Poe must die

day on. He will destroy you and all who tries to prevent him from gettin’ that throne. Althea said that Jonathan had to get the throne or one of those demons he bows down to would get him.”

Poe leaned forward in his chair, more interested in Figg than he had been seconds ago. “And you believe your wife spoke the truth when she told you this?”

“Yes, Mr. Poe, I do. Jonathan tried to use her father, even though he was a man of God. Jonathan had some Greek and Latin writin’s which he thought would lead him to the throne. He wanted help translatin’ them, so he comes to Althea’s father, the Archbishop who was a scholar in these matters. That was his plan all along, to use my wife to get to her father. But the Archbishop, he says no. He curses Jonathan. Jonathan then took his revenge.”

Figg blinked tears down his scarred cheeks. Poor Althea. Dead while scum like Jonathan still lived. Somewhere in the house, Figg heard a grandfather clock strike the hour. He said, “Mr. Poe, you are one with some knowledge of Greek subjects. Jonathan brought down the punishment of Tantalus on me wife and the Archbishop. I wants you to remember this when I asks yer help.”

Poe frowned, again combing the furrows in his forehead with a small hand. “Tantalus, Tantalus. Ah yes. Son of Zeus and a most disgusting son at that. Admitted to the circle of gods on Mount Olympus, but eventually he proved such a foul man that he was punished by being tied to the bough of a fruit tree which hung over a pool of water. Whenever he bent down to drink the water, it receded. When he would reach for the fruit, it would pull away from him. Thus we get the word tantalize-”

“I do not refer to that, Mr. Poe.”

Poe narrowed his gray eyes. A horrible thought was worming its way into his mind. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open. “Good Lord, man! Are you saying-”

Figg exhaled, dropping his chin to his chest. “The books say that Tantalus killed his very own son and served his flesh to the gods and then Tantalus told the gods that since they was all knowin’ they should know what they was eatin’. That was the reason for Tantalus’ punishment, Mr. Poe. Jonathan killed my wife Althea and he had her flesh served to her own father. And to me. We didn’t know, we didn’t know …”

Titus Bootham whispered, “My God!”

Rachel Coltman’s mouth was open; her eyes unblinking.

Poe couldn’t take his eyes from Pierce James Figg. There was no mystery as to why Figg wanted Jonathan’s life. Every man his own hell, wrote Byron. Figg was living in hell every day. He had eaten the flesh of his own dead wife. But there was more to this matter than what Poe had heard here. Much more. He looked at Rachel Coltman.

Her eyes were on Figg. Clearing her throat, she called the boxer’s name in a tiny voice. “Mr. Figg, you said my late husband sought the Throne of Solomon. This is true. He believed it would cure him of a most horrid disease but he died before, before …”

She used the lace handkerchief to blot tears from her eyes. “My husband did not find the throne before passing on. I can guarantee this. Myself, I have no belief in such an item. But my husband did and since I wanted him to live, I supported anything that would help him to. If this Jonathan is indeed seeking the throne, there is little he can expect from me, save some of my husband’s books on demons, witchcraft-”

Poe was on his feet. His was a freed subconscious, a mind that analyzed, that ruthlessly pursued truth. What he was about to do was painful but necessary. He had to know the truth, especially in light of what had happened to him last night at his Fordham cottage. Or this morning in Miles Standish’s office. Or minutes ago at the stable across the street.

He spoke slowly, sadly. “Rachel, you have been false with me. You have used me most foully and I am deeply grieved by it.”

She turned quickly to face him and he saw her prepare to lie, then decide against it.

“Eddy, I-”

“I forgive you, dearest Rachel. But I must ask that you speak to me from the heart and in no other manner. Early on Mr. Figg said that he was at the museum of Barnum in order to seek out Jonathan’s henchmen. When he saw them, they were talking to you. Rachel, you are involved in a most sordid matter and I fear you have involved me as well. Why?”

Her eyes pleaded with him not to ask her, but he stared at her until she spoke. Her eyes were filled with tears and never had she looked so beautiful to him as she did now. “Eddy, the dead body of my husband was indeed removed from its final resting place, but with my knowledge and permission.”

Poe was stunned. “You mean the resurrectionists did your bidding?”

She nodded, hands folded in her lap and twisting the handkerchief. “I followed his orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Dr. Paracelsus. He told me that he could bring my husband back to life if he could obtain the body. I was to have no guards at the grave and the mausoleum door was to be unlocked. I loved Justin, you must know that. So I willingly did as Dr. Paracelsus requested.”

Poe was angry and hurt at being used. “I suppose the esteemed Dr. Paracelsus demanded a pretty penny for this giving of life?”

“I paid him, yes.” Rachel was defensive now. Figg watched her and Poe as he would two fighters, either one of whom he would fight in the future. Both Mrs. Coltman and Mr. Poe were nearer to Jonathan than either knew, which suited Figg just fine. The poet or the woman could be his Judas goat and lead him to the demon-man.

Poe extended his arms towards Rachel. He’s hurtin’, thought Figg. He’s too much into that woman and she has hurt ‘im. And I know Jonathan is the cause.

Poe said, “Rachel, this man Paracelsus is a fraud.”

She turned from him.

“Rachel, the dead do not return to live with us. He has humbugged you. Shall I tell you what he plans once he obtains the body of your husband?”

She looked at him again, her face set against whatever he would say to her. “I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“He will indulge in necromancy, the blackest of all the black arts. He will use Justin for purposes of divination. The art can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, who believed that the dead, having passed from the earthly limitations of space, time and causation, are able to predict the future, to reveal the whereabouts of hidden treasure. Through necromancy, a magician like Jonathan controls demons, devils.”

Figg watched Poe kneel at the woman’s side and continue talking. “Rachel, this sinister business is a hazard to the conjurer for he may attract demons and evil to the scene and be unable to control them. If you are near when-”

She stood up quickly, her back to him. Poe stayed on his knees, his face unable to conceal his torment, his fear for her safety. “For nine days, the conjurer prepares. He steeps himself in death, dressing in gruesome clothing torn from corpses and he will wear this clothing until the ceremony is completed. He will eat the flesh of a dog and bread that is black, unleavened and without salt, for salt preserves and the conjurer is drawn only to decay. He will drink grape juice that is unfermented, for it symbolizes the absence of life. He will sit within a consecrated circle and meditate on death and there are frightening incantations which must be chanted-”

She swung around to face him. “I do not care what you say! Dr. Paracelsus will bring Justin back to me. I shall not turn on him. I have his promise-”

Figg stood up. “Here now, just who is this Dr. Paracelsus?”

Poe, his face streaked with tears, shouted at him: “He is whom you seek! He is Jonathan! He is the man who killed your wife! He killed Sylvester Pier and Tom Lowery! Jonathannnnn!”

Figg ran to him, shook his shoulders and slapped him twice.

As Poe sobbed, Figg held him in his arms, looking over Poe’s shoulder at Rachel Coltman. This beautiful red- headed woman would be seeing a lot of Figg before this matter was settled.

When Poe had calmed down and was again sitting, Figg stood over him and said, “How do you know this Paracelsus is Jonathan? Mr. Dickens tells me you write things that involve a mysterious turn of mind.”

“Mystery stories.” Poe could barely be heard.

“And stories about a detective, a Frenchie called-”