Page 29 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

29

November 10, 1888 London, England

A light, steady rain tapped against the windows in my bedroom at Wilton Crescent when I woke up there the next morning. Just like the day before, I quickly got out of bed to get dressed. This time, however, I had to ring for Duffy’s help, since it would take me too long to dress myself in petticoats and a corset.

Yesterday had felt like an eternity while I waited for the clock to strike midnight in 1938 so I could go back to 1888. Mama and I had spent the day looking through public records, trying to find out if Sir Rothschild owned any buildings, specifically a warehouse in London where he might be holding Papa. But there were no such records. Sir Rothschild didn’t even own the townhouse he occupied. Instead, we learned that it was owned by a man from Germany. That had given us hope, so we used the German’s name to look up property titles. But we found nothing helpful there, either.

Now, I began to brush out my hair as I waited for Duffy. I didn’t know where James Maybrick lived, but it shouldn’t be hard to find his address. We needed to get to his house as soon as possible. I had read enough about his death to know that he was complaining of stomach ailments for days prior to his murder and that he died in bed at his home around noon.

When Duffy finally appeared, she looked surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be rising this early, miss.”

“Please hurry,” I said. “I need to be somewhere as quickly as possible.”

She helped me into a simple day dress and styled my hair in a low chignon. She’d barely helped me button up my walking boots, and I was already on my way out.

“Miss, your hat and gloves,” she called after me.

I ignored her, not caring if I was properly attired. Instead, I rushed down the hallway to the staircase and came to a halt when I met Father at the top of the stairs.

He gave me a frustrated, disgruntled look and said, “I’ve arranged for a special license. You and Austen will be wed one week from today at St. Paul’s with a small wedding breakfast to follow.”

He didn’t give me time to respond but continued down the stairs toward the breakfast room.

St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, was an Anglican church just around the corner from our townhome. We’d attended there faithfully since I was a child. It was a beautiful Gothic structure and would make a lovely place for a wedding—if I was getting married in 1888.

There were far too many things to worry about before I could think about that, so I pushed Father’s news aside and continued down the stairs and out the front door.

The rain was falling steadier now, and I ran to the townhouse next door and vigorously knocked until Brinley answered.

“Miss Kelly,” he said, stepping back to allow me to enter without any formalities. “Come in.”

“Is Austen at home?”

“He’s just coming down now, miss.”

Austen stood at the top of the stairs but quickly descended as Brinley closed the front door behind me and quietly slipped out of the entrance hall.

Austen was dressed, but he hadn’t shaved, probably not wanting to waste any time, either. When he met me at the base of the stairs, he took me into his arms without a word.

I melted into his embrace and pressed my cheek against his chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.

He held me tight, as if he didn’t want to let me go, and finally whispered, “You don’t know how thankful I am that I can still do this.”

I closed my eyes, wanting this moment to last forever. But we didn’t have much time, so I pulled back and said, “I know who Jack is.”

Austen stared at me for a heartbeat before saying, “Is it Michael Maybrick?”

“No. It’s his brother, James.”

“James—the brother he visited at the cotton merchant’s building yesterday?”

“Yes. I’ve seen his picture, and there is no mistaking that he is Sir Rothschild. I found a folder in Sir Rothschild’s desk a couple months ago with information about James Maybrick’s death. He is supposed to die at noon today, of an apparent murder by arsenic poisoning. His wife will be arrested and put on trial, with Michael Maybrick as her lead accuser. She’ll serve fourteen years, but the sentence will eventually be overturned.”

“Do you think she did it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But part of me wonders if he was researching the case in 1938 because he plans to change history and not get murdered here. Either way, we need to find him. I need to talk to him and let him know that if he doesn’t release Papa in 1938 tomorrow, I will tell the world his identity as Jack the Ripper.”

Austen studied me much the same way as Mama had before he said, “You would be willing to risk changing history and forfeiting this path again?”

“If Papa’s life wasn’t in danger, I wouldn’t risk it. But he is in danger, and I cannot let Sir Rothschild get away with this.”

Austen nodded, resigned. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about you, Kate. Thanking God that I had one more day with you.” Sadness and disappointment filled his gaze as he said, “But I can’t help feeling that no matter what we do, I’m going to lose you.”

My heart fell at his words, and I grasped the lapels of his coat, trying to anchor myself to him, to this moment, and to this path. I wanted to beg him not to say those words, but I couldn’t. Because I had the same feeling.

“I’m sorry,” I said, since there was nothing else I could say.

“It’s not your fault.” He hugged me, and I wished his embrace could banish all my fears. But it didn’t.

“We need to find James Maybrick.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to face Jack the Ripper.” He pulled away and took his jacket off the coat-tree. “I’ll never get used to any of this.”

“I’ve faced him countless times,” I said. “And each time I recall being alone with him in 1938, I shudder.”

“The man has done unspeakable things. I want you to stay close to my side, Kate.”

I nodded, not planning to do anything foolish.

At least, not yet.

We took Austen’s carriage to the cotton merchant where he’d seen Michael Maybrick the day before. Since Miles was no longer there to drive, Austen’s footman maneuvered the vehicle through the busy streets of London.

James wasn’t at work, but the clerk gave us his home address.

The carriage drove from the warehouses near the river to Cumberland Terrace in Regents Park. The beautiful white townhomes were similar to Wilton Crescent, with black wrought iron railings around the upper windows and flower boxes on the lower ones.

When the carriage pulled up to number fifty-two, I stared at the nondescript home and wondered what might greet us inside. Would James be willing to speak to me? It was almost nine o’clock, several hours away from the appointed hour of his death. But had he even stayed home today?

Austen got out and offered me his hand. I was thankful for the simple dress I was wearing, though it was still cumbersome. I didn’t care if it got soiled in the dreadful weather.

Neither of us spoke as we walked up to the door, where Austen knocked. He glanced at me with a question in his eyes, giving me one last chance to back away.

I shook my head. There was no backing out now.

A butler answered and allowed us in out of the rain.

“Is Mr. Maybrick home?” I asked the butler.

“May I ask who is calling?”

I hesitated, not knowing if I should give aliases. Finally, I decided Sir Rothschild would be more likely to answer our call if he knew our real identities. “Mr. Austen Baird and Miss Kathryn Kelly.”

The butler nodded and led us to the parlor before summoning his employer.

The parlor was well-decorated and comfortable, but the room was cold, and the house was quiet. There was no fire in the hearth and no sound coming from any other room.

We didn’t have to wait long before a woman appeared. She was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She carried herself with authority as she said, “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Maybrick. How may I help you?” Her voice was distinctly American with a hint of the south.

I stepped forward. “We’ve come to see your husband. Is he home?”

She studied me for a moment and then looked at Austen before her gaze came back to me. “May I inquire about your business? My husband isn’t feeling well and is in bed.”

It surprised me that he hadn’t left the house today—unless he wanted to die in this path and was allowing it to happen.

“We really must speak to him directly,” I said, my nerves trying to get the better of me. “It’s an urgent matter that cannot wait.”

Mrs. Maybrick regarded me and then lifted her chin. “I cannot let you see him. He’s much too ill, and I fear that if something upsets him, it will be—”

“Leave the room, Flo,” a man said from the doorway.

I was startled as my gaze locked on James Maybrick—or, as I knew him best, Sir Rothschild.

It was strange to see him here. He looked pale and bent over a cane.

“You should be in bed, James,” Mrs. Maybrick said as she rushed to his side. “The doctor said that the only way to regain your strength is to rest.”

“I said leave,” he told his wife, his voice cold and unforgiving.

She looked from her husband back to me, curiosity and concern in her gaze, but she didn’t argue and took her leave of the room.

“Close the door,” he ordered.

She did as he commanded and was gone.

“So,” he said, standing straight, no longer in need of the cane, which appeared to be part of a show for his wife’s sake. “You found me.”

I could hardly believe this was the same man I’d worked with at Lancaster House for the past two months. Or that this was Jack the Ripper. I had so many questions, but I needed to tell him why I’d come. “I want you to release Papa.”

A hateful smile tilted up one side of his mouth. “You have the Book?”

Shaking my head, I said, “No one can get the Book. You, of all people, should know that.”

“If you don’t get the Book to me by noon tomorrow, you can forget about seeing your father alive.”

My fists clenched at my sides, and I had to force myself to remain calm. “I can’t get you the Book. But I know where it is.”

“Tell me now.”

I shook my head. “I won’t give you the information until you take my father to Berkeley Square. I want to see him. To know that he’s alive and well.”

“You expect me to believe that you know where the Book is located?” He laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “I’m not a fool, Miss Kelly.”

“Don’t you recall the letter I discovered at Buckingham Palace? The one written by Sir Charles Warren to Prince Albert Victor, with information about the Book? I never told you, but he gives the location about where they planned to keep the Book once all the parts of it were brought back together. And since we know that the Book is together again, the letter will tell you where it’s at.”

Sir Rothschild stared at me. “You’re lying.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. I have the information, but I will not give it to you unless you take my father to Berkeley Square tomorrow. At noon.”

He continued to study me, his eyes calculating. “No police, Miss Kelly. If I see anything out of the usual, I will keep going and your father’s body will be found floating in a river in Germany of an apparent suicide a few days later. Think of the shame that it will bring to your family.”

I took a step toward him, but Austen reached out to stop me.

Sir Rothschild scoffed again, but then he said, “Do you swear, Miss Kelly? Just you and your mother at Berkeley Square.”

I ground my teeth. “I promise it will be just me and my mother. But if you don’t bring him to me,” I said, tugging against Austen’s hold on me, wanting to lash out at Sir Rothschild, “I will not hesitate to reveal that James Maybrick is Jack the Ripper. I have enough evidence to convince the world, both here and in 1938.”

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Even if you die here today.”

“I’m not dying here today,” he said. “The history books claim it’s arsenic poisoning and that I have been suffering for weeks. But I haven’t touched a bit of food from this house, or my brother’s house, in weeks. I’ve been pretending to feel ill so Florence, or whoever was supposed to poison me, thinks it’s working.”

“Who do you think it is?” I asked.

“Probably my brother. He’s a loyal Freemason, just like our father.” He spat out the word father with hatred in every syllable. “I’d take down all of the Freemasons if it meant destroying the one thing my father loved above all others, his Brotherhood.”

“But if the history books claim you died here,” I said, “you’ll forf—”

Austen squeezed my arm and shook his head.

I frowned, but he communicated for me to stop warning Sir Rothschild.

“What?” Sir Rothschild asked. “What were you going to say?”

Realization dawned. When I’d spoken about changing history with Mama while Sir Rothschild was in the room at Berkeley Square, he’d seemed ignorant of the time-crossing rule. Did he not know he was forfeiting 1888 by preventing his death?

I stopped straining against Austen, and he finally let me go. When I looked back at Sir Rothschild I said, “I will see you tomorrow in 1938—with my papa.”

“You had better have what I need,” he warned.

“I will.”

When I opened the door, I found Mrs. Maybrick pacing in the hallway. Behind me, Sir Rothschild began to moan and groan, as if he was in pain. He bent over his cane once again and sat on the sofa, but this time I knew he was faking.

Mrs. Maybrick entered the parlor, her face filled with distress. “James, you must get back in bed.”

As she put her arm around him, helping Sir Rothschild to his feet, he gave me one last vicious smile.