Best we stop it for good."
"I tried that before and it didn't work. I'll stop in a day or two...."
Curtains were drawn against the night, the room cozy, the ticktock of the ornate Swiss timepiece peaceful. It was almost one o'clock, and the book, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was one that Dmitri had loaned him this morning saying: "Think you'll like it, Malc, it's what they call a detective story--Edgar Allan Poe's one of our best writers, sorry was, he died in '49, the year after the Gold Rush.
I've a collection of his books and poems if you like this one."
"Thanks, you're very kind. Good of you to drop by so often. But why so glum today, Dmitri?"' "News from home is bad. My folks... it's all bad, Malc, all mixed up, cousins, brothers, uncles on both sides.
Hell, you don't want to hear about that. Listen, I've lots of other books, a whole library in fact."
"Go on about your family, please," he had said, the pain of the day beginning. "Really, I'd like to hear."
"All right, sure. Well, when my granddaddy and his family came over from Russia, from the Crimea--did I tell you our family were Cossacks--they settled in a little place called Far Hills in New Jersey, farmed there till the War of 1812--my granddad was killed in it--great place for raising horses, too, and we prospered. The family stayed in New Jersey mostly, though two of his sons moved south, to Richmond Virginia. When I was in the army, oh fifteen odd years ago-- it was just the Union Army then, not North or South. I joined the cavalry and stayed for five years, spent most of my time south, south and west, the Indian Wars if you could call them that. Spent part of the time in Texas, a year while it was still a republic helping them blow off their Indians, then a couple after she joined the Union in '45, we were stationed out of Austin. That's where I met my wife, Emilie--she also comes from Richmond-- her Pa was a colonel in Supplies. My that's pretty country, around Austin, but more so all around Richmond. Emilie... can I get you anything?"' "No, no thanks, Dmitri, the pain will pass. Go on, will you... talking, your talking helps me a lot."
"Sure, all right. My Emilie, Emilie Clemm was her name--she was a distant cousin of Poe's wife, Virginia Clemm, which I didn't find out till later but which's why I've a collection of his works." Dmitri had laughed. "Poe was a great writer but a bigger drunk and cocksman. Seems like all writers are bums, drunks and or fornicators--take Melville--maybe that's what makes them writers, me I can't write a letter without sweating. How about you?"' "Oh, I can write letters--have to, and keep a journal like most people. You were saying about this Poe?"' "I was going to tell you he married Virginia Clemm when she was thirteen--she was also his cousin, imagine that!--and they lived happily ever after but not very if what was reported in the newspapers and gossip was true--he was a randy son of a bitch though she didn't seem to mind. My Emilie wasn't thirteen but eighteen and a Southern belle if ever there was one. We were married when I got out of the army and joined Cooper-Tillman in Richmond--they wanted to expand into armaments and ammunition for export to Asia which I'd learned a lot about, that and shooting Indians and horse trading. Old Jeff Cooper figured that guns and other goods outward bound from Norfolk Virginia would go well with opium up the China coast, silver and tea inbound to Norfolk--but, you know Jeff. Cooper-Tillman and Struan's are old friends, eh?"' "Yes, and I hope it remains so. Go on."
"Nothing much more, or everything. Over the years, others in the family moved down south and spread out. My ma was from Alabama, I have two brothers and a sister, all younger than me. Now Billy's with the North, New Jersey 1st Cavalry, and my little brother's Janny--named after my granddaddy, Janov Syborodin, Janny's cavalry too but with the 3rd Virginian, Advance Scouts. It's all crap--those two know crap about war and fighting and they'll get themselves killed, sure as hell."
"You... are you going to go back?"' "Don't know, Malc. Every day I think yes, every night yes and every morning no, don't want to start killing family whatever side I'm on."
"Why did you leave and come to this godforsaken part of the world?"' "Emilie died. She got scarlet fever-- there was an epidemic and she was one of the unlucky ones. That was nine years ago--we were just about to have a kid."
"What rotten luck!"
"Yes. You and me, we've both had our share...."
Struan was so concentrated in his mystery book that he did not hear the outside door to her suite softly open and close, nor the lightness of her tiptoeing, nor notice her peer in for an instant, then disappear. In a moment there was an almost imperceptible click as her inner, bedroom door closed.
He looked up. Now listening intently. She had said that she would look in but if he was asleep she would not disturb him. Or if she was tired she would go straight to bed, quiet as a mouse, and see him in the morning. "Don't worry, darling," he had said happily. "Just have a good time, I'll see you at breakfast. Sleep well and know I love you."
"I love you too, cheri. Sleep well."
The book was resting in his lap. With an effort he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. That part was just bearable. But not getting up.
Getting up was still beyond him. His heart was pounding and he felt nauseated and lay back. Still, a little better than yesterday. Got to push, whatever Babcott says, he told himself grimly, rubbing his stomach. Tomorrow I'll try again, three times. Perhaps it's just as well. I'd want to stay with her. God help me I would have to.
When he felt better he began to read once more, glad for the book, but now the story did not absorb him as before, his attention wandered, and his mind started to intermix the story with pictures of her about to be murdered, and corpses, him rushing to protect her, other glimpses becoming ever more erotic.
At length he put the book away, marking the place with a page she had given him, one from her journal. Wonder what she writes in it, knowing her to be as diligent as anyone. About me and her?
Her and me?
Very tired now. His hand reached for the lamp to turn the wick down, then stopped. The little wineglass with sleep in it beckoned. His fingers trembled.
Babcott's right, I don't need it anymore.
Firmly he doused the light and lay back and closed his eyes, praying for her and his family and that his mother would bless them, and then for himself. Oh God, help me get better--I'm afraid, very afraid.
But sleep would not take him. Turning or trying to gain comfort hurt him, reminding him of the Tokaido and Canterbury. Half asleep half awake, his mind buzzing with the book, the macabre setting and how would it finish? Adding all kinds of pictures. And more pictures, some bad, some beautiful, some vivid, every little movement to get more comfortable bringing blossoms of pain.
Time passed, another hour or minutes, and then he drank the elixir and relaxed contentedly, knowing that soon he would be floating on gossamer, her hand on him, his hand on her, there on her breasts and everywhere, hers equally knowingly, equally welcomed, not only hands.
Friday, 3rd October
Friday, 3rd October: Just after dawn Angelique got out of bed and sat at her dressing table in the bay windows overlooking the High Street and harbor. She was very tired. In the locked drawer was her journal.
It was dull red leather and also locked.
She slid the little key from its hiding place, unlocked it, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote in it, more as a friend to a friend--her journal these days seemed her only friend, the only one she felt safe with: "Friday, 3rd: another bad night and I feel ghastly. It's four days since Andr`e gave me the terrible news about Father. Since then I have been unable to write anything, to do anything, have locked my doors and "taken to my bed" feigning a fever, apart from once or twice a day going to visit my Malcolm to allay his anxiety, closing the door to everyone except my maid who I hate, though I agreed to see Jamie once, and Andr`e.