“If you take him away from here, you’ll have no case,” Knifing said. “Who in London will testify to the events you allege? What can you produce there in support of your theories? This is a baron you’re accusing, and he’ll mount a vigorous defense.”
“I’ve always collected my bounties from the office in London, and I see no reason to deviate from my custom,” said Dingle, unmoved by Knifing’s logic. “You have your way of doing things, and I have mine.”
“The habits of a penny-ante thieftaker are ill-suited to the work of a professional criminal investigator,” said Knifing. “There are established procedures, and you aren’t following them.”
“You said you’d have no part in my folly,” Dingle said. “That’s fine with me, but I’d appreciate it if you’d take no part in a quieter fashion.”
“You twit,” said Knifing. “You simpering imbecile.”
“Bugger off,” said Dingle.
The seats in the prison coach left much to be desired; they were hard wood benches bolted securely to the walls and floor. Iron rings protruded from the back of the bench, so the chains on my shackles could be looped through them, immobilizing my arms and legs.
I thought it unwise to risk giving Dingle a reason to attempt to use lethal force, but neither did I cooperate with his attempt to load me into the stagecoach. I just sort of let my body hang limp, so the fat man had to physically haul me into the vehicle. Momentarily, I regretted my weight-loss, but that sentiment was short-lived. The only thing worse than being forced to stand trial for horrific crimes is being forced to do so while also being fat.
Angus and Knifing watched as Dingle and the carriage driver lifted me into the cab. They made no attempt to help. Angus sucked on his mustache and shifted on his feet; I knew he didn’t think I’d done the killings, but he revered the investigators. The idea that someone like Dingle could be so confidently and decisively wrong shook the foundation of the constable’s worldview. Knifing’s features remained, as ever, sour and inscrutable.
Only steadfast Joe Murray seemed unconcerned. He’d been through this same procedure with my great-uncle William, the fifth Lord Byron. Twice, actually. In addition to stabbing poor Lord Chaworth, my predecessor also killed his chauffer for driving too slowly. As the servants at Newstead told the story, William shot the man in the back and threw the corpse into the Lady Byron’s lap so he could climb up onto the driver’s seat and whip the horses. Due to the difference in social standing between the killer and the victim, William never stood trial for that one. His wife left him soon after, however.
It took Dingle fifteen minutes of monumental effort to get me chained to the bench inside the carriage, and when he finished, he was wheezing and drenched with sweat.
“You look awful,” I said. “Are you feeling ill?”
“I hope you’re this droll on the day you hang,” he said, and he pulled the door of the carriage shut. Outside, the driver secured the padlock. The inner door had no handle, to prevent escape.
Dingle heaved himself onto the bench opposite me and leaned forward on his hammy haunches. Up above, the driver whipped the horses, and the coach lurched into motion.
“Old Knifing makes a great show of his supposed skill at tracking and detection,” he said. “But I figure there’s a reason the red Indians and the African blacks who showed him his trade never built themselves anything like a society. I don’t think foreign races that sleep in the dirt have anything useful to teach civilized folk.”
“Vampires sleep in dirt,” I said. “And they live forever.”
Dingle pounded the wall of the carriage with a meaty fist. The wood seemed to yield a bit under the force of the blow, which made me wonder if the carriage had some rot in it. I wriggled in my chains to see if I could force myself loose from the bench, but my restraints held. “You never seem to stop mocking me,” he said. “You think you’re so clever and I’m so dim. But you’re at my mercy now, boy.”
“We will see who is where, when Archibald Knifing catches the real killer.”
Dingle reached out and grabbed my shirt, yanking me forward and pulling my chains tight, so they cut into my wrists. “Archibald Knifing is daft. He can tell you how the crime was done, but he can’t tell you who did it. What’s the point of that? The man is nothing but a fine suit stuffed with urbane banter and horseshit. You leered at Felicity Whippleby, feuded with Sedgewyck and Pendleton, and fornicated with Violet Tower. And you were found unconscious in bed with the mangled corpse of Noreen Lime,” Dingle said. “You’re a monster.”
“At least I’m not ugly and stupid.”
“No, but you’re a clear murder suspect to anyone who looks at the facts. And if Knifing can’t see that, then I’ve no respect at all for his vaunted skills.”
“You’ve made an awful mistake,” I said to Dingle, leaning forward and jangling my restraints. “Despite your fat, foolish certitude, I am innocent of these crimes and will be vindicated.”
“You’ll be convicted, on the strength of your confession,” Dingle said, his broad, dumb mouth turning up at the corners.
“I will give no confession,” I said.
Dingle lifted his bulk from his seat, placed his stumpy left paw on my shoulder, and punched me twice in the gut with his right fist.
“I believe I can persuade you to change your mind, Lord Byron,” he said. “It’s hours to London, and I’ve got nothing else to do.”
Chapter 31
But I, being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, “Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o’er again-’t would pass-
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.”
As it turns out, my preconceptions about Fielding Dingle’s capabilities had not served me well. He lacked the conversational or observational talents of Archibald Knifing, but when it came to violence, he was both well trained and naturally gifted. I have had few beatings in my life that were so symmetrically organized or so thematically coherent. He rolled my body to the side with a deft strike from his left forearm, so he could poke at my kidneys with his knuckles of his right hand, and when I cringed or writhed from the pain, I stretched and twisted my shackled limbs.
Probing fists roamed across me, alighting upon my solar plexus, exploring my armpits and the joints of my elbow, digging into every place I was soft. My body had, in the past, endured similar abuses, but never while I was so unpleasantly sober. Dingle was smart enough to avoid striking my head or my face so that the magistrate in London would not have his sensibilities offended by the presentation of a battered suspect, but that small mercy was little consolation as my vision went red with agony.
“You can end this with the truth,” Dingle said.
But defiance was second nature to me. “You’ll tire before I will.” The back of my throat tasted like blood, and the words hurt coming out.
He put his weight behind a fat, dimpled knee and aimed it at my crotch. I squirmed in my seat, and he caught me on the hip instead. It still hurt.
I’d resolved to die before I’d confess to anything, but I had a habit of falling short of my ideals and aspirations, and this situation was no different from previous occasions in which I’d disappointed myself. It wasn’t very long before I started begging.
It made no difference. Hanson would rescue me from custody, hire a physician to document my injuries, and use the evidence of coercion to throw doubt upon my confession. Perhaps I’d even get hold of some powerful painkilling drugs. Dingle’s victory would be short-lived.