Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“His father has promised to keep him sequestered in the countryside, where the harm he does can be contained,” Knifing said. “But it is unseemly for a gentleman to turn his manor house into a prison, and propriety must trump security on certain matters. The young master escapes sometimes. The father will not allow his son to be recaptured by force; someone of his line must not have lesser hands laid upon him. So, His Majesty has tasked me with retrieving the lad when he gets loose, gently remanding him to his father’s custody and containing the damage he’s caused. My charge finds great delight in watching me scramble to cover up his crimes.”

“But surely you realize that protecting this man is reckless and immoral. The amusement he derives from forcing you to conceal his crimes is probably the only reason he has not yet stabbed you while you sleep.”

“I do not fear death,” Knifing said.

“Perhaps not, but I am sure you would prefer to receive it from more honorable hands.”

Knifing frowned. “There is no greater honor than death in His Majesty’s service.”

Not-Burke laughed again. He was still standing over Angus, who had been a better man, by far, than any of the three of us. I felt sordid, making conversation with the constable’s killer while his still-warm corpse lay supine on the floor.

“Why has he been killing people I know?” I asked. “Why did he impersonate a debt collector to hound me? Why did he come into my window to kill Noreen Lime? What’s this got to do with me?”

“Men like you and my father wander arrogantly about, taking whatever you want, while I am stuck in my house and consigned to the margins of society for my predilections.” Not-Burke gripped the knife so hard, his knuckles turned white and the cords of his forearm bulged beneath the skin of his wrist. “Why should you walk among men and cavort with girls, while I am locked away? Why should your excesses be tolerated, while mine are condemned? Who says you’re better than I?”

Knifing pointed a contemptuous finger at Not-Burke. “I told you; unstable minds are drawn to celebrities and magnetic personalities. Lord Whippleby is a friend of his father, and he came here after Felicity, but you certainly got his attention when you showed up drunk at the murder scene, demanding entrance. He’s fascinated with your notoriety. He would have gone to Harrow or Eton, but after he dismembered a chambermaid, his father kept him home. I told him when I followed him here that he must not get up to his mischief in such close proximity to you, but my warnings seemed only to encourage him to do everything possible to force your continued involvement in this business. For that you have my sincere apologies.”

I raised the gun again, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. “You’re the one who supplied him with the information about my dealings with Banque Credit Francaise. He used that as a pretense to enter my home. How did you even discover the details of my private business?”

“I’m an investigator, and I am very thorough in my inquiries. But I should not have disclosed that information to my charge. In retrospect, I see it was an error in judgment.”

The knowledge that the bank itself, lacking Knifing’s thoroughness, might not yet know of my misconduct was a source of some relief, and the revelation would have been quite welcome under other circumstances.

“That apology would be accepted with appreciation if you weren’t holding a gun on me,” I said.

Knifing shook his head. “It’s the best I can offer. But I mean it sincerely.”

“Mr. Dingle arrested me,” I said. “I could have been hanged for Burke’s crimes.”

“No.” Knifing gestured emphatically with his pistol, and, startled, I nearly threw myself to the floor. “I never would have allowed you to be tried. Your lawyers would have investigated my records, discovered the other murders, and unraveled the conspiracy. I hope you appreciate my decision to extricate you from Mr. Dingle’s clutches.”

“Your actions and your omissions put me in that situation, and I could have been killed in the stagecoach crash. You were willing to tolerate that risk, though, weren’t you?” I looked at the bayonet scar that bisected his face, and considered his square-shouldered military bearing. “You’ve got quite an aim with the Baker rifle, especially for a one-eyed man,” I said. Rage surged in my chest, and I felt my face and neck flush.

“The continuity of the monarchy is worth more than either of our lives.”

“Not to me, it isn’t. I’ve no desire to die protecting a mad killer so that his corrupt father will shield a mad king.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Knifing said, his scar crinkling around his twisted features. “You come dangerously close to treason when you speak that way.”

“Look at this room, Knifing,” I said, pointing at the blood splattered on the walls and pooled on the floor, and at the corpse of the constable. “All this death to protect a King who can no longer protect himself, a King who must bargain with extortionists.”

“We can find an agreement,” said Knifing. “We can all walk away from this. A man like you is always wanting things. Money and women and drugs. The King has many resources, and some could be made available for your benefit.”

“There will be no deal,” said Not-Burke. “I’ve no reason to negotiate with you, Byron, because you have uncovered no secrets I care to protect. Your information can connect those killings only to Archibald Knifing. Your representative knows nothing of me, and once you’re dead, he never will. If he publicizes what little he’s uncovered, only Knifing will be incriminated, and this loyal servant will accept the blame for my crimes to protect his beloved King. He’ll hang by his neck, and he’ll be thankful for the opportunity to be of service. I will be rid of both of you, and I’ll be free to resume my activities. You and your representative do not even know my name.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” I conceded. “But I know how to learn it.”

“I’m curious to hear how you propose to obtain that crucial fact.”

“I shall read it in your obituary,” I said, and I discharged my pistol.

The ball struck his long throat, bursting his Adam’s apple like a fat pimple and ripping his neck open. Not-Burke made several wet, gasping noises and then collapsed to his knees. He retched, and blood poured from his mouth, and from his gaping injury as well. He tried, once, to stand, but the trauma had rendered him feeble, and he pitched forward and struck his head upon the wood floor with a sharp crack. He clawed with his fingers at the ragged wound in his throat as if trying to clear his windpipe of some obstruction. He opened his mouth and tried to scream, but no sound came out. His cheeks had turned blue, and his lolling tongue was thick and purple.

He collapsed and bashed his head against the floor a second time, and then his body began to shake violently. When he spastically rolled onto his back, I could see that his skull was misshapen; he’d beaten his own brains out.

Not-Burke did not rise again; he only twitched a few times, and then he was still. His blood sprayed out of his neck in great spurts at first, but the pulses quickly grew weaker, and then slowed to a trickle, and a black shroud of flies settled upon his body, as they had upon Angus.

“My God. You’ve killed him,” said Knifing.

“Of course I did,” I said. “You saw the atrocities he committed against Violet Tower and her children.” I threw my spent weapon on the floor. “In this circumstance, prudence and passion counseled the same response. I could not have done otherwise.”