Plus, it was just the thing Mama and I needed to keep our minds distracted today.
While she was worried about Papa heading to Berlin, all I could think about was Austen and Mary in 1888. In five short days, I needed to save my sister and say good-bye to the man I loved.
I had to blink away the tears thinking about that final farewell. How would I say good-bye to Austen? I closed my eyes, begging God to intervene, or to give me peace about what I was about to do.
He did neither.
The city was busy as we drove toward the palace. I tried to push thoughts of Austen aside and focus on what I hoped to accomplish at Buckingham Palace today, but it was useless. He would be upset with me if he knew what I planned to do, but I was desperate for answers.
Over the past two and a half weeks, Austen and I had spent almost every day together, much to my mother’s chagrin. The only night I hadn’t been in his company was the night of Michael Maybrick’s performance. Mr. Maybrick took my parents and me to Café Royale after the concert, though he spent more time talking to my father than he did to me. I didn’t mind, but I knew that my parents were enamored with him, and they’d begun to drophints that they wanted a union between us. Austen had cautioned me not to be alone with Mr. Maybrick or to share anything I’d learned about the Freemasons. And I had heeded his warning.
As we passed the Marble Arch on the corner of Hyde Park, my thoughts were brought back to 1938 as Mama said, “It was kind of Lady Astor to arrange this tour.” She adjusted her gloves and repositioned her hat. “I never dreamed I’d be given a private glimpse of Buckingham Palace.”
I smiled at her and forced myself not to worry about what I hoped to accomplish today. If I got caught, there was no way to know what might happen to me. And even if I succeeded, I had no guarantee that I would learn anything useful to help me uncover Jack the Ripper and the Freemasons’ involvement.
We circled Wellington Arch and drove down Constitution Hill Road, which cut through Green Park, offering a view of the back side of Buckingham Palace. The honey-colored limestone of the large building looked dull on the cloudy day, but the grandeur of the palace could not be dimmed.
The driver took us around to the front, and we were greeted by the King’s guards in their red coats and tall bearskin hats. After showing our invitation, we passed through the gate and drove under the main arch at the front of the building and into the courtyard in the center of the palace. There, the driver parked outside the grand entrance and opened the back door to allow us to exit the vehicle.
Before I was able to thank the driver, the large door opened and a butler appeared in a black tuxedo, white vest, and gleaming white gloves.
“Welcome to Buckingham Palace,” he said with a formal bow.
Mama handed him the invitation, but he was clearly expecting us, so he showed us into the impressive entrance hall.
The palace was as glorious as I imagined, with ornate trim work, beautiful paintings, and expensive furniture. Several doors led off from the hall, but which one was the door that would lead me to Prince Albert Victor—or rather, King George VI’s—book collection?
Another gentleman stepped out of a door and walked toward us. He was dressed like the butler, but he had a ribbon on his lapel. “Good day,” he said. “My name is Mr. Griffin. I presume you are Mrs. and Miss Voland?”
“Yes,” Mama said with a pleasant smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He dipped his head and motioned toward a set of red carpeted stairs. “Shall we begin the tour?”
We followed him up to the second floor and into a painting gallery. “The building at the core of the palace was originally built by the Duke of Buckingham in 1703 as a townhome,” Mr. Griffin began in a cultured British accent. “In 1761 it was purchased by King George III as a private residence for Queen Charlotte, and over the years, three additional wings were added to make a central courtyard in the middle. Queen Victoria made it the official residence of the monarch in 1837.”
“How fascinating,” Mama said as we were taken into the throne room, the state dining room, the ballroom, and several galleries on the second level.
“I’m a museum exhibit curator at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC,” I told Mr. Griffin after we’d seen several rooms. “And one of my unique interests is in books. Are there any rare collections in Buckingham Palace?”
“There are, indeed,” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “I’m also an admirer of rare books. Shall we go to the king’s private library?”
“Could we?” I wasn’t sure if the book I was looking for would be there, but it was as good a place as any to look.
We followed him to the ground level, and he took us through a door into a different wing of the palace.
“This is the private residence,” he told us. “Not many people are given access to this part of the building, but Lady Astor is a favorite of Her Majesty’s, and the Queen told me to give you a proper tour.” He smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “And what is a proper tour without a peek into the heart of the palace—the library?”
Mama glanced at me, her eyebrows raised high.
We walked down a long gallery before we reached the library. It was a comfortable room, meant for reading, studying, and enjoying the thousands of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Like all the rooms, it was large and spacious, and very formal.
“This is the private collection?” Mama asked, incredulous.
“Indeed,” Mr. Griffin said. “These are the books that have been personally acquired by the last five monarchs and their family members. Some are very old and very rare, others are classics, and still others are popular novels, read simply for pleasure or enjoyment. Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret even keep their books in here.” He smiled fondly when speaking of the young daughters of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth.
“May I have a look around?” I asked.
“Of course. Take your time.”
