“So,” he said, standing straight, no longer in need of the cane, which appeared to be part of a show for his wife’s sake. “You found me.”
I could hardly believe this was the same man I’d worked with at Lancaster House for the past two months. Or that this was Jack the Ripper. I had so many questions, but I needed to tell him why I’d come. “I want you to release Papa.”
A hateful smile tilted up one side of his mouth. “You have the Book?”
Shaking my head, I said, “No one can get the Book. You, of all people, should know that.”
“If you don’t get the Book to me by noon tomorrow, you can forget about seeing your father alive.”
My fists clenched at my sides, and I had to force myself to remain calm. “I can’t get you the Book. But I know where it is.”
“Tell me now.”
I shook my head. “I won’t give you the information until you take my father to Berkeley Square. I want to see him. To know that he’s alive and well.”
“You expect me to believe that you know where the Book is located?” He laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “I’m not a fool, Miss Kelly.”
“Don’t you recall the letter I discovered at Buckingham Palace? The one written by Sir Charles Warren to Prince Albert Victor, with information about the Book? I never told you, but he gives the location about where they planned to keep the Book once all the parts of it were brought back together. And since we know that the Book is together again, the letter will tell you where it’s at.”
Sir Rothschild stared at me. “You’re lying.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. I have the information, but I will not give it to you unless you take my father to Berkeley Square tomorrow. At noon.”
He continued to study me, his eyes calculating. “No police, Miss Kelly. If I see anything out of the usual, I will keep going and your father’s body will be found floating in a river in Germany of an apparent suicide a few days later. Think of the shame that it will bring to your family.”
I took a step toward him, but Austen reached out to stop me.
Sir Rothschild scoffed again, but then he said, “Do you swear, Miss Kelly? Just you and your mother at Berkeley Square.”
I ground my teeth. “I promise it will be just me and my mother. But if you don’t bring him to me,” I said, tugging against Austen’s hold on me, wanting to lash out at Sir Rothschild, “I will not hesitate to reveal that James Maybrick is Jack the Ripper. I have enough evidence to convince the world, both here and in 1938.”
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Even if you die here today.”
“I’m not dying here today,” he said. “The history books claim it’s arsenic poisoning and that I have been suffering for weeks. But I haven’t touched a bit of food from this house, or my brother’s house, in weeks. I’ve been pretending to feel ill so Florence, or whoever was supposed to poison me, thinks it’s working.”
“Who do you think it is?” I asked.
“Probably my brother. He’s a loyal Freemason, just like ourfather.” He spat out the wordfatherwith hatred in every syllable. “I’d take down all of the Freemasons if it meant destroying the one thing my father loved above all others, his Brotherhood.”
“But if the history books claim you died here,” I said, “you’ll forf—”
Austen squeezed my arm and shook his head.
I frowned, but he communicated for me to stop warning Sir Rothschild.
“What?” Sir Rothschild asked. “What were you going to say?”
Realization dawned. When I’d spoken about changing history with Mama while Sir Rothschild was in the room at Berkeley Square, he’d seemed ignorant of the time-crossing rule. Did he not know he was forfeiting 1888 by preventing his death?
I stopped straining against Austen, and he finally let me go. When I looked back at Sir Rothschild I said, “I will see you tomorrow in 1938—with my papa.”
“You had better have what I need,” he warned.
“I will.”
When I opened the door, I found Mrs. Maybrick pacing in the hallway. Behind me, Sir Rothschild began to moan and groan, as if he was in pain. He bent over his cane once again and sat on the sofa, but this time I knew he was faking.
