Poe must die

TWELVE

Flgg cleaned his two pistols while speaking.

“Me and Mr. Bootham here, we was followin’ you, Mrs. Coltman, us havin’ come upon you at the American Museum of Master Phineas Taylor Barnum. We comes near yer ‘ouse and we spies Mr. Poe a-strollin’ ’bout his business and we sees three gents leave a carriage and drag him from public view. These gents did not seem to be clergymen. I finds me way into the stable and-”

Figg stopped talking but kept working on the pistols. He sat behind the large oak desk in Rachel Coltman’s library. Mrs. Coltman, Titus Bootham and Poe sat in front of him; Figg could feel the little poet’s hostility towards him, not that it mattered a rat’s ass. Figg was going to squeeze assistance from Edgar Allan if he had to knuckle him a time or two to put him in a warmer frame of mind.

He looked up to see Poe glaring at him. Figg returned to his guns.

Poe’s soft, southern voice dripped malice. He hadn’t forgotten Figg’s implied threat if Poe didn’t help him to find this Jonathan. “Were you busy with cleaning rags when you first made the acquaintance of Charles Dickens?”

Figg didn’t look up. “Mr. Poe, had these pistols failed to perform properly, you would now resemble a gutted hog danglin’ from a slaughterhouse hook. I takes care of me firearms and they takes care of me.”

Poe crossed his legs, then turned his head so that he stared at Figg from the corner of his left eye. “You seem to have a way of convincing people, no matter how reluctant they may be, to do your bidding. Why not converse with the pistols and make them aware of the consequences of disobeying you.”

“Mr. Poe, allow me to tell you a wee bit about these particular pistols. They were handmade especially for me by the Reverend Alexander John Forsyth.”

Titus Bootham sat up in his chair, impressed. “Oh, I say! Were they really?”

Figg placed both pistols in a flat black wooden box containing bullet mould, powder flask, rammer and other accessories. Closing the top of the box, he set it to one side and folded his hands. “Reverend Forsyth was a man of the cloth in Aberdeenshire, which task did not prevent him from bein’ a right fine chemist and huntsman. In usin’ flintlocks, he learned that the powder flashed in the pan seconds before the weapon actually fired. This gave the birds and other game a right amount of time to escape. It was the Reverend Forsyth who designed a different sort of magazine and powder which stopped the flame from goin’ outside. He made the flame go directly down into the weapon.”

Poe rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Figg said, The Reverend Forsyth became very famous in England for his work with firearms. Napoleon Bonaparte offered him twenty thousand pounds for the secret of his special gunpowder but the Reverend bein’ a good Englishman, he said no to the Frenchie. Now the Frenchie he does not take no for an answer. He lets out that he was goin’ to have Forsyth’s secret one way or the other, this bein’ more than twenty years ago and the war bein’ on. So the Duke of Wellington he comes to me dad and he asks him to be protector for the Reverend Forsyth, to be his bodyguard. Me dad agrees, me dad bein’ in the trade like I am now and he stays with the Reverend.”

Figg stroked a scar that divided his left eyebrow. “Some Frenchies come for the Reverend one night, but me dad was a good man in a fight so he kills three of ’em and drives off the rest.”

Poe covered his mouth with a small, white hand. “Did he trample the roses as well?”

“Sad to say, me dad took a ball in the leg that night and he died of gangrene.” He looked at Poe. “The Reverend he made me these here pistols out of gratitude. His grace the Duke of Wellington, he taught me how to use ’em.”

Titus Bootham’s eyes were misty behind his steel-rimmed glasses. “Oh I say, jolly good. Jolly, jolly good.”

Poe, eyes on the carpet, combed his forehead with his fingers. He wasn’t going to apologize for what he’d just said, but he did feel uncomfortable. “I still desire to know why you followed Mrs. Coltman through the streets. There is nothing in Mr. Dickens’ letter of introduction encouraging you to do such a thing.”

“Granted. I was at the museum of Mr. Barnum in order to locate some of Jonathan’s associates who’d come here from England. I saw Mrs. Coltman havin’ a chat with one or two of them and-”

Rachel pulled nervously on a small, lace handkerchief. “Mr. Figg, I too would like to know your role in my life.”

“Yes, mum. A month ago, Jonathan killed my wife, Althea. She was young, mum, pretty like yourself and she had no experience of the world. Maybe I was too old for her, but she and I, we had some little happiness until-”

Figg closed his eyes, then opened them. “She was an actress and that went against the teachings of her father, the Archbishop Claridge. When she went upon the stage, he asked her to leave his home and she had no place to go. I give her a home and in time, we married. In a church I’m proud to say. But the people she was play actin’ with, they was bad people, odd people and Jonathan was their leader. He and Althea soon became, they became …”

Rachel flushed. “I understand, Mr. Figg.”

“Thankin’ you, mum. It is a hurtin’ thing to speak of, so I thank you for understandin’. Now Jonathan, he is a man what worships demons. He has given himself to the powers of darkness. Oh he is clever, I will allow that. But he is more, mum. Special powers he has and all of them given him by evil bein’s. For years, he has been searchin’ for the Throne of Solomon-”

Rachel inhaled sharply, both hands going to her mouth.

Figg noticed, but made no comment. “Althea told me of these things. Towards the end, she had to talk to someone. She said this here throne, it has got a special magic it does. Can make a man wealthy and more powerful than Satan himself. Jonathan has been after it for a long time.”

Figg looked at Rachel Coltman. “Same as yer husband, mum. Mr. Justin wanted that throne, did he not?”

He saw her nod, then pull hard on the handkerchief as if trying to shred it. Figg didn’t want to upset the lady but the truth had to be told. “Mum, if you have anythin’ to do with Jonathan, I beg you do no more deals from this day on. He will destroy you and all who tries to prevent him from gettin’ that throne. Althea said that Jonathan had to get the throne or one of those demons he bows down to would get him.”

Poe leaned forward in his chair, more interested in Figg than he had been seconds ago. “And you believe your wife spoke the truth when she told you this?”

“Yes, Mr. Poe, I do. Jonathan tried to use her father, even though he was a man of God. Jonathan had some Greek and Latin writin’s which he thought would lead him to the throne. He wanted help translatin’ them, so he comes to Althea’s father, the Archbishop who was a scholar in these matters. That was his plan all along, to use my wife to get to her father. But the Archbishop, he says no. He curses Jonathan. Jonathan then took his revenge.”

Figg blinked tears down his scarred cheeks. Poor Althea. Dead while scum like Jonathan still lived. Somewhere in the house, Figg heard a grandfather clock strike the hour. He said, “Mr. Poe, you are one with some knowledge of Greek subjects. Jonathan brought down the punishment of Tantalus on me wife and the Archbishop. I wants you to remember this when I asks yer help.”

Poe frowned, again combing the furrows in his forehead with a small hand. “Tantalus, Tantalus. Ah yes. Son of Zeus and a most disgusting son at that. Admitted to the circle of gods on Mount Olympus, but eventually he proved such a foul man that he was punished by being tied to the bough of a fruit tree which hung over a pool of water. Whenever he bent down to drink the water, it receded. When he would reach for the fruit, it would pull away from him. Thus we get the word tantalize-”

“I do not refer to that, Mr. Poe.”

Poe narrowed his gray eyes. A horrible thought was worming its way into his mind. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open. “Good Lord, man! Are you saying-”

Figg exhaled, dropping his chin to his chest. “The books say that Tantalus killed his very own son and served his flesh to the gods and then Tantalus told the gods that since they was all knowin’ they should know what they was eatin’. That was the reason for Tantalus’ punishment, Mr. Poe. Jonathan killed my wife Althea and he had her flesh served to her own father. And to me. We didn’t know, we didn’t know …”

Titus Bootham whispered, “My God!”

Rachel Coltman’s mouth was open; her eyes unblinking.

Poe couldn’t take his eyes from Pierce James Figg. There was no mystery as to why Figg wanted Jonathan’s life. Every man his own hell, wrote Byron. Figg was living in hell every day. He had eaten the flesh of his own dead wife. But there was more to this matter than what Poe had heard here. Much more. He looked at Rachel Coltman.

Her eyes were on Figg. Clearing her throat, she called the boxer’s name in a tiny voice. “Mr. Figg, you said my late husband sought the Throne of Solomon. This is true. He believed it would cure him of a most horrid disease but he died before, before …”

She used the lace handkerchief to blot tears from her eyes. “My husband did not find the throne before passing on. I can guarantee this. Myself, I have no belief in such an item. But my husband did and since I wanted him to live, I supported anything that would help him to. If this Jonathan is indeed seeking the throne, there is little he can expect from me, save some of my husband’s books on demons, witchcraft-”

Poe was on his feet. His was a freed subconscious, a mind that analyzed, that ruthlessly pursued truth. What he was about to do was painful but necessary. He had to know the truth, especially in light of what had happened to him last night at his Fordham cottage. Or this morning in Miles Standish’s office. Or minutes ago at the stable across the street.

He spoke slowly, sadly. “Rachel, you have been false with me. You have used me most foully and I am deeply grieved by it.”

She turned quickly to face him and he saw her prepare to lie, then decide against it.

“Eddy, I-”

“I forgive you, dearest Rachel. But I must ask that you speak to me from the heart and in no other manner. Early on Mr. Figg said that he was at the museum of Barnum in order to seek out Jonathan’s henchmen. When he saw them, they were talking to you. Rachel, you are involved in a most sordid matter and I fear you have involved me as well. Why?”

Her eyes pleaded with him not to ask her, but he stared at her until she spoke. Her eyes were filled with tears and never had she looked so beautiful to him as she did now. “Eddy, the dead body of my husband was indeed removed from its final resting place, but with my knowledge and permission.”

Poe was stunned. “You mean the resurrectionists did your bidding?”

She nodded, hands folded in her lap and twisting the handkerchief. “I followed his orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Dr. Paracelsus. He told me that he could bring my husband back to life if he could obtain the body. I was to have no guards at the grave and the mausoleum door was to be unlocked. I loved Justin, you must know that. So I willingly did as Dr. Paracelsus requested.”

Poe was angry and hurt at being used. “I suppose the esteemed Dr. Paracelsus demanded a pretty penny for this giving of life?”

“I paid him, yes.” Rachel was defensive now. Figg watched her and Poe as he would two fighters, either one of whom he would fight in the future. Both Mrs. Coltman and Mr. Poe were nearer to Jonathan than either knew, which suited Figg just fine. The poet or the woman could be his Judas goat and lead him to the demon-man.

Poe extended his arms towards Rachel. He’s hurtin’, thought Figg. He’s too much into that woman and she has hurt ‘im. And I know Jonathan is the cause.

Poe said, “Rachel, this man Paracelsus is a fraud.”

She turned from him.

“Rachel, the dead do not return to live with us. He has humbugged you. Shall I tell you what he plans once he obtains the body of your husband?”

She looked at him again, her face set against whatever he would say to her. “I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“He will indulge in necromancy, the blackest of all the black arts. He will use Justin for purposes of divination. The art can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, who believed that the dead, having passed from the earthly limitations of space, time and causation, are able to predict the future, to reveal the whereabouts of hidden treasure. Through necromancy, a magician like Jonathan controls demons, devils.”

Figg watched Poe kneel at the woman’s side and continue talking. “Rachel, this sinister business is a hazard to the conjurer for he may attract demons and evil to the scene and be unable to control them. If you are near when-”

She stood up quickly, her back to him. Poe stayed on his knees, his face unable to conceal his torment, his fear for her safety. “For nine days, the conjurer prepares. He steeps himself in death, dressing in gruesome clothing torn from corpses and he will wear this clothing until the ceremony is completed. He will eat the flesh of a dog and bread that is black, unleavened and without salt, for salt preserves and the conjurer is drawn only to decay. He will drink grape juice that is unfermented, for it symbolizes the absence of life. He will sit within a consecrated circle and meditate on death and there are frightening incantations which must be chanted-”

She swung around to face him. “I do not care what you say! Dr. Paracelsus will bring Justin back to me. I shall not turn on him. I have his promise-”

Figg stood up. “Here now, just who is this Dr. Paracelsus?”

Poe, his face streaked with tears, shouted at him: “He is whom you seek! He is Jonathan! He is the man who killed your wife! He killed Sylvester Pier and Tom Lowery! Jonathannnnn!”

Figg ran to him, shook his shoulders and slapped him twice.

As Poe sobbed, Figg held him in his arms, looking over Poe’s shoulder at Rachel Coltman. This beautiful red-headed woman would be seeing a lot of Figg before this matter was settled.

When Poe had calmed down and was again sitting, Figg stood over him and said, “How do you know this Paracelsus is Jonathan? Mr. Dickens tells me you write things that involve a mysterious turn of mind.”

“Mystery stories.” Poe could barely be heard.

“And stories about a detective, a Frenchie called-”

“C. Auguste Dupin.”

“Yeah. Does this sort of writin’ make you any smarter than the ordinary fella what is walkin’ around?”

Poe sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. He kept them closed as he spoke. “Deductive reasoning. That is the process, sir. Example: Dr. Paracelsus wants the body of Justin Coltman. According to Hamlet Sproul, who is the sole survivor of your handiwork in the stable, Jonathan has also put in a claim for the deceased. Sproul has the body and there is evidence of but a single set of ghouls. Conclusion: Paracelsus and Jonathan are one and the same.”

Rachel’s voice was firm. “No! I cannot accept that, Eddy. Paracelsus saved my life. I wanted to be with Justin badly enough to kill myself and he prevented that. I’ cannot believe such a man would-”

Poe opened his eyes. “Rachel, you used me and I forgive you for that. But I cannot live my life without truth and I demand truth even from you. Approach this matter with me logically. Hamlet Sproul was going to kill me, therefore he had no reason to resort to deception of any sort. He was quite forward on Jonathan having instigated the desecration of your husband’s final resting place. Next, you are seen talking to men Mr. Figg identifies as associates of Jonathan.”

“Eddy, these people at the museum are connected with Dr. Paracelsus. I cannot go to him when I wish. I must meet with go-betweens and give them messages-”

“Dear Rachel, you are refusing to reason. The same men who serve Jonathan serve Paracelsus. Both Jonathan and Paracelsus deal in matters beyond this world. I now ask you, when did you first encounter Paracelsus?”

“Immediately upon the death of Justin. I had no need for him prior to that.”

“Barely three weeks ago. Mr. Figg, when did Jonathan flee England?”

“The same time, it was. Right after he saw to it that my son he got hung for a crime what Jonathan had done.”

Poe leaned forward. “My profound sorrow upon your losses, sir. And now, I shall tell you both what has occurred in this matter. I shall do it with intuitive perception. Such analytical power shall indicate the true state of affairs. Imaginative you may call me, but I challenge you to prove me wrong. Jonathan fled England not merely to avoid retribution from Mr. Figg. He fled to be nearer Justin Coltman, who through his wealth and interest in the occult was obviously closer to the Throne of Solomon than was Jonathan.”

Poe stood up. “Upon learning Justin had died, he attempted to seize the body, having first insinuated himself in your life, Rachel, as Dr. Paracelsus. This gave him information and access to all matters pertaining to your Justin. By that I mean access to your servants, friends, associates. He then engaged resurrectionists to remove the corpse, which they did. However, instead of turning the corpse over to Jonathan as arranged, the resurrectionists kept it for themselves and sought a handsome fee for its return. This can easily be deduced from the terror evident in Hamlet Sproul as well as from certain remarks he let slip before taking himself elsewhere.”

“Rachel, your association with those at the museum of Barnum led Mr. Figg to my rescue. Mr. Figg, fortunately, had come upon me at the newspaper, where, at the time of our meeting, I was unable to reciprocate his greeting with one of my own. I surmise, too, dear Rachel, that Paracelsus has told into your private ear, certain facts about your life that you thought were unknown to all except you and Justin/9

She nodded, less on guard now. “He has. I have repaid him for his help to me by introducing him to my friends who have also lost a loved one and wish to contact-”

Poe said, “I assume these friends are wealthy.”

“Eddy, this part of my life does not concern you. If you have ever cared for me, I beg you to remember this.”

“Rachel, you and I are pawns. Because of me, two men are dead. Was is not Paracelsus who told you to engage me as go-between? Did he not say that it would be better for me to come to terms with the resurrectionists, rather than seek someone else for this dangerous task?”

“No! You were my choice because I felt you cared for me and would be certain to handle this matter most carefully. Paracelsus was against using you. He said your reputation as ‘Mr. Tomahawk’ would make you difficult to control. He said you were too analytical, too piercing in your judgments, too obsessed by your mania for the truth.”

Poe let his arms flop to his side. “Left-handed compliments. Accepted nonetheless. What he got was a man at home with the scum of our day, a position for which I am most qualified. I am at ease in grog shops, rum palaces and gutters from the Battery to the farmland beyond Forty-Second Street. Hamlet Sproul deduced I was the Judas goat and so I was. Sproul said their hearts and livers were cut out and burned. Rachel, this is a demon rite going back thousands of years. It is an offering to Asmodeus, king of all demons, he who triumphed over Solomon, wisest of Christian rulers.”

Rachel shook her head. “I shall never betray Paracelsus, Eddy. Never.”

“He has killed men, Rachel. He could well kill you.”

“Eddy, I do not believe this.”

“The man who butchered Sylvester Pier and Tom Lowery in this frightening ritual, is a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Had he felt Paracelsus was in his way, he would have murdered him as well. I can only deduce that the continued existence of Paracelsus, with his interest in the body of Justin, means that Jonathan does not want Paracelsus dead. Progressing further, it means both men are one and the same. The fiend who slaughtered those two ghouls is not a man to accept interference or competition. That Paracelsus continues to live means he is Jonathan or at the least, totally serves him.”

She found the strength to be cruel to him. “This sounds like one of your better tales, Eddy. I would pay a penny to read it, which is twice what it is worth.”

“Rachel, do not-”

“Is it true that you fall alseep at night only with the aid of an opium pipe?”

“Rachel, I beg you, do not hurt me this way!”

She angrily turned on Figg. “And you sir, this business of eating the flesh of your dead wife. I would wager that the Archbishop would find it amusing were he to hear it.”

“He’s dead, mum.” Figg looked down at the carpet. “He, after he had eaten, he, uh, he became disturbed in the head, mum and he cursed God. He could no longer believe in a god what could let somethin’ like this happen, so he killed himself. Hung himself from the church bell tower.”

She broke down, sobbing behind her hands. Figg watched Poe go to her and take her in his arms. Maybe she didn’t mean them things she just said about little Mr. Poe, thought Figg, but she was still much in favor of this Paracelsus, who Mr. Poe says is one and the same as Jonathan. That bein’ the case, the weepin’ widow was just the one to lead Figg to the good doctor.

Figg said, “Beggin’ your pardon, mum, but what does this Dr. Paracelsus look like?”

She lifted her head from Poe’s shoulder. Even in tears, Rachel Coltman was never less than lovely. “He is old, gray in hair and beard and he is large in the chest, a most impressive man. I do not see how he could possibly be your Jonathan.”

Figg frowned. He’d seen Jonathan, but in the dark of night and from a distance, and even then, he had not seen Jonathan’s face. Still, what he’d seen had been a slim, young man who moved quickly and gracefully. Nothing like this Paracelsus.

Figg said, “Jonathan is a much younger man, Mr. Poe.”

Poe kept his back to Figg and his arms around Rachel Coltman. “Mr. Figg, did you not yourself tell us that Jonathan was involved with travelling players?”

“That I did.”

“So, does it surprise you that his appearance can vary at will?”

“No, it does not, Mr. Poe. Leastwise since you have pointed it out. And I thank you.” Mr. Dickens was correct. Our little friend in the black clothing has his uses.

Rachel pushed Poe away from her. “I cannot help you, Eddy. I cannot. I will help neither you nor Mr. Figg to harm Dr. Paracelsus.”

“Rachel, twice within hours someone has attempted to destroy my mind, to shatter my sanity with illusions.” He opened his hand to show her the cut. “Something designed to make me doubt my reason occurred at the home of Miles Standish. A similar and most cruel occasion was visited upon me last night and as yet I do not know why.” Virginia, my dearest, dearest, do not leave me.

“Rachel, it is my belief that Paracelsus or Jonathan, wants to harm me in a manner that could be my utter ruin. Can you tell me why?”

Her hand reached out to touch his cheek. “Oh Eddy, oh darling Eddy. Ask anything of me, but do not ask me to deprive myself of Dr. Paracelsus. I will do all that you say in this matter except betray him.”

Figg said, “Tell us when Jonathan or Paracelsus contacts you again. Tell us when he asks you to arrange a meetin’ with some of your friends.”

“A seance,” said Poe. “It is termed a seance, Mr. Figg.”

Rachel shook her head. “I will not.”

Poe gripped her hands. “You must!”

“No!”

“You are in danger. I swear it!”

“Eddy, I must leave now. Miles sent a message earlier regarding the ransom and I must meet him to sign papers releasing the money. That is my sole concern at the moment. I am counting on your assistance in recovering the body of my husband.”

Figg saw Poe nod. Figg himself bowed when Rachel Coltman said, “Mr. Figg, Mr. Bootham,” then left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Mr. Bootham’s long, loud sigh was the only sound. He cleared his throat. “I, I, is there any assistance I can render, Mr. Figg?”

Figg kept his eyes on the closed door. “You can forget what you just ‘eard ‘ere today, Mr. Bootham. Your life is forfeit if you don’t. Jonathan would do you as easily as peelin’ a banana.”

“I understand, sir. You can rely on me. It is all quite upsetting, quite upsetting. I came to this New York as a war correspondent over thirty-five years ago and I cannot get used to its unending violence. This city, dear Jesus this city. It is alive and savage with its mind-boggling extremes of wealth and poverty. It is the largest city in a half-civilized land, a city of widespread crime and heartbreaking destitution and slums more heinous than any found in Europe.”

The little journalist shook his head. “It is a city of cholera, yellow fever and smallpox, but none of these plagues pose the danger of this man Jonathan.”

“Paracelsus,” said Poe, walking over to a decanter of brandy.

When he reached for it, Figg’s hand gripped his wrist. “None a that, squire. I need you.”

Poe sneered. “I have needs of my own, sir.”

“Satisfy ’em when our business is concluded.” Figg tightened his grip on Poe’s wrist. Let the poet know early on whose hand was on the whip.

Poe tried to pull away, but couldn’t. “I come from a fine family, sir and we lived like quality, in quality surroundings, in a quality home. Had you laid hands on me then, I would have had you horsewhipped.”

Figg jerked, pulling Poe to him. “I was born on straw, Mr. Poe. I ain’t got no ancestral home. A cow ate it. You and me is goin’ to find a place to live, then we are goin’ forth to seek Jonathan. I daresay he will soon be aware that you have been doin’ some thinkin’ on your own, so he might just be seekin’ you out as well. Caution should be the watchword, I would think.”

Poe pulled and pulled, trying to free himself from Figg’s grip on his wrist. “Sir, you cannot force me to accompany you.”

Figg smiled, releasing the wrist. “You are correct in that assumption, squire. I cannot force you to walk either behind or in front of me. That is somethin’ you are goin’ to do of your own free will.”

Poe, rubbing his wrist, shook his head no. The bulldog did not have that power over him. Poe was going to drink until he could not remember anything and the last thing he wanted to do was follow Figg.

Figg said,’ “I cannot force you to walk, as I said. All I can do is see that you do not walk at all. If you do not come with me, squire, I shall put a ball in your knee and you will not be walkin’ much at all, I’m thinkin’.”

Poe stopped rubbing his pained wrist.

Titus Bootham plucked at Figg’s sleeve. “Mr. Figg, you wouldn’t-”

Figg turned to him and smiled coldly.

Titus Bootham said, “You would.”

Figg’s smile broadened.

Seconds later, the three men left Rachel Coltman’s mansion.

Five minutes later, a colored servant, bundled against the cold, left the mansion, crossed the street and peered into the stable. After staring at the dead bodies of Isaac Bard and Chopback for a few seconds, the colored servant closed the stable door and hurried through the snow to make his report to Jonathan.