POE MUST DIE

by Marc Olden

  “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

  MANHATTAN 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.

  Along with grinding poverty, vice was everywhere in Five Points. There were brothels, dance halls, rum shops, gambling rooms and green groceries, supposedly selling vegetables but actually selling homemade whiskey that was as much a health hazard as a stroll through the streets of Five Points alone on a dark night.

  Dominating Five Points was the Old Brewery, called Coulter’s Brewery when built in 1792. By 1837, the huge five-story wooden building was ugly and decrepit, surrounded by the horror of Five Points and occupied by more than a thousand Irish and Negro men, women and children who lived in constant danger. The danger came not only from the surrounding slum but from the inhabitants of the brewery, who had no qualms about preying on one another. It was a population of murderers, prostitutes, thieves, and beggars all desperate enough to do anything, all living in shocking sexual licentiousness and decay.

  Though it was said for many years that one person was murdered daily inside of the Old Brewery, the crime invariably went unpunished, for police avoided the building out of fear for their own lives. If on rare occasions police did enter the mammoth, foul-smelling structure, it was always in force, with almost no chance of capturing an offender well acquainted with the hidden tunnels and passageways.

  Jonathan had come to the Old Brewery to kill Hamlet Sproul’s woman, Ida Sairs, and the two children she’d borne the grave robber. The slum held no terror for Jonathan, for he had completed the ritual.

  In the night, Jonathan was a noiseless shadow, travelling as silently as smoke, bringing death to those he had marked for sacrifice, for revenge.

  For you, Asmodeus. Their deaths I lay at your feet. Grant me time, demon king, to find the throne, to make the dead Justin Coltman speak.

  Ida Sairs, small, with red hair parted and pulled tightly back into a bun, her pale, thin face spotted with freckles, knelt on the floor of her room in front of a bucket of burning charcoal, using a foot-long wooden stick to poke at a piece of blackened pork which was to feed herself and the two boys, aged two and three. When the meat was done, she would heat what was left of the coffee, which would taste of roast peas and chicory and for a sweet there would be hard, stale bread covered in molasses. Not a feast for a king but at least it was something in the belly. She would have liked a pail of beer, but there was not a coin to waste on something like that. Be patient, Hamlet had said. His fortune would soon change and there would be beer to bathe in. Yes, there would be that indeed.

  She looked over at the boys. They sat on the bare floor watching the burnt pork and bright red charcoal beneath it, their faces slack jawed with hunger, their eyes gleaming as do the eyes of starving children anywhere in the world. Ida was eighteen, barefoot in a ragged blue dress, with a half of a tattered blanket around her shoulders for warmth in the unheated room. No fireplace, two buckets in the corner for slops and waste, and water to be carried upstairs three flights in two more buckets. Be patient, Hamlet had said. Be patient, dearest Ida, for you have my love and shall soon have me money and plenty of it. Dearest Hamlet. He was one of too many men she had been with since she was nine, but he alone didn’t beat her. He alone loved her and she desperately loved him in return.

  Ida S
airs stood up, turned and swallowed a scream as she saw the cloaked figure reach out for her.

  Jonathan slashed her throat, choking off any sound.

  She fell to her knees, hands at her pained throat, hands wet with her own blood. The pain in her neck savagely attacked her skull and she knew she was in hell, with no idea as to how it had happened. Her mouth was open and in vain she willed herself to scream that no harm should come to her children.

  Jonathan, sensing what she was trying to say, shook his head.

  “Their lives are forfeit,” he whispered. “Their lives have been promised to him who threatens mine.”

  Ida Sairs, wide-eyed and dying, fell to the floor and Jonathan stepped over her bleeding body, his blood red scalpel pointing towards the two dirty-faced boys who had not taken their eyes from the pork blackening in the bucket of burning charcoal.

  Later that night, a nervous Rachel whispered, “I beg of you, Dr. Paracelsus, the truth. You have pledged to me that my husband lives. Does he?”

  Jonathan closed his eyes, white-gloved hands palms down on the black marble-topped table between him and the anxious woman. “Justin Coltman lives. I, Paracelsus, tell you that he exists, but in a world not of this world; he lives unseen among the unseen. You have never questioned me before, Mrs. Coltman. Why do you doubt me now?”

  “I-I am here to, to—”

  She hesitated. Order me to believe in you. Remove my doubts. Paracelsus, a huge figure in white, sat across from her in the dark room quietly waiting for her to speak and for the first time, Rachel felt unsure of him.

  “I-I have spoken of you to my friend, Mr. Poe—”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Poe. The writer and critic. A man of savage wit and bloodcurdling pronouncements. His fame grows daily, though the public continues to deny him financial success which is the same as declaring Mr. Poe’s philosophy useless. Mrs. Coltman, in no way do I wish to defame your friend who has suffered a most tormented life. I merely wish to define the limits of his effectiveness. And it is he, I assume, who tells you that the dead cannot live again.”

  “He, yes he has said this.”

  “He has also told you that a lack of life in the departed indicates total cessation of life for all time to come.”

  Rachel Coltman, feeling that Dr. Paracelsus could see almost to her bare skin, pulled the blue lace shawl tighter around her shoulders, then shoved both hands deeper into the muff of blue fitch fur hanging from her neck on a long, thin silver chain.

  “My friend Mr. Poe has said all of these things and more.”

  “He accuses me of being a demon man, of having committed the most heinous crimes because of my link to the world of dark spirits.”

  “Why, why yes, yes he has. How did you—”

  “I am gifted with second sight, Mrs. Coltman, which allows me to see as few men in the universe can.”

  She watched him open his eyes and at that exact instant, she heard the soft, eerie sound of a flute. And there was the odor of incense, sweet, sweet incense. She quickly glanced around the dark room, seeing nothing but tiny orange flames of gaslight flickering high on the four walls.

  Rachel Coltman was given no time to be afraid. There was the trill of the flute, apparently coming from several directions at once and there was Paracelsus’ voice, mesmerizing and soothing, seeming to stroke her temples and forehead while gently coaxing her eyes to close, to close, to close …

  She snapped her head back, stiffened in her chair, forcing herself to stay awake, to stare at Paracelsus. Inside of the muff, she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands.

  “Mrs. Coltman, did not your husband speak to you about life beyond the grave?”

  “He did. But Eddy, I mean Mr. Poe—” She stopped. Suddenly, she didn’t want Paracelsus to read her mind, to discover her feelings about Eddy.

  “You are attracted to Mr. Poe are you not?”

  She wanted to lie, but it was as though Paracelsus was controlling her every word, her every thought. “I-I do find him pleasant. Yes pleasant.”

  More than pleasant, thought Jonathan, studying Rachel Coltman through narrowed eyes. Behold the triumph of the sad and sickly poet. Blame it on the late George Gordon, Lord Byron, among the first to use his goose quill and precarious health to disturb the hearts and sanity of females who otherwise pride themselves upon possessing balanced minds.

  Association, dear Rachel, breeds attachment and continued association with dear Eddy will surely increase your attachment to him. Meaning that Eddy’s opposition to me may eventually convince you to deny me both your husband’s corpse and his money.

  Yet Jonathan saw no reason to kill Poe. Poe could still serve as a contact for Hamlet Sproul, the momentary possessor of Justin Coltman’s decaying flesh. And because Poe was an extreme romantic in matters of women, he would make it his business to do as Rachel Coltman demanded regarding her dead husband. No, Jonathan would allow Poe to live for a while longer, until Jonathan had Justin Coltman’s body in his possession. After that, it would be time enough to dispose of the sad and sickly poet.

  Meanwhile, Jonathan would toy with Poe, tilt the balance of the poet’s sanity, play a game with this man who was so proud of his intelligence, so puffed with the sense of his own ego. He was an unusual man, dear Eddy, and undoubtedly history would be kinder to him than America had been up until now. Jonathan sensed that Poe was a man in advance of his time, far ahead of thought around him, but acceptance for Poe’s achievements would come to him only long after he was dead.

  And that is why Jonathan found it a challenge to manipulate Poe now. For if Poe was to eventually achieve greatness, was not Jonathan in using him, even greater? Did not the power and intelligence of the magician surpass that of anyone born of woman?

  Jonathan said, “Men deny the existence of those things they are unable to comprehend. All earthly intelligence is limited, for man and all he touches is bound down by time, space and causation. I offer that the mind of man is unstable; the world reveals this to be so. It is public knowledge that the mind of Mr. Poe has long been unstable, a fact perhaps owing to his lifelong mourning for his mother, his stepmother, his wife. I would advise against your reliance upon Mr. Poe’s judgment.”

  “Yes, it is true that he has endured the pain of bereavement longer than most.”

  “More intensely than most as well. Had he believed in a life hereafter, he would have been spared continual suffering. There would have been comfort in the knowledge that his loved ones now live on another plane of existence.”

  “Dr. Paracelsus, I-I do not mean to doubt you but I see nothing except the life around me. How can there possibly be another plane of existence?”

  “Mrs. Coltman, the stars come out at night and shine most brightly. During the day they are unseen, but where have they gone? Nowhere, Mrs. Coltman. Nowhere at all. They are still present but we cannot see them. Would you say the stars and moon have disappeared merely because they go unseen at high noon?”

  “I-I, no, Dr. Paracelsus, I-I understand. But Eddy is a most brilliant man. Surely he has his reasons for believing as he does.”

  Jonathan lifted a hand from the table. The music stopped. After long seconds of silence, he again placed his hand down on the table and the flute was heard once more.

  “Reason. Mrs. Coltman, I shall tell you of reason. The oldest civilization on earth is to be found in Sumer, where 6,500 years ago animals were sacrificed and buried with dead men and women to continue serving them in a world beyond this one. The dead kings of Egypt were buried in elaborate pyramids with servants, chariots and jewels to please them in the afterlife. The Shang Dynasty of China buried its rulers with the bodies of wives, servants, concubines killed for similar reasons as did the Viking warriors. Christian, Jew, Mohammedan, all preach of a heaven awaiting the faithful.”

  Jonathan again lifted a hand from the table, stopping the music. “Reason. Mrs. Coltman this is reason and I tell you only what is known by all of humanity. There is life after death, there is a
n existence invisible to our eyes and your husband is there. I can call him back to this plane, but I shall need his body. Will you pay the ransom?”

  “If-if you say I must.”

  “You must.”

  She is beautiful, thought Jonathan. Long auburn hair flowing down her back and the pale complexion of one who by suffering always draws men to her. How correct the French are in saying that when God creates a beautiful woman, he also provides a fool to keep her. Rachel Coltman will always have her share of fools.

  “Dr. Paracelsus, I-I—”

  “Speak.”

  “Eddy, Mr. Poe, says you are someone else. He says—”

  “That I am Jonathan, a sorcerer and killer.”

  “Yes.”

  Jonathan thrust both hands up the sleeves of his flowing white robe. “Did he also tell you that a painting came to life and tried to kill him?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled with a corner of his mouth. “One seems as likely as the other, wouldn’t you say?”

  Her smile was quick, disappearing the instant it flashed across her lips.

  Suddenly, the flute hit an extraordinarily high note directly overhead and Rachel Coltman quickly looked up at the ceiling. When she looked back at Jonathan, he was pointing to—”

  She saw it and inhaled sharply.

  “Justin’s snuff box.” She picked up the tiny silver box in both hands, handling it as though it were fragile porcelain.

  “Open it, Mrs. Coltman.”

  She did and her jaw dropped.

  “Where—”

  “A most lovely ring, Mrs. Coltman. Your husband had it made for you on your first trip to England together. It is modelled after the ring Queen Elizabeth gave to Lord Essex, is it not?”

  Rachel could only nod her head. Her eyes shimmered behind tears. “I thought I had lost them both forever.”

  Stolen and kept until needed, thought Jonathan. They are needed now. His hands were still in his sleeves. The hands of a master magician. From his sleeve and across the table in a infinitesimal fraction of a second. And she believed it was a miracle.