I shook my head as I bit the inside of my cheek and stared out the window. It was infuriating. “At least I know therewasa book. But she won’t tell me anything else.”
He let out a weary sigh. “That won’t stop you, will it?”
“Of course not.” I frowned at him. “Perhaps Mary can’t handle the truth, but I’ve never been afraid of it.”
“Even if it puts you in danger?”
“More danger than we’re already in?”
He scoffed, but then he softened as he studied me. “What did you learn?”
“That thisdoeshave to do with my father’s involvement in the Freemasons.”
Austen’s blue eyes filled with anger—or was it frustration? “I was afraid of that.”
“Please tell me what you know about them.”
“I know that their loyalty to each other exceeds their loyalty to their family.” His voice was bitter and tense, and I wondered what experience had given him that edge. “I also know that if the book your sister found has anything to do with the Freemasons, and there was any suspicion that she could use the information against them, that she would be silenced.” He took my hand in his—surprising me, even as it brought comfort. “The only reason Miles found Mary is because you had her address from the future.”
“I thought you said a private investigator found my sister.”
“It doesn’t matter. The point I’m trying to make is that Mary disappeared. I don’t even think your parents know where she’s at. And neither do people in power who might try to silence her. Perhaps your parents are treating her like she’s dead because they’ve told other people that sheisdead.” He stared at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I stared at him as it was all starting to make sense. “Are you suggesting that my sister’s life in Whitechapel is a blessing? That it was a kindness from my parents?”
“It’s better than her being killed by the Freemasons.”
Neither of us spoke as the carriage entered central London. The rain continued to tap against the roof, and the horse’s hooves clopped on the cobblestone. My head was starting to hurt, and I was exhausted in body and soul.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” Austen said, his voice heavy. “For everything.”
I leaned against his arm, wishing he would hold me but knowing that it wouldn’t be wise. His words did bring comfort, though, and despite all the heartache—from everything outside the carriage, as well as within—I knew he spoke the truth.
Hewassorry.
16
October 3, 1938
London, England
The Masonic Peace Memorial, the largest Masonic Hall in London, stood on the corner of Great Queen Street between Covent Garden and Holborn. It was a massive art deco structure made of gray stone with a tower on one end and large bronze doors underneath. I’d heard it was built in honor of the thousands of Freemasons who had died in the Great War and had recently replaced an older building.
It was cold, and the sky was overcast as I opened the heavy door and slipped inside the echoing building. Beautiful mosaic tiles created a star design on the floor, while marble pillars flanked either side of the room. A male receptionist sat at a desk near the door, and he rose upon my entry.
“May I help you?” he asked.
I had come to the hall to get answers about my father’s involvement in the Freemasons in 1888, since I knew he wouldn’t discuss anything with me in person. Mary had warned me that it was dangerous to look for answers, but she’d meant in 1888. Here in 1938, it would be far safer to find what I was looking for—at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Only fifty years had passedsince Jack the Ripper let loose his terror on London. If it was a Freemason coverup, as I was more certain than ever that it was, it was likely that there were still people alive who knew who he was and were still hiding his identity.
“I’ve heard that your research library is open to the public,” I said to the receptionist. “I’m wondering if I may have a look around.”
“What are you looking for?” he asked as he eyed me from head to foot.
I was wearing a simple navy blue dress with wide lapels and a matching hat. My coat was the same color and hugged tight at my waist. I carried a leather satchel with a notebook and pencils inside. I wasn’t sure what he thought about me, but I wasn’t concerned.
“I’m looking for information about a family member,” I said. “His name was Sir Bernard Kelly. He was a surgeon at King’s College Hospital.”
“Was?” he asked. “Sir Kelly is still alive.”
