“Me wife was, yes.”
“May we distribute them?”
Figg nodded yes. It was the custom among British prizefighters to hand out handkerchiefs to their supporters. If the fighter won, each person who accepted the handkerchief was to pay the fighter five pounds.
Bootham’s eyes gleamed as he slowly, gently pulled a handkerchief from the box and held it up as though it were spun gold. “Thank you, Mr. Figg.”
Bootham held the box out to Poe, who swallowed and looked down at the floor. “I am aware of the custom, Mr. Figg, but I am in the worst of financial straits and upon your victory, which I hope for with all my heart, I fear I could not pay as called for.”
Figg took a handkerchief and handed it to Poe. “Yer me second, guvenor. It would not look well to ‘ave you in the ring and not sportin’ me colors. I would feel proud to ‘ave Mrs. Coltman carry one, though she is not to attend the fight.”
Poe accepted a second handkerchief. “Mr. Figg, the honor will be hers, I am sure.”
The writer looked at Bootham. “I suggest that we ourselves bottle the water Mr. Figg will drink in the ring on that day. And seal it. No one but you and I, Mr. Bootham, is to go near that liquid. It is not above Larney to somehow manage to poison the water on that day. Also, those who attend the fight in support of Mr. Figg are to sit on his side of the ring, to prevent assassins and blackguards from doing him harm during the contest.
Bootham nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mr. Poe. That seems to be a wise course.”
Poe took his hat, stick and greatcoat from the bed. “I go to Rachel now. She is somewhat better, though still in the grip of nightmares and horrendous deliriums. I shall also continue my attempts to locate Hugh Larney. I am convinced that the death of Rachel’s physician means that Larney can tell us where our mystical friend is. Larney knows, Mr. Figg, and that is why he is avoiding us until the day of the fight. He enjoys his games, does Hugh Larney. He enjoys mortal combat from a distance and I am sure he is intoxicated at the idea of watching it once more, while harming you and I.”
Figg nodded. “Guard yerself well, squire. Larney is a blackguard.”
“I am of no consequence to him until the conclusion of the duel, Mr. Figg. By absenting himself, he not only aids Jonathan, he also avoids having to confront our pressing inquiries. I assume my life is safe until the termination of the duel. I do not wish to think of Larney and his Negro triumphing over you, but should that happen, I believe my life to be forfeit. And the child Dearborn becomes his. Good day Mr. Figg, Mr. Bootham.”
* * * *
Larney watched Thor punch the sandbag suspended from a beam in the barn. The Negro was barechested, sweating, hitting the bag with powerful blows.
Larney, several feet away, turned to the man who had ridden out from New York to report to him.
“Poe is askin’ all over town,” said the man. “He’s inquisitive about the dead doctor, your whereabouts, everything.”
Larney frowned. “I would say kill him but there exists a peculiar truce between our camps and this fight is attracting much interest. A dead Poe would cancel the occasion and what would I tell my guests, who expect some diversion after a long and tedious sea voyage.”
He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Let him live. And on the day of the fight, on that very day, I think, I think I shall re-enter Mr. Poe’s dreadful life, to his undying displeasure. Undying, dear friend.”
Larney threw back his head and roared.
* * * *
Martin said, “Hammer blows he uses. Brings his right hand high and down on your head, relyin’ on his strength. Will crowd you if he can. Likes to grapple, hug you close, squeeze your back ‘til it hurts.”
Figg nodded.
“Watch yer eyes,” said Tabby, pointing to his eye patch. “Took out mine, he did. Thumbs. Presses down. Nigger’s a tall one. He jes’ presses down.”
Figg said, “’Ow’s ‘is moves left and right?”
Martin shook his head. “Ain’t got none. Straight ahead, right Tabby?”
The one-eyed man nodded. “Black bastard is like a damn train. Straight ahead and nothin’ else. Both of his hands are like the wrath of God. Long arms and he can keep you at a distance, if he wants. Punches down. He’s almost seven feet.”
“Nahhhh,” said Martin scowling. “Over six to be sure, but under seven by five inches or more.”
They argued over Thor’s height until Figg gently stopped them. There was agreement over the Negro’s boxing skills; the two men drinking Figg’s whiskey in Bootham’s parlor estimated that Thor had defeated more than thirty men in the ring.
There was no way to estimate what the Negro had done outside of the ring. Only Larney and Thor himself knew those deadly figures.
Thirty fights, resulting in cripplings, blindings and at least two deaths. Figg was facing the challenge of his life.
When he’d given the men a few shillings and the remainder of the whiskey and sent them on their way, he returned to Bootham’s cellar where he trained alone and in secret, despite the pleas from Bootham’s English friends to watch him prepare. Figg was taking no chances that Jonathan or Larney had planted a spy anywhere near him.
Tomorrow Figg would talk to another survivor of Thor’s boxing ability, this one a man who Bootham said was half blind and addled, but who could talk. Several men who had fought Thor refused to talk to Bootham. Larney would not like it, they said.
And as Figg reminded himself, two boxers wouldn’t talk because they were dead, as dead as Rachel Coltman’s doctor.
In the cellar, in candlelight and musty heat, Figg trained.
And worried.
FORTY-TWO
Jonathan. The sixth night.
Asmodeus had given him the name of the victim selected for the final blood rite.
Rachel Coltman.
The rite was to be performed in the barn, without leaving the circle; Jonathan was to lure the woman here, then carve out her heart and liver, burning them. If the husband is to be removed from the world of death, let the wife take his place; she was the price Jonathan must pay before reaching the end of the rite.
Kill Rachel Coltman here on the final day, on the ninth day.
* * * *
Poe closed his eyes, rubbing the corners with his fingers.
Figures, names, dates all swam in front of him and he saw nothing. But he had to see, he had to!
He wanted liquor, he wanted its warmth and protection, but he would have to deny himself that salvation. Does a man gain salvation by denying himself salvation?
Poe opened his eyes wide, drawing the lamp closer. He had much reading to do. He was checking land records to learn what Hugh Larney owned and where. The musty smell of the property building’s cellar was abominable and Poe was too sick to stand it for much longer, but he owed Figg.
He owed him a great deal.
Poe continued to turn the pages of the large book that recorded those dealings by which a handful of men were profiting on land that was becoming more and more valuable with each passing day.
Later the clerk found Poe asleep, head down on one of the books.
FORTY-THREE
Jonathan. The seventh night
Jonathan, the evoker; Justin Coltman, the evoked. Magician and a dead man’s spirit drawn closer by a thought transmission unknown to human reason, a transmission that had been growing stronger for seven days, seven nights.
Jonathan’s obsession with the Throne of Solomon gave him the physical and mental strength needed to proceed with this dangerous ritual, one which few magicians ever attempted. He was now in a world inhabited by the rarest of sorcerers, a world he’d conjured up with all of the magic at his command. He sensed th increasing presence of Justin Coltman and with it, that knowledge which could yield the Throne of Solomon