ground. Though I do not directly concern myself with these matters, save on the printed page, I tell you, Mr. Figg, that Jonathan has such faith in what he pursues that he is capable of unleashing a horror which could bring down a hell upon us all. Kill him swiftly, for all our sakes.”
Figg said, “If I do not claim his life, Mr. Poe, it will be because he has first succeeded in claiming mine. Is there more you can detect about Jonathan and his business?”
“Yes. He is European. The cult worship of Asmodeus has existed in that section of the world for years, even among members of royal houses. He is obviously a scholar, for merely to familiarize himself with occult writings requires intelligence, possibly linguistic abilities since many of the books and scrolls are written in Latin, Hebrew, Greek, old French and old German. And, as we have learned by his use of Althea and her father, he is careful to seek help if something is obscure. He is young, physically strong, trained in medicine, for he is able to remove body organs under primitive conditions and apparently fairly quickly.”
Poe looked up at the ceiling. “He is travelled; his association with the Renaissance Players indicates the need for a passport to get him easily from one country to another. Since I claim he is also Paracelsus, I submit Jonathan is an actor, skilled in stage technique and makeup. He is meticulous, thorough. This can be seen in how much he knows about the lives of those who seek him out as spiritualist. To deceive them, he must know everything about them so our Jonathan is a planner, a schemer, a man who looks ahead, who is able to convince one man to betray another by fair means or foul. He must be capable of inspiring some degree of loyalty, for it is not possible to purchase the hearts and minds of everyone in the universe.
“Jonathan is vengeful, unforgiving. Witness the death of Sproul’s associates. I sense in him a strong ego, a love of power, the strong need to dominate, to have all bow to his will without question. He sees himself the equal of the gods, for he has challenged Asmodeus as evidenced by that barbaric ritual involving the slaughter of several people. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants and there are no barriers to his evil. Witness, Mr. Figg, what he did to your wife. Jonathan defies God and Satan and he wants to rank beside them, never beneath them. He dreams grand dreams, does Jonathan and he undoubtedly is the most intelligent, determined and deadly individual any of us have ever encountered.”
Poe leaned across the table. “And, Mr. Figg, he did
“Go on now, you bloomin’ well know he did. Who else wants me under the earth save ‘im?”
“Jonathan lives in darkness, Mr. Figg. His awareness of the Throne of Solomon and his single-mindedness in pursuing it, indicates a deep and abiding interest in magic. His slaying of your wife, his slaying of Sproul’s cohorts, his attempts at clouding my mind-all of these things were committed by a magician, a sorcerer. By comparison, the attempt at destroying you with gas seems crude, unimaginative, hasty and above all, absent from the realm of the supernatural. Even his bringing a painting to life at the home of Miles Standish-”
Poe stopped. He frowned. “Miles Standish. Miles Standish.” He looked at Figg, then smiled quickly. “Well sir, let us talk of lighter things for my Muddy is sitting between us stunned and made silent by these somber matters.”
She playfully slapped his hand. “Oh Eddy, do not make me out to be such a fossil.”
Figg wanted to ask more questions, but no sense in pushing Poe. Later he would get dear Eddy to talk some more. Did Poe believe Miles Standish to be behind that business with the gas? Well, no more talk of killing; ain’t the business of a man to speak these things in front of a woman.
Figg grinned. “Riddle me, riddle me ree.”
“Oh Eddy, a riddle. I do so love them.” Mrs. Clemm’s plain face broke out in a smile as she clapped her hands.
Poe smiled as Figg’s husky voice assumed the singsong rhythm of a child’s verse. “Little Nancy Etticoat/With a white petticoat/and a red nose She has no feet or hands/the longer she stands/the shorter she grows.”
Poe was quick. “A candle.”
“Right you are squire. Now try this ‘ere one. A house full, a hole full/You cannot gather a bowlful.”
Poe closed his eyes, then opened them. “Smoke. Perhaps, perhaps mist.”
All three laughed.
Figg tried several more and no matter how obscure they were, Poe guessed them all. The silliness of the game delighted him more than anything had in a long time. Muddy was pleased and if Poe had not brought her money or food this time, he’d brought her the surprising Pierce James Figg, pugilist and reciter of English children’s riddles.
And, for a short time, that was something for both of them to be warmed by in an existence where there was so little to be warmed by.
* * * *
Upstairs, Mrs. Clemm stood in the tiny, cold attic room where Figg was to spend the night. The cold numbed his fingers, toes and he’d have to sleep with his clothes and boots on.
The yellow stub of a candle in her long fingers was the only light. “We have straw for you, Mr. Figg and I shall bring you the blanket from my room.”
“No mum. Ain’t takin’ a blanket away from no lady, thankin’ you muchly just the same. Straw is fine, for I was born on it and it’s been me bed more than once in me life.”
“You are our guest, sir. I can do no less than give you-”
“No mum. Now if you go and do such a thing, bring me
Lord help us, he thought. If I was to go in for a bit of night crawlin’, with all due respect, Mrs. Clemm wouldn’t be what I’d care to see at the end of me creepin’.
She blushed. “I appreciate your good manners, Mr. Figg. Now allow me to give you all of the disturbing news at once. Eddy is downstairs attempting to write, so I am unable to leave you with even this small bit of candle. We cannot afford to purchase even the cheapest tallow. What light we have is necessary for his work. I-” She was too embarrassed to speak.
Figg said, “Mum, seein’ as how I shall be lyin’ ’ere with me eyes shut tight, a candle does not appear to be needed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Figg. Eddy has not been in good health of late and since the death one year ago of my daughter, his wife, he has written little. Two poems and a book review, plus what journalistic work he can obtain at only pennies a page. So whenever he feels the urge to write, I must encourage him. It is no secret that he is, perhaps, in the twilight of his life, though I hope and pray with all my heart that this is not so. Well, Mr. Figg, I bid you good ni-”
Poe. From downstairs.
Quickly Figg found his flat, black wooden case and grabbed the two pistols. Pushing his way past Mrs. Clemm, he limped forward into darkness as fast as he could, stumbling down the stairs, pistols held high.
Behind him, Mrs. Clemm shouted, “Eddy! Eddy!”
* * * *
Poe and Figg stood side by side on the cottage porch, looking into the night. Then Poe pointed. “There! Near the trees! There! I heard her call to me and she said she was Virginia, but I know this to be false!”
Figg saw her in the moonlight, a cloaked figure running across the snow, towards trees leading down to the road. Jonathan’s wench. The one Poe said tried to drive him batty.
Figg leaped from the porch, landing in snow. He ran. The figure ahead of him would reach the trees soon. Jonathan’s wench. Figg stopped and fired. The flintlock cracked once, sending a small puff of smoke from its chamber, the shot echoing across the countryside.
The figure disappeared into the trees.
Figg and Poe gave chase in the snow. In front of the trees, Poe dropped to one knee. “Blood on the snow, Mr. Figg. That is how they deceived me the last time. False blood. Mr. Figg? Mr. Figg?”
“Over ‘ere, squire.”
Poe ran to him. Just inside the grove of trees, Figg held a woman’s cloak that had caught onto a snow- covered bush. He fingered a hole in the back made by the flintlock’s ball. There was dampness around the small hole.
