Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“Is Clyde around?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” said the madam. “He’s not, today. But any of the girls would be delighted to see you.”

“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “Please give them all my fond regards, though, won’t you?”

I turned on the heel of my good foot and went back out onto the street. Mr. Sedgewyck, Olivia had said, was the portrait of propriety. I wished she had been present to see this. But she wouldn’t have been pleased to have me return to her rooms, and I couldn’t think of a good way to inform her of her new beau’s predilections without explaining my own.

Anyway, I needed to retrieve the Professor from Sedgewyck’s quarters. Also, for purposes of my investigation, it was imperative that I debrief Noreen, thoroughly and at once.

I’ve always been touched and a little mystified by the extent of female generosity. Women look at boys like me; fatherless and badly mothered; despairing, depressive, debauched, and drunk; and they see only the possibility of redemption.

They offer their love generously, in hopes that I’ll be moved and transformed by their outpouring of affection. But they’re wrong about redemption. Women have a habit of adopting emotional narratives that directly contradict observable facts. Their love can’t redeem me. I won’t let it. I’m uninterested in being redeemed.

Women feel the heat and see the light, and they recognize that love is a kind of flame. But they don’t know which kind. They think love is a votive candle, and it isn’t. Love is a wildfire. It’s bigger than they comprehend, and more chaotic. It dances against the sky and sucks all the moisture from the air and earth, and leaves everything charred and desiccated. Love doesn’t redeem. Love consumes. Like vrykolakas. Like my father.

And the fire goes out when there’s nothing left for it to burn.

But there’s not really much of a reason for me to try to explain this to them, especially not when I’ve got an opportunity to fornicate, as I did with Noreen.

“Does Sedgewyck ever fuck you like this?” I swirled my hips and she gasped.

“Mr. Sedgewyck doesn’t touch me at all. He’s quite-Oh!”

“Is he the portrait of propriety? Is that what he is?” I pressed into her hard enough to hurt her a little bit.

“Mr. Sedgwyck never paid me that kind of attention,” Noreen said.

“I’ll bet he didn’t,” I said, thinking of Clyde with his angular jaw and pimpled arse. He was what piqued Sedgewyck’s interest. But Sedgewyck also seemed interested in Olivia Wright. Why?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noreen asked.

“Shut up. Never mind.” I pulled out of her and spun her around. “Bend over, and put your hands on the floor. No. Flat. Yes, like that.”

“My God!”

“Indeed, I am. And you will worship me.”

“My mother told me when I came to work for him to watch out for myself. She said rich men didn’t know what it was like to be told they couldn’t have something. She said he’d take advantage. But he never did.”

“It was me she was warning you about. I’m what all mothers warn their daughters about. Here, put your arms around my neck and your ankles on my shoulders.”

“Can you support me?” I still had my boots on, but I knew she was talking about my clubfoot. Sedgewyck must have told her about it.

“I can, if I want to,” I said. But I braced my leg against the bedpost.

“Ooh. How did you learn to do this?”

“I’m a Trinity man; a recipient of a world-class education. If you want to have it better, you’ll have to go to Oxford. Did you know Felicity Whippleby?”

“She came around sometimes. Mr. Sedgewyck’s affections always seemed polite rather than passionate. She seemed to like him very much, or at least I think she hoped he’d marry her. When Mr. Sedgewyck’s parents came to visit, they seemed very keen on the match as well.”

“Would he have killed her to avoid being pushed into the marriage?”

“You’d know better than I. He told me yesterday that he expects he’ll just be pushed into another marriage, though.”

“Have you seen him carrying any strange buckets or pots? Perhaps at night?”

“I don’t think so.”

If Sedgewyck was guilty, there was nothing in his rooms that appeared to link him to the murder. I’d pretty well torn the place apart, and the Professor had done quite a bit of damage as well. And despite a thorough examination, Noreen had revealed no evidence of her employer’s guilt.

I flipped her over, put her on the bed, and climbed on top of her to finish off my line of inquiry.

“Is he the killer?”

“I don’t think so. He thinks you are.”

Did he really think that? Or was he just clever enough to lie to his servant? No way to tell. But there was no evidence here to corroborate my suspicions, and my theory regarding Sedgewyck’s guilt was looking weak. I supposed I would have to go find Knifing and see if I could pry information out of him. I didn’t expect that would be fun. I was of the opinion that all the witnesses should look like Noreen, and that they should all be susceptible to the same interrogation tactics.

“It was some stranger, probably,” Noreen said. “A vagrant. A drifter. Some lunatic who came out of the woods and climbed into her window.”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what? Oh-Oh!”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Members of the Trinity faculty made a habit of convening after hours at a tavern near the College called the Modest Proposal, an establishment known for above-average ale and a rather dubious stew. The service alley next to the bar was wide enough for a horse-cart to enter, and curved around the back of the building. This was where the local brewer delivered kegs twice a week. It was also where Cyrus Pendleton-Professor Fat Cheeks-had met his end. Angus the volunteer constable guarded the wrought iron gate at the mouth of the alley to keep curious types away from the scene.

“Hello, Angus,” I said. “You look civilized today.”

He was wearing a new uniform; one that was not frayed at the elbows and did not strain around his belly. Someone had taken the time to comb the tangles and gnarls from his hair. He even appeared to have bathed, for he had no smudges on his cheeks and no dirt caked beneath his fingernails. To Angus, involvement in this investigation was a source of pride and accomplishment, a chance to socialize with knights and to scold impudent young lords. I was not one to judge him for this, however, since my own reasons for interjecting myself into these matters were difficult to explain.

“Thank you, Lord Byron. You look drunk.” Angus didn’t miss a step.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said.

“But, I think, not in this case.” He pushed a finger at his red-webbed nose. “I lack Sir Archibald’s sort of knowledge, but I ain’t one to miss the stink of booze.”