back in England with your parents and I would have brought more misery upon you had you stayed here, for I have been driven by the devil since he chose me as his own when I was a mere lad. I beg of you to believe that it is his evil influence that brought misery to our family and the true soul of me never wished you anything but happiness and contentment. You remember, my wife, that I said the mark upon your breast was a sign to me of God's forgiveness for my treachery and that in you he was rewarding me for the work I had done in hospital to restore my wits and good judgment? I pray now that he looks mercifully upon my failure and I ask him that the mark, which so resembles a rainbow in its shape, and which lays also upon our little son's breast, should adorn even y of my descendants forevermore as a sign that the great wrong I committed shall call His vengeance upon no Oxford but myself, for I it was who pulled the triggers and no other. With my death, which as I say will soon be upon me, the affair shall end and the evil attached to my name shall be wiped away. You have ever been the finest thing in my life. Be happy and remember only our earliest days.
Your loving husband
Edward Oxford P.S. Remember me to your grandparents who were so kind to me when I was a lad and who, being among the first f I ever had, I recall with immense fondness.
'It's a scan of the letter he sent to his wife after she left him and returned to her parents in England. I have the original at home. It has been passed down from generation to generation,' revealed Oxford.
'Fascinating! A letter from the future!' exclaimed Beresford.
'For me, from the distant past,' countered the other man. 'And now, a letter that will never be written.'
'Yet here it is in my hand,' muttered Beresford, wonderingly. 'It raises some questions, my friend. For a start, who was the wife?'
'I don't know. There's no record of her name. All I know is that she was the daughter of a family he was acquainted with in the days before he committed his crime. You'll note his postscript.'
'Yes. So it was a crime of treason, was it? It must have been bad, else you wouldn't have travelled through time to prevent it.'
'It was. It has been an embarrassment to my family for generations.'
'But you're not going to tell me what it was-or should I say, will be?'
'No, I'd rather not.'
'What of this rainbow he mentions?'
'A small birthmark above the heart, bluish and yellow in colour and shaped like an arc. It has appeared sporadically on Oxfords throughout the generations. I don't have it but my mother does.'
'A mark of God's forgiveness, or so the poor fellow thought,' murmured Beresford. 'What ultimately happened to him in your history?'
'He died a pauper in 1900.'
'So if you find him at the present time and dissuade him from ever contemplating the crime, you might save him from his miserable fate-but surely this presents a problem: for if he doesn't commit the crime then he won't be sent to Australia, won't meet the girl, and your ancestors won't be born.'
Oxford nodded and wearily ran his fingers through his hair.
'I thought of that before I began this venture,' he admitted. 'But consider this: the Original was acquainted with the girl's grandparents before he was incarcerated. There is, therefore, every chance that if he remains at liberty he will meet and woo her before she emigrates, and that she will marry him.'
Beresford looked astonished. 'Good gracious, Edward-do you mean to tell me that you embarked on this scheme with only that vague possibility to protect your future existence? Are you out of your mind, man?'
'Shut the hell up!' snarled the time traveller, his eyes suddenly afire. 'It's a matter of probability, and probability theory is a science of the future, so you are hardly qualified to comment, are you? You damned primitive ape!'
Beresford shot to his feet and glared at his guest. 'How dare you, sir! I'll remind you that this is my home,' he snapped, 'and I'll not be spoken to in that manner! I'm going to tend to the horses. I suggest you consider your position here very carefully, Mr. Oxford, because I'll be damned if I'll shelter any man who addresses me so!'
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
