The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [131]
"Of course! He's still famous in my time!" said Oxford. "But I can't, Henry. I can't leave Darkening Towers. This seclusion is bearable but if I step beyond these walls I'll be confronted with a world very different from my own. Too different! It's liable to cause a severe form of culture shock from which I may never recover."
"Culture shock? What is that?"
"Think of all the things that make you the man you are today, Henry. What if they were all replaced with entirely different things? Would you still be the same man?"
"I would adapt."
"Yes, up to a point adaptation is possible, but beyond that point, destruction beckons."
"Very well, if London is too much for you, then rest here. Sleep, drink, but leave off working and thinking for a few hours at least."
"I'll try."
Just after midday, the Marquess of Waterford rode out of Darkening Towers, leaving Oxford to his own devices.
Brock served a light lunch that the time traveller ate without tasting. Despite his host's advice, his mind was entirely occupied with his unsuccessful jump home. Later, he prodded and probed his helmet's hardware but without the proper tools repairs were impossible. He had to get back to 2202!
He brooded through the afternoon and into the evening, slumped in an armchair, oblivious to Brock, who occasionally appeared to tend the fire, to bring tea, and to offer food.
Eventually, after the valet had cleared his throat four times without gaining Oxford's attention, Brock said, "Excuse me, sir, do you require anything? Only it's one o'clock in the morning and I should like to retire for the night."
Oxford looked at him with faraway eyes. "What? Oh, no, go to bed, Brock. Thank you."
The valet left and Oxford remained in the chair.
The fire died.
The night passed.
The sun rose.
Brock reappeared.
He found Oxford pacing up and down.
"Shall I instruct the cook to prepare you some breakfast, sir?"
"No!" snapped Oxford. "Where's your master?"
"In London, sir. I expect he'll be back later this morning."
"Call him! I need to speak with him at once!"
"Call him, sir?"
"At once, dammit!"
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, sir. He is in London."
"I understood perfectly well! Get him on the-Ah! No! Of course. I'm sorry, Brock. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'll wait. Would you tell your master I need to see him the moment he arrives?"
"I will, sir."
"Thank you."
He had to wait until three o'clock.
Beresford had barely entered the mansion before he was brought up short by a wild shout: "Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting all day!"
Passing his gloves and hat to Brock, the marquess looked at the haggard figure who'd shouted from the door of the morning room.
"By James!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with you, Oxford?"
"Get in here, I have to tell you something! Quick!"
Beresford shrugged and walked into the chamber, unbuttoning his riding jacket and slipping out of it.
"What's on your mind?" he said, tossing the garment over the back of a chair.
Edward Oxford, his eyes blazing, his mouth twisted into a painful grin, ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and laughed. It was a wild, horribly pitched sound.
"I can't go back!" he yelled. "I can't go back!"
Beresford dropped into an armchair. "Back where? Home, you mean? To 2202?"
"Yes, of course that's what I mean, you bloody fool!"
"Steady, man. Calm down. Remember that you're my guest here."
Oxford wrapped his arms around himself and gazed at the marquess.
"I killed a man," he whispered.
"You did what? When?"
"Three years from now. I killed a man by accident. He was my ancestor."
"Good Lord! Sit. Tell me more."
Oxford shuffled to a chair and fell into it. He stared at the floor.
"Henry, imagine that time is a cord stretching forward from now all the way to the year 2202. Now picture a point