“The man has done unspeakable things. I want you to stay close to my side, Kate.”
I nodded, not planning to do anything foolish.
At least, not yet.
We took Austen’s carriage to the cotton merchant where he’d seen Michael Maybrick the day before. Since Miles was no longer there to drive, Austen’s footman maneuvered the vehicle through the busy streets of London.
James wasn’t at work, but the clerk gave us his home address.
The carriage drove from the warehouses near the river to Cumberland Terrace in Regents Park. The beautiful white townhomes were similar to Wilton Crescent, with black wrought iron railings around the upper windows and flower boxes on the lower ones.
When the carriage pulled up to number fifty-two, I stared at the nondescript home and wondered what might greet us inside.Would James be willing to speak to me? It was almost nine o’clock, several hours away from the appointed hour of his death. But had he even stayed home today?
Austen got out and offered me his hand. I was thankful for the simple dress I was wearing, though it was still cumbersome. I didn’t care if it got soiled in the dreadful weather.
Neither of us spoke as we walked up to the door, where Austen knocked. He glanced at me with a question in his eyes, giving me one last chance to back away.
I shook my head. There was no backing out now.
A butler answered and allowed us in out of the rain.
“Is Mr. Maybrick home?” I asked the butler.
“May I ask who is calling?”
I hesitated, not knowing if I should give aliases. Finally, I decided Sir Rothschild would be more likely to answer our call if he knew our real identities. “Mr. Austen Baird and Miss Kathryn Kelly.”
The butler nodded and led us to the parlor before summoning his employer.
The parlor was well-decorated and comfortable, but the room was cold, and the house was quiet. There was no fire in the hearth and no sound coming from any other room.
We didn’t have to wait long before a woman appeared. She was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She carried herself with authority as she said, “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Maybrick. How may I help you?” Her voice was distinctly American with a hint of the south.
I stepped forward. “We’ve come to see your husband. Is he home?”
She studied me for a moment and then looked at Austen before her gaze came back to me. “May I inquire about your business? My husband isn’t feeling well and is in bed.”
It surprised me that he hadn’t left the house today—unless he wanted to die in this path and was allowing it to happen.
“We really must speak to him directly,” I said, my nerves trying to get the better of me. “It’s an urgent matter that cannot wait.”
Mrs. Maybrick regarded me and then lifted her chin. “I cannot let you see him. He’s much too ill, and I fear that if something upsets him, it will be—”
“Leave the room, Flo,” a man said from the doorway.
I was startled as my gaze locked on James Maybrick—or, as I knew him best, Sir Rothschild.
It was strange to see him here. He looked pale and bent over a cane.
“You should be in bed, James,” Mrs. Maybrick said as she rushed to his side. “The doctor said that the only way to regain your strength is to rest.”
“I said leave,” he told his wife, his voice cold and unforgiving.
She looked from her husband back to me, curiosity and concern in her gaze, but she didn’t argue and took her leave of the room.
“Close the door,” he ordered.
She did as he commanded and was gone.
