Page 8 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

8

Buckinghamshire, England September 2, 1938

Sunshine warmed the car as Mama, Papa, and I made our way to Cliveden House in Buckinghamshire, just outside London. It was refreshing to be back in 1938, away from Whitechapel and Jack the Ripper—and Austen, whose behavior had started to puzzle me.

Austen usually said exactly what he thought, without care as to how I would perceive it. But the conversation in the carriage the day before, after meeting Annie, was strange. He had wanted to say something but had chosen not to. It wasn’t like him, but then again, Austen wasn’t acting like his old self since returning from Italy.

Something was different, and it was all I could think about.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Mama said as we turned down a long drive with trees on either side. Ahead was Cliveden House, the Astors’ country home.

“I met Annie Chapman,” I said, though it wasn’t the reason I was being quiet.

“Who is she?” Papa asked.

“One of the victims—the next victim.”

Mama’s eyebrows rose high. “Do you think it’s wise to be in contact with the victims? What if you change history?”

“Or are seen by Jack?” Papa added.

“I just wanted to ask her if she knew Mary or Polly Nichols.” I felt defensive, probably because I knew they were right. “I wasn’t going to change anything.”

“You need to be more careful,” Mama said. “I hope you didn’t go alone.”

“Austen took me to Whitechapel both times I’ve gone.”

“You’ve been there before?” Papa shook his head and sighed. “One of the most dangerous places in history.”

“Austen will take care of me.” Even as I said the words, I realized I meant them wholeheartedly. I trusted Austen with my life.

So why did I hesitate to trust him with my heart?

The thought made me pause. His response to my kiss, and his strange words about not giving him a chance, swirled within my mind.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Mama asked as she stared at Cliveden House.

I was thankful she tore my thoughts away from Austen—though it would be impossible to forget about him completely.

The central part of the mansion was a three-story rectangular structure with dozens of windows, and along the sides were corridors leading to two-story buildings flanking either side. The River Thames hugged the edge of the beautifully landscaped property, and the first yellow tinges of autumnal color were starting to appear, though the weather felt like July.

“It’s remarkable that this home was a wedding present,” Mama said. “I can’t imagine such wealth.”

My parents lived a very comfortable lifestyle, but it wasn’t grand. They’d purchased Mama’s childhood home on Lafayette Square in Washington, DC, and had taken care of my grandparents Maggie and Graydon in their old age. My older sister, Lydia, and I had been raised with them. Losing Grams and Gramps within months of each other just two years ago had been a difficult loss, but I had taken comfort in knowing they’d led good, fulfilling lives. They hadn’t left much of a financial legacy since they’d spent most of their money caring for orphans, but the legacy of faith and love was priceless.

The cab took us to the front entrance. A butler was waiting for our arrival, and he ordered two footmen to take our bags to our rooms, but Nancy Astor had requested that we be brought to the terrace as soon as we arrived.

The back terrace of Cliveden House was even more impressive than the front entrance, looking out at a pristine lawn with hedges and flowerbeds. It also afforded a better view of the river.

There were several people already gathered on the terrace, laughing, enjoying hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Some were sitting at tables, others were standing in small groups, and still others were on lounge chairs. The ladies wore large hats and light-colored dresses, while the men were in summer suits and brimmed hats. It was a festive, happy crowd. I recognized a few from the Astors’ dinner the night before, but there were others I didn’t know.

“Finally,” Nancy said as she left a group of people and joined us. “Now the weekend can start.”

We greeted our hostess and allowed her to introduce us to several of her guests. I was surprised to see Sir Bryant Rothschild and his Italian wife, Bianca, among the group. I wasn’t aware that the Rothschilds were friends with the Astors.

But it was Charles and Anne Lindbergh whom I was most eager to see. The famous aviator and his wife had been living in England for the past three years, having left America after their first-born son, Charles Jr., was kidnapped out of their home and found dead in a wooded area less than five miles away a couple months later. The press had been unbearable, forcing the Lindberghs to flee for the safety of their second child.

“Colonel Lindbergh,” Papa said as the Lindberghs rose from their place at a wrought iron table to greet my parents. “It’s good to see you again.”

I’d seen Charles Lindbergh the day he received the Distinguished Flying Cross medal from President Calvin Coolidge eleven years ago. I had only been twelve years old as Mama, Papa, Lydia, and I had stood on the makeshift stage under the Washington Memorial with hundreds of thousands of people watching. Charles Lindbergh had been the first person to fly solo nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean in 1927, and the world had not been the same since. He’d gone on to promote aviation and had married Anne Morrow, an American ambassador’s daughter, two years later.

His famous airplane, The Spirit of St. Louis , hung in the North Hall of the Arts and Industries Building at the Smithsonian. I walked under it every day.

“It’s good to see you, too, General Voland,” Lindbergh said. He was a tall, thin man, known for his good looks and private demeanor. “I was surprised when we learned that you and your family would be in London.” He motioned to the woman standing beside him. “This is my wife, Anne.”

Anne was just as quiet and reserved as Charles, though she was dwarfed in comparison to his height. She shook my hand and then Mama’s before smiling at Papa. It was hard to imagine what her life had been like since the kidnapping of her son. But one of the reasons they’d come to England was to stay out of the limelight and not talk about it—so I wouldn’t. But she was an author, with two books about the famous flights she and her husband had taken, and I hoped to talk to her about them.

“Ever since I heard you’d be here, I’ve been eager to discuss an opportunity with you,” Lindbergh said to Papa. “I’ve recently made two trips to Germany at the invitation of the American military attaché in Berlin to inspect the Luftwaffe.”

The Luftwaffe was the aerial warfare branch of the German military—something Papa had spoken about often since it became known that Germany was rearming themselves despite their agreement not to do so after the Great War.

“It’s been fascinating to see their aircraft and factories,” Lindbergh continued. “I’ve sent reports back to Washington, but I’d like to return to Berlin to see more of their aircraft factories and get a better understanding of their capabilities. I would appreciate your perspective, if you’d like to join me.”

I looked to Papa, expecting him to decline the invitation. If Mama thought England was a dangerous place right now, Germany was far worse.

But I didn’t see fear or even concern in Papa’s face. What I saw was excitement. “You’d like me to join you in Berlin?”

“I think we could both help the US by offering our opinions on Germany’s airpower. My report didn’t seem to alarm President Roosevelt, but if he had another respected member of the US Army Air Corps take a look, perhaps we could persuade him that we’re not in a place to fight Hitler at this time.”

Mama’s eyes widened as she looked at Papa. I knew what she was thinking—what she would say to him later. She would not be pleased with the invitation, or the fact that he seemed to consider it.

“Take your time in deciding,” Lindbergh said. “I won’t be going for several weeks. But it would be good to have you.”

“I’ve gone with him,” Anne said to Mama, her voice just as quiet and unassuming as her gentle appearance. “It’s a marvelous city, and I plan to return with Charles on his next trip. Perhaps you’d like to join us, as well, Mrs. Voland.”

Mama offered a tight smile, though I could tell she had no intention of accepting the invitation, even if it had come from the Lindberghs.

My gaze shifted to Sir Rothschild and Calan, who were speaking with Sir Rothschild’s wife, Bianca. When Calan caught my eye, he motioned for me to join them.

“You’ve met?” Sir Rothschild asked as I entered their small group.

“At the Astors’ townhome, last night,” Calan said.

“Do you mind working with an American woman?” Bianca Rothschild asked in an Italian accent.

Calan grinned. “Not when she’s such an attractive and intelligent one.”

“Now, none of that.” Sir Rothschild’s voice was serious. “You two need to remain professional at all times.”

“But we’re not at work right now,” Calan protested. “And what happens at Cliveden stays at Cliveden. Isn’t that right, Nancy?”

Nancy was just passing by, but she stopped and said, “Quite.”

My cheeks warmed as Calan met my gaze again, though I suspected he was a rake and only trying to make me blush. I’d had my head turned a few times before, but I wasn’t planning to have it happen now. The next few months would be too complicated as it was—and for some reason, each time my mind wandered, it landed on an entirely different man. One who was living next door to me in 1888. A man who had frustrated me endlessly for the past fourteen years, but one who was starting to intrigue me instead.

A man who called me Kate.

The conversation shifted from one topic to another, inevitably landing on one of the more popular subjects that had most of England—and the world—talking.

“Do you think Hitler is dangerous?” Calan asked the group at large.

“I think Hitler is necessary,” Nancy said with a decisive nod. “He stands between us and the Communist Soviet Union. Joseph Stalin is the real danger.”

“I can’t imagine that’s a popular opinion,” Calan said, though he didn’t seem surprised that she’d said it.

“It’s the truth.” Nancy set her empty glass on the tray of a passing footman and took another.

“There are things to be admired about Hitler,” Sir Rothschild said, surprising me. “He’s organized, focused, and has the German people’s best interest in mind.”

I had not heard anyone praise Hitler. On the contrary, I’d heard nothing but concern and dismay among my friends back home.

“I’ve heard Lindbergh speak of Germany’s strength,” Sir Rothschild continued. “I agree with Lindbergh. We shouldn’t try to anger Hitler. It would be like stirring up a bee’s nest.”

“Then you favor appeasing him,” Calan said. “Giving him what he wants? You had no problem with him taking control of Austria, or wanting the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia?”

“I say, let the Czechs decide.”

“But they don’t want to be annexed by Germany,” Calan said.

Sir Rothschild shrugged as he offered his arm to Bianca, apparently ready to leave the conversation. “It is not our concern. Let the Czechs worry about Hitler.”

Calan met my gaze, and I feared he’d ask me my opinion, but I wasn’t in a place to give one. I didn’t know enough about European politics to share my thoughts.

It was concerning enough to learn that Sir Rothschild and Nancy Astor were in favor of Hitler.

After supper, the party gathered in the north drawing room, which was decorated with dark-paneled walls, deep red upholstery, and a beautiful stone fireplace that dominated one wall. The room was large enough to easily accommodate the eighteen guests the Astors had invited for the weekend. Though it was an informal gathering and Nancy insisted upon everyone using their first names, we’d all dressed for supper, and the wealth in the room was apparent with all the fine clothing and jewelry.

It was as far removed from Whitechapel in 1888 as one could get.

There were several tables set up to play cards or games, and I found myself at a table with Calan to play mah-jongg. The Chinese tile game had become popular in the United States in the 1920s and was still all the rage in England.

“I really shouldn’t be playing games,” I said to Calan, who had been a charming dinner partner again that evening. “I have so much work to do.”

“You Americans,” he said in his Scottish brogue. “You work too much.”

“We only have two months to pull the exhibit together.”

“Two months is plenty of time.”

“I don’t usually go into a project without knowing something about the subject, and until I came here, I knew very little about Jack the Ripper.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked as he began to stack his tiles.

“Do you know who did it?”

Calan shook his head. “I don’t know who did it, but I think I know who covered it up.”

“Really? Who?”

He finally looked up and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Tell me what the police commissioner, police surgeons, chief inspector, coroner, several journalists, the city solicitor, several members of Parliament, and the prince of England all had in common in 1888?”

I lifted my eyebrows, waiting.

“They were all Freemasons.”

My mouth slowly parted as I absorbed the information. “The chief of police—”

“Almost everyone who was in a position of power or authority during the investigation of Jack the Ripper was a high-ranking member of Freemasonry,” Calan said quietly, glancing at the next table to see if anyone was listening. When he looked back at me, he said, “Even Prince Albert Victor himself was a Grand Master of the Freemasons. In the 1870s, Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli said, ‘Royalty cannot survive without Freemasonry, and Freemasonry cannot survive without Royalty.’”

“Who were the Freemasons?”

“You mean, who are they. The Freemasons are a secret fraternal society that started to become powerful in England in the 1700s. Different histories link them to the original stonemason of King Solmon’s Temple in Jerusalem, Hiram Abiff. Their membership is not secret, but their rituals are, though I’ve done enough research to have an idea as to their activities.”

My curiosity was piqued. “And you think the Freemasons covered up the identity of Jack the Ripper? Why?”

“Because if Jack was one of them, they were honor bound to protect him.”

“Why?”

“If the killings were linked to a Freemason, or it became obvious that the other Masons were destroying evidence to keep his identity a secret, the entire society would crack open—and no one was more worried about that than the prince of England, who needed Freemasonry to survive. The Freemasons have unthinkable power in unity, and the prince couldn’t lose that power.”

“But who was Jack?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They’ve buried the truth too deeply.” He continued to lay out his tiles. “Anything that could point to the truth was destroyed or hidden.”

It was an intriguing theory. “Do you really think Freemasonry has so much power?”

“I know it does. The world headquarters are in London, but there are over a million Freemasons still active around the world, and they have a secret network of power, for good and for evil.” His face was so serious, I couldn’t look away. “The Freemasons have always fascinated me, especially because of their connection to Jack the Ripper, so I have visited the headquarters myself, which are open to the public. I discovered a book called England’s Masonic Pioneers , written by a man named Dudley Wright. He claims that one of the oaths a Freemason makes upon his entry into the secret society is, I quote, to ‘hide and conceal and cover all the sins, frailties, and errors of every Brother to the upmost of my power.’”

I looked down at the mah-jongg tiles, trying to wrap my mind around what Calan was saying. Could his theory be correct? Had the Freemasons covered up the identity of Jack the Ripper? If the prince of England was involved, and the police commissioner, and even members of Parliament, then there wouldn’t have been any trouble keeping the truth hidden.

“There are still powerful people in Freemasonry,” Calan said quietly, “perhaps even men in this room, so tread lightly.”

I nodded, glancing around the room. I’d never spoken to anyone about Freemasonry before, though I had heard it mentioned a time or two.

“The police commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, was responsible for leading a group to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem in 1874,” Calan said as he crossed his arms.

My head came up quickly. “Jerusalem in 1874?”

Calan nodded.

Mine and Austen’s parents had gone to Jerusalem in 1874. It was there that Austen’s parents had been killed. Had they gone with Sir Charles Warren?

“The Temple Mount is the center of all Masonic legends,” Calan continued. “It’s there that Solomon’s Temple was built. And the builder of the temple was a master artisan and mason, Hiram Abiff, the first Grand Master of the Freemason.”

Had my parents gone to Jerusalem because of the Temple Mount? And, if they had, could my father be a Freemason?

“Ah, there you are,” Nancy said as she approached our table, a bright smile on her face. “Mah-jongg. How marvelous. I’ll find another player, and we can make it a foursome.”

Our conversation came to an end, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what Calan had said—or the fact that Father and Mother had gone to Jerusalem in 1874. It might be a coincidence, or it might not. But I would need to find out.

Later that evening, I left the drawing room with my parents. Their room was next to mine, so we climbed the grand staircase together. I wanted to talk to them about Freemasonry, but Mama had something else in mind.

“You’re not really considering Colonel Lindbergh’s invitation, are you?” she asked Papa.

“I’m not going to lie, Grace,” Papa said. “The thought interests me. And Lindbergh assures me it’s safe. He wouldn’t ask Anne to go if it wasn’t. The American military attaché wouldn’t invite Lindbergh, or any other military personnel, if it was dangerous.”

We walked down the long hall toward our rooms, and Papa took Mama’s hand in his. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to, but I don’t want to miss this opportunity. If I can help America prepare for whatever lies ahead, then I want to do my part.”

I stopped at my door and said goodnight, but I knew their conversation would continue as they went to their own room.

My room was cool as I entered and flipped on the light. A window was open, allowing in a soft breeze.

I went to the window and looked at the River Thames, glistening under the bright moon. My thoughts were so full tonight, but I couldn’t wait to get back to 1888 and find out if my father was a Freemason. I wasn’t sure how that might help me find my sister, but if all the people in power surrounding Jack the Ripper were Freemasons, then perhaps there was something to it. And if all the victims were somehow linked, could they be involved with the Freemasons, too?

It was an interesting theory to consider.