Poe must die

THIRTY-ONE

Rachel Coltman, numbed with fear and naked under the blanket casually tossed to her by one of the Irishmen, cringed in a corner of a filthy room in the Old Brewery.

She kept her eyes closed and listened.

“No laddie, she is not sleepin’,” said a male voice. “She has her nose turned to the wall so she’ll not be smellin’ the likes of you, Sean.”

The three men laughed.

“Bleak moll she is wouldn’t you say?” Murmurs of agreement. Bleak moll, a handsome woman.

“Love to give that one a flimp.”

“Sproul would drive steel through the back of yer neck and out yer mouth.”

“That’s a truth, me friend. Dear Hamlet is not a fellow to cross.”

“’E’s not a fella what holds his liquor. Flat on his face, Sproul is, huggin’ the earth down the hall. Grievin’ does that to a man, it does.”

More murmurs of agreement.

And then a harsh voice. “Hands off me diddle or I’ll snitchell yer gig.” Hands off my liquor or I’ll break your nose.

“’Ere now, we all took her clothes off so we all owns the liquor. Jesus God, what miserable stuff I’m drinkin’, but you know somethin’ boys? I love it, God in heaven above I love it.”

They all laughed.

Rachel shivered. Her clothing, the little jewelry she’d been wearing, all of it torn from her by the three Irish thieves as soon as they’d brought her to this small, dark cellar room. She burned with shame at the memory of their hands on her body, their leers, the vile things they’d said to her. Her clothing and jewelry had been sold for “Blue Ruin,” bad gin, which the men now drank as they sat around a table and played cards.

Dear God, dear God, she would die here. Die in the midst of the most terrifying nightmare she’d ever known.

She was a prisoner somewhere in the Old Brewery where men and women were stabbed for a handkerchief, where a child’s throat was cut for a penny. Her bare flesh rested on damp, black earth and she now guessed she was in the basement of the building, somewhere close to the hidden underground passages connecting the Old Brewery to the tenements scattered throughout the slums. The people living in this hellhole had long ago burned as firewood the floor that had once covered the ground beneath her.

He had said that Rachel would die here. Sproul who wore that monstrous knife on a leather thong around his neck, who claimed that Eddy Poe and this mysterious Jonathan had slaughtered his woman and two sons.

A liquor-slurred brogue came from dangerously close to her. “Warms ourselves with this goddam ‘Blue Ruin,’ we does and you know why? ‘Cause we ain’t got no gold-plated fireplace or fur trimmed cloak or no nigger servant to put the warmin’ pan in our fuckin’ beds like her in the corner has.”

“That’s ‘cause we ain’t got no fuckin’ beds.” More laughter.

“Seamus, come away from her. Come on, leave her alone.”

He was standing over her. Rachel smelled him. Liquor, the tobacco juice that had dripped down his shirt front. She clenched her teeth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Dear God, don’t let him-

A hand clumsily stroked her hair.

“Seamus, I’ll be tellin’ you no more to come away from her.”

“Lovely little morsel, she is. I’m thinkin’ I would like a bite of her.”

“Hamlet would kill you, Seamus. Interfere with his revenge and you’ll end up on the sharp end of his knife. Know this for a fact.”

The hand quickly left her head. She heard him move away and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. From outside in the hall, she heard a baby cry and she heard the crash of a whiskey bottle shattering against a nearby wall. So far, they had not raped her. So far …

“Hamlet Sproul is a drunken madman.” It was the voice who had stroked her hair. “Killin’ a handsome woman like this one.”

“Has his reasons, he does. Same reasons that made him take her from her home and bring her ’ere. Same reasons that now have him drunk and passed out in ‘is room down the hall. Meets Ida’s sister and the sight of her makes him weep.”

“Makes him drink until he cannot stand. Ida’s sister is on the game, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she is. Been a mab since she was ten and now she’s fourteen and livin’ in this grand palace with ‘er ponce, she is. Lordy, this buildin’ is a sin against the eyes and nose.”

“For sure. But you can’t beat the rent. No spittin’ into the bottle, if you will be so kind. Cards please. Like to ask you lads a question, after I take a look at me cards. Damn!”

Rachel heard the cards being slammed to the table in disgust.

“Me question is, what does Mr. Sproul have in that sack he covered with earth and insists in sleepin’ near?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

A whisper.

Then silence.

Rachel waited, her eyes still closed.

“Oh I see,” said the brogue who had inquired about the sack. “I sees indeed. But if he’s gonna kill her, how does he expect her to pay for her husband’s body-”

“Ah, Seamus, bite your tongue and look at your cards. Will do our guest no good to hear of such things. May I tell you, lad, that you are a poor poker player and for that reason, may you find the time to visit us in the grand hotel more often.”

“‘Blue Ruin’ has addled me brain.”

“And made you a Billy Noodle, thinkin’ all the women love you.”

More coarse laughter. More drinking from the bottle.

A man broke wind and all three laughed and whooped. One said to Rachel. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship. Please don’t send me to bed without me supper.”

Rachel, sick to her stomach, felt tears roll down her face and into the corners of her mouth, leaving a salt taste there. Justin. His body was here in the Old Brewery with Hamlet Sproul and soon her body would lie beside his. Oh God, oh God, why are these terrible things happening to me? Why am I suffering so?

Her body shook with her silent sobs.

“See there, lads, told you her ladyship wasn’t sleepin’. Let’s have a peak under that blanket.”

“Seamus, I’m warnin’ you! We’re to guard her, nothin’ more.”

“A peek won’t hurt. Lookin’ never damaged the Queen of England and I’ve gazed upon her many a time.”

“Seamus-”

Rachel felt the blanket ripped from her hands and she brought her knees up close under her chin.

She screamed.

All three men laughed and moved closer.

* * * *

“You may call me Mr. Greatrakes and I shall call you Mr. Poe. I know why you are here in the Old Brewery.”

Poe attempted to step around the man, who slid into his path.

“Mr. Poe, if you refuse to stand and converse with me, I shall have to denounce you and if you do not know what that means, I shall enlighten you, oh yes I shall. Mr. Greatrakes, that’s me sir, will denounce you as being a nose, oh yes I shall. An informer for the police, a wretched spy. Look around you, Mr. Poe. Any one of these lost souls in this room would kill you on the spot, oh yes they would.”

Poe licked his lips. He was twice frightened, for himself, for Rachel. Greatrakes. Bearded, humpback, with a left hand carried twisted over his heart as in some grotesque pledge. And he was preventing Poe from finding Hamlet Sproul and pleading with the grave robber for Rachel’s life. Poe had no other plan.

“Shall I denounce you, Mr. Poe?”

“Speak, damn you and quickly.”

“You wish to rescue Rachel Coltman. I shall help you.”

Poe looked left, right. He was in “The Den of Thieves,” the name given to the largest room in the Old Brewery. Montaigne had been his guide and together they had reached this hideous place through a hidden passage that began in the basement of a rotting tenement three blocks away.

The room was huge enough to contain more than one hundred Irish and coloreds, who clung precariously to life without the aid of any running water, sanitation facilities or even the simplest of furniture. Poe placed a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to avoid breathing any more of the stench around him than absolutely necessary. Yes, he thought, the children here can indeed contaminate the wild pigs roaming in the muddy alleys outside.

No gaslight within these walls and only a window or two, minus all glass. The darkness was broken here and there by a bit of candle, a cheap lantern, a small fire. Men, women and children were thrown together in the severest of poverty, preying on the world around them, preying on each other. Crime was the only industry they knew or would ever know. Poe’s nostrils flared in disgust at a nearby couple sexually entwined just feet away from him on the dirty floor. Only a few people of the many in the room even bothered to watch this prostitute entertain her customer.

Mr. Greatrakes was correct. To denounce anyone as a police informer in these surroundings was to sentence him to death and Poe, as a stranger, was especially vulnerable to such a charge.

“I said, Mr. Poe, that I shall assist you in the rescue of Rachel Coltman.”

Poe eyed Greatrakes’ matted beard, which reached to the man’s chest.

“Ah,” said Greatrakes, wiping his nose with the back of a gloved hand, “you are asking yourself, how can one such as Valentine Greatrakes assist the likes of Edgar Allan Poe. Well sir, I can lead you to Hamlet Sproul, oh yes I can and you will admit, that this is no small service in an inferno of vice as that in which we now stand.”

Poe nodded. It would be a service if he could trust Valentine Greatrakes who appeared to be almost omniscient, despite having the look of a man far down on his luck. The Old Brewery was a different world, a world in which one moved with utmost caution merely in hopes of living one more day. More than one thousand Irish and colored lived here, and some of the colored, Poe knew, had white wives, a fact he found totally loathsome.

For the time being Poe was safe, though his intelligence told him that anyone in the Old Brewery would murder him for the ragged clothes he wore, should he be so unfortunate as to meet someone so desperate. Greatrakes could guide him and Poe was desperate enough to take any assistance he could. Merely locating Rachel in time would be a problem, let alone talking Hamlet Sproul into releasing her.

There were twenty rooms in the cellar alone, plus almost one hundred other rooms scattered throughout the Old Brewery. There was no sunlight or fresh air in any of them and even less humanity and decency. Dozens of people were crammed into some of the rooms, all living in unbelievable filth. The building was jammed with murderers, thieves, prostitutes, beggars and people whose imagination knew no limit in the committing of all vices know to man.

Poe could use the help of Valentine Greatrakes. But there were questions to put to the hunchback.

“How do you come to know of this matter of Rachel Coltman?”

Greatrakes sniffled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Such a lady as her, sir, well her beauty is so out of place in the Old Brewery, wouldn’t you say? She is under guard now, but still alive, still alive.”

“You have seen her?” Poe’s heart pounded.

“Briefly, only briefly. Seen you, Mr. Poe. The other night in the Louvre, you and the pugilist Mr. Figg. Heard Johnnie Bill Baker and his colored wench-”

“That is of no importance at the present moment. Mrs. Coltman-”

“Alive. Now here is what I would like you to do.” He took Poe’s elbow and steered him away from Montaigne, who now squatted near a small fire. On the other side of the fire was a large Negro man and his common-law wife, a teen-age Irish girl, her stomach high and full with the child she expected. By the light of the fire, several men gambled with dice.

“You would have to do something for me, Mr. Poe. Mrs. Coltman has a great deal of money, which she won’t be able to spend if she is dead. If she lives, I trust she will be, ah, grateful? You could see to that, yes you could. It is a known fact that you and the lady are, well, you are here to effect her rescue, are you not?”

“Lead me to her. I shall see that she rewards you but if you deceive me-”

“Oh Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes leered. His teeth were yellow and black and Poe could have broken them with his stick. The man reeked of liquor. He winked at Poe. “Did you know that Johnnie Bill Baker has friends even among those here in such a place as this? If they were to learn you are among them … ” He shook his head, leering even more.

Poe pulled his elbow away from Greatrakes and would have fled the man, had he not looked over his shoulder and seen three thin-faced, dirty and ragged teen-age boys staring at him. They were obviously trying to decide if Poe had anything of value, anything worth cutting his throat for. He had to find Sproul fast, talk to him, convince him Rachel had nothing to do with the death of Sproul’s woman and sons.

Greatrakes again used the back of a gloved hand to wipe his nose. Poe noticed that the gloves were torn and stained. “Ah, Mr. Poe, I sense hostility in you. Ah, yes I do. Come, let us continue our stroll for I daresay those lads you are staring at may well be measuring your throat for a blade. Would it make any difference to you if I say Rachel Coltman is acquainted with me?”

Poe snorted. “Acquainted with you, sir?”

“Oh she is, she is. I was once a better man than you see before you. Educated, respected, a professional of some small accomplishment. I assisted Justin Coltman in a business arrangement or two. That is until demon rum trapped me in his embrace.”

“And you crawled into the bottle never again to crawl out.”

“Well now, who would know of such falls from grace better than you, Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes, grinned slyly, stroking his matted beard with the back of his gnarled hand. The man made Poe’s skin crawl.

“Lead me to Mrs. Coltman.”

“Well now, I do not know for certain where Mr. Sproul is but the whereabouts of Mrs. Coltman, ah, that is a fact of which many of us here are aware.”

“The two are not together?”

“From what I can gather, they are not. Mrs. Coltman is being guarded by three of Sproul’s men, while Sproul himself is somewhere in private drenching his grief in rum.”

Poe fingered his mustache. Sproul was drinking. Most likely, he would drink to excess, pass out and be unable to communicate with anyone. That meant Poe had a chance to talk with Rachel’s jailers, to convince them to release her. But what if the jailers refused to even consider Rachel’s release unless Sproul was present?

Valentine Greatrakes. The name was grand, a sweeping verbal gesture. Ridiculous that it be attached to this despicable looking, dunghill of a human being. Valentine Greatrakes. Poe had heard the name before, but where?

The hunchback sniffled. He leaks, thought Poe, like sap from trees in the forest. Valentine Greatrakes. I know the name. I do.

Poe said, “Lead. I shall follow.”

“And you will inform Mrs. Coltman-”

“Damn you, yes!”

“White of you, Mr. Poe. Exceedingly white of you, sir. Oh, I would not leave your old friend behind. Already, she has attracted attention and her being so decrepit and all.”

Dear God! Poe hurried quickly to Montaigne’s side, pushing through three ragged and dirty women who now squatted beside Montaigne in front of the fire. The women fingered the soiled rags she wore, her muddy boots.

Poe dragged Montaigne away from them, speaking softly to her in French, telling her to stay close to him.

Valentine Greatrakes leered at them, his twisted hand in place over his heart. “Nice to see a man looking out after others the way you do, Mr. Poe. Yes, I tell you it is a nicely thing to see. Well sir, let us trek deeper into this jungle and be of keen eye, the both of you. Won’t do to go off on your own in the Old Brewery.”

He shuffled on ahead of them, reminding Poe of an insect in search of prey. Just let this leaking hunchback lead me to Rachel in time. It occurred to Poe that the story “Hop Frog,” on which he was working when he found time and energy, had a hunchback court jester as the main character. As for this Valentine Greatrakes, Poe’s keen ear detected that his American accent was practiced, an applied trait, something learned and acquired. It covered another accent, something from western Europe.

Greatrakes’ original birthplace was not America; Poe was certain of it. And that name. Greatrakes. It scraped at Poe’s brain as he and Montaigne followed the hunchback into a passageway blacker than the blackest midnight.

Greatrakes had produced a stub of a candle from under his cloak, lighting it from a lantern that rested on the floor between two drunken Irishmen with bloated, sore-encrusted faces. Poe, Montaigne and Greatrakes left “The Den of Thieves” behind, the cries, curses and stench of the huge hall growing fainter. Now they were in a sour smelling darkness leading to only the hunchback knew where.

A rat squeaked. From rooms along the passageway, some with doors closed, others with doors open, came more curses, screams, drunken laughter, the wail of babies and the toneless singing of those whose minds no longer concentrated. To Poe, the darkness magnified the hellish odors and noises around them.

And his life and that of Montaigne were in the hands of a hunchback named Valentine Greatrakes, who shuffled noisily in front of them, candle stub held high and casting long shadows on the wall, as he led them deeper into darkness.

* * * *

Greatrakes went inside of the room alone and talked to the men guarding Rachel Coltman. When the door had opened a hard-faced Irish with a scraggly beard pointed a flintlock pistol at Greatrakes’ throat and drunkenly demanded what he wanted. Poe had not heard the hunchback’s whisper, but the door had opened wider and he’d gone inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Poe and Montaigne had been left outside in almost total darkness; Greatrakes had taken the candle stub with him.

Now Greatrakes stood in the doorway, beckoning Poe and Montaigne inside. “In with you now, you two. Your lady friend awaits and, Mr. Poe, these here gentlemen will find it a pleasure to discuss with you. Come on, do not hang back there in the darkness. Come on.”

With Montaigne clinging to his sleeve, her tiny wrinkled face relaxed in a world of her own, Poe entered, blinking his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness.

Greatrakes was behind him. “She is there, Mr. Poe, resting in the corner.”

Poe turned towards Greatrakes’ voice and a fist hit him in the jaw, spinning him around and sending him dancing into a barrel used as a chair.

They were on him in a flash, two men tying his hands behind his back and gagging him with a filthy bandana. In seconds it was all over.

Poe lay on the floor, his jaw aching. It had happened too quickly for him to be frightened, but the fear would come. He was sure of it.

It began now.

Greatrakes looked down at him. “Oh dear. I told you, Mr. Poe, an informer is not a welcomed man in these parts, no indeed, sir. I have told these gentlemen of your plan to betray them and Hamlet Sproul to the police. Hamlet will want a chat with you about his Ida and their boys.”

Poe struggled. He tried to sit up, to cry out. A booted foot was placed on his chest and he went down painfully.

“Bastard,” said an Irishman.

Greatrakes leered, gnarled hand stroking his beard. “They do not appreciate the part you played in the death of me cousin, Johnnie Bill Baker.”

Suddenly Poe knew!

Greatrakes’ voice had slid into an Irish brogue. “No sir, me bucko, you cannot send me darlin’ Johnny to the flames without me doin’ somethin’ about it, no sir. Hamlet Sproul is a true son of Erin. He said he’d help me ‘ave me revenge, he did. ‘Corcoran,’ ’e said, “you’ll taste ‘is blood, you will. Swear it, I do. Me, ‘amlet Sproul.‘”

Greatrakes’ performance was skillful, convincing. It was perfectly tailored for his audience. A trapped Poe could only watch.

Greatrakes leaned down, his face just inches from Poe’s. In the darkness and shielded by his own body, Greatrakes’s hand could not be seen by the three Irishmen. He removed a glove. The little finger on his right hand was missing.

The veins bulged on Poe’s forehead and neck with the effort of trying to cry out.

When Greatrakes stood up, the glove was back on his hand. His leer was deadly.

Poe cried out against the gag that was painfully tight across his mouth. He was dizzy with fear.

Greatrakes spoke to the Irishmen. “Oh, before I’m forgettin’ lads, Hamlet wants a word with one of you about a change in plans. He is not goin’ to kill the woman. ‘E’s decided there’s more money in her bein’ alive. ‘E’s sellin’ ’er to a white slaver for a tidy sum, in which you will all share.”

The men whooped.

Greatrakes leered. “Ah, she’s in the corner, is she? Quiet as a dead leaf.”

“Ain’t dead,” said one of the men. “Woulda been if Seamus had been allowed to ‘ave ‘is way with ‘er. Pulled ‘im back just in time.”

Greatrakes clapped a hand on Seamus’ shoulder. “Seamus, lad, you look the type me cousin Johnnie Bill would have loved. Hamlet wants to talk to ye about what ‘e intends to do with the lady over there. I’m thinkin’ that when you return, the three of you will be allowed a bit of fun with ‘er, eh?”

He leered. The men whooped again. One sipped from a bottle and offered it to Greatrakes, who accepted.

After a huge swallow of gin, Greatrakes stepped over to Poe and poured gin on him. “Last drink, Mr. Poe. On the ‘ouse, it is.”

The men laughed.

The gin burned Poe’s eyes and wet his hair. Jonathan wants to kill Hamlet Sproul. He has tricked these three into leading him to Sproul. And Rachel. These men will-

A frightened Poe squirmed on the ground, lashing out with his feet, kicking at Jonathan, at the Irishmen.

“Liquor makes ‘im dance, it does. Oils his tongue so’s ‘e can talk to the police.” Greatrakes’ brogue was getting stronger. Clever and dangerous, thought Poe. Arrogant. Manipulative. He challenged me face to face and he’s won. The fiend has beaten me, and Rachel and I will die. First she will be degraded by these men, then the two of us will die. She will take longer in dying and suffer the more.

Greatrakes and Seamus were by the door, Great-rakes’ arm around the Irishman’s shoulders. “Seamus and I will be returnin’. You boyos keep Mr. Poe amused and make yer plans for the lady. Come Seamus, let us look in on Hamlet and tell ’im Mr. Poe is arrived and has been welcomed.”

“The old lady,” said one Irish. “What’s to be done with ‘er?”

Greatrakes’ voice came from the dark hallway. “Marry the wench or bury her. It’s up to you, I’d say.” He and Seamus laughed.

The two Irishmen drank from the bottle, eyes on Montaigne.

“Ain’t for marryin’, Tom.”

“Nor I, Flynn.”

One lifted his bottle in a mock toast to Montaigne, who sat on the dirt floor, stroking Rachel’s hair.

Had Rachel fainted or was she asleep? Or dear God, was she dead? Poe couldn’t tell and he was unable to ask Montaigne. He was unable to warn the women to flee for their lives.

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.