POE MUST DIE (24 page)

Figg reached for a cup half filled with cold tea, dwarfing it between his huge hands. He mumbled, his wide mouth hidden by the cup. “Mr. Dickens says you have the cravin’ to prove your superiority over one and all.”

“Speak up, sir! We are all of us here fluent in the mother tongue.”

Rachel walked over to Poe, placing an arm around his shoulders. “Dear Eddy, calm yourself.”

Poe patted the back of her hand. “Thank you, beloved friend, but be at ease. I am not the maniacal and dangerous fellow my enemies have created from their own ignorance. Sit and listen, for I shall now say more of this business of Paracelsus, of Jonathan and the grave robbers. Both you and Mr. Figg shall listen and observe that my intelligence functions most incisively. Yes, the sorrow of my existence has forced me to live in constant disappointment and discomfort. Mine has been a life of poverty and depression, but—”

He aimed a forefinger at Figg. “But sir, I never
guess
at anything. I analyze most intelligently. Facts, you say. Well hear me. Let me tell you of the original Dr. Paracelsus, the original—”

Figg, with a two-handed grip on the fragile tea cup, paused in his drinking. “You sayin’ there is two of ’em?”

“The original Paracelsus was Swiss, born in the fifteenth century to a poor nobleman. Christened Theopharastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, the son studied medicine and became a doctor while also possessing psychic skills. These talents allowed him to perform unusual cures which soon brought him fame as well as appointment as professor of medicine at the University of Basel. Von Hohenheim took the name of Celsus, that famed physician of ancient Rome, adding
Para
which means beyond in Greek. It follows from all of this that von Hohenheim ranked himself as greater than Celsus.”

Ain’t got a patch on you, mate, thought Figg. You and him both thinks you can walk on water.

“As Paracelsus,” Poe continued, “our fifteenth-century man of medicine was also a sorcerer, magician, a sensitive believed to have the power to read the future as well as the minds of men. He became egocentric, a man of extraordinary vanity. He began to drink too much and he developed a violent temper, as well as a strong belief in his self-created legend. He ordered his students to burn the books of those men who disagreed with him and he made numerous enemies. He imagined many plots against him and in truth there
were
plots against him. When his enemies grew larger in numbers, Paracelsus was forced to flee the university, thereafter wandering Europe for fourteen years, becoming even more violent and abusive. He saw a world filled with enemies and he was both correct and in error in his thinking. Some were his foes, some were not. The death of Paracelsus only increased the mystery of the man.”

Poe walked over to the fireplace, extending the palms of his hands towards the warmth of the flames. “Some say he was poisoned, others say he became drunk, rolled down a hill and died as a result of injuries. In death, he gained even more fame. Today those who follow the dark sciences consider Paracelsus a patron saint, an icon to be worshipped and imitated. It is safe to call the man both an adept and a charlatan, for in truth he did possess the power of healing as well as a talent for deception. On occasion, yes, he could call up from deep within himself those strange powers which have eternally baffled man. But Paracelsus was boastful, proud and often dangerous.”

Poe turned to face Rachel and Figg. “As is the Paracelsus now within our midst. I have given you the history of one man so that you might understand the history of the other. Mark them as one, except that there is more evil in that Paracelsus who walks among us. I am referring to the manner in which the grave robbers were killed.”

Rachel said, “Eddy, you did not tell me—”

“I tell you now, dear Rachel, for it is my opinion that Jonathan is no human agency. Yes, he is a man of flesh and blood but he is a terrifying force in servitude to demons. The grave robbers who took Justin’s body had their hearts and livers removed, then the organs were burned. This is a sacrifice to Asmodeus, king of demons, who in Hebrew mythology was forced by Solomon to build the Temple in Jerusalem. The smoke from the burning heart and liver is said to drive Asmodeus away.”

Rachel shook her head. “Eddy, Dr. Paracelsus would never do such a thing. He is helping me—”

“By promising to bring your husband back from the dead.” Poe held up his left hand, the slashed palm towards Rachel, who winced when she saw it.

He said, “This is the result of a visit yesterday to the home of Miles Standish, where a brief, violent tableau was staged for my benefit.”

Rachel’s hand was in front of her mouth. “Miles did that?”

“He had it done. A painting supposedly came to life and attacked me.”

Once more, Figg stopped sipping cold tea. “It what?”

“Attacked me. I first had to be drugged, which was accomplished by gas through the jets, gas mixed with incense.”

Figg frowned. “You didn’t tell me any of this, squire.”

“I said to you, Mr. Figg, that I
do
deal in facts, that my mind is occupied with more than the welfare of the female portion of mankind. My intelligence functions in its own manner; it is a process that has baffled, amused, tormented and upset various segments of the American public, not to mention critics, of whom the less said the better. Because I do not choose to tell you all that I am concerned with, Mr. Figg, does not in any way indicate I am concerned with nothing at all.”

Figg sneered. “You are a delight, you are.”

“Eddy, are you saying that Miles—”

“He is involved in this attempt to obtain ransom, as well as the body of your husband. He is in league with Jonathan, or if you will, in league with Paracelsus.”

Rachel shook her head no. Eddy was once again off on a flight of fancy. He had to be. Miles would never harm her. Never.

“Eddy, how can you say this about Miles?”

“Because Miles does not want me in your life, because he wants you for himself, because it appears to me to be of some benefit to him as well as Jonathan if I doubt my sanity, question myself and not question any attempts at extorting ransom from you. In that matter, I was to ask
no
questions, formulate no opposition. I can only surmise that it is felt I have some small degree of influence with you.”

Rachel felt the tears slide down her face. “You do, Eddy. Oh indeed you do. But of Miles, how can you say he betrays me?”

He moved to her side, taking one of her hands in his. “Paracelsus needs spies, he functions on the information they bring him. If anyone knows what you can afford to pay in ransom, it is Miles. If anyone would render me helpless, because of his desire for you and a desire to eliminate all opposition to the ransom, it is Miles. That my alleged hallucination occurred in his home and nowhere else, is proof of this. I would also wager that some of your servants and friends are passing on to Jonathan/Paracelsus certain confidences about you, for omniscience is not impossible to attain if one knows how.”

Figg stood up. “A question, squire, since you seem brimmin’ over with
facts.
Does the Throne of Solomon really exist?”

Poe, down on one knee beside Rachel, turned to look up at him. “Jews and ancient Persians and Arabs say it does. A legend in old Persia claims that the throne or great chair is carved from solid rock on the border of India and Afghanistan. According to the Koran, the holy book of the Arab, Solomon had the power to ride the wind while seated on his throne. Evil spirits were subject to him and brought him wealth and did his bidding. There are said to be several books of magic hidden under the throne, books purporting to reveal the ways in which Solomon maintained power over spirits, men, the winds.”

Poe stood up. “It is
said
to exist, Mr. Figg, as it is
said
to contain power that can be used for much and great evil. In truth, I cannot say yea or nay as to whether I myself believe it real or apparition.”

“Then, squire, you are sayin’ it could be true as well as not.”

“I am saying so, yes.”

“Then if Jonathan gets it, he wins.”

“And the world loses. Providing there
is
such a thing as the Throne of Solomon, Mr. Figg.”

“Man like Jonathan, he ain’t one to fritter away the hours.”

“I would imagine that to be true. I have not seen him but I feel him to be someone who—Rachel, Rachel!”

She ran from the room, hands covering her tear-stained face. “Please, please forgive me. I must leave.”

The door slammed behind her. Poe stared at it, then said, “Mr. Figg, you are here to kill, are you not?”

“You know it to be true.”

“Then kill Jonathan quickly, for I fear if you do not, he will be the cause of harm to her. I shall not involve myself in any of your other planned homicides, but in the matter of Jonathan, count on me to aid you is disposing of him in anyway you deem feasible.”

“For the sake of the woman.”

“For the same reason, Mr. Figg
you
seek the death of Jonathan. For a woman.”

Suddenly, Figg placed a thick finger to his wide mouth, motioning Poe into silence. Seconds later, Figg had tiptoed to the door and cupped the knob in his huge fist. After a quick look at Poe, Figg yanked the door open.

The brown carpeted hallway, lined with oil paintings and dotted with busts of Roman emperors, was empty.

“’Eard somebody out ’ere.” Figg, his eyes narrowed and alert, looked left, then right.

Poe walked quickly towards him. “Perhaps Rachel.”

Figg closed the door. “No, squire. She’s the missus ‘ere, so she has no call to go skulkin’ around. Anyway she was already inside, hearin’ it all so why should she creep about. Someone else, it was. One of them spies you been carryin’ on about, I dare say. Best you and me get hoppin’. Get to the boardin’ house where the Renaissance Players lays their little ‘eads. After that, I ain’t to sure what we does.”

“I am. Sproul.”

“Why ‘im?”

“To remove the body of Justin Coltman from his clutches.”

“Now why should we want to do that?”

“So that Jonathan will come to claim it. So that you, Mr. Figg, can then kill him. The safety of Mrs. Coltman is important to me and I am convinced she is in danger so long as Jonathan lives.”

“Squire, you are a devious little fellow. ‘Ere I’m thinkin’ I’m leadin’ you and now all of a sudden it’s you what’s leadin’ me. Mind tellin’ me why we don’t just attach ourselves to Mr. Miles Standish and let him lead us to Jonathan.”

“For the same reason we do not follow Hugh Larney or others my intelligence tells me are a part of this foul business. We do not know
when
Miles Standish will contact Jonathan/Paracelsus. Were we to attach ourselves to Mr. Standish we might have a long wait until he reveals himself and, more important, I prefer that we not merely drift into matters if at all possible. Sproul is our next move.”

Figg grinned as he placed his tall top hat on his shaven head. “Ah, Mr. Poe. You has the makin’s of a right foxy gent, you does.”

Poe, licking his lips, stared at several bottles of alcohol on a sideboard near a bookcase. He wanted …

Then he tore his eyes away, focusing on Figg. “We have work before us, Mr. Figg, for which a clear head is most desirable. Let us be gone from here and God be with us, for we will both have need of Him before this matter is resolved.”

NINETEEN

M
ANHATTAN IS A
thin island thirteen miles long and no more than two and a half miles at its widest point. By 1840, this finger-shaped piece of land contained the world’s worst slum—Five Points—which surpassed the urban horrors to be found in London, Paris or Calcutta. Located at the base of Manhattan and within walking distance of City Hall, Five Points was the name give to the area where five streets—Cross, Anthony, Little Water, Orange and Mulberry—met. By 1848, names and sizes of the streets had changed, but Five Points remained. Now it was the most dangerous place in New York City.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Five Points did not exist. The area had been swamp and marshland until Manhattan’s increasing population, with its resultant demand for living space, forced New York City to drain that land and fill it with earth. Five Points then enjoyed a brief respectability. But because the swamps and marshes had been poorly drained, the tenements above began to slide and collapse into the ground and those families who could afford to move did so quickly.

Those remaining or now entering Five Points were people destined to exist in terrible poverty. Crime as a means of survival was inevitable and the Irish, who formed the majority, were the most visible as murderers, thieves, gamblers and purveyors of the casual violence which became a part of New York City early in its history.

Irish gangs ruled the streets and vice of Five Points under names such as the Kerryonians (from County Kerry), Shirt Tails, Roach Guards, Plug Uglies, Black Birds, Chichesters. In five-story tenements of old and rotting wood, Irish and Negroes lived without heat, gaslight or running water, in buildings on the verge of tumbling into streets where the mud was knee deep when not covered by garbage or packs of wild pigs.

The decaying structures were connected by tunnels which were the site of horrible crimes, in addition to being escape routes for those slum dwellers who had murdered and robbed, thereby bringing down unwanted attention on themselves. Within the tenements, behind windows patched with rags, lived starving men, women and children who endured their miserable existence by staying drunk as often as possible. They fought rats and each other to stay alive in buildings with names like
Bucket of Blood, Dead Man’s Place, Gates of Hell, Knife in the Throat.
They survived by any means imaginable and at the expense of each other.