Riot Most Uncouth (27 page)

“After all this, you think the murders are just the work of some stranger, with no motivation behind them?” I said.

“What do you expect?” Knifing replied. “Do you want to finish this with some confrontation or catharsis? Do you want to learn that this violence was motivated by some comprehensible rationale? I've solved a lot of mysterious crimes, Lord Byron, and I shall save you the suspense. Mystery seduces, but solutions disappoint. The perpetrator of every crime inevitably turns out to be somebody unspeakably banal. He'll be dumber than you'd expect him to be, given the great deductive and observational effort required to identify him, for brutality is the special gift of stupid men. And he'll be crazy and delusional. Murderers are great monsters in the imagination, but the reality of them would be pathetic if it weren't so loathsome.”

“So what are we to do?” Angus asked.

Knifing shrugged. “I will stay here until the killings cease, on the slim and unlikely hope that the killer's identity will be revealed by some lucky happenstance. Maybe when our quarry drains the next victim, he'll leave a trail of bloody drippings that will lead me back to his lair. I am not optimistic, however.”

“You said you'd deliver certainty to your clients, even if you had to manufacture false evidence against an innocent,” I said. Though he always sounded convincing when he spoke, Knifing seemed to constantly contradict his earlier statements. Every time I saw him, he was a different person, and it had begun to annoy me. He didn't even seem to be drunk anymore.

“My investigation won't end when I leave Cambridge. When I return to London, I'll press my military contacts to provide me with the discharge records for any trained rifle marksmen the army deemed mentally unfit for combat. Hopefully, when the killings begin again someplace else, I'll have better information.”

Angus reached his hand out, and Knifing gave him back the flask. “What about us?”

Knifing took the flask back and slipped it back into his jacket. Then he rose to his feet, wincing slightly as his knees bent. “Your service has been appreciated, Angus, but I've no further need of it. You may return to your ordinary occupation. Lord Byron, you have sustained more than enough injury and humiliation in your pursuit of this killer, and it's time for you to stop. You should arrange immediate transport to your home at Newstead.”

I climbed to my feet so he couldn't look down at me. The process of standing was painful, but not unbearably so. I rolled my shoulders and flexed my fingers, and found their condition much improved. “That is unacceptable, Mr. Knifing. These killings are not arbitrary. They are related, in some way, to me. I must find out how and why.”

“I can promise you the perpetrator is not your dead father, nor are the killings the work of some mythical creature,” Knifing said. If his tone had been compassionate a moment before, it wasn't any longer. Now he was cold and contemptuous again. The man changed his skin like a tropical lizard.

“Jerome Tower's corpse was posed at his dining table, a piece of furniture identical to the one I own,” I said.

“A table crafted by Angus, who sees no need to perceive himself as the fulcrum of recent events,” Knifing countered. He'd always seemed to regard the volunteer constable with a sort of indifference, so I was surprised he'd taken the time to learn about Angus's trade.

“You said the tableau might be a message to me.”

He shrugged. “I was only having a joke at your expense. Angus tells me there are at least two dozen similar tables in Cambridge. I've been quite diligent in running down every possible clue. Since I haven't found anything yet, I feel certain there's nothing to find.”

“I sell lots of nice furniture to the dons and fellows, and to the better-off students,” Angus said. “Buying a table from me is a good deal cheaper than hauling one in from London.”

Knifing made a quick slicing gesture with the heel of his hand that was sufficient to silence the constable: “Nobody cares about that.”

“But most of the victims are people I know,” I said. “Cyrus Pendleton wanted to kick me out of the College. I was engaged in an affair with Violet Tower. Leif Sedgewyck was my rival for the affections of Olivia Wright. Noreen Lime was my paramour. For God's sake, he broke into my rooms and killed her, while leaving me alive. You can't truly believe this has got nothing to do with me.”

“I believe any connection the killer has to you is arbitrary and incidental,” Knifing said. “Though you've many character defects, you're a fairly clever lad. If the killer were someone you knew, you'd already be suspicious of him. Homicidal lunatics are not adept at disguising their predilections. You're something of a celebrity, though. He may know you, even if you don't know him. The criminally insane are prone to obsession, and the weak-minded fixate on magnetic personalities, and upon famous figures.”

“Unless he is my father.”

Knifing turned his back and started walking toward the hearse. “Your father is dead, Lord Byron. He's not coming back for you. I've really had enough of this. I'm trying to catch a killer, and you're telling fairy stories.” He stopped and turned toward me. “You might be in danger. It might be that the killer's proximity to you aggravates his mania, and if that's the case, your continued presence in Cambridge may be putting others in harm's way. In the morning, you must return to Newstead. That's really all I have to say to you on this subject.”

I tried to object, but Angus placed a firm hand on my arm to quiet me. We followed Knifing to Bartholomew's black carriage and rode back to town in silence.

 

Chapter 36

But in that instant o'er his soul

Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,

And gather in that drop of time

A life of pain, an age of crime.

—
Lord Byron,
The Giaour

Angus lived on the outskirts of Cambridge, so we let him off first. His house was not made of stone, but rather, from old wooden slats that had turned dark with rot. The roof was tarred paper. A yellow-haired girl, twelve or thirteen years old, sat waiting and watching out the window, her pale face almost ghostly in the dim light from a small oil lamp. When Angus opened the door, she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

Knifing let me out in front of the Great Gate. The lawn was empty, the windows in the College buildings were mostly dark, and the streets were eerily silent; many of the undergraduates had fled Cambridge, and the taverns had all stopped serving after the events at the Modest Proposal.

My own rooms were similarly dark and vacant. I checked my bedroom and found that the mattress, blankets, and feather beds had been removed, along with the corpse of Noreen Lime. I called for my manservant, and when he did not answer, I lit a few candles and fetched a bottle of whisky and a crystal glass. The laudanum bottle was, to my relief, intact, and I made some use of it.

In the parlor, I found a note written in Joe Murray's blocky, hesitant penmanship, explaining that he had returned to Newstead with the Professor. As he saw it, there was no need for him to remain in Cambridge if I was to be absent, and my mother might find his presence comforting. He promised to meet me in London once I secured my release.

There was also a somewhat lengthier letter from my attorney. I sat down at the fine table Angus had made for me, and read it as I drank:

My dearest Byron,

Joe Murray has sent me news of your various recent difficulties, and I am writing you to offer my assistance, as always.

Foremost among my concerns is your visitation by Mr. Frederick Burke, who holds himself out as counsel for the Banque Crédit Fran
ç
aise. I would urge you to engage in no further communication with Mr. Burke, and to refer him to me if he attempts to speak to you. It is of utmost importance that you refuse to agree to anything he proposes, either verbally or in writing, and that you make no statement admitting any fact he alleges until I've had an opportunity to review the matter.

Joe Murray informs me that Mr. Burke claimed I talked to him in London and invited him to deal directly with you in Cambridge. He is lying. I have never been in contact with this man. I suspect that the bar association will not be pleased to hear that he misled you in order to deny you the benefit of counsel's assistance, and his misconduct may harm his client's interests, to our substantial benefit.

For the present time, you should pay Mr. Burke no mind, except to avoid him. I will handle this problem for you. The songs they'll sing of our vengeance will be rollicking, bloody ones, I promise.

Sometime soon, however, we really must have a serious talk about your finances. Your assets should allow you to live out your life richly and idly, if your holdings are well-managed, but if you continue to accrue debts, your future incomes will be lost to interest upon those notes. I know you are cavalier about disregarding my advice, but you ought to pay heed to this warning. Your temperament is not well-suited for poverty.

As to the matter of your recent upbraiding by the faculty, I'm sure you've realized that the Fellows are wholly impotent to punish you for your indifference to your studies. Utter disregard for academics is a privilege of and a tradition among men of your class. If you wish, I will draft a sternly-worded missive reminding them of this, but perhaps the prudent course would be to let the matter rest.

That being said, given your literary aspirations, you might do well to avail yourself of the resources at your disposal in Cambridge. I know you view yourself as a wholly-formed master poet, but I still think of you as the child I knew only a few years ago. I know you have suffered from your father's neglect of his duties toward you, and my occasional attempts to provide helpful guidance are sorry compensation, but I hope you will listen to me.

When we grow older, we regret the arrogance of our younger selves. We regret the opportunities we disdained; the possibilities we rejected. You may think it beneath yourself to take instruction from these bewhiskered dons who wear drab clothing and lead dull, cloistered lives, but they seek only to bestow upon you the benefit of their years of study, and if you neglect your coursework, you'll find the knowledge readily available to you now may be harder to accrue in the future. I hope you will not allow vanity to impede your progress, or prevent you from realizing your great potential.

Finally, on the matter of these dreadful killings in Cambridge, I have made arrangements for your transportation home to Newstead until that unpleasant matter is resolved. Joe Murray has reported to me that you were visited by thieftakers from London named Fielding Dingle and Archibald Knifing. I have made inquiries regarding these gentlemen; indeed, I expended great effort to deploy messengers to a number of colleagues so that I might find out everything I could about these purported criminal investigators you have gotten mixed up with. What I've learned has been quite upsetting. I shall not rest easy until I receive Joe Murray's confirmation that you are safely en route.

Fielding Dingle is the vilest form of human trash, a man so detested that even the most reprehensible criminals and ruffians refer to him as a “rat.” He's been twice convicted of burglary, but he finally realized he was too clumsy and stupid to earn a living at that line of work. He now holds himself out as a trained private constable, but I am told that he has little real investigative talent. Instead, he claims to be able to track down criminals and stolen property by maintaining a network of “informants” in the London underworld.

In my experience, scoundrels of the lower orders enjoy stealing and rape above all other things, but, excepting those endeavors, informing upon one another is their favored activity, especially when there is a reward for doing so. Unfortunately for them, such men are often unable to collect the bounties on the heads of their friends because they are, themselves, wanted for various offenses. This creates an opportunity for Dingle.

By refraining from the criminal behavior that is his natural predisposition, he maintains the bare minimum of reputability required to be able to walk into a magistrate's office without being arrested. As such, he's able to purchase information from street hoods, and then sell it profitably to London's rather sorry policing apparatus. Dingle has also been known to accept payment for assisting victims of theft in ransoming their property, a task that is difficult to bungle when he is colluding with the thieves. However, his deductive skills are not held in much esteem; those who know him laughed at the prospect of him hunting a killer.

I have no idea where Lord Whippleby would encounter the likes of Fielding Dingle, but the presence of such an unsavory character indicates some corruption surrounding the Cambridge investigation in much the same way that the presence of maggots indicates that a haunch of meat has gone rotten.

Archibald Knifing inspires more confidence at first glance, but he is the subject of my greatest concern. I forwarded enquiries about both men to various constables, magistrates and barristers who are regularly involved in criminal investigations and prosecutions. While Dingle is a relatively obscure figure, scraping a living at the fringes of society, Knifing is an eminence in his field.

I was particularly interested to learn of a case Knifing famously solved; a series of killings in which female victims were hung by their feet and drained of blood, in much the same manner that I understand the first Cambridge victim was killed. I asked my contacts for more information about the matter, and they provided me with accounts that differed on significant facts.