Every Hour until Then, page 22
“What’s wrong?” I asked, reaching up to cradle the back of my sister’s head. “Why are you crying, love?”
Austen slowly prodded us into the room and closed the door as I kept my arm around Mary. Without asking, he walked to the fireplace and put a few extra pieces of coal onto the flames to offer more light and warmth.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said to Mary, trying not to shiver from the cold or my concern.
“Joseph left,” she said as she wiped at her red nose.
“I’m so sorry, Mary.”
“I care for him. He—” She paused and shook her head. “He’s been good to me, Kathryn. As good as he can be. He has spared me from the worst sorts of horrors in Whitechapel. And he doesn’t ask for much. He helps pay the bills, and he’s pleasant to pass the time. He hardly drinks, and he never hurts me.” She pressed her lips together and looked down at her red, chapped hands. “He treats me like royalty and tells me he’s not good enough for me.”
I took her to the bed, and we sat on the edge. I gently moved a piece of her hair off her forehead and put it behind her ear. “What happened?”
“He lost his job,” she said, lifting her shoulder. “And he’s struggling to get more work. Which means.” She took a deep breath. “It means that I need to find another way to pay rent.”
I remembered what she’d told me before. That having one man was better than having several, and my throat began to tighten with alarm.
I squeezed her arm, not wanting to act shocked or mortified, but I couldn’t help it. My sister wasn’t a prostitute, but what choice did a woman in her position have?
“It’s not enough being a charwoman,” she said almost apologetically. “I can’t make the money I need to pay for this room with occasional domestic work. I could go to a boardinghouse, but I’d have to share a room with a dozen or more strangers, and that’s not cheap or safe, either.”
“We can help,” Austen said from where he was still standing near the fireplace. “You don’t need to live like this, Mary.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take your money. People will ask questions.”
“We’re not going to give you a choice,” I told her. I wanted to say that she wouldn’t have to worry about it after November 9th, but there was no way I could—unless. “I know why you left home. I know more about the Book.”
Mary’s gaze came up, and for the first time since I’d entered the room, she really looked at me. “What?”
“I can’t tell you how I know, but I’ve seen a letter written by Sir Charles Warren to Prince Albert Victor. The Book you saw is part of a larger one, split into five sections, and taken out of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem in 1874.” I wasn’t sure how wise it was to tell her all the details, but I needed her to trust me. “Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes were all on the trip with our parents and Austen’s. I think they knew about the Book, and that’s why they ended up here, just like you.”
Mary’s eyes opened wide.
“Austen and I have made plans to take you away from here,” I told her. “To get you to a safer place.”
“Where?” she asked. “Is any place truly safe from the Freemasons?”
“We’re sending you to America,” Austen said, taking a step forward. We had talked about what would happen to Mary once we took her away from Whitechapel but hadn’t planned to tell her now. “You’ll change your name, and I’ll see that my aunt finds a place of employment for you in New York City. You’ll blend in with all the other immigrants there and have a decent life. It might not be the kind you were born into, but it’s a better option than this one.”
Mary looked from Austen to me, as if she was weighing her options. As if she was trying to decide which would be a better life. This one—or the one he spoke about in New York.
“You don’t have a choice,” I told her, wanting to shake her into compliance. “You can’t stay in Whitechapel.”
She nibbled her bottom lip and looked toward the window with longing.
“Are you in love with Joseph?” I asked.
Tears gathered in her eyes again, and she lifted her apron up to her face. “I’m so ashamed, Kathryn.”
“Why?” I asked as I put my arm around her shoulder. “You didn’t choose this life. And you’ve made the best of your circumstances.”
“I can’t leave Joseph. He’ll get back on his feet again. He’s looking for a better job, out of Whitechapel.” She lowered her apron, her eyes pleading. “He wants to marry me, but he said he won’t until he can afford a nice home. He’s a good man.”
“Listen to yourself, Mary.” I frowned, angry and bewildered. “Every time we’ve been here, you were afraid of him coming back.”
“I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid he might find out I had a sister and then ask me too many questions that I couldn’t answer.”
I was still baffled. “You’d choose to stay in Whitechapel on the unlikely chance that he might make something of himself? You would give up the opportunity to work a decent job in New York? To start over with no threat of the Freemasons?”
“I-I think I do love him.”
I was about to tell her how foolish she sounded when I caught sight of Austen, standing quietly, watching us. And it struck me that I couldn’t judge my sister. Her love for Joseph was no less important or real than my love for Austen. And if I could, I would give up everything for him. All the plans I’d made in 1938, the modern conveniences I enjoyed, my work at the Smithsonian, even my life with Mama and Papa.
But I wasn’t given the choice because I wanted to save my sister.
And now I had to convince her to leave this place. There was no other option.
“I will give you some time to think about Austen’s offer,” I told her, trying to keep my voice level. “We’ll come back in a few days and see what you decide.” I’d take her away from this place by force if she didn’t come willingly.
Mary nodded. “I will think about it.”
“Until then,” I said, “I will leave a few coins for you to get by, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. Tears came to my eyes as I held my little sister, praying for a miracle.
Austen went to the window and glanced outside. His steady presence gave me the courage to keep going.
“I need to know what is in the Book, Mary.”
She pulled away, her green eyes full of apprehension. “Why do you need to know?”
I couldn’t tell her that I was trying to learn the identity of Jack the Ripper. So, I said something else that was true, if only a half-truth. “I want closure. I want to know why Austen’s parents died and why all the women on the trip, except Mother, were killed. I want to know what is so important to the Freemasons that they’d go to such lengths to protect this Book.”
Mary swallowed and shook her head. “If I only saw one-fifth of the Book, I can’t imagine what is in the other four parts.”
“You can tell us,” Austen said. “I lost my parents because of it, and I’ve spent my entire life trying to understand what could have been so important that they’d give up their lives—give up me—to save it.”
Something seemed to break inside Mary as tears came to her eyes. “Anyone connected to that book suffers.” She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, wiping away her tears. “But you deserve to know, Austen.”
He stood quietly and waited.
“It was a very old book,” she said, “perhaps centuries old. At least, the part I saw. It was a record, of sorts, kind of like a ledger. There were names listed, and beside each one was a record of their deeds or misdeeds, like a positive and negative system of what each of those people either owed the Freemasons or had paid—sometimes in money and sometimes in favors. I saw names that shocked me. Rulers and noblemen from all over the world, dating back hundreds of years. And the deeds and misdeeds were not all small or inconsequential, there were assassinations and wars and massacres, things that turned the tide of history. And they were recorded in detail. Vivid, sometimes horrible detail.” She shook her head. “If that was just the first part of the Book, I can only imagine what the other four parts contain.”
“To be clear, it was the Freemasons who did these deeds?” Austen asked.
“Yes. Powerful Freemasons who committed egregious acts for others. Sometimes they were given money to commit these acts. Other times, they were paid back with lands or titles or with favors.”
I stared at her, shocked that a book like that existed, but more shocked that the Freemasons had been behind some of history’s most horrific events.
“If the Book is ever made public,” Austen said, “it would unravel the entire Brotherhood and take down the Freemasons in one fell swoop.”
“Which is why anyone with knowledge of the book is destroyed.” Mary’s face was pale as she pleaded with her eyes. “Neither one of you can tell anyone you know about this book. My life was spared because I agreed to disappear. Father took an oath to destroy anyone who might see the Book, but he couldn’t kill me. I promised I would never speak of it to anyone or tell anyone who I really am.” She turned to me. “The letter I sent you was the one and only time I broke my promise. I knew you couldn’t go the rest of your life without knowing that I would be okay. I still don’t know how your private detective found me.”
I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“I’m not truly safe here, am I?” Mary asked, searching my face for answers. “If the four others were found, then I will be found, too. The Freemasons will find me.”
“Do you think Jack the Ripper is working with Sir Charles Warren?” I asked Austen. “Is he a henchman for the Freemasons, taking out the women who knew about the Book? Is he doing it for land or money or a favor like the others listed in the ledger?”
“If he is, then why did he wait fourteen years to kill them?” Austen shook his head. “And they didn’t all come to Whitechapel immediately upon returning to England after their trip to Jerusalem. It took time for them to get here.”
“So you don’t think Jack is a Freemason, destroying these women because they have knowledge of the Book?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.” Austen shrugged. “It’s all connected, but it doesn’t make sense.”
Mary stood as she looked between us. “Am I in danger?”
I took a deep breath, wondering how much to tell her. “Not right now. We have some time. But you need to be ready to leave soon.”
“You mean, to go to New York?”
“I think it’s your only option, Mary.”
She walked to the window, where she looked out at the dirty courtyard, and I knew she was thinking about Joseph. Rain dripped from the eaves of the building and ran down the glass.
After a moment she said, “I’ll be ready whenever you tell me.”
Relief overwhelmed me, and I joined her by the window to embrace her.
“It’ll take a few days to make arrangements,” Austen said. “We’ll come back for you on the evening of November 8th.”
“But you must not breathe a word of this to anyone,” I said as I pulled back. “Do you understand? None of your friends, not even Joseph. No one must know that you’ll be leaving here.”
“I understand the need for secrecy better than anyone,” she said quietly. “I’ve been living this lie for over a year, Kathryn.”
I kept my arm around her shoulder, and she laid her head on mine.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you, too.”
We said good-bye, promising to be back soon, and then Austen led me out of her home and down the passage.
A young woman passed us. She wore a cape with a hood and glanced up at us briefly before she proceeded to Mary’s room and knocked on the door.
“Hello, Jane,” Mary said a moment later in her Whitechapel accent. “Come in out of the cold, love, and warm yourself by the fire.”
My sister’s kindness to her friends was heartwarming, and I knew her fear of losing her room was just as much for her as it was for them. I hated to think what would become of her friends once she was in America, but I couldn’t worry about them. I could only do so much.
Austen and I were quiet as we left Whitechapel and entered central London on our return to Wilton Crescent. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I knew what was occupying my thoughts.
I’d set into motion the final plan I’d ever make for 1888. In just a few days, I would whisk Mary away from Miller’s Court and put her on a ship bound for New York City. Then I would say good-bye to her and Austen and go to sleep, and never return to either one of them.
I leaned on Austen’s shoulder, and he put his arm around me.
“I’ve purchased tickets for Mary’s travel,” Austen said. “I’ll have Miles ready to return to Whitechapel on Thursday so we can take her to Southampton to meet the ship.”
I sat up, surprised. “You can’t help me. I don’t know what will happen if you knowingly change history. I don’t want to take the risk.”
“I won’t let you do it alone, Kathryn,” he said, just as adamant. “It will be far too dangerous for both of you. Miles and I will help, come what may.”
“I couldn’t live with myself if you died, Austen.”
“You’ve seen me alive in 1938. It must mean I live.”
“I’ve seen you alive in the unchanged version of history. Once we take Mary away, I don’t know what will change. You might not be in 1938 after November 9th.”
He drew me back into his arms. “It will be my decision, Kathryn. And I will not let you do this alone. No matter how much you protest.” He let out a breath, his voice deepening. “Besides, I will have little to live for if you’re not here, so it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I laid my head against his shoulder again, a whole new set of concerns weighing down my heart.
I didn’t want to live in a world without Austen.
22
London, England
November 6, 1938
There was a lot occupying my mind as I worked on the exhibit in the basement of Lancaster house. Austen’s words in the carriage only intensified my anxiety and fears for Mary. But it wasn’t just 1888 that concerned me. Papa’s trip to Berlin was weighing on my mind, as were all the little details I still needed to include in the exhibit. This was my final opportunity to put the finishing touches on the project I had come to London to create.
A dozen people worked alongside me, placing artifacts in glass cases, repositioning signs, touching up a crack that had developed in the façade of Buck’s Row, and cleaning the room. I’d spent the earlier part of my day answering questions from the public and the press. This was the first exhibit about Jack the Ripper, and people were curious.
“Are you certain you want to display the pictures of the victims?” Calan asked me one more time as he approached me with a wooden crate. We’d had the pictures framed and were planning to place them in a spot that could be overlooked if people didn’t want to see the images. The first four were pictures of the victims’ faces after death and were not shocking. The fifth was horrific and showed Mary Jane Kelly in her familiar room, but the body was so mangled and deformed, it was impossible to recognize.
Every time I looked at the picture, I had to disassociate with it. It wasn’t my sister. It was a person who had not yet been murdered—and would not be murdered, because I was going to stop it from happening.
“Let’s do as we originally planned.” I told him. “We’ll place a black cloth over the photo of the last victim and tell people that they can look at their own discretion.”
Calan nodded and left my side.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen after November 9th. Would that picture just disappear? I wasn’t sure how it would all happen. Would everything be different when I woke up in 1938 after saving my sister? Would I be the only person who knew a different history? When I talked to Calan and Sir Rothschild, would their memory of Mary Jane Kelly have disappeared?
I had no idea, but I was determined to find out.
Sunshine streamed in through the windows at the top of the room, offering us good light to work. Tomorrow in this path would be the official grand opening, and we needed to be ready. Even if I had to work until midnight, I wouldn’t leave the museum until every piece of the exhibit was in place.
Sir Rothschild entered the room, and I stole a look to see his response. He had taken a risk in asking me to help Calan, and I wanted him to be pleased.
“Was this what you had envisioned?” I asked as I left the letter case where Jack’s famous correspondence was displayed under glass for the world to see. “Does it meet your expectations?”
Sir Rothschild shook his head as he surveyed the room, a smile tilting up his mustache. “My dear Miss Voland, you and Calan have exceeded my wildest expectations. This goes above and beyond what I had hoped for and envisioned for this exhibit. I cannot thank you enough for putting your life in Washington, DC, on hold to be part of this project.”
“It was an honor,” I assured him.
“I almost didn’t ask you to come,” he said as he turned to me. “But there was this small voice in my head that kept prompting me. As if this project needed you. And I believe it did.”
My lips parted as I realized the truth of his words. If he hadn’t invited me to put together this exhibit, I would never have learned the truth about Mary and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to save her. This entire time, I’d been upset with God that He was making me choose, but until this moment, I hadn’t realized that it was a blessing in disguise. I had a choice because He had allowed me to have a choice.
“Thank you for believing in me and giving me a chance,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I will always treasure my memories here.”
For more reasons than he could possibly know.
“I’ll let you get back to your work,” he said as he patted my shoulder a bit awkwardly. “It looks like things will be ready for the grand opening tomorrow. And I’m hoping that this new exhibit draws visitors to the art gallery to see Mr. Baird’s paintings, as well. It is my special privilege to find such spectacular talent and share it with the world.” He smiled at me. “You, included.”
