“Well, you just let me ask Mr. Larney the hard questions. I will be comin’ back ‘ere earliest. ‘Ave cooky keep some food hot fer me. Nice to see you with a pen in yer ‘ands again. It is a nice feelin’ to do yer trade.”
“I cannot tell you how nice. Rachel and I, we have talked. There is a bond between us, Mr. Figg and it has come about as a result of this horrible business. I shall spend the night here in a spare room. By the way, you are not going to mention-?”
Figg shook his head. “Mr. Bootham knows a bit or two, but I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to the rest. Mr. Dickens once taught me somethin’ Mr. Samuel Johnson said and that is ‘three can keep a secret if two are dead.’”
Poe threw back his head and laughed. The laugh was full, long. Feelin’ too deeply, thought Figg. A man should have more control over himself than does little Eddy. That woman has got him runnin’ a swift race at the moment. Hope she don’t cut him off at the knees. It happens, Lord knows.
“Very good, Mr. Figg. Very, very good. It is a thought that would nicely fill a space at the bottom of a column. When I have my magazine-”
Figg sighed. So that was it. Him and the lady and his bloomin’ magazine. Did she promise to give him the money for it? No one else seemed ready to do so. What kind of reliable promise could be expected from a lady as sick as Rachel Coltman was at the present time. It was certain that the lady was out of mind a wee bit. Somewhat soft in the head due to the hard times that had fallen upon her in the Old Brewery. Or so said the doctor.
Leave him be, thought Figg. Leave him with his dreams. He can ask his own hard questions when the sun arises. Or when the lady no longer graces her sick bed.
“In the mornin’, then,” said Figg.
“In the morning, Mr. Figg.” Poe’s smile was wondrous.
He smiles, thought Figg, and I ‘ave a hole in me one and only frock coat.
Touching his hand to his top hat, he bowed slightly and left the room, his polished pistol box under his arm, his carpetbag in his hand. Little Mr. Poe should know that a horse what runs too fast never makes it over the full course. He should know but he doesn’t.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jonathan, The third day.
The bitter winter cold that had been knifing through Laertes’ body began to fade. He was being hypnotized by Jonathan.
As ordered, he gazed into the magician’s eyes, fascinated by the colors that spun around and around-the reds, blues, greens. They drew him deeper into a pleasant warmth and he relaxed, smiling gently with no idea of who or where he was. He felt warm. The numbness left his hands and feet and never in his life had he heard a sound as pleasant as the voice that now filled his life; it was the only thing in the world worth living for.
As Laertes slept on the hard, cold earth, Jonathan sipped the drugged wine and thought of last night’s triumph over Asmodeus. The demon king would return. He had to. He had to stop Jonathan from getting the throne, for possession of the throne meant dominion over all. It meant dominion over Asmodeus.
So long as Jonathan remained within the magic circle, he was safe. But he wanted more than mere safety. He wanted power. And when Asmodeus returned, Jonathan would fight him again.
And win.
Nothing could stop the magician now. Nothing in heaven or hell or on earth could stop him or keep him from the Throne of Solomon.
Hear me, Asmodeus. Hear me. Bow to me, as you must. Bow to me, bow to me, bow to me.
Jonathan fell back into a drugged sleep.
Bow to me!
THIRTY-NINE
An angry hugh Larney, backed by Thor and two more men, stood in the snow on the sidewalk in front of Rachel Coltman’s mansion. He drew his ermine trimmed cloak tighter around his small, elegantly dressed body and aimed his pointed chin at Poe, who stood alone at the top of the gray stone stairs leading into the mansion.
“I will have the girl, Poe. Hear me well on this. For the last time, I order you to stand aside.”
“I will not stand aside, Hugh Larney. You have been refused entrance into this house and that refusal will not be withdrawn.”
“As usual, you go far beyond yourself. I cannot have you oppose me. I cannot and I will not.”
“Since I do not utter your name in my prayers, know that I oppose you in all things.” Poe shivered. Fear. And the cold. And as always, from the excitement he felt when near to violence.
Where was Figg? He was supposed to have returned early this morning, but it was almost noon and he had not shown. Was he alive? Dead? Lying wounded in some vile grog shop, the victim of Jonathan’s minions?
“The child is mine whenever I choose, Mister Poe and I so choose now.”
Hugh Larney looked at the men with him. Thor and two others. More than enough to wipe something as insignificant as Edgar Allan Poe from the face of the earth and at the moment that was exactly what Hugh Larney was strongly inclined to do. Last night, Thor had returned with the news that Poe, assisted by his friend with the face of a ravaged bulldog, had removed Dearborn Lapham from Wade Bruenhausen, leaving the Dutchman with hands containing holes where God had made none.
Thor had murdered the doctor but that news did not affect Larney as much as hearing that Poe, Poe had Dearborn. Hugh Larney took no such blow from any man, particularly from a man such as Poe, who spent more time lying facedown in gutters than he did standing on his feet. Larney’s stables were cleaned with better rags than the clothes Poe wore. Poe was a thing to be stepped on, not knelt to.
“For the last time, Mr. Poe, will you stand aside and allow us to enter?”
“No.”
“Then the consequences be on your head, and let me say, I relish this fact, sir. I most certainly relish it.”
“As you did the death of your friend, Miles Standish?”
Larney moved his tiny mouth in circles. Poe’s query was leading to something. Larney was uneasy.
Poe clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. He wore neither greatcoat nor suit jacket. When told by a servant that Hugh Larney was at the front door, he had rushed from the study his mind clouded by the desire to protect Rachel. The last time men had pushed their way into her home, it had resulted in a terrifying ordeal for her, one from which she had not recovered. Poe was not going to let that happen again. Not so long as there was breath in his body.
Where was Figg?
Poe stepped down, slowly walking towards Larney. A foolhardy act, perhaps, but Poe was a man of pride, of strong loyalties, particularly towards women and at the moment he saw himself as Rachel’s only protection.
“Tell me, Hugh Larney, where has Jonathan taken the body of Justin Coltman?” Poe continued his slow walk down the stairs, his fear a slithering icy mass within his stomach.
The smile passed swiftly across Larney’s face. “I see the game now. I do see the game. You hold the child and lure me to you in hopes that I give you the information about-”
He paused, then smiled once more. “Thor will answer all of your questions, Mr. Poe.”
Poe was now on the sidewalk directly in front of Larney and without warning, he slapped Larney in the face.
The act caught everyone by surprise. Including Poe, who was almost unable to breathe because of the excitement.
Figg where are you?
The strains of a piano came from a nearby home. A horse-drawn ice wagon pulled away from the house next door and overhead, birds huddled together for warmth on the wires of telegraph poles.
Larney, his face red where Poe had struck him, spoke in a barely audible voice. “Do you realize what you have done?”