Page 7 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

7

London, England September 2, 1888

The next morning, I was up and dressed earlier than usual. It was one thing to investigate the Jack the Ripper case from a vantage point fifty years in the future, with all the evidence and depositions obtained, but another thing entirely to investigate it as it unfolded. I was fighting time and history, and I needed to work fast.

I entered the breakfast room on the main floor of our townhouse, where my father was already seated. Mother took her first meal of the day in bed, as was common for married women, though her first meal was often at noon.

I had been avoiding Father for the past ten months, as much as I could, and usually came down after he left for King’s College Hospital, where he was a surgeon and a lecturer, serving as the chair of systemic surgery. He had warned me not to mention Mary’s name again, but that was before I knew she might be the last victim of Jack the Ripper.

I had to take a risk.

“Good morning,” I said, trying not to let my anger and frustration at his treatment of Mary color my words.

Father was seated at the head of the table, eating his breakfast with the same determination he did everything. With single-minded focus. He was a tall man, with thick, gray side whiskers and a spreading middle, a testament to his love for food.

“Kathryn.” He looked up from the sausage he was cutting. “I haven’t seen you at breakfast for some time.”

I went to the sideboard and helped myself to a plate of eggs and a muffin, though I had no appetite. Our butler, Jenkins, stood at attention but didn’t acknowledge me. He had not been with us for long. Mother’s penchant for change, if it could not be met with new drapes or wallcoverings, came at the expense of new staff.

“I’ve been a little busy,” I said as I took a seat next to Father.

“Your mother’s social calendar is daunting,” he agreed as he continued to cut his sausage. “She only wants the best for you.”

“And now that Mary is gone, I’m her sole focus.”

His fork paused on its way to his mouth. He glanced at Jenkins quickly before he said to me, “I’ve warned you not to say her name.”

I leaned forward, desperate. “I need to find her—”

“She is dead.”

“You mean dead to us? Why ? What did she do? I don’t under—”

Father speared me with a look that made me close my mouth. “If you don’t want to end up like her, I’d suggest you heed my words, Kathryn. Your sister is dead and nothing you say or do will bring her back. Do I make myself clear? I will not say it again.”

My heart was pounding hard as I stared at him. I wanted to ask him how he could turn out his own flesh and blood to the horrors of Whitechapel, but I believed he could—and would—send me to the same fate if I persisted. He’d always been a kind and generous father, but he was also demanding and disciplined.

With a scowl, Father wiped his lips and tossed his napkin onto his half-eaten plate of food, proof that he was livid, and then he rose from the table and left the breakfast room.

I sat at the table until I heard him leave the house, staring at the empty seat across from me where my sister used to sit, filling each new day with her happy chatter. My chest rose and fell with memories of her excitement over a new dress, or her colorful description of a ball or event she’d attended without me. She had been all that was good and happy in our home.

Jenkins didn’t move behind me, but I knew he was there, and I didn’t want to show him the depth of my pain.

I rose, leaving my food uneaten, and left the breakfast room. If Father wouldn’t help me, then perhaps Austen would. I needed to get back to Whitechapel and find Annie Chapman, or one of the other women who would be murdered. If there was a connection between the victims, it might point me to Mary.

The hem of my day dress brushed the floor as I walked toward the back door. My corset felt too tight, and my collar choked me as I stepped out into the courtyard. Clouds marred the sky, and the lack of wind made the hot air feel thick with smog.

When I was a child, I often came into the garden to pray. I hadn’t understood my time-crossing gift, and it had scared me, though Mama had done a good job explaining it to me. I had spent hours asking God why I had to endure such a strange existence. I hadn’t started to appreciate it until Austen had brought me history books, and his excitement about the past had filled me with a newfound appreciation for what I experienced. I had started to wish that I could live even further back in time, during the days of knights and fair maidens. And I wanted to take him with me.

But that wasn’t the way my gift worked, so instead we’d traveled there together through books.

I stepped onto the green grass and walked toward the hedge, realizing that the more confident I grew in my time-crossing gift, the less I had come to God with my concerns. Mama had always said I was headstrong and determined, often taking matters into my own hands, which hadn’t left much need for God.

For the first time in a long time, I realized I was facing something that felt bigger than me. I had a plan to save Mary, if she was the last victim, and I would not waver in seeing it through, but what if it didn’t go as I hoped? I glanced up at the cloudy sky, feeling guilty that I’d grown so distant from God. I didn’t want to go to Him only when I needed something or when I was desperate. I often attended church in both paths, and I knew He was there, but I usually felt confident to proceed without consulting Him. And things had generally worked out as I hoped.

But this time, I was thinking about changing history, and that didn’t sit right within my spirit—no matter how confident I appeared to Mama and Papa. Yet, God had revealed this piece of history to me, and I didn’t think He wanted me to sit back and do nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered in prayer as I passed through the hedge, my heart heavy. “Please help me find Mary, and please direct my steps. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt Your plans, but I also don’t want my sister to die. Please help me find a way to keep her safe.”

If the victim Mary Jane Kelly wasn’t my sister, I had nothing to worry about. But if she was, then I would need to save her. Changing history wasn’t a sin , I had to remind myself, just something that wasn’t advised. The cost would be forfeiting this path earlier than I had planned, but I would make that sacrifice, if necessary.

I knocked on the back door of Austen’s home, and a maid answered. “Is Mr. Baird in?”

“He’s in the front hall, miss,” the maid said.

I moved past her through the back hall and entered the front.

There were two large wooden crates in the hall, tall and thin. Three men were hauling them out the front door.

Austen stood nearby, looking anxious as the boxes were transported. “Be careful,” he cautioned them.

“Are you selling some of your parents’ artwork?” I asked.

He didn’t even bother to turn at the sound of my voice. “Something like that,” he said.

It surprised me that he would sell items that had belonged to his parents. Nothing had changed since they’d died. Not a single piece of furniture had been moved. Even when his aunt had lived with him, he hadn’t let her change a thing.

“What paintings are you selling?” I asked.

“You don’t know them.”

I frowned. “I know all the paintings in this house.”

“Not these.”

A fourth mover entered the house and handed Austen a piece of paper, which he signed, and then the mover doffed his cap and helped remove the last crate, allowing Brinley to close the door behind them.

“Has it gotten that bad?” I asked Austen, taking a step closer to him, conscious of his worn clothing. “If you need financial help—”

He gave me a look that silenced my offer.

Brinley left us alone in the hall.

“Are you back to fight with me again?” Austen asked me, crossing his arms.

“I need to return to Whitechapel and look for a woman named Annie Chapman.”

He sighed.

“Do you not have time to take me?” I asked him.

“I have the time, but it’s not safe, Kate.”

“You promised you’d help me find Mary, and I can’t find her unless we go there.”

“Perhaps we should hire a private detective.”

“I can’t afford one, and you ...” I trailed off, not wanting to remind him of his financial troubles.

“I can afford to hire a private detective. I’m not destitute.”

“I don’t see the need, if we have foreknowledge to help us.”

“Who is Annie Chapman? Does she know your sister?”

I pressed my lips together, not wanting to admit the truth.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who is she, Kate?”

At least he was still using his pet name for me. I glanced behind me to make sure we were alone, and then I leaned toward him. “She’s the Ripper’s next victim.”

He briefly closed his eyes as he shook his head.

“I know the boardinghouse that she frequents and where she’ll be murdered,” I whispered. “It shouldn’t be hard to find her.”

“And what happens when she’s killed and the police start asking questions, and someone mentions that a well-to-do couple was seen with her just days before her murder? Guess who comes knocking on our doors?”

I bit my bottom lip. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“We can’t talk to her.”

“I need to try. We can be discreet.”

“It’s out of the question.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “Can we at least go to the murder site?”

“What do you think you’ll learn?”

“I don’t know. That’s why this is called an investigation.” I put my hands on my hips. “I learned some things yesterday in 1938, and I need to get my questions answered.”

“What things?”

“Will you take me to Whitechapel? I’ll explain it on the way.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I’m going to like this.”

“Probably not.”

He let out an exasperated breath. “Meet me outside in twenty minutes. I’ll have Miles pull the carriage around.”

I smiled and stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his whiskered cheek, but the simple act—one I’d done several times as children—felt much different this time.

Austen grasped my upper arms—more out of surprise than affection—and I paused, my lips on his cheek. He wore a foreign cologne I’d never smelled before, so subtle I hadn’t noticed it until I was this close.

My breath caught as he slowly pulled back, and I lowered off my tiptoes.

His eyes were dark with emotions. “Don’t do that again, Kathryn.” He let me go. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

And with that, he strode up the stairs and disappeared.

Neither Austen nor I spoke as we walked down Hanbury Street on our way to number 29, where Annie Chapman would be murdered on September 8th. The stench of Whitechapel was heightened by the rain, and the addition of mud had ruined the hem of my gown.

A light drizzle pattered against the black umbrella he held over our heads, both for protection from the weather and from prying eyes. We were wearing plain clothing so we wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Austen’s coat and hat were worn and dated, which helped us to blend in. I didn’t want anyone to remember us after Annie’s death, which was six days away.

We’d left Miles with the carriage several streets over, hoping to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I kept an eye out for anyone who might look like Annie. She was the only victim of Jack the Ripper with a photograph before her murder. It was taken on the day she married John Chapman, and though she had aged, I had also seen her postmortem picture and had a good idea of her likeness.

Hanbury Street was mostly commercial, with storefronts on the main level and rooms above for tenants. Austen and I were stopped by various peddlers, but we shook our heads at most of them and continued down the dirty street.

We hadn’t said much since we left Austen’s home. My cheeks were still warm from the kiss as I tried to understand both his feelings and mine. But I couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“I’m sorry,” I said as I looked down at my gloved hands. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable before.”

He was quiet for a moment, and I was afraid he wouldn’t respond, but he finally said, “I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

I glanced up and found him watching me. His eyes were so clear and perceptive.

“Then why did you tell me I must not kiss you again?”

He shook his head and turned his gaze away from me. “If you don’t know, then there’s no point in explaining.”

I frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What else can you tell me about Annie Chapman?”

I blinked several times, trying to grasp what he’d meant, even though he had tried to change the subject. “What don’t I know, Austen?”

When his blue eyes returned to mine, there was a question in their depths. “Do you really not know, Kate?”

My pulse sped at the intensity in his gaze, but the answer was just out of my reach—not because I was an idiot, but because I wouldn’t allow myself to search for the truth.

Instead, I answered his earlier question.

“I don’t know a lot about Annie Chapman. That’s why I want to speak to her.”

Austen’s mood shifted from vulnerability to indifference in a heartbeat.

“I’m afraid that there is something connecting the five victims,” I continued, needing to talk about something other than us. “But I don’t know what it might be. The first four victims are similar in age, marital status, and living conditions, but they all came from very different places. Annie’s husband, John, was a coachman in Windsor for a man named Francis Tress Barry.”

“I’ve heard of him. He is a good friend of Prince Albert Victor and often hosts the prince in Windsor.”

I nodded, thankful that he would change the subject with me. “From the records I have in 1938, Annie was arrested for drunkenness so often her husband’s employer, Barry, said that if she didn’t leave his property, John would lose his job. So, Annie and John separated, and Annie has been in the Whitechapel District for the past three years.”

“And what of the other one? Polly Nichols? Have you found a connection between her and Annie?”

“Not yet. Polly’s husband was a printer on Fleet Street. They lived a very respectable life until her last child was born. She claimed that her husband was having an affair with the neighbor who helped her deliver the baby. Polly eventually left him and the children and spent years on the streets, and in and out of workhouses.”

We came to a stop at number 29, which was a dilapidated building with broken windows, rotting doorframes, and cracked brick. An old storefront window was covered with advertisements and years of smog and dust.

“Does Annie live here?” Austen asked me quietly.

“No. She stays in a boardinghouse on Dorset Street when she has her doss money. This is simply a dark corner for her to take—” I paused, my cheeks growing warm.

“Her customers?” Austen asked with a raised eyebrow.

I didn’t respond but motioned to a door that led into a passageway. “It happens in the courtyard behind the building. Sometime between five and six in the morning. Around 5:15, a neighbor in the next yard at 27 Hanbury Street will come down to use the lavatory, and he’ll claim to hear a woman say no twice before something or someone falls against the adjoining fence.”

“Can you spare a sixpence?” a woman asked from behind us.

Austen and I turned and found a middle-aged woman standing on the street with no umbrella to protect her from the rain. Her dress was worn and tattered, and her dark, curly hair was streaked with strands of gray. She extended a dirty hand to us as she turned and coughed into her shoulder.

My hand tightened on Austen’s arm.

It was Annie Chapman.

Her eyes were glossed over as she stared back at me.

“Annie?” I asked.

Slowly, her hand came down and she frowned, squinting at me. “Who are you?”

I couldn’t tell her my name in case she repeated it to someone who would tell the police after her death.

Her death.

Gooseflesh covered my skin as I realized this woman would be murdered by Jack the Ripper in less than a week.

“I’m ...” I smiled, trying to calm my nerves. “I heard that you might know someone I’m looking for.”

Annie continued to frown as suspicion darkened her gaze. “Who are you looking for?”

“Mary Jane Kelly.”

Annie’s eyes cleared for a moment as she took a step back, looking between me and Austen. “Why do you want to know about her?”

“You do know her,” I said quickly.

“I know of the girl,” she said, her voice and gaze drifting off, “but that was a long time ago. In a world that doesn’t seem to exist any longer.”

I frowned, confused by her words, but pressed on. “Do you know where she lives?”

“The less I know, the better, that’s what John always said. Take a drink, Annie, and forget. Forget about all of it.” Her gaze clouded over again, and she lifted her hand. “Spare a sixpence, love?”

Austen reached into his pocket and pulled out a shilling. Annie’s face filled with wonder as she looked up at him quickly and nodded. “God bless you, sir.”

She started to leave, but I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Do you know Polly Nichols?”

Annie’s muscles were stiff as she turned back to me. “Do you know Polly?”

I shook my head. Though I had seen her at Toynbee Hall, I didn’t know her.

Annie swallowed hard and looked over her shoulder, then leaned forward and said, “I don’t know anything. Drink to forget, Annie. Drink to forget.” Her gaze wandered, as if she was looking for somewhere to get the drink she needed.

She slowly pulled back from me and simply walked away, dazed and troubled.

I started to go after her, but Austen captured my hand and shook his head. “Let her go, Kate. Even if she does tell you some thing, it would be hard to believe her. She’s clearly troubled and unwell, and if we make a scene, someone will notice.”

“What if she knows Mary or Polly?”

“We’ll find Mary a different way.” Austen lifted his gaze to look at the street. “Besides, if a madman is on the loose and he has a target on Annie, he could be watching us right now. We shouldn’t stay.” He gently brought my hand into the crook of his elbow and motioned with his head the way we had come. “Let’s get you out of this rain.”

We didn’t speak as we walked back to the waiting carriage.

After we got inside, Austen tapped on the carriage roof and it began to move.

“What do you think she meant?” I finally asked Austen. “Did she really know of Mary from a long time ago?”

“I’m not sure. She seemed certain at first, but it was hard to tell. How could she have known of Mary from a long time ago? Mary is only twenty, and Annie is in her forties. Did she know her as a child? I wouldn’t put too much stock into her responses.”

“But her recognition when I said Mary’s name—it has to mean something.”

The carriage bounced through the rutted street, pressing me closer to Austen.

At first he was stiff beside me, but he eventually softened and allowed me to lean into him.

“Kate.”

I looked up at him, waiting. His hair was combed, but it was still long, and his beard was unkempt. If it wasn’t for his clothing, though worn, or the way he carried himself, he might be mistaken for a commoner and not a gentleman.

“What is it?” I asked him.

He started to speak, but then he shook his head and looked out the window. “Nothing.”

I sat up straighter. “You must tell me.”

“I shouldn’t. It’s nothing.” He turned back to me, and I saw in his eyes that something was troubling him.

“Whatever it is,” I said as I laid my hand on his arm, “you can tell me.”

He looked down at my hand and slowly took it in his own. With a sigh, he said, “I admire your tenacity.”

I could tell it wasn’t what he had intended to say, but I didn’t want to press him. I had loved spending time with Austen over the past few days, and I wanted more of it. I didn’t want to complicate things.

So instead of convincing him to tell me what he had been thinking, I made a proposition. “Perhaps I can persuade you to attend the ball Mother is planning this Saturday night.”

He let go of my hand, and whatever gentleness had come over him, it was suddenly gone. “No.”

“Please,” I said. “Mother’s parties are so boring.”

He frowned. “If you’re trying to convince me to attend, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“What I mean,” I said, “is that you would make it fun.”

He gave me a side eye, his voice dry. “Because I bring so much life to a party.”

“You could, if you wanted to. Mother has a performer coming, and she will no doubt have a handful of eligible bachelors there to meet me. Please save me from the boredom.”

Something flickered in his gaze, but it was gone before it fully formed.

It almost looked like jealousy.