Текст книги "The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Beresford emptied his glass in a single gulp, was served another, and said loudly, "So how's the memory, my friend? Has anything come back to you?"

Oxford hesitated.

He made a decision.

"My Lord Marquess-"

"Henry, please."

"Henry. I have decided to tell you everything because, the truth is, I desperately require help. Do you mind if we eat first, though? I'm half starved!"

"Not at all! Not at all! Pray settle my mind, though-you are not from a circus, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"And your costume is something more than it seems?"

"You are very perceptive, Henry."

"Eat, Mr. Oxford. We shall talk afterwards."

An hour later, the time traveller, feeling bloated and a little sick, accepted a brandy, refused a cigar, and told his host almost everything. He omitted the queen's assassination and, instead, claimed that he'd travelled back through time simply to meet his ancestor.

They had moved to the morning room after the meal and were sitting in big wooden armchairs beside a crackling fire.

Beresford was drunk.

He was also incredulous.

And he was laughing.

"Great heavens above!" he roared. "You're as fine a storyteller as that Dickens fellow! Have you read Pickwick?"

"Of course I have. This isn't a fiction, Henry."

"Balderdash! What can be more fictive than a man from the future being propelled into the past by a suit of clothes?"

"Yet I maintain that that's what happened."

"You're a strange one, I'll admit," declared the marquess. "Your speech is rather too direct for an Englishman, your manner too casual by half. I have you down as a foreigner, my friend!"

"I told you-I was born and raised in Aldershot."

"In the year 2162, you say. What's that? Some three hundred and twenty-five years from now?"

"Yes."

Beresford refilled their glasses and lit another cigar.

"Let's just say I'm prepared to play along with your rum little game, Edward," he said. "You say you require my help. In what manner may I be of assistance?"

"I need you to purchase for me a complete set of watchmaker's tools."

"For what purpose?"

"I have to repair my suit's control unit. I'm hoping that watchmaker's tools will be fine enough for such work."

"Control unit?"

"The circular object you saw on my chest."

"And am I to take it that when this `control unit' is repaired you will once again be capable of flight through time?"

"Yes."

"Phew! I have never heard such a tale in all my born natural! Yet I have it in mind to humour you! You will remain here as my guest and I shall get you your tools!"

"There is something I can tell you," said Oxford, "that might lend credence to my story."

"Really. What is that?"

"Five days from now, you will have a new monarch."

Slowly, over the next seven days, Henry de La Poet Beresford's amused disbelief began to waver.

The death of King William IV at Windsor Castle had, of course, been expected and came as no surprise. The fact that Oxford had predicted Victoria's ascension to the throne on June 20 wasn't particularly amazing-more a lucky guess, in all probability.

However, after extracting a vow of silence from his host, Oxford revealed a great deal more about the world he'd come from, especially about the different technologies and power sources available to future man. The human race, it seemed, would lose none of its inventiveness as time progressed.

It was the way the man spoke and moved, though, that most convinced the marquess. There was something indescribably foreign about him, yet, conversely, the longer he spent with him the more Beresford believed that his odd visitor was, as he claimed, an Englishman.

"You are evidentially a sophisticated individual," he said one morning, "yet-if you'll pardon my bluntness-you lack the social graces I would expect from a gentleman."

Oxford, who was seated at a table and using the watchmaker's tools to poke at the incomprehensible innards of his "control unit," responded without looking up.

"No offence taken, Henry. I don't mean to be rude; it's just that in my time social interaction is far less ritualised. We express our feelings and opinions just as we please, openly and without restraint."

"How barbaric!" drawled the marquess, dangling a leg over the arm of his chair. "Are you not permanently at one another's throats?"

"No more so than you Victorians."

"Victorians? Is that what we are now? Why, I suppose it is! But tell me, my friend: what possible advantage can there be in the abandonment of our ritualised'-as you would have it-behaviour? Are not manners the mark of a civilised man?"

"The advantage is liberty, Henry. From this century forward, the concept of liberty becomes central to personal, social, political, economic, and technological developments. People do not want to feel suppressed, so great efforts are made to establish, if not true freedom, then at very least a sustainable and overwhelming illusion of it. I doubt there's ever been a time when human beings were truly free, but where-or, rather, when-I come from, more people believe they are than in any other period of history."

"And what do they gain from it?"

"A life in which they are able to pursue opportunities without restraint in a quest for personal fulfillment."

"Fulfillment?"

"The sense that you have explored your inherent abilities to their utmost."

"Yes, I understand," replied Beresford, thoughtfully. "But surely if a person's opportunities are unbounded, then the possibilities increase? Doesn't that make it impossible to explore them all, and extremely difficult to settle upon any one area which can be explored to the point of fulfillment?"

Oxford looked up and frowned. "You make a good point, Henry. It's true that many people in my time are frustrated not by limitations but by an inability to make choices. They feel their lives are without direction and struggle to find their place in society."

"Whereas the humble `Victorian' labourer," mused Beresford, "knows his place almost from birth and almost certainly never gives thought to an idea so ephemeral as `fulfillment' except, I venture to suggest, in reference to a hearty meal and a pint of ale!"

"Done!" exclaimed Oxford.

"What?"

"The control unit. Fixed! It's a makeshift repair but it'll get me home, where I can give it a proper overhaul before coming back."

"To 1837, you mean?"

"I have some business in 1840 to take care of first, but yes, I'll come back, Henry. I'll bring you a gift from the future as a token of thanks for the hospitality you've shown me these past few days."

"For how long will you be gone?"

"My Lord Marquess, the concept still eludes you, doesn't it? I'll be back mere seconds after my departure, even if I'm away for years from my perspective. Would you have Brock fetch my suit from upstairs?"

"Certainly," responded Beresford. He pulled a cord that hung beside the fireplace. "You intend to leave at once, then?"

"There's no time like the present." Oxford smiled.

The valet appeared, was given his instructions, bowed, and departed.

Beresford lifted a bottle of red wine from beside his chair and took a swig from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Oxford eyed him disapprovingly. "It's a little early, don't you think?" he asked.

"My dear friend-it's never too early!" advised the marquess, languidly. "Besides, it's a wonderful restorative."

"Curing a hangover with red wine is a sure way to become an alcoholic."

"Nonsense! Besides, I can assure you that if you really do disappear into the future right before my eyes, the shock is liable to kill me unless I take a spot of wine to soften the blow!"

Brock reappeared carrying the time suit with its attached cape, the boots with their stilts, and the helmet. Oxford took the items, picked up the control unit, and followed Henry Beresford out of the room, along the hallway, around a corner, and into the big ballroom. They crossed this, opened the veranda doors, and exited the house.

The man from 2202 slipped into his suit and affixed the control unit to his chest. He placed the helmet on his head, pushed his feet into the boots, heaved himself up onto his stilts, then bent and shook the hand of the man from 1837.

"You really believe it, don't you?" said Beresford.

"Yes. Wait here. I'll be back in what for you will be just a moment."

He strode out onto the grass.

Oxford had managed to restore a channel between the control unit and the helmet. It transmitted his instructions, which were read straight from his brainwaves, but the connection wasn't stable enough for the augmented reality function.

He set his destination: ten o'clock on the evening of February 15, 2202; location: the garden of his house in Aldershot. He hoped his supper hadn't gone cold.

It was a sunny day and his batteries required less than two minutes before they were fully charged.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's go home and start again."

He waved at the marquess then bounded forward and jumped into the air.

"Now!" he ordered.

Reality blinked.

He fell and landed on flat ground beside a tree.

It was night.

It was not his garden.

He looked around. The lights of a small town shone behind him. A tall fence lay ahead, on the other side of a road. Low buildings were just visible in the darkness beyond it. Beside a gate, he saw a sentry box and standing in it, a man in uniform.

The man lifted something to his mouth and a spark of light flared.

Bloody hell. He was smoking! No one smoked in 2202.

Oxford, concealed by the tree, took a couple of steps until he was better able to see the sign above the gate. It read: British Army. North Camp. Aldershot.

This was not possible.

There had been a military base there since 1854 but it had been demolished in 2079 to make way for the town's expanding suburbs.

"Right place, wrong time!" he muttered, moving out of cover.

He approached the sentry rapidly, his stilts making a metallic clacking on the road surface. It attracted the man's attention.

"Christ Almighty!" the soldier exclaimed as he saw the tall gangly figure. "Stop! State your name and b-"

Oxford slapped the weapon aside and, in a sudden fit of temper, took the man by the throat.

"What's the date?" he demanded.

The sentry's face went slack. "Wha-wha-wha-?" he gibbered.

"The date!" spat Oxford, and struck the soldier's face with the flat of his palm, once, twice, thrice, until some semblance of comprehension crept into the staring eyes.

"What's the date?" he repeated. "Day, month, year?"

"Fri-Friday, M-March the ninth," stuttered the soldier.

"Year?" urged Oxford, shaking the man.

"1877."

Oxford's hand dropped and he stepped back in surprise.

The soldier fumbled for his rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger. A bullet scored the side of Oxford's helmet, jerking his head painfully. A shout came from off to the right. He heard the sound of booted feet running on the road. He turned, paced away, ordered his suit to take him back to Darkening Towers, leaped into the air, and landed in sunshine.

"You were gone less than two minutes," called the marquess. "I'm convinced, Mr. Oxford! You vanished right before my eyes! It was simply astonishing! I say, what's wrong with your helmet?"

The time traveller stumbled across the grass and collapsed to his knees at Beresford's feet. He reached up to remove his headgear and yelled in pain as heat blistered his hands.

"Careful! There's some sort of blue flame dancing around your head," advised the marquess. "Wait a moment!"

He ran into the mansion and emerged moments later holding a curtain, which he'd ripped down from inside one of the veranda doors. Wrapping it around the helmet, he lifted it from Oxford's head and dropped it onto the grass. The curtain started to burn. Beresford used the tip of his boot to pull it away. The blue fire flickered around the uncovered black dome then shrank and died.

"I didn't get home," said Oxford, yanking his boots off.

"To the future? Why not? Where did you go?"

"I went to Aldershot, to the place where my home is, but it wasn't there yet. I landed in 1877."

"Forty years from now," said Beresford, picking up the stilt-boots. "Come inside. My guess is you no longer object to alcohol?"

"It's still too early for me, Henry. If you don't mind, I'd like to sit alone for a bit. I have to work out what happened."

"Very well. I have business in London today anyway, and will probably stay overnight, so I'll leave you to your contemplations and will see you tomorrow morning. Treat the mansion as your own."

"Thank you, Henry; you continue to be very generous. I don't know how I'd manage without you. You have been a great friend."

"Not at all; think nothing of it! As a friend, may I make an observation?"

"Of course."

"You're beginning to look a little wild about the eyes, Edward. Since your arrival here you have worked on that control unit without cease. Perhaps you should rest up for a few days. Do something different. You could come to London with me. I'm going to the Athenaeum Club. Brunel will be there, the famous engineer-have you heard of him?"

"Of course! He's still famous in my time!" said Oxford. "But I can't, Henry. I can't leave Darkening Towers. This seclusion is bearable but if I step beyond these walls I'll be confronted with a world very different from my own. Too different! It's liable to cause a severe form of culture shock from which I may never recover."

"Culture shock? What is that?"

"Think of all the things that make you the man you are today, Henry. What if they were all replaced with entirely different things? Would you still be the same man?"

"I would adapt."

"Yes, up to a point adaptation is possible, but beyond that point, destruction beckons."

"Very well, if London is too much for you, then rest here. Sleep, drink, but leave off working and thinking for a few hours at least."

"I'll try."

Just after midday, the Marquess of Waterford rode out of Darkening Towers, leaving Oxford to his own devices.

Brock served a light lunch that the time traveller ate without tasting. Despite his host's advice, his mind was entirely occupied with his unsuccessful jump home. Later, he prodded and probed his helmet's hardware but without the proper tools repairs were impossible. He had to get back to 2202!

He brooded through the afternoon and into the evening, slumped in an armchair, oblivious to Brock, who occasionally appeared to tend the fire, to bring tea, and to offer food.

Eventually, after the valet had cleared his throat four times without gaining Oxford's attention, Brock said, "Excuse me, sir, do you require anything? Only it's one o'clock in the morning and I should like to retire for the night."

Oxford looked at him with faraway eyes. "What? Oh, no, go to bed, Brock. Thank you."

The valet left and Oxford remained in the chair.

The fire died.

The night passed.

The sun rose.

Brock reappeared.

He found Oxford pacing up and down.

"Shall I instruct the cook to prepare you some breakfast, sir?"

"No!" snapped Oxford. "Where's your master?"

"In London, sir. I expect he'll be back later this morning."

"Call him! I need to speak with him at once!"

"Call him, sir?"

"At once, dammit!"

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, sir. He is in London."

"I understood perfectly well! Get him on the-Ah! No! Of course. I'm sorry, Brock. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'll wait. Would you tell your master I need to see him the moment he arrives?"

"I will, sir."

"Thank you."

He had to wait until three o'clock.

Beresford had barely entered the mansion before he was brought up short by a wild shout: "Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting all day!"

Passing his gloves and hat to Brock, the marquess looked at the haggard figure who'd shouted from the door of the morning room.

"By James!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with you, Oxford?"

"Get in here, I have to tell you something! Quick!"

Beresford shrugged and walked into the chamber, unbuttoning his riding jacket and slipping out of it.

"What's on your mind?" he said, tossing the garment over the back of a chair.

Edward Oxford, his eyes blazing, his mouth twisted into a painful grin, ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and laughed. It was a wild, horribly pitched sound.

"I can't go back!" he yelled. "I can't go back!"

Beresford dropped into an armchair. "Back where? Home, you mean? To 2202?"

"Yes, of course that's what I mean, you bloody fool!"

"Steady, man. Calm down. Remember that you're my guest here."

Oxford wrapped his arms around himself and gazed at the marquess.

"I killed a man," he whispered.

"You did what? When?"

"Three years from now. I killed a man by accident. He was my ancestor."

"Good Lord! Sit. Tell me more."

Oxford shuffled to a chair and fell into it. He stared at the floor.

"Henry, imagine that time is a cord stretching forward from now all the way to the year 2202. Now picture a point on that cord a short distance ahead of us-the year 1840. There is a man at that point whose name, like mine, is Edward Oxford. We'll call him the Original Oxford. As you move along that line, you see this man fathering a child, and that child grows and becomes parent to another, and that one does the same, and so on and so forth until you reach 2162, when a descendant of the Original Oxford gives birth to me."

"I get the picture," said Beresford. "So what?"

"Now move forward to 2202, my fortieth birthday. I jump back from that far end of the line to 1840 and I kill the Original Oxford before then jumping to the start of the line, where we are now."

"The present moment," offered the marquess.

"Yes. Now, at 1840, the line has been cut. The stretch of it containing all the Original Oxford descendants is no longer joined to the part of the line that we are on. It still exists, perhaps, but not for us. For us, everything after the death of the Original Oxford must be written anew. There's nothing there for me to jump forward into!"

"But you went to 1877. That's beyond the cut!"

"Yes, it is, and I've been puzzling over that all night. I think I know what happened. I think I jumped to the end of my natural life span."

"I don't understand you."

"Henry, if I remain in this time, by 1877 I will be eighty years old. Friday March 9, 1877, I am certain, will be, barring accidents, the end of my days."

"Do you mean to suggest that you can travel within your own allotted time, as it were, but to go beyond that you need a future which, for you, has already been established?"

"Yes, exactly."

"To all intents and purposes, then, you seem to have wiped yourself out of existence. But why, Edward? Why did you kill this man?"

"I'd rather not go into that. Like I said, it was an accident."

"So go and prevent it. If you can travel as far as 1877, then 1840 remains well within reach. Go and stop the death of the Original Oxford."

"Henry, don't you see? I'm here; I killed him; no one stopped me; therefore if I try, I will surely fail!"

"The complexities of time travel are far beyond me," answered Beresford, "but in the future you were alive and invented a time suit. That cannot have been possible if someone killed your ancestor. Yet here you are. It seems to me that just because you perceive that things occurred a certain way doesn't mean you can't go back and alter them."

Edward gazed into space.

"Yes," he whispered thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that's true. It's worth a try!"

He sprang to his feet.

"I have to work on the suit, Henry. There's damage to the helmet and the control unit requires further attention!"

"For pity's sake, man, rest first! You look as if you've not slept all night!"

"I haven't! There's no time for sleep!" barked Oxford, crossing to the table where his gear was laid out.

Beresford shook his head.

"Of all people," he said quietly, "I would have thought you'd have all the time in the world."

Three years later, Edward Oxford hit the ground running.

He was farther away from the other two Oxfords than he'd planned and, as he raced past a policeman, he realised that he was too late, as well; the two men were already locked together; the pistol was already raised toward the queen.

"Stop, Edward!" he bellowed.

Suddenly a bolt of energy flashed out of the control unit and into the ground. He doubled over in pain as the charge ripped through him and looked up again just as the pistol went off and Queen Victoria's head sprayed blood.

The monarch fell backward out of her carriage.

The Oxfords wrestled. The Original tripped and went down, his head smacking onto the railings.

It was me, thought the time traveller. The distraction; the shout and the flash. I looked up at myself here on the hill and in doing so moved my ancestor's arm. I caused the pistol to point at her head!

"No!" he groaned. "No!"

The control unit let loose a shower of sparks.

He turned.

The policeman had almost caught up with him.

Oxford sprang over the constable's head and landed back in 1837.

"I can't stop it!" he told Henry de La Poer Beresford as he entered through the veranda doors. "It might not have happened at all if I hadn't gone back just now!"

He dropped his face into his hands and moaned.

"Sleep," ordered Beresford. "Once you are rested, you'll think more clearly. We'll find a solution. And remember, you have forty years in which to work on it."

"Bloody hell!" cursed Oxford. "I can't stay a Victorian recluse for the rest of my life. Besides, my wife is expecting me home for supper."

He suddenly chuckled at the contrast-the extraordinary and the mundane-and lost control of himself, throwing his head back and laughing wildly, a harsh and unbalanced noise which caused the marquess to step back a pace.

It echoed through Darkening Towers, that horrible laughter.

Maybe it echoed through time.