“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.”
NINETEEN
Manhattan is a thin island thirteen miles long and no more than two and a half miles at its widest point. By 1840, this finger-shaped piece of land contained the world’s worst slum-Five Points-which surpassed the urban horrors to be found in London, Paris or Calcutta. Located at the base of Manhattan and within walking distance of City Hall, Five Points was the name give to the area where five streets-Cross, Anthony, Little Water, Orange and Mulberry-met. By 1848, names and sizes of the streets had changed, but Five Points remained. Now it was the most dangerous place in New York City.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Five Points did not exist. The area had been swamp and marshland until Manhattan’s increasing population, with its resultant demand for living space, forced New York City to drain that land and fill it with earth. Five Points then enjoyed a brief respectability. But because the swamps and marshes had been poorly drained, the tenements above began to slide and collapse into the ground and those families who could afford to move did so quickly.
Those remaining or now entering Five Points were people destined to exist in terrible poverty. Crime as a means of survival was inevitable and the Irish, who formed the majority, were the most visible as murderers, thieves, gamblers and purveyors of the casual violence which became a part of New York City early in its history.
Irish gangs ruled the streets and vice of Five Points under names such as the Kerryonians (from County Kerry), Shirt Tails, Roach Guards, Plug Uglies, Black Birds, Chichesters. In five-story tenements of old and rotting wood, Irish and Negroes lived without heat, gaslight or running water, in buildings on the verge of tumbling into streets where the mud was knee deep when not covered by garbage or packs of wild pigs.
The decaying structures were connected by tunnels which were the site of horrible crimes, in addition to being escape routes for those slum dwellers who had murdered and robbed, thereby bringing down unwanted attention on themselves. Within the tenements, behind windows patched with rags, lived starving men, women and children who endured their miserable existence by staying drunk as often as possible. They fought rats and each other to stay alive in buildings with names like Bucket of Blood, Dead Man’s Place, Gates of Hell, Knife in the Throat. They survived by any means imaginable and at the expense of each other.