“It might be a good idea for you to get out of the house,” Mama agreed. “Take your mind off Austen.”
“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” I told her. “Call the museum if you hear something about Papa.”
She smiled and nodded as I left the room.
I took my hat and jacket off the hall coat-tree, and I left 44 Berkeley Square on foot.
As I walked toward Lancaster House, I kept my eyes open to see if anything looked strange or out of the ordinary. But everything appeared as it had yesterday. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same, even the people I passed looked no different. Many of them carried their gas masks, and newspapers on the street corner still boasted similar headlines.
Frowning, I entered Lancaster House through the side entrance, as I had since going to work there. No one seemed surprised to see me, and several people greeted me fondly.
I went to the stairs leading to the basement and was pleased to see that there was a large crowd there to view the new exhibit.
Here, too, everything looked as it had when I left. The brick façade of Buck’s Row, the glass exhibit with Jack the Ripper’s letters, and even Catherine Eddowes’s apron were just as they’d been before.
Slowly, I walked to the corner where we’d hung the photos of the victims—and I stopped short when I saw that there were still five frames on the wall, and the last one was covered with a black cloth.
My mouth slipped open as my heart beat hard. It felt like I was in a nightmare as I slowly walked to the picture. My hand trembled as I lifted the black cloth, not knowing what I might see beneath.
It was Mary’s room at Miller’s Court, with the same mutilated body on the bed. It was the same picture.
Nothing had changed.
I let out a gasp and stepped back, shaking my head.
Visitors glanced in my direction as I quickly scanned the rest of the exhibit, looking for information about Mary Jane Kelly.
Everything was as it had been. Nothing had changed. Mary’s name was in the inquest documents, in the newspapers, and in the coroner’s reports. Her general height, weight, and age were all the same. The time she was last seen, the approximate time she’d been killed, and the time her body had been discovered.
Even the clothes that she’d been wearing when I arrived at Miller’s Court were in the exhibit.
I couldn’t breathe as I stumbled through the exhibit to get into the hall. My mind was jumbled with uncertainty and dread as I climbed the stairs, unsure where I was going. I hadn’t eaten that morning, but if I had, I was afraid I might vomit. Cold sweat beaded on my brow as I put my hand to my stomach.
How was it possible that Mary had still been killed at Miller’s Court?
Unless ... I couldn’t even accept the thought that came to my mind. Had Miles brought her back to London? Had he been working with Jack the Ripper all along?
Was he Jack? That night on Berner Street, when he dropped us off in the rain, he could have parked the carriage and then met Elizabeth Stride to murder her. That would explain how he knew about the copper’s beat and why he was so familiar with Whitechapel.
But Austen assured me that he trusted Miles.
I stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the railing for support as possibilities assailed me.
If it wasn’t Miles, did that mean that Mary had gone back to look for Joseph?
“Kathryn?” Sir Rothschild appeared, concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”
How would I explain everything to him? I couldn’t.
He gently took me by the elbow and led me into the nearest room, which happened to be the gallery where Austen’s paintings were on display.
Thankfully, we were alone. But my heart was hammering so fast, I thought I might faint.
“What’s the trouble?” Sir Rothschild asked me, concern in his face and voice. “You look as if someone has died.” His eyes opened wide. “It isn’t your father, is it?”
I shook my head, knowing I needed to pull myself together. I took a few deep breaths and then said, “Who was the last victim of Jack the Ripper?”
He frowned as he studied me. “Mary Jane Kelly, of course.”
