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.
