“Poor Prince Eddy,” she sighed, eyes closing again. “Only four more years . . . so young . . . 1892 . . .”
Lachley began to tremble in a wild excitement. Four years? Eddy would be crowned king in only four more years? Dear God, what was going to happen, that would kill both Queen Victoria and the Prince of Wales? Bertie was healthy as an ox and Victoria, herself, likely to live for another decade. “What happens?” he demanded, breathless now, “What happens in 1892?”
“Influenza. Epidemic of ’91-’92. Poor Eddy, he’d just been engaged to be married, named Duke of Clarence, whole life ahead of him, and he’s killed by influenza. Victoria was heartbroken, his parents inconsolable . . .”
The room lurched under his feet, swaying and whirling in mad circles. Dead of influenza? Never crowned? It couldn’t be, he’d worked too hard, invested everything, spent five weeks in hell, tracking down Eddy’s God-cursed letters to protect him, to ensure the ascension to the throne. Had done murder after stinking murder to keep Eddy safe, so he could become king, to ensure himself the power Lachley craved, the safety of wealth and control over the political future of an empire . . .
And Eddy was to be killed by a stupid influenza epidemic?
Lachley began to laugh, the sound wild and high, echoing off the bricks of the vaulted ceiling. He gripped the impossible camera in both hands and laughed until the sound choked him, until he could gasp out, “How do you get back? To your own time?”
“Through the gate,” his drugged victim answered in a sleepy, reasonable tone.