“Yes, and the only one who wasn’t on the trip was Mary Jane Kelly. But her parents were on the trip. You didn’t know?”
Sir Rothschild shook his head. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“I just read it in a book written by Sir Charles Warren himself calledJerusalem Underground, published in 1876.”
“How could this have been overlooked?” Calan asked. “Surely, someone in the past fifty years should have put this together.”
“Unless, like everything else, the Freemasons didn’t want it known,” I suggested. “The gentleman at the Masonic research library told me that there are only two known copies still in existence, and one of them might be in Buckingham Palace, which means they’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that it wasn’t widely known. All the families on that trip had ties to Freemasonry, and if people would have put the pieces together, they might have started to ask questions that the Freemasons didn’t want to answer.”
“What do you think it all means?” Sir Rothschild asked as he studied me. “Have you come to a conclusion?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Perhaps each of the women had gained information about the Freemasons that put their lives at risk. And Jack was out to silence them for good. Sir Charles Warren was helping him cover his tracks, because he, too, might have wantedtheir silence.” I thought of the book Mary had found in my father’s study. Did it have anything to do with the other murders? It was too early to tell, and I didn’t want to share too much with Calan and Sir Rothschild until I had more proof.
“That’s an interesting theory,” Sir Rothschild said as he leaned against my desk and crossed his arms. “But what about this one? What if the women were being killed as punishment to the men who had gone on the trip with Sir Warren? Maybe it didn’t have to do with silencing the women, but with threatening the men. Perhaps Jack wanted something from them that he wasn’t getting, and he was knocking them off, one by one, trying to tip their hand.”
“I hadn’t thought about that possibility,” I said as I considered the things I knew. My parents had forced Mary out of the house, and she was in hiding. Was it to silence her—or protect her?
“Either way,” Calan said, “it’s a solid discovery into the case.”
“But what remains is thewhy,” I said to them, tapping my chin.
The Ripper letters were stacked on my desk, but I’d read enough of them to know that they didn’t offer enough clues. I needed to know why Austen’s parents died and how the trip to Jerusalem linked all the victims. And the only person who might know was Austen.
“Do you really think you can unmask the man that history has chosen to keep hidden?” Calan asked me. “And, if you did, do you think people would believe you? There are a lot of people who enjoy the mystery surrounding Jack the Ripper, and they wouldn’t want to know the truth.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug.
“I need to get back to work.” Sir Rothschild sighed and pushed away from the desk. “Keep me posted on what you find, Kathryn.”
I nodded as the phone rang and Calan answered.
Walking to the window, I looked out at Green Park. A light rain had begun to fall on the autumn landscape as Buckingham Palace stood in the distance. A thought started to form. If I unmasked Jack the Ripper in 1888, that would mean that his identity would be known in 1938, as well. My grandmother had lived in 2001, andshe had mentioned Jack the Ripper once that I recalled. She had said that even in 2001, his identity wasn’t known. Would I change history in 1888and1938 if I shared the truth with the world? And would I losebothmy paths?
Panic raced up my limbs at the thought. Even if I unmasked Jack, I could never reveal his name. All I might hope to do was protect my sister. But even then, I could simply take her from Miller’s Court the night before her murder and send her somewhere far away. If she’d let me.
Yet, that might not be enough. If Jack needed my sister to die to keep his identity a secret, then simply sending her away wouldn’t work. He’d always be looking for her.
I needed to learn his identity so I could stop him. Even if that meant forfeiting both my paths. I couldn’t live with myself if I had the ability to save Mary and didn’t.
17
October 4, 1888
London, England
I didn’t waste a moment the next day. As soon as I was dressed, I walked out of the front door of 11 Wilton Crescent and pulled the ringer for number 12. Brinley answered the door with his familiar calm, though his eyes took on a sparkle for me.
“Good morning, Brinley,” I said to Austen’s butler. “Is he at home?”
“He’s in his study, Miss Kelly. Won’t you come in and I’ll see if he’ll receive you.”
I entered Austen’s home, and Brinley led me into the parlor, where I waited.
The rain that had been plaguing the city for the past two days had passed, but in its place was a cold dampness that seeped into my bones. I stood at the front window and looked out at the street. Carriages passed and people walked by—and still, Austen didn’t come.
I was about to throw my resolve to the wind and storm upstairs to find him for myself when the door finally opened, and he appeared.
His hair was disheveled, and he needed a shave. He hadn’tbothered to put on a coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up at his forearms.
