He grinned. “I’m looking forward to spending time with you on the project. I’m excited to know more about it.”
The exhibit would be opening in November, and Sir Rothschild hadn’t told me to keep it to myself, so I saw no reason Calan couldn’t know. “We’ve been given access to the Jack the Ripper files at New Scotland Yard. Sir Rothschild wants us to create an exhibit, the first of its kind, for the London Museum.”
Calan’s eyebrows rose, his soup spoon midway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered the spoon. “So, the funny little game is going to be made public.”
“Funny little game?” I shook my head, frowning.
“Haven’t you read theDear Bossletter yet?” he asked.
Again, I shook my head. “Not yet. Isn’t that the letter that he signed Jack the Ripper for the first time?”
“The very one. Jack sent it to the Central News Agency of London. In it, he called the murders his ‘funny little games.’”
I turned to look at him more fully. “So, you’re familiar with the case?”
“Very familiar. My uncle was John Chapman, Annie Chapman’s husband. I have a feeling that’s why Bryant asked me to be part of this project. I’ve done quite a lot of research on the case already.”
“You’re related to one of the victims?”
“Through Annie’s husband, yes, but he died from liver diseasetwo years before her murder.” He lifted the spoon to his mouth, becoming serious as he stared into his soup bowl. “I’ve always felt a strange connection to the case because of Annie.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He seemed to pull himself from wherever his thoughts had drifted and lifted a shoulder. “It happened a long time before I was born, but it’s been a part of our family’s story. I’ve spent years trying to unravel the funny little game myself.”
“I’m finding that there are not a lot of clues, and the ones that were preserved don’t tell us much.”
“You need to know who you can trust, and who you can’t trust,” Calan said, for my ears only. “As a historian, and in life, I’ve learned to not accept things or people on the surface. Take, for instance, this room.”
I glanced at the people around the table, all of them smiling and having a good time. The conversation in the Astors’ dining room was glittery, full of laughter and joy. Nancy Astor clearly reigned over her table and enjoyed every moment.
“Lady Astor is a controversial figure,” Calan said quietly. “She loves good banter, and sometimes her conversation is raw, but she’s known as a prude where her behaviors are concerned. It has confused people for decades. But,” he paused, and I turned back to look at him, “she’s an enigma for other reasons.”
“What do you mean?”
“She is so against Communism that she has publicly praised Hitler and Fascism as a buffer between the Communist Soviet Union and the western world. She vehemently opposes Catholicism, but is a good friend of Ambassador Kennedy, who is a staunch Catholic. She has strong views about Judaism while maintaining friendships with many Jewish people. She takes pride in her wide range of friendships and is truly kind to everyone—yet she is a force to be reckoned with when she is in Parliament, fighting some of the people who are sitting here at this very table.” He smiled and shook his head. “So you see, Kathryn, not everyone and everything are as they appear. We’re living in very dangeroustimes, with Nazi and Communist spies working in our very midst. The British Union of Fascists has over fifty thousand members here in England.” He paused and then said, “Perhaps there are Nazis and Communists at this table. And, as I’ve said, it’s important to know who you can trust and who you can’t trust.”
I smiled at him. “Can I trust you?”
His laughter was melodic as he dipped his spoon into his soup. “I wouldn’t.”
Several guests looked in our direction, including my parents, and smiled.
“What about you?” Calan asked me. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” I said, though I carried a secret about my time-crossing that I could never tell him. But that didn’t make me untrustworthy—did it?
“Good.” He nodded. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He touched my arm and said, “And I was only teasing you, lass. You can trust me, too.”
As the meal progressed, I thought about the things I’d learned that day, and I realized how naïve I’d been. There was a web of secrets, power, and illusions casting its shadow on 1888 and 1938.
Tomorrow, I would seek Austen’s help again. I wanted to find Annie Chapman to see if she knew anything about my sister and if I could discover clues about why Jack would murder her.
Yet, as I considered all the obstacles before me, I had to remind myself that even if I unlocked the secret to Jack the Ripper’s identity, there was little I could do about it.
My only concern was saving my sister, though I was starting to fear that I might get entangled in Jack’s funny little game after all.
7
