“Yes, miss.” She quickly glanced behind her, and then said, “but Brinley has told us to alert him if you come again.”
“She’s welcome to come in.” Mrs. Leslie, the housekeeper, appeared from the back stairs. I’d known her most of my life, and like Brinley, she had always been very kind to me. She longed for Austen’s happiness as much as I did.
“Thank you,” I said as the maid stepped back and held the door open for me.
“How are you, Miss Kathryn?” Mrs. Leslie asked as she smiled.
“I’m doing well,” I told her, though it wasn’t quite the truth. I was anxious about Mary. “Can you tell me where to find Mr. Baird?”
“He’s in his study,” she said, “but I’d knock before entering. He’s been working all morning.”
I nodded at her instruction and then made my way up the back stairway and toward the study on the second floor. I hadn’t been in the study since Austen’s parents had died. It had once belonged to Austen’s father, and I’d spent many happy hours in there with Austen as a child, looking over the history books that he knew were my favorites. For years, I’d been trying to find a copy of the book about Queen Elizabeth that had so enthralled me, but I had to settle for the one I brought to Toynbee Hall yesterday.
When I reached the door, I took a deep breath and then knocked.
“Give me a moment,” Austen said, though the sound was muffled.
He had inherited his family’s properties and had been educated at Eton and then Oxford, but I wasn’t sure what occupied his time now. He had traveled quite a bit since graduating from university, often leaving for months—or a year—at a time. But when he wasin London, he stayed at home and didn’t move about in society. I never saw him at balls or other social events and wasn’t even sure if he had a club.
What did he do with himself all day?
The door opened, and Austen stood before me in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jacket discarded. His hair was disheveled, and his beard needed a trim.
And he was surprised to see me. I glimpsed pleasure in his eyes, but then he frowned and said, “I thought I told you not to return.”
“And I told you I’d be back.”
He closed the door again, murmuring, “Give me a second.”
I waited, and when he returned, he had on his jacket and his hair looked as if he’d run his hands through it. I tried to peek into the room, but he closed the door firmly.
“What do you do with all your time?”
He frowned. “Is that what you came to ask me?”
“No. But I’m curious. Do you work?”
“It really doesn’t concern you.”
I sighed, not wanting to fight with him when I had a more important topic to discuss. “I learned something yesterday, when I was in 1938, and I was hoping to discuss it privately with you.”
“Does this have to do with your sister?”
“Yes.”
“I told you that I can’t get involved.”
“Austen.” I laid my hand on his forearm. He tensed, trying to pull away from me again, but I wouldn’t let him. “Her name is listed as the last victim of the Whitechapel murders. She’ll be murdered on November 9th—that is, if she is the same Mary Jane Kelly listed in the files.”
He studied me for a moment and then withdrew his arm, motioning to the drawing room across the hallway.
“Can’t we go into the study?” I asked him. “The drawing room isn’t as private.”
He strode across the hall and entered the drawing room without answering.
I stood for a moment, wondering what he had in the study that he didn’t want me to see.
But I wouldn’t quarrel with him. He was willing to hear me out, and that was more than he’d offered yesterday.
