Her assassin died a few moments later.

Ten days after, outside the veranda doors, Beresford greeted his visitor and said: "I took my followers to the Hog in the Pound a couple of days after Victoria was killed. I've abandoned the A. W. Smith disguise."

"So you're not hiding that you're the Marquess of Waterford?"

"No!" Beresford laughed. "I've been doing quite the opposite!"

"Funny. I thought your new moustache was part of a disguise. When did you grow-God!"

"What is it?"

"I recognise you! You were there! Watching! With a smile on your face!"

"Of course I was there, old chap! Best spectator sport ever! How could I possibly resist seeing you in action, witnessing all you've told me about? Watching the snooty cow die?"

"Henry! You could have tried to stop it!"

"Don't you think it's complicated enough already without me getting involved?"

Oxford stared at the marquess for a moment then sighed and shrugged.

"I suppose so."

Beresford grinned. "Take off your helmet. Come inside."

"I can't stay long. My suit is on its last legs."

It was true; the white scales around the unit on Oxford's chest were badly scorched, and sparks were continuing to hiss and spit from the strange device, while the aura of blue flame around the helmet now seemed a permanent fixture.

"It does look rather unhealthy, I'll admit. Straight to business, then?"

"Please."

"Very well. The first thing I should tell you is that, not unexpectedly, the police have been sniffing around the Hog in the Pound since the shooting. They're trying to find out whether the assassination was part of a wider conspiracy and my crowd is under suspicion. We're regarded, apparently, as a bunch of dangerous anarchists."

They walked through the ballroom and passed into the corridor beyond.

"This is exactly what I intended," continued the marquess. "It's the reason why I started taking my young bloods to the tavern; for while the coppers are concentrating on my group, they're ignoring the Battersea Brigade, which, by contrast, seems little more than a gathering of yokels.

"Then, of course, there's `Young England,' which is baffling Scotland Yard on account of the fact that, while letters from A. W. Smith were found in Edward Oxford's room, there seems to be no other trace of him or his organisation.

"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

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 at it. There was someone lurking in there; she could see patches of white clothing.

"Jennifer Shepherd!"

Someone who knew her!

"Who's that?" she demanded. "Is that you up to your tricks again, Herbert Stubbs? Aplayin' highwayman, are we? Dick Turpin is it? I'll not stand and I'll not deliver, my little lad. Ho no! It's off 'ome for me, and a nice long sleep 'twixt cool sheets. So you stay in that there bush and wait for the next mug what comes along!"

She turned and made to walk away, then stopped and faced the bush again.

"Hey, Dick Turpin!" she called. "Come and escort me 'ome like a proper little gentleman. Your mam'll be wantin' you back for tea! This is no time for little boys to be out and about!"

Silence.

"Herbert! Come out o' there at once!"

The bush rustled.

"Even highwaymen have to eat, my boy!" she declared. "And maybe you'll-"