Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“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 might 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.”

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 decor 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.