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"Because in February she was attacked around the corner from the tavern and his reaction to it was extreme. I wasn't there at the time but apparently he flew into a fit of hysteria and had what amounted to a mental breakdown. He recovered a couple of weeks later and went back to work."

"So you think he might have a particular attachment to this girl?"

"It crossed my mind, but on closer examination I found that he'd never met her, or her parents, or anyone who had anything to do with her."

Oxford pondered this news for a few moments, then asked, "Anything else?"

"Yes-some cunning preparations on my part! The Original is obsessed with making a name for himself; he wants-and I quote-`to live on through history. "'

"What a fool I was to approach him in my time suit," interrupted Oxford. "It scared him out of his wits, what little he has of them. He picked up on my words and twisted them to bolster his delusions of grandeur."

"Those delusions are working in our favour now," offered Beresford. "I have initiated him into a secret society of my-or, rather, of A. W. Smith'sown invention. It's named `Young England' and has twenty-five members."

Oxford slapped his hand down on the arm of his chair. "Please tell me you're joking! You're getting twenty-five people involved?"

"Of course not! They're all entirely fictitious, just like the organisation itself! "

"So what's the point?"

"The point is this: Young England intends to overthrow the country's aristocracy-the likes of me!-and replace them with what you might call the `purebred worker.' I won't go into details, Edward, because it's all nonsense. I've been spinning words and sending the poor young fellow dizzy with it. But the upshot is that each member of the organisation must find for himself a wife who embodies all the best qualities of a working girl. She must be assiduous in her duties, virtuous and demure in manner, honest and loyal, and-well, the usual idiotic drivel.

"The Original is now on the lookout for such an impossible maiden. He's been primed to investigate the background of every girl he encounters. He will even hand to me a written report for each!"

Edward Oxford laughed; a brittle, edgy sound.

"You're a sly dog, my Lord Marquess, that's for sure! I must admit, though, I'm impressed with your resourcefulness."

"I'm happy to help. I'll leave you to work on your repairs now, but a little later, I insist that you'll sit and take wine with me. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

Oxford spent the evening with his host, slept, then, in the morning, jumped into the air and didn't come down until January 1, 1840.

"Six months to go before the queen gets it, and things are hotting up!" announced Beresford.

"Really?" rasped Oxford. His eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere. "Tell me."

"Our man is now working in the Hog in the Pound on Oxford Street. As his most faithful customer, A. W. Smith, I followed him there. My fellow drinkers don't realise that I'm the famed Mad Marquess!"

"You're famous now?"

"Yes, Edward; though I suppose `infamous' would be more accurate. I have quite a following of young bloods! Anyway, that's beside the point. As I was saying, the Original is now at the Hog in the Pound. The tavern is owned by a chap named Joseph Robinson, who lives in Battersea. Every week, he ships a group of families there from his borough for a knees-up. They call themselves the Battersea Brigade, and are supposedly a protest group opposed to the building of the power station."

"What power station?"

"The Battersea Power Station; one of Brunel's rather more controversial projects."

"That makes no sense at all," objected the time traveller. "Construction of the Battersea Power Station didn't begin until the 1920s-and it had nothing to do with Brunel!"

"Um. I may be to blame for that."

"What do you mean?"

"You've told me a great many things about the future, Edward, and I promised to keep my mouth shut. I'm afraid, however, that there was a night back in '37 when I was rather the worse for wear at the Athenaeum Club. The