“No, my friends, Jonathan could not have committed the murders and the mutilation, then traversed the distance between Broadway and Five Points. Mr. Figg.”
“Yeah?”
“For the moment I am Dupin, the French detective. Let us dissect what you have previously told me you saw. Begin with our meeting on the sidewalk near the office of Miles Standish. No, begin with your observation of Miles Standish alighting from his carriage. Was he followed into the building?”
Figg rubbed his bulldog jaw. “Nobody follows ‘im inside. He gets out from ‘is carriage, which he drives ‘imself, ties it, then he follows these three young ladies inside. One of the ladies is carryin’ a suitcase-”
Poe frowned. “Young ladies. There was little time between their entering and Standish following them. Mr. Figg, you have already mentioned something to me. You said the bonnet of a woman was burning in the fireplace beside the head of Miles Standish. Forgive me, Rachel.”
She was pale, a hand to her throat. “I am at ease, Eddy. Please continue. I know this is necessary. Please pay me no mind.”
“Yes, well Mr. Figg, the bonnet.”
“It was to the right of ‘is ‘ead. Yellow I think it was. Lookin’ back on it, seems there was somethin’ else in that fireplace as well. Some more rags burnin’, seems like. I dunno … ”
“Ah, Mr. Figg, but you do know! Another sense within you sees and records. It was that bonnet which made me connect two things; the three women entering the building and the three young men hurrying down the narrow staircase.”
“I had to wait fer them to come down. Weren’t enough room fer me to go up past them.”
Poe’s eyes were bright with excitement. The problems of analysis thrilled him beyond measure. He responded to any challenge to his intellect because he was Poe, he was the brightest, the very brightest of intellects.
Poe’s low, southern voice was firm. “The bonnet, Mr. Figg. It has stuck out in my mind, and so has the suitcase and now those rags you saw in the fireplace. Standish and his clerk were killed by those three young men. They entered the office disguised as women, committed the murders, the mutilation, then fled, passing you on the way down. The women and men had the following in common: their youth, their nearness to the crime and a suitcase. I would wager the suitcase was used to carry some items of male apparel. As you noted, some of the female apparel used as disguise was burning in the fireplace.”
“Cor blimey!” Figg’s mouth dropped open. Little Mr. Poe had done it again, he had. Smart as a pen full of foxes.
“Something else, Mr. Figg. Volney Gunning is a part of this business and it is shameful for me to say this in front of Rachel but I must. Volney Gunning is a lover of young men. He is a homosexual, a man who pleasures himself in the flesh of his own sex.”
Figg snorted. “’E’s a bloody poof, yer sayin’. Light as a feather.”
“Yes. And he is known to prefer the company of the Metropolitan Cleopatras to be found at the house of Venus called Scotch Ann’s. No ordinary streetwalkers to be found here, Mr. Figg. Here you find some of the loveliest looking of women and all are available, sir. Except that these women are not women. They are young men in women’s gowns and wigs and each young man has a most lovely feminine name. They sell themselves as street women do. Men such as Volney Gunning buy.”
Figg said, “Mr. Gunning and Mr. Larney are friends. Them two and Miles Standish sends the minstrels after us. Now Mr. Gunning sends some she-he’s to pay a call on Mr. Standish. Seems to fit. Yes sir, it seems to fit neatly.”
Poe sat on the edge of Rachel’s bed. Figg saw her reach for his hand. Poe coughed into his fist, his body jerking. He quickly rose and continued coughing. You ain’t healthy, mate, thought Figg. You had hard times but now you got a lady what cares for you and I am thinkin’ perhaps that might be enough. For your sake, squire, I hope so.
Poe turned to face them again. “Forgive me, dear friends. Despite being junior to you in years, Mr. Figg, I am afraid I am no where near as fit.”
“Squire, I ain’t fit. Jes’ lucky, I am.”
“Your pluck creates your luck, Mr. Figg.”
“Will take more than luck or pluck to get us to Jonathan, says I.”
“Let us begin with a carriage ride tonight. Let us visit Scotch Ann’s establishment and see if we can find Volney Gunning. He, I believe, is the weakest link in their chain. After him, Hugh Larney. Assume that Jonathan is no longer in the city. Assume, but above all, hope, that he has told one of these two men where he hopes to commit this awesome ritual.”
Figg’s bulldog face was firm. “In this place of Scotch Ann, beggin’ yer pardon miss for havin’ to mention it once more, you say all the pretty ladies is really pretty men?”
“Yes, Mr. Figg.”
“This is a peculiar business, Mr. Poe. I ain’t never been in a place like this before.”
“Yes, Mr. Figg. I note your rigid jaw when you speak of Scotch Ann’s. You will not have to dance or embrace anyone there, you have my word.”
“I hold you to it, Mr. Poe.”
Figg lifted his jaw in the air and sat firm, the picture of an Englishman who knew where the line had to be drawn.
THIRTY-FOUR
The night of the first day.
As called for in the ritual, Jonathan slept during the day. He was scheduled to do this for the full nine days, waking only at night to perform the rites. Laertes, who would assist, lay beside him on the dirt floor of the abandoned barn; to make certain they slept, each man had sipped drugged, unfermented wine. Cold sunlight shone through cracks in the barn walls, throwing long, golden stripes across the bodies of the two sleeping men, both of whom wore stained, dirt encrusted grave clothes torn from recently dug up corpses.
Jonathan and Laertes slept within a magic circle nine feet in diameter, a circle dug in the ground by Jonathan, who had used an Athame, the ritual knife of the witch. Three feet away was another circle, this one around the plain, wooden coffin containing Justin Coltman’s body, the severed head resting on the chest. Both circles were protection against those evil spirits who might be drawn to the ritual.
Preparation, summoning, dismissal. The three parts of the black art of necromancy.
Preparation. All items to be used lay within and just outside the circle. Torches. Flint for making fire. A bowl containing a mixture of opium, hemlock, saffron, wood chips, mandrake and henbane. Six white candles, salt, water, a mallet and sharpened wooden stake.
For food, there was the flesh of dogs. And bread. Black, unleavened and unsalted bread and more unfermented wine. The dog served Hecate, goddess of death. The bread and wine, lacking yeast, salt and fermentation, were without life and served as needed barren symbols. Jonathan and Laertes were to eat sparsely and only at midnight.
Midnight.
The summoning of Justin Coltman’s spirit began.
Jonathan and Laertes had eaten and both now sat within the first consecrated circle. Each had sprinkled human ashes into his hair. Laertes held a flaming torch in each hand, his eyes closed, his mind directed to Jonathan’s chanting.
“Powers of the Kingdom, be ye under my left foot and in my right hand! Glory and Eternity, take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory! Intelligence and wisdom crown me! Spirits of Mal-chuth, lead me betwixt the two pillars upon which rests the whole edifice of the temple! Angels of Netsah and Hod, strengthen me upon the cubic stone of Jesod! O Gedulael! O Geburael! O Tiphereth! Binael, be thou my love! Ruach Hochmael, be thou my light! Be that which thou art and thou shalt be, O Ketheriel!”
“Tschim, assist me in the name of Saddai! Cherubin, be my strength in the name of Adonai! Beni-Elohim, be my brethren in the name of the Son, and by the power of Zebaoth! Eloim, do battle for me in the name of Tetragrammaton!”