The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [133]
He dropped his face into his hands and moaned.
"Sleep," ordered Beresford. "Once you are rested, you'll think more clearly. We'll find a solution. And remember, you have forty years in which to work on it."
"Bloody hell!" cursed Oxford. "I can't stay a Victorian recluse for the rest of my life. Besides, my wife is expecting me home for supper."
He suddenly chuckled at the contrast-the extraordinary and the mundane-and lost control of himself, throwing his head back and laughing wildly, a harsh and unbalanced noise which caused the marquess to step back a pace.
It echoed through Darkening Towers, that horrible laughter.
Maybe it echoed through time.
DISSUASION
Nothing is permanent, least of all the thing you think of as I.
-HENRY DE LA POER BERESFORD, 3RD MARQUESS OF WATERFORD
dward Oxford raved all evening until Beresford summoned Brock and together they half pushed, half carried him up the stairs and into his bedroom. They pulled off his clothes-both had learned how to unfasten the time suit-and put him to bed. He eventually fell into a fitful sleep, muttering to himself, groaning, tossing and turning.
When he shuffled into the morning room the next day, he looked gaunt and fevered, with dark circles around his eyes.
"Eat," commanded Beresford, indicating the food the butler had placed on the table.
Oxford sat and ate in a desultory manner, his eyes glazed.
"I have a question," said the marquess.
His guest grunted.
"Where is your ancestor now, at this moment, June 1837?"
"He's fifteen years old. He lives with his mother and sister in lodgings at West Place, West Square, Lambeth."
"And where will he be when you kill him?"
"Green Park."
"Then you must go to Lambeth, find him, and convince him that he'll be murdered if he visits Green Park in 1840."
Oxford leaned back in his seat and looked at the marquess.
"Yes," he mumbled. "Yes. If I can manage it; if I can bear the exposure and hold myself together, it could work."
"Do you know where West Place is?"
"Yes, it's right beside the Imperial War Museum."
"The what?"
"The Imp-No, wait, that hasn't been built. It's-It's the Bethlem Royal Hospital!"
"Bedlam, you mean?"
"The very place where my ancestor will spend twenty-four years of his life if I prevent myself from killing him."
"He was-is, I mean-a lunatic, then?"
"At this point in time, 1837, he's beginning to show symptoms of mental disturbance. The illness reaches its peak in 1840, when he commits a criminal act. He's caught, tried, and committed to Bedlam. Over the next couple of decades or so, he recovers his wits, though he remains incarcerated. They eventually move him to Broadmoor, then he's freed and deported to Australia where he meets and marries a girl. They have a child who is my Idon't-know-how-many-times-great-grandfather. "
Beresford leaned forward and rested his chin upon his hand, contemplating his strange houseguest.
"But now," he muttered, "none of this will happen?"
"I came back in time to prevent his crime," answered Oxford, "but instead killed him."
"So no happy ending in Australia, then."
"He didn't have a happy ending anyway, Henry. Look at this."
Oxford pulled a wallet from his pocket and took a folded sheet of paper from it. He slid it across to Beresford. The marquess unfolded it and saw that it was a letter, though written in no type of ink that he'd ever seen before. He read it:
Brisbane, 12th November, 1888
My Darling
There was never any other but you, and that I treated you badly has pained me more even than the treasonable act I committed back in '40. 1 desired nought but to give you and the little one a good home and that I failed and that I was a drinker and a thief instead of the good husband I intended, this I shall regret to the end of my days, which I feel is a time not far off, as I am sickly in body as well as in heart.
I do not blame you for what you do now. You are young and can make a good life for yourself and our