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"All in all, the wool has been well and truly pulled over the authorities' eyes."

They entered the morning room.

"And what about the girls, Henry?" asked Oxford. "Did the Original tell you anything useful about them?"

"I should say! As village idiots go, he was quite a remarkable one. He managed to gather a huge amount of information, enough for you to hop back a couple of years or so and still find them. Here, take a seat; have a spot of tiffin."

Oxford sat at the table, where Brock-who was by now Beresford's last remaining servant-had laid out a platter of bread and cheeses.

There was an expression of doubt on the time traveller's face.

"Buck up, my friend!" exclaimed the marquess. "It's simple really. You can't get to the girls in the future because, obviously, we don't know where they'll be. You can't approach them now, because the police are on the lookout for anything unusual in connection with the Hog in the Pound. So that just leaves the past.

"I have here written descriptions of each girl: Jennifer Shepherd, Mary Stevens, Deborah Goodkind, Lizzie Fraser, Tilly Adams, Jane Alsop, and Sarah Lovitt. I also have details of the times and places where you'll most likely find them."

Oxford took the proffered paper, read it through, and suddenly became more animated.

"This is very thorough!" he exclaimed. "My ancestor did a good job. He obviously fell for your Young England story hook, line, and sinker. Okay, I'm going to get to work."

"Wait! You'll not stay and eat?"

"Thank you, Henry. All being well, you'll see me again in a minute. I'll eat then."

They went out into the grounds.

"Tallyho, Edward! Bon voyage!" said Beresford.

HUNT

If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the elan who has so much as to be oat of danger?

-THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY

May 5, 1838

very Saturday afternoon at a quarter to two, sixteen-year-old jenny Shepherd left her parents' house in Maskelyne Close, Battersea, walked across the southwestern corner of the park, and called at the Calvert family home on Beechmore Road. Rather than knocking on the front door, she went down the steps to the tradesman's entrance, where she was received by Mrs. Twiddle, the housekeeper.

Jenny always arrived at two and worked without a break until eight in the evening.

Her parents called it training. Mrs. Twiddle called it a job. Jenny Shepherd called it slavery.

She had to admit, though, that in the six months since she started, she'd learned many skills. She could polish silver until it was as clear as a mirror; she knew how to remove stains from cotton and silk; she could set a tea tray so that it was properly balanced; she could bake bread and gut a fish; she could do a whole host of things that she hadn't been able to do before.

On this particular summer evening, as jenny left her employer's house, she was feeling particularly exhausted, for she'd spent the entire six hours on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors. She ached all over and wanted nothing more than to be home and in bed.

It was humid and the air was thick with the clawing stench of the Thames. The sun was low but it was still light enough to cut cross the park in defiance of her father's strict edict that she should always follow the road home.

She entered through a gate and dragged herself along the path. Her maid's uniform felt hot and uncomfortable.

Home. Bed, she thought, and timed it to her steps: Home. Bed. Home. Bed. Home. Bed.

What was that?

A movement in the bush off to her left.

Probably a vagrant finding a sheltered spot for the evening; a place where the bobbies wouldn't see him and move him along.

She started to give the bush a wide berth, just in case. This corner of the park was secluded.

"You can never be too careful, jenny my lass," she whispered, quoting her father. "Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open."

Home. Bed. Home. Bed. Home. Bed.

"Jennifer Shepherd!"

The voice, a loud whisper, came from the bush.

She stopped and looked