Riot Most Uncouth (4 page)

I was also relieved of the obligation to take meals in the common hall, when I preferred to dine alone or entertain guests in a more intimate atmosphere, for my suite had a kitchen where my servant could work his alchemy, and a dining room that was adequate for the presentation and enjoyment of fine cuisine. My table was large and constructed with consummate skill from fine, even-grained hardwood. The linens and the silver were of exquisite quality. Were it not so, I would have been embarrassed to play host to so distinguished a personage as the Professor.

Despite the sumptuous feast Murray had prepared, our mood was not celebratory. The murder of Felicity Whippleby had irreparably ruined my morning, and Mr. Burke's arrival marked the start of something that was likely to become a serious problem and a public embarrassment for me. But even more immediately, the rumors Sedgewyck had heard about my position at the College were not untrue: I was obliged to appear that afternoon before a panel of the Arts faculty to discuss matters relating to my “recent erratic behavior” and a “disturbing trend in academic performance.” The College had finally had enough of my notoriety, and the Fellows had decided to humble me. I didn't have time for this nonsense; I had a killer to catch.

“I see you, sitting there, eating my food and judging me,” I said, glaring at the Professor. “If you want to say something, then, by all means, have out with it.”

He said nothing and continued chewing, quietly and unappreciatively.

“You are like my mother,” I said to the bear. “You disapprove of my use of credit, and would see me dwell in squalor out of pride and some demented refusal to mark a balance sheet with a bit of red ink. I experienced hardship and poverty as a child, and indebtedness is quite an improvement over those sorry circumstances.”

I had inherited the title of Lord Byron and its lands and incomes when I was ten years old. At the time, my mother and I were living in shabby apartments in Aberdeen; she could afford nothing better on the pittance that was left to her after my father abandoned us.

The previous Lord Byron was my great-uncle William, a man known for his violent temper and his unforgiving nature. Some people called him the Wicked Lord, and the rest avoided calling on him at all.

William had undertaken a systematic endeavor to destroy the accumulated wealth of his title during his lifetime, to spite his estranged son. In furtherance of this end, he let Newstead fall into disrepair. He burned the forests on the estate and slaughtered some two thousand deer. Swarms of insects descended on the property to feast on the rotting timber and carcasses. The Wicked Lord also threw lavish parties and accrued enormous debts, habits that seemed to run in the family.

But William's son devised a clever maneuver to escape his father's vindictive schemes; he died. So, too, did my cousin, William's grandson, who went to Corsica and tried to catch a cannonball with his face. That's how I, who had never met any of these people, inherited the peerage upon the old man's death.

It seemed to my mother like God's justice; after Mad Jack had squandered her assets, she was restored to her appropriate social status by his neglected child's unlikely inheritance of the barony of Byron.

But the Wicked Lord had left the coffers drained, the properties decrepit, and many of the family's inalienable, fee tail holdings burdened by liens, leases, and other encumbrances. His own interest had merely been for life, and many of these devices were, thus, illegal. However, untangling his fraudulent dealings and expelling unlawful tenants would require years of litigation.

Though the title didn't come with a fortune, I was determined, from a very young age, to live in a manner befitting my exalted station. And I learned that bankers opened their purses when gentlemen of my class came calling. Mad Jack always said that only a man who lacked imagination died without debt. And since I was, after all, England's greatest living poet, I had no shortage of imagination.

As I contemplated my history of financial missteps, the Professor's fist-sized eyes met mine. The uncomfortable silence was my fault. Our camaraderie relied upon my ability to maintain conversational momentum, since the Professor, despite being a canny judge of character and a splendid dancer, lacked the power of speech.

“Before he disappeared, my father used to speak of immortal creatures who fed on the blood of the innocent,” I said. “My father and I left some business unsettled, and now, just as I have arrived at the full flower of my manhood and have finally become equipped to settle things, a young woman's corpse has been butchered like a sow's only a few hundred yards from my own residence and drained of blood. I will not assume this is coincidental, and therefore, investigating the murder must be my first concern. My debts and academic problems are insignificant by comparison.”

The bear just watched me, chewing and looking slightly perturbed.

“Well, if you do not intend to assist me, I have no need of you,” I told him. “I will unravel the mystery of Felicity Whippleby's death myself.”

The Professor blew a disdainful burp toward me. I ignored this; he was being rude, but there was no reason to start a fight. I did not speak to him again, and after a while, he retired to his chambers for an afternoon nap. I would not be able to join him in repose; my serious meeting with the faculty was only an hour hence. I called for Joe Murray to decant the remainder of the wine. The appointed time for my hearing drew close, so continuing to drink claret would be imprudent and possibly detrimental.

It was time for whisky.

 

Chapter 6

This place is the
Devil,
or at least his principal residence. They call it the University, but any other appellation would have suited it much better, for Study is the last pursuit of the Society; the Master eats, drinks, and sleeps, the Fellows drink, dispute and pun; the Employment of the Under graduates you will probably conjecture without my description.

—
Lord Byron,
from an 1805 letter to John Hanson, his attorney

“We hope you'll understand, Lord Byron, that our purpose here today is to ascertain whether you are having problems and to offer our assistance to you.” As he said this, the bearded professor pressed his thin lips into an approximation of a grin. “We have known you for some time. We've watched you grow, and we feel quite affectionate toward you. We're concerned about your academic progress and your personal growth. But this is not an inquisition.”

“Then why are your chairs so much bigger than mine?” I asked.

The three concerned faculty members were seated in ornate, high-backed thrones behind a heavy oak table in a big, drafty lecture hall lit only by a couple of those flickering oil lamps and located in the bowels of one of the imposing buildings that made up the College's Great Court. To get to the place, I'd had to pass through the massive Great Gate and under a huge, dour-looking statue of Henry VIII, who had founded the College. I wondered how old Henry would feel about my behavior, and what he'd think of the disposition of Felicity Whippleby.

The old dons had provided me a humble three-legged stool to squat upon in the near darkness. The entire arrangement seemed orchestrated to make me feel small. Their plan had failed, however. Marble floors and Corinthian columns had no capacity to intimidate me, and I was not the sort of subservient youth who would prostrate himself before anyone with sallow flesh, colorless lips, and a craggy countenance. I was Lord Byron, and I could expand to fill any space.

“I assure you, little thought was given to furniture in scheduling this meeting.”

“Would you mind, then, if I took one of the big chairs?”

A long pause, and then: “Of course. It was not our intention that you should be uncomfortable.”

The professor on the left rose from his seat, and I took his position at the oak table while he situated himself upon the stool. I had taken courses from each of these men, but I had a poor attendance record, and even when I was present in class, I generally whiled away those hours of instruction in various states of reverie, inebriation, and slumber and had never bothered to learn my teachers' names. Doing so seemed an unnecessary exertion.

The dominant authority among them, to whom I'd been speaking, I just thought of as Old Beardy, on account of the long tangle of dingy, yellow-gray hair that sprouted from his chin and neck and wound its way downward to come to rest in a matted point upon the protrusion of his belly.

The gentleman to his right, being quite rotund, was known to me as Fat Cheeks, and the man who had taken the penitent's stool was Shar-Pei, because he looked like one of those wrinkly, jowly dogs. I suspected his name was actually Professor Sharp, and my nickname for him had originally been a play on that, but I had not been to his class in months, and I could no longer remember.

“The volunteer constable complained to us earlier this afternoon,” said Beardy, who was the senior Fellow or the department head or something like that. “He said you accosted him with your bear and tried to trespass upon the scene of a murder. When you were denied entrance, you began harassing passersby. Is this true?”

“I thought my assistance could be of use in catching the killer,” I said.

“Well, that is certainly a disrespectful and inappropriate way to indulge one's fascination with the macabre. And there's no reason to search for horrible things to look at. I suspect you'll see more death than you wish to, before long.”

“What is disrespectful and inappropriate is your preoccupation with my minor eccentricities on a day when a murderer is stalking the campus. What efforts have you made to bring this monster to justice? What measures have you taken to ensure our safety?”

“When last I checked, this College did not admit women, and the safety of individuals who are not affiliated with this institution is not a matter which falls within the purview of our faculty. In any event, I understand the dead girl's family has hired a criminal investigator from London whose arrival, I'm sure, is imminent. A brutal murder in our small community is of concern to everyone, but there is no meaningful action we can take toward solving that problem right now, and we produce no benefit to anyone by milling about the murder house and generally being underfoot as qualified investigators pursue the killer.”

“I cannot stand by and do nothing,” I said. “I was not born with a passive nature.”

“If you're looking for something to occupy your time, maybe you should consider going to class once in a while,” said Fat Cheeks.

“Why?” I asked. “What possible good could that do?”

“That's what we've scheduled this meeting to discuss,” said Beardy. “We'd like to help you to take advantage of the resources available here and to have a better College experience.”

My title carried with it certain privileges. In addition to my superexcellent suite of rooms in Nevile Court, I was also essentially assured a degree at the conclusion of my tenure in Cambridge, without any regard to whether or not I committed to my studies or passed the examinations required of other students. This was England, and I was nobility. That was still important, perhaps more important than ever, in this tumultuous era of revolution. Failure, for me, was impossible by definition. These professors were merely vexed that I had refused to pay homage to their wisdom by appearing at their lectures; that I'd refused to pretend that their instruction was of any value.

“Your time would perhaps be better spent holding a hearing of this sort for Mr. Leif Sedgewyck. He's the worst kind of bootlicking social aspirant and a shameless drunkard. Also, I think he killed Felicity Whippleby.”

“In my experience, Mr. Sedgewyck is a decent young man and a dedicated student,” said Fat Cheeks.

“And, regardless, we would not discuss another student's situation in your presence, nor would we discuss your circumstances with him,” Beardy added. “This meeting is to assess your progress, Lord Byron.”

“Then, by all means, proceed,” I said.

“We'd first like to discuss your living arrangements,” croaked Fat Cheeks. The area around his mouth always looked very wet, and I wondered what sort of ailment caused such a symptom.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said. “I find them tolerable, although a baron should be afforded more space for his possessions and his retinue. Perhaps we can work together to correct this.”

His shiny pink jowls shook with annoyance. “You've got one of the finest residential suites on our campus, and it's more than adequate for your needs. What is unsatisfactory is your insistence on keeping dangerous animals in student housing. You amble drunkenly about the streets of Cambridge with that horrible bear, terrifying everyone you encounter. It's only a matter of time before some unfortunate person is mauled.”

My pet had long been a contentious subject among the faculty; his very presence in Cambridge was an assault on the rules and restrictions passed down by the College. Prior to my matriculation at Trinity, I'd often embarked upon on my various adventures in the company of a noble and imperious bulldog named Smut. I intended to bring him with me to Cambridge, but the College forbade dogs of any kind in the residence and refused to make an exception for mine, even when I attempted to leverage my title. Frustrated, I obtained a written copy of the rules governing student housing and studied it with the assistance of my legal counsel. Prohibited to students were dogs, cats, trained birds, swine, and other livestock. As to the keeping of bears, these documents were silent.

Thus, the Professor.

“My companion is quite docile,” I said. “And both of us find that long walks in the evening aid in the processes of digestion and contemplation. Moreover, that animal happens to be a noted naturalist and esteemed Professor, and if I've anything to say about it, he'll soon be joining you on the College faculty and enjoying these lovely chairs. You should have brought a fourth, for your associate.” Here, I pointed toward Shar-Pei. “He looks rather forlorn on his stool.”