Page 4 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

4

August 31, 1938 London, England

Rain fell from a heavy gray sky as Sir Rothschild and I took a cab from Lancaster House to New Scotland Yard the next morning, not far from Big Ben on the River Thames. I was most familiar with the London of 1888 and marveled at all the improvements and technology I saw fifty years later, though some things, like the Palace of Westminster and the clock tower, were timeless.

“How do you like London?” Sir Rothschild asked as he sat back on the seat and watched me take it all in. “This is your first visit here, is it not?”

I couldn’t tell him I lived here in 1888, so I nodded. “It is my first visit—and I love it. American history feels juvenile compared to English history.”

He grinned, his blond mustache tilting to the side. “Most Yanks think the Liberty Bell is old.”

I lifted a shoulder, smiling. “It’s ninety years older than your Big Ben.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Sir Rothschild was an amiable companion as he pointed out landmarks on our short ten-minute ride from the London Museum to the Crime Museum. I was familiar with many of the buildings, but I didn’t let on, enjoying his passion for London history, which rivaled my own.

When we arrived at the New Scotland Yard, I was duly impressed. In 1888, it was still under construction, but here in 1938, I could see the full glory of the building on the Victoria Embankment. Red brick and white stone created a series of stripes, which were built upon a gray granite base. The building was several stories tall with a steep black roof, rows of dormer windows, and turrets at each corner. The whole structure overlooked the Thames and, according to Sir Rothschild, housed over ten thousand police officers.

The cab dropped us off near the front entrance, and Sir Rothschild held his black umbrella over my head as we made our way into the building.

Within minutes, we were sent to the lowest level of the police headquarters where the Crime Museum was housed in several connecting rooms.

“You must be Sir Rothschild,” a man in uniform said as he rose from a desk in the first room we entered. “I’m Police Constable Harrington, at your service.”

“Good morning,” Sir Rothschild said as the two men shook hands. “This is Miss Kathryn Voland from the Smithsonian.”

“How do you do,” PC Harrington said as he shook my hand. “Straightaway from America?”

I smiled at the young, energetic man. “Yes. I arrived just yesterday.”

He grinned, though he looked a little nervous as he put his hands on his hips and nodded. “I’m excited to show you around today. The Black Museum is—”

“Black Museum?” I asked.

He dipped his head. “That’s what it’s been called for the past sixty years since a reporter wasn’t allowed access and he dubbed it the Black Museum in The Observer .”

“We’re anxious to see the Ripper archives,” Sir Rothschild said, not wasting any time.

PC Harrington nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”

He led us out of the first room and down the hall to another door. “The Black Museum was created in 1874, fourteen years before Jack the Ripper was on the loose,” PC Harrington said. “And it was moved to this building in 1890 when it was completed.”

I loved PC Harrington’s enthusiasm, and since most museum curators lived to share their knowledge, I encouraged him. “Why was the museum started?”

He grinned as he turned on a light in the room. “By 1874, Inspector Percy Neame had collected several items to train police officers on how to detect and prevent crimes, so a museum was created. The first exhibit had clothing and items that had belonged to a woman who was murdered when she was only seventeen. Since then, items belonging to criminals and collected from crime scenes have been added—including those from the famous Jack the Ripper crimes.”

Sir Rothschild didn’t seem as indulgent as me, and he said to PC Harrington, “The Commissioner has given Miss Voland and me full access to the files on Jack the Ripper. After we’ve gone through the artifacts, we will write formal requests for the items we’d like to borrow for exhibition at the London Museum.”

“Correct,” PC Harrington said. “Those are the orders I’ve been given, as well.”

PC Harrington showed us into the room. There were two tall filing cabinets and several shelves containing boxes. A long table in the middle was surrounded by four chairs. With one small window near the top of the wall, it was dark, damp, and cool. The darkness and cool temperatures were ideal for artifacts, but not the dampness.

“Most of our high-profile cases are stored in this room,” PC Harrington said, “But you’ll find the Ripper evidence in this cabinet and these boxes.” He pointed them out to us and then added, “If you have any questions, I’m on duty Monday through Friday, nine to five o’clock.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile. “We appreciate your help.”

The young man left the room, and I took a deep breath. A new research project was invigorating, but at the same time daunting. Although I was especially eager to learn the details about this case.

“Shall we?” Sir Rothschild asked.

I nodded and took off my hat, which I placed on the table with my satchel containing notebooks, pencils, and a small camera. As I walked to the filing cabinet, he went to the shelves and scanned the labels on the boxes.

I held my breath as I opened the top drawer. My heart was pounding as I looked over the tabs.

Each victim had their own file with their name and date of death listed.

Polly Nichols, August 31, 1888.

Annie Chapman , September 8, 1888.

Elizabeth Stride, September 30, 1888.

Catherine Eddowes , September 30, 1888.

Mary Jane Kelly, November 9, 1888.

My heart felt like it stopped beating, and I couldn’t breathe.

Mary Jane Kelly was my sister’s full name.

I gripped the drawer as Sir Rothschild approached. “Are you alright?” He put his hand on my back, concern in his blue eyes. “Miss Voland?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to make sense of what I was looking at while maintaining professionalism and sanity.

“Have a seat.” He pulled a chair across the cement floor.

I sat, knowing that I could never explain my behavior. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll get you some water,” he said. “Perhaps the strain of traveling has been too much for you.”

I detested weakness—especially in myself. And especially here, when I’d been invited by a preeminent historian to be part of an exhibition research team, looking at primary resources from the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t up to the task.

“I’m fine,” I said with a smile. “I don’t need water.”

He studied me with uncertainty.

“I’m just a little overcome,” I continued. “It isn’t every day that you have access to such important history.”

Sir Rothschild smiled at that and then nodded. “If you’re certain ... ”

“Quite.”

He returned to his perusal of the boxes, and I took a fortifying breath before I rose and went back to the filing cabinet.

Perhaps there was more than one Mary Jane Kelly in Whitechapel. There had to be. And, even if there wasn’t, there must be a mistake. It couldn’t be my sister.

With shaking hands, I pulled each file out of the drawer and laid them on top of the cabinet. The first four murders were within a month of each other. The women were in their mid-forties and were all murdered in public places. Each victim was known for drunkenness, prostitution, and homelessness. Each was married and subsequently separated from their husbands and children. They followed a pattern.

But as I opened the fifth folder—praying the same would be true for Mary Jane Kelly—my heart fell as I read the words that I didn’t want to see. This victim had been in her early twenties, had been killed inside her rented room, and her life before the murder was undocumented, though some believed she had come from a well-to-do family. According to a testimony by a man named Joseph Barnett, who had claimed to be Mary Jane Kelly’s sweetheart, she had been disowned by her family, but was still close to her sister.

My knees almost buckled as I read the report. It was clear Mary Jane Kelly had not shared much about her life with the people in Whitechapel, and her family had not come forward to claim a connection to her after her death.

I felt Sir Rothschild’s gaze, but I couldn’t show him how much the file meant to me.

Was this my sister? Her middle name was Jane, and she would be twenty years old by November 9, 1888. She’d been disowned by our parents and was living in Whitechapel. The coincidences were uncanny.

As my eyes lowered to the coroner’s report, I felt like I might vomit. The pictures of her mutilation were unfathomable. Unrecognizable. I closed the files and took several deep breaths. Mary Jane Kelly’s murder, perpetrated indoors, with no one to disturb the Ripper, was the most gruesome of them all.

I refused to read the details—refused to believe that this was my sister’s fate. Mary was a beautiful, talented young woman. She was funny and intelligent and kind. Though I was three years older than her, she’d always tried to keep up with me and had been a sweet, though sometimes annoying, companion. Her life couldn’t come to this, especially when I didn’t understand why Father had forced her to leave our home.

I had to find her. Even if my sister wasn’t the Ripper’s victim, I needed to find my Mary and facilitate a reconciliation with my father. Mother had been heartbroken at her departure—though she had stood firm with Father, making me assume they knew something about my sister that I didn’t. But could it be that bad?

With a quick glance inside the file one more time, I saw that the address given for Mary Jane Kelly was 13 Miller’s Court in Whitechapel. It was the only clue I had to my sister’s possible residence.

Tomorrow in 1888, no matter what, I would visit 13 Miller’s Court. And I prayed that when I went there, I’d meet the real Mary Jane Kelly—the one documented in this file—and that it wouldn’t be my sister.

It was still raining that evening as I stepped out of the cab at 44 Berkeley Square and dashed into the rented townhouse. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where my parents were waiting. Papa leaned back in his chair, and Mama was sitting on the edge of hers, eagerly listening to his story.

My parents were both in their fifties, active, healthy, and energetic. Papa had been a daring French aviator when he’d met my mother, who was an investigative journalist living in New York City. Her twin sister, Hope, had been one of Papa’s aviation students. Hope had been in love with him, and my mother had not liked him when they first met. But Papa had quickly fallen for Mama, and when Hope died in a flying accident in 1912, Mama had been asked to complete her cross-country flight. Papa taught Mama to fly, and they soon fell in love. When it was time to choose between 1692 and 1912, Mama chose 1912. Hope stayed in 1692 with the man she loved, Isaac.

Mama had told me the tale many times, and I never tired of hearing about my parents’ love story. I wanted a romance like theirs—someday—but I’d been so busy in 1938 building my career that I hadn’t had time.

“Kathryn,” Mama said with a smile. “We were worried that we’d have to leave without you.”

Papa sat up in his tuxedo, a frown on his handsome face as he looked at me. “What is troubling you, ma chérie ?”

I entered the beautiful drawing room, my legs feeling heavy and my heart weak with fear. “I saw the names of the victims today. I had a feeling—I can’t explain it—but I’m hoping I’m wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” Mama asked as she reached for my cold hand.

“The last victim—her name is Mary Jane Kelly.” I choked on the last word, trying not to cry.

“Are you certain it’s her?” Papa asked.

“No—but there are several similarities. I’m going to Whitechapel tomorrow, to 13 Miller’s Court, to see if I can find her. That’s the address of the last murder, where Mary Jane Kelly lives.”

“If it’s her, what will you do?” Mama asked, patting the spot on the sofa next to her.

I took the seat, happy to be off my feet, and shrugged. I was cold from my wet dress, but I didn’t care. I had gone to the General Register Office that afternoon to look for my sister, hoping she was still alive in 1938. But I could find no records to match her, other than those that belonged to the Ripper’s victim named Mary Jane Kelly. I didn’t want to believe it was her.

“What can you do?” Papa asked. He was aware of mine and Mama’s time-crossing gift. He knew the rules as well as I did, and I knew what he was asking.

“I can’t change history,” I told him, feeling helpless. “But I must do something. Why would God allow me to know this history if I wasn’t meant to help her? I didn’t go searching for it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mama said. “If you knowingly change something, then you’ll forfeit that timeline.”

I sat up, a thought giving me hope. “But I’m going to forfeit it anyway,” I told her. “When I turn twenty-five in 1890, I plan to give up that path.” Even as I said the words, I thought of my conversation with Austen yesterday. I was still mulling over why he seemed so upset about me leaving when he clearly had no interest in being part of my life. But I had to push those thoughts aside for now. “I can take Mary away from Miller’s Court, if she is the victim, and all I will do is give up 1888 a little earlier than expected.”

Mama’s eyes softened with sadness. “I’ve been told that some of history’s greatest tragedies and catastrophes happened when a time-crosser knowingly changed history. One alteration could create a cascade of problems that might hurt countless others, Kathryn.”

“But I can’t let that possibility stop me—how could one little change make so much difference? If I knowingly allow my sister to be murdered, am I not guilty, as well?”

Mama looked to Papa, helpless.

“God is sovereign,” Papa said. “Even when we don’t understand, He allows certain things to happen for His purposes. When we say we know better, then it means we don’t believe He is sovereign or just. That His will is not as perfect as our own—and that’s a dangerous game to play.”

I shook my head, struggling to understand. “God is sovereign,” I agreed. “But He also gave us a mind, didn’t He? And He intends for us to use it. He has given me this information and time to make a difference in Mary’s life. I can’t sit back and do nothing.”

Mama took my cold hands. “This is what I was afraid might happen when we came here. You’re too close to this situation, Kathryn. This is a very precarious position you’re in. My mother always told me it was best not to study the history we would live through. I didn’t listen, and I tried to find answers about the witch trials, but it only brought me grief and heartache. I think it would be best if you stopped digging for answers. Perhaps you should step away from this proje—”

“I can’t leave. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.” I was beginning to feel desperate. “How could I walk away now?” I took a deep breath. “I don’t even know if my Mary is the victim. I must find her—and I’m going to ask Austen to help me.”

Again, Mama looked at Papa. I knew that look.

“Austen hasn’t been part of your life for fourteen years,” Papa said. “You’ll only make yourself upset if you ask for his help and he doesn’t give it. You need to temper your expectations, Kathryn.”

“He’ll help me if he knows that Mary’s life is at stake,” I said.

“Will he?” Mama rubbed my hand, and I realized she was still holding it. “We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“If Mary is killed by Jack the Ripper and I don’t do something to save her, the hurt I’ll carry could not compare to the hurt Austen might inflict by rejecting me. But if he’ll help me, and I can do something to protect Mary, I will take that chance.”

Papa sighed. “If Mary is the Ripper’s last victim and you choose to save her—” He shook his head. “Then you’ll need to wait until the very last moment, Kathryn. If you try to change things too soon, you could jeopardize the entire history of England. You don’t know how deep this thing goes. There have always been rumors that Prince Albert Victor himself was involved.”

“I remember my mother telling me that they didn’t know Jack’s real identity, even in 2001,” Mama added. “For some reason, history has chosen to keep him hidden. Whether it’s because there are powerful people keeping the truth locked away—or because his real identity could change the course of human history—there’s no way to know. Changing even the smallest thing could end up creating more pain and heartache than you bargain for.”

My breath stilled as I let their words sink into my mind and heart.

Next to my family, my love for history and for England was second to none. My life’s work was to protect and preserve the past so a future generation could know and appreciate the people and events that came before them. How could I knowingly change even the slightest detail?

“You have a lot to ponder,” Papa said as he rose from his chair. “We’ve been invited to dinner with the Kennedys at the Ambassador’s Residence. If you don’t feel like going, we can give your apologies.”

As a brigadier general in the Army Air Corps, and as popular figures from their days as aviators, Papa and Mama had been invited to several events and dinner parties during our stay. I wouldn’t be able to attend them all, but I could go to this one.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. “Mama has always told me to not let one life affect the other—and in 1938, all is well. I want to go.”

“All is well for now,” Mama said as she, too, rose. “Germany is an ever-present threat, and the Soviet Union isn’t too far behind.”

“But those are not worries for today,” Papa reminded her. “You lived through the Salem Witch Trials, and God never left your side, Grace. He’ll give us strength to endure whatever comes our way.”

Mama took his hand. “What would I do without you?”

He kissed her. “Thankfully, you don’t need to find out.”

I sat on the sofa, painfully aware of the troubles I faced in both paths. Mama and Papa would keep me grounded in 1938, but in 1888, I was alone.

Though I did have one ally—if he’d only agree to help.