Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

This place had, of course, been the first stop in our investigation, but the constable did not permit us to hunt for clues. The house matron had dispatched a rider to carry news of the tragedy to the girl’s father in London, and Lord Whippleby would surely send a professional man hunter to run down the killer. The scene and the corpse would be preserved, untouched, awaiting such expert examination.

It would be waiting, however, for a while. It was an hour’s ride on a fast horse to the nearest station on the semaphore line, and it would take at least another hour to transmit the message to London. If fog obscured visibility between stations, relay riders would have to carry the news instead, extending the journey.

Once word of the tragedy reached the girl’s father, he’d need another hour, or perhaps even two, to make the necessary arrangements to get an investigator on the road. A fast rider could clear the fifty miles between London and Cambridge in under four hours, including a stop to change horses, but the investigator likely would not be an expert equestrian. Also, he’d be hauling his equipment or his belongings, so he’d hire a coach, which would take quite a bit longer. Meanwhile, the killer’s trail would grow cold.

I’d tried to explain that I was the world’s greatest poet and the Professor was a noted expert, but the constable, quite unmoved by our impressive credentials, was loath to permit a drunk and a bear to root around the premises. No matter. I’d solved the case regardless.

“I have captured your killer,” I announced. “This man did it.” I threw the culprit down at the constable’s feet. “Take him away and hang him, or do whatever it is you people do.”

“Please,” said the murderer to the constable. “This gentleman is quite mad, and he reeks of drink.”

“You’re the one who reeks,” I countered.

The constable scratched the stubble on his chin with a long, yellow fingernail. “This is no killer. He is only Mr. Collins, the wheelwright.”

The Professor sighed. We had both grown accustomed to dealing with our intellectual inferiors, but idiocy was tiresome nonetheless. “He is Mr. Collins, the murderer,” I said. “People are rarely only one thing. Wheelwrights can also be murderers.”

The constable didn’t look convinced. “But I’ve known Mr. Collins for near to twenty years. He goes to my church. Decent-enough fellow. Family man.”

I nodded. “Very well. You can tax his children to pay for his hanging, then.”

“I didn’t do nothing, Angus,” said Collins the Murderer.

“He’ll confess easy enough when the Professor interrogates him,” I said.

Collins wailed.

“That doesn’t seem like a good idea at all,” said the constable. “When Whippleby’s man arrives, he’ll sort everything out.”

“What are you going to do, then, with this criminal?” I asked.

Angus gave my suspect a dismissive wave with his fleshy hand. “You move on along, Mr. Collins. Send me best to the missus.”

Collins scurried off, probably to kill some more people.

“The mistake you’ve made today is very grave,” I told Angus.

“I don’t think Mr. Collins is the murderer. If I had to make a guess, I’d be inclined to blame Mr. Leif Sedgewyck.”

The name was familiar. “Sedgewyck is a student at the College,” I said. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“He was a frequent companion of the dead girl’s; a man who might have married her. I spoke to him earlier this morning.”

“Why do you think he did it?”

Angus started to say something, and then stopped, and paused to rub the loose flesh beneath his chin. “I’m sorry for wagging my tongue; I oughtn’t have. I’m only an amateur constable,” he said. “I’m just fine at running off rowdies from a pub, and I can patrol the streets well enough, but unless it’s pretty obvious, I really don’t have any way of knowing who has done a murder. That’s why a professional is coming.”

“You’re keeping something from me,” I said.

“Nothing that’s really any of your business, Lord Byron. Why don’t you go home? I think I got things squared until the man from London gets here.” He kept his voice low and soothing, but he was obviously relishing this rare opportunity to pretend to be a figure of some importance. I didn’t appreciate his condescension. “You should head back to your rooms and write some more of them pretty poems. I quite enjoyed Hours of Idleness. ”

Maybe he was right, and I ought to have just gone home. But I rarely do the things I ought.

Leif Sedgewyck was the son of a wealthy family, but his people were common, so he had rooms in one of the less prestigious residential buildings abutting Trinity’s Great Court; accommodations of a quality that barely toed the threshold of being adequate to almost justify the egregious tuition the College demanded in exchange for admitting men of his sort.

A pretty housemaid let me into his quarters, and Sedgewyck received me in his sitting room, which was expensively appointed, but garishly so. His furniture was upholstered in purple velvet and fringed with gold. Bad art hung on his walls in heavy gilt frames, and his rugs were so thick and opulent that treading upon them felt like walking in mud. It was a room decorated by the sort of person who believed that wealth conferred credibility, and that the wanton display of wealth was an adequate proxy for good taste.

“The notorious Lord Byron!” he said as I entered. “Even on this blackest of days, it is very much an honor to receive you.” He was drinking wine straight from a bottle and looked somewhat impaired. I was probably drunker than he; I had not been sober in days. But I knew how to carry it better, so I figured I had the advantage.

“I am so sorry to hear of your loss,” I said. “I wish you my utmost sympathies.” It was a meaningless thing to say; idle chatter masquerading as sentiment. But it seemed wise to stick to pleasantries and volunteer as little as possible of my own agenda until I could take measure of the man.

He did not rise to greet me, but he did raise the bottle toward me and, in doing so, spilt some on his plush velvet divan. I could tell from the yellowed label that his wine was of an excellent vintage and most likely the good French stuff, which had become difficult to obtain due to His Majesty’s little quarrel with Napoleon. I envied Sedgewyck’s furnishings, and particularly his cellar; though I’d been in high spirits of late, lavishing champagne on the bear, my resources were dwindling, and I knew I’d soon be back to drinking sour German hock.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked.

My loathing toward him abated slightly. “I’d never refuse such an offer, but I’ll have mine from a fresh bottle,” I said. “Yours looks somewhat unsanitary.”

Sedgewyck flapped his arm at the maid, spilling wine all over his trousers and his sofa. “I am normally more hygienic,” he said. “I am grieving for my murdered betrothed.”

“Is this the fashionable manner of mourning, then?” I asked. “I’m a bit traditional myself. I favor tearing one’s hair and rending one’s garments.”

“Heavens!” he said. “My attire is quite expensive, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Father would be ever so disappointed if my clothing got rent. I suppose he will be disappointed regardless; he was so very keen on my match with Felicity.”