Poe must die

EIGHTEEN

Rachel Coltman noticed that Eddy Poe was very much the polite and courtly southerner with the beautiful child Dearborn Lapham, who had arrived at Rachel’s Fifth Avenue home this afternoon with Hugh Larney and Miles Standish. The Eddy who was talking to little Dearborn was not the Eddy who used words with bitter precision. This Eddy Poe had the aristocratic charm of the Virginia in which he’d been raised; Rachel delighted in seeing his pleasantries to this lovely child, whom Hugh Larney had introduced as his niece.

Dearborn, in an ankle-length dress of green taffeta, her golden curls reaching to her waist, stirred her tea with a delicate silver spoon gripped between thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers on her right hand pointing up at the ceiling.

“I shall be an actress, you know. One day I shall.”

Poe, sitting across from her, nodded with a half smile. “A laudable profession, Miss Lapham, one in which my mother excelled.”

The child whore looked at him for several seconds. Her smile came after some small reflection, mildly surprising Rachel who found such poise intimidating in a child. Was it Rachel’s imagination or had Miles Standish actually smirked behind his hand when Hugh Larney had introduced Dearborn as his niece?

Dearborn said, “Did your mother love the stage, sir?”

“I am told she did. She died when I was but a child, just days short of my third birthday. Yes, she loved the stage. She performed some two hundred different roles, this in addition to her chorus and singing work.”

“Your parents were travelling players, sir.”

Poe smiled. “I am the son of an actress, Miss Lapham. It is my boast.”

Dearborn sipped tea, gently placing the cup back on the saucer she held in her left hand. “I have never known my parents, sir.”

Hugh Larney, sitting beside her on a small leather sofa near the fireplace, smiled into his half-filled glass of brandy. “She has a Dutch uncle who sees that her hands are never idle. I myself arrange excursions for our little Dearborn which take her far from this teeming metropolis. Why today, she accompanied me to the country where we had a rousing good time, did we not Dearborn?”

The child looked down at her snow wet boots. “Yes sir. We did see some things indeed, sir.”

She looked at Poe. “You are from the South, sir?”

His smile was gentle. “Yes and no. I was born in Boston-”

“That is far north, is it not, sir?”

“Massachusetts. And not too far north. Then I spent some time in Virginia-”

“Oh, I see, sir.”

“Then it was to England where my family and I lived five years.”

“Is England far, sir? Is it near Virginia?”

“No, my dear. It is indeed far, a long way across the ocean.” She reminds me of Sissy, my dearest wife. She has the beauty and gentleness of darling Sissy, and she is around the age Sissy was when we married.

But Dearborn Lapham was a child whore, one seen in the company of Hugh Larney on more than one occasion, one known to belong to Wade Bruenhausen, the blind, bible-reading Dutch procurer. In the child’s company, Poe had noticed the startling resemblance to his wife and first cousin, a resemblance that had overshadowed what he knew of Dearborn’s life. To think of her as a whore was to resent Hugh Larney more than usual, something Poe didn’t want to do this afternoon for Rachel’s sake.

Rachel said, “I am glad you received my message, Eddy. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior to you yesterday.”

“Rachel please-”

“No Eddy, it must be said.”

“It has been said, dearest Rachel.”

“I shall say it again. You are a most treasured friend and one I shall never again deceive or disgrace. I shall follow your advice in this personal matter, I give you my word.”

Except, thought Poe, when it comes to renouncing any and all allegiance to Dr. Paracelsus. You will be guided by me in the matter of the ransom, providing we hear again from Hamlet Sproul. But in truth, you will also be guided by Paracelsus, whom I truly suspect as being more deadly than his appearance conveys.

Miles Standish said, “We assumed you would be in touch with Mrs. Coltman, which is why we are here. I would like to know if you are still in touch with Sproul?”

“No.” Poe’s eyes were on Dearborn Lapham.

Pierce James Figg, sitting near a window, took his gaze from Poe to look out onto the street at the huge black man who stood near Larney’s carriage talking to a tall white man in a top hat and ankle-length red fur coat. Then Figg looked back at Poe. Little Mr. Poe has a sudden interest in the tiny dolly mop, thought the boxer, but I don’t think it’s got anything to do with havin’ a go at her. That’s what the little dandy fella is doin’ what brought her here, the fella with the pointed chin and the look about him of a man who’ll steal shit from a parrot’s cage and sell it to you as mayonnaise. Figg did not trust a man with a mouth as small as Larney’s.

Standish stood with his back to the fire. Rachel noticed that he treated Eddy as though Eddy were a wild beast about to strike unless spoken to in soft tones. Standish said, “Mr. Poe, I would like to know if you feel that the recent attack upon you signals an end to any communication with the ghouls.”

With an effort Poe took his gaze away from Dearborn. “I have no answer for that, Mr. Standish. When time has elapsed and I hear nothing, I will then assume you are correct. The timely intervention of Mr. Figg has reduced the criminal population by two, but I have yet to learn if it has reduced my chances of recovering Justin Coltman.”

Standish coughed into his fist. “I shall assume you will be in contact with me.”

“And Rachel.”

Standish coughed again. “Yes. Of course. I can leave a message for you-”

“With Rachel or the Evening Mirror.” Poe turned his attention back to Dearborn.

Rachel saw Eddy frown as he observed Hugh Larney reach out and pat the child’s knee. Eddy and Hugh Larney had not said much to each other, giving Rachel the distinct impression of mutual hostility. She found Larney weak, offering only surface charm and the self-serving efforts of the devoted social climber. If he and Eddy disliked each other, it was because Eddy was the more honest man. Or was it because of Dearborn Lapham. Dear God, what a horrible thought! Both men somehow involved with this beautiful child, this child who appeared far more knowing than her years warranted. No, such a thing was unimaginable. Eddy would not-

Eddy. She’d sent a note to him at the Evening Mirror, apologizing for the horrid things she’d said to him yesterday, inviting him to call upon her as soon as possible. He had done so, still in the company of the stern-looking Mr. Figg. She had been deeply sorry for what she’d done and Eddy, dear Eddy, he had been a gentle, forgiving man, making her feel as though nothing had occurred, telling her she was ever on his mind, in his thoughts. Dear Eddy. He was the only man since Justin that she had wanted to be with, talk to, had looked forward to seeing.

If he disliked Hugh Larney, so be it. Rachel watched Hugh Larney cross his legs, fingers toying with Dearborn’s waist-length blonde hair. Larney’s niece. Rachel wasn’t so sure about that.

She saw Poe’s brow furrow and she knew he did not like the idea of Larney touching the child. Larney smiled as though Poe’s displeasure had been his goal all along.

The food merchant, never one to miss an opportunity to parade his possessions, leaned his head back, staring at Poe through slitted eyes. “Mr. Poe, I ask you: Do you believe Dearborn has a chance of becoming a successful performer. I myself have a rather personal view of how well she performs but I wonder how you feel about her chances to succeed in a field you seem to know so much about.”

Figg thought: He’s baiting you, mate. Catch it early on and handle it. But you won’t, will you? You’ll let him set fire to you, which is what he’s tryin’ to do.

Poe said nothing. He looked down at his black coat, stroking its lapels with his thumbs.

Larney said, “You are a critic, sir. Surely you can venture an opinion in this matter.”

Standish stepped away from the fire. “I think we should be leaving, Hugh. We have learned what we came here to learn, which is that there has been no contact between-”

“Mr. Poe.” Larney smirked, a hand kneading Dearborn’s neck. “Give us your opinion, sir.”

Poe, chin on his chest, looked across at Larney with brooding gray eyes that penetrated anything in their path. Rachel held her breath, fearful of what was to come.

Fool, thought Standish. We came here to learn how to reach him so that we could kill him and you, Larney, have to challenge him. Dolt. Ninny. Baboon. There are not words enough for you, Larney. Standish, with Thor on his mind, kept silent.

Larney said, “Mr. Poe, you are usually a gentleman of no hesitancy when it comes to revealing your impressions of the world around you. Yet now, you hesitate and methinks you are in awe of Dearborn’s, oh let us call them, possibilities.”

Poe’s drawl was soft and deadly. “You sand your sugar, you sell tea composed of wood shavings and dried leaves-”

Larney’s hand froze on Dearborn’s neck.

Poe said, “The butter you sell is rag pulp and lard. One could make a towel from it.”

Larney’s voice was soft, too. “I have taken all I intend to from you. I shall go to the door and when I have called Thor-”

Figg said, “That would be your manservant, the one whats in the cold talkin’ to the gent in the fancy red fur.”

Larney said nothing.

Figg stood up. “Leave him be, Mr. Larney. Let him enjoy the fresh air.”

Standish stepped between the two men. “Gentlemen, please remember where you are!”

Larney swiveled around on the leather couch until he could see Figg. “Sir, are you addressing me?”

Figg said, “I don’t wants no trouble ‘ere. But you call your man into this ‘ouse to harm Mr. Poe and the first thing I shall do is deal with you, Mr. Larney.”

Larney inhaled, exhaled, not moving a muscle. When he stood up, his back was to Figg. “Mrs. Coltman. Miles, we shall wait for you in the carriage. Do not bother to show me out.”

Rachel, her face tense, walked over to him. “I shall have a servant give you your coat and the child’s wrap.”

As Larney turned to leave the room, Poe said. “You seek recognition, sir. It is the talk of Gotham, your courting of your betters. Your search for accommodation among the respectful is tantamount to sprinkling rose petals on a dung heap.”

Larney stopped, his back to everyone in the room. He held both of Dearborn’s hands. Then he continued walking until he’d closed the study door behind him.

Rachel looked at Poe. “Oh, Eddy. Did you have to do that?”

“I did. And I shall live with it.” He looked at Figg, then looked away.

Miles Standish coughed. “I must go.” Poe deserved killing. Larney would only reaffirm that now and Miles was glad. For once, he was glad that Poe had opened his insulting mouth. He’d just dug his grave with it. Larney would never forgive these insults.

As Rachel stood alone in front of the fireplace, hugging herself, Poe and Figg stood at the window looking out at Larney, Volney Gunning and Miles Standish as they leaned close together and talked in the cold, sending steamed breath into each other’s face.

Poe spoke in a small, sad whisper while he stared at them. “That lovely child is Larney’s whore, Mr. Figg, a most lamentable business. Once or twice I have seen the two of them from a distance. However, to be in her company magnifies greatly my discomfort regarding any claim of Larney upon her.”

“You has men in the world, Mr. Poe, what fancies little girls. Never seen the appeal in it meself.”

“This little girl is a startling reminder of my late wife when she was that same age.”

Figg scratched his bulldog chin with the back of a blackened thumbnail. “Wondered why you was diggin’ at that little fop, Larney. He seems to place great store by that huge blackamoor what drives him around. I know the look of men who do bodily harm and the big black fits into that selection. Anyway, you best keep your mind on things at hand. We gots to look up them Renaissance Players-”

“You do, Mr. Figg. I shall point you in the right direction, but the business of slaying I leave to you.” Poe watched Miles Standish climb into his carriage and reach for the reins.

“Fair enough, Mr. Poe. Sun comes up, sun goes down and what happens in between ain’t usually worth what you scrape off the bottom of yer boot. Things is bad in the world, always has been. Change ’em and you only make ’em worse. I know you worries over women like a mother hen but I have the feelin’ that this little girl whats with Larney can handle herself.”

“I do not want Larney to have her.”

“From where I sits he already does.”

A vein throbbed on Poe’s high, wide forehead. Figg watched the writer and slowly shook his head. Little Mr. Poe getting himself all worked up over a tiny judy. You’d have thought God died and left him in charge of the welfare of all the ladies in the world. Beatin’ his breast, sobbin’, gettin’ a lump in his throat every time a petticoat and laced boots come strollin’ by. Hope the rest of the bleedin’ men in bleedin’ New York ain’t like this.

When Hugh Larney’s carriage, with the huge Thor sitting up top on the driver’s seat, pulled away onto snow covered Fifth Avenue, Poe let the green curtain fall into place and turned to look at Figg.

“I know of her so-called Dutch uncle, one Wade Bruenhausen, who is a flesh peddler with foul habits and more than a casual share of nature’s cruelty. He is possessed of formidable hypocrisy.”

“Sounds darlin’, he does.”

“Prior to sending forth the children to steal and whore, Mr. Bruenhausen stirs their tiny hearts with a reading from the bible and occasionally, a hymn into the bargain.”

“Right peculiar sort, ain’t he.”

“Paracelsus, Miles Standish, Bruenhausen and now Hugh Larney. Such men make me ill. They use women and I find such men despicable.”

Figg watched Poe’s thin mouth quiver under the writer’s mustache. Lord high protector, thought the boxer. Never got the chance to protect his mum and ’e can’t protect his wife now’ cause she’s in the ground, so he’s got to find some lady what needs him. Or he thinks needs him.

“You best face facts, Mr. Poe-”

“Facts!” Poe threw both hands up in the air.

Over by the fireplace, Rachel Coltman flinched at the sudden loudness of his voice. She’s stayed away from their conversation at the window. Somehow she’d sensed that Poe and Figg were talking about the child Dearborn in a manner that no nineteenth-century lady should overhear. Modesty was much in fashion and there were things between men that the ears of no self-respecting woman should encounter.

She watched an angry Eddy stalk away from Mr. Figg. In the center of the book-lined study, Poe stopped, his glittering eyes boring first into Rachel then into Figg. It was times like these that he frightened and attracted her. She found herself breathing faster, drawn to him despite a tiny voice of caution within her.

“Facts?” snapped Poe again. “Heed me now, sir. You think me a buffoon around women?”

Figg sat down on the leather couch. “I minds me manners in front of a lady. I do not recall sayin’-”

“I am about to demonstrate a clarity of mind which you surmise I lack. I shall prove to you now, sir.”

Figg reached for a cup half filled with cold tea, dwarfing it between his huge hands. He mumbled, his wide mouth hidden by the cup. “Mr. Dickens says you have the cravin’ to prove your superiority over one and all.”

“Speak up, sir! We are all of us here fluent in the mother tongue.”

Rachel walked over to Poe, placing an arm around his shoulders. “Dear Eddy, calm yourself.”

Poe patted the back of her hand. “Thank you, beloved friend, but be at ease. I am not the maniacal and dangerous fellow my enemies have created from their own ignorance. Sit and listen, for I shall now say more of this business of Paracelsus, of Jonathan and the grave robbers. Both you and Mr. Figg shall listen and observe that my intelligence functions most incisively. Yes, the sorrow of my existence has forced me to live in constant disappointment and discomfort. Mine has been a life of poverty and depression, but-”

He aimed a forefinger at Figg. “But sir, I never guess at anything. I analyze most intelligently. Facts, you say. Well hear me. Let me tell you of the original Dr. Paracelsus, the original-”

Figg, with a two-handed grip on the fragile tea cup, paused in his drinking. “You sayin’ there is two of ’em?”

“The original Paracelsus was Swiss, born in the fifteenth century to a poor nobleman. Christened Theopharastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, the son studied medicine and became a doctor while also possessing psychic skills. These talents allowed him to perform unusual cures which soon brought him fame as well as appointment as professor of medicine at the University of Basel. Von Hohenheim took the name of Celsus, that famed physician of ancient Rome, adding Para which means beyond in Greek. It follows from all of this that von Hohenheim ranked himself as greater than Celsus.”

Ain’t got a patch on you, mate, thought Figg. You and him both thinks you can walk on water.

“As Paracelsus,” Poe continued, “our fifteenth-century man of medicine was also a sorcerer, magician, a sensitive believed to have the power to read the future as well as the minds of men. He became egocentric, a man of extraordinary vanity. He began to drink too much and he developed a violent temper, as well as a strong belief in his self-created legend. He ordered his students to burn the books of those men who disagreed with him and he made numerous enemies. He imagined many plots against him and in truth there were plots against him. When his enemies grew larger in numbers, Paracelsus was forced to flee the university, thereafter wandering Europe for fourteen years, becoming even more violent and abusive. He saw a world filled with enemies and he was both correct and in error in his thinking. Some were his foes, some were not. The death of Paracelsus only increased the mystery of the man.”

Poe walked over to the fireplace, extending the palms of his hands towards the warmth of the flames. “Some say he was poisoned, others say he became drunk, rolled down a hill and died as a result of injuries. In death, he gained even more fame. Today those who follow the dark sciences consider Paracelsus a patron saint, an icon to be worshipped and imitated. It is safe to call the man both an adept and a charlatan, for in truth he did possess the power of healing as well as a talent for deception. On occasion, yes, he could call up from deep within himself those strange powers which have eternally baffled man. But Paracelsus was boastful, proud and often dangerous.”

Poe turned to face Rachel and Figg. “As is the Paracelsus now within our midst. I have given you the history of one man so that you might understand the history of the other. Mark them as one, except that there is more evil in that Paracelsus who walks among us. I am referring to the manner in which the grave robbers were killed.”

Rachel said, “Eddy, you did not tell me-”

“I tell you now, dear Rachel, for it is my opinion that Jonathan is no human agency. Yes, he is a man of flesh and blood but he is a terrifying force in servitude to demons. The grave robbers who took Justin’s body had their hearts and livers removed, then the organs were burned. This is a sacrifice to Asmodeus, king of demons, who in Hebrew mythology was forced by Solomon to build the Temple in Jerusalem. The smoke from the burning heart and liver is said to drive Asmodeus away.”

Rachel shook her head. “Eddy, Dr. Paracelsus would never do such a thing. He is helping me-”

“By promising to bring your husband back from the dead.” Poe held up his left hand, the slashed palm towards Rachel, who winced when she saw it.

He said, “This is the result of a visit yesterday to the home of Miles Standish, where a brief, violent tableau was staged for my benefit.”

Rachel’s hand was in front of her mouth. “Miles did that?”

“He had it done. A painting supposedly came to life and attacked me.”

Once more, Figg stopped sipping cold tea. “It what?”

“Attacked me. I first had to be drugged, which was accomplished by gas through the jets, gas mixed with incense.”

Figg frowned. “You didn’t tell me any of this, squire.”

“I said to you, Mr. Figg, that I do deal in facts, that my mind is occupied with more than the welfare of the female portion of mankind. My intelligence functions in its own manner; it is a process that has baffled, amused, tormented and upset various segments of the American public, not to mention critics, of whom the less said the better. Because I do not choose to tell you all that I am concerned with, Mr. Figg, does not in any way indicate I am concerned with nothing at all.”

Figg sneered. “You are a delight, you are.”

“Eddy, are you saying that Miles-”

“He is involved in this attempt to obtain ransom, as well as the body of your husband. He is in league with Jonathan, or if you will, in league with Paracelsus.”

Rachel shook her head no. Eddy was once again off on a flight of fancy. He had to be. Miles would never harm her. Never.

“Eddy, how can you say this about Miles?”

“Because Miles does not want me in your life, because he wants you for himself, because it appears to me to be of some benefit to him as well as Jonathan if I doubt my sanity, question myself and not question any attempts at extorting ransom from you. In that matter, I was to ask no questions, formulate no opposition. I can only surmise that it is felt I have some small degree of influence with you.”

Rachel felt the tears slide down her face. “You do, Eddy. Oh indeed you do. But of Miles, how can you say he betrays me?”

He moved to her side, taking one of her hands in his. “Paracelsus needs spies, he functions on the information they bring him. If anyone knows what you can afford to pay in ransom, it is Miles. If anyone would render me helpless, because of his desire for you and a desire to eliminate all opposition to the ransom, it is Miles. That my alleged hallucination occurred in his home and nowhere else, is proof of this. I would also wager that some of your servants and friends are passing on to Jonathan/Paracelsus certain confidences about you, for omniscience is not impossible to attain if one knows how.”

Figg stood up. “A question, squire, since you seem brimmin’ over with facts. Does the Throne of Solomon really exist?”

Poe, down on one knee beside Rachel, turned to look up at him. “Jews and ancient Persians and Arabs say it does. A legend in old Persia claims that the throne or great chair is carved from solid rock on the border of India and Afghanistan. According to the Koran, the holy book of the Arab, Solomon had the power to ride the wind while seated on his throne. Evil spirits were subject to him and brought him wealth and did his bidding. There are said to be several books of magic hidden under the throne, books purporting to reveal the ways in which Solomon maintained power over spirits, men, the winds.”

Poe stood up. “It is said to exist, Mr. Figg, as it is said to contain power that can be used for much and great evil. In truth, I cannot say yea or nay as to whether I myself believe it real or apparition.”

“Then, squire, you are sayin’ it could be true as well as not.”

“I am saying so, yes.”

“Then if Jonathan gets it, he wins.”

“And the world loses. Providing there is such a thing as the Throne of Solomon, Mr. Figg.”

“Man like Jonathan, he ain’t one to fritter away the hours.”

“I would imagine that to be true. I have not seen him but I feel him to be someone who-Rachel, Rachel!”

She ran from the room, hands covering her tear-stained face. “Please, please forgive me. I must leave.”

The door slammed behind her. Poe stared at it, then said, “Mr. Figg, you are here to kill, are you not?”

“You know it to be true.”

“Then kill Jonathan quickly, for I fear if you do not, he will be the cause of harm to her. I shall not involve myself in any of your other planned homicides, but in the matter of Jonathan, count on me to aid you is disposing of him in anyway you deem feasible.”

“For the sake of the woman.”

“For the same reason, Mr. Figg you seek the death of Jonathan. For a woman.”

Suddenly, Figg placed a thick finger to his wide mouth, motioning Poe into silence. Seconds later, Figg had tiptoed to the door and cupped the knob in his huge fist. After a quick look at Poe, Figg yanked the door open.

The brown carpeted hallway, lined with oil paintings and dotted with busts of Roman emperors, was empty.

“’Eard somebody out ’ere.” Figg, his eyes narrowed and alert, looked left, then right.

Poe walked quickly towards him. “Perhaps Rachel.”

Figg closed the door. “No, squire. She’s the missus ‘ere, so she has no call to go skulkin’ around. Anyway she was already inside, hearin’ it all so why should she creep about. Someone else, it was. One of them spies you been carryin’ on about, I dare say. Best you and me get hoppin’. Get to the boardin’ house where the Renaissance Players lays their little ‘eads. After that, I ain’t to sure what we does.”

“I am. Sproul.”

“Why ‘im?”

“To remove the body of Justin Coltman from his clutches.”

“Now why should we want to do that?”

“So that Jonathan will come to claim it. So that you, Mr. Figg, can then kill him. The safety of Mrs. Coltman is important to me and I am convinced she is in danger so long as Jonathan lives.”

“Squire, you are a devious little fellow. ‘Ere I’m thinkin’ I’m leadin’ you and now all of a sudden it’s you what’s leadin’ me. Mind tellin’ me why we don’t just attach ourselves to Mr. Miles Standish and let him lead us to Jonathan.”

“For the same reason we do not follow Hugh Larney or others my intelligence tells me are a part of this foul business. We do not know when Miles Standish will contact Jonathan/Paracelsus. Were we to attach ourselves to Mr. Standish we might have a long wait until he reveals himself and, more important, I prefer that we not merely drift into matters if at all possible. Sproul is our next move.”

Figg grinned as he placed his tall top hat on his shaven head. “Ah, Mr. Poe. You has the makin’s of a right foxy gent, you does.”

Poe, licking his lips, stared at several bottles of alcohol on a sideboard near a bookcase. He wanted …

Then he tore his eyes away, focusing on Figg. “We have work before us, Mr. Figg, for which a clear head is most desirable. Let us be gone from here and God be with us, for we will both have need of Him before this matter is resolved.”