Страница 107 из 110
Bismillah! That's Edward Oxford!
He was too late! He hadn't counted on losing consciousness. He'd intended to shoot the visitor from the future among the trees before making a fast getaway. What now?
Burton pushed himself to his knees and almost cried out as his ribs scraped against each other. He reached for his rifle, the jewel case, and portmanteau-all on the grass beside him-picked them up, and crawled into the thicket. He found a suitable spot, lay flat, and carefully-gritting his teeth against the pain-pulled himself forward until he was hidden beneath a bush. He looked out at Green Park.
Tick tick tick.
He could feel John Speke's babbage winding down. The black diamond dust in his scalp was somehow co
He leaned on his elbows, hefted the rifle in his hands, and glanced at the inscription on its stock.
1918!
He'd been fifty-five years into the future, now he was twenty-four years into the past.
He shook his head slightly, trying to dispel the odd sense of dislocation that lurked at the edges of his mind: the feeling that he possessed two separate identities. But, of course, it was the 10th of June, 1840, and he really was duplicated, for his much younger self was currently travelling through Europe.
If only that opinionated and arrogant youngster knew what life had in store for him!
Burton whispered: “Time changed me, thank goodness.”
He peered through the rifle's telescopic sight.
“The question is, can I return the favour?”
The wooded area in which he was hidden covered the brow of a low hill overlooking the park. At its base, people had gathered along the sides of a path. It was a mild day. The men sported light coats, top hats, and carried canes. The women wore bo
“Damnation!” Burton groaned softly. His hands were shaking.
He considered his options. He knew the assassin was going to fire two shots at the queen. The first would miss. The second should, too, but Edward Oxford was going to tackle his ancestor, and, in doing so, he would inadvertently cause that second bullet to hit Victoria in the head.
If Burton killed Oxford too soon, the crowd would start hunting for the killer, providing a distraction that might allow the assassin to strike with greater accuracy. So he must wait until after the first shot. If he could then put a bullet in Oxford during the panic, the man from the future would die before he could change history, and his antecedent would almost certainly be blamed for the murder.
The king's agent shifted cautiously, trying not to disturb the bush that arched over him.
He noticed a man in the crowd. It was Henry de La Poer Beresford, the “Mad Marquess,” the founder of the Libertines.
“I'll be dealing with you,” he murmured, “twenty-one years from now.”
A cheer went up. Queen Victoria's carriage, drawn by four horses, had emerged from the gate of Buckingham Palace, off to his left.
Two outriders-the Queen's Guards-trotted ahead of the royal conveyance, which was steered by a postilion. Two more followed behind. They drew closer to the base of the slope.
Tick tick tick.
“Come on,” Burton whispered. “Where are you?”
A man wearing a top hat, blue frock coat, and white breeches stepped over the low fence onto the path. He paced along beside the slow-moving carriage, drew a flintlock from his coat, pointed it at the queen, and pulled the trigger.
The report echoed across the park.
Victoria, in a cream-coloured dress and bo
Prince Albert leaned forward and reached for her.
People started to scream and shout.
The man drew a second pistol.
Burton held his breath and became entirely motionless.
The assassin raised his arm and took aim.
The queen reached up to her white lace collar.
Burton made a tiny movement, shifting the crosshairs of his sight slightly to the left of the monarch's head, their centre-point hovering over the young gunman's face.
The man from the future, Edward Oxford, suddenly jumped from the crowd.
“No, Edward!” he bellowed.
The two men struggled.
Burton took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.
In 1864, John Speke's babbage exploded.
The shockwave crossed time and hit Burton like a punch between the eyes. In a moment of total disorientation, he thought he saw a blue flash far off to his left, and a faint voice yelling: “Stop, Edward!”
The assassin fired.
Burton fired.
Queen Victoria's head sprayed blood. She fell backward out of the carriage.
Albert scrambled after her.
Edward Oxford, still alive, threw his ancestor to the ground, accidentally impaling the young man's head on the wrought-iron spikes atop the low fence.
“No!” Burton whispered.
A frantic police whistle sounded.
The crowd surged around the carriage. The outriders plunged into the mob, attempting to hold it back.
Oxford forced his way free and started to run up the slope.
“No!” Burton whispered again.
He snapped out of his shock and backed into the trees, pulling the jewel case and portmanteau with him, and found a place of concealment. He listened as Oxford reached the vegetation and pushed through it to where he'd left his suit, helmet, and boots.
Burton lunged forward, hooked an arm around the time traveller's throat, squeezed hard, and crushed his windpipe. He put his mouth against the man's ear and hissed: “You don't deserve this, but I have to do it again. I'm sorry.”
With his right hand, he twisted Oxford's head until the neck snapped, then released his hold and allowed the corpse to crumple to the ground.
He stepped back into hiding.
Almost immediately, he heard a voice calling: “Step out into the open, sir! I saw what happened. There's nothing to worry about. Come on, let's be having you!”
It sounded familiar.
Burton remained silent.
“Sir! I saw you trying to protect the queen. I just need you to accompany me to the station to make a statement!”
There was a pause, then someone began to push their way into the thicket. A policeman emerged from the leaves and looked down at Oxford.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What in the devil's name has happened here?”
Burton took up his rifle, raised it butt-forward over his shoulder, and stepped out of the undergrowth.
The policeman turned and looked him full in the face.
Burton hesitated. The young, square-jawed, and wide-eyed features were those of William Trounce.
“Who the heck-?” the constable began.
Burton cracked the rifle butt into the youth's forehead. Trounce's cockscomb helmet went spi
Screams and whistles filled the air.
Burton straightened and returned to the portmanteau and jewel case. He took them over to where Oxford had hung his time suit, and, taking down the clean, unmarked material, pushed it into the bag with the older, scorched version of itself. With difficulty, he managed to squeeze the helmet and boots in, too.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, then, picking everything up, made his way through the trees toward the high wall at the back of the thicket. Horses' hooves and voices sounded from the street beyond. He followed the barrier around the border of the park until he came to a tree stump hard up against the brickwork. Stepping onto it, he reached up and placed the rifle and jewel case on top of the wall. He looped his arm through the handles of the bulging portmanteau and hauled himself up and over, dropping to the ground on the other side. His ribs creaked, and for a moment he thought he might pass out. He leaned back against the bricks.