Poe must die

THIRTY-SEVEN

Hugh Larney ordered Thor to follow the doctor who had treated Sarah Clannon’s wound back to New York and kill him. Kill him in New York, not here.

Larney, with Thor standing behind him like some huge, dark shadow, forced himself to smile through the front window of the small country house at the doctor, who placed his black bag on the seat of his carriage before climbing up himself. Once seated, the doctor leaned out of the carriage, waving to Larney who waved back.

Thor’s brown eyes, spaced far apart, watched the two carriage horses lean forward in knee high snow, lifting their hooves to their chests, large nostrils snorting steam in the winter cold.

“Why do you not kill the doctor here? I think it save time.”

Larney let the green lace curtain fall back into place. He was angry at Edgar Allan Poe, for it was Poe who had made it necessary to have the doctor murdered. Damn Poe’s eyes!

“You heard the doctor’s words. He is treating Rachel Coltman who is in delicate health as a result of her misadventure with Hamlet Sproul. She does not sleep well; she dreams of unending horror, we are told. And who sits mooning at her bedside like a lamb bleating for its mother? Poe.”

Larney began pacing back and forth. “Did not the healing physician confess that he has talked with Poe this very day and how worried our literary friend is about his lady fair. Dear doctor expects to be asked once again to look in upon widow Coltman and when that happens, he will surely find Poe clutching her hand. A casual conversation may ensue and dear doctor may mention that he has paid a visit to my small country home to treat a woman for a pistol wound. This talk may transpire and it may not, but I cannot afford to sit idly by and have it occur. I am faced with cleaning up after Jonathan, for it was he who sent Sarah Clannon to Poe cottage where she received a ball in her side.”

“And so dear Thor, of the hammer fists, you will prevent dear doctor from having words with that little scum E. A. Poe. You will prevent said scum from tracing Sarah Clannon here to me. I wish to confront Poe and his lumpish friend on my terms and when I choose. The two of them have probably called at my Fifth Avenue home; it is unlikely that they will seek me at the abandoned farm.”

“Which leaves this country retreat, a welcomed part of my secret land holdings. Let the doctor be disposed of in Manhattan, where one more crime statistic will go unnoticed in a city rampant with such numbers.”

Thor nodded, rubbing his right fist. He understood. “They find the doctor not come back to New York, they come here. He die in New York, nobody come here.” He grinned, thick purple lips spreading across his wide, black face.

“You are not obliged to think,” said Larney, “But it is gratifying that on those rare occasions when you do so, it is constructive. Yes, dear Thor, that is why dear doctor dies on familiar ground. Let the matter be pursued there rather than here. He will be mourned. I shall be among the mourners.”

Thor looked at the window. “I go now. He be far enough in front of me and soon it will be dark.”

Larney stopped pacing. He looked down at his trembling hands. Sarah Clannon. Barely alive. Jonathan had charged him with seeing she did not die.

Poe. An omnipresent fungus. Well, Poe had held his last casual conversation with dear doctor. Sarah Clannon. Poe. Jonathan. So much to worry about. So much to fear.

Larney said, “Thor, bring Dearborn back with you when you return. I have need for her exquisite solace and comfort.”

Thor grinned. “It be done.”

He caught the gold coin flipped to him by Larney, payment for the beautiful child. Master Larney would be enjoying himself tonight, while the white woman slowly died in the room next to his and called out for the man Jonathan, who was on the abandoned horse farm doing things that Thor did not want to know about. Thor feared Jonathan as he feared no man born of woman.

Voices called to her and shapes materialized out of the darkness and reached for her. Rachel turned to flee and instead froze with fear. Her husband Justin stood in front of her, bleeding from the mouth, reaching out for her with both hands. He called her name and she backed away from him, screaming. A hand holding a shiny scalpel moved closer to her face and she wanted to run, but couldn’t! She waited for the shapes and the hand holding the scalpel to reach her and when they did-

Rachel was sitting up in bed, weeping, her arms around Poe who stroked her long, red hair and spoke softly. “I am here, dearest. I am here.”

“Do not leave me, Eddy.” He felt the warmth of her tears against his cheek.

His love for her filled every part of him, lifting him to a height he had forgotten existed. He loved her deeply, terribly. “I am here, dearest. I shall never leave you. Never.”

He felt her grip him tighter and the feel of her arms around him was a joy that made him weep, his tears blending with hers.

* * * *

Jonathan. The Second Night.

He sat cross-legged in the protective circle, chewing the cold dog meat, his mind fastened to his quest: The Throne of Solomon. He was one day closer. Behind him, he heard Laertes pouring unfermented wine into a small wooden cup.

Suddenly the wind rattled the rotting wooden doors, snapping the orange flames on the torches which were stuck in the ground. Jonathan sensed Laertes’ uneasiness, for a second later Laertes said, “Listen! Can you hear it?”

Jonathan listened. The wind. It seemed to call his name.

Jonathannnnn. Jonathannnnnnn.

There was danger hidden in the wind. Jonathan had heard his name and it had come from Asmodeus. The king of demons was here to fight the final battle, to stop Jonathan from securing infinite and eternal claim over him. Asmodeus would do all in his power to stop Jonathan from claiming the Throne of Solomon.

Jonathannnnnnn.

Laertes squirmed. Jonathan felt the man’s fear and said, “Silence. Stay as you are.”

Jonathannnnnnn.

The magician was himself afraid but at the same time he felt free, free to challenge Asmodeus in the last encounter the two would ever have. The exhilaration grew within him and he flung the dog meat aside and began to chant.

“Raphael, Miraton, Tarmiel, Rael and Rex.” The names of protective spirits.

“Raphael, Miraton, Tarmiel, Rael and Rex.”

The wind shrieked, rattling the rotting barn walls, threatening to uproot them. A torch fell forward and to the ground, its flame disappearing.

“Raphael, Miraton, Tarmiel, Rael and Rex.”

Jonathan spread his arms wide and chanted louder.

The wind blew faster, sending a bone-chilling cold down on the two men, then suddenly it died. The wind was gone!

Jonathan’s chant became a mumble.

Laertes could not stop shaking.

* * * *

Figg cautiously opened the door to see Poe turn in his chair and smile at him.

Poe was exuberant. “Enter my good fellow! You are not blessed with the grace of a gazelle, so abandon any attempt to enter this room like a gentle breeze.”

Figg stepped into the room. “My, my. We are a chipper lot tonight. Come to tell you I am takin’ leave of you fer me dinner with Titus Bootham.”

Poe put down his pen. He’d been writing at the desk in Rachel Coltman’s study, working on the tale “Hop Frog,” and he was happy! For the first time in too long a time, he was happy. Rachel had brought him this joy. It was his and hers to share.

“Mr. Figg, I wish you a merry dinner. My regards to Mr. Bootham and to the rest of the English contingent he has gathered to make your acquaintance. I am sure they will find you to be a marvel, as have I.”

“Nice of you to say. Ain’t much of a gatherin’. Mr. Bootham and some of the English lads he knows are standin’ me a meal at a good tavern and I suppose they will ask me a thing or two about the prize ring.”

“Regale them with tales of blood and triumph, Mr. Figg. The audience enjoys a nice fright every now and then. I am hard at work, as you can see. I feel like working, Mr. Figg. I do indeed.”

He feels too deeply, thought Figg. He’s too high or he’s too low. Takes the world seriously. Wonder what the widow Coltman and he talked about upstairs?

“I shall be lodgin’ with Mr. Bootham tonight. You take care of yerself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Figg. Dearborn is asleep with one of the maids and Rachel has told me the child can stay here for as long as we desire. It is here that Hugh Larney will come and it is here that I shall wait for him.”

“Well, you just let me ask Mr. Larney the hard questions. I will be comin’ back ‘ere earliest. ‘Ave cooky keep some food hot fer me. Nice to see you with a pen in yer ‘ands again. It is a nice feelin’ to do yer trade.”

“I cannot tell you how nice. Rachel and I, we have talked. There is a bond between us, Mr. Figg and it has come about as a result of this horrible business. I shall spend the night here in a spare room. By the way, you are not going to mention-?”

Figg shook his head. “Mr. Bootham knows a bit or two, but I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to the rest. Mr. Dickens once taught me somethin’ Mr. Samuel Johnson said and that is ‘three can keep a secret if two are dead.’”

Poe threw back his head and laughed. The laugh was full, long. Feelin’ too deeply, thought Figg. A man should have more control over himself than does little Eddy. That woman has got him runnin’ a swift race at the moment. Hope she don’t cut him off at the knees. It happens, Lord knows.

“Very good, Mr. Figg. Very, very good. It is a thought that would nicely fill a space at the bottom of a column. When I have my magazine-”

Figg sighed. So that was it. Him and the lady and his bloomin’ magazine. Did she promise to give him the money for it? No one else seemed ready to do so. What kind of reliable promise could be expected from a lady as sick as Rachel Coltman was at the present time. It was certain that the lady was out of mind a wee bit. Somewhat soft in the head due to the hard times that had fallen upon her in the Old Brewery. Or so said the doctor.

Leave him be, thought Figg. Leave him with his dreams. He can ask his own hard questions when the sun arises. Or when the lady no longer graces her sick bed.

“In the mornin’, then,” said Figg.

“In the morning, Mr. Figg.” Poe’s smile was wondrous.

He smiles, thought Figg, and I ‘ave a hole in me one and only frock coat.

Touching his hand to his top hat, he bowed slightly and left the room, his polished pistol box under his arm, his carpetbag in his hand. Little Mr. Poe should know that a horse what runs too fast never makes it over the full course. He should know but he doesn’t.