Marc Olden - Poe must die

“I want neither the praise nor adoration of the world. I wish dominion over it; I shall rule as Solomon never did. It is written that in Solomon’s palace, the poor sat at tables of wood, the demons and spirits sat at tables of iron, while military chieftains sat at tables of silver. Learned men were at golden tables, where Solomon himself served them. I serve no one. All shall serve me and all shall sit at tables of iron. In nine days, Larney. Nine days … ”

Hugh Larney tried to swallow and failed. Jonathan was a knife at the world’s throat. Soon that knife would-

“I shall care for Miss Clannon. And if Poe should seek me out, I shall deal with him.”

“Or he with you.” Jonathan’s voice was fading. He’d stepped deeper into the stable’s darkness. He was leaving to begin the dark ritual of necromancy, to bring back Justin Coltman from the dead.

Hugh Larney shouted, “If I find it necessary to kill Poe-”

He heard Jonathan’s carriage pull away and head towards the country.

In nine days, Jonathan would be the most awesome force upon this earth, controlling demons and challenging God. Hugh Larney would reap the advantage of that. Hugh Larney would have power through Jonathan and then the people of New York who laughed behind Hugh Larney’s back would laugh no more. They would not.

* * * *

Poe sighed, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “Valentine Greatrakes was an Irish mesmerist of the seventeenth century, who it is said possessed the gift of healing by the laying on of hands. Jonathan had his joke at my expense and I nearly lost my life because of it. At that moment I was too confused to think clearly.”

Rachel sat in bed sipping hot soup. “It was as though he was daring you to discover him, to find him out. The man performed before you as would a travelling player.”

“Remember he is a man of the theater, as well as one possessed of a powerful pride. He must be in control, he can accept no less. You frown, Mr. Figg.”

The boxer, who sat at the foot of Rachel’s four-poster bed, nodded. “Jonathan is about ‘is business. ‘E’s got what he come for.”

Poe said, “We have less than nine days to find him, Mr. Figg. I am convinced we must, for all our sakes. We are too involved to be let alone. Death has come to almost all of those who touched on this matter. The grave robbers, Johnnie Bill Baker, Miles Standish. Destruction no matter how unsought, appears inevitable. We cannot allow Jonathan to complete the ritual. Nor can we allow him the advantage of seeking us out. We possess surprise and little else. We must use it and search for him and stop him.”

Figg cleared his throat.

Poe eyed him carefully. “Afraid, Mr. Figg?”

Figg rubbed the stubble on his shaven head, keeping his eyes on the rug. “Must say as how I am. Indeed, I fear this man.”

Poe smiled. “A sensible reply, sir. I fear him, as well.” He looked at Rachel, who had stopped eating. “I fear him, but I cannot let him destroy as he chooses. Yesterday in the Old Brewery, Jonathan almost became the cause of my losing all that I hold dear in this world.”

Rachel blushed, looking down at the bowl of soup. “I thank you, Eddy.” Looking up, she quickly added, “And you too, Mr. Figg.”

Figg nodded once, “Yes, ma’am.” It was getting more and more noticeable: Poe and the lady were warming to each other. She was all the reason the writer needed to stick his hand into the fire. And in truth, a woman was Figg’s reason for seeking Jonathan. His wife would have been twenty-three years old in another two months.

Figg said, “Today is the first of the nine days. One thing is for certain: We won’t be gettin’ Miles Standish to lead us to Jonathan. The magician made sure of that.”

Poe used his fingers to comb dark brown hair back from his large forehead. “Jonathan himself did not kill Miles Standish. He undoubtedly ordered it done, for reasons which elude me, though I have my suspicions. Someone else killed Standish.”

Figg flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the shiny black pistol box which he kept in his lap. “Next thing you’ll tell us is you been talkin’ to that little fella you put down on paper. What’s ‘is name again? That Frenchie you made up for yer detective stories which I would like to read one day, if I may.”

“You shall have a copy of that book signed by me, Mr. Figg. Not that it is a national treasure of any sort, but it will be my pleasure to present it to you. C. Auguste Dupin of Paris, at your service.”

Poe bowed. “He appears in three tales-‘The Murders In The Rue Morgue,’ ’The Mystery of Marie Roget,’ of which you have heard me speak in detail, and ‘The Purloined Letter.’ Ah, Dupin. Critics say he is I as I imagine myself to be and I confess to you two in your private ear that there is some small truth to that. He is cool, analytical, aristocratic, and a man of means. Cerebral, articulate, with extraordinary powers of reason.”

Poe leaned forward in his chair. “Let us now examine the available intelligence. Had Jonathan murdered Standish and the clerk, taking time to mutilate the body of Standish, it is unlikely that he could have raced ahead of me to Five Points and been waiting for me in the Old Brewery arrayed in intricate makeup and costume. I have been an actor myself, as were my natural parents and I know the detail involved in the application of makeup.

“No, my friends, Jonathan could not have committed the murders and the mutilation, then traversed the distance between Broadway and Five Points. Mr. Figg.”

“Yeah?”

“For the moment I am Dupin, the French detective. Let us dissect what you have previously told me you saw. Begin with our meeting on the sidewalk near the office of Miles Standish. No, begin with your observation of Miles Standish alighting from his carriage. Was he followed into the building?”

Figg rubbed his bulldog jaw. “Nobody follows ‘im inside. He gets out from ‘is carriage, which he drives ‘imself, ties it, then he follows these three young ladies inside. One of the ladies is carryin’ a suitcase-”

Poe frowned. “Young ladies. There was little time between their entering and Standish following them. Mr. Figg, you have already mentioned something to me. You said the bonnet of a woman was burning in the fireplace beside the head of Miles Standish. Forgive me, Rachel.”

She was pale, a hand to her throat. “I am at ease, Eddy. Please continue. I know this is necessary. Please pay me no mind.”

“Yes, well Mr. Figg, the bonnet.”

“It was to the right of ‘is ‘ead. Yellow I think it was. Lookin’ back on it, seems there was somethin’ else in that fireplace as well. Some more rags burnin’, seems like. I dunno … ”

“Ah, Mr. Figg, but you do know! Another sense within you sees and records. It was that bonnet which made me connect two things; the three women entering the building and the three young men hurrying down the narrow staircase.”

“I had to wait fer them to come down. Weren’t enough room fer me to go up past them.”

Poe’s eyes were bright with excitement. The problems of analysis thrilled him beyond measure. He responded to any challenge to his intellect because he was Poe, he was the brightest, the very brightest of intellects.

Poe’s low, southern voice was firm. “The bonnet, Mr. Figg. It has stuck out in my mind, and so has the suitcase and now those rags you saw in the fireplace. Standish and his clerk were killed by those three young men. They entered the office disguised as women, committed the murders, the mutilation, then fled, passing you on the way down. The women and men had the following in common: their youth, their nearness to the crime and a suitcase. I would wager the suitcase was used to carry some items of male apparel. As you noted, some of the female apparel used as disguise was burning in the fireplace.”