Marc Olden - Poe must die

Rachel said, “I am glad you received my message, Eddy. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior to you yesterday.”

“Rachel please-”

“No Eddy, it must be said.”

“It has been said, dearest Rachel.”

“I shall say it again. You are a most treasured friend and one I shall never again deceive or disgrace. I shall follow your advice in this personal matter, I give you my word.”

Except, thought Poe, when it comes to renouncing any and all allegiance to Dr. Paracelsus. You will be guided by me in the matter of the ransom, providing we hear again from Hamlet Sproul. But in truth, you will also be guided by Paracelsus, whom I truly suspect as being more deadly than his appearance conveys.

Miles Standish said, “We assumed you would be in touch with Mrs. Coltman, which is why we are here. I would like to know if you are still in touch with Sproul?”

“No.” Poe’s eyes were on Dearborn Lapham.

Pierce James Figg, sitting near a window, took his gaze from Poe to look out onto the street at the huge black man who stood near Larney’s carriage talking to a tall white man in a top hat and ankle-length red fur coat. Then Figg looked back at Poe. Little Mr. Poe has a sudden interest in the tiny dolly mop, thought the boxer, but I don’t think it’s got anything to do with havin’ a go at her. That’s what the little dandy fella is doin’ what brought her here, the fella with the pointed chin and the look about him of a man who’ll steal shit from a parrot’s cage and sell it to you as mayonnaise. Figg did not trust a man with a mouth as small as Larney’s.

Standish stood with his back to the fire. Rachel noticed that he treated Eddy as though Eddy were a wild beast about to strike unless spoken to in soft tones. Standish said, “Mr. Poe, I would like to know if you feel that the recent attack upon you signals an end to any communication with the ghouls.”

With an effort Poe took his gaze away from Dearborn. “I have no answer for that, Mr. Standish. When time has elapsed and I hear nothing, I will then assume you are correct. The timely intervention of Mr. Figg has reduced the criminal population by two, but I have yet to learn if it has reduced my chances of recovering Justin Coltman.”

Standish coughed into his fist. “I shall assume you will be in contact with me.”

“And Rachel.”

Standish coughed again. “Yes. Of course. I can leave a message for you-”

“With Rachel or the Evening Mirror. ” Poe turned his attention back to Dearborn.

Rachel saw Eddy frown as he observed Hugh Larney reach out and pat the child’s knee. Eddy and Hugh Larney had not said much to each other, giving Rachel the distinct impression of mutual hostility. She found Larney weak, offering only surface charm and the self-serving efforts of the devoted social climber. If he and Eddy disliked each other, it was because Eddy was the more honest man. Or was it because of Dearborn Lapham. Dear God, what a horrible thought! Both men somehow involved with this beautiful child, this child who appeared far more knowing than her years warranted. No, such a thing was unimaginable. Eddy would not-

Eddy. She’d sent a note to him at the Evening Mirror, apologizing for the horrid things she’d said to him yesterday, inviting him to call upon her as soon as possible. He had done so, still in the company of the stern-looking Mr. Figg. She had been deeply sorry for what she’d done and Eddy, dear Eddy, he had been a gentle, forgiving man, making her feel as though nothing had occurred, telling her she was ever on his mind, in his thoughts. Dear Eddy. He was the only man since Justin that she had wanted to be with, talk to, had looked forward to seeing.

If he disliked Hugh Larney, so be it. Rachel watched Hugh Larney cross his legs, fingers toying with Dearborn’s waist-length blonde hair. Larney’s niece. Rachel wasn’t so sure about that.

She saw Poe’s brow furrow and she knew he did not like the idea of Larney touching the child. Larney smiled as though Poe’s displeasure had been his goal all along.

The food merchant, never one to miss an opportunity to parade his possessions, leaned his head back, staring at Poe through slitted eyes. “Mr. Poe, I ask you: Do you believe Dearborn has a chance of becoming a successful performer. I myself have a rather personal view of how well she performs but I wonder how you feel about her chances to succeed in a field you seem to know so much about.”

Figg thought: He’s baiting you, mate. Catch it early on and handle it. But you won’t, will you? You’ll let him set fire to you, which is what he’s tryin’ to do.

Poe said nothing. He looked down at his black coat, stroking its lapels with his thumbs.

Larney said, “You are a critic, sir. Surely you can venture an opinion in this matter.”

Standish stepped away from the fire. “I think we should be leaving, Hugh. We have learned what we came here to learn, which is that there has been no contact between-”

“Mr. Poe.” Larney smirked, a hand kneading Dearborn’s neck. “Give us your opinion, sir.”

Poe, chin on his chest, looked across at Larney with brooding gray eyes that penetrated anything in their path. Rachel held her breath, fearful of what was to come.

Fool, thought Standish. We came here to learn how to reach him so that we could kill him and you, Larney, have to challenge him. Dolt. Ninny. Baboon. There are not words enough for you, Larney. Standish, with Thor on his mind, kept silent.

Larney said, “Mr. Poe, you are usually a gentleman of no hesitancy when it comes to revealing your impressions of the world around you. Yet now, you hesitate and methinks you are in awe of Dearborn’s, oh let us call them, possibilities.”

Poe’s drawl was soft and deadly. “You sand your sugar, you sell tea composed of wood shavings and dried leaves-”

Larney’s hand froze on Dearborn’s neck.

Poe said, “The butter you sell is rag pulp and lard. One could make a towel from it.”

Larney’s voice was soft, too. “I have taken all I intend to from you. I shall go to the door and when I have called Thor-”

Figg said, “That would be your manservant, the one whats in the cold talkin’ to the gent in the fancy red fur.”

Larney said nothing.

Figg stood up. “Leave him be, Mr. Larney. Let him enjoy the fresh air.”

Standish stepped between the two men. “Gentlemen, please remember where you are!”

Larney swiveled around on the leather couch until he could see Figg. “Sir, are you addressing me?”

Figg said, “I don’t wants no trouble ‘ere. But you call your man into this ‘ouse to harm Mr. Poe and the first thing I shall do is deal with you, Mr. Larney.”

Larney inhaled, exhaled, not moving a muscle. When he stood up, his back was to Figg. “Mrs. Coltman. Miles, we shall wait for you in the carriage. Do not bother to show me out.”

Rachel, her face tense, walked over to him. “I shall have a servant give you your coat and the child’s wrap.”

As Larney turned to leave the room, Poe said. “You seek recognition, sir. It is the talk of Gotham, your courting of your betters. Your search for accommodation among the respectful is tantamount to sprinkling rose petals on a dung heap.”

Larney stopped, his back to everyone in the room. He held both of Dearborn’s hands. Then he continued walking until he’d closed the study door behind him.

Rachel looked at Poe. “Oh, Eddy. Did you have to do that?”

“I did. And I shall live with it.” He looked at Figg, then looked away.

Miles Standish coughed. “I must go.” Poe deserved killing. Larney would only reaffirm that now and Miles was glad. For once, he was glad that Poe had opened his insulting mouth. He’d just dug his grave with it. Larney would never forgive these insults.