POE MUST DIE

by Marc Olden

  The Irishman holding the bottle said to Montaigne, “’Ere’s to you, old one. You’ll get to heaven long before me. You’ll get there today.”

  “Before Seamus returns.”

  “Before Seamus returns.”

  The two nodded at each other, then stood up and walked towards Montaigne.

  Poe’s eyes bulged and he cried out as loud as he could. The gag strangled his words and the sound which emerged was that of a man powerless in the face of death.

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE PAIN WAS blinding. It exploded in the center of his face, then squeezed his brain. Sproul jerked himself into a sitting position from drunken sleep, both hands going to his nose. Pain. Someone had slit his left nostril.

  “Sproul?” The soft voice came from the darkness.

  Crazed with pain, Sproul fumbled for the leather thong around his neck. His fingers were wet with his own blood.

  The knife wasn’t there. Sproul patted his chest in a quick, panicked search. No knife. A hand went back to his bleeding nose.

  “Who-who is there? Speak, damn you!”

  “Jonathan.”

  Sproul went rigid, his stomach turning to ice. He tried to sit up. Something lay across his lap weighing him down, keeping him in place. Jesus and Mary! It was Seamus. He was dead! Lying across Sproul’s lap, eyes wide and staring, a few inches of candle jammed down into his open mouth. The candle was the only light in the small, filthy room. It rolled on the floor, smothering its flame. A thin, pale blue wisp of smoke slowly floated up into the air.

  “The body of Justin Coltman, I want it. It is in this room. You will tell me where.”

  On his hands and knees, blood pouring down his face and into his tobacco-stained, blond beard, Sproul crawled left, right, seeking safety in motion. He whimpered in fear and crawled.

  “You will give me the body, Hamlet Sproul.”

  “Dear God, no! Do not carve me heart—”

  Jonathan, scalpel in his hand, leaped on Sproul, sending him forward and to the floor. A hand covered Sproul’s mouth, trapping the scream deep within the grave robber’s throat. Jonathan, strong in his triumph, began to chant softly.

  * * * *

  Figg placed an ear to the door, listened, then nodded to the bowlegged dwarf who held the lantern. The dwarf, his black eyes expressionless in his large head, emptied the oil from the lantern, touched flame to it, then stepped aside. Figg, pistols drawn, waited and hoped he was not too late.

  Smoke rose slowly from the floor. Come on in there, thought Figg. Can’t be hangin’ about out ‘ere breathin’ this bloody stuff.

  The door opened and Figg stepped in front of it, kicking it, sending it back hard against the man who had opened it. The man ran backwards, fell onto a table, then to the floor. Figg blinked, eyes searching the dark room. Two men, no more. And Poe on the floor, wrapped like a Christmas goose and looking none too happy about it.

  Against the far wall, the man huddled over a cringing Rachel now turned turned his attention to Figg. The man yanked at a flintlock pistol in his belt and Figg fired, sending a ball crashing into the man’s jaw. The man screamed, spinning to face the wall, hands to his face, too late to save what had been destroyed. His tongue was mutilated and the sounds now coming from him could have been coming from an animal in agony.

  The man Figg had knocked to the floor was on his knees, hands in the air. He trembled and wept, pleading with Figg for his life.

  Grabbing his shirt front, Figg threw him in Poe’s direction. “Untie ‘im and be quick about it! If he be hurtin’, you’ll answer to me!”

  With the gag out of his mouth, Poe coughed, his face turning red.

  “They-they have murdered Montaigne.”

  “Who?”

  “Montaigne. The old woman from the Louvre, she who warned us about Johnnie Bill Baker. These beasts made a game of it. They broke her neck and laughed about it.”

  Poe was on his feet, rubbing his wrists. “Rachel.” He turned and hurried to her, covering her with the blanket. She was silent, in shock, her face calm. Poe smoothed hair away from her eyes, then turned to Figg.

  “Your coat, Mr. Figg.”

  The boxer tossed it to him, turning when he felt the dwarf pull at his trouser leg.

  “We best leave,” said the dwarf, looking quickly at the smoke coming from the burning door. “There will be others here soon, perhaps friends of these men.”

  Figg nodded. “Let us leave, Mr. Poe.”

  Poe walked towards them, an arm around Rachel, who looked small and lost in Figg’s large coat.

  “Jonathan. He is here, Mr. Figg.”

  “Where?” Figg clenched his fists.

  “Ask him.” Poe pointed to the trembling Irishman who was still on his knees, hands in the air.

  “Don’t, don’t know no Jonathan, sir. Don’t know—” Poe shouted, “You know where Sproul is and Jonathan is with him! Now tell us, damn you, where is Sproul?”

  Figg moved quickly to the Irishman, clapping the palms of his hands over the man’s ears, making him shriek and fall backwards to the dark, damp earth. “One time, Johnny boy. One time. Tell me where is Mr. Sproul?”

  * * * *

  Hamlet Sproul’s heart and liver still burned on the dirt floor beside his corpse, the organs now a small grisly pile of flesh blackening in tiny blue flames. The smell of it was bitter. Not as bitter as Figg’s heart. Jonathan wasn’t here. They’d missed him by seconds. Figg’s anger was almost out of control.

  “Catchin’ ’im is like tryin’ to nail water to the wall. Christ Jesus, I want me ‘ands on ‘im! God above I want to kill that man!”

  Poe pointed to an empty hole in the earth. It was shallow and not too long or wide. The dirt on the sides was freshly turned. “He has taken Justin Coltman with him.”

  Figg looked at Rachel Coltman who stood beside Poe. The woman’s eyes were glazed, her hair all over her face and she looked as though she was miles away. Shock, Poe called it. Figg had seen that look in the faces of boxers who had taken a bad beating, especially around the head.

  Damn it all to bloody hell! Figg kicked dirt back into the hole.

  “I suppose you are goin’ to tell me that Jonathan is out in the bleedin’ woods somewhere tryin’ to get Mr. Coltman to talk to him.”

  “He shall try Mr. Figg. As soon as possible. And I fear the consequences.” Poe looked at the pockmarked dwarf who stood behind the boxer.

  Figg, eyes on the hole in the ground, mumbled without turning around to look at Poe or the dwarf. “Little fella what’s with me is called Merlin. Works for Mr. Barnum who gave me the loan of ‘im. Mr. Barnum claims Merlin has ‘is own way of gettin’ things done. Has ‘is own kind of magic.”

  Poe found the dwarf hideous. Big head, tiny eyes. Skin pitted by smallpox. And he kept staring at Rachel like some lascivious, deformed elf.

  Figg turned to look at Poe. “Merlin he brought us through a passage he played in when ‘e was a lad. ‘E’s from around ‘ere, born and bred. Nobody would give ‘im a job, save Mr. Barnum.”

  Save Barnum, who collects the bizarre, thought Poe.

  Merlin waddled out of the room on bowlegs and into the hall. Then he stuck his head back into the room. “Smoke is growing out here. Best we leave. Sproul might have a friend or two we have not met.” His voice was a high rasp, a sound that made Poe want to cringe.

  “Nine days,” mumbled Figg, again staring at the empty hole. “The bugger has got hisself nine days to do his little business.”

  Poe moved near him, also to stare at the hole. “If we are to stop him, Mr. Figg, we have less.”

  And then they were in the passageway, following the waddling Merlin. Figg was silent, brooding on how close he came to Jonathan. When the bleedin’ hell was he going to get his hands on him? Riddle me ree. Some bloody riddle, mate.

  Poe, an arm around Rachel to guide her, said, ‘“Mr. Figg?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t we walk slower. Rachel has no shoes, her feet are
bleeding.”

  “Don’t hear ‘er complainin’.”

  “Her mind is temporarily damaged. She is in shock.”

  “Merlin says we keep on. Got a ways to go, yet. Few blocks, then we come up in a tavern what ain’t fit for a dog to piss in. No stoppin’ now, Mr. Poe. Got our lives to think about.”

  Got Jonathan to think about, mate.

  They continued walking in silence until Figg, his back to Poe and Rachel, said, “Mr. Poe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Figg.”

  “Sorry ‘bout me manners back there in the matter of Mr. Standish. This is a pressin’ business with me and I wants to end it quickly.”

  “I understand, Mr. Figg. I am again in your debt, as is Mrs. Coltman.”

  They continued walking in a darkness lit only by Merlin’s lamp.

  “Wants to ask you somethin’, Mr. Poe. You think Jonathan will get the thing ’e’s after, you know what I’m speakin’ of?”

  “Mr. Figg I tell you this: I feel the worst will happen. My mind rejects the belief in these matters, but Jonathan is a creature out of the realm of possibility. He is improbable and therefore capable of anything. I fear for us all.”

  “Why?”

  “Jonathan is not through with us. I feel it to be so and that feeling grows stronger with each step. We are now in more danger than before.”

  Figg limped, ignoring the ache in his bad leg. Chasing Jonathan was the same as toddling along in this blasted, stinking tunnel. A man could not go back; all you could do was go forward into something that might kill you—if you were lucky. And do a whole lot worse to you if you weren’t.

  Figg kept going forward. He was more frightened than he’d been at any time in his life.

  THIRTY-THREE

  HUGH LARNEY FELT light-headed with fear and exhilaration as he stood in his cold, dark stable listening to Jonathan speak with a strange new authority. The magician exuded power; the Throne of Solomon was within his reach.

  Sarah Clannon was also within reach, but forgotten for the moment. She lay on the ground between them, eyes closed, her small, pretty face unnaturally white. Her breathing was shallow. Under her right side, the straw on the stable floor was red with her blood.

  Jonathan said, “Nonne Solomon dominatus daemonum est? Had not Solomon dominion over demons? And so shall I. Solomon’s wealth, wisdom, his rule over all spirits—this shall be mine.”

  Hugh Larney, nervous and perspiring, nodded yes.

  The magician’s voice was a frozen hiss. “I, not Solomon, shall ride the wind. Solomon’s ring will be mine and like him I will call all demons unto me and impress my seal upon their necks to mark them as my slaves. I have the body of Justin Coltman; I shall bring him back from the dead to tell me how the Throne of Solomon is to become mine.”

  Jonathan stood in shadows, visible to Larney only from the waist down. The magician’s dark purple cloak was mud splattered to the knees. In a stall behind him, a horse whinnied and shied as though disturbed by something evil and unseen.

  Hugh Larney pointed down to Sarah Clannon. His finger shook. “How long is she to stay here?”

  “Until she recovers. I charge you with her care, Hugh Larney. Do not abandon her.” The words were a command and a threat. Larney understood this.

  He quickly changed the subject. “Poe. And the boxer. What about them?”

  “Nothing to me. I have what I want. Poe is now more your problem than mine.”

  “I-I do not understand.”

  “Mr. Poe and the persistent Mr. Figg were seen at the office of Miles Standish earlier today, just before Mr. Standish died. Having arrived there directly from the train, where they survived an attempt on their lives, it is logical to say they connected Standish to this failed assassination. From Standish to you and Volney Gunning is not far. You would be wise to assume they are on to you both.”

  “What, what shall I do?”

  “Survive.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “More efficiently than you have up until now. Poe is weak in body but his mind is agile. Figg is primitive, a danger physically and an underestimated danger in terms of thought. The forces of darkness lie within him, too. He does not acknowledge them, he does not need them, for he survives extremely well in this world with those abilities he chooses to recognize. But beware Figg. I tell you to beware this man.”

  Larney chewed his bottom lip with tiny teeth.” Shall I kill them?”

  “If you must. If you can. I leave you now. Is the farm abandoned as I requested?”

  “Yes, yes. It is yours for as long as you need it.”

  “Nine days. And I am to be undisturbed. No duels in coaches, while your friends sip champagne and eat pates.”

  “All in my employ are under strict orders to avoid the farm until further notice.”

  Jonathan’s voice was ice. “Anyone approaching the ceremony will die. Those forces I seek to raise cannot always be controlled.”

  “I understand, Yes, I, I understand.” As frightened as he was, Larney would have given all he owned to witness the ceremony, to actually see the Throne of Solomon appear. To see it!

  But to disobey Jonathan—

  No.

  Larney found it easy to bow and scrape to those he feared. Since he feared Jonathan the most, he bowed to him deeper than to others.

  “Soon the world will know and acknowledge your genius. You will—”

  “You fool!”

  Hugh Larney flinched.

  Jonathan stepped forward into the light of a lantern hanging from a post. A gloved hand held his hood closed, hiding his face.

  “I want neither the praise nor adoration of the world. I wish dominion over it; I shall rule as Solomon never did. It is written that in Solomon’s palace, the poor sat at tables of wood, the demons and spirits sat at tables of iron, while military chieftains sat at tables of silver. Learned men were at golden tables, where Solomon himself served them. I serve no one. All shall serve me and all shall sit at tables of iron. In nine days, Larney. Nine days … ”

  Hugh Larney tried to swallow and failed. Jonathan was a knife at the world’s throat. Soon that knife would—

  “I shall care for Miss Clannon. And if Poe should seek me out, I shall deal with him.”

  “Or he with you.” Jonathan’s voice was fading. He’d stepped deeper into the stable’s darkness. He was leaving to begin the dark ritual of necromancy, to bring back Justin Coltman from the dead.

  Hugh Larney shouted, “If I find it necessary to kill Poe—”

  He heard Jonathan’s carriage pull away and head towards the country.

  In nine days, Jonathan would be the most awesome force upon this earth, controlling demons and challenging God. Hugh Larney would reap the advantage of that. Hugh Larney would have power through Jonathan and then the people of New York who laughed behind Hugh Larney’s back would laugh no more. They would not.

  * * * *

  Poe sighed, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “Valentine Greatrakes was an Irish mesmerist of the seventeenth century, who it is said possessed the gift of healing by the laying on of hands. Jonathan had his joke at my expense and I nearly lost my life because of it. At that moment I was too confused to think clearly.”

  Rachel sat in bed sipping hot soup. “It was as though he was daring you to discover him, to find him out. The man performed before you as would a travelling player.”

  “Remember he is a man of the theater, as well as one possessed of a powerful pride. He must be in control, he can accept no less. You frown, Mr. Figg.”

  The boxer, who sat at the foot of Rachel’s four-poster bed, nodded. “Jonathan is about ‘is business. ‘E’s got what he come for.”

  Poe said, “We have less than nine days to find him, Mr. Figg. I am convinced we must, for all our sakes. We are too involved to be let alone. Death has come to almost all of those who touched on this matter. The grave robbers, Johnnie Bill Baker, Miles Standish. Destruction no matter how unsought, appears inev
itable. We cannot allow Jonathan to complete the ritual. Nor can we allow him the advantage of seeking us out. We possess surprise and little else. We must use it and search for him and stop him.”

  Figg cleared his throat.

  Poe eyed him carefully. “Afraid, Mr. Figg?”

  Figg rubbed the stubble on his shaven head, keeping his eyes on the rug. “Must say as how I am. Indeed, I fear this man.”

  Poe smiled. “A sensible reply, sir. I fear him, as well.” He looked at Rachel, who had stopped eating. “I fear him, but I cannot let him destroy as he chooses. Yesterday in the Old Brewery, Jonathan almost became the cause of my losing all that I hold dear in this world.”

  Rachel blushed, looking down at the bowl of soup. “I thank you, Eddy.” Looking up, she quickly added, “And you too, Mr. Figg.”

  Figg nodded once, “Yes, ma’am.” It was getting more and more noticeable: Poe and the lady were warming to each other. She was all the reason the writer needed to stick his hand into the fire. And in truth, a woman was Figg’s reason for seeking Jonathan. His wife would have been twenty-three years old in another two months.

  Figg said, “Today is the first of the nine days. One thing is for certain: We won’t be gettin’ Miles Standish to lead us to Jonathan. The magician made sure of that.”

  Poe used his fingers to comb dark brown hair back from his large forehead. “Jonathan himself did not kill Miles Standish. He undoubtedly ordered it done, for reasons which elude me, though I have my suspicions. Someone else killed Standish.”

  Figg flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the shiny black pistol box which he kept in his lap. “Next thing you’ll tell us is you been talkin’ to that little fella you put down on paper. What’s ‘is name again? That Frenchie you made up for yer detective stories which I would like to read one day, if I may.”

  “You shall have a copy of that book signed by me, Mr. Figg. Not that it is a national treasure of any sort, but it will be my pleasure to present it to you. C. Auguste Dupin of Paris, at your service.”