Page 10 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

10

London, England September 15, 1938

It had been a week since I’d seen Austen, but whether I was in 1888 or 1938, thoughts of him and our night in the garden shadowed everything. Duffy told me that he had left London the morning after the ball, but no one knew where he had gone, or when he might be back. My heart ached not knowing. I wanted to talk to him, ask him if he had truly returned to London to convince me to love him, because his behavior up until the night in the garden suggested otherwise.

The day was bright and warm as I walked from Lancaster House toward the Café Royal on Regent Street, where I would meet Mama and Papa for lunch. The air was thick with tension as people mobilized for potential war. Hitler had given a speech during the final hours of the Nuremburg Rally three days before, indicating his intention to annex the Sudetenland, a part of Czechoslovakia that was home to three and a half million Germans, regardless of whether they wanted to be annexed to Germany or not. England held no obligation to help Czechoslovakia, but France did, and England was obligated to help France should she go to war. No one wanted another war, and least of all the English prime minister, Neville Chamberlain. He’d boarded an airplane that morning to fly to Germany to negotiate with Hitler.

The entire country—the world—held their breath.

Men calling out instructions as they dug trenches in St. James’s Park was disconcerting, but even more so were the lines of people waiting outside the London Library in St. James Square waiting to get fitted for their gas masks. Everyone over the age of four would receive one, and they were urged to carry it with them both day and night, no matter where they went. I carried mine like a purse, inside a box with a strap to wear over my shoulder. I’d been fitted for it just yesterday.

I knew war was coming from my grandmother, Maggie, who had told us about the Second World War, but I didn’t know details. She’d spoken of being in Pearl Harbor in December of 1941, when she was a nurse on a hospital ship. She had said America entered the fight after that. I had assumed the war wouldn’t start until then, and that Mama and Papa and I would be safe in London for a couple of months.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

It took me about fifteen minutes to walk to the Café Royal. Mama and Papa were waiting for me inside the opulent restaurant, sitting at a little table in the corner, their faces serious as they conversed.

“There you are,” Mama said, offering me a smile as Papa stood and pulled a chair out for me.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I smiled, trying to ease her worries. “I got caught up in my work.”

Calan and I had been busy discussing the items we wanted to display at the London Museum and how we wanted the exhibit to look. I hadn’t even begun to sift through the hundreds of letters that had been sent to the Metropolitan Police in 1888, many purporting to be written by the killer.

“This was a wonderful suggestion,” Papa said as he motioned to the room. It was decorated with a heavy Victorian influence, thick gilded trim, mirrors, and plush furniture. The tables were covered in white cloths, with dripping candles in the center.

“I’ve eaten here many times in 1888,” I told them. “It’s a popular restaurant for society.”

We looked over the menu and placed our orders with the waiter, and then my parents looked at each other before turning to me. Mama wore a pretty, brick-red dress with a matching hat which partially covered her face, though I could still see her concern.

“You want to go home,” I said, not even asking. I could see it written all over their faces.

Mama sighed and spoke quietly. “I don’t know enough about what will happen here, Kathryn. We thought we had time. But the war could start any day and then we might be stuck here until it’s over.”

“The safest place will be in America,” Papa added, his French accent thickening with his concern.

“I can’t leave, not yet. I need firsthand access to the Ripper case to help Mary. And we’re just starting to lay out the design for the exhibit. I still have weeks left of work.”

“We might not have weeks left to get out of England,” Mama said. “Nothing is more important than your safety.”

My heart was already heavy with disappointment and sadness in 1888. I couldn’t face it here, too.

“You two should go,” I told them. “I’ll stay.”

“Kathryn.” Papa shook his head. “We won’t leave you with the threat of war hanging over Europe.”

“I can’t go. I have an obligation to the museum. Besides, we don’t know if the war will start now or later. And if Hitler invades the Sudetenland, we’d still have time to get out of England before anything happened here. Please. Let me have more time.”

They looked at each other again, and Mama lifted a shoulder.

“Fine,” Papa said, “but if there’s even a hint of danger, we will be on a ship heading home within hours. Do you understand?”

I nodded, wishing I felt relieved. But the threat of war, and of going home sooner than we planned, was daunting. I wanted to finish what I started, but more importantly, if I left, I wouldn’t have access to the evidence from the Jack the Ripper case. There were still so many unanswered questions. I had been to the Crime Museum several times, but I hadn’t scratched the surface of records, letters, and transcripts from the inquests into each murder.

I played with my water glass, lost in thought, when I felt Mama’s hand over mine.

“Have you heard from Austen?”

I shook my head as I nibbled my bottom lip, not wanting to look at her. I had told my parents that Austen left, but I hadn’t told them about our conversation in the garden or learning about how his parents had died. I was still trying to understand it all myself. “Duffy inquired, but not even Brinley knows where he went.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then she put her hand on my shoulder, drawing my gaze to hers. “I know something happened, Kathryn. You’ve never been this upset when he’s left in the past.”

I usually shared everything with my parents, and I trusted their wisdom, but I wasn’t sure what they would say about this. I took a deep breath and said, “I—I think I’m in love with Austen.” I swallowed the emotions that came with the confession. “And I know he’s in love with me.”

My parents didn’t speak for a moment, so I finally lifted my gaze.

There was a sad smile on Mama’s face. “You’re just now realizing what we’ve suspected for years.”

I blinked and frowned. “What? You knew?”

“I suspected ,” Mama corrected. “At least on his part, based on what you’ve told me. It was your feelings for him that I wasn’t sure about. You’ve always spoken of him as more of a brother, but I noticed a shift in the past year, the longer he stayed away.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, trying not to cry. “He was so upset when he left the other night—and now I don’t know where he is or if he’ll come back.”

“He’ll be back,” Papa said. “ C’est l’amour . It’s love, Kathryn.”

“But he knows we can’t be together.”

“Why not?” Mama asked.

I stared at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Why can’t you be together?”

“Because.” I was at a loss for words. “Because I’m staying here.”

“Plans can change.”

Frustration and sadness and anger bubbled up inside of me. “I fought hard to get my job at the Smithsonian, and I love my work there. My life in 1888 is full of restrictions and expectations and—and—” I was at a loss, because suddenly all the reasons for choosing 1938 seemed to pale in comparison to the love I felt for Austen. I could still follow my passion for history in 1888, and I had my teaching at Toynbee Hall. It wasn’t the same as the prestige I felt at the Smithsonian, but what was the praise of several men compared to the true love of one?

Mama took my hand. “We might make plans, but God is the one who determines our steps. His plans are far better than ours.”

“You’ve always liked to make plans, so your mind was made up,” Papa said. “Sometimes, plans need to be flexible to see what God wants for us.”

He was right. I hated indecision and uncertainty. Sometimes I made decisions and plans far too soon simply because I didn’t like not knowing. Even if I later regretted my choices, I stuck to them with stubborn determination.

But this was different—except that it wasn’t. “I’m planning to save Mary, if need be, so none of this matters. I will have to forfeit 1888.”

“What if the Mary Jane Kelly you’re looking for isn’t your sister?” Papa asked. “What then? Will you still give up 1888 and Austen?”

Sweat began to form down the crevice of my back as my pulse increased. Uncertainty made me feel panicked. I wanted to get up and pace away from the table, but I forced myself to stay seated. Every choice I made, in both of my lives, was because I knew I was staying in 1938. If I changed my plans now, I would have to rethink everything.

“You have time,” Papa said as he put his hand on my arm. “Pray about it, Kathryn. Ask God what He wants you to do. And talk to Austen. Tell him how you feel.”

“I don’t think he’ll ever talk to me again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mama said. “He’ll want to talk to you. But you need to be ready to open your heart to a new possibility.”

“I thought you wanted me to stay here.”

Mama dipped her chin to meet my gaze. “My greatest hope and prayer has always been that you would stay with us forever. Losing my sister in 1692 was one of the most devastating experiences of my life—but I’ve never regretted my choice. I know I’m where I belong, even though it wasn’t what I had planned. Don’t miss out on being in the middle of God’s will just because you’ve set your mind and won’t be open to other possibilities.”

“If you love Austen,” Papa said, “and you want to spend your life with him, then don’t be afraid to choose 1888. But it’s okay to choose 1938 and all the things you love here, too. Either way, Mama and I will understand. Don’t let worries about us affect your choice.”

Setting my mind had made so many things easier.

“This conversation might be pointless if the last Ripper victim is my sister,” I said. “If it’s Mary, then I’m sacrificing everything to save her. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

“You have time,” Mama echoed Papa. “Mary Jane Kelly won’t die for almost two more months. There’s no need to rush toward a decision.”

“I just wish I knew where my sister was,” I said, trying not to let tears of frustration fill my eyes. “I can’t take my parents’ carriage to Miller’s Court alone, and it wouldn’t be wise to take a hired carriage there, either.”

“Then use the time until Austen returns to do more investigating,” Papa advised. “Find out if the Freemasons were involved, like you suspect. There are other things you can do outside of Whitechapel.”

I nodded. “Perhaps then I can learn the Ripper’s identity.”

“Why? What would that accomplish?” Mama asked. “You can’t reveal his name.”

“No, but there’s a part of me that needs to know. Are the Freemasons connected? And is Father part of the coverup? If he tossed Mary onto the street and she becomes one of the victims, doesn’t that seem suspect? I can’t rest until I know the truth.”

My parents shared a glance, and Mama said, “Be careful, Kathryn. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I will.” I smiled, trying to reassure her.

I just wished I could reassure myself.

When I returned to the London Museum at Lancaster House after lunch, I had a newfound purpose. I needed to learn as much as I could about the next two murders—the Double Event—and see if there was a way I could get a glimpse of Jack the Ripper in person. Was he a prominent member of society? One I might recognize? And was he a Freemason? If so, then perhaps I could find out what his connection was to Mary Jane Kelly and the other women.

It was the opposite of promising to be careful.

Lancaster House was quiet. Most people were too occupied with the threat of war to spend their free time at a museum. They were busy building makeshift bomb shelters in their backyards and canning vegetables from their gardens and trying to decide if they should stay in London or leave for their country homes—if they were fortunate enough to have a country house.

“How was lunch?” Calan asked as I entered the office we were sharing.

“It was nice,” I said, trying not to reveal the depth of my emotions. As I took off my hat and laid it on my desk, I asked, “What do you know about the Double Event?”

His eyebrows came up as he leaned back in his chair, a file in hand. “Hi, how are you? I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry for being so abrupt.” I took a seat, suddenly feeling weak and exhausted. “My parents are threatening to take me back to the States because of Hitler. I’m desperate to get this exhibit put together, but I haven’t even completed all the research I need.” It was only part of the reason I’d asked him about the Double Event, but it was the part he might understand.

He sat up in his chair, a frown marring his handsome face. “You’re leaving?”

“Not yet, not if I can help it, but they’re nervous.”

“And rightly so.” He had been looking over a file of letters that we borrowed from the Crime Museum, but he put them on the desk and gave me his full attention. “I don’t want you to leave yet.”

“I don’t either.”

“I was just getting up the nerve to ask you out.” His mouth came up in a grin, and I knew he was teasing. Calan was a flirt with all the female staff at the museum, even Gloria, the seventy-year-old volunteer docent who gave tours of the Costume Gallery.

“Even if that were true,” I told him, “my answer would be no.”

“Which would only encourage me to keep trying,” he said with a wink. “I love a good challenge.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Do you know anything about the Double Event?”

He grew serious as he nodded. “I do.”

“What can you tell me?”

He leaned his forearms against the top of the desk as he spoke. “The name of the first victim of the Double Event was Elizabeth Stride. She was born in Sweden and went to work as a domestic servant in Gothenburg, where she was arrested for prostitution and treated twice for, ah, diseases related to her profession. She also gave birth to a stillborn daughter, probably due to her health. She then came to London and tried to get a fresh start. She met and married a man named John Stride. He was from a wealthy family in Sheerness. His father—a Freemason, I might add—was a property owner, but he left nothing in his will to Elizabeth’s husband. It was the final blow after several years of difficulty, and John and Elizabeth separated. Eventually, Elizabeth returned to her old trade and became the Ripper’s third victim.”

“John Stride’s father was a Freemason?” I asked. “Was everyone a Freemason in 1888?”

Calan shook his head. “No, but usually the wealthy and powerful were part of the Brotherhood.”

“Do you know anything about Elizabeth’s murder?” I asked him.

“Around one in the morning on September 30th, her body was discovered in Dutfield’s Yard by the steward of the International Working Men’s Education Club, the building adjacent to the yard. It’s believed that Jack had just slit Elizabeth’s throat in the dark courtyard and was interrupted by the steward’s arrival, because there were no other mutilations to her body.

“Less than an hour later, at 1:44 in the morning, Catherine Eddowes’s body was discovered in Mitre Square, less than a mile away from Elizabeth Stride’s body. But Jack wasn’t interrupted during the second murder. He slit Catherine’s throat and then mutilated her body, placing her intestines over her right shoulder. The lobe and part of her right ear were cut off and were not with the body, and her left kidney had been removed.” He paused and let out a breath. “Also, her apron had been cut off and was no longer with the body. But it was found an hour later, bloodstained and resting at the bottom of the steps of a tenement building on Goulston Street, a ten-minute walk from Mitre Square. The officer who found it said it had not been there thirty minutes before when he’d been by on his beat. Above the apron, on the side of the building, was a message written in chalk that said, ‘The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.’”

I had heard about all of this, but it was all starting to take shape in a different way. “The Juwes?” I asked.

“J-U-W-E-S. Some think it was a misspelling of Jews and referenced the Jewish immigrants in the area who had been flooding into Whitechapel since 1880, fleeing persecution in eastern Europe and Russia. There was a lot of antisemitism, and many believed Jack the Ripper was a Jewish immigrant, not accepting that he could be English.”

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“I think it had something to do with the Freemasons. You see, in Freemason legend, Hiram Abiff, the first stone mason who built King Solomon’s temple, was assassinated by three jealous craftsmen. Their names were Jubela, Jubelo, and Jubelum. The first assassin, Jubela, was not able to learn Hiram’s masonry secrets, so he struck Hiram across the throat. Hiram got away, but he was accosted by Jubelo next, who struck him across the breast when Hiram refused to answer his questions. Again, Hiram got away, but was confronted by the third assassin, Jubelum, who struck him on the head, giving Hiram the fatal blow. Not long after, King Solomon realized that Hiram was dead and had his assassins brought to justice. Jubela’s throat was cut from ear to ear, like all the Ripper’s victims. Jubelo’s breast was torn open, like the Ripper’s victims, and his heart and vitals taken out and thrown over his left shoulder. Jubelum’s body was severed in two and his bowels burnt to ashes, which is what the Ripper did to Mary Jane Kelly’s organs in her room at Miller’s Court.”

A shiver ran up my spine at that last comment.

“All I know is that until then,” Calan continued, “the police commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, had not gone to Whitechapel to investigate any of the murder sites. But that night, he made his way to Whitechapel to inspect the chalk graffito on the wall—and he promptly had it washed clean before it could be photographed and used for evidence.”

“Wasn’t there an uproar when he erased the message?” I asked.

“Yes. But Warren claimed he was trying to prevent retaliation against the Jews living in Whitechapel. Though, why the police couldn’t keep the alley clear while they waited for a photograph is the biggest mystery. When his claim to prevent a riot wasn’t accepted, the police tried to say that the chalk graffito had nothing to do with the killings and that the apron, which proved to belong to Catherine Eddowes, was thrown there casually by the killer. Though the copper who found it said neither piece of evidence had been there half an hour before it was discovered.”

“The first murder in the Double Event was undertaken in a more public location,” I said, almost to myself, “but it was interrupted. So the killer went to a different location and found his second victim.”

“Exactly.”

“And do we know what Elizabeth Stride was doing before she was murdered in Dutfield’s Yard?”

“According to witnesses, a man and woman were seen standing together for almost half an hour in the rain across the road from Dutfield’s Yard around twelve-thirty. Some say they had been at a grocer’s just a few doors down from Dutfield’s purchasing grapes. Original reports, given to the newspapers from those who were there, said that pits from the grapes were found in Dutfield’s Yard and there were grapes clutched in Elizabeth’s hands, but the official witnesses that were chosen to give testimony said nothing about the grapes. The man who owned the grocery story said that he had seen the couple, even talked to the man, but he was never brought in to give testimony.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Calan gave me a look. “Because then Jack might have been identified—and that wouldn’t look good for the Freemasons if the killer was linked to them.”

“Do you believe the Freemason theory, then?”

“Given the information I’ve gathered over the years, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I nibbled my bottom lip as I thought through the things Calan had said. If it was true that Jack and Elizabeth stood in the rain across from Dutfield’s Yard for half an hour—and that it was a public space—I could easily position myself to get a good look at Jack on the 30th of September without being noticed.

But it wouldn’t be safe to go alone, especially so late at night. And it might be almost impossible to get away from my parents without raising suspicion.

There had to be a way, though, and I was going to find it.