She kept her eyes closed and listened.
“No laddie, she is not sleepin’,” said a male voice. “She has her nose turned to the wall so she’ll not be smellin’ the likes of you, Sean.”
The three men laughed.
“Bleak moll she is wouldn’t you say?” Murmurs of agreement.
“Love to give that one a flimp.”
“Sproul would drive steel through the back of yer neck and out yer mouth.”
“That’s a truth, me friend. Dear Hamlet is not a fellow to cross.”
“’E’s not a fella what holds his liquor. Flat on his face, Sproul is, huggin’ the earth down the hall. Grievin’ does that to a man, it does.”
More murmurs of agreement.
And then a harsh voice. “Hands off me diddle or I’ll snitchell yer gig.”
“’Ere now, we all took her clothes off so we all owns the liquor. Jesus God, what miserable stuff I’m drinkin’, but you know somethin’ boys? I love it, God in heaven above I love it.”
They all laughed.
Rachel shivered. Her clothing, the little jewelry she’d been wearing, all of it torn from her by the three Irish thieves as soon as they’d brought her to this small, dark cellar room. She burned with shame at the memory of their hands on her body, their leers, the vile things they’d said to her. Her clothing and jewelry had been sold for “Blue Ruin,” bad gin, which the men now drank as they sat around a table and played cards.
Dear God, dear God, she would die here. Die in the midst of the most terrifying nightmare she’d ever known.
She was a prisoner somewhere in the Old Brewery where men and women were stabbed for a handkerchief, where a child’s throat was cut for a penny. Her bare flesh rested on damp, black earth and she now guessed she was in the basement of the building, somewhere close to the hidden underground passages connecting the Old Brewery to the tenements scattered throughout the slums. The people living in this hellhole had long ago burned as firewood the floor that had once covered the ground beneath her.
He had said that Rachel would die here. Sproul who wore that monstrous knife on a leather thong around his neck, who claimed that Eddy Poe and this mysterious Jonathan had slaughtered his woman and two sons.
A liquor-slurred brogue came from dangerously close to her. “Warms ourselves with this goddam ‘Blue Ruin,’ we does and you know why? ‘Cause we ain’t got no gold-plated fireplace or fur trimmed cloak or no nigger servant to put the warmin’ pan in our fuckin’ beds like her in the corner has.”
“That’s ‘cause we ain’t got no fuckin’ beds.” More laughter.
“Seamus, come away from her. Come on, leave her alone.”
He was standing over her. Rachel smelled him. Liquor, the tobacco juice that had dripped down his shirt front. She clenched her teeth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Dear God, don’t let him-
A hand clumsily stroked her hair.
“Seamus, I’ll be tellin’ you no more to come away from her.”
“Lovely little morsel, she is. I’m thinkin’ I would like a bite of her.”
“Hamlet would kill you, Seamus. Interfere with his revenge and you’ll end up on the sharp end of his knife. Know this for a fact.”
The hand quickly left her head. She heard him move away and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. From outside in the hall, she heard a baby cry and she heard the crash of a whiskey bottle shattering against a nearby wall. So far, they had not raped her. So far …
“Hamlet Sproul is a drunken madman.” It was the voice who had stroked her hair. “Killin’ a handsome woman like this one.”
“Has his reasons, he does. Same reasons that made him take her from her home and bring her ’ere. Same reasons that now have him drunk and passed out in ‘is room down the hall. Meets Ida’s sister and the sight of her makes him weep.”
“Makes him drink until he cannot stand. Ida’s sister is on the game, isn’t she?”
“Aye, she is. Been a mab since she was ten and now she’s fourteen and livin’ in this grand palace with ‘er ponce, she is. Lordy, this buildin’ is a sin against the eyes and nose.”
“For sure. But you can’t beat the rent. No spittin’ into the bottle, if you will be so kind. Cards please. Like to ask you lads a question, after I take a look at me cards. Damn!”
Rachel heard the cards being slammed to the table in disgust.
“Me question is, what does Mr. Sproul have in that sack he covered with earth and insists in sleepin’ near?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
A whisper.
Then silence.
Rachel waited, her eyes still closed.
“Oh I see,” said the brogue who had inquired about the sack. “I sees indeed. But if he’s gonna kill her, how does he expect her to pay for her husband’s body-”
“Ah, Seamus, bite your tongue and look at your cards. Will do our guest no good to hear of such things. May I tell you, lad, that you are a poor poker player and for that reason, may you find the time to visit us in the grand hotel more often.”
“‘Blue Ruin’ has addled me brain.”
“And made you a
More coarse laughter. More drinking from the bottle.
A man broke wind and all three laughed and whooped. One said to Rachel. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship. Please don’t send me to bed without me supper.”
Rachel, sick to her stomach, felt tears roll down her face and into the corners of her mouth, leaving a salt taste there. Justin. His body was here in the Old Brewery with Hamlet Sproul and soon her body would lie beside his. Oh God, oh God, why are these terrible things happening to me? Why am I suffering so?
Her body shook with her silent sobs.
“See there, lads, told you her ladyship wasn’t sleepin’. Let’s have a peak under that blanket.”
“Seamus, I’m warnin’ you! We’re to guard her, nothin’ more.”
“A peek won’t hurt. Lookin’ never damaged the Queen of England and I’ve gazed upon her many a time.”
“Seamus-”
Rachel felt the blanket ripped from her hands and she brought her knees up close under her chin.
She screamed.
All three men laughed and moved closer.
* * * *
“You may call me Mr. Greatrakes and I shall call you Mr. Poe. I know why you are here in the Old Brewery.”
Poe attempted to step around the man, who slid into his path.
“Mr. Poe, if you refuse to stand and converse with me, I shall have to denounce you and if you do not know what that means, I shall enlighten you, oh yes I shall. Mr. Greatrakes, that’s me sir, will denounce you as being a nose, oh yes I shall. An informer for the police, a wretched spy. Look around you, Mr. Poe. Any one of these lost souls in this room would kill you on the spot, oh yes they would.”
Poe licked his lips. He was twice frightened, for himself, for Rachel. Greatrakes. Bearded, humpback, with a left hand carried twisted over his heart as in some grotesque pledge. And he was preventing Poe from finding Hamlet Sproul and pleading with the grave robber for Rachel’s life. Poe had no other plan.
“Shall I denounce you, Mr. Poe?”
“Speak, damn you and quickly.”
“You wish to rescue Rachel Coltman. I shall help you.”
Poe looked left, right. He was in “The Den of Thieves,” the name given to the largest room in the Old
