“I–I have challenged you to a duel.” Poe kept his eyes closed.
He heard Larney say,” And the choice of weapons is mine. I do also take it upon myself to declare time and place. I prefer the combat to take place here and now and I choose as a weapon-Thor!”
Poe opened his eyes. Wide.
“Thor, Mr. Poe. And so you lose, as always, sir.”
Poe looked up at the towering Negro, whose smile covered almost the entire bottom half of his round, black face.
Thor’s grin was malevolent. “Lit-tul mon, you and me is goin’ to-”
“A moment if you please!”
Figg strolled towards them, as always favoring his lame right leg. Behind him, Titus Bootham, in tiny round spectacles and grizzly fur coat, climbed from a carriage. Another man waited in the carriage for Bootham to step clear.
“Ain’t goin’ to be no duelin’ with Mr. Poe,” growled Figg. He stopped, his right hand taking the black pistol box from under his left armpit.
Hugh Larney’s voice became more arch, more British. He began using his hands to talk, his wrists going limp. His gloves were gray, handmade, expensive.
“Mr. Poe has often claimed to be a man of honor, a Virginian aristocrat, though one finds it difficult to see how such lineage falls in line with being born of travelling players. It is a fact that dueling is frowned upon, but it is also a fact that it is an almost daily occurrence among men of honor. I repeat, among men of honor. No man of honor backs down from a challenge. It reflects poorly upon himself, upon his lady, who must of course suffer his lack of courage, I would trust. As Mrs. Poe’s friend, you ah Mr., Mr.-”
“You know the name, mate.”
“Yes. Figg, was it not?”
“Was and is. And you would be Mr. Hugh Larney, the man ’oo pleasures hisself with little girls.”
Larney bowed. Thor’s back was to Poe, his widely spaced eyes on Figg. The two fighters locked eyes.
Poe seemed crushed. His eyes were on the ground, as though seeing his sad life pass before his eyes. Challenging Hugh Larney had been an impulsive act, one born of pride, ignorance, an unholy attraction for violence. He was no warrior and pride was not enough to save his life this time. Not this time. And he did so want to live now. There was Rachel and there was the future and Poe wanted to live.
He looked up, eyes on the gray clouds high above him. “I am a man of honor, sir. I will not subject myself or Mrs. Coltman to ridicule, particularly by such a relentlessly mediocre organism as yourself, sir.”
Larney flinched, his nostrils flaring.
Figg said, “The blackamoor ’ere will thrash you into a red ruin. Look at ’im. Tall as a tree, ’e is, and ’e enjoys ’urtin’ people, don’t you Mr. Thor?”
The Negro’s smile was sly. “Ah only does what Master Larney say fo’ me to do.”
“I jes’ bet you do, mate. Well now, why don’t we all say ’ello to this ’ere gent what’s a policeman. ’E’s ’ere to ask Mrs. Coltman about her doctor, what got ’isself murdered last night.”
Poe looked quickly at Figg, who continued. “Murdered, ‘e was. Face all beat in, neck broke. ’Orrible mess, it was.”
“Quel tragique.” Hugh Larney’s eyes went to Thor, then looked away.
“Sergeant Tully is me name and I am here to talk with the lady.” Tully was Irish, a gruff, round man in a brown cloth coat that reached down to the snow. He had a walrus mustache on a red face and kept one hand on his tall top hat as if afraid it would be stolen or driven away by the wind. “I do me talkin’ inside.”
He went on ahead, climbing the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other on his top hat.
Figg said, “Since ‘e’s a copper, I think it best there be no trouble inside the home of Mrs. Coltman. Is that not a wise way of lookin’ at matters, Mr. Larney?”
Larney said nothing. He continued to move his mouth in tiny circles. He was still in control of the situation. Or was he?
Figg said to Poe, “Spent the mornin’ with Mr. Bootham ‘ere. ‘E gets told about the murder of the doctor, Mr. Bootham bein’ a newspaper writer and all. When I hears it was Mrs. Coltman’s doctor what got hisself kilt, I says to meself you best see what is what, so’s you can tell Mr. Poe and ‘e can do some thinkin’ on it. You look to catch yer death of cold out ‘ere. Inside with you, Mr. Poe.”
Larney said, “Mr. Poe and I have business, or is Mr. Poe’s honor a thing of the past. All that concerns him seems to be a thing of the past.”
A shivering Poe said, “The duel shall pro-proceed, sir. I request t-time, for it is not in the dueling code that you alone set time and p-place. Time, sir. I–I shall face your weapon.” He looked at Thor.
Poe drew himself up as tall as he could stand. Dear God, if only he could stop this trembling.
“Dear me,” said Larney, smirking at Poe. “Such bravado. Mrs. Coltman is blessed beyond belief. If only she knew how much. Or cared.”
Poe, coughing into his fist, snapped his head up at Larney, who said, “Very well. Time. One day, two, three? How many?”
“Tomorrow, the next day, the following-” Poe’s coughing became severe.
Larney gently laid a hand on Poe’s arm. “Do take the time to find a handkerchief. Say six days from now. I have guests arriving from Europe then and they do so enjoy native amusements. Perhaps on that day you will decide to crawl and beg-”
Poe spat in his face.
Larney almost lost his balance leaning backward. Thor caught him, then glared at Poe.
Figg had the pistol box open, his hand inside. His eyes took in Larney and all of Larney’s men. “Now nobody do nothin’ sudden ‘cause there is an American policeman inside with Mrs. Coltman and if somethin’ ’appens out ’ere, we are all in a spot of trouble.”
Poe was close to fainting. The cold. The coughing. His poor health. The excitement. But he stood on his feet, gray eyes boring into Hugh Larney.
“I shall die, sir, before retracting anything I have said to you today or any other day.”
“And so you shall,” Larney wiped spittle from the side of his face. “And so you shall die, you sniveling little excuse for a man. Thor will grant your death wish, which you have labored under for oh too long, sir. Your wish will be granted. And I shall have the child. Together she and I will look down upon your grave and-”
Figg said, “Mr. Larney.”
“Keep out of this, Englishman!”
“But I’m in it, mate.”
“As a second, perhaps, not-”
“As a fighter, Mr. Larney. As a fighter.”
Larney’s jaw dropped.
“Mr. Poe, ’e ain’t no fighter and you bloody well know it. You picked yer weapon, now ‘e picks ‘is. ‘E picks me.”
“Mr. Figg, Mr. Figg-” Poe gripped Figg’s arm and then the world around Poe began to spin and blood ran from his mouth and he slid down towards the snow.
Figg caught him, held him in both arms and stared down at him for long seconds. Without looking at Larney, the boxer said, “’E ain’t fightin’. Mr. Bootham?”
“Yes Mr. Figg?”
“I would be pleased if you would be my second. You have jes’ ’eard us speak of the duel. It will be boxin’ between me and Mr. Larney’s man ’ere. Kindly speak to Mr. Larney about the details of time, place, conditions.”
Figg looked at Larney. “Yer man beats me, you gets the child. You try and take ’er before the duel and somebody will die and the police will know more than we wants ‘em to know.”
Larney nodded. “I look forward to it, sir. It shall be a pleasant interlude for me.”
“If I win, mate, it won’t be. I am comin’ fer you then and when I ’ave you, there will be nothin’ on earth to stop me from makin’ you tell me what I wants to know and we need say no more about that, do we?”
Larney, cold fear trickling into his brain, nodded once more.
Inside the mansion, Poe said, ‘It occurs to me, Mr. Figg that in six days, Jonathan concludes his evil quest. You fight on the day that could be Jonathan’s biggest triumph.”
“It is the night time we ‘ave to fear, squire. If I remembers correctly, ‘e will not ‘ave ‘is way before midnight. We ‘ave until then.”