He had said that Rachel would die here. Sproul who wore that monstrous knife on a leather thong around his neck, who claimed that Eddy Poe and this mysterious Jonathan had slaughtered his woman and two sons.
A liquor-slurred brogue came from dangerously close to her. “Warms ourselves with this goddam ‘Blue Ruin,’ we does and you know why? ‘Cause we ain’t got no gold-plated fireplace or fur trimmed cloak or no nigger servant to put the warmin’ pan in our fuckin’ beds like her in the corner has.”
“That’s ‘cause we ain’t got no fuckin’ beds.” More laughter.
“Seamus, come away from her. Come on, leave her alone.”
He was standing over her. Rachel smelled him. Liquor, the tobacco juice that had dripped down his shirt front. She clenched her teeth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Dear God, don’t let him-
A hand clumsily stroked her hair.
“Seamus, I’ll be tellin’ you no more to come away from her.”
“Lovely little morsel, she is. I’m thinkin’ I would like a bite of her.”
“Hamlet would kill you, Seamus. Interfere with his revenge and you’ll end up on the sharp end of his knife. Know this for a fact.”
The hand quickly left her head. She heard him move away and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. From outside in the hall, she heard a baby cry and she heard the crash of a whiskey bottle shattering against a nearby wall. So far, they had not raped her. So far …
“Hamlet Sproul is a drunken madman.” It was the voice who had stroked her hair. “Killin’ a handsome woman like this one.”
“Has his reasons, he does. Same reasons that made him take her from her home and bring her ’ere. Same reasons that now have him drunk and passed out in ‘is room down the hall. Meets Ida’s sister and the sight of her makes him weep.”
“Makes him drink until he cannot stand. Ida’s sister is on the game, isn’t she?”
“Aye, she is. Been a mab since she was ten and now she’s fourteen and livin’ in this grand palace with ‘er ponce, she is. Lordy, this buildin’ is a sin against the eyes and nose.”
“For sure. But you can’t beat the rent. No spittin’ into the bottle, if you will be so kind. Cards please. Like to ask you lads a question, after I take a look at me cards. Damn!”
Rachel heard the cards being slammed to the table in disgust.
“Me question is, what does Mr. Sproul have in that sack he covered with earth and insists in sleepin’ near?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
A whisper.
Then silence.
Rachel waited, her eyes still closed.
“Oh I see,” said the brogue who had inquired about the sack. “I sees indeed. But if he’s gonna kill her, how does he expect her to pay for her husband’s body-”
“Ah, Seamus, bite your tongue and look at your cards. Will do our guest no good to hear of such things. May I tell you, lad, that you are a poor poker player and for that reason, may you find the time to visit us in the grand hotel more often.”
“‘Blue Ruin’ has addled me brain.”
“And made you a Billy Noodle, thinkin’ all the women love you.”
More coarse laughter. More drinking from the bottle.
A man broke wind and all three laughed and whooped. One said to Rachel. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship. Please don’t send me to bed without me supper.”
Rachel, sick to her stomach, felt tears roll down her face and into the corners of her mouth, leaving a salt taste there. Justin. His body was here in the Old Brewery with Hamlet Sproul and soon her body would lie beside his. Oh God, oh God, why are these terrible things happening to me? Why am I suffering so?
Her body shook with her silent sobs.
“See there, lads, told you her ladyship wasn’t sleepin’. Let’s have a peak under that blanket.”
“Seamus, I’m warnin’ you! We’re to guard her, nothin’ more.”
“A peek won’t hurt. Lookin’ never damaged the Queen of England and I’ve gazed upon her many a time.”
“Seamus-”
Rachel felt the blanket ripped from her hands and she brought her knees up close under her chin.
She screamed.
All three men laughed and moved closer.
* * * *
“You may call me Mr. Greatrakes and I shall call you Mr. Poe. I know why you are here in the Old Brewery.”
Poe attempted to step around the man, who slid into his path.
“Mr. Poe, if you refuse to stand and converse with me, I shall have to denounce you and if you do not know what that means, I shall enlighten you, oh yes I shall. Mr. Greatrakes, that’s me sir, will denounce you as being a nose, oh yes I shall. An informer for the police, a wretched spy. Look around you, Mr. Poe. Any one of these lost souls in this room would kill you on the spot, oh yes they would.”
Poe licked his lips. He was twice frightened, for himself, for Rachel. Greatrakes. Bearded, humpback, with a left hand carried twisted over his heart as in some grotesque pledge. And he was preventing Poe from finding Hamlet Sproul and pleading with the grave robber for Rachel’s life. Poe had no other plan.
“Shall I denounce you, Mr. Poe?”
“Speak, damn you and quickly.”
“You wish to rescue Rachel Coltman. I shall help you.”
Poe looked left, right. He was in “The Den of Thieves,” the name given to the largest room in the Old Brewery. Montaigne had been his guide and together they had reached this hideous place through a hidden passage that began in the basement of a rotting tenement three blocks away.
The room was huge enough to contain more than one hundred Irish and coloreds, who clung precariously to life without the aid of any running water, sanitation facilities or even the simplest of furniture. Poe placed a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to avoid breathing any more of the stench around him than absolutely necessary. Yes, he thought, the children here can indeed contaminate the wild pigs roaming in the muddy alleys outside.
No gaslight within these walls and only a window or two, minus all glass. The darkness was broken here and there by a bit of candle, a cheap lantern, a small fire. Men, women and children were thrown together in the severest of poverty, preying on the world around them, preying on each other. Crime was the only industry they knew or would ever know. Poe’s nostrils flared in disgust at a nearby couple sexually entwined just feet away from him on the dirty floor. Only a few people of the many in the room even bothered to watch this prostitute entertain her customer.
Mr. Greatrakes was correct. To denounce anyone as a police informer in these surroundings was to sentence him to death and Poe, as a stranger, was especially vulnerable to such a charge.
“I said, Mr. Poe, that I shall assist you in the rescue of Rachel Coltman.”
Poe eyed Greatrakes’ matted beard, which reached to the man’s chest.
“Ah,” said Greatrakes, wiping his nose with the back of a gloved hand, “you are asking yourself, how can one such as Valentine Greatrakes assist the likes of Edgar Allan Poe. Well sir, I can lead you to Hamlet Sproul, oh yes I can and you will admit, that this is no small service in an inferno of vice as that in which we now stand.”
Poe nodded. It would be a service if he could trust Valentine Greatrakes who appeared to be almost omniscient, despite having the look of a man far down on his luck. The Old Brewery was a different world, a world in which one moved with utmost caution merely in hopes of living one more day. More than one thousand Irish and colored lived here, and some of the colored, Poe knew, had white wives, a fact he found totally loathsome.
For the time being Poe was safe, though his intelligence told him that anyone in the Old Brewery would murder him for the ragged clothes he wore, should he be so unfortunate as to meet someone so desperate. Greatrakes could guide him and Poe was desperate enough to take any assistance he could. Merely locating Rachel in time would be a problem, let alone talking Hamlet Sproul into releasing her.