POE MUST DIE (15 page)

Figg stopped talking but kept working on the pistols. He sat behind the large oak desk in Rachel Coltman’s library. Mrs. Coltman, Titus Bootham and Poe sat in front of him; Figg could feel the little poet’s hostility towards him, not that it mattered a rat’s ass. Figg was going to squeeze assistance from Edgar Allan if he had to knuckle him a time or two to put him in a warmer frame of mind.

He looked up to see Poe glaring at him. Figg returned to his guns.

Poe’s soft, southern voice dripped malice. He hadn’t forgotten Figg’s implied threat if Poe didn’t help him to find this Jonathan. “Were you busy with cleaning rags when you first made the acquaintance of Charles Dickens?”

Figg didn’t look up. “Mr. Poe, had these pistols failed to perform properly, you would now resemble a gutted hog danglin’ from a slaughterhouse hook. I takes care of me firearms and they takes care of me.”

Poe crossed his legs, then turned his head so that he stared at Figg from the corner of his left eye. “You seem to have a way of convincing people, no matter how reluctant they may be, to do your bidding. Why not converse with the pistols and make them aware of the consequences of disobeying you.”

“Mr. Poe, allow me to tell you a wee bit about these particular pistols. They were handmade especially for me by the Reverend Alexander John Forsyth.”

Titus Bootham sat up in his chair, impressed. “Oh, I say! Were they really?”

Figg placed both pistols in a flat black wooden box containing bullet mould, powder flask, rammer and other accessories. Closing the top of the box, he set it to one side and folded his hands. “Reverend Forsyth was a man of the cloth in Aberdeenshire, which task did not prevent him from bein’ a right fine chemist and huntsman. In usin’ flintlocks, he learned that the powder flashed in the pan seconds before the weapon actually fired. This gave the birds and other game a right amount of time to escape. It was the Reverend Forsyth who designed a different sort of magazine and powder which stopped the flame from goin’ outside. He made the flame go directly down
into
the weapon.”

Poe rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Figg said, The Reverend Forsyth became very famous in England for his work with firearms. Napoleon Bonaparte offered him twenty thousand pounds for the secret of his special gunpowder but the Reverend bein’ a good Englishman, he said no to the Frenchie. Now the Frenchie he does not take no for an answer. He lets out that he was goin’ to have Forsyth’s secret one way or the other, this bein’ more than twenty years ago and the war bein’ on. So the Duke of Wellington he comes to me dad and he asks him to be protector for the Reverend Forsyth, to be his bodyguard. Me dad agrees, me dad bein’ in the trade like I am now and he stays with the Reverend.”

Figg stroked a scar that divided his left eyebrow. “Some Frenchies come for the Reverend one night, but me dad was a good man in a fight so he kills three of ’em and drives off the rest.”

Poe covered his mouth with a small, white hand. “Did he trample the roses as well?”

“Sad to say, me dad took a ball in the leg that night and he died of gangrene.” He looked at Poe. “The Reverend he made me these here pistols out of gratitude. His grace the Duke of Wellington, he taught me how to use ’em.”

Titus Bootham’s eyes were misty behind his steel-rimmed glasses. “Oh I say, jolly good. Jolly, jolly good.”

Poe, eyes on the carpet, combed his forehead with his fingers. He wasn’t going to apologize for what he’d just said, but he did feel uncomfortable. “I still desire to know why you followed Mrs. Coltman through the streets. There is nothing in Mr. Dickens’ letter of introduction encouraging you to do such a thing.”

“Granted. I was at the museum of Mr. Barnum in order to locate some of Jonathan’s associates who’d come here from England. I saw Mrs. Coltman havin’ a chat with one or two of them and—”

Rachel pulled nervously on a small, lace handkerchief. “Mr. Figg, I too would like to know your role in my life.”

“Yes, mum. A month ago, Jonathan killed my wife, Althea. She was young, mum, pretty like yourself and she had no experience of the world. Maybe I was too old for her, but she and I, we had some little happiness until—”

Figg closed his eyes, then opened them. “She was an actress and that went against the teachings of her father, the Archbishop Claridge. When she went upon the stage, he asked her to leave his home and she had no place to go. I give her a home and in time, we married. In a church I’m proud to say. But the people she was play actin’ with, they was bad people, odd people and Jonathan was their leader. He and Althea soon became, they became …”

Rachel flushed. “I understand, Mr. Figg.”

“Thankin’ you, mum. It is a hurtin’ thing to speak of, so I thank you for understandin’. Now Jonathan, he is a man what worships demons. He has given himself to the powers of darkness. Oh he is clever, I will allow that. But he is more, mum. Special powers he has and all of them given him by evil bein’s. For years, he has been searchin’ for the Throne of Solomon—”

Rachel inhaled sharply, both hands going to her mouth.

Figg noticed, but made no comment. “Althea told me of these things. Towards the end, she had to talk to someone. She said this here throne, it has got a special magic it does. Can make a man wealthy and more powerful than Satan himself. Jonathan has been after it for a long time.”

Figg looked at Rachel Coltman. “Same as yer husband, mum. Mr. Justin wanted that throne, did he not?”

He saw her nod, then pull hard on the handkerchief as if trying to shred it. Figg didn’t want to upset the lady but the truth had to be told. “Mum, if you have anythin’ to do with Jonathan, I beg you do no more deals from this day on. He will destroy you and all who tries to prevent him from gettin’ that throne. Althea said that Jonathan had to get the throne or one of those demons he bows down to would get him.”

Poe leaned forward in his chair, more interested in Figg than he had been seconds ago. “And you believe your wife spoke the truth when she told you this?”

“Yes, Mr. Poe, I do. Jonathan tried to use her father, even though he was a man of God. Jonathan had some Greek and Latin writin’s which he thought would lead him to the throne. He wanted help translatin’ them, so he comes to Althea’s father, the Archbishop who was a scholar in these matters. That was his plan all along, to use my wife to get to her father. But the Archbishop, he says no. He curses Jonathan. Jonathan then took his revenge.”

Figg blinked tears down his scarred cheeks. Poor Althea. Dead while scum like Jonathan still lived. Somewhere in the house, Figg heard a grandfather clock strike the hour. He said, “Mr. Poe, you are one with some knowledge of Greek subjects. Jonathan brought down the punishment of Tantalus on me wife and the Archbishop. I wants you to remember this when I asks yer help.”

Poe frowned, again combing the furrows in his forehead with a small hand. “Tantalus, Tantalus. Ah yes. Son of Zeus and a most disgusting son at that. Admitted to the circle of gods on Mount Olympus, but eventually he proved such a foul man that he was punished by being tied to the bough of a fruit tree which hung over a pool of water. Whenever he bent down to drink the water, it receded. When he would reach for the fruit, it would pull away from him. Thus we get the word tantalize—”

“I do not refer to that, Mr. Poe.”

Poe narrowed his gray eyes. A horrible thought was worming its way into his mind. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open. “Good Lord, man! Are you saying—”

Figg exhaled, dropping his chin to his chest. “The books say that Tantalus killed his very own son and served his flesh to the gods and then Tantalus told the gods that since they was all knowin’ they should know what they was eatin’. That was the reason for Tantalus’ punishment, Mr. Poe. Jonathan killed my wife Althea and he had her flesh served to her own father.
And to me.
We didn’t know, we didn’t know …”

Titus Bootham whispered, “My God!”

Rachel Coltman’s mouth was open; her eyes unblinking.

Poe couldn’t take his eyes from Pierce James Figg. There was no mystery as to why Figg wanted Jonathan’s life. Every man his own hell, wrote Byron. Figg was living in hell every day.
He had eaten the flesh of his own dead wife.
But there was more to this matter than what Poe had heard here. Much more. He looked at Rachel Coltman.

Her eyes were on Figg. Clearing her throat, she called the boxer’s name in a tiny voice. “Mr. Figg, you said my late husband sought the Throne of Solomon. This is true. He believed it would cure him of a most horrid disease but he died before, before …”

She used the lace handkerchief to blot tears from her eyes. “My husband did not find the throne before passing on. I can guarantee this. Myself, I have no belief in such an item. But my husband did and since I wanted him to live, I supported anything that would help him to. If this Jonathan is indeed seeking the throne, there is little he can expect from me, save some of my husband’s books on demons, witchcraft—”

Poe was on his feet. His was a freed subconscious, a mind that analyzed, that ruthlessly pursued truth. What he was about to do was painful but necessary. He
had
to know the truth, especially in light of what had happened to him last night at his Fordham cottage. Or this morning in Miles Standish’s office. Or minutes ago at the stable across the street.

He spoke slowly, sadly. “Rachel, you have been false with me. You have used me most foully and I am deeply grieved by it.”

She turned quickly to face him and he saw her prepare to lie, then decide against it.

“Eddy, I—”

“I forgive you, dearest Rachel. But I must ask that you speak to me from the heart and in no other manner. Early on Mr. Figg said that he was at the museum of Barnum in order to seek out Jonathan’s henchmen. When he saw them, they were talking to you. Rachel, you are involved in a most sordid matter and I fear you have involved me as well. Why?”

Her eyes pleaded with him not to ask her, but he stared at her until she spoke. Her eyes were filled with tears and never had she looked so beautiful to him as she did now. “Eddy, the dead body of my husband was indeed removed from its final resting place, but with my knowledge and permission.”

Poe was stunned. “You mean the resurrectionists did your bidding?”

She nodded, hands folded in her lap and twisting the handkerchief. “I followed his orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Dr. Paracelsus. He told me that he could bring my husband back to life if he could obtain the body. I was to have no guards at the grave and the mausoleum door was to be unlocked. I loved Justin, you must know that. So I willingly did as Dr. Paracelsus requested.”

Poe was angry and hurt at being used. “I suppose the esteemed Dr. Paracelsus demanded a pretty penny for this giving of life?”

“I paid him, yes.” Rachel was defensive now. Figg watched her and Poe as he would two fighters, either one of whom he would fight in the future. Both Mrs. Coltman and Mr. Poe were nearer to Jonathan than either knew, which suited Figg just fine. The poet or the woman could be
his
Judas goat and lead him to the demon-man.

Poe extended his arms towards Rachel. He’s hurtin’, thought Figg. He’s too much into that woman and she has hurt ‘im. And I know Jonathan is the cause.

Poe said, “Rachel, this man Paracelsus is a fraud.”

She turned from him.

“Rachel, the dead do not return to live with us. He has humbugged you. Shall I tell you what he plans once he obtains the body of your husband?”

She looked at him again, her face set against whatever he would say to her. “I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“He will indulge in
necromancy,
the blackest of all the black arts. He will use Justin for purposes of divination. The art can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, who believed that the dead, having passed from the earthly limitations of space, time and causation, are able to predict the future, to reveal the whereabouts of hidden treasure. Through
necromancy,
a magician like Jonathan controls demons, devils.”

Figg watched Poe kneel at the woman’s side and continue talking. “Rachel, this sinister business is a hazard to the conjurer for he may attract demons and evil to the scene and be unable to control them. If you are near when—”

She stood up quickly, her back to him. Poe stayed on his knees, his face unable to conceal his torment, his fear for her safety. “For nine days, the conjurer prepares. He steeps himself in death, dressing in gruesome clothing torn from corpses and he will wear this clothing until the ceremony is completed. He will eat the flesh of a dog and bread that is black, unleavened and without salt, for salt preserves and the conjurer is drawn only to decay. He will drink grape juice that is unfermented, for it symbolizes the absence of life. He will sit within a consecrated circle and meditate on death and there are frightening incantations which must be chanted—”

She swung around to face him. “I do not care what you say! Dr. Paracelsus
will
bring Justin back to me. I shall not turn on him. I have his promise—”

Figg stood up. “Here now, just who is this Dr. Paracelsus?”

Poe, his face streaked with tears, shouted at him: “He is whom you seek! He is Jonathan! He is the man who killed your wife! He killed Sylvester Pier and Tom Lowery! Jonathannnnn!”

Figg ran to him, shook his shoulders and slapped him twice.