Poe must die

“I did see the staff, yes. The hat I cannot swear to.”

“Jonathan’s men,” said Figg. “Been on me since the hangin’.”

Suddenly Dickens was afraid and Figg knew it.

He said, “Sorry I am, sir, for bringin’ them into your home.”

“Don’t be sorry, dear friend. I can rush for the constable if you’ll stay here with Kate and the children.” Dickens placed his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling.

Figg picked up his black top hat. ”It is me they will be wantin’ and it’s me they will be gettin’.”

Kate Dickens said, “How can you be sure it’s-”

“I know, mum. ‘Tis my business to know such men.”

Dickens said, “There’s three of them, Mr. Figg.”

“Fightin’ is me trade, sir.” The boxer placed the black top hat neatly on his shaven head. “Jonathan would as soon do for me here as have me racin’ up his back in America. Perhaps I can convince one of the gentlemen in the park to tell me a thing or two. Thankin’ you, sir.”

Dickens clutched at Figg’s arm. “Please let me fetch a constable.”

“And what can we officially charge those three out there with, sir?”

Both men stared silently at one another.

“They have come into your home, Mr. Dickens. They shouldna done that. I haveta make sure your little ones are safe.”

Dickens took Figg’s hand in both of his. “Godspeed, dear friend.”

“God’s been somewhat delayed in helpin’ me of late, Mr. Dickens, so now I mean to take other measures, if you don’t mind.”

“Pray that we meet again, Mr. Figg.”

“You pray, Mr. Dickens. I shall now go out onto the street and deal with my difficulties in a more direct manner. Thankin’ you once more and good evenin’ to you, mum.”

Figg touched the brim of his hat to Kate Dickens.

THREE

New York City, February 1848

Hamlet Sproul said of the dead man, whose body he had stolen from its grave two days ago and now held for ransom, “Let us call him Mr. Lazarus, for he too shall rise from the grave when you give us the money we ask.”

“I would like proof that you do indeed possess the body. At present, I have only your word and on that basis, I cannot ask his widow to pay ransom.”

“We could kill you, Mr. Poe, and place you beside the decayin’ Mr. Lazarus, You would then be close enough to ensure yourself that we do own the gentleman in question. You can count on your death at my hands should you play treachery with me.”

“Going into darkness and distance holds no terror for me, sir.”

“Explain, please.”

“Death. I am not afraid of it.”

“Darkness and distance.” Hamlet Sproul aimed his deringer at Poe’s forehead. “The poet’s touch.” Sproul squeezed the trigger. Click. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

“One hundred thousand dollars, if you please, dear poet. And cash money. All in eagle coins. Paper money’s barely fittin’ for pluggin’ holes in a man’s boot, don’t you think.” Sproul’s smile was a quick glimpse of crooked yellow teeth surrounded by a blond beard streaked brown with tobacco stains.

Edgar Allan Poe blinked nervously. That filthy bastard Sproul. The pistol was empty. And Poe had been afraid. His small hands pushed down hard on the head of his cane, driving its tip deeper into the sanded floor.

He said, “You ask a lot in exchange for a dead man.”

Sproul’s brogue was slurred by liquor. “Poet, you must understand the ways of the heart. She’ll be lovin’ her husband ‘til hell freezes over. Actually, you both ought to be thankin’ me. Instead of her waitin’ to go to heaven to meet up with him again, I can deliver her man right here on earth.” Sproul snorted and the two other grave robbers supported him with sly grins. Poe could have calmly killed all three.

Hamlet Sproul was the leader, a small, bearded man in a red flannel shirt and eyes to match, thought Poe. Sproul’s floor length, green overcoat appeared to have been used in cleaning streets, and in addition to the deringer, which he fingered as a nun would beads, Sproul wore a bowie knife on a leather thong around his neck. The blade on the knife was a foot long and as wide as a man’s hand.

He was homicidal and almost drunk. Poe watched him drink his fourthflip, a sickening concoction of rum, beer, sugar and the touch of a loggerhead, a red hot iron dipped into the brew. Bartenders kept the loggerheads hidden to prevent the drinkers from having at each other with them. Sproul’s bloodshot eyes had the brilliance of barely controlled lunacy, thought Poe.

Poe, ill and hating the bitter winter weather, was in a grog shop, a disgusting gin mill in the Five Points slum. In this rum palace, which was no larger than a damp cellar, he sat at a table with the three Irish resurrectionists, who’d stolen the body of the wealthy Mr. Lazarus for ransom. At the widow’s request, Poe had agreed to arrange an exchange of money for the dead husband. Poe had once been in love with the woman, and loved her still.

“A large sum, poet.” Sproul aimed his empty deringer at a painted, ten-year-old whore who had just entered the grog shop and stood shivering near the door, her thin body wet with snow and unable to stop trembling. “But word has reached us that the lady is bee-reeved at the removal-”

“Theft.”

Sproul casually looked across the table at Poe and waited long seconds before smiling. “Heard about your sharp tongue. They say you’re a nasty little man of the pen, you are. I say removal of her husband’s corpus from its final resting place.” His voice dared Poe to challenge him.

“Theft.”

The word was in the air before Poe could stop it. Tonight, his courage came not from liquor, but from rage. Yes, he knew these ghouls would as soon spill his blood as spill more whiskey. Hamlet Sproul, Tom Lowery, Sylvester Pier. Three of Ireland’s worst exports. Paddy at his most loathsome. But in stealing Mr. Lazarus, they had harmed Rachel.

He said, “I am not here to agree to your demands unconditionally.”

“You are here as go-between for the weepin’ widow, are ye not?”

Poe watched Sproul’s eyes dart to the men on either’ side of him. Sproul would slaughter butterflies and gouge the eyes from newborn lambs if there was a shilling to be gained from it.

“I am here for proof that you have the body in your possession. Your note indicates that you stole it and indeed someone has, for it is no longer in place.”

“Noticed that didja?” Tom Lowery sneered, then swallowed more oysters, which at six cents a dozen were among the cheapest of foods. He was a hulking, bearded man in a tattered derby, hobnail boots which he used effectively in fights and a filthy, food stained white shirt long minus its collar and studs. Poe found him to be the most stomach churning of the three ghouls. Lowery was said to have raped his own daughter, then sexually abused the small girl child who had resulted from that rape.

Even now, he looked up from his oysters and gin at the child whore who peered through the oil lamp lit darkness for customers. Sproul said, “None a that, Tom. To business first.”

Sylvester Pier said, “Paid to notice things, he is, ‘cause Mr. Poe here is a writer.” The respect in Pier’s voice was a mild shock to Poe.

“Read somethin’ once,” said Pier.

Once would seem the sum total of your attempts at reading, thought Poe.

“Somethin’ of yours, it was. ‘Bout a bird.”

“I hates fuckin’ birds.” Lowerv spoke with his mouth full.

“Mr. Poe writes good about birds,” continued Pier. “This was some sort of poem. ‘Bout a raven, I think. Yeah,