Marc Olden - Poe must die

The yellow stub of a candle in her long fingers was the only light. “We have straw for you, Mr. Figg and I shall bring you the blanket from my room.”

“No mum. Ain’t takin’ a blanket away from no lady, thankin’ you muchly just the same. Straw is fine, for I was born on it and it’s been me bed more than once in me life.”

“You are our guest, sir. I can do no less than give you-”

“No mum. Now if you go and do such a thing, bring me your blanket I mean, then I will just wait until you fall asleep, and come into your room and cover you. It ain’t correct for a gentleman to enter a lady’s chamber in such fashion, so do not place me in such a predicament.”

Lord help us, he thought. If I was to go in for a bit of night crawlin’, with all due respect, Mrs. Clemm wouldn’t be what I’d care to see at the end of me creepin’.

She blushed. “I appreciate your good manners, Mr. Figg. Now allow me to give you all of the disturbing news at once. Eddy is downstairs attempting to write, so I am unable to leave you with even this small bit of candle. We cannot afford to purchase even the cheapest tallow. What light we have is necessary for his work. I-” She was too embarrassed to speak.

Figg said, “Mum, seein’ as how I shall be lyin’ ’ere with me eyes shut tight, a candle does not appear to be needed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Figg. Eddy has not been in good health of late and since the death one year ago of my daughter, his wife, he has written little. Two poems and a book review, plus what journalistic work he can obtain at only pennies a page. So whenever he feels the urge to write, I must encourage him. It is no secret that he is, perhaps, in the twilight of his life, though I hope and pray with all my heart that this is not so. Well, Mr. Figg, I bid you good ni-”

“Noooooooooo! Do not do this, I beg you!”

Poe. From downstairs.

Quickly Figg found his flat, black wooden case and grabbed the two pistols. Pushing his way past Mrs. Clemm, he limped forward into darkness as fast as he could, stumbling down the stairs, pistols held high.

Behind him, Mrs. Clemm shouted, “Eddy! Eddy!”

* * * *

Poe and Figg stood side by side on the cottage porch, looking into the night. Then Poe pointed. “There! Near the trees! There! I heard her call to me and she said she was Virginia, but I know this to be false!”

Figg saw her in the moonlight, a cloaked figure running across the snow, towards trees leading down to the road. Jonathan’s wench. The one Poe said tried to drive him batty.

Figg leaped from the porch, landing in snow. He ran. The figure ahead of him would reach the trees soon. Jonathan’s wench. Figg stopped and fired. The flintlock cracked once, sending a small puff of smoke from its chamber, the shot echoing across the countryside.

The figure disappeared into the trees.

Figg and Poe gave chase in the snow. In front of the trees, Poe dropped to one knee. “Blood on the snow, Mr. Figg. That is how they deceived me the last time. False blood. Mr. Figg? Mr. Figg?”

“Over ‘ere, squire.”

Poe ran to him. Just inside the grove of trees, Figg held a woman’s cloak that had caught onto a snow-covered bush. He fingered a hole in the back made by the flintlock’s ball. There was dampness around the small hole.

“No deceivin’ this time, squire. Whoever the lady is, she’s got a ball in her. Come, let us see if we can find a trace of her.”

Figg looked up at the sky. “Moon’s full. We ‘ave the light.” He limped forward in a crouch, eyes on the snow, the cloak over his shoulder. The empty flintlock was jammed down into his belt. The other was in his hand and if he had to use it on the woman again, so be it. She was Jonathan’s wench and Figg would kill her as easily as he sipped ale.

In the cold, moonlit night, he and Poe kept their eyes down and looked for blood in the soft, beautiful snow.

“Hugh Larney,do not turn around. Stay as you are.”

The soft voice was Jonathan’s and it came from behind Larney. The food merchant’s blood turned cold; he held his breath. Jonathan had managed to enter Larney’s home unseen and was now upstairs in the special room, the room with the silver-handled coffin and the books on black magic and witchcraft. A servant had reported the door to the room slightly ajar and a fire burning in the fireplace. An enraged Larney had rushed upstairs, a poker in his hand.

Jonathan.

Larney’s hands shook; he dropped the poker.

“Listen and listen well. I said do not turn around. The sight of your stupid face might force me to kill you here. Last night, you and Miles attempted to murder Poe against my orders. Why?”

“M-Miles said you wanted him dead.”

“Miles lied. And you believed him.”

“He said, said, you wanted Poe dead and yes, yes I believed him.”

“Miles does not think, he reacts. And I shall kill him for it.”

Larney thought he heard a cat meow. Or, in his fear, had he imagined it? A cat?

“Jonathan, I would not-”

“But you have. You, Miles and Volney Gunning. What shall I do with the three of you, Hugh? Tell me. I have already told you what I intend to do with Miles.”

A cat meowed again. Larney wanted to turn around; he wanted to run. But he wanted to live and so he did nothing. “Jonathan, I have, have to tell you something.”

“You, Miles and Volney have mounted one more attack on the life of Poe.”

“Ye-yes.”

“Your intelligence is transparent. Do you wish to die?”

“N-no. Oh please, oh-”

“You can buy your life.”

“I will give you anything, anything.”

“You cannot buy it with money. You can buy it with blood, both you and Volney must purchase your lives in blood.”

“We shall, we will.”

“You both are to kill Miles Standish. First let me say that if your second attack on Poe’s life succeeds, all three of you will die by my hand and most painfully. Should Poe survive this attack, leave him alone until I tell you differently.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I knew you would. Again, you and Volney Gunning are to kill Miles Standish.”

“W-when?”

“As soon as it can be arranged, and Larney-”

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Succeed in this task.”

“I shall, Jonathan. I shall. You have my word-”

Larney heard the cat meow again, heard the movement of Jonathan’s arm as he brought the small piece of metal down against the back of Larney’s head.

The blow was painful, but not hard. It wasn’t meant to be. Larney dropped to the floor on his knees and hands. Blackness squeezed his brain, then released it and he shook his head to clear it, forcing his eyes open, forcing them to focus.

The shrieking came from the fireplace and it was horrible, shredding Larney’s nerves, shocking him into full awakeness. Jonathan had tossed a sack of live cats into the fireplace and now the sack jerked, twisted and took on a terrified life of its own as the burning cats struggled to get out.

Jonathan’s warning. A hellish ritual from a time long forgotten.

The cats howled and their cries pierced Larney’s brain like shards of cold steel. Still on his knees, he closed his eyes, hands over his ears to drown out the sound of the burning cats. Now the smell of the tortured animals reached his nose and Larney screamed.

Servants pounded on the locked door and still Larney screamed.

Later, when he had left the room, he asked the servants if they had seen anyone in the house who didn’t belong there. A frightened Larney was not surprised when they told him no, no one had entered or left the house for the past few hours.