Poe must die

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.