Being omniscient did not come cheap.
Jonathan opened his eyes. His voice was hard, different in pitch, a sound minus all warmth. Miles Standish flinched. “This ends the matter, Miles. Poe will live until I feel his living is a detriment to me. As for those who give us money, they receive adequate compensation.”
Standish knew what that compensation was. Some of the wealthy enjoyed attending seances, while others enjoyed black rites, all of which Jonathan staged for their pleasure. Men like Volney Gunning and Hugh Larney had other preferences; Volney was a homosexual and Hugh Larney prefered to lay with young girls who had not reached the age of consent. Jonathan saw to it that each man satisfied his particular lust in the fashion craved, in a manner giving pleasure beyond anything imaginable. Miles Standish also had cravings.
The woman that Jonathan called Sarah, dearest God in heaven! Miles’s mouth watered at the thought of her. In bed, she denied him nothing and gave him everything. She submitted, giving her body as demanded, matching Miles’s lust with hers and always at the end, she would surpass him in knowledge of what the body could sexually achieve. But that was at the end. First, she would submit, allowing him to use her. Her triumph, her need for sexual supremacy was not allowed to intrude on his dominance. Miles wanted her now.
Black magic, fear, lust, murder, money, blackmail. Jonathan binds us to him, thought Miles. And we let him do it. We let him climb to heights of evil over our souls and bodies which we stack ever so neatly for him. He throws us a bone of our choosing and we let him do with us as he wills.
Miles Standish was a man of position and property in New York and he did not want a failure like Poe shouting his secrets to the four winds. Soon Poe would know all about the other men of position and property who supported Jonathan and that, friends, would be a hive of bees turned loose in a crowded room. To wait until one was up to one’s hips in alligators before draining the swamp was not prudent. Not prudent at all. Poe must die.
As though reading his mind, Jonathan said, “He lives, Miles. A day, an hour, for as long as it suits me, he lives.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, Jonathan. As you wish.”
Later, Jonathan and Sarah stood at the third floor window looking down at the street. They watched Miles Standish’s carriage pull away.
Sarah took Jonathan’s arm and leaned against his shoulder. “Shall I sleep with him?”
Jonathan shook his head, letting the curtain fall into place. “That will not cure him of his exalted opinion of himself. “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make proud.’ As true now as it was when first uttered in ancient Greece.”
She kissed his bare shoulder. “Are you going to destroy Miles Standish?” Her tone was seductive and aimed at Jonathan; the words conveyed no sympathy for the plump, well-groomed lawyer.
“After.”
“After what?”
“After he commits his mistake of hubris. I feel strongly that Miles Standish, unlike his historical predecessor, will soon be speaking for himself and not for the rest of us. After he commits this nonsense-”
“What nonsense?”
“Attempting to kill Poe.”
“You told him Poe was to live.”
“Miles is alone in his enthusiasm for what passes for his mental processes. I fear he has to learn by direct experience. The newly arrived Mr. Figg is possibly more of a problem than the poet. Come bathe me.”
FOURTEEN
Poe eyed Flgg with all the hatred he could muster. “I shall see you dead, sir. On my honor, I shall see you dead.”
Figg held his nose and gently shaved under it with an ivory-handled straight razor, making his voice when he spoke, oddly nasal. “Dear me, I think it’s complainin’.”
Poe, oversensitive and unstable at the best of times, was ready to scream, to claw a hole in the hotel wall and crawl through. Never had he been so humiliated in his life. “I am walking through that door. You may shoot me if you choose, but I cannot stay in your company any longer, not after what you have done to me.”
Figg, face half covered with shaving soap, turned to look at him. “Oh you means my tying your wrists together, then stickin’ a towel in yer yap and forcin’ you at the point of a gun to get on the floor and me tyin’ you to the bed and tellin’ you if you woke me up, I was gonna punch a hole in yer skull. Is that what you are referrin’ to, squire?”
Poe burned with rage.
Figg said, “Go. Turn the knob and walk. Done had me three-hour rest and I feels shiny as a new penny. Go on, I ain’t gonna put a ball in yer knee. Not now. Ain’t gonna knuckle you either.” Figg grinned, a hideous sight that reminded Poe of gargoyles perched on top of medieval French cathedrals.
Poe gripped the end of the brass bed. The shame of being tied like a calf on the way to a slaughterhouse. Damn it all to hell! “I shall leave, sir and when I return, I shall not be alone. The police-”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Figg turned back to the mirror and resumed shaving.
“Now squire, first let us jaw about the police of this fair city. Mr. Bootham tells me they do not do a good job, that they ain’t the best when it comes to solvin’ crimes or protecting honest citizens like yours truly. Mr. Bootham says the police of New York are corrupt, incompetent and leave much to be desired. Says they get knuckled muchly by your local footpads and thugs, sorry to say. Fact is, your police have such a tough time of it that they no longer wear them nice new shiny uniforms with nice new shiny brass buttons. Tried that a while back and your very own criminal classes thought it was quite comical and they attacked your police. So now, your New York police dress up like you and me so as not to get too heavily damaged and I hear they wears a copper shield so’s somebody will know they are police.”
Poe, curious as to the direction of Figg’s ramblings, looked into the mirror to see Figg grinning back at him. If only he’d slice his throat, then Poe would grin as well.
“Oh, I should say that with your reputation as a man known to down a dram or two, it is bloody unlikely that anythin’ you tell a copper, see I know the word, anythin’ you tell a copper will be taken too seriously. It will be your word against mine about what I done and I’m thinkin’ your word ain’t comin’ directly from the New Testament.”
Poe watched Figg put down the razor, bend over the washbasin and bring large hands cupped with water to his face. “Hot water. The miracle of progress. This here is some palace. Beg pardon. Hotel, you Americans call it. John Jacob Astor’s House, who Mr. Bootham says got too old and sick to walk about, so his servants would toss him up and down in a blanket to get his circulation goin’ Mr. Bootham says John Jacob is dyin’ and when he goes, he will leave behind him some twenty millions of dollars seein’ as how he owns half of Manhattan.”
Figg began towelling his face. “Now squire, allow me to tell you why you ain’t gonna leave my side and of your own free will, I might add. Allow me to say why you will not set foot in that hall without me. You and me is wed, little friend.”
Poe sneered. “A consummation is devoutly not to be hoped for.”
“Don’t know what all that means, seein’ as how I am a plain man and cannot hope to match your lordship’s way with words. But this I do know: During the three hours I was sleepin’, Jonathan has had an opportunity to make a few plans concernin’ the two of us. His spies are everywhere, which is the reason I do not plan to spend more than one or two nights in any one place. Jonathan and that Hamlet Sproul fella you mentioned, both are probably on the hunt for you. Lookin’ for me too, I might add. There is the matter of two dead men in a stable which might also be tied up to you, but what I think is that if you go walkin’ “round New York town on your lonesome, somebody just might do you a bit of harm. I can also do me best to see that no harm comes to your lady Rachel, knowing how much you care about her an’ all. This is a sticky business we are about and Mrs. Coltman is in what I would call extreme danger from Jonathan. If you care about her, you will give me your aid.”