Rothschild’s. He left every Wednesday afternoon at the same time and didn’t usually return until close to four. He had told me that I could find the file of letters in his locked drawer and that the key to his desk was under volume one of The Building of Britain and the Empire on his bookshelf. Once I had the key, I took a seat at his desk to open the lock.
The drawer was full of several files. I set the key aside and began to look through them to find the one I needed.
One of the folders wasn’t labeled, so I took it out to glance at the contents and was surprised to see a familiar name on several newspaper clippings. Michael Maybrick.
But what was even more shocking was the contents of the file. From what I could gather, Michael’s brother, James Maybrick, a cotton merchant, died of arsenic poisoning on November 10, 1888, and his wife, an American named Florence Maybrick, went on trial for his murder. The case was made even more high-profile because of their connection to Michael, the famous composer. Michael believed Florence was guilty and was one of her biggest adversaries in court and in the newspapers. It was known that Florence had cheated on her husband and that she wished him dead.
“May I help you, Miss Voland?” Sir Rothschild stood at his office door wearing his coat and hat, carrying a walking stick.
I jumped, though I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, and glanced at the clock. I’d been looking through the file for over half an hour. “I’m sorry. The time slipped away from me. I was looking for the Ripper letters, and I stumbled upon this, instead.”
He took off his hat and set it on the coat-tree in the corner of the room. “Are you familiar with the history of the Maybrick trial?”
“This is the first I’ve learned of it, though I am familiar with Michael Maybrick.”
“Ah, yes, the composer.” Sir Rothschild took off his coat and hung that up next. “An exceptionally talented man. Some think that if he wasn’t part of the trial, Florence Maybrick would have been acquitted. She spent fourteen years in prison before her sentence was overturned and she was released.”
“She didn’t do it?”
“Who is to say? The courts decided that she was guilty, and then they overturned their verdict years later.”
What would Sir Rothschild think if I told him I knew Michael personally? That I’d heard him perform in my mother’s drawing room?
“It was a sad case,” Sir Rothschild said. “But nothing you need to concern yourself with. The file you’re looking for should be clearly labeled.”
“Of course.” I tucked all the newspaper clippings back into the Maybrick file and returned it to the drawer before finding the file I’d come for.
“Would you like me to relock the drawer?” I asked him.
“It’s not necessary. I have some work to do with the files. Feel free to leave the key on the desk.”
I smiled and then stood, trying not to feel awkward. Even though I had been in the drawer before and Sir Rothschild had shown me the key, I still felt like I was trespassing.
When I was just about to leave the room, Sir Rothschild’s voice stopped me. “Will you be joining us at Cliveden again this weekend?”
“That is the plan. Though I suppose it will all depend on whether we’re at war with Germany by then.”
“Ah yes, that. One can only hope that Chamberlain is doing the right thing. It would be a shame to go to war again when Hitler is only trying to take care of the Germans in the Sudetenland.”
“You think it’s wise to give in to Hitler’s demands?” I asked, a little surprised.
“I don’t think they are unreasonable. He just wants what is his. Can you fault him for that?”
“The Sudetenland belongs to Czechoslovakia.”
“Only since the Great War.”
“I suppose I don’t know enough to make an informed opinion.”
“No, you do not, Miss Voland.” He smiled, and his mustache curled up, but there was no warmth in his gaze. “I do not mean to insinuate that you are incompetent, on the contrary. But this is so much bigger than it appears on the surface. Millions of lives will be affected by the decisions made in Munich. We can only hope that things turn out for the best.”
I returned his smile, though I sensed condescension in his voice. It was the first time I’d heard it since I’d met him.
I left his office, wondering not for the first time where Sir Rothschild placed his allegiances. He’d spoken highly of Hitler at the Astors’ house party a couple weeks ago, and again today. Did he really think the German dictator was a good man? Or that Fascism was a smart move for Europe? He wouldn’t be the only one, but it was still alarming. My grandmother Maggie had lived through WWII and watched the fall of Fascism, claiming it had become disgraced after the war. But here in 1938, there were still many who applauded its ideals.
I was not one of them.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Calan asked as I reentered our office.
“Yes,” I said, holding up the file of Ripper letters.
“That should keep you busy for a while.”
As I sat at my desk, I was thankful for the letters, hoping they’d distract me from thoughts of tomorrow in 1888.
If all went as planned, I would see Jack the Ripper in person.
13
London, England
September 29, 1888
It had been raining all day, just as I knew it would from reports I’d read in my other path. My feet and hands were so cold, I could do nothing to get them warm, though I suspected it was more from my nerves and less from the weather.
“Are you certain you’re ill?” Mother asked as she entered my bedroom one more time before she and Father left for a ball at Devonshire House. “I really hate for you to miss the ball. The duke’s son will be there tonight.”
“Spencer Cavendish is over fifty years old,” I protested.
“And a bachelor. It’s rumored that he’s looking for a wife, and a young one at that. He needs an heir.”
I pulled the covers closer to my chin, truly feeling ill—not only from the fear of going to Whitechapel tonight and seeing Jack the Ripper, but from the thought of marrying a man older than my father.
“I do not feel well enough to attend the ball,” I told her. “Please give my regards to the duke and duchess.”
Mother was wearing a beautiful blue ball gown with sapphire earrings and a matching necklace. She was lovely. I almost envied her passion for society. I didn’t mind a party or two, and I enjoyed things like the house party that the Astors hosted at Cliveden, but balls, especially in 1888, were another thing entirely. They were so exhausting.
“I’ll have Duffy bring you some ginger tea and honey.” Mother shook her head in disappointment. “If this infernal rain would stop, perhaps you would feel better.”
She left the room with the train of her gown sweeping soundlessly across the carpeted floor. I stayed in bed for another half hour, accepted the tea that Duffy brought for me, and then told her she needn’t check on me for the rest of the evening.
When the house was quiet, I slipped out from the covers and removed a pile of clothing from under the bed. I’d been collecting them for the past week, asking Duffy if there were any discarded items that the staff might want to donate to Toynbee Hall. She’d asked the servants in the neighboring homes, and they’d brought several things to me. I’d gone through them and created an outfit that I hoped would disguise me in Whitechapel. After I was done with them, I’d see that they were donated to those in need.
Within ten minutes, I was dressed in a worn gown with a tattered jacket and a shabby bonnet. I hoped it would be enough to keep me warm, though I doubted it. Once it was wet, I would be colder than ever. I shivered just thinking about it.
The clock in the hall struck eleven times, which meant that Austen would be waiting in his carriage out front. We would get to Berner Street around eleven thirty and then wait for Jack and Elizabeth to appear.
I turned out the light in my room and then tiptoed through the hall, down the stairs, and into the front entry. Thankfully, the staff were probably in bed and my parents weren’t expected back until close to sunrise, so I could leave without notice.
The rain fell at a steady cadence as I left my house. Austen’s carriage was waiting just as he promised, and when I appeared, he stepped out of the vehicle and sprinted toward me with an umbrella.
“Thank you,” I said quietly as he put his hand on the small of my back and led me to the carriage. Miles offered his hand for me to climb in, and Austen followed.
“I cannot stress enough the foolishness of this errand,” Austen said without a proper greeting. “I pray you and I do not live to regret it.”
“Good evening, Austen,” I said as I sat next to him, pressed close in the tight carriage. “I hope you’re well tonight.”
“I don’t know how you expect to identify this man in the darkness. No doubt he prowls about on nights such as this because he knows it’s impossible to see him.”
“There will be some light from the businesses and homes nearby.”
“Your optimism is unfounded, Miss Kelly.”
I sighed. When he used my last name, it was never a good thing.
The sound of the horse’s hooves against cobblestone was the only noise that filled the carriage as we traveled across London to the East End. The damp, cold air seeped into my bones, and I longed to press against Austen for warmth, but it would be foolish. The more I touched him, the more I longed for his touch. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to be in his company. I still thought of his impassioned speech in the garden the night of my parents’ ball, and I often wondered what might have happened if I had encouraged him—if I would encourage him now.
If I didn’t need to sacrifice this life for Mary, would Austen and I be planning a wedding even now?
The tension between us suggested that perhaps we would.
“Miles will drop us off several blocks away from Berner Street and return for us later,” Austen finally said as we neared Whitechapel. “You must stay close at all times, and do not question me. If I say run, run. If I say hide, hide. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“We cannot change history in any way. You cannot try to be a hero.”
“I’m well aware.” I started to feel irritated at his tone, as if I were a child and didn’t understand the dire circumstances of our errand.
“We are there to observe,” he continued, “and if you don’t get the view you want, then you have to accept it.”
I finally turned to him. “I’m not foolish, Mr. Baird.”
“I’ve never thought you were foolish.” He studied me in the darkness, his voice softening. “I do not wish for you to be disappointed, Kate, that is all.”
His words warmed me, and I leaned back in the seat, allowing our shoulders to brush. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“This goes against my better judgment, but I know how much it means to you.”
He didn’t move away from me as we turned onto Commercial Road and then a smaller lane where the carriage came to a stop.
Austen stepped out of the carriage and helped me alight. The street was darker than I anticipated, and the rain was falling faster, but Austen opened his umbrella and held it over my head. My heart pounded hard, and my palms were sweating, despite how cold they were. Thankfully, there was no one within sight to see the two of us leaving a gentleman’s carriage.
“I’ll return here at 1:30 to collect you,” Miles said. “The copper on this beat comes by every thirty-five minutes, and his last round will be at 1:20. If you’re not back by 1:50, I will leave and then return.”
“We should be here by 1:30,” Austen assured him.
Miles nodded and then clicked his tongue as he prodded the horse to move.
“How does Miles know the police officer’s schedule?” I asked Austen.
He didn’t answer, but wrapped my hand around the crook of his elbow and held the umbrella over us as he directed me toward Commercial Street.
“Is Miles not concerned about what we’re doing in Whitechapel at this hour?” I persisted.
“Miles has been with me for many years,” Austen said. “He doesn’t ask questions.”
“That’s a bit disconcerting. Do you two often find yourself in situations such as this one? Should I be worried?”
He drew me closer and sighed. “You, on the other hand, ask a lot of questions.”
“Because you don’t give me enough answers.”
“Perhaps that’s by design.”
“Where were you those two weeks after my mother’s party, Austen? Your staff doesn’t even know where you go.”
He was quiet for so long, I wasn’t sure he would answer, but he finally said, “I have a little cottage near Loch Lomond. I go there when I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“I remember the cottage,” I said, though I hadn’t thought of his Scottish getaway in a long time. It took almost an entire day of travel to get there. “You used to go there with your parents.”
“It’s the only place I feel like I can think properly.”
I let the discussion go because I knew why he’d gone there after our conversation in the garden. He needed space and time away from me.
Though it was now half past eleven, the activity on Commercial Road was surprisingly busy. Pubs and lodging houses lined the street with grocers’ and coffee houses still open. In the glow of the lights from doors and windows, I saw that Austen had also dressed a little shabbier than usual, and he had a shadow of a beard on his face. He wore a flatcap and a wool jacket that looked worn. But regardless of his clothes, he was still handsome, and when his gaze caught mine, it caused my pulse to skitter in a way that was new and unfamiliar.
As we passed rough-looking men on the street, I was thankful for Austen, who had a commanding and possessive presence about him. The other men looked at me, but none approached. Though it didn’t stop women from calling out to him or using suggestive language as we passed by.
Soon, we came to the corner of Commercial Road and Berner Street. Dutfield’s Yard would be on the right, about a hundred yards from the corner.
“Elizabeth Stride is supposedly an attractive woman,” I whispered to Austen as we turned onto Berner Street and walked slowly. “She was seen with at least three different clients the night she was killed. The first was around eleven o’clock, somewhere here on Berner Street. The second was at quarter to twelve near 58 Berner Street. And the third is supposedly Jack, who was seen with Elizabeth around 12:35 and 12:45 by two separate individuals here on the corner. Then, according to contemporary eyewitness accounts, though the police never took official statements, they were seen by a fruit seller—” I paused as we passed a grocer on the right. The building was dark, but there was a half window on the main level with an oil lamp burning, displaying fruit and sweetmeats. “There, a man named Matthew Packer said that a man and woman, the woman meeting Elizabeth Stride’s description, purchased grapes from him at quarter past twelve. Then, they stood across the street for some time in the rain eating them.”
