Riot Most Uncouth (10 page)

Sweet Christ! I should have shot him! “I disagree,” I said, which prompted an awkward pause in the conversation. When nobody spoke up to fill it, I added: “If she needs the assistance of a gentleman, I shall provide it.”

Sedgewyck's eyes twinkled kindly. I wondered how he made them do that. “But you are already in your home,” he said. “And the uneven cobblestones of the thoroughfare will be difficult for you to navigate in the dark, with your lameness.”

I ground my teeth. “You shouldn't trouble yourself.”

“No trouble at all.” He patted the top of my head.

“I thank you, Mr. Sedgewyck, for being so thoughtful,” Olivia said. “Good night, Lord Byron.” And she left with him.

Earlier in the evening, a woman named Clarissa Something-or-other had made a point of apologizing to me on behalf of her husband, who had business out of town and was regrettably unable to attend. This was, of course, a signal that she was available, and so I availed myself of her.

After I finished, she made some indication that she might like to spend the night, so as not to risk anyone seeing her leave my residence in the scandalous hours of the morning. I told her I was happy to oblige, but Joe Murray released the Professor, who wandered into the bedroom. I let the bear climb up onto the bed, and the woman reconsidered her decision to stay over and vacated my premises shortly thereafter.

It was not until she'd left and I was lying in the dark, with my arms around the bear and a head full of liquor and laudanum, that I turned my thoughts back to Olivia. I had allowed her to walk out into the night with an amoral deviant. Sedgewyck was the murderer; it was obvious. And that sweet, unsuspecting girl would be his next victim.

Of course, I realized that if Sedgewyck was the murderer, then Felicity Whippleby could not have been killed by vampires. Unless Sedgewyck was himself a vampire. His mouth seemed very red, but red mouths weren't necessarily a quality of vampirism. I had read that vampires slept in the earth during daylight hours, and the smell of dirt clung to them. According to some legends, their flesh was hard, like stone, and could not be penetrated by mortal weapons. I tried to remember if Sedgewyck's handshake had felt stony, but my recollection was muddled by too much drink.

In many stories, vampires could not enter a dwelling uninvited, and Sedgewyck had clearly done that. So, perhaps he was not a vampire, but only a regular murderer. Or someone had granted him permission to cross my threshold; Joe Murray, or one of my guests. Or maybe he was just an ill-mannered piece of shit, and some other vampire had killed Felicity. I hoped so, for Olivia's sake. Why had she left with him, anyway? Had she fallen under some sort of sinister vampire charm or spell? Was she trying to make me jealous? Did she like him better than me?

Whatever the case, I decided the problem could wait until morning. I was far too drunk to sort out the particulars, and if Sedgewyck had been plotting to kill Olivia, it was probably too late to stop him. Anyway, I was already in my pajamas. So I drifted to sleep for the first time in days, listening to the Professor's rhythmic snores, and dreamt happy dreams of vengeance against tall, pale men.

 

Chapter 14

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,

Within—within—'t was there the spirit wrought!

Love shows all changes—Hate, Ambition, Guile,

Betray no further than the bitter smile;

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone

Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,

He, who would see, must be himself unseen.

—
Lord Byron,
The Corsair

Dawn found me struggling to shake off the after-effects of the previous evening's raucous festivities. I was nursing a snifter of brandy and trying to figure out what to do about Olivia when Joe Murray announced that another stranger had come around and was awaiting an audience with me in the parlor. I found this vexing, as the visitor was interrupting my breakfast and forcing me to break off a stimulating conversation with the Professor. I apologized to the bear as I refilled his silver bowl with champagne, and I left him to go greet the intruder in the parlor.

“Good morning,” he said. “I am Fielding Dingle.”

“I don't care,” I told him. My head was throbbing, and my capacity for tolerance was exhausted. In the space of twenty-four hours, I'd been hounded by Mr. Burke the debt collector, bullied by the faculty, and threatened in my own home by the unsettling Archibald Knifing. Then, Leif Sedgewyck had arrived uninvited to my party to humiliate me. For reasons that quite escaped me, I'd become the wrong kind of popular.

I took the measure of my unwelcome guest. He wasn't from any of the banks I owed; their people dressed better. His suit was well kept but poorly made, hugging his girth in some places and bunching up with excess fabric in others. His mustache was bristly and had a greenish hue to it; stained, no doubt, by cheap pipe tobacco. His face was round and red, and his lips were thick and beige. He had the sort of mouth that never seemed to close all the way, as if his big pink gums interfered with the operation of his jaw. His breathing seemed slightly labored. If one was quiet, one could hear him wheeze a little each time he exhaled.

Whatever he wanted, I was unwilling to endure further imposition without complaint.

“I am a thieftaker in the employ of Lord Whippleby,” he said. “I arrived this morning from London to investigate the death of that gentleman's daughter. Your interest in this matter is well known, and I am sure that you'll be unsurprised to learn you're a suspect in the estimation of some of the locals, and therefore of concern to me.”

“You're Whippleby's man from London?” I asked.

“I am.”

“You're quite sure?”

“Thoroughly.”

I looked at Dingle again to make sure he was not, in fact, Archibald Knifing. He was not. “Who are these locals who accuse me, and what is the basis for their suspicions?” I asked.

“Rumors,” said Dingle. “Gossip and innuendo.”

“Is that the craft of the criminal investigator?” I asked. “You catalog the inanities uttered by housewives and day laborers?”

“My methods are sound,” Dingle said.

“I've no doubt of it,” I replied. “I've no doubt, either, that the evidence you collect is as solid and substantial as your own impressive intellect.”

“I've also heard about your affinity for wordplay,” said Dingle. “I don't share it; I am a concrete thinker. A bit of a brick, if you'll pardon me. I hope you'll be kind enough to dispense with your games and talk straight, so as to avoid confusion in the investigation.”

“It's already too late to avoid confusion,” I said, still trying to figure out why someone who had retained the impressive Mr. Knifing would also hire a man like Dingle.

“I don't get your meaning.”

“Never mind.”

I could think of no reason why Whippleby would send two men to Cambridge. Something was amiss, and if I could figure out what it was, and how it related to my father, or to Mr. Sedgewyck, perhaps I might unravel the mystery. Then, I'd inevitably become a famous and beloved national celebrity. This would certainly give my creditors a reason to avoid suing me for fraud. Such notoriety might also increase sales of
Hours of Idleness,
potentially providing remuneration sufficient to stave off financial disaster. And I had never experienced the sexual possibilities that were available to men with reputations for being noble and good. I was curious.

Dingle stepped closer and stooped down, so his face was inches from mine. He seemed to study me as the point of his tongue tickled the wet rim of his mouth. “Have you ever participated in a dark ritual, Lord Byron?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ever worship the Devil? Ever conjure a demon? Ever take part in any kind of pagan or magical ceremony?”

“You are asking if I am a witch? Are you mad?”

“Witchcraft has been associated with ritualistic murder since ancient times.” Dingle spoke with the authority of a man who had once read a book on this subject, which increased my estimation of him measurably, since I had presumed him illiterate. He seemed to gather his bulk as he leaned toward me. “Tell me the truth.”

“I once attended a party where we attempted to conduct a séance. But it was done in a spirit of jest.”

“This is a joke to you?”

“Many things are jokes to me, but I'm not certain to which ‘this' you refer. Your attempts at communicating are somewhat thwarted by your imprecision with the English language.”

His florid face surprised and delighted me by turning an even deeper shade of crimson. “I speak of the murder. Of the horrible death of young Felicity.”

“Oh. No, I don't think that's a joke. The séance was a joke. You are a joke, Mr. Dingle. But the murder is not a joke.” My hand curled into a fist. “I might add that, as jokes go, you are a bad one. And the longer I have to look at you, the less amusing you become.”

“Witches have been known to perform rituals that involve drinking blood out of a human skull. Does that sound familiar to you, Lord Byron?”

“Certainly not.”

“But you have been known to use a skull as a drinking cup.”

The only chair in the room was the high-backed throne I'd stolen from the College. I sank into it and let Dingle stand.

“Here's what I see,” said Dingle. “Witches and demon-cultists drink blood out of skulls. I've got a girl missing her blood, and I am looking at a gentleman who drinks from a skull-cup. Now, maybe this murder has to do with witchcraft. Maybe it doesn't. The evidence is circumstantial. Maybe it's even coincidental. Except that this skull-drinking gentleman is also connected to the second victim.”

My throat felt dry. I swallowed, hard. “Second victim?”

“I've just come from examining a fresh corpse, Lord Byron. A corpse drained of blood.”

A bead of sweat ran down my forehead, and then I felt damp all over. “Olivia?”

Dingle's brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Olivia Wright. She has been murdered?”

He shook his head. “Cyrus Pendleton, Lord Byron. Cyrus Pendleton is dead.”

“I don't know who that is,” I said.

Dingle bared his teeth at me. They were small and sharp, like the needle-fangs of a carnivorous deep-sea fish. I was briefly mesmerized by the way his lips slid over his gums as he spoke. His mouth bore a remarkable and improbable resemblance to a terrifying
vagina dentata
that featured prominently in one of my more baroque recurring nightmares. “I keep telling you not to lie to me,” the vagina said. “I already know you earned poor marks in his course. I already know about the argument you had with him yesterday.”

“Professor Fat Cheeks?” I asked.

“I don't know what that means,” Dingle said. “The gentleman was quite rotund, if that's what you're asking.”

“Oh. Yes, I did know him.” My voice was tight, as if the words were squeezing out of my throat. “I had not heard of his death.”

“You're going to learn that you cannot conceal things from me,” Dingle said. “I am not susceptible to lies or misdirection. You can cooperate, or you can attempt to obstruct me. The result will be the same.” At least his threats reminded me of Knifing's, though Dingle's versions were far less elegant.

“I know him, I just didn't know his name,” I said.

“You've been acquainted with the gentleman for more than a year.”

“I didn't think him particularly important.”

“And yet you threatened to forcibly sodomize him in an alley, did you not?”

“I'd characterize our little discussion as a genial exchange of pleasantries.”

“You threatened to forcibly sodomize him in an alley.” Dingle wasn't really asking. He was letting me know he didn't need to ask. He'd spoken already with members of the faculty.

“I only threatened him in the nicest possible way,” I said.

“His body was left in an alley.” Dingle let that hang in the air like a wet fart.

“Sodomized?” I asked, trying without success to wring the fear out of the word before he heard it.

Much to my relief, he shook his head. “Not that I'm aware. Lucky happenstance for you.”

“I wouldn't characterize it as such,” I said. “The whole affair is quite unfortunate.”

“Did you kill him?” Dingle asked.

“Of course not. I've not left my rooms since early yesterday evening. I threw a party here last night, and guests lingered until the early hours of this morning, when I retired to bed. I can give you the names of witnesses.”

“That will not be necessary,” Dingle said. “I've already spoken to several of your guests. They told me that you talked loudly about eviscerating a critic who wrote a poor review of your poems, and that you told a gentlemen that you would like to, in your words, break him open and spill him.”

“Well,” I said. “My innocence is proved, then. I could not very well have been two places at once.”

He didn't seem convinced of this. “Have you any knowledge about who the killer might be?”

“You're asking me if I know who the killer is?”

“Yes. I apologize if I wasn't clear. I am hobbled by a certain imprecision with the English language.”

“Mr. Dingle, I am awed by the subtly and sophistication with which you practice the art of criminal detection,” I said.

Dingle scratched at his chin. “The point of your sarcasm evades me, I'm afraid.”

I turned my back to him and walked to the nearest open window.

“If I could have your attention, gentlemen!” I shouted down at the students milling about on the lawn of Trinity's Great Court. “We are thieftakers, on the hunt for a killer. Have any of you murdered anyone? Any murderers, please, identify yourselves.” A few men turned to glance up at me and then continued about their business. I pulled the window closed and turned back to Dingle. “Well, nonetheless, I'm sure this investigative tactic is effective when applied rigorously,” I said.