At least he was still using his pet name for me. I glanced behind me to make sure we were alone, and then I leaned toward him. “She’s the Ripper’s next victim.”
He briefly closed his eyes as he shook his head.
“I know the boardinghouse that she frequents and where she’ll be murdered,” I whispered. “It shouldn’t be hard to find her.”
“And what happens when she’s killed and the police start asking questions, and someone mentions that a well-to-do couple was seen with her just days before her murder? Guess who comes knocking on our doors?”
I bit my bottom lip. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We can’t talk to her.”
“I need to try. We can be discreet.”
“It’s out of the question.”
I let out a frustrated breath. “Can we at least go to the murder site?”
“What do you think you’ll learn?”
“I don’t know. That’s why this is called an investigation.” I put my hands on my hips. “I learned some things yesterday in 1938, and I need to get my questions answered.”
“What things?”
“Will you take me to Whitechapel? I’ll explain it on the way.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I’m going to like this.”
“Probably not.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “Meet me outside in twenty minutes. I’ll have Miles pull the carriage around.”
I smiled and stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his whiskered cheek, but the simple act—one I’d done several times as children—felt much different this time.
Austen grasped my upper arms—more out of surprise than affection—and I paused, my lips on his cheek. He wore a foreign cologne I’d never smelled before, so subtle I hadn’t noticed it until I was this close.
My breath caught as he slowly pulled back, and I lowered off my tiptoes.
His eyes were dark with emotions. “Don’t do that again, Kathryn.” He let me go. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
And with that, he strode up the stairs and disappeared.
Neither Austen nor I spoke as we walked down Hanbury Street on our way to number 29, where Annie Chapman would be murdered on September 8th. The stench of Whitechapel was heightened by the rain, and the addition of mud had ruined the hem of my gown.
A light drizzle pattered against the black umbrella he held over our heads, both for protection from the weather and from prying eyes. We were wearing plain clothing so we wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Austen’s coat and hat were worn and dated, which helped us to blend in. I didn’t want anyone to remember us after Annie’s death, which was six days away.
We’d left Miles with the carriage several streets over, hoping to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I kept an eye out for anyone who might look like Annie. She was the only victim of Jack the Ripper with a photograph before her murder. It was taken on the day she married John Chapman, and though she had aged, I had also seen her postmortem picture and had a good idea of her likeness.
Hanbury Street was mostly commercial, with storefronts on the main level and rooms above for tenants. Austen and I were stopped by various peddlers, but we shook our heads at most of them and continued down the dirty street.
We hadn’t said much since we left Austen’s home. My cheeks were still warm from the kiss as I tried to understand both his feelings and mine. But I couldn’t remain silent any longer.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I looked down at my gloved hands. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable before.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I was afraid he wouldn’t respond, but he finally said, “I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
I glanced up and found him watching me. His eyes were so clear and perceptive.
“Then why did you tell me I must not kiss you again?”
