Page 16 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

16

October 3, 1938 London, England

The Masonic Peace Memorial, the largest Masonic Hall in London, stood on the corner of Great Queen Street between Covent Garden and Holborn. It was a massive art deco structure made of gray stone with a tower on one end and large bronze doors underneath. I’d heard it was built in honor of the thousands of Freemasons who had died in the Great War and had recently replaced an older building.

It was cold, and the sky was overcast as I opened the heavy door and slipped inside the echoing building. Beautiful mosaic tiles created a star design on the floor, while marble pillars flanked either side of the room. A male receptionist sat at a desk near the door, and he rose upon my entry.

“May I help you?” he asked.

I had come to the hall to get answers about my father’s involvement in the Freemasons in 1888, since I knew he wouldn’t discuss anything with me in person. Mary had warned me that it was dangerous to look for answers, but she’d meant in 1888. Here in 1938, it would be far safer to find what I was looking for—at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Only fifty years had passed since Jack the Ripper let loose his terror on London. If it was a Freemason coverup, as I was more certain than ever that it was, it was likely that there were still people alive who knew who he was and were still hiding his identity.

“I’ve heard that your research library is open to the public,” I said to the receptionist. “I’m wondering if I may have a look around.”

“What are you looking for?” he asked as he eyed me from head to foot.

I was wearing a simple navy blue dress with wide lapels and a matching hat. My coat was the same color and hugged tight at my waist. I carried a leather satchel with a notebook and pencils inside. I wasn’t sure what he thought about me, but I wasn’t concerned.

“I’m looking for information about a family member,” I said. “His name was Sir Bernard Kelly. He was a surgeon at King’s College Hospital.”

“Was?” he asked. “Sir Kelly is still alive.”

I lifted my eyebrows, not expecting to hear that news. My father was in his late forties in 1888. I’d assumed he was dead by now. “He is? I—I thought he had passed away.”

“He’s not in good health,” the man told me. “But he’s living—at least, he was the last I heard. He doesn’t attend meetings any longer, as you can imagine, but we keep an eye on the oldest members of our brotherhood out of respect. I could get you his address if you’d like to visit with him.”

“Yes, of course,” I said quickly, not wanting to appear heartless, though I had no intention of visiting with my father from my other path. He had no idea I was a time-crosser, and it would only shock his system to see me at his advanced age.

“I’ll find it for you as you do your research. Follow me, please.” He led me through the building, pointing out the Grand Temple, where the Grand Lodge met, and noting that there were twenty-six smaller temples for the various lodges that gathered in the building.

“Here we are,” he finally said as we entered a large, well-lit room with aisles of shelves, boxes, files, and books. “The reference library.”

Another man sat at a desk in the library, and when I entered, he rose for introductions.

“I’m Mr. Hornby,” he said with a nod. “Here to assist you, Miss ... ?”

“I’m Kathryn Voland.”

“An American?”

“Yes. I work for the Smithsonian Institute, but I’m in London working on a special exhibit with the London Museum.”

Both men lifted their eyebrows, but it was Mr. Hornby who said, “That’s very impressive, Miss Voland. How may I be of service to you today?”

“I’m looking for information about Sir Bernard Kelly,” I said.

Mr. Hornby’s eyebrows were still raised. “Sir Kelly? How very interesting. Is this research for your exhibit at the London Museum?”

I shook my head, not wanting to reveal why I needed to find information about my father—or how his connection to Freemasonry might be linked to my sister Mary’s exile and, ultimately, how it could be connected to Jack the Ripper. If the Freemasons were hiding Jack’s real identity in 1888, I had no reason to think they weren’t still hiding it.

“Sir Kelly is a relative of Miss Voland’s,” the receptionist explained to Mr. Hornby.

“He is,” I confirmed. “I’m curious about his connection to the Freemasons for personal reasons.”

“Let’s see what we can find,” Mr. Hornby said as the receptionist left us, promising to find Sir Kelly’s address.

I followed Mr. Hornby toward the shelves as he squinted through his glasses, examining the books. “It seems to me that Sir Kelly had quite a history with the Freemasons.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. I’m not surprised you’d be curious about his involvement with the Brotherhood. He was part of one of the great exploration trips to Israel in 1874 with Sir Charles Warren.”

So my suspicions had been correct. Father had been in Jerusalem with Sir Charles Warren.

“Sir Warren was an archaeologist, and some say he ushered in the age of biblical archaeology with his work,” Mr. Hornby said as he perused a shelf of books. “He made significant discoveries in Jerusalem, specifically concerning the Temple Mount, where King Solomon’s Temple was located.”

I could hardly believe that my parents knew Sir Charles Warren yet had never mentioned him to me before, especially as his name had become more prominent in the press surrounding the Ripper murders.

Mr. Hornby removed several books from the shelf. “Sir Warren wrote four different books about his discoveries in Jerusalem, and over fifty of his maps were published in what is now known as the Warren Atlas .” He brought the books to a table and took one of them out of the pile. “ Underground Jerusalem was published in 1876, two years after the trip Sir Kelly took with Sir Warren. I think this might be a good place for you to begin your research. But please be careful. There are only two known copies of the book.”

“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.