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"I remember that night," put in Oxford.

"Well, I'm sorry to say that I blabbed rather," said Beresford. "I told Brunel about the way your people extract power from the ground. I even remembered the phrase you used to describe it: `geothermal energy.' He was absolutely besotted by the idea, and before the year was out, he'd proposed the Battersea Experimental Power Station."

"Damn you, Henry! It's bad enough that I'll return to a future without Victoria; now you've made it one where geothermal energy has existed three hundred years ahead of its time. Don't you realise the only thing that can prevent me from totally unravelling is to return to an environment which is at least in some way familiar?"

"I'm sorry. It was a slip."

"A bad one! But tell me about this protest group-why are they significant?"

"Because the moment the Original joined the staff, he and the Brigade hit it off like nobody's business! They love the little bugger!"

"You mean he finally has friends!"

"Yes! And seven of them have daughters, all the right age to qualify as the possible mother of the Original's wife. Any one of them could have the `Oxford birthmark' on her chest!"

"Not necessarily. It doesn't appear in every generation."

"But if it's there, finding it would be a distinct advantage; instead of having to follow all seven of the daughters until one of them gives birth to your ancestor, you'll just need to follow the one."

Oxford nodded slowly, chewed his lip, then became very still and expressionless. His face went slack.

"Edward?" prompted the marquess. "Are you still with me?"

"Yes," Oxford mumbled, blinking suddenly. "Get me times and places where I can find the girls. I want this over and done with. I'll see you in six months."

He left.

January, February, March, April, May, June passed.

July came.

Queen Victoria was shot dead.

Her assassin died a few moments later.

Ten days after, outside the veranda doors, Beresford greeted his visitor and said: "I took my followers to the Hog in the Pound a couple of days after Victoria was killed. I've abandoned the A. W. Smith disguise."

"So you're not hiding that you're the Marquess of Waterford?"

"No!" Beresford laughed. "I've been doing quite the opposite!"

"Funny. I thought your new moustache was part of a disguise. When did you grow-God!"

"What is it?"

"I recognise you! You were there! Watching! With a smile on your face!"

"Of course I was there, old chap! Best spectator sport ever! How could I possibly resist seeing you in action, witnessing all you've told me about? Watching the snooty cow die?"

"Henry! You could have tried to stop it!"

"Don't you think it's complicated enough already without me getting involved?"

Oxford stared at the marquess for a moment then sighed and shrugged.

"I suppose so."

Beresford grinned. "Take off your helmet. Come inside."

"I can't stay long. My suit is on its last legs."

It was true; the white scales around the unit on Oxford's chest were badly scorched, and sparks were continuing to hiss and spit from the strange device, while the aura of blue flame around the helmet now seemed a permanent fixture.

"It does look rather unhealthy, I'll admit. Straight to business, then?"

"Please."

"Very well. The first thing I should tell you is that, not unexpectedly, the police have been sniffing around the Hog in the Pound since the shooting. They're trying to find out whether the assassination was part of a wider conspiracy and my crowd is under suspicion. We're regarded, apparently, as a bunch of dangerous anarchists."

They walked through the ballroom and passed into the corridor beyond.

"This is exactly what I intended," continued the marquess. "It's the reason why I started taking my young bloods to the tavern; for while the coppers are concentrating on my group, they're ignoring the Battersea Brigade, which, by contrast, seems little more than a gathering of yokels.

"Then, of course, there's `Young England,' which is baffling Scotland Yard on account of the fact that, while letters from A.