Riot Most Uncouth (3 page)

“He's tame, is he?” Burke asked. His hands fluttered about his face as he spoke. The crisp, high-collared shirt he wore accentuated the unusual length of his neck. His nose, his chin, and his limbs were also quite long, giving him a fragile, birdlike appearance, though he was a fairly large brute. He had the kind of limp yellow hair that grows only from the scalps of men possessing little character or fortitude. I wanted to shoot him in the throat.

“He's hungry,” I said, letting some slack into the bear's leash and making sure Burke saw me do it. “I would suggest you handle your business here with all possible haste.”

The Professor growled again and shook his massive head.

“I certainly shall, Lord Byron.” Burke shifted on his feet and fingered his cravat. “As you probably remember, you met Armand Lafitte at a social event over the summer. M. Lafitte is a senior banker for my client, and I am to understand he was quite impressed by you.”

I had already guessed that Mr. Burke's visit was related to the recent fraud I'd committed against his client. M. Lafitte was a sodding drunk and a bloody imbecile. I'd talked him into giving me a loan in furtherance of some fabricated commercial endeavor, secured against a property that I failed to tell him was already thrice mortgaged. I'd like to say this fleecing was influenced by patriotic concerns, but the truth was, I enjoyed the French people and French cuisine, and I admired Napoleon. I just wanted the money.

As soon as the bank disbursed the cash, I ordered six cases of wine and three whores up to my hotel suite. I did not leave for several days, nor did I sleep during that period of sustained debauchery. Mr. Burke was calling on me because the bank had finally discovered my misconduct. They were quicker than I expected; I had not yet wasted all their money.

“It seems there was some error in the paperwork,” Burke said. “Our interest does not appear to be properly collateralized. While we certainly don't mean to impugn your honor or suggest a lack of trust and good faith, it is nonetheless a very rigid policy of the bank not to expose itself to the risks associated with unsecured credit, even where the borrower is as esteemed and distinguished as yourself.”

“I'm afraid you made the trip up from London unnecessarily,” I said. “My counsel, Mr. John Hanson, has offices there, and it is with him that you should discuss this.”

Hanson was under strict instructions to summon his most potent lawyerly tools of obfuscation and misdirection to foil the efforts of creditors to collect from me. On that condition, his bills alone would be paid on time.

“I did contact Mr. Hanson, and he strongly encouraged me to speak directly with you regarding this matter.”

Hanson! Whoreson! I'd been betrayed by that backstabbing brigand! The two of us had an arrangement; I tolerated his harangues and missives about behaving responsibly, and he cleaned up my messes when I disregarded his advice. It was a perfectly serviceable system, and he had spoilt it. No doubt he was having a good chuckle at my expense.

“I do not wish to be impolite,” Burke continued. “But your agreement contains a guarantee on your part that the bank's interest is secured, and our remedy in the event that we learn otherwise is to accelerate repayment of the loan and attempt to recover our capital.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I was merely discussing the business options open to the bank under the terms of the agreement. M. Lafitte hopes that any defect in the collateralization of the loan can be corrected without adversarial dealings and that you might continue to have a genial and mutually beneficial relationship with the bank.”

I stared at him as hard as I could, trying to use the sheer force of my will to make him burst into flame. “So, it's just a threat wrapped up in lots of weasely nonsense?”

Burke broke away from my gaze and shifted on his feet again. I noticed he had very fine shoes, and I wondered if I could convince him to give me the name of his cobbler so I could direct some of Banque Crédit Française's money in that noble craftsman's direction. “The bank will, of course, offer any assistance you require in assessing your holdings to identify appropriate collateral to secure the loan.”

I was not fooled by his petty and devious attempts at helpfulness.

“Do you know what has just happened here in Cambridge?” I asked.

“I only just arrived last night,” said Burke.

“A young lady has been murdered, Mr. Burke. She was a charming and lively girl; a beloved friend to all who encountered her. The killing was senseless and unprovoked and the perpetrator remains at large. Your attempts to raise the mundane, petty subject of business are crass and inappropriate beyond belief on this black and tragic day. What sort of gentleman comes calling with these trivialities upon a house of mourning?”

“I'd hardly call these matters trivial, Lord Byron, although I am deeply sorry for your loss. But I assure you, I would not trouble you if this matter were not urgent.”

“What is urgent is burying my dear friend Felicity,” I said. “What is urgent is finding her killer and rendering him unto justice. What is urgent is comforting her family; I can tell you, they are quite devastated. Anyone would be in such circumstances. Forms and paperwork are not urgent, however, and the great magnitude of my recent bereavement makes your business here seem entirely trifling.”

“I'm sure we can dispose of this matter quickly, then, so I may leave you in peace.”

“If you and the bank have conducted your proper diligence, or if Mr. Hanson was kind enough to warn you before you came to visit, you know I am never unarmed,” I said. “I wear my pistols every day and sleep with them under my pillow at night. They are as necessary a component of dress to me as my trousers.”

I removed my waistcoat so he could see the weapons strapped to my torso. He started to say something, but I cut him off. “I also keep a stiletto tucked into my boot. So you have made a decision to come into my home on a day of sadness to threaten me. Your weapon is the possibility of accelerating my obligation to repay a bank loan. Arrayed against you, I have two guns, one very sharp dagger, and a hungry bear. I am overwrought, Mr. Burke. I am a broken soul, do you understand?”

“I don't see how this pertains—”

“I am unreasonable, sir. My faculties of reason have abandoned me. I am awash, right now, with emotions. I am like a toy ship, thrown about by crashing tides of grief and rage and unfettered anguish. In such circumstances, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Also, I am heavily armed. Do you understand now?”

“I think I do,” said Burke. “And when you put it that way, I believe I shall be going, though I wish our business could have been handled more amicably, and I am sorry.”

As Joe Murray showed him out, the Professor looked at me and let out a noise like distant thunder from someplace deep in his throat.

“I'm quite aware he will be back,” I said.

The bear snorted.

“No, I'm not sure yet what I am going to do about him.”

 

Chapter 4

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air

—
Lord Byron,
“Darkness”

“Financial prudence is the virtue of those who lack imagination.” That's something my father often said, usually punctuating the statement with a violent gesture and spilling his drink in the process. “I pity the sad bastard who dies without any debt. He hasn't really lived.”

I was too small to understand most of his quips at the time, but I remembered them, parroting his manner and his speech in front of my bedroom mirror when I was alone. I wanted very much to be like him; he was so self-assured, and other adults seemed to take him very seriously. He was always surrounded by a crowd of friends and associates, and they always roared with approval when he told his stories. It seemed his personality itself was a radiant and mysterious force that drew these people to him; it was only much later that I came to understand that his charisma was helped in no small measure by the fact that he paid for all the booze.

He was a great man, though. He had a voice like a church bell and a fist like a hammer, and he made frequent use of both these gifts. He continued our family's military tradition; a captain of the guard and the son of an admiral. The soldiers who'd served under him called him Mad Jack, and not just for his fury in battle.

If he was never affectionate, he was always boisterous, except when he was hungover, of course. While he dwelt at my mother's Scottish estate, the place bubbled with constant activity; an endless parade of visitors and servants. Mad Jack was surrounded by strangers, and I, a small boy, was generally left to my own devices, or else locked in my room. My mother cared for me when she could, but she spent a lot of time alone, weeping. She was weak, and she could never equal his wit or satisfy his appetites. But my father made sure he always had plenty of liquor and girls around. He said these things gave him what my mother couldn't.

I rarely knew sleep in my earliest years; every night, the house would writhe with activity and pulse with noise. I remember lying in the dark, in my room, and listening to the sound of revelry all around me: stumbling footsteps in the corridors as men chased girls into various unoccupied rooms; laughter and yelling; the thrumming of strings and the pounding of drums—my father always hired the best musicians. And above it all, I could always hear his voice reverberating, clear early in the night and slurred later, but always authoritative.

One June evening when I was five years old, I climbed out of bed and found my mother had forgotten to lock my door, so I ventured forth to see the party. In the hallway outside my bedroom, two men were pawing at an unconscious woman. I followed my father's voice out to the courtyard, moving slowly to keep the brace on my leg from squeaking. I was frightened a little, for the adults were staggering about the house and vomiting in chamber pots. It was dark, too; the only light in the courtyard was from torches mounted on poles. A string quartet was playing an Austrian waltz, and some of the guests were lurching around, making drunken attempts at dancing.

“Death is not an inevitability,” my father was saying. “It is merely a likelihood.” He had draped his lanky frame over a high-backed wooden chair, and his friends were seated on the grass at his feet, waving crystal glasses at him, which he refilled with sparkling wine from a large green bottle. A young woman sat on his lap and was licking at his neck.

“I have been to the East,” he said. “There are men, or things like men, in that region who have conquered death. They taught me their secrets. Mortality is for the foolish and the poor. Decay is a consequence of individual failure. A man ought to control his destiny, and not be victim to circumstance.”

The crowd at his feet raised their glasses. “'Ave at 'em, Mad Jack!” shouted one of the drunks.

“I am not a fool, so I submit that I will live forever.” With this, my father grabbed the girl by the throat and kissed her, hard on the mouth. “The rest of you bastards can give my regards to the Devil.” He pressed the champagne bottle between the girl's thighs, and she gasped at the touch of the cool glass.

I dodged among the crowd and grabbed at his hand. “I want to live forever, too, Father,” I said.

He looked down at me, and his upper lip curled. “Who let you out of your room?” he asked. Then, with a violent wave of his hands, he summoned one of the nearby servants. “Fetch my stupid cow of a wife.” He dismissed the girl on his lap with a slap to her rump and made a show of rolling up his shirtsleeves.

My mother appeared a few minutes later, clad in her nightgown, her hair disheveled. Unwelcome at my father's party, she had been asleep. “Why are you out of bed, little George?” she asked me.

“He is out of bed because you are so bloody worthless that you are incapable of putting him in his room and locking the door.” He rose from the chair and struck her face with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground. The party guests burst into laughter and applause.

“You continually embarrass me with your inability to perform the simplest tasks,” he said. “I ask so very little of you, and yet I get even less.” He grabbed me roughly under my arms and carried me back into the house. My mother followed, sobbing, behind him.

“Father, you're hurting me,” I said.

“I ought to put you in a sack and drown you in the river,” he told me.

I wanted to cry, but I was too scared. He threw me on the floor of my room, and my bad leg twisted under me as I fell. The door slammed, I heard the key turn in the lock, and I was alone.

In the hallway, he was still yelling. I couldn't make out all the words, because the door was heavy and the guests had followed us down the hall, making noise and hooting. But among his shouts, I understood “deformed,” “lame,” and “disgrace.”

 

Chapter 5

I have got a new friend, the finest in the world,
a
tame bear.
When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, “he should
sit for a fellowship.
…” This answer delighted them not.

—
Lord Byron,
from an 1807 letter to Elizabeth Pigot

Though Trinity College had failed me in many ways, the school had at least attempted to provide accommodations that were not totally insulting. My rooms were in Nevile's Court, by far the most prestigious residential building at Trinity, which was the most prestigious college in Cambridge. Sir Isaac Newton himself had dwelt in this very edifice, and had calculated the speed of sound by timing the echoes of his footsteps in the north cloister. I was close to the riverbank, where I could swim. The other building residents were gentle and well heeled. Except, of course, for the bear.