He stamped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Edward Oxford stared after him, then stood, moved over to the fire, and watched the flames consuming the logs.
He landed in the grounds of Bedlam by the southeastern wall at eleven o'clock that same night, a mere two hours into the future; it was still late June 1837. The big hospital loomed behind him, wreathed in fog.
Vaulting over the wall, he dropped into a cemetery, which he crossed rapidly, then jumped the railings on the opposite side, hitting the cobbles of the street beyond directly in the path of a businessman, who screamed, dropped a sheaf of papers, and ran off.
Oxford looked to his left, to where the road joined a busy thoroughfare.
"That must be St. George's Road," he muttered. "This is Geraldine Street, so West Place is straight ahead."
He heard footsteps approaching and quickly walked away from them, crossing the road and entering a mist-heavy square enclosing a small fencedin public garden in the middle. Beyond the railings, trees sagged over deep wells of darkness. It was the perfect hiding place.
He knew that the Original had worked as a potboy in a number of public houses during his early and midteenage years before settling at the Hat and Feathers in 1839, then at the Hog in the Pound for the first few months of 1840. Where he worked this year, '37, was a mystery, but Oxford figured that since the boy was just fifteen years old, he probably laboured close to home. Lambeth was a fairly respectable borough; its pubs were more likely to stick to the regulations and close at eleven thirty; the Original should, therefore, return home within the next couple of hours.
He didn't.
Men passed; some women; a couple of youths; but no one resembling his ancestor.
By two in the morning, Oxford, feeling damp, stiff, and chilled, stepped out from under cover, leaped straight up into the air, and landed on the same spot at eleven in the evening of the next day.
He waited.
Nothing.
He tried the following day, and the next, and the next.
He was exhausted, his nose was running, and his temper had frayed.
Ribbons of energy were crawling over the surface of his suit's control unit. He kept his cloak wrapped around it.
"Fuck this!" he whispered to himself.
At which point fifteen-year-old Edward Oxford sauntered past.
It was half past midnight.
The time traveller recognised the boy immediately; it was like looking at a youthful version of himself.
He bounded over the railings, grabbed the lad by the shoulders, spun him around, and punched him on the point of the jaw.
The Original slumped into his arms.
Oxford hoisted him up and carried him into the gardens.
With the boy in his arms, he leaped three and a half hours ahead. Four o'clock in the morning would be quieter.
Oxford laid his burden on the grass and squatted over him. He slapped his ancestor's face. The Original opened his eyes and screamed. Oxford clamped his hand over the youth's open mouth.
"Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"
He stared into the boy's wide eyes. The Original jerked his head in a spasmodic nod. His body was trembling wildly.
Oxford removed his hand. "Listen to me and remember what I say."
The boy nodded again. He kept nodding.
Oxford grabbed him by the hair.
"Stop that, you little idiot! I have something to tell you, instructions which you must obey!"
The Original's mouth opened and closed. Foam flecked his lips.
"Three years from now you're going to get it into your head to commit a crime. Don't fucking do it, do you understand?"
The boy made a gurgling noise. His eyes were filled with stark terror.
"If you do as you intend, your name will be remembered through history. You will bring shame on every generation that bears it. You will bring shame on me! Do you understand? On me, Edward Oxford!"
The Original started to jabber senselessly.
"Keep quiet!" snapped Oxford. "Pay attention, you little moron! Stay away from Constitution Hill on June 10, 1840. Remember that date and remember my instructions! June 10, 1840! Do not go to Constitution Hill!"
The boy started to giggle hysterically. He didn't stop.
The time traveller let go of his ancestor, stood up, and looked down in disgust at the pathetic creature.
One thing was obvious: the Original was already insane.
Oxford stepped away from the lad and jumped to Green Park on June 10, 1840, but instead of materialising a few yards from the assassination site and a few minutes before the shots were fired, he found himself way up the slope behind a large tree. Screams sounded from the path below.
Far to his right, a man was running toward a thickly wooded corner of the park. He was being chased by a policeman.
Ahead, down the slope, Prince Albert was kneeling beside his dead wife while four horsemen struggled to hold back a panicking crowd.
On the other side of the royal carriage, a man lay dead, his head impaled on a railing.
"No," breathed Oxford. "God damn it, no, no, no.,,
He returned to Darkening Towers and the year 1837, landing in the grounds and falling to his knees.
He remembered tackling the Original next to the queen's carriage. They had struggled, and his ancestor had said, "Let go of me! My name must be remembered. I must live through history!"
"This is not possible!" cried Oxford, and, raising his face to the sky, he bellowed, "I can't be causing all of it! It's not possible! It's not possible!"
During the course of the next ten days, Edward Oxford was bedridden, suffering a fever that, for hours on end, caused him to rant incomprehensibly.
Henry de La Poet Beresford nursed his guest assiduously, for he'd become fascinated by this strange man from the future.
"How like gods we can be," he told Brock one day.
The valet eyed their patient dubiously. There didn't seem much godlike about the hollow-faced wretch he saw laying there, with skin pale as the sheets stretched tautly over sharp cheekbones. Oxford seemed to have aged twenty years since his first appearance at the mansion. Deep lines now scored the flesh to either side of his mouth, around the sunken eyes, and upon the forehead. His nose was thin and prominent.
"Should I send for a doctor, sir?"
"No, Brock," answered Beresford. "It's a chill, nothing more."
It was, in fact, a great deal more.
Edward Oxford was disintegrating. Submerged in a world that was alien to him, and with the knowledge that his own time no longer existed, he was disengaging from reality. Psychological bonds had loosened and slipped free; he was floating without any coordinates. He was losing his mind.
The fever broke on Tuesday, July 6. It happened during the night, when Oxford was awoken by screams.
For a while he lay still, not knowing where he was, then, slowly, his ragged memory returned and he groaned in despair.
The screams continued.
They echoed through the manor: a woman in terrible distress, her cries punctuated by an angry male voice.
Oxford pushed himself out of bed and rose weakly to his feet. He tottered to a chair, retrieved a gown from its back, pulled it on, and shuffled to the door.
Passing through, he entered the hall beyond and stood for a moment, supporting himself against the wall.
"Please!" came a woman's cry. "Don't do it! I can't stand any more! God have mercy!"