In Darkening Towers, on the outskirts of Waterford, three miles to the west of Old Ford, the orangutan known as Mr. Belljar, who was actually Henry de La Poer Beresford, the Mad Marquess, impatiently paced up and down the huge empty ballroom, its chandelier blazing above him. The light would attract any parakeet that happened to have a message for him.
Outside, in the grounds, two rotorships sat. The larger, which dwarfed the other, had its engines idling. It contained Charles Darwin, the automaton Francis Galton, Nurse Florence Nightingale, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, John Hanning Speke, and a great many Technologists.
Along the shadow of a hedgerow between Waterford and Old Ford, an injured albino limped eastward. At his heels, following obediently, were twenty-three robed and hooded figures who walked with a peculiar lurching gait and who occasionally emitted slavering growls, like starving dogs.
Soon these forces would meet.
It was just a matter of time.
THE BATTLE OF OLD FOLD
n September 28, 1861, Spring Heeled Jack bounced onto the brown, dying lawn outside the veranda doors of Darkening Towers. They stood open and the lights were on in the ballroom. He stalked in.
"Henry! Henry, where are you?"
"Stay there, Oxford!" commanded a brash, ugly voice. It came from behind a French screen in the corner of the big, decrepit room.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the time traveller.
"It's me, Edward-Henry Beresford."
"You sound different. Why are you hiding? Come out!"
Fire suddenly erupted from the control unit on his chest.
"The suit is almost dead!" he groaned, smothering it with his cloak. "Come out, damn you!"
"Listen to me, Oxford. This is important. I had a serious accident," gurgled the thick voice. "I broke my neck. They had to perform extreme surgery to preserve my life. Prepare yourself. I'm not the man I used to be."
An orangutan lumbered out from behind the screen. The top of its head was missing and had been replaced by a liquid-filled bell jar in which a brain floated.
Edward Oxford started to laugh. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" he gasped.
"It's temporary, I hope," said the orangutan.
Oxford doubled over, his laughter rising in pitch, echoing around the large chamber.
"This world-is-fuck-fucking-insane!" he screamed.
"Calm down, Edward! It's strange for me, too. I was beginning to think I'd dreamed you up. I can hardly believe you're real after all this time."
The orangutan lurched toward the stilt-walker and reached out a hand to him.
Spring Heeled Jack staggered back. "Don't touch me, ape!" he cried.
"All right! All right! Just try to control yourself, man! I have the list of girls for you!"
Oxford looked at the primate. "Is it really you, Henry?"
"Yes."
"And you were successful?"
"In the main, yes."
"In the main? What do you mean, `in the main'?"
"One of the families moved to South Africa. I've lost track of them."
"Well, find them, you fool! She could be the one!"
"I'm doing all I can, Edward. In the meantime, I have the descriptions and locations of Angela Tew, Marian Steephill, Connie Fairweather, Lucy Harkness, and Alicia Pipkiss."
The ape shuffled across to the banqueting table-which Oxford saw had been moved from the dining room-and took from it a sheet of paper which he then handed to the time traveller.
"I'm sorry about the writing. It's difficult. I don't have proper thumbs."
Oxford looked at the names scrawled messily on the paper.
"They are all children of the original Battersea Brigade daughters," continued the orangutan. "One of them is your ancestor, of that I am certain. Be aware that your opportunity with the Pipkiss girl is limited. I know where she will be the night after tomorrow, but before and after that, her movements are unclear."
"Very well," replied Spring Heeled Jack. He read down the list. "Ah," he said. "She won't be far from here. The same cottage as before!"
"Yes."
"And the South African girl?"
"Sarah Shoemaker. I have sent agents to track her down," lied Beresford.
"Good. I'll not delay-I must act while the suit still functions. What is to become of you?"
"I hope to have a new body soon. Will you return?"
"Yes. If I'm successful and I restore my genealogical history, I'll come to say good-bye before returning to my time. If I'm unsuccessful, we'll know that the Shoemaker girl is the one and I'll need your help to find her. I must go now."
"Good-bye, Edward."
Oxford nodded and strode out into the grounds. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the orangutan silhouetted in the doorway. He started to laugh again. Ridiculous world. None of it was real. He jumped.
He was still laughing when he landed on Wix's Lane, between Battersea and Clapham, at seven in the evening on August 2, 1861. He immediately vaulted over a fence into an area of waste land which local residents used as a rubbish tip. A shout from the street told him that he'd been spotted. He hopped away over piles of rubbish.
Moments later, he arrived at the back of the houses on Taybridge Road. He identified the fifth one along and approached its high back wall. He was just tall enough to look over it.
A gas lamp was on in the kitchen and through the window he could see a woman washing dishes in a basin. Last time he'd seen her, she'd been just fourteen years old. Now Lizzie Fraser was thirty-eight. She looked careworn and exhausted, with a haunted expression around her eyes.
A young girl came into view: the daughter, Marian.
The mother said something.
Marian replied.
She moved away from the window.
The back door opened.
The girl stepped into the yard and walked over to a small chicken coop.
She bent over it.
Edward Oxford vaulted over the wall, landed behind her, pressed a hand over her mouth, wrapped an arm around her slim body, lifted her off her feet, and leaped back over the wall, clutching her tightly.
An agonised scream came from the kitchen.
Damn! The mother had seen him!
He whirled the young girl around and grabbed her by the upper arms, shook her, and growled: "You're Marian Steephill, yes? Answer me!"
She nodded, her face contorted with fear.
The screams from beyond the wall became hysterical.
Without further ado, Oxford grabbed Marian's dress and ripped it away. He clawed at the slip beneath until her skin was bared.
There was no birthmark.
He pushed her away and ran back into the rubbish tip, took three giant strides, soared into the air, and landed in Patcham Terrace at ten in the evening of September 6, 1861.
It was a warm night. The street was empty but he could hear a vehicle approaching. He pressed himself into the shadows as it passed: a motorised penny-farthing, leaving a cloud of steam behind it. He shook his head and chuckled. Impossible. There was no such thing!
Lucy Harkness, the daughter of Sarah Lovitt, lived at number 12 with her parents. It was Friday; her mother and father would be at the Tremors public house.
Oxford walked up to the door, which opened straight onto the pavement-there were no front gardens in this road-and knocked on it. He bent to bring his height down below the transom window.
"Who is it?" came a muffled girl's voice.