Page 20 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)
20
November 4, 1938 London, England
It was cold and cloudy as we stood on the airfield at Heston Aerodrome just outside of London. I shivered as Papa handed his suitcase to a flight attendant, who brought it on board the large silver airplane that would take Papa and the Lindberghs from London to Berlin.
“I wish you weren’t going.” Mama readjusted Papa’s tie as he stood before her to say good-bye.
“I won’t be gone long,” he promised as he placed his hands on her arms and kissed her forehead. “I will be back before you know it.”
The Lindberghs had already boarded the airplane, and I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lindbergh sitting near a window. She had invited Mama to come along one more time, but Mama kindly refused. She didn’t want to miss the grand opening of the Jack the Ripper exhibit at Lancaster House, planned for November 7th. At least, that was the excuse she gave.
“I’m sorry I’ll miss your big day,” Papa said as he turned to me. “But I’ll be the first in line to see it when I return.”
I stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I don’t mind that you’ll miss the grand opening,” I assured him. “Just get back to us safely. That’s all I care about.”
“And as soon as you get back,” Mama added, “we’ll book our tickets for home.” She looked between Papa and me. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I nodded, knowing that she was eager to return home and leave England and the looming war behind us. It would affect us in Washington, DC, but not like it would if we had to stay in London.
“Good-bye,” Papa said as he smiled. “I love you both.”
Mama took a step forward, anxiety in her voice. “You promise this is safe, Luc? The threat with Germany is on hold for now?”
He nodded and then drew her into his arms for another hug. “I promise it’s safe, mon petit oiseau .” It was what he’d called her ever since she’d learned to fly. His little bird. “When have you known me to be reckless?”
Mama chuckled affectionately as she pulled back to look at him. “Every day since I met you.”
He grinned, and I could see the young, fearless aviator in his smile. The one who had been a daredevil pilot in 1912, perfecting the death dive, flying over Niagara Falls, and stunning his audiences with his aeronautical skills. The pilot Mama had fallen in love with.
The engines of the airplane roared to life.
Papa gave Mama a quick kiss and then sprinted toward the waiting airplane.
Mama and I stepped back to watch the airplane take off, and then we made our way to the car that had brought us to Heston Aerodrome.
“Well,” Mama said with a sigh as we settled into our seats. “I knew your father was fearless when I married him in 1912. He’s done scarier things before this.”
I took her hand in mine as the driver pulled away from the aerodrome and headed back toward London and our next appointment.
“He’ll be home in no time,” I echoed his promise, “and he’ll be full of all sorts of fun stories. He lives for aviation and adventure. I’m thankful he is still able to experience it.”
“I am, too, no matter how much it scares me.”
We enjoyed a quiet ride into the city and headed toward Buckingham Palace. I’d been looking forward to this afternoon for the past week since Lady Astor had secured an invitation for us to have a private tour of Buckingham Palace. It had been at my request, under the guise of my work with the Smithsonian and the London Museum, but I had an ulterior motive. Mr. Hornby at the Masonic research library claimed that there was a second copy of Sir Warren’s book, with his original notes included, in the king’s collection, and I wanted to see them. There had to be more to the story than I’d been told, and I was determined to find it.
If I could locate the book.
Plus, it was just the thing Mama and I needed to keep our minds distracted today.
While she was worried about Papa heading to Berlin, all I could think about was Austen and Mary in 1888. In five short days, I needed to save my sister and say good-bye to the man I loved.
I had to blink away the tears thinking about that final farewell. How would I say good-bye to Austen? I closed my eyes, begging God to intervene, or to give me peace about what I was about to do.
He did neither.
The city was busy as we drove toward the palace. I tried to push thoughts of Austen aside and focus on what I hoped to accomplish at Buckingham Palace today, but it was useless. He would be upset with me if he knew what I planned to do, but I was desperate for answers.
Over the past two and a half weeks, Austen and I had spent almost every day together, much to my mother’s chagrin. The only night I hadn’t been in his company was the night of Michael Maybrick’s performance. Mr. Maybrick took my parents and me to Café Royale after the concert, though he spent more time talking to my father than he did to me. I didn’t mind, but I knew that my parents were enamored with him, and they’d begun to drop hints that they wanted a union between us. Austen had cautioned me not to be alone with Mr. Maybrick or to share anything I’d learned about the Freemasons. And I had heeded his warning.
As we passed the Marble Arch on the corner of Hyde Park, my thoughts were brought back to 1938 as Mama said, “It was kind of Lady Astor to arrange this tour.” She adjusted her gloves and repositioned her hat. “I never dreamed I’d be given a private glimpse of Buckingham Palace.”
I smiled at her and forced myself not to worry about what I hoped to accomplish today. If I got caught, there was no way to know what might happen to me. And even if I succeeded, I had no guarantee that I would learn anything useful to help me uncover Jack the Ripper and the Freemasons’ involvement.
We circled Wellington Arch and drove down Constitution Hill Road, which cut through Green Park, offering a view of the back side of Buckingham Palace. The honey-colored limestone of the large building looked dull on the cloudy day, but the grandeur of the palace could not be dimmed.
The driver took us around to the front, and we were greeted by the King’s guards in their red coats and tall bearskin hats. After showing our invitation, we passed through the gate and drove under the main arch at the front of the building and into the courtyard in the center of the palace. There, the driver parked outside the grand entrance and opened the back door to allow us to exit the vehicle.
Before I was able to thank the driver, the large door opened and a butler appeared in a black tuxedo, white vest, and gleaming white gloves.
“Welcome to Buckingham Palace,” he said with a formal bow.
Mama handed him the invitation, but he was clearly expecting us, so he showed us into the impressive entrance hall.
The palace was as glorious as I imagined, with ornate trim work, beautiful paintings, and expensive furniture. Several doors led off from the hall, but which one was the door that would lead me to Prince Albert Victor—or rather, King George VI’s—book collection?
Another gentleman stepped out of a door and walked toward us. He was dressed like the butler, but he had a ribbon on his lapel. “Good day,” he said. “My name is Mr. Griffin. I presume you are Mrs. and Miss Voland?”
“Yes,” Mama said with a pleasant smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He dipped his head and motioned toward a set of red carpeted stairs. “Shall we begin the tour?”
We followed him up to the second floor and into a painting gallery. “The building at the core of the palace was originally built by the Duke of Buckingham in 1703 as a townhome,” Mr. Griffin began in a cultured British accent. “In 1761 it was purchased by King George III as a private residence for Queen Charlotte, and over the years, three additional wings were added to make a central courtyard in the middle. Queen Victoria made it the official residence of the monarch in 1837.”
“How fascinating,” Mama said as we were taken into the throne room, the state dining room, the ballroom, and several galleries on the second level.
“I’m a museum exhibit curator at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC,” I told Mr. Griffin after we’d seen several rooms. “And one of my unique interests is in books. Are there any rare collections in Buckingham Palace?”
“There are, indeed,” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “I’m also an admirer of rare books. Shall we go to the king’s private library?”
“Could we?” I wasn’t sure if the book I was looking for would be there, but it was as good a place as any to look.
We followed him to the ground level, and he took us through a door into a different wing of the palace.
“This is the private residence,” he told us. “Not many people are given access to this part of the building, but Lady Astor is a favorite of Her Majesty’s, and the Queen told me to give you a proper tour.” He smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “And what is a proper tour without a peek into the heart of the palace—the library?”
Mama glanced at me, her eyebrows raised high.
We walked down a long gallery before we reached the library. It was a comfortable room, meant for reading, studying, and enjoying the thousands of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Like all the rooms, it was large and spacious, and very formal.
“This is the private collection?” Mama asked, incredulous.
“Indeed,” Mr. Griffin said. “These are the books that have been personally acquired by the last five monarchs and their family members. Some are very old and very rare, others are classics, and still others are popular novels, read simply for pleasure or enjoyment. Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret even keep their books in here.” He smiled fondly when speaking of the young daughters of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth.
“May I have a look around?” I asked.
“Of course. Take your time.”
As Mama and the tour guide chatted about the library, perusing some of the shelves, I quickly accessed how the books were organized, and I was relieved to see that they were displayed by the last name of the author. To look for a book written by Sir Charles Warren, I went to the farthest corner of the room to find the Ws.
I had to work quickly, yet I didn’t want to draw unwanted attention from our tour guide.
My heart pounded hard when I saw Underground Jerusalem by Sir Charles Warren on the shelf, tucked into the corner. It had the same red cloth cover and gold lettering as the one in the Masonic research library.
Gently, I removed the book from the shelf and leafed through it, praying the notes were still inside.
When I was about a fourth of the way through, where Sir Warren named the members of the group who went with him in 1874, a loose leaf of paper stuck out. It was folded in half and yellowed with time, but I could see it was a handwritten note.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw that Mama and Mr. Griffin were deep in discussion about one of the books the guide was holding, so I slipped the note out of Jerusalem Underground and set the book aside.
As I scanned the page, I realized it wasn’t field notes, but a letter that Sir Warren had written to Prince Albert Victor, shortly after Sir Warren’s return from the trip that had cost Austen’s parents their lives. As I read the revealing letter, I held my breath.
Your Royal Highness, May 10, 1874
I’m sure that by now you have heard the distressing news concerning Brother Sir Robert Baird and his wife, Madeline. Their deaths, though tragic, were a necessary sacrifice to ensure the safety of the Book. I have spoken to their orphan, Austen, who is now secured at Eton under the watchful eye of several brothers who will ensure he speaks to no one about what he might know. When he comes of age, we will fold him into the Brotherhood, and he may pick up the work his father left off.
You are probably most concerned about the mission, and that is why I am writing to you. Though it was compromised, Brother Baird gave his life to ensure it was completed successfully. I spent years, not to mention thousands of dollars, searching for the Book. I am happy to inform you that we have finally found it in the Temple Mount and brought it safely to England. I thought it best to separate it among the men on our trip, so it returned in five sections. Each brother will keep his section carefully guarded and has pledged that he will protect it at all costs. I think it best if we keep it separate at this time, until we know the identity of our adversary who tried to take it from Brother Baird and ultimately took his life, instead.
Unfortunately, given the circumstances of the deaths of Brother Baird and his wife, the knowledge of the Book was made known to four of the women on our trip. The only one who does not know the contents of the book is Brother Sir Bernard Kelly’s wife, who was ill during much of our time in Jerusalem and was not in the Temple Mount during the incident. Since the other women are not bound to the Oath of the Brotherhood, we cannot be certain of their loyalty or silence. There are plans in place to deal with each of them, should they make trouble.
Once our enemy is defeated, we will commence plans to reunite all five sections of the Book and take it to the secure location you have indicated at WC, where it will remain under the King’s guard in perpetuity. I will inform you when this is done.
I remain your faithful and humble servant, Brother Sir Charles Warren
“So you see, Mrs. Voland,” Mr. Griffin said as he and Mama approached me, “Robert Louis Stevenson was a favorite of King Edward VII, and that is why he has a first edition, signed copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde .”
“What a treasure,” Mama said.
I quickly folded the letter and returned it to Jerusalem Underground before closing the book and putting it back on the shelf. My heart was still pounding hard after everything I’d read, but I had to pretend to be unaffected.
The book Mary had found, the one that had put her in danger, was most likely one section of the Book Sir Charles Warren referenced. My father had brought it back from Jerusalem, but he was still in possession of it fourteen years later. Which meant that Sir Warren was still looking for the identity of the adversary who took the Bairds’ lives. And, if that was the case, was the unknown adversary responsible for killing Polly, Annie, Elizabeth, and Catherine in Whitechapel, because they knew about the Book? Or was it someone working in tandem with Jack? And where was WC? There were a few towns and villages in England with WC for the abbreviation, like Welbourne Common and Wells Cross. Whitechapel could also be abbreviated to WC. But it wouldn’t make sense for the Book to be kept there under the King’s guard. The King’s guard was reserved for royalty, which meant that WC probably stood for Windsor Castle.
“Did you find something of interest?” Mr. Griffin asked.
“I did,” I said with a forced smile. “A book by Sir Charles Warren, the man who was the metropolitan police commissioner in 1888 when Jack the Ripper was active.”
“Ah, yes,” he said with a nod. “The reason you’re in London. Some say that Jack knew Sir Warren personally, and it was a cat and mouse game between them. They say that Jack was taunting Warren and that he wanted Warren to lose his job as police commissioner, which is ultimately what happened.”
Was Jack taunting Sir Warren? The murders of each woman in Whitechapel had similarities with Freemason rituals and legends. The way in which the victims were killed reflected the ways in which Jubela, Jubelo, and Jubelum were executed. The apron taken from Catherine Eddowes and left under the chalk graffito on Goulston Street might have ties to the aprons the Freemasons wore during their meetings. And the message on the wall had referenced the Juwes. There were other things I’d discovered in my research, clues and evidence that tied the killings to Freemasonry, but had been destroyed, overlooked, or left out of official reports. It was becoming more and more obvious that Jack was sending a message to Sir Warren, one of the most renowned Freemasons in England.
But what did it have to do with the Book?
“Shall we continue our tour?” the guide asked as he motioned for us to precede him out of the library.
Mama glanced at me, questions in her eyes, but I couldn’t tell her about my discovery. Not yet.
First, I needed to speak to Mary and beg her to tell me what was written in the Book.
We only had five days left.