With Montaigne clinging to his sleeve, her tiny wrinkled face relaxed in a world of her own, Poe entered, blinking his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness.
Greatrakes was behind him. “She is there, Mr. Poe, resting in the corner.”
Poe turned towards Greatrakes’ voice and a fist hit him in the jaw, spinning him around and sending him dancing into a barrel used as a chair.
They were on him in a flash, two men tying his hands behind his back and gagging him with a filthy bandana. In seconds it was all over.
Poe lay on the floor, his jaw aching. It had happened too quickly for him to be frightened, but the fear would come. He was sure of it.
It began now.
Greatrakes looked down at him. “Oh dear. I told you, Mr. Poe, an informer is not a welcomed man in these parts, no indeed, sir. I have told these gentlemen of your plan to betray them and Hamlet Sproul to the police. Hamlet will want a chat with you about his Ida and their boys.”
Poe struggled. He tried to sit up, to cry out. A booted foot was placed on his chest and he went down painfully.
“Bastard,” said an Irishman.
Greatrakes leered, gnarled hand stroking his beard. “They do not appreciate the part you played in the death of me cousin, Johnnie Bill Baker.”
Suddenly Poe knew!
Greatrakes’ voice had slid into an Irish brogue. “No sir, me bucko, you cannot send me darlin’ Johnny to the flames without me doin’ somethin’ about it, no sir. Hamlet Sproul is a true son of Erin. He said he’d help me ‘ave me revenge, he did. ‘Corcoran,’ ’e said, “you’ll taste ‘is blood, you will. Swear it, I do. Me, ‘amlet Sproul.‘”
Greatrakes’ performance was skillful, convincing. It was perfectly tailored for his audience. A trapped Poe could only watch.
Greatrakes leaned down, his face just inches from Poe’s. In the darkness and shielded by his own body, Greatrakes’s hand could not be seen by the three Irishmen. He removed a glove. The little finger on his right hand was missing.
The veins bulged on Poe’s forehead and neck with the effort of trying to cry out.
When Greatrakes stood up, the glove was back on his hand. His leer was deadly.
Poe cried out against the gag that was painfully tight across his mouth. He was dizzy with fear.
Greatrakes spoke to the Irishmen. “Oh, before I’m forgettin’ lads, Hamlet wants a word with one of you about a change in plans. He is not goin’ to kill the woman. ‘E’s decided there’s more money in her bein’ alive. ‘E’s sellin’ ’er to a white slaver for a tidy sum, in which you will all share.”
The men whooped.
Greatrakes leered. “Ah, she’s in the corner, is she? Quiet as a dead leaf.”
“Ain’t dead,” said one of the men. “Woulda been if Seamus had been allowed to ‘ave ‘is way with ‘er. Pulled ‘im back just in time.”
Greatrakes clapped a hand on Seamus’ shoulder. “Seamus, lad, you look the type me cousin Johnnie Bill would have loved. Hamlet wants to talk to ye about what ‘e intends to do with the lady over there. I’m thinkin’ that when you return, the three of you will be allowed a bit of fun with ‘er, eh?”
He leered. The men whooped again. One sipped from a bottle and offered it to Greatrakes, who accepted.
After a huge swallow of gin, Greatrakes stepped over to Poe and poured gin on him. “Last drink, Mr. Poe. On the ‘ouse, it is.”
The men laughed.
The gin burned Poe’s eyes and wet his hair. Jonathan wants to kill Hamlet Sproul. He has tricked these three into leading him to Sproul. And Rachel. These men will-
A frightened Poe squirmed on the ground, lashing out with his feet, kicking at Jonathan, at the Irishmen.
“Liquor makes ‘im dance, it does. Oils his tongue so’s ‘e can talk to the police.” Greatrakes’ brogue was getting stronger. Clever and dangerous, thought Poe. Arrogant. Manipulative. He challenged me face to face and he’s won. The fiend has beaten me, and Rachel and I will die. First she will be degraded by these men, then the two of us will die. She will take longer in dying and suffer the more.
Greatrakes and Seamus were by the door, Great-rakes’ arm around the Irishman’s shoulders. “Seamus and I will be returnin’. You boyos keep Mr. Poe amused and make yer plans for the lady. Come Seamus, let us look in on Hamlet and tell ’im Mr. Poe is arrived and has been welcomed.”
“The old lady,” said one Irish. “What’s to be done with ‘er?”
Greatrakes’ voice came from the dark hallway. “Marry the wench or bury her. It’s up to you, I’d say.” He and Seamus laughed.
The two Irishmen drank from the bottle, eyes on Montaigne.
“Ain’t for marryin’, Tom.”
“Nor I, Flynn.”
One lifted his bottle in a mock toast to Montaigne, who sat on the dirt floor, stroking Rachel’s hair.
Had Rachel fainted or was she asleep? Or dear God, was she dead? Poe couldn’t tell and he was unable to ask Montaigne. He was unable to warn the women to flee for their lives.
The Irishman holding the bottle said to Montaigne, “’Ere’s to you, old one. You’ll get to heaven long before me. You’ll get there today.”
“Before Seamus returns.”
“Before Seamus returns.”
The two nodded at each other, then stood up and walked towards Montaigne.
Poe’s eyes bulged and he cried out as loud as he could. The gag strangled his words and the sound which emerged was that of a man powerless in the face of death.
THIRTY-TWO
The pain was blinding. It exploded in the center of his face, then squeezed his brain. Sproul jerked himself into a sitting position from drunken sleep, both hands going to his nose. Pain. Someone had slit his left nostril.
“Sproul?” The soft voice came from the darkness.
Crazed with pain, Sproul fumbled for the leather thong around his neck. His fingers were wet with his own blood.
The knife wasn’t there. Sproul patted his chest in a quick, panicked search. No knife. A hand went back to his bleeding nose.
“Who-who is there? Speak, damn you!”
“Jonathan.”
Sproul went rigid, his stomach turning to ice. He tried to sit up. Something lay across his lap weighing him down, keeping him in place. Jesus and Mary! It was Seamus. He was dead! Lying across Sproul’s lap, eyes wide and staring, a few inches of candle jammed down into his open mouth. The candle was the only light in the small, filthy room. It rolled on the floor, smothering its flame. A thin, pale blue wisp of smoke slowly floated up into the air.
“The body of Justin Coltman, I want it. It is in this room. You will tell me where.”
On his hands and knees, blood pouring down his face and into his tobacco-stained, blond beard, Sproul crawled left, right, seeking safety in motion. He whimpered in fear and crawled.
“You will give me the body, Hamlet Sproul.”
“Dear God, no! Do not carve me heart-”
Jonathan, scalpel in his hand, leaped on Sproul, sending him forward and to the floor. A hand covered Sproul’s mouth, trapping the scream deep within the grave robber’s throat. Jonathan, strong in his triumph, began to chant softly.
* * * *
Figg placed an ear to the door, listened, then nodded to the bowlegged dwarf who held the lantern. The dwarf, his black eyes expressionless in his large head, emptied the oil from the lantern, touched flame to it, then stepped aside. Figg, pistols drawn, waited and hoped he was not too late.
Smoke rose slowly from the floor. Come on in there, thought Figg. Can’t be hangin’ about out ‘ere breathin’ this bloody stuff.
The door opened and Figg stepped in front of it, kicking it, sending it back hard against the man who had opened it. The man ran backwards, fell onto a table, then to the floor. Figg blinked, eyes searching the dark room. Two men, no more. And Poe on the floor, wrapped like a Christmas goose and looking none too happy about it.