Marc Olden - Poe must die

He leered. The men whooped again. One sipped from a bottle and offered it to Greatrakes, who accepted.

After a huge swallow of gin, Greatrakes stepped over to Poe and poured gin on him. “Last drink, Mr. Poe. On the ‘ouse, it is.”

The men laughed.

The gin burned Poe’s eyes and wet his hair. Jonathan wants to kill Hamlet Sproul. He has tricked these three into leading him to Sproul. And Rachel. These men will-

A frightened Poe squirmed on the ground, lashing out with his feet, kicking at Jonathan, at the Irishmen.

“Liquor makes ‘im dance, it does. Oils his tongue so’s ‘e can talk to the police.” Greatrakes’ brogue was getting stronger. Clever and dangerous, thought Poe. Arrogant. Manipulative. He challenged me face to face and he’s won. The fiend has beaten me, and Rachel and I will die. First she will be degraded by these men, then the two of us will die. She will take longer in dying and suffer the more.

Greatrakes and Seamus were by the door, Great-rakes’ arm around the Irishman’s shoulders. “Seamus and I will be returnin’. You boyos keep Mr. Poe amused and make yer plans for the lady. Come Seamus, let us look in on Hamlet and tell ’im Mr. Poe is arrived and has been welcomed.”

“The old lady,” said one Irish. “What’s to be done with ‘er?”

Greatrakes’ voice came from the dark hallway. “Marry the wench or bury her. It’s up to you, I’d say.” He and Seamus laughed.

The two Irishmen drank from the bottle, eyes on Montaigne.

“Ain’t for marryin’, Tom.”

“Nor I, Flynn.”

One lifted his bottle in a mock toast to Montaigne, who sat on the dirt floor, stroking Rachel’s hair.

Had Rachel fainted or was she asleep? Or dear God, was she dead? Poe couldn’t tell and he was unable to ask Montaigne. He was unable to warn the women to flee for their lives.

The Irishman holding the bottle said to Montaigne, “’Ere’s to you, old one. You’ll get to heaven long before me. You’ll get there today.”

“Before Seamus returns.”

“Before Seamus returns.”

The two nodded at each other, then stood up and walked towards Montaigne.

Poe’s eyes bulged and he cried out as loud as he could. The gag strangled his words and the sound which emerged was that of a man powerless in the face of death.

The pain was blinding. It exploded in the center of his face, then squeezed his brain. Sproul jerked himself into a sitting position from drunken sleep, both hands going to his nose. Pain. Someone had slit his left nostril.

“Sproul?” The soft voice came from the darkness.

Crazed with pain, Sproul fumbled for the leather thong around his neck. His fingers were wet with his own blood.

The knife wasn’t there. Sproul patted his chest in a quick, panicked search. No knife. A hand went back to his bleeding nose.

“Who-who is there? Speak, damn you!”

“Jonathan.”

Sproul went rigid, his stomach turning to ice. He tried to sit up. Something lay across his lap weighing him down, keeping him in place. Jesus and Mary! It was Seamus. He was dead! Lying across Sproul’s lap, eyes wide and staring, a few inches of candle jammed down into his open mouth. The candle was the only light in the small, filthy room. It rolled on the floor, smothering its flame. A thin, pale blue wisp of smoke slowly floated up into the air.

“The body of Justin Coltman, I want it. It is in this room. You will tell me where.”

On his hands and knees, blood pouring down his face and into his tobacco-stained, blond beard, Sproul crawled left, right, seeking safety in motion. He whimpered in fear and crawled.

“You will give me the body, Hamlet Sproul.”

“Dear God, no! Do not carve me heart-”

Jonathan, scalpel in his hand, leaped on Sproul, sending him forward and to the floor. A hand covered Sproul’s mouth, trapping the scream deep within the grave robber’s throat. Jonathan, strong in his triumph, began to chant softly.

* * * *

Figg placed an ear to the door, listened, then nodded to the bowlegged dwarf who held the lantern. The dwarf, his black eyes expressionless in his large head, emptied the oil from the lantern, touched flame to it, then stepped aside. Figg, pistols drawn, waited and hoped he was not too late.

Smoke rose slowly from the floor. Come on in there, thought Figg. Can’t be hangin’ about out ‘ere breathin’ this bloody stuff.

The door opened and Figg stepped in front of it, kicking it, sending it back hard against the man who had opened it. The man ran backwards, fell onto a table, then to the floor. Figg blinked, eyes searching the dark room. Two men, no more. And Poe on the floor, wrapped like a Christmas goose and looking none too happy about it.

Against the far wall, the man huddled over a cringing Rachel now turned turned his attention to Figg. The man yanked at a flintlock pistol in his belt and Figg fired, sending a ball crashing into the man’s jaw. The man screamed, spinning to face the wall, hands to his face, too late to save what had been destroyed. His tongue was mutilated and the sounds now coming from him could have been coming from an animal in agony.

The man Figg had knocked to the floor was on his knees, hands in the air. He trembled and wept, pleading with Figg for his life.

Grabbing his shirt front, Figg threw him in Poe’s direction. “Untie ‘im and be quick about it! If he be hurtin’, you’ll answer to me!”

With the gag out of his mouth, Poe coughed, his face turning red.

“They-they have murdered Montaigne.”

“Who?”

“Montaigne. The old woman from the Louvre, she who warned us about Johnnie Bill Baker. These beasts made a game of it. They broke her neck and laughed about it.”

Poe was on his feet, rubbing his wrists. “Rachel.” He turned and hurried to her, covering her with the blanket. She was silent, in shock, her face calm. Poe smoothed hair away from her eyes, then turned to Figg.

“Your coat, Mr. Figg.”

The boxer tossed it to him, turning when he felt the dwarf pull at his trouser leg.

“We best leave,” said the dwarf, looking quickly at the smoke coming from the burning door. “There will be others here soon, perhaps friends of these men.”

Figg nodded. “Let us leave, Mr. Poe.”

Poe walked towards them, an arm around Rachel, who looked small and lost in Figg’s large coat.

“Jonathan. He is here, Mr. Figg.”

“Where?” Figg clenched his fists.

“Ask him.” Poe pointed to the trembling Irishman who was still on his knees, hands in the air.

“Don’t, don’t know no Jonathan, sir. Don’t know-” Poe shouted, “You know where Sproul is and Jonathan is with him! Now tell us, damn you, where is Sproul?”

Figg moved quickly to the Irishman, clapping the palms of his hands over the man’s ears, making him shriek and fall backwards to the dark, damp earth. “One time, Johnny boy. One time. Tell me where is Mr. Sproul?”

* * * *

Hamlet Sproul’s heart and liver still burned on the dirt floor beside his corpse, the organs now a small grisly pile of flesh blackening in tiny blue flames. The smell of it was bitter. Not as bitter as Figg’s heart. Jonathan wasn’t here. They’d missed him by seconds. Figg’s anger was almost out of control.

“Catchin’ ’im is like tryin’ to nail water to the wall. Christ Jesus, I want me ‘ands on ‘im! God above I want to kill that man!”

Poe pointed to an empty hole in the earth. It was shallow and not too long or wide. The dirt on the sides was freshly turned. “He has taken Justin Coltman with him.”