Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

The dominant authority among them, to whom I’d been speaking, I just thought of as Old Beardy, on account of the long tangle of dingy, yellow-gray hair that sprouted from his chin and neck and wound its way downward to come to rest in a matted point upon the protrusion of his belly.

The gentleman to his right, being quite rotund, was known to me as Fat Cheeks, and the man who had taken the penitent’s stool was Shar-Pei, because he looked like one of those wrinkly, jowly dogs. I suspected his name was actually Professor Sharp, and my nickname for him had originally been a play on that, but I had not been to his class in months, and I could no longer remember.

“The volunteer constable complained to us earlier this afternoon,” said Beardy, who was the senior Fellow or the department head or something like that. “He said you accosted him with your bear and tried to trespass upon the scene of a murder. When you were denied entrance, you began harassing passersby. Is this true?”

“I thought my assistance could be of use in catching the killer,” I said.

“Well, that is certainly a disrespectful and inappropriate way to indulge one’s fascination with the macabre. And there’s no reason to search for horrible things to look at. I suspect you’ll see more death than you wish to, before long.”

“What is disrespectful and inappropriate is your preoccupation with my minor eccentricities on a day when a murderer is stalking the campus. What efforts have you made to bring this monster to justice? What measures have you taken to ensure our safety?”

“When last I checked, this College did not admit women, and the safety of individuals who are not affiliated with this institution is not a matter which falls within the purview of our faculty. In any event, I understand the dead girl’s family has hired a criminal investigator from London whose arrival, I’m sure, is imminent. A brutal murder in our small community is of concern to everyone, but there is no meaningful action we can take toward solving that problem right now, and we produce no benefit to anyone by milling about the murder house and generally being underfoot as qualified investigators pursue the killer.”

“I cannot stand by and do nothing,” I said. “I was not born with a passive nature.”

“If you’re looking for something to occupy your time, maybe you should consider going to class once in a while,” said Fat Cheeks.

“Why?” I asked. “What possible good could that do?”

“That’s what we’ve scheduled this meeting to discuss,” said Beardy. “We’d like to help you to take advantage of the resources available here and to have a better College experience.”

My title carried with it certain privileges. In addition to my superexcellent suite of rooms in Nevile Court, I was also essentially assured a degree at the conclusion of my tenure in Cambridge, without any regard to whether or not I committed to my studies or passed the examinations required of other students. This was England, and I was nobility. That was still important, perhaps more important than ever, in this tumultuous era of revolution. Failure, for me, was impossible by definition. These professors were merely vexed that I had refused to pay homage to their wisdom by appearing at their lectures; that I’d refused to pretend that their instruction was of any value.

“Your time would perhaps be better spent holding a hearing of this sort for Mr. Leif Sedgewyck. He’s the worst kind of bootlicking social aspirant and a shameless drunkard. Also, I think he killed Felicity Whippleby.”

“In my experience, Mr. Sedgewyck is a decent young man and a dedicated student,” said Fat Cheeks.

“And, regardless, we would not discuss another student’s situation in your presence, nor would we discuss your circumstances with him,” Beardy added. “This meeting is to assess your progress, Lord Byron.”

“Then, by all means, proceed,” I said.

“We’d first like to discuss your living arrangements,” croaked Fat Cheeks. The area around his mouth always looked very wet, and I wondered what sort of ailment caused such a symptom.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said. “I find them tolerable, although a baron should be afforded more space for his possessions and his retinue. Perhaps we can work together to correct this.”

His shiny pink jowls shook with annoyance. “You’ve got one of the finest residential suites on our campus, and it’s more than adequate for your needs. What is unsatisfactory is your insistence on keeping dangerous animals in student housing. You amble drunkenly about the streets of Cambridge with that horrible bear, terrifying everyone you encounter. It’s only a matter of time before some unfortunate person is mauled.”

My pet had long been a contentious subject among the faculty; his very presence in Cambridge was an assault on the rules and restrictions passed down by the College. Prior to my matriculation at Trinity, I’d often embarked upon on my various adventures in the company of a noble and imperious bulldog named Smut. I intended to bring him with me to Cambridge, but the College forbade dogs of any kind in the residence and refused to make an exception for mine, even when I attempted to leverage my title. Frustrated, I obtained a written copy of the rules governing student housing and studied it with the assistance of my legal counsel. Prohibited to students were dogs, cats, trained birds, swine, and other livestock. As to the keeping of bears, these documents were silent.

Thus, the Professor.

“My companion is quite docile,” I said. “And both of us find that long walks in the evening aid in the processes of digestion and contemplation. Moreover, that animal happens to be a noted naturalist and esteemed Professor, and if I’ve anything to say about it, he’ll soon be joining you on the College faculty and enjoying these lovely chairs. You should have brought a fourth, for your associate.” Here, I pointed toward Shar-Pei. “He looks rather forlorn on his stool.”

Fat Cheeks was beginning to turn red. “Your applications for fellowships on behalf of that animal and your continued overtures to the administration to grant it tenure are both annoying and detrimental to your standing here at the College. And your boasts that you plan to endow a position for the bear only embarrass you, as everyone knows you are not financially situated to do so.”

“Perhaps you should join the Professor and me for a run or a swim sometime,” I suggested to Fat Cheeks. “You look rather gassy and bloated, and I suspect a bit of moderate exercise would improve your humors and overall disposition.”

“Stop calling that beast a professor.” His voice was high and shrill.

“I see little basis for making a distinction between him and one such as yourself,” I said. One certainly could not do so on the basis of relative body mass.

“Where did he study?” Fat Cheeks shouted. “What has he published?”

I stared at him but didn’t say anything. Old Beardy looked at Fat Cheeks, then at me, and then back. Shar-Pei avoided looking at anyone and, instead, picked at a hangnail on his left index finger.

I let the room settle into uneasy silence until I was certain nothing I might say would rescue Fat Cheeks from his embarrassment. When all risk of that had passed, I said: “Contrary to your previous statements, I don’t feel that this gentleman is affectionate toward me at all. Nor does he seem concerned about my personal growth.”

“Well, our affection has become tempered with frustration at your erratic behavior,” Old Beardy conceded.

“So, this is an inquisition, after all.”

“Of course not, Lord Byron. But we do intend to give voice to our concerns. Your class attendance has shown a marked decline this period. Your instructors feel you have become contemptuous toward them and toward your studies since the publication of your book.”