Page 6 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

6

September 1, 1938 London, England

The following day, I found myself walking down the stone steps and into the basement of New Scotland Yard. This time, I was alone. Mr. McCaffrey had not arrived from Scotland, and Sir Rothschild had other matters to attend to. I’d been told a team was being assembled to put the exhibit together after Mr. McCaffrey and I laid out the design—but for now, I wanted to dive deep into the case and get familiar with the events that had taken place in 1888. It helped that I would experience it firsthand in my other path, but I also had the advantage of hindsight looking at it from 1938’s perspective.

“Good morning, Miss Voland,” PC Harrington said as I entered the first room. He was a handsome young man, about my age, with dark hair and brown eyes. His blue uniform was spotless, and based on the cleanliness and order of the Crime Museum, he took great pride in his work.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m here to continue my research.”

“I’ve been expecting you.” He rose from his desk and motioned for me to follow him. “I hope you’ve found everything you need.”

We entered the room where I’d been working the previous day in this path, and PC Harrington turned on the lights. The room was exactly as we’d left it.

“It must get lonesome down here,” I said as I took off my hat and set it on the table with my satchel.

“There are more visitors than you might imagine.” He smiled at me. “And there is a lot of work to be done, cataloging and accessioning items. With ten thousand police officers on the force and more crime than we can handle, there are new items coming in every day—not to mention those that are used as evidence in current cases. I manage it all.”

“That’s quite a job.”

He nodded. “But it’s the old cases, like the Ripper, that keep my interest. I like to study them in my spare time.”

“Have you done a lot of research on the Ripper case?” I asked, eager to speak to someone who knew more about the case than me.

“I have, but I didn’t think Sir Rothschild was interested in my opinions yesterday.”

I laid my hands on the back of a chair and shook my head. “I’m sorry about that. I’d love to hear your opinions, PC Harrington.”

“Please, call me Simon. At least when no one else is around.”

I smiled. “And I’m Kathryn.”

He motioned to one of the chairs at the table and said, “Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead.” I opened my satchel and took out a notebook and a pencil and then sat on the chair across from him. “I have a feeling I’ll need to take notes.”

“I don’t claim to be an expert, mind you, but I’ve had enough time to examine a lot of theories.” Simon leaned forward, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I think it’s safe to say that someone—or several people—spent a lot of time covering up after Jack the Ripper. Whoever he was, he had some powerful friends trying to keep his identity a secret. I’ve read many eyewitness accounts of the murder scenes, and dozens of people claimed to have seen the killer. Yet none of those people were ever brought in as witnesses during the inquests. Clues and evidence were destroyed, and other clues were brushed off. None of it makes sense. The killer should have been caught.”

I also leaned forward. “What are the theories?”

“The more popular theory is that it was a coverup concerning the royal family. That perhaps it was the lunatic grandson of the Queen or that Prince Albert Victor had sired a child with a Whitechapel prostitute and the victims were all witnesses.”

“But you don’t think those are true?”

“No. The murders were all done within a mile of each other, and whoever did it had to have good knowledge of the streets and alleyways. Since over thirty thousand people lived there at the time, it could literally be anyone.”

He went on to tell me about some of the more common suspects, and I took notes as he spoke.

When he told me all that he knew, I had more questions about the victims and tried not to seem unusually interested in Mary Jane Kelly. “The first four women have a lot of similarities,” I said. “Their age, living conditions, and even the way they were murdered. Why was the fifth victim different?”

“I think it was all about opportunity,” he said. “The first four women were basically homeless, trying to make their doss money each day to have a place to stay. They worked on the street, and that’s where Jack found them. His murders had to be quick because there was no privacy in Whitechapel. Mary Jane Kelly was the only one who had her own room, so Jack took the opportunity to murder her in the privacy of her home, where he wouldn’t be interrupted.”

“Do you think they were random murders?”

Simon dipped his head. “Well, I can’t say that for sure. There are theories that the women were connected some way, but whoever hid Jack’s identity hid the victims’ connections, too.”

The phone rang in the other room. Simon’s face fell in disappointment. “Sorry about that, but I should answer the call.”

“Of course.”

I sat for a moment, looking over the notes I’d taken, thinking about what he’d told me. I wasn’t anywhere closer to knowing Jack’s identity or if Mary Jane Kelly was my sister. Even the theories he’d shared with me didn’t seem to add up.

I stood and pulled the victims’ files out of the cabinet again. As I studied the information available, from the coroner’s reports to family and friends’ depositions, I couldn’t find anything connecting their lives. Polly, Annie, and Catherine were all English born, while Elizabeth was originally from Sweden, and Mary Jane’s origins were unknown, though it was believed she was also English. Were they random victims that happened to have similar backstories, or had Jack hunted them?

The next victim would be Annie Chapman, who would be killed on September 8th. Her body would be found in a courtyard at 29 Hanbury Street, not far from Commercial Street, and only half a mile from where Polly Nichols had been murdered. It was a week away. Perhaps Austen would take me there to inspect the area and see if there were any clues that might help us. Maybe I could even look for Annie and ask her a few questions, though the prospect of meeting one of Jack’s victims, and knowing her fate, would be horrifying. Maybe she knew Mary Jane Kelly and there were connections between them. Any bit of information would help.

As I looked through Annie Chapman’s file and learned the name of the boardinghouse where she lived, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jack was also searching for her in 1888.

But if he was watching her, might he also start to watch me? I had to be careful that I wasn’t putting myself in his path—a prospect I had not considered until now.

I was ready to forget about my work that evening as our cab pulled up to the luxurious home of 4 St. James Square, the residence of Lord and Lady Astor.

“I am eager to see the Astors again,” Mama said as Papa opened the cab door and stepped out. She was wearing a beautiful evening gown that shimmered in the streetlamps. I loved to think of all the life she had lived as an early aviator and a Puritan in Massachusetts. It was a shame that she couldn’t share her stories beyond the small circle of family who knew of her time-crossing. It was one of the many reasons I wanted history to come alive for others, so that people like us, who lived such a strange and wonderful existence, could let others experience the beauty of time.

I stepped out of the cab behind Mama, wearing a long black gown with short sleeves and delicate embroidered silk flowers and leaves crisscrossing over the bodice. I kept my dark red hair shorter in my 1938 path, since it was easier to manage, and the current style lent itself to a shoulder-length bob. One side was clipped up with a jewel-studded barrette, and the ends were curled under.

Before we arrived at the door of the three-story townhouse, a butler opened it and bowed. “Welcome. Lord and Lady Astor have been expecting you.”

As we entered the front hall, a middle-aged woman blew into the room with a wide smile. She, too, was wearing a long evening gown and had diamonds on her rings, earrings, and bracelets. “Good evening, my American friends. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

There was no need for pretense or guile in Nancy Astor’s home. Though she was a viscountess and a member of Parliament, she was first and foremost a Virginian who had married into a wealthy family and earned a place in the hearts of the British people through her outgoing and charming personality. She never met a stranger and made friends with people from all walks of life. Her interest in aviation had bonded her to my parents years ago.

She kissed my parents’ cheeks and then linked arms with me as she led us into the main parlor off the front hall. “I hope you remember,” she said, “in this house, there are no formalities or hierarchies. I insist that we call everyone by their first name.”

“Of course I do,” I said with a smile.

Waldorf Astor, Nancy’s husband, approached in an evening coat and extended his hands to greet Papa, then Mama, and finally me.

“It’s a pleasure to see you all again,” Waldorf said to each of us. “How are you finding jolly old England?”

Waldorf and Nancy Astor’s story had always enthralled me. Waldorf’s great-aunt, Mrs. Caroline Astor, had been the head of New York Society for decades. Because of it, she had been in a feud with Waldorf’s father, William Astor. William had left America at the height of the feud and quickly acclimated to British Society. William eventually became the first Viscount Astor. His son, Waldorf, had married Nancy, and together they had continued the Astor legacy in England. 4 St. John’s Square was their townhouse, but Cliveden, the country mansion that William had given to Waldorf and Nancy as a wedding gift, was their home.

“We hope you’re enjoying your stay at Berkeley Square,” Waldorf said.

“It’s been very nice.” Papa nodded. “Thank you for the generous offer.”

“There are so many people for you to meet,” Nancy said as she led us further into the parlor, where at least a dozen people were already mingling over drinks. She paused, as if an idea had just come to her. “Do you have any plans for the weekend? We’re all heading to Cliveden tomorrow for a Friday through Monday. It would be lovely to have you join us. Charles and Anne Lindbergh will be there—I believe you know them.”

“I’ve met Colonel Lindbergh on a few occasions,” Papa said. “Grace and the girls and I were on the stage when he was given the Distinguished Flying Cross medal right after his transatlantic flight in 1927.”

“Oh, do say you’ll come,” Nancy persisted. “We’d love to have you.”

Mama and Papa glanced at each other, and then Mama looked at me. “Can you get away for the weekend, Kathryn?”

“I had planned to research, but I could take my work with me.”

“I’m so eager to hear all about your project at the London Museum,” Nancy said with a smile, her eyes filling with youthful eagerness. She turned, as if searching the room. “I do believe there is someone here that you haven’t met. He’ll be joining us at Cliveden.”

She didn’t let go of my arm as she led me through the group of people while her husband took my parents in a different direction.

“There you are,” she finally said as she interrupted two gentlemen who were talking near a large, beautiful painting of a gorgeous manor house—which I immediately assumed to be Cliveden.

Both men turned, but it was clear that Nancy was speaking to the younger of the two.

“Calan,” she said, putting her free hand on the gentleman’s arm, “this is Miss Kathryn Voland. I believe you two will be working together at the London Museum.”

“Mr. McCaffrey?” I asked, surprised.

He smiled. “How do you do, Miss Voland?” His Scottish accent was thick and deep. “I had hoped to get to the museum before it closed today so we could meet properly, but I just got into town.”

“Just in time for my dinner party,” Nancy added.

I shook Mr. McCaffrey’s hand, charmed with his accent and his handsome blue eyes.

“This is Lord Trevaun,” Calan said as he indicated the other gentleman, “a member of Parliament.”

“How do you do, Lord Trevaun?” I asked as I shook his hand.

“Call me George,” he said with a dry, cultured British accent. “Nancy insists.”

Nancy’s head tilted back as she laughed. “I do, indeed.” She let go of my arm and linked hers with George’s. “Let’s leave the young people with their energy and optimism and go find somewhere to complain about our aching bodies and the state of affairs in the world, shall we?” As they walked away, she turned and said, “Supper will be served in a few minutes. Perhaps you’d like to sit together.”

Mr. McCaffrey smiled at me. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Voland.”

“I think you’re supposed to call me Kathryn,” I said in a conspiratorial tone, “or Nancy might kick us out.”

His grin was infectious as he laughed. “We don’t want to test her, do we?”

“I’ve heard she’s a force to be reckoned with—both in and out of Parliament.”

“That she is.”

We were both quiet for a moment, so I said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m curious as to why you’ve come from Scotland to work on an exhibit at the London Museum.”

“I’ve known and worked with Sir Rothschild for years. He said he was assembling a team to help build a very special exhibit and only wanted the best to work on it.” His blue eyes sparkled. “I assume that means you’re the best America has to offer.”

His laid-back personality put me at ease, yet I sensed he was used to women being fascinated by him.

“I’m not sure I’m the best,” I said, “but I do have a passion for history and a special place in my heart for England.”

“This secret project of Bryant’s just got a lot more interesting,” he said with a laugh. “Perhaps you could give me a hint as to what we’ll be working on.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged.

I wasn’t sure why Sir Rothschild had kept the exhibit so secretive, but surely Calan could be trusted if Sir Rothschild had asked him to lead the team.

“Dinner is served,” the butler said as he entered the room, interrupting several conversations.

Calan offered me his arm. “Shall we? I can’t wait to hear more about this top-secret project of ours.”

I took his arm and smiled at several other guests as we made our way across the hall and into the formal dining room. The rounded ceiling was painted with cherubs and clouds, while a heavy chandelier illuminated the large paintings on the walls. In between each painting was an enormous mirror, making the massive room feel even bigger.

Down the center of the room was a long table, laden with fine linen, china, and crystal. Calan led me to two chairs close to the end and pulled one out for me.

“Thank you.” I took the seat, smiling at the gentleman to my left, who I had not yet met.

Introductions were soon made, and the first course, a tomato bisque, was brought to the table by footmen.

“There are so many things I want to know about you,” Calan said as he took up his spoon to sample his soup. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

I laughed. “You’re very charming.”

He grinned. “I’m looking forward to spending time with you on the project. I’m excited to know more about it.”

The exhibit would be opening in November, and Sir Rothschild hadn’t told me to keep it to myself, so I saw no reason Calan couldn’t know. “We’ve been given access to the Jack the Ripper files at New Scotland Yard. Sir Rothschild wants us to create an exhibit, the first of its kind, for the London Museum.”

Calan’s eyebrows rose, his soup spoon midway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered the spoon. “So, the funny little game is going to be made public.”

“Funny little game?” I shook my head, frowning.

“Haven’t you read the Dear Boss letter yet?” he asked.

Again, I shook my head. “Not yet. Isn’t that the letter that he signed Jack the Ripper for the first time?”

“The very one. Jack sent it to the Central News Agency of London. In it, he called the murders his ‘funny little games.’”

I turned to look at him more fully. “So, you’re familiar with the case?”

“Very familiar. My uncle was John Chapman, Annie Chapman’s husband. I have a feeling that’s why Bryant asked me to be part of this project. I’ve done quite a lot of research on the case already.”

“You’re related to one of the victims?”

“Through Annie’s husband, yes, but he died from liver disease two years before her murder.” He lifted the spoon to his mouth, becoming serious as he stared into his soup bowl. “I’ve always felt a strange connection to the case because of Annie.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He seemed to pull himself from wherever his thoughts had drifted and lifted a shoulder. “It happened a long time before I was born, but it’s been a part of our family’s story. I’ve spent years trying to unravel the funny little game myself.”

“I’m finding that there are not a lot of clues, and the ones that were preserved don’t tell us much.”

“You need to know who you can trust, and who you can’t trust,” Calan said, for my ears only. “As a historian, and in life, I’ve learned to not accept things or people on the surface. Take, for instance, this room.”

I glanced at the people around the table, all of them smiling and having a good time. The conversation in the Astors’ dining room was glittery, full of laughter and joy. Nancy Astor clearly reigned over her table and enjoyed every moment.

“Lady Astor is a controversial figure,” Calan said quietly. “She loves good banter, and sometimes her conversation is raw, but she’s known as a prude where her behaviors are concerned. It has confused people for decades. But,” he paused, and I turned back to look at him, “she’s an enigma for other reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is so against Communism that she has publicly praised Hitler and Fascism as a buffer between the Communist Soviet Union and the western world. She vehemently opposes Catholicism, but is a good friend of Ambassador Kennedy, who is a staunch Catholic. She has strong views about Judaism while maintaining friendships with many Jewish people. She takes pride in her wide range of friendships and is truly kind to everyone—yet she is a force to be reckoned with when she is in Parliament, fighting some of the people who are sitting here at this very table.” He smiled and shook his head. “So you see, Kathryn, not everyone and everything are as they appear. We’re living in very dangerous times, with Nazi and Communist spies working in our very midst. The British Union of Fascists has over fifty thousand members here in England.” He paused and then said, “Perhaps there are Nazis and Communists at this table. And, as I’ve said, it’s important to know who you can trust and who you can’t trust.”

I smiled at him. “Can I trust you?”

His laughter was melodic as he dipped his spoon into his soup. “I wouldn’t.”

Several guests looked in our direction, including my parents, and smiled.

“What about you?” Calan asked me. “Can I trust you?”

“Of course,” I said, though I carried a secret about my time-crossing that I could never tell him. But that didn’t make me untrustworthy—did it?

“Good.” He nodded. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He touched my arm and said, “And I was only teasing you, lass. You can trust me, too.”

As the meal progressed, I thought about the things I’d learned that day, and I realized how na?ve I’d been. There was a web of secrets, power, and illusions casting its shadow on 1888 and 1938.

Tomorrow, I would seek Austen’s help again. I wanted to find Annie Chapman to see if she knew anything about my sister and if I could discover clues about why Jack would murder her.

Yet, as I considered all the obstacles before me, I had to remind myself that even if I unlocked the secret to Jack the Ripper’s identity, there was little I could do about it.

My only concern was saving my sister, though I was starting to fear that I might get entangled in Jack’s funny little game after all.