“Jonathan is vengeful, unforgiving. Witness the death of Sproul’s associates. I sense in him a strong ego, a love of power, the strong need to dominate, to have all bow to his will without question. He sees himself the equal of the gods, for he has challenged Asmodeus as evidenced by that barbaric ritual involving the slaughter of several people. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants and there are no barriers to his evil. Witness, Mr. Figg, what he did to your wife. Jonathan defies God and Satan and he wants to rank beside them, never beneath them. He dreams grand dreams, does Jonathan and he undoubtedly is the most intelligent, determined and deadly individual any of us have ever encountered.”
Poe leaned across the table. “And, Mr. Figg, he did not attempt to kill you last night.”
“Go on now, you bloomin’ well know he did. Who else wants me under the earth save ‘im?”
“Jonathan lives in darkness, Mr. Figg. His awareness of the Throne of Solomon and his single-mindedness in pursuing it, indicates a deep and abiding interest in magic. His slaying of your wife, his slaying of Sproul’s cohorts, his attempts at clouding my mind-all of these things were committed by a magician, a sorcerer. By comparison, the attempt at destroying you with gas seems crude, unimaginative, hasty and above all, absent from the realm of the supernatural. Even his bringing a painting to life at the home of Miles Standish-”
Poe stopped. He frowned. “Miles Standish. Miles Standish.” He looked at Figg, then smiled quickly. “Well sir, let us talk of lighter things for my Muddy is sitting between us stunned and made silent by these somber matters.”
She playfully slapped his hand. “Oh Eddy, do not make me out to be such a fossil.”
Figg wanted to ask more questions, but no sense in pushing Poe. Later he would get dear Eddy to talk some more. Did Poe believe Miles Standish to be behind that business with the gas? Well, no more talk of killing; ain’t the business of a man to speak these things in front of a woman.
Figg grinned. “Riddle me, riddle me ree.”
“Oh Eddy, a riddle. I do so love them.” Mrs. Clemm’s plain face broke out in a smile as she clapped her hands.
Poe smiled as Figg’s husky voice assumed the singsong rhythm of a child’s verse. “Little Nancy Etticoat/With a white petticoat/and a red nose She has no feet or hands/the longer she stands/the shorter she grows.”
Poe was quick. “A candle.”
“Right you are squire. Now try this ‘ere one. A house full, a hole full/You cannot gather a bowlful.”
Poe closed his eyes, then opened them. “Smoke. Perhaps, perhaps mist.”
All three laughed.
Figg tried several more and no matter how obscure they were, Poe guessed them all. The silliness of the game delighted him more than anything had in a long time. Muddy was pleased and if Poe had not brought her money or food this time, he’d brought her the surprising Pierce James Figg, pugilist and reciter of English children’s riddles.
And, for a short time, that was something for both of them to be warmed by in an existence where there was so little to be warmed by.
* * * *
Upstairs, Mrs. Clemm stood in the tiny, cold attic room where Figg was to spend the night. The cold numbed his fingers, toes and he’d have to sleep with his clothes and boots on.
The yellow stub of a candle in her long fingers was the only light. “We have straw for you, Mr. Figg and I shall bring you the blanket from my room.”
“No mum. Ain’t takin’ a blanket away from no lady, thankin’ you muchly just the same. Straw is fine, for I was born on it and it’s been me bed more than once in me life.”
“You are our guest, sir. I can do no less than give you-”
“No mum. Now if you go and do such a thing, bring me your blanket I mean, then I will just wait until you fall asleep, and come into your room and cover you. It ain’t correct for a gentleman to enter a lady’s chamber in such fashion, so do not place me in such a predicament.”
Lord help us, he thought. If I was to go in for a bit of night crawlin’, with all due respect, Mrs. Clemm wouldn’t be what I’d care to see at the end of me creepin’.
She blushed. “I appreciate your good manners, Mr. Figg. Now allow me to give you all of the disturbing news at once. Eddy is downstairs attempting to write, so I am unable to leave you with even this small bit of candle. We cannot afford to purchase even the cheapest tallow. What light we have is necessary for his work. I-” She was too embarrassed to speak.
Figg said, “Mum, seein’ as how I shall be lyin’ ’ere with me eyes shut tight, a candle does not appear to be needed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Figg. Eddy has not been in good health of late and since the death one year ago of my daughter, his wife, he has written little. Two poems and a book review, plus what journalistic work he can obtain at only pennies a page. So whenever he feels the urge to write, I must encourage him. It is no secret that he is, perhaps, in the twilight of his life, though I hope and pray with all my heart that this is not so. Well, Mr. Figg, I bid you good ni-”
“Noooooooooo! Do not do this, I beg you!”
Poe. From downstairs.
Quickly Figg found his flat, black wooden case and grabbed the two pistols. Pushing his way past Mrs. Clemm, he limped forward into darkness as fast as he could, stumbling down the stairs, pistols held high.
Behind him, Mrs. Clemm shouted, “Eddy! Eddy!”
* * * *
Poe and Figg stood side by side on the cottage porch, looking into the night. Then Poe pointed. “There! Near the trees! There! I heard her call to me and she said she was Virginia, but I know this to be false!”
Figg saw her in the moonlight, a cloaked figure running across the snow, towards trees leading down to the road. Jonathan’s wench. The one Poe said tried to drive him batty.
Figg leaped from the porch, landing in snow. He ran. The figure ahead of him would reach the trees soon. Jonathan’s wench. Figg stopped and fired. The flintlock cracked once, sending a small puff of smoke from its chamber, the shot echoing across the countryside.
The figure disappeared into the trees.
Figg and Poe gave chase in the snow. In front of the trees, Poe dropped to one knee. “Blood on the snow, Mr. Figg. That is how they deceived me the last time. False blood. Mr. Figg? Mr. Figg?”
“Over ‘ere, squire.”
Poe ran to him. Just inside the grove of trees, Figg held a woman’s cloak that had caught onto a snow-covered bush. He fingered a hole in the back made by the flintlock’s ball. There was dampness around the small hole.
“No deceivin’ this time, squire. Whoever the lady is, she’s got a ball in her. Come, let us see if we can find a trace of her.”
Figg looked up at the sky. “Moon’s full. We ‘ave the light.” He limped forward in a crouch, eyes on the snow, the cloak over his shoulder. The empty flintlock was jammed down into his belt. The other was in his hand and if he had to use it on the woman again, so be it. She was Jonathan’s wench and Figg would kill her as easily as he sipped ale.
In the cold, moonlit night, he and Poe kept their eyes down and looked for blood in the soft, beautiful snow.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hugh Larney,do not turn around. Stay as you are.”
The soft voice was Jonathan’s and it came from behind Larney. The food merchant’s blood turned cold; he held his breath. Jonathan had managed to enter Larney’s home unseen and was now upstairs in the special room, the room with the silver-handled coffin and the books on black magic and witchcraft. A servant had reported the door to the room slightly ajar and a fire burning in the fireplace. An enraged Larney had rushed upstairs, a poker in his hand.