Jonathan.
Larney’s hands shook; he dropped the poker.
“Listen and listen well. I said do not turn around. The sight of your stupid face might force me to kill you here. Last night, you and Miles attempted to murder Poe against my orders. Why?”
“M-Miles said you wanted him dead.”
“Miles lied. And you believed him.”
“He said, said, you wanted Poe dead and yes, yes I believed him.”
“Miles does not think, he reacts. And I shall kill him for it.”
Larney thought he heard a cat meow. Or, in his fear, had he imagined it? A cat?
“Jonathan, I would not-”
“But you have. You, Miles and Volney Gunning. What shall I do with the three of you, Hugh? Tell me. I have already told you what I intend to do with Miles.”
A cat meowed again. Larney wanted to turn around; he wanted to run. But he wanted to live and so he did nothing. “Jonathan, I have, have to tell you something.”
“You, Miles and Volney have mounted one more attack on the life of Poe.”
“Ye-yes.”
“Your intelligence is transparent. Do you wish to die?”
“N-no. Oh please, oh-”
“You can buy your life.”
“I will give you anything, anything.”
“You cannot buy it with money. You can buy it with blood, both you and Volney must purchase your lives in blood.”
“We shall, we will.”
“You both are to kill Miles Standish. First let me say that if your second attack on Poe’s life succeeds, all three of you will die by my hand and most painfully. Should Poe survive this attack, leave him alone until I tell you differently.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“I knew you would. Again, you and Volney Gunning are to kill Miles Standish.”
“W-when?”
“As soon as it can be arranged, and Larney-”
“Yes, Jonathan?”
“Succeed in this task.”
“I shall, Jonathan. I shall. You have my word-”
Larney heard the cat meow again, heard the movement of Jonathan’s arm as he brought the small piece of metal down against the back of Larney’s head.
The blow was painful, but not hard. It wasn’t meant to be. Larney dropped to the floor on his knees and hands. Blackness squeezed his brain, then released it and he shook his head to clear it, forcing his eyes open, forcing them to focus.
The shrieking came from the fireplace and it was horrible, shredding Larney’s nerves, shocking him into full awakeness. Jonathan had tossed a sack of live cats into the fireplace and now the sack jerked, twisted and took on a terrified life of its own as the burning cats struggled to get out.
Jonathan’s warning. A hellish ritual from a time long forgotten.
The cats howled and their cries pierced Larney’s brain like shards of cold steel. Still on his knees, he closed his eyes, hands over his ears to drown out the sound of the burning cats. Now the smell of the tortured animals reached his nose and Larney screamed.
Servants pounded on the locked door and still Larney screamed.
Later, when he had left the room, he asked the servants if they had seen anyone in the house who didn’t belong there. A frightened Larney was not surprised when they told him no, no one had entered or left the house for the past few hours.
With Jonathan’s threat very much on his mind and the sound and smell of the burning cats still with him, Hugh Larney quickly left his home to seek out Volney Gunning. Miles Standish would die before the setting of the sun.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Figg pushed the last of his custard and hard-boiled egg into his mouth, chewing while staring through the window of the speeding train at the snow-covered ground and trees. The train was carrying him and Poe from Fordham back to New York. “This ‘ere thing moves right along. Ain’t no trains in England what speeds like this one.”
Poe, seated across from him, nibbled on a slice of ham. “A speeding train, such as this one, is a dangerous business, sir.”
“It’s what?”
“An American train, Mr. Figg, is as poorly constructed as the track upon which it rolls. Curves are sharp, grades steep and the consideration given to passenger safety can best be described as fleeting. America is being speedily erected. It rises overnight from a wilderness, and under such circumstances, there is little time to waste upon being precise. Our republic worships the obsolete; it builds nothing that will last and it seems the citizenry, in its blissful ignorance, prefers this state of affairs. American trains undergo accidents at an astounding rate, a brutal truth we accept as we do political promises and heavy-handed dentists. Un-pleasantries to be endured and survived, the process to be repeated much too frequently.”
Figg grunted. “Nothin’ built to last, you say.”
Poe nodded.
“Then why build a bloody thing at all? I mean in your New York you have people buildin’ one thing or another everywhere you turn. A man cannot stroll about your fair city without he gets the dust of cement and plaster in ‘is nostrils.”
Poe fingered the woman’s cloak found last night near his cottage. It lay across his knees warming him. “We call that the spirit of ‘go-ahead,’ Mr. Figg. The ‘go-aheads’ tear down the beautiful old Dutch housing and churches of this city, to replace them with the ugly, cramped wooden tenements needed to house a growing immigrant population, that welcomed source of cheap labor for a growing nation. New York feeds on progress, Mr. Figg and progress feeds on destruction.”
Poe’s finger found the hole in the cloak made by the ball from Figg’s flintlock. “‘Go-ahead.’ ‘Self-improvement.’ These words sound better than greed. Well, let us trust to the almighty that we reach New York without mishap, where we shall continue our search for Hamlet Sproul.”
Figg patted the flat, black wooden box on the seat next to him, the box that held his two flintlocks. “And we has a chat with Miles Standish, for if ‘e’s the one what turned on the gas, I would like to know why. If ’e ain’t, it’s time he led us to Jonathan.”
He looked at the unfinished piece of ham Poe held in his lap. “’Ere now, if you ain’t gonna eat the rest of that, give it ‘ere. Leastwise we eat on yer American trains. Fella what comes up and down the aisle has enough food on ‘im to feed a bleedin’ army.”
Poe blinked at the noon sun, then closed his eyes against the glare. “Have you noticed something, Mr. Figg?”
“Noticed that ham you ain’t eatin’.”
Poe smiled and handed it to him. “Look around you.”
Figg did so, fingers of one hand pushing the ham into his mouth. Nothing much to see. A long, empty train car with seats covered in faded brown leather. Floors stained by tobacco juice. Heavy oil lamps on the walls above every two seats.
Figg spoke with a mouth full of ham. “Nothin’ much to notice, squire.”
“Precisely,” said Poe. He leaned forward until his knees almost touched Figg’s knees. “Nothing to notice. This car is empty, Mr. Figg, save for you and I.”
“What is so out of the way about that?”
“Why should two passengers be blessed with a separate car? Mr. Figg, we have made three stops, taking on passengers at each station and no one has entered this car. Twice I have noticed passengers attempting to enter what seems to have become our private domain and twice the conductor has prevented them from doing so. The rear door”-Poe pointed-”is locked, for persons have attempted to enter it without success. It is the custom, yes, to have separate cars on American trains.”
Poe leaned closer. “There is a separate car for Negroes, there is one for women and one for men. But I have never heard of such a distinction being accorded a poet and a pugilist.”