Page 15 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

15

London, England October 1, 1888

The next day, I found myself at 50 Chester Square, an elegant townhome in Belgravia, one of the more affluent districts in central London. The day was overcast, and rain still fell from the dark clouds. To Londoners, the Double Event had just happened the day before, and news was starting to circulate.

My fifteen-minute walk from Wilton Crescent had taken me past several groups of people standing on street corners with newspapers, shaken by the unthinkable. How had the murderer gotten away with two killings on the same night? And why had Sir Charles Warren erased the graffito on the wall?

There was a heaviness that permeated the air. Even in our home, the staff whispered about the murders. It was all anyone could think about. With the popularity and subsequent closure of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde , the public started to question if the killer was a physician like Dr. Jekyll with knowledge of anatomy to accomplish his gruesome tasks. The image of a man in a top hat and overcoat, and carrying a doctor’s bag, stalking the dark, foggy streets of Whitechapel, had started to appear on the front cover of all the newspapers.

I knocked on the door of 50 Chester Square and took a deep breath. The owner of the home, Mrs. Windham, was a family acquaintance. She had hired Danbury after she left our house, or so Duffy had told me.

The butler soon answered the door, and I was invited in out of the rain. He took my umbrella and set it on a drying rack and then led me into the parlor.

“My dear Miss Kelly,” Mrs. Windham said as she arrived a few minutes later. “What a lovely surprise.” She smiled and motioned to one of the chairs. “I’ve rang for tea. Won’t you have a seat?”

I sat opposite her on an ornate chair, perching on the edge as decorum demanded, my skirts tucked properly around my legs, and my corset pinching my waist. I wanted to get the pleasantries over with, but they were a necessity.

“How are you, my dear?” she asked with a friendly smile. She was in her mid-forties and took great pains to deflect the appearance of her age behind a tight corset, expensive clothing, and gaudy jewelry. “I had such a lovely time at your mother’s ball several weeks ago. Mr. Maybrick’s voice is a dream. What an honor for you to dance with him. I had so hoped my own daughter could join us that night, but she was indisposed. I do hope your mother will invite Mr. Maybrick back again, so that I can introduce him to my daughter. But then again, perhaps you have already stolen him for yourself.”

She prattled on and on, and every time she asked a question, I began to answer, but she cut me off and continued speaking.

The butler brought in the tea tray, and Mrs. Windham poured a cup for me and then one for her. She spoke about the Whitechapel Murders, as they were called, but she had no more information than anyone else. I kept my eye on the clock, wanting to be done with the arduous conversation, though I needed to endure it for at least thirty minutes before I could ask to speak to Danbury. It would be rude to cut the visit short before that.

As soon as the clock hit thirty minutes, I gently interrupted my hostess.

“About a year ago,” I said, “my mother discharged a maid from her employment, and I’ve been told she found a place here. I wonder if I may speak to her about a private matter?”

Mrs. Windham’s eyebrows shot up. “I hope she’s not being accused of something untoward.”

“No. Nothing like that. Her name is Sarah Danbury.”

“Yes, of course. I know who you’re speaking of.” She rose abruptly. “I’ll call her in.”

I also rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Windham.”

She nodded and then left the room.

Several minutes passed before the door opened again and Danbury entered, her eyes wide with concern.

“Hello, Danbury.”

She nodded and offered a curtsy, though every line of her body communicated her discomfort. The last time I saw her was the night Mary left.

“Please come in and close the door,” I said to her.

Danbury slipped inside and shut the door but stood as close to it as she could. “What can I do for you, miss?”

“Please don’t be worried,” I said as I motioned her closer. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’d like to ask you some questions about my sister, Mary.”

She didn’t look relieved or less concerned. If anything, she appeared more upset as her eyes darted around the room. “I don’t know anything, miss.”

“You don’t know why Mary suddenly left our house?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

“You never heard any conversation? Mary didn’t mention anything to you?”

“No, miss.”

Her behavior told me that she wasn’t telling the truth—but why?

I took a step closer, needing her to understand how important her answer was to Mary’s well-being.

“Mary is in grave danger. Her very life depends on what you might know. I need to understand why Mary left my parents’ home. I spoke to her, and she said that Father didn’t force her to leave, but that she left of her own free will. I don’t believe her for a moment. Why would she give up the comfort and safety of her parents’ home to—” I couldn’t continue. I wanted to know why Mary would take up with a man for safety when she had my father’s protection to rely upon. “Please. I must find answers. I fear Mary’s life is in danger from the man who is murdering women in Whitechapel.”

Danbury’s eyes grew wide at that statement. “Is Miss Mary in real danger?”

“Yes.”

She glanced around the room again, as if looking for prying ears, and then leaned in. “Please don’t tell anyone where you heard this information. I fear for my own life if someone should know.”

I frowned, but if the truth was so dire that my sister would hide in Whitechapel, then perhaps Danbury’s fears were well-founded.

“Of course I won’t,” I promised.

She paused, as if second-guessing her decision to share, but then she plunged ahead. “Miss Mary found a book, or something like a book, hidden away in a secret compartment in your father’s study. I don’t know how she found it, or if she’d been looking for it, but whatever was written in that book terrified and alarmed her. She fretted over it for several days before she confronted your father.”

“What was written in the book?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Miss Mary wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t see the book, either. She kept it hidden.”

“What happened after she confronted my father?”

“That was the night she left.”

“Did she leave of her own free will? Or did my father force her to go?”

“I don’t know. I truly don’t.” She pressed her lips together as sweat beaded on her brow. “The next morning, your mother rang for me. She said that my services were no longer needed. I would be given a letter of reference, and I was to be gone by noon. When I tried to ask her where Miss Mary had gone, she told me not to ask any questions or discuss anything with the other staff. She threatened to send me away without a reference if I did.” Danbury swallowed hard. “I couldn’t take that chance, so I didn’t say another word until now.”

My mind spun with possibilities. “Thank you for answering my questions. I know it was a risk for you to tell me, and I promise I won’t get you in trouble.”

Danbury nodded slowly, though she didn’t look convinced. “Will there be anything else?”

“If you can think of something, please get word to me.”

“Yes, miss.” Danbury opened the door, clearly eager to see the back of me. “Good day, Miss Kathryn.”

I left the Windham’s home with my umbrella open and walked back to Wilton Crescent, hardly noticing anything but the thoughts running through my mind.

What kind of book did Mary find that would be so dire as to either send her away or make her choose to leave? And where had Father been hiding this book? Why did he have it to begin with?

The only person who might answer my questions was Mary, but it would be almost impossible to go to her without Austen’s help. I couldn’t ask for our carriage to take me. Father would find out where I’d gone. But I couldn’t ask Austen to take me to Whitechapel again.

I would need to hire a carriage, though I didn’t have that kind of money. Father saw to all my expenses, so I would need to sell something.

I was still pondering this when I approached Wilton Crescent. Austen’s carriage was just pulling up to the front of his home. We hadn’t spoken since returning from Berner Street, and I wasn’t sure what I would say to him. I contemplated turning around to walk in the opposite direction, but he stepped out of his carriage and paused when he saw me.

His blue eyes were stormy as he regarded me, and my traitorous heart leapt.

“Hello,” I said, swallowing the unexpected nerves racing up my throat.

“What are you doing in the rain?”

“I went to see Mary’s lady’s maid on Chester Square.”

“And did she tell you anything valuable?”

“Yes, but I need to speak to Mary again.”

He sighed and glanced at his house before looking back at me. “Get in the carriage. I’ll take you.”

I stared at him, surprised. “Are you cert—”

“Don’t give me time to change my mind, Kathryn.” He nodded at Miles, who nodded back, and then Austen opened the door for me.

I quickly walked toward him. He took my umbrella and then offered his hand for me to step into his carriage, but I paused and said, “Thank you.”

“You will be the death of me,” he said. “I’m certain of it.”

I smiled and stepped into the carriage.

I found myself sitting next to Austen once again on our way to Whitechapel. He was stiff beside me as the carriage moved over the cobblestone roads and through the loud traffic of central London.

Two nights ago, the darkness had acted as a buffer between us, and we hadn’t needed to speak about the kiss. But in the light of day, it felt like the kiss was staring at me, demanding to be acknowledged and discussed.

How did I bring it up when Austen clearly wasn’t planning to address it? He’d spent most of his life ignoring important issues that confronted him, but I couldn’t be so blasé. I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, or that it hadn’t affected me so profoundly.

“Are you planning to talk about the kiss?” I asked, deciding bluntness was the best approach to Austen’s shifting moods.

His face remained neutral as he stared out the window. “What is there to say?”

“Everything.”

The muscles in his cheek twitched before he said, “There is no reason to discuss something that can’t happen again.”

I leaned back into the seat, trying to control my emotions. He was right. It couldn’t happen again. There would be no more kisses, because there was no future for us.

We drove in silence through the rain to Miller’s Court. Though it was a small space, and I couldn’t avoid touching him, he was hard and unyielding beside me. When the carriage came to a stop on Dorset Street, Austen stepped out and opened the umbrella, then he turned to me, and our gazes met.

From the look in his eyes, I knew he was still thinking about the kiss. I had the urge to return to his arms, right there on the street, to both rekindle the passion and soothe the ache I saw in his gaze.

The ache that was nestled inside my own heart.

Instead, I took the hand he offered and stepped out of the carriage, standing close to him as he held the umbrella over my head and walked me down the passage to the courtyard where Mary’s room was located.

I was conscious of his every movement beside me. Every time his arm brushed mine, the way my skirt rustled against the side of his leg, and the way he held his breath at each touch.

My senses heightened, being this near to him again, and the ache grew stronger.

When we came to number thirteen, we stood close so the umbrella protected us both, and Austen knocked on the door.

I took a cautious look up at him, but he stared straight ahead.

“Please don’t be mad,” I said gently.

He sighed, the tension in his body easing. “I’m not mad, Kate.” He looked down at me. “I’m heartbroken.”

The door opened, tearing my thoughts from Austen.

I turned, expecting to see my sister, but it wasn’t Mary at the door. It was another young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, wearing an old dress and a tattered shawl.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a faint Irish accent as she looked me over with just as much curiosity as I had staring at her.

“Is Mary—Marie Jeanette at home?” I asked.

“Who’s asking?”

I opened my mouth to say I was her sister, but then I remembered that Mary didn’t want me to tell anyone who I was. “Will she be back soon?” I asked instead.

The woman nodded her head at something behind us. “She’s here now.”

Austen and I turned as Mary appeared in the passage. She paused at seeing us and then hurried her steps, passing between us as she entered her room. She turned just inside the doorway, frustration in her gaze. “What are you doing back here?”

“I need to speak to you,” I said. “I went to see—” I almost said her lady’s maid but changed course. “I saw Danbury—”

Mary held up her hand to stop me, glancing out the door before looking at her friend. Finally, she said to Austen, “Wait in the carriage for her. I’ll send her out presently.”

It was his turn to look between me and Mary—his glance shifting to the other woman—before he nodded and left Mary’s room.

“You’ll need to step out, too, Dierdre,” Mary said to the woman in a voice that sounded more like a Whitechapel accent than the cultured one she’d learned as a child. “I need a bit of privacy.”

Dierdre eyed me from head to foot, disdain in her gaze, before she said to Mary, “Don’t fret none, Marie Jeanette. I’ll just pop into the pub and see if Teddy is around.”

Mary nodded as she held the door open for Dierdre. When the other woman was gone and I had entered her room, Mary closed the door and turned to me. “I told you not to come back,” she said, pacing to the window to look out before returning to me. “You’re putting both of our lives at risk, Kathryn. What if someone followed you?”

I hadn’t even considered that possibility. What if Jack had followed me? Or my parents?

I couldn’t worry about that now. I needed to tell her why I had come. “I spoke to Danbury, and she told me about the book, Mary.”

My sister’s eyes opened wide as her face paled. “What does she know about the book?”

“Then it’s true?”

Mary walked to the bed and sat, shaking her head. “She can’t know what was in the book. I never told her.”

I joined my sister on the bed. “What book did you find? What did it contain?”

She rose again, clearly agitated, and went back to the window. “Joseph might come back—or Dierdre. You need to leave. My neighbor lady asked about you the last time you were here. She suspected you were my sister, because of our red hair.”

I recalled that the file on Mary Jane Kelly said that her parents had disowned her, but she was still in contact with her sister. Would her neighbor be questioned after the murder?

“So, you can see it’s not safe for you to come here, Kathryn,” Mary continued. “I’ll have to find a way to explain who you are to Dierdre now, too.”

“Who is Dierdre?”

“She is a friend. She stays here, with some others, from time to time, but Joseph doesn’t like it. I can’t have my friends sleeping on the street when a murderer is afoot, can I? Joseph says he pays for part of this room, so he should have a say, but I told him he can find another place to live if he’d like.” She pressed her lips together. “He left early this morning, angry at me. I don’t know how I’ll make the rent if I don’t have his help, but I can’t turn my friends away.”

She rubbed her hands over her arms and walked to the fireplace, where the embers were burning low. The room was cool and damp and would not hold up against the oncoming winter—but that wouldn’t matter, because I would get Mary away from this place before November 9th.

“You didn’t leave our parents’ house of your own free will, did you?” I asked as I joined her. “You were forced to leave because you found the book and there was something in it that was incriminating? Is that it?”

She stared at me for a moment, her green eyes filled with so many emotions, I couldn’t differentiate what she was thinking and feeling.

“Even if I wanted to tell you,” she whispered, “I wouldn’t.”

“Is this about Father?” I asked. “I know he’s a Freemason.”

Something flickered in her gaze. Fear?

“Is that it?” I asked. “Does this have something to do with the Freemasons?”

“Don’t look for answers, Kathryn,” Mary begged. “The Freemasons have an innocent enough facade, and I believe that most of them join the Brotherhood with good intentions. But there are members who are formidable and deceitful and cruel, and they use the Freemasons’ power as a weapon. There is nothing you can find that will alleviate your curiosity or help in any way.”

I stared at her, wanting to heed her words but needing to know what she had found. “What was in the book?”

A movement outside the window made my sister look up quickly. A man was approaching.

“That’s Joseph,” she said, panic lacing her words. “I don’t want him to know who you are. Please. Don’t tell him.” She looked at my dress, which I hadn’t had time to change after paying a call on Mrs. Windham, and shook her head. “He’ll never believe you’re from Whitechapel. He’ll ask too many questions and want to know more about my past.”

Dierdre appeared, stepping into the passageway and intercepting Joseph. She drew close to him and whispered into his ear.

Mary watched closely, but I couldn’t tell if she was jealous or relieved.

Eventually, Dierdre took the man’s hand and tugged him in the opposite direction, and they disappeared onto Dorset Street.

“You have to leave,” Mary said to me. “Dierdre can distract Joseph for a time, but he’ll be back.” She opened the door and looked right and then left. When she turned back to me, she said, “Please believe me, Kathryn. You do not want to know what I know, or you will end up no better than me. Not even Austen could save you.”

She pushed me out the door and then closed it in my face, not giving me the chance to ask her another question or even say good-bye.

Frustrated, angry, and deterred, I hurried through the passage toward Dorset Street and Austen’s waiting carriage.

Joseph and Dierdre were nowhere in sight as Austen stepped out of his carriage and helped me in. He tapped on the ceiling, and the carriage pulled away from Miller’s Court.

“Did you find the answers you were seeking?” he asked me.

I shook my head as I bit the inside of my cheek and stared out the window. It was infuriating. “At least I know there was a book. But she won’t tell me anything else.”

He let out a weary sigh. “That won’t stop you, will it?”

“Of course not.” I frowned at him. “Perhaps Mary can’t handle the truth, but I’ve never been afraid of it.”

“Even if it puts you in danger?”

“More danger than we’re already in?”

He scoffed, but then he softened as he studied me. “What did you learn?”

“That this does have to do with my father’s involvement in the Freemasons.”

Austen’s blue eyes filled with anger—or was it frustration? “I was afraid of that.”

“Please tell me what you know about them.”

“I know that their loyalty to each other exceeds their loyalty to their family.” His voice was bitter and tense, and I wondered what experience had given him that edge. “I also know that if the book your sister found has anything to do with the Freemasons, and there was any suspicion that she could use the information against them, that she would be silenced.” He took my hand in his—surprising me, even as it brought comfort. “The only reason Miles found Mary is because you had her address from the future.”

“I thought you said a private investigator found my sister.”

“It doesn’t matter. The point I’m trying to make is that Mary disappeared. I don’t even think your parents know where she’s at. And neither do people in power who might try to silence her. Perhaps your parents are treating her like she’s dead because they’ve told other people that she is dead.” He stared at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I stared at him as it was all starting to make sense. “Are you suggesting that my sister’s life in Whitechapel is a blessing? That it was a kindness from my parents?”

“It’s better than her being killed by the Freemasons.”

Neither of us spoke as the carriage entered central London. The rain continued to tap against the roof, and the horse’s hooves clopped on the cobblestone. My head was starting to hurt, and I was exhausted in body and soul.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” Austen said, his voice heavy. “For everything.”

I leaned against his arm, wishing he would hold me but knowing that it wouldn’t be wise. His words did bring comfort, though, and despite all the heartache—from everything outside the carriage, as well as within—I knew he spoke the truth.

He was sorry.