Marc Olden: Poe must die

“You were paid well for stealing.”

“Most handsomely sir.”

“Tell me what you saw when you read the books.”

“Devil books they was, sir. Books to summon devils and demons, to make ‘em do your bidding.”

“The names of the books.” Under hypnosis, even a dirty pile of rags like Lecky could remember things eluding his brain in a waking state.

The kidsman, rigid and upright in the stolen church pew he used as a chair, blinked and remembered as the soft voice insisted that he do. “Yes sir, I did look at ’em, I did. Three books. Very expensive pieces of work. A Smagorad was one and two had Solomon’s name.”

He paused. Dearest Jesus, allow me to sleep, to enter that warm darkness this most sweet voice lures me into. But … but the voice is also holding me back, holding me back. Yet I must please it, I must do as it commands.

“The names.” Jonathan’s voice was a hard hiss, a knife drawn quickly from a sheath. He needed answers now; there was no time to spare and he had enemies. There was Asmodeus and there was a mortal enemy, an Englishman whose life had been touched by Jonathan’s evil and had vowed to kill him for it. The mortal was Pierce James Figg, a prizefighter with no power except that in his fists. Jonathan, who feared little on this earth, feared Figg without entirely knowing why. Two days ago, Jonathan had killed Figg’s wife.

“La Clavicule de Solomon was the second book,” said Lecky. “And the third was The Lemegeton of Solomon.”

Jonathan inhaled with excitement. The very books he had traced to London and now had just missed.

“What did the American say to you?”

“Say, sir? He seemed most pleased. The books appeared to be important to ‘im. He stares at ’em for a time and he ignores me. He speaks to the books, sir. He says ‘soon, soon.’ Then he says, ‘I’ll have it. It will be mine.’ ”

Jonathan, tense, angry, quickly stood up. The American knows. He knows that these books can lead him to the throne.

Smagorad. A seven-hundred-year-old book of magic and spells said to have been given Adam by God in consolation for the loss of Abel.

La Clavicule de Solomon. The Key of Solomon, a collection of writings on magic dating from the fourteenth century. Said to be the work of King Solomon, to be used in finding treasure and in summoning good or evil spirits.

The Lemegeton of Solomon. The Lesser Key of Solomon. Writings on magic dating from the seventeenth century. Used in summoning good or evil spirits.

Jonathan had sought these books for years, never getting closer than one more clue, one more trail to follow. And then his cunning had told him to stay close to Justin Coltman, to let the dying American’s wealth and determination lead Jonathan to the throne.

Did Coltman know that their power lay in combining their knowledge? For hundreds of years, those who owned one or more of the books had lacked the knowledge to effectively use them. But Jonathan, who challenged God and demons, had that knowledge of the black arts; he knew how to use the three books to find the Throne of Solomon.

Find Justin Coltman. Find him before he stumbles across the secret in those writings. Coltman was no sorcerer, no magician; he was only a man driven by desperation, by fear of death but his wealth gave him power to buy any knowledge he needed. Sooner or later, he would find someone to pull Solomon’s Throne from the pages of the three books he had just paid to have stolen.

Suddenly Jonathan froze, listening carefully, every instinct on edge. He heard angry noises coming from the muddy, uncobbled street, from scrawny cows and pigs rooting in the garbage in front of the tenement. Someone had savagely pushed and kicked the animals aside, someone who now ran into the building. Male footsteps. Heavy boots speeding along a dark, foul smelling hallway and towards the stairs leading to Arthur Lecky’s room. Danger.

Was it the boxer? Was it the ring-scarred Pierce James Figg, the only mortal Jonathan had ever feared? For a few seconds that fear tried to rule him but he forced it down deeper and deeper inside himself and now he was again in control.

He quickly looked around the room. Only one door and not even one window.

The one door would lead Jonathan straight towards the boxer?

In front of the fireplace, one of the child thieves now sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The long-tailed gray rat, which had been just inches from her face, now turned and scampered back into darkness.

Stolen loot-clothing, furniture and bric-a-brac from a silver-mounted ostrich egg to a collection of stuffed birds under glass, covered almost all of the room. Even thieves like Arthur Lecky shared the Victorian passion for possessions and clutter.

Jonathan blew out the oil lamp, leaving only the tiny fire to light the room. Now he was on his knees in front of Lecky, fingers moving quickly in the darkness, finding the leather strap that held the wooden leg to the kidsman’s stump.

Seconds later, the door to Lecky’s room crashed open and a male voice screamed, “Magician, you are a dead man! I will have your life now!”

To the left of the door, Jonathan stood flat against the wall in total darkness, one end of the strap wrapped tightly around his left fist, the heavy buckle dangling at his side and lost in the folds of his cloak.

“Magician!”

Jonathan waited. Not my life, fool, but yours.

The footsteps rushed through the door, into the room and past Jonathan who lifted his arm high. The brass buckle gleamed brightly, catching the eye of the grimy faced little girl who sat on the floor and stared up at it.

London, January 19, 1848

Charles Dickens, fighting a sore throat and a growing cold in his chest, sipped warm gin and lemon. His head throbbed, his voice was hoarse and he longed for a soft bed in a quiet, dark room. But quiet darkness would have to wait.

This morning the thirty-five year old Dickens had stood in a cold rain with a crowd of twenty thousand people and watched as a fourteen-year-old boy was hung in front of Newgate Prison. Tonight, the boy’s grieving father sat in Dickens’ book lined study.

Dickens coughed phlegm from his raw throat. He was small, slim, with a thin, handsome face and still in the red velvet waistcoat, blue cravat and tight gray trousers he’d worn to the hanging.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Figg.”

“Thankin’ you for askin’, Mr. Dickens, sir. I, I had things to tend to, so I didn’t get your message ‘til late. Hopin’ I’m not disturbin’ you and the missus by appearin’ at this hour.”

“It’s gone just half eight, Mr. Figg and you are most certainly not disturbing us. I invited you, if you remember.”

“Grateful I am, sir. The boy’s taken care of now. I did for him as I promised.”

Pierce James Figg, forty-eight and stocky, eyes red rimmed from crying, folded his large, gnarled hands in his lap. He was a bare knuckle prizefighter and boxing instructor whom Charles Dickens, the most prosperous and popular author of his day, the most famous man in England, respected as much as any man he knew.

Dickens threw his head back to clear long brown hair from his face. He sat in the wooden chair he preferred to the overstuffed furniture currently in vogue and now cramming the homes of those Englishmen who could afford it. He thought of the wealth and fame he now enjoyed and sadly shook his head; none of it gave him the power to remove even a portion of Figg’s grief. God above, what grief! Figg’s son hung for a crime committed by the same man who had murdered Figg’s wife.

Dickens sipped more gin, then stroked his painful throat and eyed the silent prizefighter. Not your delicate piece of porcelain, Mr. Figg, with his bulldog’s face and round head which he shaved to prevent ring opponents from grabbing his hair. Scars from forehead to stubborn chin and nose flatter than paper pasted to a wall. A slight limp in his right leg. No neck. Not the slightest inch of neck on the man. Just a bulldog’s head crowning a body shaped like a large boulder, and yet there was a dignity and inner strength to this Mr. Figg, whose voice was forever soft because of punches to his throat.