There were twenty rooms in the cellar alone, plus almost one hundred other rooms scattered throughout the Old Brewery. There was no sunlight or fresh air in any of them and even less humanity and decency. Dozens of people were crammed into some of the rooms, all living in unbelievable filth. The building was jammed with murderers, thieves, prostitutes, beggars and people whose imagination knew no limit in the committing of all vices know to man.
Poe could use the help of Valentine Greatrakes. But there were questions to put to the hunchback.
“How do you come to know of this matter of Rachel Coltman?”
Greatrakes sniffled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Such a lady as her, sir, well her beauty is so out of place in the Old Brewery, wouldn’t you say? She is under guard now, but still alive, still alive.”
“You have seen her?” Poe’s heart pounded.
“Briefly, only briefly. Seen you, Mr. Poe. The other night in the Louvre, you and the pugilist Mr. Figg. Heard Johnnie Bill Baker and his colored wench-”
“That is of no importance at the present moment. Mrs. Coltman-”
“Alive. Now here is what I would like you to do.” He took Poe’s elbow and steered him away from Montaigne, who now squatted near a small fire. On the other side of the fire was a large Negro man and his common-law wife, a teen-age Irish girl, her stomach high and full with the child she expected. By the light of the fire, several men gambled with dice.
“You would have to do something for me, Mr. Poe. Mrs. Coltman has a great deal of money, which she won’t be able to spend if she is dead. If she lives, I trust she will be, ah, grateful? You could see to that, yes you could. It is a known fact that you and the lady are, well, you are here to effect her rescue, are you not?”
“Lead me to her. I shall see that she rewards you but if you deceive me-”
“Oh Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes leered. His teeth were yellow and black and Poe could have broken them with his stick. The man reeked of liquor. He winked at Poe. “Did you know that Johnnie Bill Baker has friends even among those here in such a place as this? If they were to learn you are among them … ” He shook his head, leering even more.
Poe pulled his elbow away from Greatrakes and would have fled the man, had he not looked over his shoulder and seen three thin-faced, dirty and ragged teen-age boys staring at him. They were obviously trying to decide if Poe had anything of value, anything worth cutting his throat for. He had to find Sproul fast, talk to him, convince him Rachel had nothing to do with the death of Sproul’s woman and sons.
Greatrakes again used the back of a gloved hand to wipe his nose. Poe noticed that the gloves were torn and stained. “Ah, Mr. Poe, I sense hostility in you. Ah, yes I do. Come, let us continue our stroll for I daresay those lads you are staring at may well be measuring your throat for a blade. Would it make any difference to you if I say Rachel Coltman is acquainted with me?”
Poe snorted. “Acquainted with you, sir?”
“Oh she is, she is. I was once a better man than you see before you. Educated, respected, a professional of some small accomplishment. I assisted Justin Coltman in a business arrangement or two. That is until demon rum trapped me in his embrace.”
“And you crawled into the bottle never again to crawl out.”
“Well now, who would know of such falls from grace better than you, Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes, grinned slyly, stroking his matted beard with the back of his gnarled hand. The man made Poe’s skin crawl.
“Lead me to Mrs. Coltman.”
“Well now, I do not know for certain where Mr. Sproul is but the whereabouts of Mrs. Coltman, ah, that is a fact of which many of us here are aware.”
“The two are not together?”
“From what I can gather, they are not. Mrs. Coltman is being guarded by three of Sproul’s men, while Sproul himself is somewhere in private drenching his grief in rum.”
Poe fingered his mustache. Sproul was drinking. Most likely, he would drink to excess, pass out and be unable to communicate with anyone. That meant Poe had a chance to talk with Rachel’s jailers, to convince them to release her. But what if the jailers refused to even consider Rachel’s release unless Sproul was present?
Valentine Greatrakes. The name was grand, a sweeping verbal gesture. Ridiculous that it be attached to this despicable looking, dunghill of a human being. Valentine Greatrakes. Poe had heard the name before, but where?
The hunchback sniffled. He leaks, thought Poe, like sap from trees in the forest. Valentine Greatrakes. I know the name. I do.
Poe said, “Lead. I shall follow.”
“And you will inform Mrs. Coltman-”
“Damn you, yes!”
“White of you, Mr. Poe. Exceedingly white of you, sir. Oh, I would not leave your old friend behind. Already, she has attracted attention and her being so decrepit and all.”
Dear God! Poe hurried quickly to Montaigne’s side, pushing through three ragged and dirty women who now squatted beside Montaigne in front of the fire. The women fingered the soiled rags she wore, her muddy boots.
Poe dragged Montaigne away from them, speaking softly to her in French, telling her to stay close to him.
Valentine Greatrakes leered at them, his twisted hand in place over his heart. “Nice to see a man looking out after others the way you do, Mr. Poe. Yes, I tell you it is a nicely thing to see. Well sir, let us trek deeper into this jungle and be of keen eye, the both of you. Won’t do to go off on your own in the Old Brewery.”
He shuffled on ahead of them, reminding Poe of an insect in search of prey. Just let this leaking hunchback lead me to Rachel in time. It occurred to Poe that the story “Hop Frog,” on which he was working when he found time and energy, had a hunchback court jester as the main character. As for this Valentine Greatrakes, Poe’s keen ear detected that his American accent was practiced, an applied trait, something learned and acquired. It covered another accent, something from western Europe.
Greatrakes’ original birthplace was not America; Poe was certain of it. And that name. Greatrakes. It scraped at Poe’s brain as he and Montaigne followed the hunchback into a passageway blacker than the blackest midnight.
Greatrakes had produced a stub of a candle from under his cloak, lighting it from a lantern that rested on the floor between two drunken Irishmen with bloated, sore-encrusted faces. Poe, Montaigne and Greatrakes left “The Den of Thieves” behind, the cries, curses and stench of the huge hall growing fainter. Now they were in a sour smelling darkness leading to only the hunchback knew where.
A rat squeaked. From rooms along the passageway, some with doors closed, others with doors open, came more curses, screams, drunken laughter, the wail of babies and the toneless singing of those whose minds no longer concentrated. To Poe, the darkness magnified the hellish odors and noises around them.
And his life and that of Montaigne were in the hands of a hunchback named Valentine Greatrakes, who shuffled noisily in front of them, candle stub held high and casting long shadows on the wall, as he led them deeper into darkness.
* * * *
Greatrakes went inside of the room alone and talked to the men guarding Rachel Coltman. When the door had opened a hard-faced Irish with a scraggly beard pointed a flintlock pistol at Greatrakes’ throat and drunkenly demanded what he wanted. Poe had not heard the hunchback’s whisper, but the door had opened wider and he’d gone inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Poe and Montaigne had been left outside in almost total darkness; Greatrakes had taken the candle stub with him.
Now Greatrakes stood in the doorway, beckoning Poe and Montaigne inside. “In with you now, you two. Your lady friend awaits and, Mr. Poe, these here gentlemen will find it a pleasure to discuss with you. Come on, do not hang back there in the darkness. Come on.”