Austen’s reaction was as I expected. Confusion and shock filled his face. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know. Father refuses to speak her name, and I wouldn’t even know that she was in Whitechapel if she hadn’t sent me a brief letter.”
“Did she tell you anything helpful?”
“Just that I wasn’t to worry. She was renting a room and had work as a charwoman. That was all. But of course I’m worried.”
“Your sister—” He paused, at a loss for words. “She’s educated and from one of the best families in London. At the very least, she could have taken a job as a governess or companion. What would possess your father to turn her out on the street?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling as confused as him. Mary had been enjoying her second season and my mother had been close to making a match for her. A match that Mary had desired. She’d had a brilliant future ahead of her.
“What are other people saying?” he asked. “Surely, people are concerned about her.”
I pressed my lips together as my anger continued to rise. “People assume Mary got into trouble—with a man—and that she left with him. And my parents haven’t corrected the rumors. Mary’s life is over, as she knew it, and people are taking pity on my poor parents, as if they are suffering in some way. Even if she wanted to come home, she couldn’t. No one would accept her.”
“Then perhaps it’s best if she doesn’t.”
“She can’t stay in Whitechapel. I’ve been volunteering at ToynbeeHall for the past few months, asking everyone who visits if they know her, but no one has heard of her. I would go into the streets to look, but it’s far too dangerous and there are tens of thousands of people who live there. It feels impossible.”
“What does this have to do with me?” he asked.
“I don’t know how to find Mary.”
“And you think I do?”
“I can’t walk the streets of Whitechapel alone. If I had your help—”
“No.” He lifted his newspaper, indicating that our conversation was over.
“Austen, she’s my sister—your friend.”
“I don’t have friends.”
I stood, wanting to shake him. Instead I growled, “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“It’s the one pleasure I have in life.”
I clenched my hands. “You are maddening.”
He looked back at me, his gaze earnest. “Then why do you come here?”
“Because—” I released my fists and forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath and leveled him with a look that I hoped would convey the depth of my worry. “I learned that there will be several horrific murders in Whitechapel over the next two months, and I’m afraid Mary might be in danger.”
He lowered his newspaper. “You heard this in your other life?”
I nodded, speaking quietly in case Brinley was listening. “I was asked to be a guest curator for the London Museum in 1938, and I will be given access to the records at the Crime Museum. It’s a case that hasn’t been solved by 1938—and the first murder just occurred this morning.”
“What could I possibly do to help?”
“Come with me to Whitechap—”
“No.”
“Austen, please. Mary needs me.”
“It’s none of my business.” This time when he lifted the newspaper,he blocked me from his vision. “Brinley,” Austen called to his butler, “Miss Kelly is leaving.”
“I’ll be back,” I told him.
