ear detected that his American accent was practiced, an applied trait, something learned and acquired. It covered another accent, something from western Europe.
Greatrakes’ original birthplace was not America; Poe was certain of it. And that name.
Greatrakes had produced a stub of a candle from under his cloak, lighting it from a lantern that rested on the floor between two drunken Irishmen with bloated, sore-encrusted faces. Poe, Montaigne and Greatrakes left “The Den of Thieves” behind, the cries, curses and stench of the huge hall growing fainter. Now they were in a sour smelling darkness leading to only the hunchback knew where.
A rat squeaked. From rooms along the passageway, some with doors closed, others with doors open, came more curses, screams, drunken laughter, the wail of babies and the toneless singing of those whose minds no longer concentrated. To Poe, the darkness magnified the hellish odors and noises around them.
And his life and that of Montaigne were in the hands of a hunchback named Valentine Greatrakes, who shuffled noisily in front of them, candle stub held high and casting long shadows on the wall, as he led them deeper into darkness.
* * * *
Greatrakes went inside of the room alone and talked to the men guarding Rachel Coltman. When the door had opened a hard-faced Irish with a scraggly beard pointed a flintlock pistol at Greatrakes’ throat and drunkenly demanded what he wanted. Poe had not heard the hunchback’s whisper, but the door had opened wider and he’d gone inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Poe and Montaigne had been left outside in almost total darkness; Greatrakes had taken the candle stub with him.
Now Greatrakes stood in the doorway, beckoning Poe and Montaigne inside. “In with you now, you two. Your lady friend awaits and, Mr. Poe, these here gentlemen will find it a pleasure to discuss with you. Come on, do not hang back there in the darkness. Come on.”
With Montaigne clinging to his sleeve, her tiny wrinkled face relaxed in a world of her own, Poe entered, blinking his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness.
Greatrakes was behind him. “She is there, Mr. Poe, resting in the corner.”
Poe turned towards Greatrakes’ voice and a fist hit him in the jaw, spinning him around and sending him dancing into a barrel used as a chair.
They were on him in a flash, two men tying his hands behind his back and gagging him with a filthy bandana. In seconds it was all over.
Poe lay on the floor, his jaw aching. It had happened too quickly for him to be frightened, but the fear would come. He was sure of it.
It began
Greatrakes looked down at him. “Oh dear. I told you, Mr. Poe, an informer is not a welcomed man in these parts, no indeed, sir. I have told these gentlemen of your plan to betray them and Hamlet Sproul to the police. Hamlet will want a chat with you about his Ida and their boys.”
Poe struggled. He tried to sit up, to cry out. A booted foot was placed on his chest and he went down painfully.
“Bastard,” said an Irishman.
Greatrakes leered, gnarled hand stroking his beard. “They do not appreciate the part you played in the death of me cousin, Johnnie Bill Baker.”
Suddenly Poe knew!
Greatrakes’ voice had slid into an Irish brogue. “No sir, me bucko, you cannot send me darlin’ Johnny to the flames without me doin’ somethin’ about it, no sir. Hamlet Sproul is a true son of Erin. He said he’d help me ‘ave me revenge, he did. ‘Corcoran,’ ’e said, “you’ll taste ‘is blood, you will. Swear it, I do. Me, ‘amlet Sproul.‘”
Greatrakes’ performance was skillful, convincing. It was perfectly tailored for his audience. A trapped Poe could only watch.
Greatrakes leaned down, his face just inches from Poe’s. In the darkness and shielded by his own body, Greatrakes’s hand could not be seen by the three Irishmen. He removed a glove. The little finger on his right hand was missing.
The veins bulged on Poe’s forehead and neck with the effort of trying to cry out.
When Greatrakes stood up, the glove was back on his hand. His leer was deadly.
Poe cried out against the gag that was painfully tight across his mouth. He was dizzy with fear.
Greatrakes spoke to the Irishmen. “Oh, before I’m forgettin’ lads, Hamlet wants a word with one of you about a change in plans. He is not goin’ to kill the woman. ‘E’s decided there’s more money in her bein’ alive. ‘E’s sellin’ ’er to a white slaver for a tidy sum, in which you will all share.”
The men whooped.
Greatrakes leered. “Ah, she’s in the corner, is she? Quiet as a dead leaf.”
“Ain’t dead,” said one of the men. “Woulda been if Seamus had been allowed to ‘ave ‘is way with ‘er. Pulled ‘im back just in time.”
Greatrakes clapped a hand on Seamus’ shoulder. “Seamus, lad, you look the type me cousin Johnnie Bill would have loved. Hamlet wants to talk to ye about what ‘e intends to do with the lady over there. I’m thinkin’ that when you return, the three of you will be allowed a bit of fun with ‘er, eh?”
He leered. The men whooped again. One sipped from a bottle and offered it to Greatrakes, who accepted.
After a huge swallow of gin, Greatrakes stepped over to Poe and poured gin on him. “Last drink, Mr. Poe. On the ‘ouse, it is.”
The men laughed.
The gin burned Poe’s eyes and wet his hair.
“Liquor makes ‘im dance, it does. Oils his tongue so’s ‘e can talk to the police.” Greatrakes’ brogue was getting stronger. Clever and dangerous, thought Poe. Arrogant. Manipulative. He challenged me face to face and he’s won. The fiend has beaten me, and Rachel and I will die. First she will be degraded by these men, then the two of us will die. She will take longer in dying and suffer the more.
Greatrakes and Seamus were by the door, Great-rakes’ arm around the Irishman’s shoulders. “Seamus and I will be returnin’. You boyos keep Mr. Poe amused and make yer plans for the lady. Come Seamus, let us look in on Hamlet and tell ’im Mr. Poe is arrived and has been welcomed.”
“The old lady,” said one Irish. “What’s to be done with ‘er?”
Greatrakes’ voice came from the dark hallway. “Marry the wench or bury her. It’s up to you, I’d say.” He and Seamus laughed.
The two Irishmen drank from the bottle, eyes on Montaigne.
“Ain’t for marryin’, Tom.”
“Nor I, Flynn.”
One lifted his bottle in a mock toast to Montaigne, who sat on the dirt floor, stroking Rachel’s hair.
Had Rachel fainted or was she asleep? Or dear God, was she dead? Poe couldn’t tell and he was unable to ask Montaigne.
The Irishman holding the bottle said to Montaigne, “’Ere’s to you, old one. You’ll get to heaven long before me. You’ll get there today.”
“Before Seamus returns.”
“Before Seamus returns.”
The two nodded at each other, then stood up and walked towards Montaigne.
Poe’s eyes bulged and he cried out as loud as he could. The gag strangled his words and the sound which emerged was that of a man powerless in the face of death.
