Barnum said, “A new composer, Stephen Foster, has written some of the tunes the Dixie Melodeers will perform. Young Foster is a bookkeeper, but I feel he has talent and the ability to capture the true darky spirit. I tell you, Mr. Figg, the minstrel show is the American national opera and has many long years ahead of it. I cannot convey to you how heated is the craze for this sort of show at the moment.
He laid down the poster. “Well, I am sure you have interests of your own. Do you still seek this Jonathan?”
“I do.”
“Forgive me for ever doubting when you first mentioned him to me. A man such as yourself, sir, the associate of nobles and the great, is a man to be trusted and admired.” Barnum responded to important people and he now considered Figg important. Figg knew this, but said nothing. The world is full of them what is climbing somewheres and Mr. Barnum is a climber of the highest order and easily impressed. Best leave before he wants to hug and kiss me.
“Me and Mr. Poe’s got to be goin’, sir. Thankin’ you fer yer kind offer of assistance.”
Barnum hurried from around the desk, taking Figg’s hand in both of his. “Remember, sir, the word of Barnum is money in the bank. Come, let me escort you to the entrance.”
The halls, rooms, exhibits, of the museum were jammed with people. Barnum’s appearance drew a rush of attention from patrons and staff members. Figg was pushed, jostled, squashed in the mob. Barnum loved the excitement, greeting all who came near him in his squeaky voice.
Turning to Figg, he said, “They are pleased with whatever I do for them, Mr. Figg. Watch this!” Barnum raised his voice. “Everyone, please listen! Follow me to the Egress! To the Egress!”
Others took up the cry and Figg found himself pushed in the human tide. What the bloody ‘ell was a flippin’ egress? Figg couldn’t do anything but head in that general direction. And then he saw the sign over a door. To The Egress.
The crowd pushed harder, faster. Now Figg and Barnum were to one side of the door and the crowd poured through, some of them shouting “Let us see the egress! The egress!”
When most of the crowd had poured through the door, Barnum closed it, signalling a uniformed employee to stand guard and let no one in or out.
Figg frowned. Hell he was this close, why couldn’t he have seen the damn thing.
Barnum laid a hand on his shoulder. “An egress, Mr. Figg, is an exit, the way out of a building, nothing more. I was faced with having crowds inside, who while they had paid their quarter to enter, were preventing the crowds outside from doing the same. Rather than give up that money waiting for me on the pavement, I devised this scheme to empty my museum, and while it smacks of deceit, I prefer to think of it as charming humbug. People take it in good stride.”
Figg nodded. Right clever bloke, this Barnum. Ain’t no egress ‘ere ‘cept a door what gets you outside.
The showman took him past a lecture hall, called such by Barnum rather than the theater it actually was. Theater was thought to be immoral. Onstage, the Dixie Melodeers, in exaggerated Negro dialect, were singing “Nigger Put Down Dat Jug” to a huge, delighted audience. Barnum and Figg stopped to listen. Right entertaining, thought Figg. Lively chaps onstage flappin’ their arms, liftin’ their knees, rollin’ their eyes and all that black stuff on their faces. Right pleasant. Figg wished he could stay and see more, but …
At the entrance, Barnum, surrounded by patrons, again clasped Figg’s hand with his. “Do return, Mr. Figg, and my regards to Mr. Poe. Remember, sir, I am your friend.”
Figg smiled. “Thankin’ you, Mr. Barnum. Pleased to have seen the egress.”
Barnum grinned.
A bearded man with an eyepatch tugged at Barnum’s sleeve. “Look here, commodore. What is an egress?”
“Egress?” Barnum’s squeaky voice carried over the din. “My friend, do I detect the sad misfortune on your part indicating that you have never viewed the egress?”
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Follow me,” said Barnum. “To the egress it is, sir!”
“Egress, egress.” The cry was taken up and the crowd followed Barnum.
For the first time since arriving in New York several days ago, Figg laughed out loud.
* * * *
Hugh Larney would lay with her in the coffin. He would carry Dearborn in his arms to this small room on the top floor of his white marble Fifth Avenue mansion, a room far in the back and away from everyone. Not even the servants were allowed inside, and Dearborn had once seen Hugh Larney curse and kick a teen-age Irish maid for having entered here. The girl had been driven limping and weeping from the house on the spot, to survive in New York as best she could.
Dearborn, naked and alone in the room, lay in a silver-handled coffin; its white satin was cool against her bare flesh. She shivered and tried to listen to the conversation going on out in the hall. Miles Standish had pounded on the door, demanding that Hugh Larney come out. It was important that they talk immediately. The servants had been unable to prevent Miles Standish from coming upstairs. He’d simply lashed out with his cane until they had stepped aside for him.
Dearborn sat up. Miles was shouting. It failed, it failed, he said. Poe lives. Hugh Larney tried to get him to lower his voice but Miles refused. Poe lives, his friend lives. The gas did not-
Silence.
Dearborn sat up in the coffin, looking around at the human skulls on shelves filled with books, at the circle on the floor, a circle of white paint that surrounded the coffin. Mr. Larney had a strong interest in the devil, for she’d heard him talk of it to Mr. Standish and a few others. Once or twice he’d even spoken of the devil to Dearborn, but there was little she could tell him. She only knew that the devil was bad and would come for her if she did anything wrong. What she did with men was not wrong, for she only did as they ordered her.
She left the coffin and tiptoed to the door, a thin child with golden hair and a face of heartbreaking beauty. The talk was all whispers.
The gas did not work, whispered Standish. I should not have let you talk me into it.
Calm yourself, Miles.
Poe must die!
Agreed, agreed.
We must be direct this time. Nothing subtle. And nothing to link the matter with us.
Yes, yes, Miles.
You look the fool standing there naked as Adam.
You sound the fool. Come away from the door. Is Volney-
He is still with us.
A frightened Dearborn scampered back to the coffin, climbed in and closed her eyes.
She heard the door to the room open.
Larney whispered, “I gave her wine. She seems to be sound asleep. Exquisite thing, is she not?”
“Yes, yes. Now about Poe-”
“Oh how your loins do ache for Rachel.”
Larney chuckled softly, closed the door and Dearborn heard the two men move away and down the hall. Poor Mr. Poe. He was such a nice man, talking sweetly to her of his mother and of her being an actress. A gentle voice he had and a most pleasing manner. Why did Hugh Larney and the others want to kill him? Well, it was not for Dearborn to worry or question such things, for women and girls were on earth to obey and not to raise their heads or eyes unless a man so beckoned. That is how the world is made.
She yawned. The wine had made her sleepy and without Hugh Larney beside her and touching her, she could rest. She drew her knees up to her chin, shivered and closed her eyes. Seconds later, she was asleep.