“That’s astonishing!”
“It is, but there are a lot of other possibilities, too. The research is at a very early stage, so I can’t really tell you much more.”
“Well, unfortunately we’re out of time anyway. May I wish you continued success in your various endeavours, and I’d like to offer my gratitude, on behalf of the audience, for all that you’ve achieved. Thank you very much indeed for sharing your thoughts with us this morning.”
“It was my pleasure. Thank you.”
The interview ended, and Burton swiped the air-screen away. He turned to his partner, who was sitting at the breakfast table.
She raised her eyebrows and said, “That was peculiar.”
“It was. Queen Victoria!”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I had no idea, but I’ll certainly look into it.”
“Why bother?”
“I’m interested.”
“Funny how all the Oxford men seem a little eccentric. It appears the characteristic goes back a long way.”
“Are you suggesting we’re inclined to madness?”
“Of course not, but imagine what it must have been like in those days. For the majority of people there was no freedom and no opportunities. If your ancestor had the same potential intelligence and passion as you do but was denied an education and outlet for them, might the frustration not have tipped him over the edge?”
“I suppose. Who knows what a person might be capable of in such circumstances?”
Burton stood and picked up his mug of coffee. “I’d better get to it. What are you doing today?”
“I have an art class in an hour. This afternoon, I’m teaching at the language centre.”
He stepped over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “See you tonight?”
“If you don’t work too late.”
He smiled and left the kitchen.
In his laboratory, he sat at his desk, accessed the Aether, and called up information pertaining to the Victorian-era Oxford.
The facts were sparse.
Born on the ninth of April 1822 in Birmingham, his ancestor had moved to London with his mother and sister around 1832, and by ’37 was living with them in lodgings at West Place, West Square, Lambeth. He was employed as a barman in various public houses, the last two of them being the Hat and Feathers in ’39 and the Hog in the Pound in ’40.
On the tenth of June 1840, while the queen, who’d been on the throne for just three years, was taking her daily carriage ride through Green Park with her new husband, Prince Albert, Oxford stepped alongside the vehicle, drew two flintlocks, and shot at the monarch. His bullets flew wide. After being seized by onlookers, he was arrested, charged with treason, but ultimately found not guilty due to insanity. He was sent to Bethlem Royal Hospital—the infamous Bedlam—where he remained, a model patient, until being transferred to Broadmoor Hospital in 1864. Three years later, he was released on the provision that he’d immediately immigrate to Australia, which he did. He was married there to a girl much younger than him, fathered a son, and lived a respectable existence for a short while before turning to drink and thievery. The family broke up. After that, his life deteriorated, and he died a pauper.
“Sad,” Burton muttered.
He called his great-grandfather, who, despite being 112 years old, was still possessed of all his faculties, though, like every male Oxford, he was a little idiosyncratic. The old man’s lean, sharp-nosed face appeared almost immediately as the air-screen unfurled.
“Hello, Eddie. I thought you might call.”
“Hi, Grampapa. How are you? You look well.”
“Nonsense. I look like an Egyptian mummy. I’m nearing my termination date. I have eleven years left. Eleven! Can you imagine that?”
“You know full well that DNA scans don’t always accurately predict the moment of death.”
“And you know full well that they usually do. It’ll be heart failure.”
“Easily avoided. When will you get repaired?”
“Never, lad. I’m content to slip away. No one should live beyond his or her time, and I’ve been around for long enough. In the old days, they were lucky to make it to eighty. You understand, I hope?”
“I do, and I respect your right to make the choice. Actually, it’s the old days I’m calling about. What do you know about our ancestors?”
“Ha! That interviewer got you curious, did he? You did well, by the way—came across as clever but reasonable. Not many of the male Oxfords could’ve managed that. We tend to be an unbalanced crowd. What’s the correct term nowadays?”
“Off-narrative.”
“Ha ha! Bloody ridiculous! My grandfather would’ve used off their rocker if he were feeling generous. More likely crackpot or crazy or nuts. Language has no bite anymore. You kids emit nothing but a watery drone. Mind you, when I was a kid I never understood a bloody word the adults were saying. They all spoke in acronyms. English language restoration was the best policy the government ever introduced. That girl of yours is doing a good job. Heh! Perfidy. I liked that. Bravo the interviewer! What were we talking about?”
“Ancestors. The assassin. Did you know?”
“About our family embarrassment? Actually, I’d forgotten all about him until he was mentioned. But yes, I knew. I wonder if I still have the letter?”
“Letter?”
“It’s the oldest relic we’ve got. Wait, let me look.”
The lined face disappeared from the screen. A minute later, the image of a handwritten letter appeared on it.
“Sent to his wife,” Grampapa said. “I’m afraid there’s no record of her, but I vaguely recall my grandfather saying something about her being the daughter of a family Edward Oxford was acquainted with before he committed his crime. Do you want a hard copy?”
“Yes, please.”
“It’s coming through now.” Grampapa reappeared. “But listen, don’t get too caught up in all this nonsense. It was a long, long time ago. You know our DNA consultant recommended that you focus on what you do best, which is to make the future better. The past is no place for a genius like you. I’m very, very proud of everything you’ve achieved. When I think about that bloody assassin, I realise how much you’ve put the pride back into the Oxford name.”
“Thank you, Grampapa. Can I come visit soon?”
“Whenever you like.”
“I’ll call again in a few days.”
“I look forward to it.”
Their conversation ended. Burton took the letter from the desk’s printer and 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. I 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 child back in England with your parents and I would have brought more misery upon you had you stayed here, for I have been driven by the devil since he chose me as his own when I was a mere lad. I beg of you to believe that it is his evil influence that brought misery to our family and the true soul of me never wished you anything but happiness and contentment.
You remember, my wife, that I said the mark upon your breast was a sign to me of God’s forgiveness for my treachery and that in you he was rewarding me for the work I had done in hospital to restore my wits and good judgment?
I pray now that he looks mercifully upon my failure and I ask him that the mark, which so resembles a rainbow in its shape, and which lays also upon our little son’s breast, should adorn every of my descendants forevermore as a sign that the great wrong I committed shall call His vengeance upon no Oxford but myself, for I it was who pulled the triggers and no other. With my death, which as I say will soon be upon me, the affair shall end and the evil attached to my name shall be wiped away.