POE MUST DIE (37 page)

The hand quickly left her head. She heard him move away and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. From outside in the hall, she heard a baby cry and she heard the crash of a whiskey bottle shattering against a nearby wall. So far, they had not raped her. So far …

“Hamlet Sproul is a drunken madman.” It was the voice who had stroked her hair. “Killin’ a handsome woman like this one.”

“Has his reasons, he does. Same reasons that made him take her from her home and bring her ’ere. Same reasons that now have him drunk and passed out in ‘is room down the hall. Meets Ida’s sister and the sight of her makes him weep.”

“Makes him drink until he cannot stand. Ida’s sister is on the game, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she is. Been a mab since she was ten and now she’s fourteen and livin’ in this grand palace with ‘er ponce, she is. Lordy, this buildin’ is a sin against the eyes and nose.”

“For sure. But you can’t beat the rent. No spittin’ into the bottle, if you will be so kind. Cards please. Like to ask you lads a question, after I take a look at me cards. Damn!”

Rachel heard the cards being slammed to the table in disgust.

“Me question is, what does Mr. Sproul have in that sack he covered with earth and insists in sleepin’ near?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

A whisper.

Then silence.

Rachel waited, her eyes still closed.

“Oh I see,” said the brogue who had inquired about the sack. “I sees indeed. But if he’s gonna kill her, how does he expect her to pay for her husband’s body—”

“Ah, Seamus, bite your tongue and look at your cards. Will do our guest no good to hear of such things. May I tell you, lad, that you are a poor poker player and for that reason, may you find the time to visit us in the grand hotel more often.”

“‘Blue Ruin’ has addled me brain.”

“And made you a
Billy Noodle,
thinkin’ all the women love you.”

More coarse laughter. More drinking from the bottle.

A man broke wind and all three laughed and whooped. One said to Rachel. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship. Please don’t send me to bed without me supper.”

Rachel, sick to her stomach, felt tears roll down her face and into the corners of her mouth, leaving a salt taste there. Justin. His body was here in the Old Brewery with Hamlet Sproul and soon her body would lie beside his. Oh God, oh God, why are these terrible things happening to me? Why am I suffering so?

Her body shook with her silent sobs.

“See there, lads, told you her ladyship wasn’t sleepin’. Let’s have a peak under that blanket.”

“Seamus, I’m warnin’ you! We’re to guard her, nothin’ more.”

“A peek won’t hurt. Lookin’ never damaged the Queen of England and I’ve gazed upon her many a time.”

“Seamus—”

Rachel felt the blanket ripped from her hands and she brought her knees up close under her chin.

She screamed.

All three men laughed and moved closer.

*     *     *     *

“You may call me Mr. Greatrakes and I shall call you Mr. Poe. I know why you are here in the Old Brewery.”

Poe attempted to step around the man, who slid into his path.

“Mr. Poe, if you refuse to stand and converse with me, I shall have to denounce you and if you do not know what that means, I shall enlighten you, oh yes I shall. Mr. Greatrakes, that’s me sir, will denounce you as being a nose, oh yes I shall. An informer for the police, a wretched spy. Look around you, Mr. Poe. Any one of these lost souls in this room would kill you on the spot, oh yes they would.”

Poe licked his lips. He was twice frightened, for himself, for Rachel. Greatrakes. Bearded, humpback, with a left hand carried twisted over his heart as in some grotesque pledge. And he was preventing Poe from finding Hamlet Sproul and pleading with the grave robber for Rachel’s life. Poe had no other plan.

“Shall I denounce you, Mr. Poe?”

“Speak, damn you and quickly.”

“You wish to rescue Rachel Coltman. I shall help you.”

Poe looked left, right. He was in “The Den of Thieves,” the name given to the largest room in the Old Brewery. Montaigne had been his guide and together they had reached this hideous place through a hidden passage that began in the basement of a rotting tenement three blocks away.

The room was huge enough to contain more than one hundred Irish and coloreds, who clung precariously to life without the aid of any running water, sanitation facilities or even the simplest of furniture. Poe placed a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to avoid breathing any more of the stench around him than absolutely necessary. Yes, he thought, the children here can indeed contaminate the wild pigs roaming in the muddy alleys outside.

No gaslight within these walls and only a window or two, minus all glass. The darkness was broken here and there by a bit of candle, a cheap lantern, a small fire. Men, women and children were thrown together in the severest of poverty, preying on the world around them, preying on each other. Crime was the only industry they knew or would ever know. Poe’s nostrils flared in disgust at a nearby couple sexually entwined just feet away from him on the dirty floor. Only a few people of the many in the room even bothered to watch this prostitute entertain her customer.

Mr. Greatrakes was correct. To denounce anyone as a police informer in these surroundings was to sentence him to death and Poe, as a stranger, was especially vulnerable to such a charge.

“I said, Mr. Poe, that I shall assist you in the rescue of Rachel Coltman.”

Poe eyed Greatrakes’ matted beard, which reached to the man’s chest.

“Ah,” said Greatrakes, wiping his nose with the back of a gloved hand, “you are asking yourself, how can one such as Valentine Greatrakes assist the likes of Edgar Allan Poe. Well sir, I can lead you to Hamlet Sproul, oh yes I can and you will admit, that this is no small service in an inferno of vice as that in which we now stand.”

Poe nodded. It
would
be a service if he could trust Valentine Greatrakes who appeared to be almost omniscient, despite having the look of a man far down on his luck. The Old Brewery was a different world, a world in which one moved with utmost caution merely in hopes of living one more day. More than one thousand Irish and colored lived here, and some of the colored, Poe knew, had white wives, a fact he found totally loathsome.

For the time being Poe was safe, though his intelligence told him that anyone in the Old Brewery would murder him for the ragged clothes he wore, should he be so unfortunate as to meet someone so desperate. Greatrakes could guide him and Poe was desperate enough to take any assistance he could. Merely locating Rachel in time would be a problem, let alone talking Hamlet Sproul into releasing her.

There were twenty rooms in the cellar alone, plus almost one hundred other rooms scattered throughout the Old Brewery. There was no sunlight or fresh air in any of them and even less humanity and decency. Dozens of people were crammed into some of the rooms, all living in unbelievable filth. The building was jammed with murderers, thieves, prostitutes, beggars and people whose imagination knew no limit in the committing of all vices know to man.

Poe
could
use the help of Valentine Greatrakes. But there were questions to put to the hunchback.

“How do you come to know of this matter of Rachel Coltman?”

Greatrakes sniffled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Such a lady as her, sir, well her beauty is so out of place in the Old Brewery, wouldn’t you say? She is under guard now, but still alive, still alive.”

“You have seen her?” Poe’s heart pounded.

“Briefly, only briefly. Seen you, Mr. Poe. The other night in the Louvre, you and the pugilist Mr. Figg. Heard Johnnie Bill Baker and his colored wench—”

“That is of no importance at the present moment. Mrs. Coltman—”

“Alive. Now here is what I would like you to do.” He took Poe’s elbow and steered him away from Montaigne, who now squatted near a small fire. On the other side of the fire was a large Negro man and his common-law wife, a teen-age Irish girl, her stomach high and full with the child she expected. By the light of the fire, several men gambled with dice.

“You would have to do something for me, Mr. Poe. Mrs. Coltman has a great deal of money, which she won’t be able to spend if she is dead. If she lives, I trust she will be, ah, grateful? You could see to that, yes you could. It is a known fact that you and the lady are, well, you are here to effect her rescue, are you not?”

“Lead me to her. I shall see that she rewards you but if you deceive me—”

“Oh Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes leered. His teeth were yellow and black and Poe could have broken them with his stick. The man reeked of liquor. He winked at Poe. “Did you know that Johnnie Bill Baker has friends even among those here in such a place as this? If they were to learn you are among them … ” He shook his head, leering even more.

Poe pulled his elbow away from Greatrakes and would have fled the man, had he not looked over his shoulder and seen three thin-faced, dirty and ragged teen-age boys staring at him. They were obviously trying to decide if Poe had anything of value, anything worth cutting his throat for. He had to find Sproul fast, talk to him, convince him Rachel had nothing to do with the death of Sproul’s woman and sons.

Greatrakes again used the back of a gloved hand to wipe his nose. Poe noticed that the gloves were torn and stained. “Ah, Mr. Poe, I sense hostility in you. Ah, yes I do. Come, let us continue our stroll for I daresay those lads you are staring at may well be measuring your throat for a blade. Would it make any difference to you if I say Rachel Coltman is acquainted with me?”

Poe snorted. “Acquainted with
you,
sir?”

“Oh she is, she is. I was once a better man than you see before you. Educated, respected, a professional of some small accomplishment. I assisted Justin Coltman in a business arrangement or two. That is until demon rum trapped me in his embrace.”

“And you crawled into the bottle never again to crawl out.”

“Well now, who would know of such falls from grace better than you, Mr. Poe.” Greatrakes, grinned slyly, stroking his matted beard with the back of his gnarled hand. The man made Poe’s skin crawl.

“Lead me to Mrs. Coltman.”

“Well now, I do not know for certain where Mr. Sproul is but the whereabouts of Mrs. Coltman, ah, that is a fact of which many of us here are aware.”

“The two are not together?”

“From what I can gather, they are not. Mrs. Coltman is being guarded by three of Sproul’s men, while Sproul himself is somewhere in private drenching his grief in rum.”

Poe fingered his mustache. Sproul was drinking. Most likely, he would drink to excess, pass out and be unable to communicate with anyone. That meant Poe had a chance to talk with Rachel’s jailers, to convince them to release her. But what if the jailers refused to even consider Rachel’s release unless Sproul was present?

Valentine Greatrakes. The name was grand, a sweeping verbal gesture. Ridiculous that it be attached to this despicable looking, dunghill of a human being. Valentine Greatrakes. Poe had heard the name before, but where?

The hunchback sniffled. He leaks, thought Poe, like sap from trees in the forest. Valentine Greatrakes. I
know
the name. I
do.

Poe said, “Lead. I shall follow.”

“And you will inform Mrs. Coltman—”

“Damn you, yes!”

“White of you, Mr. Poe. Exceedingly white of you, sir. Oh, I would not leave your old friend behind. Already, she has attracted attention and her being so decrepit and all.”

Dear God! Poe hurried quickly to Montaigne’s side, pushing through three ragged and dirty women who now squatted beside Montaigne in front of the fire. The women fingered the soiled rags she wore, her muddy boots.

Poe dragged Montaigne away from them, speaking softly to her in French, telling her to stay close to him.

Valentine Greatrakes leered at them, his twisted hand in place over his heart. “Nice to see a man looking out after others the way you do, Mr. Poe. Yes, I tell you it is a nicely thing to see. Well sir, let us trek deeper into this jungle and be of keen eye, the both of you. Won’t do to go off on your own in the Old Brewery.”

He shuffled on ahead of them, reminding Poe of an insect in search of prey. Just let this leaking hunchback lead me to Rachel in time. It occurred to Poe that the story “Hop Frog,” on which he was working when he found time and energy, had a hunchback court jester as the main character. As for this Valentine Greatrakes, Poe’s keen 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.
It scraped at Poe’s brain as he and Montaigne followed the hunchback into a passageway blacker than the blackest midnight.

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.