Page 28 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

28

November 9, 1938 London, England

My eyes opened quickly the next morning as I woke up at 44 Berkeley Square and tossed my covers aside. Mama would still be asleep, but I couldn’t wait to talk to her.

“Mama,” I said gently after I entered her room and touched her shoulder, not wanting to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open, then she sat up quickly. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t lose 1888,” I told her. “I was there yesterday.”

“What?” She frowned as she blinked a couple of times and readjusted on her bed. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t, either.” I quickly told her that Mary had been planning to leave Miller’s Court either way, and her friend Jane was more than likely Jack’s victim. It didn’t surprise me that Sir Rothschild wouldn’t know what Mary looked like, since he was not part of our lives in 1888. “So, I didn’t change history.”

“But you tried,” Mama said, frowning. “When Libby tried, even though she didn’t succeed, she still lost 1774.”

“She tried to stop Henry from going to Boston,” I told Mama. “But he still chose to go. The difference might be that Mary was never going to be killed. It was always going to be Jane. So I wasn’t changing anything.”

“But you sent Mary to America when she was supposed to end up in Surrey.”

“That I didn’t know,” I said. “So I didn’t knowingly change that part.”

Mama was still frowning. “I suppose I don’t understand all the rules of time-crossing. My mama told me that she saved the life of Virgil Earp using a medical technique that wasn’t known in 1861. She thought she had changed history, as well, and that she might lose 1861, but she didn’t. It appears that there are loopholes to the rules that each generation is learning as we go.” She studied me closely. “But none of this solves our most pressing problem. How will we meet Sir Rothschild’s demands? Where would we even begin to look for the Book, and how would we get access to it?”

I took a seat on the bed, ready to answer this question. “It would be impossible. I suspect it’s in Windsor Castle, but it’s probably hidden cleverly and under guard.” I’d been thinking about this all day yesterday as I went through files at the Public Records Office, though every Bryant I found turned out to be the wrong man. “I think I’ve come up with a plan,” I said. “I can’t access the Book, but I do know where the letter from Sir Charles Warren is hidden in Buckingham Palace. It confirms that there is a Book, and hints at where it might be located. I will tell Sir Rothschild that I have information for him, but that I want to see Papa first. I’ll tell him to bring Papa here tomorrow, and between now and then, Austen and I are working to try to find Sir Rothschild in 1888 to see if we can stop him there.”

“What will you do if you find him there?” Mama asked.

“I will threaten to unmask him and reveal his name to the world unless he releases Papa.”

Mama stared at me, her brown eyes filled with uncertainty. “But you don’t know his real name in 1888, and in 1938, no one would believe that Sir Rothschild is also Jack the Ripper.”

“That’s why Austen and I are working to find him in 1888 and threaten to reveal his name there. I cannot let him hurt Papa.”

She studied me and slowly shook her head, though I saw respect in the depths of her gaze. “If you do learn his real name, and you tell the world, you would be forfeiting both paths, Kathryn. I admire your desire for justice and your determination to save those you love, even if it costs you everything.”

I wanted to pretend I wasn’t scared, or that it was easy for me to make the offer, but I couldn’t lie to Mama. “I am praying it doesn’t come to that. My hope is that he will let Papa go when I give him information about where the Book is located. I might not be able to get it, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t try.”

“That’s what I am hoping and praying, too.” Mama took a deep breath and then said, “What are you planning to do today?”

“I need to find more information on Sir Rothschild here. His address, his connections—anything that might be a clue to help us know where he’s keeping Papa. I also want to find out if his real name is Bryant, because if it’s not, I’m wasting my time with public records in 1888.”

“I’ll get dressed and help you.” She was about to get out of bed when she stopped and said, “We should go to Lady Astor first. She knows Sir Rothschild. She’ll be a good place to start.”

I nodded, but added, “Are we doing the right thing by not bringing the authorities in?”

“We’re dealing with a man who has not only gone to great lengths to abduct your papa, but he’s also responsible for the most famous and gruesome murders in London’s history. I fear that if we make him upset, he could be capable of anything—both here and in 1888.”

“So we won’t tell Lady Astor that we know who took Papa?”

Mama slowly shook her head. “I hope I don’t regret this, but I don’t think it’s wise. Not yet. If you and Austen can’t find Jack in 1888 tomorrow, then we’ll contact the police here in the morning. We need a little more time.”

I hoped we wouldn’t regret it, either.

As I got dressed, my thoughts slipped to Austen. He’d come home late the night before and simply sent me a note, through his maid, telling me that he had followed Mr. Maybrick all day but had not yet identified Jack.

After Mr. Maybrick had left our townhouse, he’d gone home, then he’d gone to a café for lunch, and then he’d gone to a cotton exchange building near the waterfront, where Austen had learned that he’d met up with his brother, James, who was a cotton merchant. From there, Mr. Maybrick had gone to a theater and given a performance that evening. After he’d gone back to his home, Austen had returned to his.

Apparently, Mr. Maybrick’s comment about taking care of the mess had been a ruse because he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, leaving us back at square one.

After we dressed and Mama called Lydia to tell her there was no news yet, we hailed a cab and gave the driver Lady Astor’s address at St. James Square.

London had gone back to normal after the scare with Hitler in the end of September. Everyone was still wary and concerned about Hitler’s plans, but less and less people were carrying their gas masks, and all work on temporary bomb shelters had ended.

Mama held my hand in the back of the cab as we made our way to the Astors’ townhouse. I knew she was praying about Papa, about me, and about how we would find answers without risking my life in both paths. I leaned into her strength, offering up some prayers of my own and realizing that no matter what I planned, God was surprising me constantly with His answers.

I hoped He would continue.

When we finally arrived at St. James Square, my entire body was trembling with anxiety. After we knocked on the front door, the butler answered and led us into the parlor. He left to tell Lady Astor that we’d come, and then we waited.

“I’m happy she’s home,” Mama said as she stood in front of a large painting, looking at it but probably not seeing it.

I paced, trying to think of new ways to deal with Sir Rothschild.

“Oh, my dear Grace,” Lady Astor said as she entered the room. “Is there word on Luc?”

Mama turned away from the painting and shook her head no.

Lady Astor’s expectant look fell, then she motioned to the chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll ring for tea.”

“We’ve come on a mission,” I said quickly. “I’m not sure we’ll have time for tea.”

“Oh?” Lady Astor frowned. “What can I do for you? Whatever it is, I’m here to help.”

“How well do you know Sir Rothschild?” I asked without preamble.

She studied me for a second before saying, “I know him about as well as most.”

“Is Bryant his first name?”

Lady Astor slowly shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s his given name, no. Years ago when we first met, he introduced himself as James Bryant Rothschild. It wasn’t until he was knighted that he started to go by Bryant.”

“James?”

“Yes.”

I met Mama’s gaze. I’d told her what Austen’s note had said the night before. Mr. Maybrick had gone to his brother James’s place of employment. Was that a coincidence? But then I recalled the file I’d found in Sir Rothschild’s drawer, the one about the murder trial of Florence Maybrick, James’s wife. Why was Sir Rothschild so interested in that case? Could it be that he was James Maybrick in 1888?

“Why do you want to know?” Lady Astor asked.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” I said, hedging around the truth. “I was just curious and thought perhaps you could help me.”

“Why didn’t you ask him yourself?” She was frowning again, clearly suspicious.

“We’ve had a bit of a falling out,” I tried to explain, though it was a vast understatement. I didn’t want to alarm her, but I was doing a poor job hiding my emotions. Papa’s life was on the line, and Sir Rothschild held the key to his freedom.

Lady Astor’s mouth parted, and she took a step forward. “Does Sir Rothschild know where your father is?”

Mama and I glanced at each other, and it was enough to convince Lady Astor.

“He does!” She took a seat, shaking her head. “Oh, dear.” She pressed her lips together, regret and pain in her eyes. “I knew he was getting fanatical. He and his wife, Bianca, have spoken to Waldorf and myself on numerous occasions, trying to get us to pledge our loyalty to the Nazi Party, but I refused. I have long feared that he was deeper into the party than I realized and that he might be feeding them information.”

“You mean spying?” Mama asked.

“Yes. But I’ve known them for so long, I thought I was just being paranoid. He was very keen on knowing all about the Lindberghs’ and Luc’s trip to Germany. When Luc went missing, I had a fleeting thought that he might know something about it, but, again, I pushed it aside.” She put her hand to her forehead, clearly upset. When she looked up at us, she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“You are not responsible,” Mama said. “It’s not your fault.”

“What did he tell you?” Lady Astor asked. “Where is Luc?”

This was where it got more complicated. Would Lady Astor rouse the police? I had to say something, but I didn’t want her to get involved.

“We suspect that he’s being held somewhere here in London,” I finally said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Sir Rothschild believes I have connections to something he and the Nazi Party want—but I do not.” I said the last part very clearly. “That’s why he brought me to London in the first place, though I didn’t know it at the time.”

Lady Astor was quiet for a moment, but she finally said, “I won’t even ask what it is. But I am assuming that he spoke to you directly?”

“Yes, and he doesn’t want the police involved,” Mama added.

“Of course he doesn’t.” Lady Astor sighed.

“I don’t have what he wants,” I offered. “But I might know where it is. I am hoping he will agree to meet with us and bring Papa with him so I can see that he’s alive and well. Then I’ll tell him where the item is, and hopefully it will be enough for him to release Papa.”

“Let me know what we can do to help,” Lady Astor offered. “I will be there, if you need me.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. But if we change our mind, we’ll let you know.”

“Is there anything else about Sir Rothschild that you can tell us?” Mama asked.

Lady Astor shrugged. “I met him and Bianca at least ten years ago, when he first started to work at the London Museum. As far as I know, he grew up in London and studied in Italy, where he met Bianca and first joined the Fascist movement, probably because of her involvement. He and Bianca live not far from here, on Grosvenor Square. They have no children, and I don’t hear them speak of extended family. They tend to be very private people.”

Grosvenor Square was one of the most desirable places to live in London in both 1888 and 1938. The only way a man might afford a townhome there was if he was vastly wealthy. Either Sir Rothschild or his wife had family money, or he was getting it some other way, because the modest salary from the London Museum couldn’t pay for a house on Grosvenor Square.

“Thank you for your time,” I said to Lady Astor.

“Of course.” She smiled at us, though there was concern in her gaze. “Don’t hesitate to call again, if need be.”

We said our good-byes and then exited her townhouse.

The cab had left, but it didn’t matter. I knew where we needed to go, and it wasn’t far. Just across St. James Square to the London Library.

“Hurry, Mama,” I said as I took her hand and led her toward the familiar building. The London Library was housed in the same structure in 1888, and I’d been there many times.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the library to look up newspapers from 1888.”

“Why?”

“I have a feeling I know who Sir Rothschild might be there.”

“Who?” she asked, curious and surprised.

“A man named James Maybrick.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know anything about him, except that he’s the brother of Michael Maybrick, a famous composer that my parents want me to marry—and he’s going to become the victim of murder in 1888 tomorrow.”

“James Maybrick is going to be murdered?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Who is going to kill him?”

“His wife will be framed, but I have another suspicion. Either his brother, Michael, will kill him because he suspects that James is Jack the Ripper—or it will be suicide. I saw some newspaper articles about the trial in Sir Rothschild’s desk drawer.”

“But no pictures of James Maybrick in the drawer?”

I shook my head. “At the time, it didn’t occur to me to wonder. There were drawings of Florence and Michael, but nothing with James’s picture. Now I think I know why. If Sir Rothschild is James Maybrick, he wouldn’t want his likeness anywhere near him in 1938.”

We entered the cool interior of the London Library, and the smell of musty books met my nose. It was a familiar, welcoming smell, but I didn’t revel in it. I needed to find a picture of James Maybrick to know if my suspicions were correct.

A librarian sat behind a desk, and when we approached, he looked up and smiled. “May I help you?”

I forced myself not to speak quickly, but rather to be calm and collected so I didn’t arouse his concern. “We are interested in learning about the murder of a man named James Maybrick in 1888.”

“Ah”—he smiled and nodded—“a very peculiar and sad story. Mrs. Florence Maybrick was tried and convicted of the murder. She served fourteen years before getting the sentence overturned.”

“Do you have any newspapers from that time? I’m specifically interested in learning more about James Maybrick, the victim. Do you happen to have any photos of him?”

“We do, indeed. There’s a whole file devoted to the case. Won’t you come with me?”

I was both relieved and anxious to hear that there were pictures. If this was the right man, I would tell Austen immediately in the morning, and we would need to find James and confront him. If it wasn’t, we would need to keep looking. And we were running out of time.

We followed the librarian to a back corner of the library where tall file cabinets were stored. He went to the one with a large M on the outside and opened the drawer.

After looking through the files for a few moments, he lifted one out and smiled. “Here it is.”

It was a thick, promising folder.

“I’ll just leave this here with you,” he said as he set it on a table. “When you’re done, you may leave it here, and I’ll return it to the file cabinet.” He smiled. “Will that be all for now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I could hardly wait for him to leave before I went to the table. There were other patrons in the library, some sitting at the tables nearby doing research, some browsing the shelves, and others reading books in chairs by the windows.

“Hurry,” Mama said, just as eager as me to know if this was our man.

I opened the folder and saw a newspaper clipping, but there were no drawings. Slowly, I lifted the paper and turned it over, setting it on the front of the folder, and then I stopped.

Right underneath the newspaper clipping was a photo—not a drawing—of James Maybrick.

Mama sucked in a breath, and my legs became weak as I took a seat on one of the chairs.

“Sir Rothschild is James Maybrick,” Mama said, just under her breath.

“And James Maybrick is Jack the Ripper,” I added, fascinated and horrified all at the same time.

The photo of James Maybrick staring back at us was also a photo of Sir James Bryant Rothschild. The same light-colored hair, even the same mustache. The only difference was the style of clothing.

I didn’t need to continue to look, so I gently closed the folder and turned to Mama.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’m going to tell Austen what we’ve learned, and I’m going to confront James in 1888. When I see him there tomorrow, I’m going to tell him to take Papa to Berkeley Square in 1938. If he agrees, I will promise to give him information about the Book. If he doesn’t, I’ll threaten to reveal his identity to the world.”

“Isn’t he going to be killed tomorrow?”

“I’ll get there before that is supposed to happen.” I opened the folder one more time to get the details surrounding his death. “It looks like he died of arsenic poisoning around noon.”

Mama put her hand on my arm. “Please be careful, Kathryn. He might die in 1888, but he’ll be very much alive here.”

“I know. I will be careful. I promise.”

She didn’t look convinced, but there was little she could do to stop me.