The Raven Page #6

- Exact noon.

- Shall I bring more?

Leave it! Please.

It's all right, Percy. Get another.

If your watch is set to Greenwich

Mean Time, you can calculate

how far east or west

of Greenwich, London you are.

Twelve... twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight, rather.

- Which one, damn it?

- Twenty-eight.

- Twelve twenty-eight, right?

- Yes.

Longitude is a measure of time

east or west.

Latitude, distance from the equator.

That's north or south.

Seventeen degrees north.

The West Indies? It can't be.

He couldn't have

transported her that far.

Here. St. Croix.

That's impossible. The Danish

West Indies is a two-week journey.

It's not an island, St. Croix.

Holy Cross.

Holy Cross!

Holy Cross Church.

That's our parish.

Giddap!

Cantrell, you and the others

around back.

Spread out. If need be, break

a window. We must get inside!

- Emily!

- Come on!

Emily!

North-west corner!

John!

Don't move, John.

Argh!

He's over here!

There! Black horse!

Steady.

- Fields?

- Get him!

Find him, Edgar! Go!

Your name!

You coward!

Who are you?!

Poe!

Poe!

The killer escaped.

My horse is gone.

What about Fields? He was shot.

He's at Doc Clements'.

What of you?

The paper goes to press

in three hours.

There was an empty grave.

It had Emily's name on it.

That was his clue.

That's why he sent us there.

Perhaps, or to kill again.

I'm sorry, Poe. This is my fault.

E should never have gene ahead

with the hall.

These were my stories.

Your daughter's love for me

is the reason another man's dead.

Go to Doc Clements.

I have one more story to write.

Edgar

for today, she's still alive.

Doctor, let me go!

Let me go!

We're running out of time!

For God's sake,

a bullet is in your chest!

Lie down and let me do my job

before you bleed to death.

The son of a b*tch

is gonna kill her today.

So you cut the bullet out

and you patch me up now!

There's a bottle of whiskey

in the kitchen. Bring it here.

- What the hell is that?

- A magnet.

To find the bullet to cut it out.

Soak that pillowcase in the whiskey,

and give him the rest. He'll need it.

The gossamer white of bone

was now visible beneath

the tattered meat of her fingertips,

as Emily clawed madly

at the wooden slats of her coffin,

a desperate, drowning animal.

The din' rose around her,

the inescapable sand of an hourglass,

as her final breath of air

slipped her into the twilight

of consciousness until.

He knew now that all hope was lost.

He had failed his beloved, and

there was one last thing left to do.

One last act.

"A final desperate plea:

one life offered for another."

Oh, Mr. Poe, no... No, you can't!

- Set the print, Ivan.

- But, sir...

Do it!

You can't take it as your fault,

Mr. Poe.

Is there someone else you'd blame?

It's the killer who's to blame, sir.

- Let me read that.

- Sir, I need to...

"Poe could feel the poison

already feeding on his blood,

"as the maggots were soon to do."

Jesus, Edgar...

- Making enough money, Henry?!

- Mr. Poe, don't! Mr. Poe!

Will it sell?!

- Will it?!

- Mr. Poe!

You madman!

I'll have you thrown in jail,

you damned animal!

I'll send you to hell! Huh?! Hell!

Mr. Poe, don't. It's not worth it.

Clements!

I'm sorry, Mr. Poe. I fell asleep

waiting for you and the inspector.

- What time is it?

- Just past six, sir.

The paper's here for you.

Rather remarkable seeing that

people are stealing others' papers.

They can't print enough,

with the election today

and this horrible killing

they keep writing about.

Here's something else for you,

Mr. Poe.

"It is a masterpiece, Mr. Poe.

An epitaph worthy of your gifts."

- When did this come?

- I don't know, but before the paper.

- How do you know that?

- It was under the paper.

Impossible.

Look at the streaks in the ink.

- I don't understand.

- It's been rained on.

- It rained last night before dawn.

- But the newspaper is bone dry.

I'm not sure what...

The paper was delivered later,

after it stopped raining.

This note was written in response

to what I wrote in this newspaper.

He delivered the note

before the paper.

So he knew the story in advance.

He'd already read it.

Where's my gun?!

Damn it.

The ink.

It's printing ink.

The "Patriot".

Henry, you're gonna tell me

where she is.

Henry!

Tell me, where is sh...?

Van

Surprised?

Where is she?

Dying.

More quickly than I expected.

So I had to speed things along

and deliver the morning edition

so you could finally realise

it had to be...

none other than your humble

typesetter and biggest fan.

A drink?

You don't know how I've looked

forward to this moment, sir.

To sit here like this,

no more masks,

artist to artist.

Artist to artist.

Though I admit,

as I read your final chapter,

I felt more muse than artist.

You're mad.

Really, Mr. Poe?

You're one to talk.

Where is Emily?

Just like that?

No probing the devious twists

and turns of man's darkest motives?

No prying into the mysteries

of his conscience?

So very unlike you, Mr. Poe.

Where is she?!

Ow!

A rather disappointing denouement,

I have to say.

But that's life, isn't it?

So much less satisfying than fiction.

It's time this story comes to an end.

Very well.

Give me the gun.

You've come this far, Mr. Poe.

Are you really gonna back out now?

You know what happens next.

You wrote it, after all.

You either pull that trigger

and kill me and young Miss Emily

or you give me the gun.

She will live.

That was your solution, right?

I have to admit, I don't cry easily,

but you had me bawling like a baby.

And I've always had a fancy

for poisons.

That's how I done my dad.

The idea of drinking something

that will kill you

but having time to carry on

a conversation

is, as they say, fraught

with dramatic possibilities, right?

Listen to me.

talking about dramatic possibilities

with one of the greatest writers

of our time.

I must say, it has been a profound

honor working with you, sir.

Working with me?

I know they're your ideas.

I'm just borrowing.

Except for Valdemar's tongue.

That was me.

- Quite a subtle metaphor, I thought.

- Subtle?

It made no sense at all.

Even in the end,

I'm confronted by a plagiarist

without even the originality

to invent themselves.

I've concocted you.

I couldn't agree more.

I am your crowning achievement.

Your masterpiece.

In whose world do we each exist

right now, Edgar'?

Mine, or yours?

I don't really know the answer.

It's quite brilliant.

Well... go on, sir.

Bottoms up.

I need a carriage now!

- Inspector!

- I need a carriage.

And send a messenger

to Charles Hamilton's house.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes