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 m
ight 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.
“I don’t think you are very funny, Lord Byron,” he said.
“That’s understandable,” I replied. “You seem rather slow-witted.”
“And you have not answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Do you know who killed the girl?”
“If I did, don’t you think I might have told someone?”
“I am unsure of your motives, but your poking about this matter has aroused curiosity.”
“When I poke about, I assure you, I arouse much more than curiosity.”
“And still, you give me no answers!” Dingle turned very red and balled his meaty fists.
“There is a deeply suspicious and shadowy man by the name of Leif Sedgewyck skulking about Cambridge. He was a suitor to Felicity, but I’ve no evidence yet that conclusively links him to her murder,” I said. “Angus Something-or-other is the local volunteer constable, and may possess useful information. I’d not accuse him of corruption or complicity in the murder, but neither would I trust him.”
“Thank you,” said Dingle. “And I’ll have you know, I am not slow-witted. I am deliberate. Methodical. I am a professional dedicated to the advancement of a burgeoning field, and though people like you may not respect what I do, I am sincere and diligent in the practice of it. And whatever you might think, I am effective.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said. “Now, methodically remove yourself from my premises.”
Chapter 15
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love.
—Lord Byron, “The First Kiss of Love”
It seemed to me that criminality must be rooted in peculiarity, and I was surrounded by the strange. But the weirdest detail of all was the arrival of the second investigator. I decided to confront Archibald Knifing and see what he had to say about his new colleague. Perhaps he would let slip some useful fact. So, as soon as I got rid of Mr. Dingle, the Professor and I set out with resolve to interrogate the one-eyed man hunter.
We made it halfway across the Great Lawn before we got distracted. You see, although I was quite interested in untangling the mystery, I also had girls on my mind, and girls must always take precedence over all other concerns, even very urgent ones. So the Professor and I marched with purpose to the women’s rooming house to see Olivia.
If one did not know the horrors that had occurred in there, one would think the house to be a peaceful place. It was a three-story white-columned structure on a rather quiet side street, close to the College but far enough removed that the noise and stink from the horse traffic along the main drag would not impose upon the young ladies’ tender ears or delicate noses during their hours of repose. Indeed, the smooth, warm cobblestones were so spotless, they looked as though no horse had ever trod or shat upon them, and I imagined that they bore the footfalls of a disheveled, rakish young lord and his trusty bear with some measure of disdain.
My frenzied knocking upon the front door was met by the house matron, a dour and joyless spinster who served as the girls’ chaperone. Her task was protecting the virtues of her charges from my sort of contamination, so she was naturally loath to permit me to enter upon the premises.
I was certainly not about to be cowed by this glorified nanny; the house matron was a mere servant, an unimportant person with no official capacity and no authority to prevent me from doing whatever I wanted. She was merely someone concerned parents had hired to keep men out of the girls’ rooms. And better guard dogs than this one had failed to protect henhouses from bears. All that was required to gain entrance to the house was the invocation of my noble title and a threat to inform various respected friends of my displeasure at the matron’s conduct if she refused me.
“I can’t allow that animal inside, though,” she said. “He’s a danger.”
I shrugged. “That’s fine. He can wait with you. You’ll find he is excellent company.” I offered her the end of the Professor’s chain leash.
She hesitated while the Professor busied himself by scraping his four-inch claws against the doorframe.
“Maybe you can take him in with you, after all,” she said.
Olivia had not been awake for long when I banged on her door; she answered my knock clad in a sheer dressing gown that was falling off one shoulder. The girls shared a kitchen and the services of a couple of cooks among them, and the rooming houses didn’t offer parlors or sitting rooms, so Olivia had only the single chamber. I noticed, however, that the room was immaculate, even though this house had no maids or servants. Like Archibald Knifing’s clients, Olivia Wright would not tolerate disorder. Her bed was already made, the sheets carefully tucked and the coverlet pulled smooth. Books were stacked on her desk, alphabetized by subject, and none of the clothing or papers that typically littered the floors of collegiate residences were in evidence. Her mode of décor was antithetical to the chaos and grand decay that defined my own brooding aesthetic, and her room was precisely the kind of place where one might expect not to see a bear. Olivia took one look at the Professor and screamed.
“Do try to control yourself,” I said. “You will hurt his feelings.”
“What is that?”
“Ursus arctos arctos. The European brown bear. You may refer to him as Professor, or, if you do not like the honorary, you may call him Earl Honeycoat. He’s not really an earl. That’s just a name.”
“Why are you here, Lord Byron? You’re drunk.”
“Usually. But there’s a murderer about, and I feared you might be in mortal danger. My gallant friend and I rode to your rescue, because we are heroes.”
She gasped a couple of deep breaths, recoiling from the bear and trying to recompose herself. “That’s why you brought that animal to my home?”
“That’s the most honorable reason.”
“No one poses any danger to me, excepting you, and possibly your pet,” she told me. “Your presence here is a scandal, especially after your visit yesterday with the constable. I fear this will be the subject of much gossip among the other girls, and may harm my prospects.”
“Your prospects?” I asked. “But why should you need a man?”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me what I need.”
“If what you need is a respectable marriage you do yourself injury by wandering unsupervised in the dubious company of Leif Sedgewyck,” I said. “I am convinced he’s responsible for the plague of violence that has torn Cambridge asunder.”
“Mr. Sedgewyck? A murderer? That’s absurd. Mr. Sedgewyck is the portrait of propriety. Nobody would accuse you of being anything similar, Lord Byron.”
“I should hope not.”
“Mr. Sedgewyck took his leave at the front door, so as not to allow others to cast aspersions,” she said. “But they will certainly be cast in the wake of your arrival.”
“Let t
hem. I enjoy aspersions.”
“Not everyone shares your appetite for notoriety.”
I grabbed her around the waist. “I have appetites for all sorts of things.”
“You ought to have stayed away, Lord Byron.” Her white skin flushed red up from her chest to her cheeks. Her breathing was rapid, and I could hear her heart pounding as I pressed her against me.
“I couldn’t stay away. You’re so beautiful.” I moved my face close to her neck and took in the scent of her skin and her hair.
“Why do men always tell girls that they’re pretty?” she said. “Why don’t you ever say a woman is bright or talented or witty?”
“We do say that,” I said. “We say it all the time. To the ugly girls. We tell them they have charming personalities and remarkable senses of humor, and we avoid looking directly at them; we fix our gaze on a point behind them, or off someplace to the side, to see if a prettier one is just beyond the periphery of our vision.”
“You must let go of me.”
“I don’t believe you want me to,” I said.
“I do. I think you should. I know you’re a kind of trouble I don’t need.”
“You say that. But your eyes are pleading me to stay.”
She hesitated. “I cannot deny that I have sometimes admired you, from a safe distance.”
I knew it!
“Desire for me is a common affliction of your sex,” I assured her as I exhaled onto her neck. “I’m afraid I only know of one cure for it.”
“I never thought my distant affection put me in danger, because I didn’t imagine that it might someday be noticed, let alone reciprocated. You are so very dashing, and yet you’re such a very awful person.”
“The two qualities are not unrelated.”
She pressed a pale hand against my chest. “Lord Byron, I really think you ought to leave, before we make some irreversible mistake.”
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