The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [126]
Oxford regained his senses five days later.
Henry Beresford had tried and failed to remove the time suit; he could find no buttons. He'd succeeded, however, in pulling off the boots and in sliding the helmet from the comatose man's head. He'd then placed his unexpected visitor onto a bed, with his shoulders and head propped up against pillows, and had covered him with a blanket.
Unprotected by augmented reality, Oxford's first intimation of consciousness arrived through his nose. He was forced from oblivion by the stench of stale sweat, the mustiness of unlaundered clothes, and the overwrought perfume of lavender.
He opened his eyes.
"Good afternoon," said Beresford.
Oxford blinked and looked at the clean-shaven, moon-faced man sitting beside him.
"Who are you?" he croaked, his hoarse voice sounding to him as if it came from someone else.
"My name is Henry de La Poet Beresford. I am Marquess of Waterford. And who-and, indeed, what-are you? Here, take this water."
Oxford took the proffered glass and quenched his thirst.
"Thank you. My name is Edward Oxford. I'm-I'm a traveller."
Beresford raised his brows. "Is that so? To which circus do you belong?"
"What?"
"Circus, my friend. You appear to be a stilt-walker."
Oxford made no reply.
Beresford considered his guest for a moment, then said, "Yet there are no carnivals or suchlike in the area, which rather begs the question: how did you end up in a dead faint inside the walls of my estate?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you could tell me where I am, exactly?"
"You're in Darkening Towers, near Hertford, some twenty miles or so north of central London. I found you in the grounds, unconscious, five days ago."
"Five days!"
Oxford looked down at the control panel on the front of his suit. It was dead. There was a dent on its face and scorch marks around its left edge.
Beresford said, "I apologise for the indelicacy of my next statement, but the fact is, I was unable to get you out of your costume and I fear you may have fouled it whilst in your faint."
Oxford nodded, reddening.
Beresford laid a hand on his arm. "I shall have my man bring you a basin of hot water and some soap, towels, and fresh clothing. You look to be about my size, a little taller, perhaps. I shall also instruct the cook to prepare you something. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Very much so," replied Oxford, suddenly realising that he was famished.
"Good. I shall leave you to your ablutions. Please join me in the dining room when you are ready."
He stood and walked toward the door.
"Incidentally," he said, pausing, "your accent is unfamiliar-where are you from?"
"I was born and raised in Aldershot."
The marquess grunted. "No, that's not a Hampshire accent."
He opened the door to leave.
"What news of the queen?" Oxford blurted.
Beresford turned, with a puzzled expression. "Queen? Do you mean young Victoria? She's not quite the queen yet, my friend, though His Majesty is said to be on his deathbed."
Oxford frowned. "What date is it?"
"The fifteenth of June."
"Still June!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What year?"
"The year? Why, 1837, of course!" Beresford looked at his guest curiously. "Are you having problems with your memory, Mr. Oxford?"
"I-yes-a little."
"Perhaps you'll remember more once you have some food inside you. I'll see you downstairs."
He left the room and moments later his valet, a thin and stiffly mannered gentleman, sidled in carrying a large porcelain basin, two towels, and a bar of soap. The valet departed then returned with a full set of clothes. For a third time, he went away and came back, this time with a bucket of steaming water, which he poured into the basin.
Finally, he spoke: "Will you require anything else, sir?"
"No, thank you. What's your name?"
"Brock, sir. May I offer you a shave?"
"I'll do it myself, if you don't mind."
"Very good, sir. There is a bellpull beside the bed, here.