The Raven Page #4

"If I do not read a vivid

accounting of this convergence

"of fact and fiction,

then dear Emily will die.

"Your only hope

is to imagine a way to save her.

"I dare you to try to conceive

of the painstaking care

"I have taken to secure her

"and the elegant means

leading inexorably to her end.

"Are you up to the task, Mr. Poe?

"Are you even capable of imagining

"the means to save

your beloved's life?

"Or shall this tale end

as all your stories do,

"with Madness, Sin and Horror

the soul of the plot?"

Your men are right. I've killed her.

We must assume

Miss Hamilton is still alive.

Why must we assume that? Because

it's more convenient to do so?

Why am I to blame?

Where were all these officers

last night?!

Where were you?!

He told you he was coming!

Mr. Poe, listen to me.

This killer is methodical.

He will keep her alive

to keep you involved.

It's part of his game and that's

the logic that will trap him.

It's the facts of this case

that give us the advantage.

Did you tell your people to

familiarize themselves with my face?

They'll see it every hour

till my daughter is returned to me.

Mr. Hamilton, I'm very sorry.

As well you should be!

She was taken under your watch.

- Sir, if you would please...

- What the hell is HE doing here?

- Bastard!

- Hey!

Arrest him. It's his fault.

There is plenty of fault

to be passed around.

I'm sure you understand

what I mean by that, Mr. Hamilton.

Mr. Poe here is our only connection

to the man who has your daughter.

I suggest you remember that.

Out of the way.

We will reconvene in two hours.

Until then, I want every street

in Baltimore manned. Understood?

Yes, sir.

Lord help my poor soul.

Oh. Oh, Lord.

Wait. No. No...

Wait... Please...

Help! Let me out!

Let me out of here!

No, stop! Stop!

Shut it, Emily,

or I'll shut it for you.

OK.

OK. I'm sorry.

Sorry.

The human body is to be revered.

We must at all times be respectful

and remember that a cadaver

is more than a mere learning tool.

We shall examine the lungs.

This man is an alleged victim

of consumption.

Professor'? What is it?

Dear God.

She could be a prostitute,

the way she's painted up.

Did you open this?

Were your hands clean?

Yes. I don't believe

I left that smudge, Inspector.

She must have fought him

or scratched him.

She didn't fight him.

There are no wounds on her wrists.

It can't be her blood, Inspector.

He came at her from behind.

Strangled.

Another of your stories?

Mr. Poe, I asked

is this another of your stories?

"The Mystery of Marie Roget."

It's a sailing knot.

It's a bowline knot, to be exact.

Just as it was in the story.

All right. Then what of it?

Who was she?

She was a girl...

who worked in the stores in Paris

near the Quais.

She drowned. There was no mention

of blood on her hands.

He added that detail.

You must write it now. Every detail.

The knot, her dress, her hands.

Her eyes. Her end.

Her smile portended nothing.

Her innocence was the first part

of her soul to die.

And while it happened,

he stood still,

watching to fully enjoy

the dreadful metamorphosis

from a life full of hope

to death without purpose.

Mr. Poe.

I've been, erm...

I'm sorry to disturb you but...

I was a little concerned

about your...

- My progress?

- Yes.

I feel as if I've gone from author

to character in one of my tales.

As trapped and bedevilled as any of

the hapless bastards I ever created.

I can appreciate that.

Regardless of what

you think of me, Fields,

I am a master of my art,

and I will not fail her.

I know that.

Look, I... I think I was overly harsh

with you the other day,

and for that I'd like to apologise.

My wife was singing at the piano

when she first coughed up blood.

I prepared myself for the worst,

but Virginia seemed to recover,

and foolishly I succumbed to hope.

But by year's end

the blood came again...

and again.

Great effusions of blood.

Raging fevers, her sheets spattered

with crimson, drenched with sweat.

I often thought I could hear

the sound of darkness

as it stole across the horizon

rushing towards me.

But here I...

I was overwhelmed

by a sorrow so poignant,

when she finally died I felt

in all candour a great release.

But it was supplanted by the return

of that dark and morbid melancholy

that followed me like a black dog...

all my life...

until I met Emily.

Time is running out, Inspector.

Do you really believe

she's still alive?

I'm sure of it.

ls)

ls)

Magnificent.

Poe, you have done it again.

The invention is... breath-taking.

The line of truth and fiction

has never been so...

SO...

I'm not sure about your headline.

Henry, you will not change one word.

Fine. Ivan? Ivan...

Reset page one immediately.

..melancholy that's followed me

like a black dog all my life.

I love you, Edgar.

Fields!

- The blood, Poe, it's fake!

- The blood?

The prostitute. She's no prostitute.

It's stage blood. She's an actress.

- The blood on the hands. "Macbeth."

- Exactly.

Poe's like the hangman, the bastard,

making money off the dead.

Get your paper!

About a serial killer on the loose!

Cantrell is at the theater.

All the exits are secured.

The Imperial, I'm assuming.

My mother's playhouse.

The victim was still in her costume,

which suggests she was abducted

directly from the theater.

We'll find her.

I would gladly give my life for hers,

Mr. Fields.

I know you would.

Out, damned spot. Out, I say!

One, two...

...then, 'its time to do it!

Hell is murky!

Who are you?

Police. I have a warrant

to search these premises.

What for? There's a show on!

- Bring all stagehands now.

- They have to man the ropes.

First Lady Macbeth takes a powder,

and now you bastards...

Ten seconds.

Put out your hands.

Ladies and gentlemen,

the play will resume shortly.

Please take your seats.

You, step forth.

Take off the gloves.

- Is this your entire crew?

- Yes.

- Are you sure?

- I am.

Count them again.

What are you doin'?!

We've got seven minutes

before the act change.

- You, where are you from?

- Liverpool.

Got three days' shore leave

to make extra scratch.

- So if you don't mind, please...

- Read it.

It's "Macbeth". I know the play.

- Someone's missing.

- Who?

- Maurice.

- Where is he?

I don't know, but nobody's allowed

to leave until the show is over.

He's here.

If any of them try to leave,

shoot them.

Yes, sir.

...put on your nightgown...

You there, come out. Show yourself.

Stop!

Show yourself!

I will kill you!

I have a pistol aimed on you.

Come out now. Put your hands

where I can see them or I will fire.

Don't shoot me!

I'm in the play!

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