We followed the librarian to a back corner of the library where tall file cabinets were stored. He went to the one with a large M on the outside and opened the drawer.
After looking through the files for a few moments, he lifted one out and smiled. “Here it is.”
It was a thick, promising folder.
“I’ll just leave this here with you,” he said as he set it on a table. “When you’re done, you may leave it here, and I’ll return it to the file cabinet.” He smiled. “Will that be all for now?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I could hardly wait for him to leave before I went to the table. There were other patrons in the library, some sitting at the tables nearby doing research, some browsing the shelves, and others reading books in chairs by the windows.
“Hurry,” Mama said, just as eager as me to know if this was our man.
I opened the folder and saw a newspaper clipping, but there were no drawings. Slowly, I lifted the paper and turned it over, setting it on the front of the folder, and then I stopped.
Right underneath the newspaper clipping was a photo—not a drawing—of James Maybrick.
Mama sucked in a breath, and my legs became weak as I took a seat on one of the chairs.
“Sir RothschildisJames Maybrick,” Mama said, just under her breath.
“And James Maybrick is Jack the Ripper,” I added, fascinated and horrified all at the same time.
The photo of James Maybrick staring back at us was also a photo of Sir James Bryant Rothschild. The same light-colored hair, even the same mustache. The only difference was the style of clothing.
I didn’t need to continue to look, so I gently closed the folder and turned to Mama.
“What now?” she asked.
“I’m going to tell Austen what we’ve learned, and I’m going to confront James in 1888. When I see him there tomorrow, I’m going to tell him to take Papa to Berkeley Square in 1938. If he agrees, I will promise to give him information about the Book. If he doesn’t, I’ll threaten to reveal his identity to the world.”
“Isn’t he going to be killed tomorrow?”
“I’ll get there before that is supposed to happen.” I opened the folder one more time to get the details surrounding his death. “It looks like he died of arsenic poisoning around noon.”
Mama put her hand on my arm. “Please be careful, Kathryn. He might die in 1888, but he’ll be very much alive here.”
“I know. I will be careful. I promise.”
She didn’t look convinced, but there was little she could do to stop me.
29
November 10, 1888
London, England
A light, steady rain tapped against the windows in my bedroom at Wilton Crescent when I woke up there the next morning. Just like the day before, I quickly got out of bed to get dressed. This time, however, I had to ring for Duffy’s help, since it would take me too long to dress myself in petticoats and a corset.
Yesterday had felt like an eternity while I waited for the clock to strike midnight in 1938 so I could go back to 1888. Mama and I had spent the day looking through public records, trying to find out if Sir Rothschild owned any buildings, specifically a warehouse in London where he might be holding Papa. But there were no such records. Sir Rothschild didn’t even own the townhouse he occupied. Instead, we learned that it was owned by a man from Germany. That had given us hope, so we used the German’s name to look up property titles. But we found nothing helpful there, either.
Now, I began to brush out my hair as I waited for Duffy. I didn’t know where James Maybrick lived, but it shouldn’t be hard to find his address. We needed to get to his house as soon as possible. I had read enough about his death to know that he was complaining ofstomach ailments for days prior to his murder and that he died in bed at his home around noon.
When Duffy finally appeared, she looked surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be rising this early, miss.”
“Please hurry,” I said. “I need to be somewhere as quickly as possible.”
She helped me into a simple day dress and styled my hair in a low chignon. She’d barely helped me button up my walking boots, and I was already on my way out.
