Every Hour until Then, page 17
“Who has the other one?” I asked.
“It’s believed that Sir Warren sent a personal copy to Prince Albert Victor, with his original notes from the trip, but that’s only speculation.”
“Why are there only two copies?”
“They weren’t meant for public distribution,” he said. “Just for Masonic reference.”
Mr. Hornby opened the book and began to page through it until he came to the place he was looking for. “Here is the account of the group that traveled with Sir Warren in 1874.” He stepped back and pulled a chair out for me to sit. “I’ll be at my desk if you need further assistance.”
“Thank you.” I set my purse on the table and smiled at the helpful man.
After he left, I took a seat and pulled the book toward myself, careful not to damage the pages. It was a thick tome with a red cloth cover and gold lettering. If it was one of only two copies that still existed, I didn’t want to be the person to ruin it.
Immediately, the name Sir Bernard Kelly jumped out at me, and next to it, Sir Robert Baird—Austen’s father.
In 1874, I took a team of amateur archaeologists and Freemasons to the site of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Each was intrigued by the work I’d previously done, starting in 1867 with my first trip to Jerusalem, and some were invested financially in the Palestine Exploration Fund. Others had interest in biblical archaeology for various reasons. Several of the team members brought their wives, and we spent many enjoyable days exploring Jerusalem and the surrounding countryside before we began our explorations into the tunnels in the Temple Mount.
Among those present with me in 1874 were Sir Bernard Kelly and his wife, Agatha; Sir Robert Baird, and his wife, Madeline; Mr. William Nichols, and his wife, Polly—
I stopped reading as my mouth fell open, and then I quickly reread the last line. Polly Nichols, the first victim of Jack the Ripper, was on the same trip to Israel as my parents! Father and Mother hadn’t once hinted that they knew Polly Nichols after she’d been murdered in Whitechapel—but then, why would they? She was a fallen woman and a murder victim. They wouldn’t want anyone to associate them with her. I continued to read, my pulse skipping with both fear and excitement as the pieces of a confusing and heartbreaking puzzle began to fall into place.
Mr. John Chapman, and his wife, Annie, were also in attendance, as were John Stride and his wife, Elizabeth. Thomas Conway was another member of the team, and he brought his wife, Catherine.
I reread the entry three times before I believed what I was seeing. Along with mine and Austen’s parents, the Nichols, Chapman, Stride, and Conway families were in Jerusalem with Sir Charles Warren in 1874. Thomas Conway was Catherine Eddowes’s common-law husband, and she sometimes went by Conway, though was back to Eddowes at the time of her death.
I could hardly wrap my mind around the information. There was no question that Jack the Ripper was somehow involved in the trip—and that the murders he committed were not random, but were intentional, calculated, and premeditated. He knew exactly who he was killing, but the question remained, why? And why were Sir Charles Warren and the other Freemasons covering up the murderer’s identity? Was Jack responsible for the Bairds’ murders? And why was my sister a victim, when she wasn’t on the trip to Jerusalem? If the pattern was repeated, it should have been my mother who was a victim, since she had been with the team.
But that begged yet another question. Why had all those women ended up in Whitechapel? They were from well-respected families, and none of their husbands had ended up in the poorest district in the city.
There had to be answers to my questions. But I wouldn’t get them from my parents in 1888. The only person who might know and might answer me was Austen. His parents had been there—perhaps he knew something. Was he aware that all these families had been with our parents on that trip?
I needed to ask him as soon as possible. Part of me wanted to look for him in 1938, to confront him and demand he tell me the truth. But I couldn’t risk being seen by him. I would have to wait until I woke up in 1888 tomorrow.
I scanned the rest of the chapter in the book, but I didn’t see anything else of importance. Sir Warren didn’t list any other members of his team, nor was there mention of Robert and Madeline Baird’s deaths. Instead, he discussed all the technical information about the archaeological dig and the treasures that had been discovered.
After taking up my purse, I found Mr. Hornby.
“Done so soon?” he asked as he rose from his desk.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Even more,” I told him. “I appreciate your help.”
He frowned at me, but then nodded and said, “Any time. Be sure to come back if you need anything else.”
I left the Masonic Peace Memorial with more questions than when I had arrived. But at least now I knew there was a connection between the Ripper victims, and that it had something to do with Freemasonry and the trip to Jerusalem fourteen years ago. I just didn’t know what it was.
Yet.
I was preoccupied with what I’d learned at the Masonic Peace Memorial as I entered the Lancaster House later that morning. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t piece all the women’s murders together. What could have happened in Jerusalem that led Jack to kill five women fourteen years later in Whitechapel?
“I think I’ve found them,” I overheard Sir Rothschild saying as I entered my office, where he and Calan were speaking. Calan was sitting at the desk, and Sir Rothschild was standing on the other side of it.
“Found what?” I asked as I took off my hat and put it on the hook near the door.
“Good morning,” Calan said with a smile as he rose from the desk.
“The paintings,” Sir Rothschild said. “It appears that they’re in a warehouse in Liverpool. I’m not sure how the mix-up happened, but I’ve been assured that the shipment will be on the next available train to London, and we should have the paintings by the end of this week.”
“That’s good news,” I said, though the paintings were of little consequence to me.
“Where were you this morning?” Calan asked, changing the subject. “You looked deep in thought when you entered.”
I’d been replaying everything I’d learned about the five victims in my mind—yet, nothing made sense. Polly Nichols’s husband was a printer on Fleet Street. Annie Chapman’s husband was a driver for a wealthy family in Windsor. Elizabeth Stride’s husband was a furniture maker and the son of a wealthy property owner. And Catherine Eddowes’s common-law husband had been in the military. How had each of those men been involved in the trip to Jerusalem with my parents, the Bairds, and Sir Charles Warren?
“Did you know that each of Jack the Ripper’s victims—at least four of them—were on a trip to Jerusalem in 1874 with Sir Charles Warren?”
Calan frowned as Sir Rothschild asked, “Are you serious?”
“Yes, and the only one who wasn’t on the trip was Mary Jane Kelly. But her parents were on the trip. You didn’t know?”
Sir Rothschild shook his head. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“I just read it in a book written by Sir Charles Warren himself called Jerusalem Underground, published in 1876.”
“How could this have been overlooked?” Calan asked. “Surely, someone in the past fifty years should have put this together.”
“Unless, like everything else, the Freemasons didn’t want it known,” I suggested. “The gentleman at the Masonic research library told me that there are only two known copies still in existence, and one of them might be in Buckingham Palace, which means they’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that it wasn’t widely known. All the families on that trip had ties to Freemasonry, and if people would have put the pieces together, they might have started to ask questions that the Freemasons didn’t want to answer.”
“What do you think it all means?” Sir Rothschild asked as he studied me. “Have you come to a conclusion?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Perhaps each of the women had gained information about the Freemasons that put their lives at risk. And Jack was out to silence them for good. Sir Charles Warren was helping him cover his tracks, because he, too, might have wanted their silence.” I thought of the book Mary had found in my father’s study. Did it have anything to do with the other murders? It was too early to tell, and I didn’t want to share too much with Calan and Sir Rothschild until I had more proof.
“That’s an interesting theory,” Sir Rothschild said as he leaned against my desk and crossed his arms. “But what about this one? What if the women were being killed as punishment to the men who had gone on the trip with Sir Warren? Maybe it didn’t have to do with silencing the women, but with threatening the men. Perhaps Jack wanted something from them that he wasn’t getting, and he was knocking them off, one by one, trying to tip their hand.”
“I hadn’t thought about that possibility,” I said as I considered the things I knew. My parents had forced Mary out of the house, and she was in hiding. Was it to silence her—or protect her?
“Either way,” Calan said, “it’s a solid discovery into the case.”
“But what remains is the why,” I said to them, tapping my chin.
The Ripper letters were stacked on my desk, but I’d read enough of them to know that they didn’t offer enough clues. I needed to know why Austen’s parents died and how the trip to Jerusalem linked all the victims. And the only person who might know was Austen.
“Do you really think you can unmask the man that history has chosen to keep hidden?” Calan asked me. “And, if you did, do you think people would believe you? There are a lot of people who enjoy the mystery surrounding Jack the Ripper, and they wouldn’t want to know the truth.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug.
“I need to get back to work.” Sir Rothschild sighed and pushed away from the desk. “Keep me posted on what you find, Kathryn.”
I nodded as the phone rang and Calan answered.
Walking to the window, I looked out at Green Park. A light rain had begun to fall on the autumn landscape as Buckingham Palace stood in the distance. A thought started to form. If I unmasked Jack the Ripper in 1888, that would mean that his identity would be known in 1938, as well. My grandmother had lived in 2001, and she had mentioned Jack the Ripper once that I recalled. She had said that even in 2001, his identity wasn’t known. Would I change history in 1888 and 1938 if I shared the truth with the world? And would I lose both my paths?
Panic raced up my limbs at the thought. Even if I unmasked Jack, I could never reveal his name. All I might hope to do was protect my sister. But even then, I could simply take her from Miller’s Court the night before her murder and send her somewhere far away. If she’d let me.
Yet, that might not be enough. If Jack needed my sister to die to keep his identity a secret, then simply sending her away wouldn’t work. He’d always be looking for her.
I needed to learn his identity so I could stop him. Even if that meant forfeiting both my paths. I couldn’t live with myself if I had the ability to save Mary and didn’t.
17
October 4, 1888
London, England
I didn’t waste a moment the next day. As soon as I was dressed, I walked out of the front door of 11 Wilton Crescent and pulled the ringer for number 12. Brinley answered the door with his familiar calm, though his eyes took on a sparkle for me.
“Good morning, Brinley,” I said to Austen’s butler. “Is he at home?”
“He’s in his study, Miss Kelly. Won’t you come in and I’ll see if he’ll receive you.”
I entered Austen’s home, and Brinley led me into the parlor, where I waited.
The rain that had been plaguing the city for the past two days had passed, but in its place was a cold dampness that seeped into my bones. I stood at the front window and looked out at the street. Carriages passed and people walked by—and still, Austen didn’t come.
I was about to throw my resolve to the wind and storm upstairs to find him for myself when the door finally opened, and he appeared.
His hair was disheveled, and he needed a shave. He hadn’t bothered to put on a coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up at his forearms.
Though I’d been prepared to see him, my heart still did a funny little flip, and I had to look down at my hands to steady the nerves that came to life in my stomach. It was getting harder and harder to see Austen, to remember his words to me in the garden and his kisses on Berner Street, and to know that our time together was coming to an end.
“Do you need something?” he asked. “I’m on a tight deadline and have very little time to spare.”
Again, his reference to work puzzled me. “What is it that you do?”
“I don’t think that’s why you’ve come.” He sighed. “What do you want, Kate?”
I lifted my chin and faced him with as much courage as I could muster. “I need to know what you know about your parents’ murder.”
“No.”
I stared at him for a moment and then said, “Why not?”
“It’s none of your business.”
My lips parted as I took a step closer to him. “None of my business? Do you know that the first four victims of Jack the Ripper were on that trip to Jerusalem with our parents?”
He frowned. “What?”
“Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes were all in Jerusalem with their husbands. My sister is the only one of the five who wasn’t there. But that means that one woman from each family who was on that trip will be killed by Jack the Ripper. And, if my suspicions are correct, your parents’ murder has something to do with the others.” I grasped his forearms. “I need to know what you know.”
He stared at me for a long time, as if weighing the risk of revealing the truth.
“I can’t tell you,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “And I don’t want you to ask me again.”
Anger came over me so suddenly, it took all my willpower not to shake him. Instead, I removed my hands from his arms and balled my fists against my thighs. “Why are you doing this? You know how frustrated I am that my father and Mary won’t answer my questions. Why are you so pigheaded and obstinate? You know that all of this has something to do with the Freemasons and the trip to Jerusalem. Yet you refuse to tell me because of your own stubborn, foolish, selfish reasons.” Tears stung my eyes, but I was more angry than sad.
He just stared at me.
I took a step back, wiping away my tears, not only because of his stubbornness, but also Mary’s. How could I help them if they wouldn’t let me? “For fourteen years, you’ve treated me with anger and indifference. I’ve tried to understand. Tried to be patient and faithful to our friendship.” My gaze slipped to his lips, and I thought of our kiss, and my heart felt like it was tearing inside me. When I lifted my eyes again, I saw anguish in his gaze. “I don’t know why you want to hurt me, Austen, but I can’t do this anymore. I know that your life has been one injustice after another. I know that you’ve been wounded, more than anyone should ever be—and I know you’re angry that I’m leaving here.” More tears fell from my eyes, but this time I didn’t wipe them away. “But I’ve never intentionally harmed you or pushed you away or shut you out. I’ve never broken your heart.”
“You’ve never broken my heart?” he asked, almost incredulous. “Every day I thought about you leaving, my heart broke a little more.” He lowered his arms, defeat in his voice. “Until one day, I realized there was nothing left to break.”
“What would you have me do?” My voice caught, and I had to swallow before I could continue. “Mary needs—”
“What about before?” he asked. “Before you knew that Mary needed you to save her? You were always going to leave, Kathryn.”
“But that was before—” I paused.
“Before what?” he asked.
I pressed my lips together, and for the first time, I was tempted to walk away from Austen and not answer him.
“Before what?” he asked again.
“Before you kissed me,” I blurted out, my cheeks growing warm. “Before I realized—”
He took a step closer to me, his voice low. “Before you realized what?”
This was madness. I couldn’t stay in 1888, so why was I playing with fire? Why was I about to admit to him that I loved him, desperately?
“I can’t keep coming back to you,” I said instead, more tears gathering in my eyes as I lowered my gaze. “If you won’t tell me about your parents, then I have nothing left to say to you. We both know how all of this will end, so why are we torturing ourselves?”
He remained silent.
“Good-bye, Austen.” I didn’t bother to look at him before I left him in the parlor and returned to my house.
I hated crying. I hated feeling defenseless and weak.
And I hated that I had walked away from Austen, and I couldn’t go back.
I entered our house and closed the door behind me, leaning against it, fighting my tears.
There was no future for us, and we both knew it. If I went back to him but couldn’t give him what he wanted—what we both wanted—then it would only hurt more. He’d push me away, I would get upset, and we’d be miserable. I would try to get him to accept what I had to offer, but he wouldn’t. And I didn’t blame him. If he couldn’t have all of me, he didn’t want any part of me. It was selfish of me to ask him to settle for less than what he deserved, because I couldn’t give Austen forever.
My tears came in earnest as I walked down the hall and entered my father’s study. It was the only room in the house the servants didn’t bother. And my father wouldn’t be home for hours, while Mother was still in bed.
