POE MUST DIE (23 page)

The child looked down at her snow wet boots. “Yes sir. We did see some things indeed, sir.”

She looked at Poe. “You are from the South, sir?”

His smile was gentle. “Yes and no. I was born in Boston—”

“That is far north, is it not, sir?”

“Massachusetts. And not too far north. Then I spent some time in Virginia—”

“Oh, I see, sir.”

“Then it was to England where my family and I lived five years.”

“Is England far, sir? Is it near Virginia?”

“No, my dear. It is indeed far, a long way across the ocean.”
She reminds me of Sissy, my dearest wife. She has the beauty and gentleness of darling Sissy, and she is around the age Sissy was when we married.

But Dearborn Lapham was a child whore, one seen in the company of Hugh Larney on more than one occasion, one known to belong to Wade Bruenhausen, the blind, bible-reading Dutch procurer. In the child’s company, Poe had noticed the startling resemblance to his wife and first cousin, a resemblance that had overshadowed what he knew of Dearborn’s life. To think of her as a whore was to resent Hugh Larney more than usual, something Poe didn’t want to do this afternoon for Rachel’s sake.

Rachel said, “I am glad you received my message, Eddy. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior to you yesterday.”

“Rachel please—”

“No Eddy, it must be said.”

“It has been said, dearest Rachel.”

“I shall say it again. You are a most treasured friend and one I shall never again deceive or disgrace. I shall follow your advice in this personal matter, I give you my word.”

Except, thought Poe, when it comes to renouncing any and all allegiance to Dr. Paracelsus. You will be guided by me in the matter of the ransom, providing we hear again from Hamlet Sproul. But in truth, you will also be guided by Paracelsus, whom I truly suspect as being more deadly than his appearance conveys.

Miles Standish said, “We assumed you would be in touch with Mrs. Coltman, which is why we are here. I would like to know if you are still in touch with Sproul?”

“No.” Poe’s eyes were on Dearborn Lapham.

Pierce James Figg, sitting near a window, took his gaze from Poe to look out onto the street at the huge black man who stood near Larney’s carriage talking to a tall white man in a top hat and ankle-length red fur coat. Then Figg looked back at Poe. Little Mr. Poe has a sudden interest in the tiny dolly mop, thought the boxer, but I don’t think it’s got anything to do with havin’ a go at her. That’s what the little dandy fella is doin’ what brought her here, the fella with the pointed chin and the look about him of a man who’ll steal shit from a parrot’s cage and sell it to you as mayonnaise. Figg did not trust a man with a mouth as small as Larney’s.

Standish stood with his back to the fire. Rachel noticed that he treated Eddy as though Eddy were a wild beast about to strike unless spoken to in soft tones. Standish said, “Mr. Poe, I would like to know if you feel that the recent attack upon you signals an end to any communication with the ghouls.”

With an effort Poe took his gaze away from Dearborn. “I have no answer for that, Mr. Standish. When time has elapsed and I hear nothing, I will then assume you are correct. The timely intervention of Mr. Figg has reduced the criminal population by two, but I have yet to learn if it has reduced my chances of recovering Justin Coltman.”

Standish coughed into his fist. “I shall assume you will be in contact with me.”

“And Rachel.”

Standish coughed again. “Yes. Of course. I can leave a message for you—”

“With Rachel or the
Evening Mirror.
” Poe turned his attention back to Dearborn.

Rachel saw Eddy frown as he observed Hugh Larney reach out and pat the child’s knee. Eddy and Hugh Larney had not said much to each other, giving Rachel the distinct impression of mutual hostility. She found Larney weak, offering only surface charm and the self-serving efforts of the devoted social climber. If he and Eddy disliked each other, it was because Eddy was the more honest man. Or was it because of Dearborn Lapham. Dear God, what a horrible thought! Both men somehow involved with this beautiful child, this child who appeared far more knowing than her years warranted. No, such a thing was unimaginable. Eddy would not—

Eddy. She’d sent a note to him at the
Evening Mirror,
apologizing for the horrid things she’d said to him yesterday, inviting him to call upon her as soon as possible. He had done so, still in the company of the stern-looking Mr. Figg. She had been deeply sorry for what she’d done and Eddy, dear Eddy, he had been a gentle, forgiving man, making her feel as though nothing had occurred, telling her she was ever on his mind, in his thoughts. Dear Eddy. He was the only man since Justin that she had wanted to be with, talk to, had looked forward to seeing.

If he disliked Hugh Larney, so be it. Rachel watched Hugh Larney cross his legs, fingers toying with Dearborn’s waist-length blonde hair. Larney’s niece. Rachel wasn’t so sure about that.

She saw Poe’s brow furrow and she knew he did not like the idea of Larney touching the child. Larney smiled as though Poe’s displeasure had been his goal all along.

The food merchant, never one to miss an opportunity to parade his possessions, leaned his head back, staring at Poe through slitted eyes. “Mr. Poe, I ask you: Do you believe Dearborn has a chance of becoming a successful performer. I myself have a rather personal view of how well she performs but I wonder how you feel about her chances to succeed in a field you seem to know so much about.”

Figg thought: He’s baiting you, mate. Catch it early on and handle it. But you won’t, will you? You’ll let him set fire to you, which is what he’s tryin’ to do.

Poe said nothing. He looked down at his black coat, stroking its lapels with his thumbs.

Larney said, “You are a critic, sir. Surely you can venture an opinion in this matter.”

Standish stepped away from the fire. “I think we should be leaving, Hugh. We have learned what we came here to learn, which is that there has been no contact between—”

“Mr. Poe.” Larney smirked, a hand kneading Dearborn’s neck. “Give us your opinion, sir.”

Poe, chin on his chest, looked across at Larney with brooding gray eyes that penetrated anything in their path. Rachel held her breath, fearful of what was to come.

Fool, thought Standish. We came here to learn how to reach him so that we could kill him and you, Larney, have to challenge him. Dolt. Ninny. Baboon. There are not words enough for you, Larney. Standish, with Thor on his mind, kept silent.

Larney said, “Mr. Poe, you are usually a gentleman of no hesitancy when it comes to revealing your impressions of the world around you. Yet now, you hesitate and methinks you are in awe of Dearborn’s, oh let us call them, possibilities.”

Poe’s drawl was soft and deadly. “You sand your sugar, you sell tea composed of wood shavings and dried leaves—”

Larney’s hand froze on Dearborn’s neck.

Poe said, “The butter you sell is rag pulp and lard. One could make a towel from it.”

Larney’s voice was soft, too. “I have taken all I intend to from you. I shall go to the door and when I have called Thor—”

Figg said, “That would be your manservant, the one whats in the cold talkin’ to the gent in the fancy red fur.”

Larney said nothing.

Figg stood up. “Leave him be, Mr. Larney. Let him enjoy the fresh air.”

Standish stepped between the two men. “Gentlemen, please remember where you are!”

Larney swiveled around on the leather couch until he could see Figg. “Sir, are you addressing me?”

Figg said, “I don’t wants no trouble ‘ere. But you call your man into this ‘ouse to harm Mr. Poe and the first thing I shall do is deal with you, Mr. Larney.”

Larney inhaled, exhaled, not moving a muscle. When he stood up, his back was to Figg. “Mrs. Coltman. Miles, we shall wait for you in the carriage. Do not bother to show me out.”

Rachel, her face tense, walked over to him. “I shall have a servant give you your coat and the child’s wrap.”

As Larney turned to leave the room, Poe said. “You seek recognition, sir. It is the talk of Gotham, your courting of your betters. Your search for accommodation among the respectful is tantamount to sprinkling rose petals on a dung heap.”

Larney stopped, his back to everyone in the room. He held both of Dearborn’s hands. Then he continued walking until he’d closed the study door behind him.

Rachel looked at Poe. “Oh, Eddy. Did you have to do that?”

“I did. And I shall live with it.” He looked at Figg, then looked away.

Miles Standish coughed. “I must go.” Poe deserved killing. Larney would only reaffirm that now and Miles was glad. For once, he was glad that Poe had opened his insulting mouth. He’d just dug his grave with it. Larney would never forgive these insults.

As Rachel stood alone in front of the fireplace, hugging herself, Poe and Figg stood at the window looking out at Larney, Volney Gunning and Miles Standish as they leaned close together and talked in the cold, sending steamed breath into each other’s face.

Poe spoke in a small, sad whisper while he stared at them. “That lovely child is Larney’s whore, Mr. Figg, a most lamentable business. Once or twice I have seen the two of them from a distance. However, to be in her company magnifies greatly my discomfort regarding any claim of Larney upon her.”

“You has men in the world, Mr. Poe, what fancies little girls. Never seen the appeal in it meself.”

“This little girl is a startling reminder of my late wife when she was that same age.”

Figg scratched his bulldog chin with the back of a blackened thumbnail. “Wondered why you was diggin’ at that little fop, Larney. He seems to place great store by that huge blackamoor what drives him around. I know the look of men who do bodily harm and the big black fits into that selection. Anyway, you best keep your mind on things at hand. We gots to look up them Renaissance Players—”

“You
do, Mr. Figg. I shall point you in the right direction, but the business of slaying I leave to you.” Poe watched Miles Standish climb into his carriage and reach for the reins.

“Fair enough, Mr. Poe. Sun comes up, sun goes down and what happens in between ain’t usually worth what you scrape off the bottom of yer boot. Things is bad in the world, always has been. Change ’em and you only make ’em worse. I know you worries over women like a mother hen but I have the feelin’ that this little girl whats with Larney can handle herself.”

“I do not want Larney to have her.”

“From where I sits he already does.”

A vein throbbed on Poe’s high, wide forehead. Figg watched the writer and slowly shook his head. Little Mr. Poe getting himself all worked up over a
tiny judy.
You’d have thought God died and left him in charge of the welfare of all the ladies in the world. Beatin’ his breast, sobbin’, gettin’ a lump in his throat every time a petticoat and laced boots come strollin’ by. Hope the rest of the bleedin’ men in bleedin’ New York ain’t like this.

When Hugh Larney’s carriage, with the huge Thor sitting up top on the driver’s seat, pulled away onto snow covered Fifth Avenue, Poe let the green curtain fall into place and turned to look at Figg.

“I know of her so-called Dutch uncle, one Wade Bruenhausen, who is a flesh peddler with foul habits and more than a casual share of nature’s cruelty. He is possessed of formidable hypocrisy.”

“Sounds darlin’, he does.”

“Prior to sending forth the children to steal and whore, Mr. Bruenhausen stirs their tiny hearts with a reading from the bible and occasionally, a hymn into the bargain.”

“Right peculiar sort, ain’t he.”

“Paracelsus, Miles Standish, Bruenhausen and now Hugh Larney. Such men make me ill. They use women and I find such men despicable.”

Figg watched Poe’s thin mouth quiver under the writer’s mustache. Lord high protector, thought the boxer. Never got the chance to protect his mum and ’e can’t protect his wife now’ cause she’s in the ground, so he’s got to find some lady what needs him. Or
he
thinks needs him.

“You best face facts, Mr. Poe—”

“Facts!” Poe threw both hands up in the air.

Over by the fireplace, Rachel Coltman flinched at the sudden loudness of his voice. She’s stayed away from their conversation at the window. Somehow she’d sensed that Poe and Figg were talking about the child Dearborn in a manner that no nineteenth-century lady should overhear. Modesty was much in fashion and there were things between men that the ears of no self-respecting woman should encounter.

She watched an angry Eddy stalk away from Mr. Figg. In the center of the book-lined study, Poe stopped, his glittering eyes boring first into Rachel then into Figg. It was times like these that he frightened and attracted her. She found herself breathing faster, drawn to him despite a tiny voice of caution within her.

“Facts?” snapped Poe again. “Heed me now, sir. You think me a buffoon around women?”

Figg sat down on the leather couch. “I minds me manners in front of a lady. I do not recall sayin’—”

“I am about to demonstrate a clarity of mind which you surmise I lack. I shall prove to you now, sir.”