Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“We will have a short-term cancellation of classes for the next ten days, however, and any absences will be deemed excused for an additional week after that. Quarterly examinations will be postponed, accordingly. I know many of you feel that the safest course of action is to leave Cambridge while these unpleasant events are unresolved, and the College will take no steps to prevent you from doing so. Two professional criminal investigators from London are already in Cambridge, searching for clues. I believe the killer will be caught before classes resume. For those of you who wish to leave, we have notified local stagecoach dispatchers that many of you will require their services. Messengers have been sent to London to hire more carriages. We wish you pleasant travels. For those of you unable to leave, I would emphasize that it is not my belief, nor is it the opinion of the faculty, that the College is unsafe. Personally, I will be staying in Cambridge to assist the investigators in any way I can.”

I could hire a stagecoach and return to Newstead, leaving the murders and the faculty and Mr. Burke behind me; problems for other men and other days. So many of the students would be leaving Cambridge, out of fear or out of a desire to make use of the holiday. If I were among them, no one would think less of me.

Knifing had told me I should leave, and maybe he was right. It seemed like such good advice, in fact, that I wondered why he’d given it to me. Perhaps he told me to leave because he wanted me to stay, and he knew I would disregard his counsel. If I left, after all, I would spoil myself as a murder suspect, and he’d said he had nobody better to arrest. But if he truly wanted to frame me, why would he warn me of his intentions? Why would he try to drive me off?

I had my suspicions that a judge or jury’s desire to restore certainty and order would be insufficient to win a conviction once Mr. Hanson got finished punching holes in Knifing’s case, and I suspected that was the real reason he was hesitant to charge me with the crimes. Of course, if he accused anyone else, that suspect’s lawyer would tell the jury about me and my odd and notorious reputation; about my skull-cup and the liberties I took with other men’s wives. The mere proximity of a character such as I to the murder might create enough doubt to cause the acquittal of another suspect, even a guilty one. So Knifing had good reason to want me gone.

But I was stubborn, and I didn’t want his convenience to dictate my actions. When he locked that dead white eye on me, it seemed like he could divine my secrets from the planes of my face and hear them whispered on my breath. He betrayed nothing to me; when his face closed, he became a complete cipher. He’d told me ten times at least that he was willing and prepared to arrest me for the murders. I knew absolutely that he was capable of it, and I also knew that I’d be completely surprised if he did it.

The worst thing about Archibald Knifing was that I could not help liking the man, despite his protean nature and his penchant for insulting me. He had evidently been a distinguished soldier, and he was obviously a brilliant investigator. Everything about him was admirably, aggravatingly capable, and his self-deprecating wit was both appealing and disarming. I liked his casual, smirking admissions of his own corruption. I liked his quickness and facility with language. I could see how witnesses and criminals might forget themselves in his presence. It was too easy to say too much to him. There was no question that I admired Archibald Knifing more than was safe. It would be advisable to admire him from a great distance.

Fielding Dingle was dangerous, too, even though he was dumb and I didn’t like him. And I could not forget the killer, that as-yet-unidentified monster who had gutted a professor, bled two women, smothered a little girl, smashed a baby, and torn a man’s face off. I had some reason to believe this ruthless butcher had entered my residence and noticed my dining room table, and I also suspected that he might be an indestructible monster of supernatural origins. So that was a fellow one might go out of one’s way to avoid.

Under the circumstances, remaining in Cambridge was a phenomenally stupid thing to do; the only sane choice was to book the first stagecoach home. But I had always believed that rational behavior made life much less interesting. So, to hell with that.

I would stay in Cambridge, and I’d do it for ridiculous reasons. Non-reasons, really. I wanted vengeance for Violet, and for her baby. But I’d shirked more pressing responsibilities in the past. I could have accepted justice rendered by another man’s hand; Archibald Knifing could probably dispatch a colder and more punishing retribution than I could ever begin to imagine. The only thing that prevented me from getting out of Knifing’s way was the unshakable, irrational belief that the killings were related, in some way, to my father and the vrykolakas. It was a stupid, crazy thing to believe, and I knew it was stupid and crazy, which just made it stupider and crazier to continue to risk my life and freedom by involving myself in the investigation.

But, God help me, the lie I’d told myself so many times had taken root in my mind, and I couldn’t walk away from even a very slim chance that I might learn the truth behind Mad Jack’s disappearance. And, anyway, my mother was at Newstead, and if I went home, I’d have to see her. I felt that I’d prefer the vampire’s company.

By the time Beardy’s crowd dispersed, night was falling and my course was set. I would stay and I would see this thing through. And, as long as I was remaining steadfast, I figured I might as well try to fuck Olivia Wright.

Men were not permitted into the women’s rooming house after dusk, but I’ve found that if I behave as though rules do not apply to me, then they usually don’t. So, I paid no mind to the feeble protestations of the house matron, who squawked without effect as I strode past her roost by the front door.

“Lord Byron, why have you returned to my residence?” Olivia asked when she answered her door.

“I have seen terrible things today. Mangled corpses and murdered children. I am distraught, and I am seeking solace,” I said. “I believe I misplaced some between your bosoms.”

I reached for her, but she pushed me away. “You’re drunk, Lord Byron. I apologize if I confused you this morning, but I cannot yield to your advances.”

“I think you are the one who is confused,” I said. “You can give in to your impulses, and you should, whenever possible.”

“I’ll regret it later.”

“Later might not come. Trading the pleasures of now for the possibilities of later is no way to live a life. There will always be a later to prepare for, but you will not always be young.” I thought of Mad Jack, flinging china plates into the air. “And if later comes, and you regret your pleasures, so be it! A life without regrets is a life without texture. When now becomes later, you can make a new now; drown your regrets with drugs and strong spirits and do more regrettable things. Let’s seize our opportunity to be scandalous together. Let’s commit some spectacular folly.”

Olivia was not persuaded. “I should guard my chastity, I think, until I can ensnare a proper suitor,” she said.

I smiled and brushed my fingertips against her cheek. “That would not be an imprudent course of action.”

“I am a prudent girl. I treasure my prudence,” she said. “You could be a most excellent man, Byron, if only you would be less reckless.”