Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,

So that no wonder waits him; nor below

Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,

Cut to his heart again with the keen knife

Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell

Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife

With airy images, and shapes which dwell

Still unimpair’d, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.

I was unarmed and cornered. Knifing was still standing in the doorway, legs spread shoulder-width, holding a pistol on me.

I believed I had better-than-even odds of beating him in a fistfight, though I was hurt and exhausted. He was a tough man and a trained soldier, but he was old and slight. Still, I didn’t see how I could get close enough to lay hands on him; he’d shoot me down. I had no hope he might miss. He’d made two impossible shots with the Baker rifle to kill Dingle and the coachman; it would be for him a triviality to hit me with a pistol from three paces away. I probably should have used my shot to take down the investigator, and taken my chances in hand-to-hand combat with Not-Burke and his knife.

“So, what’s going to happen now? Are you going to shoot me?” I asked.

Knifing thought about it for a moment, and then lowered the gun. “I hope I won’t have to.”

“Are you angry I’ve killed your little friend?”

“Quite the opposite. The world’s no worse off for his loss. My honor would not permit me to disobey orders and get rid of him myself, but I am not displeased by this resolution.”

“But you are undone now,” I said. “Surely the father will be wroth, and he’ll cease to aid the King in Parliament.”

“He will not,” Knifing said. “I have planned for this contingency. Hoped for it, even. This could have happened the other night when Jerome Tower almost got the better of him, or any night that little shit went slithering into someone’s residence with ill intent. The father can still be controlled; he still has a secret that needs keeping. He doesn’t want the world to know what his son was, and how he abetted the lad’s gruesome deeds.”

“But surely all that will come out now. How can it possibly be concealed?”

“I already bought the innkeeper’s discretion. The undertaker’s, too.”

“What about the other tenants here in the inn? They must have heard the shot.”

“There are no other tenants. I rented all the rooms when I arrived, and signed for them with false names. As far as anyone is concerned, this man never came to Cambridge. He died on his father’s estate, mortally injured in a tragic accident. There is nobody around to say otherwise.”

I raised an eyebrow. “There’s me.”

“Yes,” Knifing said.

“So your charade depends on my acquiescence. It seems I find myself in a position of considerable power over you, Mr. Knifing,” I said.

He brandished the pistol. “Only if I decide not to shoot you.”

“If you shoot me, Mr. Hanson will publicize what he knows about you. To protect the King then, you’ll have to admit to the crimes and hang for them. I’m sure you’d prefer not to.”

“I’d rather have your complicity,” Knifing conceded.

“You mentioned money, girls, and drugs?”

He nodded.

“I’d like all those things, please.” This dire situation was beginning to look more agreeable. “I have amassed considerable debts, as you’ve evidently uncovered in your research. I’ll need them settled, including my account with Banque Credit Francaise.”

Knifing nodded again. I decided to press for more.

“A number of properties I inherited from my great-uncle were burdened with improper leases and other encumbrances. As his interest in those assets was only a life-estate, he had no right to let those assets for any duration beyond his death. However, litigation with his tenants is ongoing. He gave away the lands on unconscionably one-sided terms to spite his heirs, and the present occupants cling to them tenaciously. I’d like to see these matters resolved in my favor.”

“I’m not sure I can interfere with the process of the courts,” Knifing said. “The legal system’s independence from politics is fiercely guarded, and judges hate being told what to do.”

This was expected. “Then I want more money,” I said. “The market value of leases on those properties, retroactively and prospectively, made available to me on deposit.”

“I’m sure we can offer you a tidy sum,” Knifing said. “A reward that will satisfactorily convey the King’s gratitude for your discretion in this matter. But I will warn you not to attempt to use this secret to extort more money from the Crown when you waste what we give you. While the King rains indulgences upon his friends, he does not capitulate to his enemies.”

“His Majesty rolled over and offered his royal ass to Burke’s father, didn’t he?”

“Lord Byron, you will mind your tongue. I am content to shower generosity upon you if we may settle this matter now, but if you persist in being a loose end, you will get tied up.”

“You will blame all the murders on poor Angus?”

“He was a decent chap, but he’s dead. No slight on his reputation can cause him further harm.”

“He has a daughter. This will be disastrous for her. She’ll have no prospects, and she has no one left to look after her.”

Knifing nodded gravely. “His Majesty’s generosity will be extended to her as well. I’ll get her out of town, away from her father’s name and its history, and set her up in the country with a nice income and some property. She’ll be cared for by chaperones until she’s of age, and then she’ll be a fine match for any eligible lad who happens to be interested in wealth.”

I searched his face for dishonesty. He was, as always, inscrutable, and I knew he was untrustworthy. But I wanted badly to believe him, so I decided he was telling the truth. “The Treasury is laying out a great deal of coin to keep this matter quiet,” I said.

“These funds are the King’s to dispose of as he sees fit,” said Knifing. “And the King sees fit to keep his Throne.”

“The man I shot is neither Frederick Burke nor Colin Underhill. Who is he?”

“On my honor, I’ll never tell you his name, nor are you likely to learn any more about this matter. You’ll certainly get no more from me. None of this ever happened.” He put away his pistol.

I hesitated for as long as the noble facets of my nature could hold me at bay; not longer than a few seconds. Then, I succumbed to temptation. “Of course it didn’t,” I said, and I shook his thin, bony hand.

I left Knifing and his friend Bartholomew the undertaker to clean up the hideous mess in the inn. I went straight to the brothel, where I let the whores draw me a bath, and then I drank and fucked until I slid into a state of dreamless unconsciousness. Despite all my recent excitement, I’d slept more in the three days since I’d begun investigating the murder of Felicity Whippleby than I had in the previous three weeks.

I awoke late in the afternoon and had another tumble with one of the girls. When I was finished, I added the services I’d consumed to the line of credit the establishment had kindly extended me and headed back toward the College.

I found Old Beardy in his office. The sun was only just beginning the downward part of its daily arc, but he had his curtains pulled closed and was working by the light of an oil lamp; writing furiously in some kind of ledger. He looked up as I entered.