I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. But if we change our mind, we’ll let you know.”
“Is there anything else about Sir Rothschild that you can tell us?” Mama asked.
Lady Astor shrugged. “I met him and Bianca at least ten years ago, when he first started to work at the London Museum. As far as I know, he grew up in London and studied in Italy, where he met Bianca and first joined the Fascist movement, probably because of her involvement. He and Bianca live not far from here, on Grosvenor Square. They have no children, and I don’t hear them speak of extended family. They tend to be very private people.”
Grosvenor Square was one of the most desirable places to live in London in both 1888 and 1938. The only way a man might afford a townhome there was if he was vastly wealthy. Either Sir Rothschild or his wife had family money, or he was getting it some other way, because the modest salary from the London Museum couldn’t pay for a house on Grosvenor Square.
“Thank you for your time,” I said to Lady Astor.
“Of course.” She smiled at us, though there was concern in her gaze. “Don’t hesitate to call again, if need be.”
We said our good-byes and then exited her townhouse.
The cab had left, but it didn’t matter. I knew where we needed to go, and it wasn’t far. Just across St. James Square to the London Library.
“Hurry, Mama,” I said as I took her hand and led her toward the familiar building. The London Library was housed in the same structure in 1888, and I’d been there many times.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the library to look up newspapers from 1888.”
“Why?”
“I have a feeling I know who Sir Rothschild might be there.”
“Who?” she asked, curious and surprised.
“A man named James Maybrick.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know anything about him, except that he’s the brother of Michael Maybrick, a famous composer that my parents want me to marry—and he’s going to become the victim of murder in 1888 tomorrow.”
“James Maybrick is going to be murdered?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Who is going to kill him?”
“His wife will be framed, but I have another suspicion. Either his brother, Michael, will kill him because he suspects that James is Jack the Ripper—or it will be suicide. I saw some newspaper articles about the trial in Sir Rothschild’s desk drawer.”
“But no pictures of James Maybrick in the drawer?”
I shook my head. “At the time, it didn’t occur to me to wonder. There were drawings of Florence and Michael, but nothing with James’s picture. Now I think I know why. If Sir Rothschild is James Maybrick, he wouldn’t want his likeness anywhere near him in 1938.”
We entered the cool interior of the London Library, and the smell of musty books met my nose. It was a familiar, welcoming smell, but I didn’t revel in it. I needed to find a picture of James Maybrick to know if my suspicions were correct.
A librarian sat behind a desk, and when we approached, he looked up and smiled. “May I help you?”
I forced myself not to speak quickly, but rather to be calm and collected so I didn’t arouse his concern. “We are interested in learning about the murder of a man named James Maybrick in 1888.”
“Ah”—he smiled and nodded—“a very peculiar and sad story. Mrs. Florence Maybrick was tried and convicted of the murder. She served fourteen years before getting the sentence overturned.”
“Do you have any newspapers from that time? I’m specifically interested in learning more about James Maybrick, the victim. Do you happen to have any photos of him?”
“We do, indeed. There’s a whole file devoted to the case. Won’t you come with me?”
I was both relieved and anxious to hear that there were pictures. If this was the right man, I would tell Austen immediately in the morning, and we would need to find James and confront him. If it wasn’t, we would need to keep looking. And we were running out of time.
