“Such an outcome would be unprecedented.” He stammered as he spoke and he took a step back, away from me. All at once, his rage seemed to break open, exposing the impotence behind the threatening facade. I could see the fragility of his negotiating position in his downcast eyes and in the quivering corners of his mouth. And I lost all interest in his precedents or his threats. Really, I lost interest in the insignificant personage of Frederick Burke.
“It might be unprecedented, or it might not be. I really don’t know, which is why I must rely on my lawyer.”
Burke’s hands clenched and unclenched. His Adam’s apple seemed to crawl up and down his weird, long throat. A vein throbbed on his forehead. His whole body seemed poised for action. I wondered if he might try to hit me, or if he might flee in terror and humiliation.
He did neither; instead, he lowered his voice, nearly to a whisper. “Why on earth does a man of high birth defraud a bank? Why did you need the money so badly? Did you spend it on anything but women and drink?”
“I am not going to speak to you anymore without my lawyer.”
“I’ve learned about you, Lord Byron, in performing my due diligence; my preparation to handle this matter. You delight in flouting rules and systems. You have treated your corrupt and dishonest dealings with Banque Credit Francaise as a kind of game. You twist the rules of the College by keeping that awful bear. Even men who number you among their friends would not trust you alone with their daughters or wives. Nor with their sons, for that matter.”
“I don’t need your scolding, Mr. Burke. If we have business to conduct, you may contact Mr. Hanson.”
Burke ignored me and continued speaking. His voice grew even softer, but the cords of his neck were tight with rage, constricting his Adam’s apple so tightly, I thought his throat might burst. “You avail yourself unashamedly of all the advantages that come with your inherited title. Yet you defy the very strictures and norms that have elevated you to your position of privilege. Why should you be celebrated for your knavishness? Why should your wrongs go unpunished?”
I turned and walked away from Burke in a crisp imitation of Archibald Knifing’s military gait. I’d actually been somewhat worried about what he might able to do, but it was now clear that he was entirely helpless. I would not be subjected to the indignities my father had suffered at the hands of his creditors. I was a baron, while Mad Jack had only been the nephew of one.
Chapter 23
And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie.
The very shadow of true Truth would shut
Up annals, revelations, poesy,
And prophecy-except it should be dated
Some years before the incidents related.
To tell a lie is the most unnatural thing in the world. It’s a contravention of human nature, a violation of the social contract. Most people can’t do it, or at least they can’t do it well. Language fails them when they try. Their twitchy eyes betray them. Their hands sweat. There aren’t many people who can maintain a steady gaze and an authoritative tone while telling a lie.
I can. I’ve had a lot of practice.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a secret ritual, one I have concealed from even my mother, Joe Murray, and the Professor.
Late at night, while everyone else sleeps, I sit in front of a mirror, and I lie to myself.
“Your father loves you,” I say. “He would never abandon you.”
A gifted liar believes every word he says, even though he knows his statements misrepresent the facts. Such is his faith in his own narrative that he believes he can remake the world through the exercise of charisma, persuasion, and sheer force of will. Only falsehood can reconcile the world as it exists with the world as it should be. Or, at least, if there’s another way, it requires a great deal more effort.
Alone, in my darkened bedroom, I stare into my own reflected visage and try not to blink.
“He is away, in the East. He has traveled beyond the horizon, beyond the sunrise, in search of secrets.”
If there is doubt in my voice, I reproach myself for my faithlessness. How dare I slander the father who loves me so much that he has gone questing, like Odysseus, through the savage places of the world so that he may bring back the secret of immortality?
In any case, he had to leave; he was in my way. If he’d stayed, he’d be Lord Byron, and thus, he’d be keeping me from my special destiny. He forsook his own birthright, such was his love for me.
A lie is like a seduction, and the skillful liar knows a falsehood’s recipient is a co-conspirator rather than a victim. If the lie is framed in a way that makes the listener want to believe it, he becomes a willing party to his own deception.
That’s why I don’t ask myself how Mad Jack knew that William’s heirs would predecease him. I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to examine the lie too closely. My rise was no accident; it was all designed, by Providence and by Mad Jack, my ever-vigilant benefactor.
To write a poem, it is said, is to tell the truth; poetry is worthless dross if it is not true. But the truth of poetry isn’t the truth of the world observed. Poetic truth is the truth of the world imagined; a truth made true by artistry and artifice and the sheer certainty of the writer and his reader that the world can be this way, and that, if it can be this way, it must be this way.
So I sit in front of the mirror.
My hand is steady. My eye is steady.
My cup is full, and then empty, and then full again.
And I say to myself: “Your father is not dead. He cannot be dead.
“He searches, in the East, for the secret of eternal persistence.
“You are loved.
“Your father loves you. Your mother loves you. Your friends love you.
“You will never be alone.
“You are a special boy, meant for a special destiny.
“Death is not an inevitability. Where others falter and cease, you will endure.
“Empires will rise and fall, and cities will crumble to dust, and you will persist, unchanging, drinking and dancing and making love.
“Forever.”
My hand is steady. My eyes do not falter. I sit in front of the mirror and I lie to myself.
My cup is full, and then empty, and then full again.
And I believe every word I say.
Chapter 24
But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
Upon my return to the campus, I found the lawn at the center of the Great Court crowded with students. Old Beardy, the professor who was so concerned with my growth as a man, was speaking from a makeshift dais.
“The College has been beset by senseless tragedy,” he was saying. “We have lost two beloved members of our faculty. This happened without warning, for no very good reason.”
Of course, if there had been any response from the College to the murder of Felicity Whippleby, perhaps these killings might have been avoided. Perhaps, had Cambridge been alarmed after the first murder, volunteers could have patrolled the streets and kept the killer at bay. Violet Tower’s maid might have been properly warned of the danger, and she would not have opened the door when the killer knocked.