Mama had only shaken her head and sighed. I’d decided I would accept Sir Rothschild’s invitation, and nothing could stop me. Not even the threat of Adolf Hitler.
And perhaps there was a chance I might find my sister Mary. It had been ten months since she’d disappeared on that cold, autumn night in 1887. She had sent me a brief and cryptic letter a couple weeks later, telling me she was living in the Whitechapel district. She had found work as a charwoman, doing daily domestic chores for Jewish families who could afford a little extra help. The thought of my sweet, delicate sister doing such demanding physical labor was hard to imagine. Worse, though, was the memory of how frightened and alone she was the night she left, and how scared she must still be.
I would never give up looking for her, in 1888 or 1938.
Lancaster House sat on the edge of Green Park, not far from Buckingham Palace. Before she left, Mary and I had attended a ball there in 1887, when it was known as the Stafford House. The mansion now contained the London Museum, and I was eager to step inside and see how they had transformed the ornate building to house their collections.
The hot August sun bore down on my shoulders as I approached the Corinthian style mansion. Its plain exterior was no match for the splendor within. Large trees on the perimeter of the property offered a bit of shade and privacy, but the passing pedestrians and motorcars reminded me we were in the heart of the metropolis.
I opened the heavy door and entered the central hall of Lancaster House. The air was cool as my heels tapped on the diamond-shaped marble floor, and my gaze lifted to the ceiling, which was three stories above with a glass dome and a view of the blue sky. Red-carpeted stairs rose ahead and split in the middle to the uppergalleries. Ornate gilded trim, blue marble columns, red cloth coverings, and massive murals dominated the room.
There were several people in the main hall, some admiring the murals, others purchasing tickets at the front desk, and still others moving around the upper galleries, from one room to the other.
“Are you here to see the exhibits?” a woman asked as she approached, wearing white cotton gloves and a blue dress suit.
“I’m here to meet with Sir Rothschild,” I said. “I’m Kathryn Voland, from the Smithsonian Institute.”
Her eyes lit with recognition, and she said, “Sir Rothschild has been expecting you. He’s in his office. Won’t you follow me?”
She led me across the echoing hall to the stairwell, and we began to climb. When we arrived on the second floor, we crossed a gallery and then took another set of stairs to the third floor.
“The exhibits are housed in the basement, on the ground level, and on the second floor,” the docent said as she led me up a staircase with a sign that said Staff Only. “The top floor houses the staff lounge and Sir Rothschild’s office.”
The docent guided me through a maze of rooms until we arrived at a closed door. She knocked, and when a male voice called for us to enter, she opened the door and let me walk in before her.
Sir Bryant Rothschild was seated at a massive desk. A cold fireplace flanked one wall of his office, and tall windows on the other offered a magnificent view of Buckingham Palace. The room had probably been a bedchamber at one point but was now the office of the Keeper of the museum.
“Miss Voland,” he said with a wide smile as he stood to greet me. “How wonderful to see you again. We’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m sorry for the delay.”
“Nothing to worry yourself about,” he said in his cultured accent. “Our other guest curator hasn’t arrived from Scotland yet, so you haven’t missed anything.” He nodded at the docent and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Turner.”
The woman excused herself as Sir Rothschild motioned for me to have a seat.
He was a well-built man, in his mid-thirties, if I had to guess, with straw-colored hair and blue eyes. He’d been charming and intelligent when we’d spent time together in Washington, DC, eager to share his knowledge and glean from those at the Smithsonian. I was excited, though a little nervous, to finally work with him. What if I didn’t have the skills needed to do a good job? I would hate to embarrass myself or disappoint him.
“Now,” he said as he took his seat again. “We have much to discuss, but I have a feeling you’re curious about the project you’ll be helping with over the next two months.”
I sat on the edge of my seat and nodded. I would be assisting the other guest curator, a man named Calan McCaffrey from the Royal Museum of Scotland, though I hadn’t met him yet. “I can’t wait any longer.”
He smiled, revealing a straight row of teeth, slightly yellowed, probably from the coffee sitting on his desk. “That’s why I asked you to come, Miss Voland. Your energy and passion for history is matchless—though, perhaps Mr. McCaffrey and I come in a close second and third.” Sir Rothschild leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on his desk, excitement shining in his eyes. “The London Museum has been given unprecedented access to the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum. It’s a private collection of evidence that the police have accumulated for over a century, and every so often, they release parts of their collection for public viewing.” He paused, as if he couldn’t contain his glee. “As of tomorrow, the evidence for the Jack the Ripper case will turn fifty years old, and they are allowing us access for the first time. We will be allowed to look over everything they have on file and create an exhibit for the museum.”
My mouth parted at his announcement. I had heard of Jack the Ripper many times. The murders he committed in Victorian England were part of the collective history of the world by 1938—yet I hadn’t paid much attention to the dates before now.
“When did the murders take place?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
“I’ve only done a little preliminary study myself,” he said, “soI’m not as familiar with the case as I’d like. However, I do know that the first murder accredited to Jack the Ripper occurred on August 31, 1888, and the last happened on November 9, 1888.”
“August 31st?”
“Yes—fifty years ago tomorrow.”
A shiver ran up my spine. That meant that tomorrow, when I woke up in 1888, the first murder would happen in my other path.
“And where did the murders take place?” I asked, my pulse starting to pick up a notch.
“All five murders accredited to Jack took place within a mile radius in the Whitechapel district.”
