Riot Most Uncouth (32 page)

If this supposition was correct, poor, innocent Angus had been a scapegoat for a scapegoat, and my lies about his death had insulated and protected the deeper lies that Knifing told me.

I spent a lot of time thinking about vampires' supposed allergy to sunlight, and about how Knifing had carried an umbrella when the sky bore no signs warning of rain, and how he shaded his pale skin with his wide-brimmed bush hat when he went about in the daytime. And I began to make certain inquiries.

According to public records, which my attorney, Mr. Hanson, assisted me in researching, Archibald Knifing disappeared in 1809. His house was found empty, and he had apparently informed no one of his whereabouts. After a reasonable time, it was assumed he had died while traveling abroad, and his affairs were disposed of according to the law. Since Mr. Knifing left no will and the court could find no heirs, the property reverted to the Crown and was sold at auction.

I will protect the current inhabitants by not revealing their names or the address of the house, but I visited the place. It was a relatively ordinary country estate, well constructed and appointed, but of modest size. I was convinced that some secret to Knifing's true nature was concealed within. Fortunately, the owners had read my poems and were flattered to receive the attention of a celebrity. They indulged my investigation, which must have seemed strange to them, and allowed me to search their home for clues.

First, I counted the house's exterior windows and verified that their number corresponded to the number of interior rooms, as they ought to have; an extra window would have signified a secret chamber. I measured hallways to see if there was a geometric inconsistency that might indicate the presence of a false wall. I tapped on baseboards, looking for hollow places, and I tugged every molding, fixture, and candelabra, in hopes of finding a concealed lever. There was nothing of the sort.

The house's only feature of note was a small cellar with earthen walls. While it wasn't extraordinary for a house to have an unfinished underground space to store wines or vegetables, a cellar would ordinarily have an outdoor entrance, or would be accessed through the kitchen. The entryway to Knifing's cellar was in the master bedroom, which I thought was a most unusual place for it. The door to it was also very heavy and sturdy, and could be locked from the inside.

I consulted an architect about this strangeness, and he told me that it was not so uncommon a feature as I might have imagined; it was even fashionable among some well-off bachelors to build a small wine cellar accessible from their bedrooms so that fine beverages might be easily available without having to interrupt an intimate liaison by summoning a servant to fetch wine.

The architect also posited that the addition of the secure door might allow the cellar to function as a sort of modern castle-keep; a fortified room into which the occupant could flee and take shelter if brigands invaded the house. In fact, many finer homes throughout England had been outfitted with such burrows after Louis and his queen were dragged from Versailles by a mob of common folk.

But it seemed to me that such an earthen cellar would also be an ideal place for a vampire to keep his coffin; much of the vampire lore held that the creatures needed to return to the soil to rest. And, anyway, how could a man like Archibald Knifing, a war hero and a confidant of the King, simply disappear? If he was dead, why was there no news of his demise?

I laid the whole story out for Hanson, and he felt it more sensible to ascribe ordinary explanations to the various events that aroused my suspicions. Disappearance, he said, was not uncommon among wanderers. Many people did not carry forwarding addresses for their relatives among their effects while journeying abroad, and when tragedy struck, such people were routinely remanded to local undertakers and ended up buried anonymously in churchyards. As for the cellar, Hanson was happy to accept the architect's explanation. And, he said, lots of men carry umbrellas when there's no rain, especially older gentlemen who are too proud to admit they need walking-sticks to lean upon.

I always listen patiently to Hanson's advice, but I frequently disregard it. So, I'm not yet done with this. When I return to the Continent, I will distract myself from the shambles I've made of my life and my marriage by attempting to pick up Knifing's trail. There are rumors that the King of Prussia has a one-eyed military advisor. I've heard talk, as well, of a doomed caravan lost in the Austrian Alps. Only one man is said to have made it out alive. The vague descriptions of the lone survivor don't seem to match Knifing's features, but they might describe my father's.

The Alps, I think, are close to Prussia. I find it all very suspicious. There must be more to this; there must be some meaning to it.

A poet must have a keen eye for details and for feelings; for subtext and for innuendo. This same set of skills is also essential if one hopes to have any success at the pursuit of vampires and the settling of accounts with absentee fathers. My investigation is ongoing, and I am eminently well suited to the task.

 

Epilogue

I am too well avenged!—but 't was my right;

Whate'er my sins might be,
thou
wert not sent

To be the Nemesis who should requite—

Nor did heaven choose so near an instrument.

Mercy is for the merciful!—if thou

Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now.

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!—

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;

Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

—
Lord Byron,
“Lines, On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill”

I saw Olivia Wright once more, when I visited her during the course of preparing this account of the 1807 Cambridge murders. During the nine years since I'd last spoken to her, she had taken over her father's business interests and, through clever maneuverings, improved them. But she never married.

The first thing I noticed when I visited her London home was the size of the staff she employed. I counted a house steward, several domestic maids, and two footmen as I waited in the parlor for her to receive me. The presence of the footmen implied that the house employed several cooks, and Olivia must have had at least one more maid to care for her wardrobe and chambers. There was probably a housekeeper someplace to supervise this extensive retinue.

Even the more lavish London homes were much smaller than sprawling, drafty country estates like Newstead Abbey, but I had let entire wings of my house fall into disuse and disrepair, and despite my larger space, I'd never employed this many domestic servants. I'd never had enough money to support so many people, even in the flush years after I accepted Knifing's bribe.

That a commoner's house should be grander and better kept than a nobleman's was increasingly the fashion. Many old families had nothing but unalienable land holdings, the incomes from which were often insufficient even to combat the rot and dilapidation of the properties themselves.

Britain had become, therefore, a nation of pimps, as the new rich, like Sedgewyck's family, awash with cash but lacking respectability, sought to wed their daughters and their fortunes to hereditary titles. The old aristocracy, meanwhile, bartered its sons for the funds to continue in the lifestyles its members considered their birthrights.

My own marriage had been untainted by parental depredations; my wife's darling mother hated me so much that she had written the Prince Regent for a special permission to prevent her daughter from taking my name. Her dislike was entirely unjustified, as I was quite the ideal husband, unless one was so crass as to take issue with my state of financial disarray or my constant drunkenness or my habitual adultery.

But my trespasses were entirely forgivable, given my wife's coldness, her obnoxious rectitude, and her inability to sate my lusts. Our attraction had been based, on both sides, upon a myth of romantic transformation; she thought she could redeem me, and I believed I could corrupt her. We'd both been wrong.

Olivia's steward guided me through the entryway, down a short hallway, through a well-appointed library, and to a set of glass doors that opened upon a lush interior courtyard. Though the little garden was probably shaded for much of the day, the area was evenly carpeted by healthy grass, and the cascading flower beds along the perimeter of the space were remarkable for the color and variety of their foliage. Many of these plants, I knew, were quite fragile and challenging to cultivate, and I added a master gardener to my mental tally of the house staff.

At the center of this idyllic space sat a small wicker table and two chairs; furniture light enough that it would not bruise the sod. A lady's silk scarf lay on the grass, and a book rested on the table, open, with the spine up. I smiled; Olivia had been sitting out here when I arrived, and she fled inside when she'd heard I was at the door. I wondered if she had gone to put her face together, or if she'd merely left so I'd have to wait for her to receive me.

I picked up the novel. It was a recent bestseller, beloved by women; one I hadn't had the time or inclination to read. It was called
Pride and Prejudice,
and the author was named only as “a lady.” I flipped to the front, intentionally losing Olivia's place in it, and I perused the first page:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

“Perhaps he'll take mine,” I said to myself.

“Do you need something, sir?” asked the steward, who had overheard me.

“I was only reading.” I pitched the novel onto the ground. “Where is Olivia?”

“She'll be out presently. I'm sure she apologizes most sincerely for the delay. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“I'll take whisky, if you've got any,” I said.

But she left me sitting for nearly half an hour, long enough for me to drink three generous glasses of well-aged Scotch and start on a fourth. At some point, I retrieved
Pride and Prejudice
from the grass and leafed through it. Olivia appeared, eventually, looking quite radiant, though, at the age of twenty-six, the flower of her youth had long since withered.

“Lord Byron,” she said. “It has been some time since I've seen you.”

I rose from my seat. “Nine years.”

“I apologize for making you wait. It was quite unavoidable,” she said without actually seeming the least bit sorry.

“It's quite all right. I've found something to read.”

“Oh, that.” She took the book from me, gently brushed the dirt from its cover, and set it back on the little table. “It's been very popular in London, though I suppose it's hardly the equal of
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
”

“You didn't write it, did you?”

“Hardly. Though the author is a friend of my family. A sweet, sweet woman. What is your expert's literary assessment of its merits?”

“There's nothing wrong with that woman that I couldn't fix in ten minutes, with my prick,” I said. I suppose I'd meant to shock or offend her, for I was annoyed by the long delay, though her courtyard was a nice enough place to sit.

She merely laughed at me. “Perhaps your reparative efforts would be better directed toward Lady Byron.”

“I fear, alas, that what's broken in that one is hopelessly unsalvageable.”

Olivia leaned toward me and touched my knee with her fingertips. “I've heard rumors about you. Are they true?”

I pulled myself away from her touch and, piqued, swept the book back onto the ground with my forearm. “Some of them are. And the rest of them might as well be, once they've been whispered in every ear in London. What drugs and promiscuity and rampant spending could never do to me, marriage has done in but a single year. I am ruined. I'm fleeing England, forever.”

“So why have you come here?”

“I am writing a memoir; my account of the Cambridge murders. I'd like to ask about your recollection of those events.”

“I don't really know much,” she said. “I'd heard you were arrested, but then you weren't anymore. And then Mr. Knifing announced the killer was that horrible carpenter, and you left Cambridge shortly after. I thought you'd come calling, after Mr. Sedgewyck's death. Though I grieved for him, I was, in a way, relieved that I didn't have to marry him.”

“He probably would have made a fine husband,” I said. “I'm sure he would have tenderly loved your family's money.”

“How romantic of him.”

“He wasn't a romantic. I'm a romantic. He was a prudent man. I warned you about prudent men.”

“And I have approached such sensible suitors with caution ever since.”

“Sedgewyck's death was perhaps the least tragic of the Cambridge killings, though I had little affection for Professor Pendleton or Fielding Dingle.”

“His manner of dealing was heartless and cowardly. But you left me, as well,” said Olivia.

“I did not. You spurned me, and chose Mr. Sedgewyck.”

“You said you loved me, but you never returned, not even to say good-bye.”

“I was arrested.”

“Only briefly.”

“Is that why you never married? Out of devotion to me?”

She laughed again. “I wouldn't call it devotion, though being perceived as Byron's leavings has been no great help to my prospects. However, the chief reason I have never married was that I never found anyone suitable.”

“Surely you've had many proposals.” I knew a number of eligible barons and at least one marquess who would have thought Olivia's countenance entirely acceptable, despite her age, and they'd have found her wealth quite compelling.