The two men were alone in the marble foyer. A tall grandfather clock ticked away the minutes.
Poe said, “I am grateful, Mr. Figg, for your offer.” He coughed, spitting blood into his fist.
“Squire, you best clean up a bit before seein’ the lady.”
Poe looked up towards the second floor. “Yes. I assume Sergeant Tully is with her now. I must go to her.” He looked at Figg. “I shall deem it an honor, sir, if you allow me to be with you on that day.”
Figg sat down in a chair near the entrance to a small bedroom. “Thankin’ you muchly, Mr. Poe. Been a while since I been in a prize ring. Ain’t set foot in one for seven years, not since me leg. I am forty-eight now and I have been a teacher of the science, a bodyguard to those who could afford it but the ring, well, squire, that is another world. Another world, indeed.”
“Bootham will be of great assistance and I should suppose he will rally the English contingent around you.”
“I believe so, squire. Well get you gone and wipe the red away before comin’ upon her lady.”
Halfway up the winding, white marble staircase, Poe stopped and turned to stare down at Figg who sat alone with only the tick of the clock for company, the black pistol box on his lap, his tall top hat resting on the box.
For seconds, the two stared silently at one another and Poe bowed his head in a gesture of respect, something he had not done in the presence of another man for more years than he could remember.
Figg, who sat with an almost regal presence, nodded back. Poe turned and, clinging to the railing, walked slowly upstairs.
FORTY
JONATHAN. THE FIFTH NIGHT
Asmodeus raged outside of the magic circle, filling the barn with his screams, his stench. Jonathan’s powers were tested to their fullest extent and twice, he held onto Laertes to prevent him from fleeing, from leaving the circle and being torn apart.
Asmodeus wanted a blood sacrifice. He would name the victim. Before he could do so, contact between him and Jonathan was broken by the magician’s strong will to survive and the demon king disappeared. But Jonathan knew he would return to demand that the blood rite be given him. It was a test, one final obstacle between Jonathan and the Throne of Solomon. If the magician refused the test, Asmodeus would return again and again and Jonathan’s will would be damaged, for he now knew that he could not concentrate on the ritual while simultaneously opposing the final, furious onslaught of the demon king.
In a spurt of incredible confidence, Jonathan conjured up Asmodeus and agreed to the test. From within the barn and without leaving the protective circle, he agreed to perform the blood rite on the person Asmodeus named.
In a swirl of howling, frozen winds and shrieking devils, Asmodeus named his victim.
Jonathan touched his ash-covered head to the hard, cold ground in acceptance of this final test.
FORTY-ONE
Four days before the duel.
Poe said, “By deduction, it appears that Hugh Larney had a hand in the brutal death of Rachel’s doctor.”
“We are listenin’.” Figg sat on the bed massaging his right kneecap, while Titus Bootham sat in one of the two chairs in the small room. The three were in Bootham’s home.
“I have made inquiries,” said Poe. “The doctor was summoned by a servant of Larney’s, one Jacob Cribb and Mr. Cribb declared that a woman was in need of immediate treatment for a pistol wound. There are people in the area where the doctor resided who remember Mr. Cribb, who it seems beat his horse to excess, thereby drawing attention to himself. Cribb is in the employ of Larney. Cribb was heard to mention the words pistol shot and woman.”
Poe eyed each man. “Given the association of Larney and our missing mystical friend, is it not an extension of the logic I have just presented to assume that the woman in difficulty is that same woman who appeared at my cottage, Mr. Figg, and to whom you gave evidence of your excellent marksmanship?”
Figg nodded, impressed, “Yer deductin’ jes’ fine, Mr. Poe. Larney is keepin’ the hurt woman while our mystical friend keeps hisself involved in other ways. I take it Mr. Cribb is also avoidin’ people?”
Poe sighed. “He is. Mr. Bootham?”
“Yes, Mr. Poe?”
“You are dealing with Prosper Benjamin in matters of the duel?”
The little Englishman leaped from his seat. “Oh yes, Mr. Poe. Indeed I am. Mr. Benjamin says he speaks for Mr. Larney and his colored. Mr. Benjamin has made it plain that he has no love for you, Mr. Figg or for you either, Mr. Poe.”
Poe smirked. “I assume Mr. Benjamin did not make himself explicit as to why he refuses to utter our names in his prayers?” He thought of Benjamin naked in Scotch Ann’s brothel.
Bootham shook his small head. “No, Mr. Poe, he has not divulged the matter of what I sense is a private quarrel. He and I have quarreled concerning conditions of the forthcoming combat, but fortunately we English are familiar with the rules of the prize ring, a sport which owes much to us, sir.”
He nodded once for emphasis. Hardly pausing to take a breath, he continued. “Mr. Benjamin has more or less agreed to abide by the London Prize Ring Rules of 1838.”
Figg muttered, “Do not wager yer last penny on that, mate. What’s ‘e agreed on?”
Bootham counted on his fingers. “A single line-”
“Comin’ up to scratch,” said Figg. He looked at Poe. “You draw a line in the dirt and both fighters meet there. If a man cannot come up to that line what has been scratched in the dirt, then he loses. What else, Mr. Bootham?”
“A round ends when a man is knocked down. He has thirty seconds to get up, eight to come up to scratch. We, my friends and I, argued with Mr. Benjamin concerning whether or not you come to scratch alone or with your seconds. In England a man must come up alone. Too often has an injured man been carried to scratch by his seconds, sir, and the result has been that an exhausted man has been made to fight when he should have been allowed to walk away. You must come up to scratch alone, Mr. Figg. We insisted on it, for your own safety.”
The boxer nodded. “A round is a man knocked down.”
Bootham nodded. “We are quarreling over the choice of an umpire, but I think that can be settled. There will be two timekeepers, one English, one American. Two seconds per fighter, seconds to be allowed in the ring.”
Poe said, “I count it an honor to be the other second if I may, Mr. Figg.”
“I would be pleased to have you in my corner, Mr. Poe. Well, that is a matter done with. I hear, Mr. Bootham, that there is a fair amount of bettin’ going on?”
“Indeed, Mr. Figg. The English to a man are supporting you. Most of the Americans are with Larney’s colored, who has not yet been defeated. He has also killed two men in the ring.”
“’Is killin’ don’t stop there, I’ll wager. When can I talk with them what’s been in the ring with the colored?”
“Tonight.” Bootham adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles. “We are seeking those you requested. Three men who have faced Thor in the prize ring. One is nearly blind and the other two have bitter memories. The Negro is a brutal man. Strong and it would seem, a formidable foe. But our prayers are with you, sir.”
“Thankin’ you muchly. Please inform the men what talks with me that there is a shillin’ or two in it for ’em. It is a help to me to know what Mr. Thor does in a prize ring.”
“He kills and brutalizes. And Larney gloats. Larney is said to have wagered ten thousand in gold that Thor will kill you.”
“Blimey! Ten thousand? Ain’t that much money in the bloomin’ world.”
Bootham coughed to clear his throat. Bending over, he picked up a small cardboard box and opened it.
“Handkerchiefs, Mr. Figg. I took the liberty of ordering them. Mr. Poe informs me that you are partial to the color lavender.”