Simon dipped his head. “Well, I can’t say that for sure. There are theories that the women were connected some way, but whoever hid Jack’s identity hid the victims’ connections, too.”
The phone rang in the other room. Simon’s face fell in disappointment. “Sorry about that, but I should answer the call.”
“Of course.”
I sat for a moment, looking over the notes I’d taken, thinkingabout what he’d told me. I wasn’t anywhere closer to knowing Jack’s identity or if Mary Jane Kelly was my sister. Even the theories he’d shared with me didn’t seem to add up.
I stood and pulled the victims’ files out of the cabinet again. As I studied the information available, from the coroner’s reports to family and friends’ depositions, I couldn’t find anything connecting their lives. Polly, Annie, and Catherine were all English born, while Elizabeth was originally from Sweden, and Mary Jane’s origins were unknown, though it was believed she was also English. Were they random victims that happened to have similar backstories, or had Jack hunted them?
The next victim would be Annie Chapman, who would be killed on September 8th.Her body would be found in a courtyard at 29 Hanbury Street, not far from Commercial Street, and only half a mile from where Polly Nichols had been murdered. It was a week away. Perhaps Austen would take me there to inspect the area and see if there were any clues that might help us. Maybe I could even look for Annie and ask her a few questions, though the prospect of meeting one of Jack’s victims, and knowing her fate, would be horrifying. Maybe she knew Mary Jane Kelly and there were connections between them. Any bit of information would help.
As I looked through Annie Chapman’s file and learned the name of the boardinghouse where she lived, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jack was also searching for her in 1888.
But if he was watching her, might he also start to watch me? I had to be careful that I wasn’t putting myself in his path—a prospect I had not considered until now.
I was ready to forget about my work that evening as our cab pulled up to the luxurious home of 4 St. James Square, the residence of Lord and Lady Astor.
“I am eager to see the Astors again,” Mama said as Papa opened the cab door and stepped out. She was wearing a beautiful eveninggown that shimmered in the streetlamps. I loved to think of all the life she had lived as an early aviator and a Puritan in Massachusetts. It was a shame that she couldn’t share her stories beyond the small circle of family who knew of her time-crossing. It was one of the many reasons I wanted history to come alive for others, so that people like us, who lived such a strange and wonderful existence, could let others experience the beauty of time.
I stepped out of the cab behind Mama, wearing a long black gown with short sleeves and delicate embroidered silk flowers and leaves crisscrossing over the bodice. I kept my dark red hair shorter in my 1938 path, since it was easier to manage, and the current style lent itself to a shoulder-length bob. One side was clipped up with a jewel-studded barrette, and the ends were curled under.
Before we arrived at the door of the three-story townhouse, a butler opened it and bowed. “Welcome. Lord and Lady Astor have been expecting you.”
As we entered the front hall, a middle-aged woman blew into the room with a wide smile. She, too, was wearing a long evening gown and had diamonds on her rings, earrings, and bracelets. “Good evening, my American friends. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
There was no need for pretense or guile in Nancy Astor’s home. Though she was a viscountess and a member of Parliament, she was first and foremost a Virginian who had married into a wealthy family and earned a place in the hearts of the British people through her outgoing and charming personality. She never met a stranger and made friends with people from all walks of life. Her interest in aviation had bonded her to my parents years ago.
She kissed my parents’ cheeks and then linked arms with me as she led us into the main parlor off the front hall. “I hope you remember,” she said, “in this house, there are no formalities or hierarchies. I insist that we call everyone by their first name.”
“Of course I do,” I said with a smile.
Waldorf Astor, Nancy’s husband, approached in an eveningcoat and extended his hands to greet Papa, then Mama, and finally me.
“It’s a pleasure to see you all again,” Waldorf said to each of us. “How are you finding jolly old England?”
Waldorf and Nancy Astor’s story had always enthralled me. Waldorf’s great-aunt, Mrs. Caroline Astor, had been the head of New York Society for decades. Because of it, she had been in a feud with Waldorf’s father, William Astor. William had left America at the height of the feud and quickly acclimated to British Society. William eventually became the first Viscount Astor. His son, Waldorf, had married Nancy, and together they had continued the Astor legacy in England. 4 St. John’s Square was their townhouse, but Cliveden, the country mansion that William had given to Waldorf and Nancy as a wedding gift, was their home.
“We hope you’re enjoying your stay at Berkeley Square,” Waldorf said.
“It’s been very nice.” Papa nodded. “Thank you for the generous offer.”
“There are so many people for you to meet,” Nancy said as she led us further into the parlor, where at least a dozen people were already mingling over drinks. She paused, as if an idea had just come to her. “Do you have any plans for the weekend? We’re all heading to Cliveden tomorrow for a Friday through Monday. It would be lovely to have you join us. Charles and Anne Lindbergh will be there—I believe you know them.”
“I’ve met Colonel Lindbergh on a few occasions,” Papa said. “Grace and the girls and I were on the stage when he was given the Distinguished Flying Cross medal right after his transatlantic flight in 1927.”
“Oh, do say you’ll come,” Nancy persisted. “We’d love to have you.”
Mama and Papa glanced at each other, and then Mama looked at me. “Can you get away for the weekend, Kathryn?”
“I had planned to research, but I could take my work with me.”
“I’m so eager to hear all about your project at the LondonMuseum,” Nancy said with a smile, her eyes filling with youthful eagerness. She turned, as if searching the room. “I do believe there is someone here that you haven’t met. He’ll be joining us at Cliveden.”
She didn’t let go of my arm as she led me through the group of people while her husband took my parents in a different direction.
“There you are,” she finally said as she interrupted two gentlemen who were talking near a large, beautiful painting of a gorgeous manor house—which I immediately assumed to be Cliveden.
Both men turned, but it was clear that Nancy was speaking to the younger of the two.
