Poe must die

Virginia, my dearest, dearest, do not leave me.

“Rachel, it is my belief that Paracelsus or Jonathan, wants to harm me in a manner that could be my utter ruin. Can you tell me why?”

Her hand reached out to touch his cheek. “Oh Eddy, oh darling Eddy. Ask anything of me, but do not ask me to deprive myself of Dr. Paracelsus. I will do all that you say in this matter except betray him.”

Figg said, “Tell us when Jonathan or Paracelsus contacts you again. Tell us when he asks you to arrange a meetin’ with some of your friends.”

“A seance,” said Poe. “It is termed a seance, Mr. Figg.”

Rachel shook her head. “I will not.”

Poe gripped her hands. “You must!”

“No!”

“You are in danger. I swear it!”

“Eddy, I must leave now. Miles sent a message earlier regarding the ransom and I must meet him to sign papers releasing the money. That is my sole concern at the moment. I am counting on your assistance in recovering the body of my husband.”

Figg saw Poe nod. Figg himself bowed when Rachel Coltman said, “Mr. Figg, Mr. Bootham,” then left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Mr. Bootham’s long, loud sigh was the only sound. He cleared his throat. “I, I, is there any assistance I can render, Mr. Figg?”

Figg kept his eyes on the closed door. “You can forget what you just ‘eard ‘ere today, Mr. Bootham. Your life is forfeit if you don’t. Jonathan would do you as easily as peelin’ a banana.”

“I understand, sir. You can rely on me. It is all quite upsetting, quite upsetting. I came to this New York as a war correspondent over thirty-five years ago and I cannot get used to its unending violence. This city, dear Jesus this city. It is alive and savage with its mind-boggling extremes of wealth and poverty. It is the largest city in a half-civilized land, a city of widespread crime and heartbreaking destitution and slums more heinous than any found in Europe.”

The little journalist shook his head. “It is a city of cholera, yellow fever and smallpox, but none of these plagues pose the danger of this man Jonathan.”

“Paracelsus,” said Poe, walking over to a decanter of brandy.

When he reached for it, Figg’s hand gripped his wrist. “None a that, squire. I need you.”

Poe sneered. “I have needs of my own, sir.”

“Satisfy ’em when our business is concluded.” Figg tightened his grip on Poe’s wrist. Let the poet know early on whose hand was on the whip.

Poe tried to pull away, but couldn’t. “I come from a fine family, sir and we lived like quality, in quality surroundings, in a quality home. Had you laid hands on me then, I would have had you horsewhipped.”

Figg jerked, pulling Poe to him. “I was born on straw, Mr. Poe. I ain’t got no ancestral home. A cow ate it. You and me is goin’ to find a place to live, then we are goin’ forth to seek Jonathan. I daresay he will soon be aware that you have been doin’ some thinkin’ on your own, so he might just be seekin’ you out as well. Caution should be the watchword, I would think.”

Poe pulled and pulled, trying to free himself from Figg’s grip on his wrist. “Sir, you cannot force me to accompany you.”

Figg smiled, releasing the wrist. “You are correct in that assumption, squire. I cannot force you to walk either behind or in front of me. That is somethin’ you are goin’ to do of your own free will.”

Poe, rubbing his wrist, shook his head no. The bulldog did not have that power over him. Poe was going to drink until he could not remember anything and the last thing he wanted to do was follow Figg.

Figg said,’ “I cannot force you to walk, as I said. All I can do is see that you do not walk at all. If you do not come with me, squire, I shall put a ball in your knee and you will not be walkin’ much at all, I’m thinkin’.”

Poe stopped rubbing his pained wrist.

Titus Bootham plucked at Figg’s sleeve. “Mr. Figg, you wouldn’t-”

Figg turned to him and smiled coldly.

Titus Bootham said, “You would.”

Figg’s smile broadened.

Seconds later, the three men left Rachel Coltman’s mansion.

Five minutes later, a colored servant, bundled against the cold, left the mansion, crossed the street and peered into the stable. After staring at the dead bodies of Isaac Bard and Chopback for a few seconds, the colored servant closed the stable door and hurried through the snow to make his report to Jonathan.

THIRTEEN

Jonathan said, “Poe Is dangerous, yes. I am more aware of this than you are.”

“Then why do you refuse to have him killed?”

“Because, my dear Miles Standish, the fact that he punctured your ego is no reason for me to alter my plans.”

“He did not-”

Jonathan held up a hand. “Please, please. You are not pleading your case before the usual corrupt and venal New York judge, so spare me your turgid denials. I know what happened today between you and Edgar Allan Poe, I mean in addition to that little tableau we arranged for him. Our “Tomahawk’s made mention of matters you prefer kept secret and he appeared to have poured a pitcher of warm spit over those fantasies in which you imagine yourself to be Rachel Coltman’s lover.”

“He is an untalented, miserable little blackguard!”

“Hardly. He happens to be a most capable writer though impoverished, which is more the shame of this nation than it is dear Poe’s. Bad taste is essential in both writer and reader if there is to be any literary success. Americans have always wallowed in bad taste and show no signs of reversing this trend. Unfortunately, Poe does have taste and therein lies his hard life in this hard land. He is a man out of time, out of step, far in advance of any of your colonials putting pen to paper today. I rather enjoy his morbid musings.”

Miles Standish, determined to have Poe murdered, leaned forward onto the black marble table in Jonathan’s seance room. Standish’s pride was his weak point, thought Jonathan. That and his lust for beautiful women. Because of pride and lust, Miles Standish ended up playing the fool. The lawyer angrily said, “Are you spying on me in my own home? You seem so well informed about my personal affairs. Which of my servants have you bribed? You are so good at that, you know!”

Jonathan ignored the outburst. Poe is needed. He will help me find the body of Justin Coltman. That is why Poe is alive; that is the sole reason. The reason is functional, it is one of utility, not whim, not weakness. Rachel Coltman has more than a small degree of faith in our Edgar, especially in his ability to survive among the dregs and I refer to Hamlet Sproul, our one and only link to the body of Justin Coltman.

“Now dear Miles, whether it delights you or not, the lady trusts Poe. She seeks his advice, she believes him to be wise. Oh, I grant you they are not in harmony all of the time, but Poe, ever the romantic, ever the swain in waiting, will not desert Mrs. Coltman in her hour of need. He reminds me of what is said about the Germans: they are either at your throat or at your feet. Count on Edgar the lovelorn to stay involved, to resume his role as go- between in the matter of exchanging Justin Coltman, deceased, for hard cash, American. The reason we are tampering with Edgar’s sanity is to make him more of a believer in the spirit world and less of a believer in not paying ransoms. We want him to believe in us, so that he will not attempt to dissuade Mrs. Coltman from unloosening her purse.”

Miles Standish stroked his thick red beard. “I want him dead.”