I felt the blood drain from my face as I whispered, “Whitechapel?”
“Yes.” He frowned, clearly confused by my response. “At the time, Whitechapel was the most impoverished area of the city, filled with thousands of working-class individuals, most of them down on their luck. All five victims were women, and known to be—” He paused, as if he couldn’t say the word, but then he spit it out. “Prostitutes.”
“In Whitechapel,” I said again, though it wasn’t a question.
“Yes. In Whitechapel.” He leaned back, clearly concerned with my response. “Do you have a problem working on this exhibit, Miss Voland?”
I swallowed my trepidation and shook my head as I tried to compose myself. One of the rules of my time-crossing gift was that I couldn’t knowingly change history. If I did, I would forfeit the path I tried to change. So even if I wanted to stop the horrific murders committed by Jack the Ripper in 1888, I couldn’t. I would forfeit my time there—and I wasn’t ready.
Yet, that didn’t give my heart any comfort. Not now.
“Do you know the names of the victims?” I asked him, almost too afraid to learn the truth.
He seemed to think for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t done enough research to be familiar with the details. Tomorrow when we visit the Metropolitan Police CrimeMuseum, we’ll learn more and then we can start to discuss how we want to proceed with the exhibit as we wait for Mr. McCaffrey’s arrival.” He rose from his desk. “I’ll show you to your office and then I’ll give you a tour.”
I followed Sir Rothschild through one room and into another with an even better view of Buckingham Palace. This room had also previously been a bedchamber, no doubt, but it now housed another massive desk, a table, some ornate chairs, and a filing cabinet. The walls were painted in a soft green with platinum gilded trim and crystal wall sconces.
“This will be yours and Mr. McCaffrey’s office for the next two months,” Sir Rothschild said. “I hope it will do.”
“Of course,” I said absentmindedly, my mind still on the news he’d just shared. “It’s lovely.”
He motioned toward the door. “Shall we start the tour?”
I tried to smile and nod as I followed him out of my office to see the rest of the museum. Yet, I couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling I had or the pressing question that made my heart ache.
I needed to know the names of the victims from Whitechapel, because in 1888, one of the people I loved most in the world lived somewhere in that neglected district.
Mary.
3
August 31, 1888
London, England
The next morning, I woke up in my bedchamber at 11 Wilton Crescent, near the opposite end of Green Park and Lancaster House. It was the only home I’d known in this path, though it was much changed since Mary had left.
“Good morning, Miss Kathryn.” My lady’s maid, Lucy Duffy, moved aside the heavy drapes to allow the sun to fill my room with light. “I’ve laid out your dark blue taffeta dress for today’s activities. Your mother says you’re to be home early to change for the ball tonight.”
I groaned, already exhausted at the prospect of another ball.
At the age of twenty-three, I was well-past my debut and quickly approaching spinsterhood—but my mother in 1888 was as fiercely determined to see me married as I was to stay single. I couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize my life by getting married in this path because I didn’t plan to stay. My career at the Smithsonian in 1938 had been my greatest dream since I was a child, and I loved my work. And, even though I was passionate about history, I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed the modern conveniences of the twentieth century even more. Not to mention all the freedoms I had and my connection tomy time-crossing mama, Grace. I didn’t want any complications, like a husband in 1888, to hinder my plans.
“Your father is at breakfast,” Duffy continued, apparently given a list to share with me this morning, “but he’s due at the hospital soon and will have the carriage returned to take you to Toynbee Hall.”
I had no intention of joining Father for breakfast. Even though ten months had passed since the night Mary left, I still struggled to be in the same room as him without feeling angry. I never brought up Mary’s name again, though she was often on my mind. I couldn’t understand how a father could turn his back on his daughter. And it was the fear that he would do the same to me that kept me silent.
“Thank you,” I said as I hugged my pillow under my head, not ready to face the day. I’d been going to Toynbee Hall for months, and I hadn’t found my sister, but I wasn’t going to give up. Especially now, with the news of Jack the Ripper at work. The thought that he was alive and starting his reign of terror in the very city where I lived made a shiver run up my spine.
“There was a terrible murder in Whitechapel last night,” Duffy said as she finished opening the drapes, as if she’d read my mind. Her Yorkshire accent deepened as her voice filled with concern. “A dreadful business. They say a woman was killed in a most gruesome manner.”
“Do they know her name?” I asked, sitting up, my heart pounding.
“It hasn’t been released yet. The murder happened in the wee hours of the morning near a place called Buck’s Row. They say she was in her mid-forties.”
Relief washed over me at the age of the victim, though my heart still hurt for her. Mary’s twentieth birthday would be next month.
As I stepped out of bed, all I could think about was learning the names of the victims. Murders happened in Whitechapel all the time, but yesterday I had discovered by talking to Sir Rothschild that the Ripper victims would draw attention becauseof the disturbing manner in which the murderer mutilated the bodies.
