With shaking hands, I pulled each file out of the drawer and laid them on top of the cabinet. The first four murders were within a month of each other. The women were in their mid-forties and were all murdered in public places. Each victim was known for drunkenness, prostitution, and homelessness. Each was married and subsequently separated from their husbands and children. They followed a pattern.
But as I opened the fifth folder—praying the same would be true for Mary Jane Kelly—my heart fell as I read the words that I didn’t want to see. This victim had been in her early twenties, had been killed inside her rented room, and her life before the murder was undocumented, though some believed she had come from a well-to-do family. According to a testimony by a man named Joseph Barnett, who had claimed to be Mary Jane Kelly’s sweetheart, she had been disowned by her family, but was still close to her sister.
My knees almost buckled as I read the report. It was clear Mary Jane Kelly had not shared much about her life with the people in Whitechapel, and her family had not come forward to claim a connection to her after her death.
I felt Sir Rothschild’s gaze, but I couldn’t show him how much the file meant to me.
Was this my sister? Her middle name was Jane, and she would be twenty years old by November 9, 1888. She’d been disownedby our parents and was living in Whitechapel. The coincidences were uncanny.
As my eyes lowered to the coroner’s report, I felt like I might vomit. The pictures of her mutilation were unfathomable. Unrecognizable. I closed the files and took several deep breaths. Mary Jane Kelly’s murder, perpetrated indoors, with no one to disturb the Ripper, was the most gruesome of them all.
I refused to read the details—refused to believe that this was my sister’s fate. Mary was a beautiful, talented young woman. She was funny and intelligent and kind. Though I was three years older than her, she’d always tried to keep up with me and had been a sweet, though sometimes annoying, companion. Her life couldn’t come to this, especially when I didn’t understand why Father had forced her to leave our home.
I had to find her. Even if my sister wasn’t the Ripper’s victim, I needed to findmyMary and facilitate a reconciliation with my father. Mother had been heartbroken at her departure—though she had stood firm with Father, making me assume they knew something about my sister that I didn’t. But could it be that bad?
With a quick glance inside the file one more time, I saw that the address given for Mary Jane Kelly was 13 Miller’s Court in Whitechapel. It was the only clue I had to my sister’s possible residence.
Tomorrow in 1888, no matter what, I would visit 13 Miller’s Court. And I prayed that when I went there, I’d meet the real Mary Jane Kelly—the one documented in this file—and that it wouldn’t be my sister.
It was still raining that evening as I stepped out of the cab at 44 Berkeley Square and dashed into the rented townhouse. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where my parents were waiting. Papa leaned back in his chair, and Mama was sitting on the edge of hers, eagerly listening to his story.
My parents were both in their fifties, active, healthy, and energetic.Papa had been a daring French aviator when he’d met my mother, who was an investigative journalist living in New York City. Her twin sister, Hope, had been one of Papa’s aviation students. Hope had been in love with him, and my mother had not liked him when they first met. But Papa had quickly fallen for Mama, and when Hope died in a flying accident in 1912, Mama had been asked to complete her cross-country flight. Papa taught Mama to fly, and they soon fell in love. When it was time to choose between 1692 and 1912, Mama chose 1912. Hope stayed in 1692 with the man she loved, Isaac.
Mama had told me the tale many times, and I never tired of hearing about my parents’ love story. I wanted a romance like theirs—someday—but I’d been so busy in 1938 building my career that I hadn’t had time.
“Kathryn,” Mama said with a smile. “We were worried that we’d have to leave without you.”
Papa sat up in his tuxedo, a frown on his handsome face as he looked at me. “What is troubling you,ma chérie?”
I entered the beautiful drawing room, my legs feeling heavy and my heart weak with fear. “I saw the names of the victims today. I had a feeling—I can’t explain it—but I’m hoping I’m wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” Mama asked as she reached for my cold hand.
“The last victim—her name is Mary Jane Kelly.” I choked on the last word, trying not to cry.
“Are you certain it’s her?” Papa asked.
“No—but there are several similarities. I’m going to Whitechapel tomorrow, to 13 Miller’s Court, to see if I can find her. That’s the address of the last murder, where Mary Jane Kelly lives.”
“If it’s her, what will you do?” Mama asked, patting the spot on the sofa next to her.
I took the seat, happy to be off my feet, and shrugged. I was cold from my wet dress, but I didn’t care. I had gone to the General Register Office that afternoon to look for my sister, hoping she was still alive in 1938. But I could find no records to matchher, other than those that belonged to the Ripper’s victim named Mary Jane Kelly. I didn’t want to believe it was her.
“Whatcanyou do?” Papa asked. He was aware of mine and Mama’s time-crossing gift. He knew the rules as well as I did, and I knew what he was asking.
“I can’t change history,” I told him, feeling helpless. “But I must do something. Why would God allow me to know this history if I wasn’t meant to help her? I didn’t go searching for it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mama said. “If you knowingly change something, then you’ll forfeit that timeline.”
I sat up, a thought giving me hope. “But I’m going to forfeit it anyway,” I told her. “When I turn twenty-five in 1890, I plan to give up that path.” Even as I said the words, I thought of my conversation with Austen yesterday. I was still mulling over why he seemed so upset about me leaving when he clearly had no interest in being part of my life. But I had to push those thoughts aside for now. “I can take Mary away from Miller’s Court, if sheisthe victim, and all I will do is give up 1888 a little earlier than expected.”
Mama’s eyes softened with sadness. “I’ve been told that some of history’s greatest tragedies and catastrophes happened when a time-crosser knowingly changed history. One alteration could create a cascade of problems that might hurt countless others, Kathryn.”
“But I can’t let that possibility stop me—how could one little change make so much difference? If I knowingly allow my sister to be murdered, am I not guilty, as well?”
Mama looked to Papa, helpless.
“God is sovereign,” Papa said. “Even when we don’t understand, He allows certain things to happen for His purposes. When we say we know better, then it means we don’t believe He is sovereign or just. That His will is not as perfect as our own—and that’s a dangerous game to play.”
