We watched as she approached the bear, holding the meat at arm’s length and moving with small, halting steps. Sedgewyck laughed aloud. Her fear seemed to amuse him.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Noreen,” she said.
“You needn’t be afraid, Noreen,” I told her. “The Professor is a civilized sort of beast, and he mauls people only on the rarest of occasions.”
She threw the lamb at the bear and then scurried out of the room. The Professor settled down to gnaw his prize and sharpen his claws on the walls.
Sedgewyck waited just long enough for Noreen to get wherever she’d run off to, and then he began ringing a little bell to summon her back. As he did this, he grinned at me, as though the two of us shared some secret.
After a moment, she returned. It was really unusual that she was there at all; it was customary for a gentleman to staff his Cambridge residence with only a single manservant while studying at the College. I, for example, was attended by a wheezing seventy-year-old valet named Joe Murray, whom I had inherited from my great-uncle, the previous Lord Byron. A larger retinue would seem fussy, and would crowd even the most spacious student rooms. If young men were ordinarily allowed to keep nubile servant girls like Noreen in their quarters, nobody would ever get married.
“So, is it the murder that has finally made me worthy of your esteemed attention?” Sedgewyck asked.
I drained my wineglass and refilled it. “Do you desire attention?”
“I’ve got lots of desires, but my desire for attention is among the most urgent.” He smiled at me again, as if he and I were engaged together in some sort of conspiracy.
I was starting to grow bored of the conversation, so I said: “Is that why you killed Felicity? Because you wanted to be noticed?”
Sedgewyck was so surprised at the accusation that he spat a mouthful of wine onto Noreen’s apron. “You think I killed her? Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
“Perhaps you’d grown sick of making love to her, and wanted to be rid of her,” I said. “I couldn’t blame you for wanting to unencumber yourself, but there are other ways to break an engagement.”
He laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I never tasted Felicity’s fruits. Nobody did. Her knees were tougher to pry open than the sturdiest of padlocks. Marriage was a precondition to rummaging that girl’s nethers. I courted her chastely, and I was most gentle and proper in my pursuit. I’m disappointed to have missed my chance, and in any case, her death is injurious to my interests.”
“And what interests are those?” I asked.
“I seek to improve my social standing, of course,” Sedgewyck said. The dilated pupils of his eyes seemed to contract partway, and his brow knit with concentration. Other than the deliberate and self-evident care that he put into preventing himself from slurring his words, he seemed remarkably lucid for a drunk. “My grandfather was a Dutch sailor. He made a few lucrative voyages before he settled in London and left a small fortune to my father, who made it much larger through prudent business maneuvers. But wealth means little in England unless it is properly aged, and the Sedgewycks and their new money are unwelcome among London society. My father perceives this as a slight, and my mother finds it humiliating.”
He tilted his body into a seated position on the damp sofa cushion and mopped at his purple-stained lips with the back of a hand. He was a tall, striking man with white-blond hair and high, sharp cheekbones. If his eyes weren’t so red and his nose weren’t so inflamed, he’d have been nearly dashing enough to pass for the sort of person he seemed to want to pretend to be.
“There are two ways to become respectable in England. The first is to befriend the King and get him to bestow an honor upon you. The second is to marry into a good family, which has become my parents’ greatest aspiration for me. It’s easier to do that than it used to be, since people like my parents have amassed great wealth while people like Lord Whippleby have squandered theirs. Felicity’s father drank away his fortune. He needed our money, and we wanted his friends and his name. Felicity had only one older sister, a woman who has given her husband no children. With only a little luck; a fortuitous case of tuberculosis, perhaps, my own son might have been a baron. But now, Felicity is dead and my family’s hopes are dashed.”
I imagined what it might be like to punch him. I suspected it might hurt a little. He was thin and rangy, and his face was all angles, without flat or soft surfaces to properly accommodate a fist. “You’ve clearly suffered a great loss,” I said.
“Felicity had a pretty laugh,” Sedgewyck told me. “And sometimes, she played the piano.” As he said this, he looked almost wistful, and I wondered if perhaps my suspicions were mistaken, and he might be innocent.
But then, he smiled at me again. “Tell me, Lord Byron, is it true you’re about to be kicked out of school?” he asked. “I’ve heard the faculty has finally tired of your outrageous conduct.”
I finished my wine, rose from my seat, and left him there without giving any further response.
Chapter 3
It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts—you have no idea of the pain it gives one.
—Lord Byron, from an 1818 letter to Douglas Kinnaird, his literary agent
It was my intense displeasure upon returning to my residence to find that cherished sanctum befouled by the uninvited presence one Frederick Burke, Esq., a solicitor retained by Banque Crédit Française to correct his client’s foolish decision to loan me money.
Joe Murray, my manservant, apologized as he introduced the guest. The lawyer, like most vermin, had refused to leave, despite Murray’s repeated, polite requests. Burke offered his hand, and I made an elaborate show of not shaking it.
“I must say, whatever is cooking smells quite delicious,” said Burke, who seemed to be possessed of the fantastic notion that I might invite him to join me at my table.
“I agree,” I agreed. “I hope you will be kind enough to leave before it gets cold.”
“His preparations seem quite extensive for just one man’s midday repast.” Burke’s hope was a hard weed to kill.
“I take lunch with my associate,” I said, gesturing toward the bear, who sat down heavily upon his rear haunches and asserted himself by making a noise; a sort of rumbling honk. In doing so, he opened his mouth, giving Burke full view of his teeth, which were rather impressive. The Professor, in addition to his prestigious academic credentials, was outfitted with two pairs of enormous fangs; four teeth, each as long as a man’s finger and thicker around the base than a candlestick. One could easily imagine such implements, driven by the mighty engine of the beast’s well-muscled jaw, punching through flesh and crushing bone. This was, in fact, their purpose; when bears find they have occasion for intra-species negotiation over females or territory, they employ their teeth in much the same manner as men use lawyers.
“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 givin
g 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.
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