Then he heard Rosehearty, heard the hissing noise as the assassin breathed through tightly clenched teeth, saw the killer’s shadow almost on him and that’s when Figg, back still to Rosehearty, savagely drove the end of the quarterst off into the pit of Rosehearty’s stomach.
All of the breath left the tall man in one long, harsh sigh. His eyes bulged and the pressure against his stomach was massive, destructive, and Rosehearty doubled over, his tall beaver hat tumbling from his long, gray head. Figg scampered to his feet and was merciless; in his large hands, the quarterstaff was a blur, a seven foot length of oak wielded with swift and vicious skill. He thought of his own dead, of what would happen to Dickens’ children if Rosehearty were to live. For Will, for Althea.
Figg used both ends of the quarterstaff to kill Rosehearty.
A powerful blow broke the tall man’s left wrist, sending his lamp to the rain-soaked ground. A second blow crushed his right kneecap. Rosehearty’s scream echoed in the rainy night as the agony raced up the right side of his body. And as Rosehearty fell towards the ground, his arm and leg on fire with pain, Figg delivered the third blow with his full strength behind it, crushing Rosehearty’s left temple, instantly killing him and driving the tall man into the wet grass with sickening speed.
Figg never again looked at Rosehearty. He knew the man was dead.
Stubbs, face knotted with pain, looked up at the lantern and small sword in Figg’s hands. “Kill me, you bastard and be done with it.”
Figg listened to the rain, eyes narrowed and on the albino. “Some words with you first.”
“First? What the bleedin’ ’ell is first? You plan to do me, so do me. You will be gettin’ no words from me.” Stubbs closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, hands pressing hard on his thigh wound.
Figg, down on one knee, held the lantern close to Stubbs’s face. “I shall kill you, this is a fact and I shall not deceive you on that score. But I can kill you quickly or I can make a right bloody mess of it. You do not have much time in which to consider.”
Stubbs frowned. Beads of rain clung to his unshaven chin and darkened his clothing. “Dyin’ or dyin’. What kind of choice is that?”
“Not much. I do not mean for you to have much choice Stubbs, and you try my patience. You came for my life and now I mean to have yours.”
“I gots a woman, you know. And kids.”
“You are scum, Stubbs. They will be right pleased to be quits of you. Jonathan sent you to do me. Why?”
“Scairt of you. Never says so but we know he is. Says you are a primitive and terrible force.” The albino used blood covered fingers to squeeze rain from his eyes.
Figg frowned. Jonathan afraid of him? “Well paid were you?” he asked.
“A guinea each.”
Figg snorted. “Not very dear, am I.” Money you will spend in hell, he thought.
Stubbs licked rainwater from his lips and tried to sit up. “You are cursed. Jonathan has a spell on you.”
For the first time that night, Figg felt the cold. “Curse?”
“We saw him. A nail in your footprint. He had us follow you, then Timothy Buck he runs to get Jonathan and he brings him to one of your footprints and Jonathan he drives a nail in it, a nail what comes from a coffin. And he curses you that you be harmed until he pulls the nail from the footprint.” Stubbs stiffened with pain, falling backwards into a greasy puddle.
“Why is Jonathan goin’ to New York?”
Stubbs’s lips were pressed tightly together against pain and his eyes were closed and he did not see the quick movement as Figg flicked his wrist and slashed the albino’s cheek.
Stubbs squealed, flopping to his right, both hands on the right side of his face. Blood trickled through his fingers to mingle with the falling rain on the backs of his hands.
“I said to you Stubbs that you are lackin’ in time. Answer me.”
“The bleedin’ bloody throne, he wants. Solomon’s Throne.” Stubbs clutched his cheek and moaned.
Solomon’s Throne. Justin Coltman and Jonathan now gone to New York in pursuit of it. As Mr. Dickens figured. Find Justin Coltman and you find Jonathan.
Stubbs pleaded for his life. “Ain’t never done nothin’ to you Figg, afore tonight. Let me live. I promise you I shall never go on the hunt for you again.”
“I think this is correct, Stubbs. You will never hunt me again.”
Figg drove the point of the small sword deep into Stubbs’s left side, piercing his heart and the albino sighed, his eyes turning up in his head.
Figg remained in the park for a further fifteen minutes. He carried Rosehearty’s body to a nearby lake, placing it in a rowboat which he then pushed out into the dark, chopping waters. Returning to the scene of the killings, he picked up Stubbs’s body and carried it several yards to the zoo, where he threw it into a pile of straw near the elephants’ cages. One-eyed Timothy Buck, the smallest was last; his would be the longest trip.
After retrieving his belt dagger, Figg put on his rain-soaked coat and top hat, slung Timothy Buck over his shoulder and walked deeper into the deserted park. Minutes later, Buck’s corpse was shoved under a band shell in Queen Mary’s Gardens. The discovery of three bodies in separate locations would draw less attention than three ‘bodies lying side by side in this park once used by King Henry VIII as a private hunting forest. Little fuss would be made over this trio, Figg knew; they were of the underworld, where a man easily made enemies. Furthermore, the Peelers, the police, would be delighted to have three such vermin removed from this life.
At home, Figg cleaned himself in a hot tub then sipped mulled wine in front of his fireplace, his mind on what he must do. In the morning he sent a note to Mr. Charles Dickens, once more thanking him for his kind help and informing him that the three uninvited guests of last night would not be returning.
Three days later Figg was in a closet-sized cabin on the Cunard steamer Britannia using his fingers to gently feed bits of food from his uneaten plate to a thin, gray and white cat smuggled aboard ship under Figg’s coat. He watched carefully as the cat leaned its head to the right and chewed.
And when the cat did not die Figg himself ate of the plate, for as he now stalked Jonathan, Jonathan also stalked him and the life of a cat was a small price to pay for caution.
Josiah Rusher corked the bottle. Mr. Figg had swallowed three cups of coffee and brandy, which appeared to have had no more effect on him than a kiss from a gentle breeze. Josiah said, “Mr. Poe is a most accomplished scholar. He speaks French, Latin, Greek, Spanish and Italian and he is a master of-”
“Sippin’ the juice, I suspects.”
Figg bit off a piece of stale bread. At the moment, he would settle for a few words in English from little Mr. Poe, never mind all that other posh talk.
“Does not Mr. Poe have a home of his own or is it always more convenient for him to lay his head in dark corners?”
Josiah Rusher said, “He has a small cottage in the country, away from the city. It is in Fordham. He is hard put to meet the yearly rent, I am sorry to say.”
“Which is what amount?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“What is that in English money?”
“Twenty pounds, five dollars to the pound. You will find it to your advantage, Mr. Figg, you being newly arrived to our shores, that we here in America still use English currency to some degree. Pounds, shillings, pence. We continue to traffic in them, though I must warn you there is still some ill-feeling against the English people because of the war of eighteen and twelve.”
Figg’s soft voice was slightly amused. “Dear me. Now I will be unable to get me beauty sleep what with this
