The Ingominious End of Elias Crowe (Part 2, Finale)
“Purpose? Is that what you had?” The voice sounds amused again. “A mission from God? A divine duty? A righteous and holy quest to purge the sin and filth from beneath the world? I suppose it would be the perfect thing, wouldn’t it? After all, a man with a purpose is far more important than a disgraced drunkard who was tossed out of God’s house for filching from the collection plate…”
The wild glee vanishes from his face in a second. “An amusement, and you had to dig that far? You’re flattering yourself to claim it’s amusement.” He sneers, now actively looking for his captor. “But now you’ve gotten into the real barbs, haven’t you? What’s the matter, need to change the subject? Don’t like to think about it?” His voice is edged, tense. The confidence is gone, replaced with venom.
“Or… now, dear me, was it that, or was it the young lady in the confessional? Both, perhaps?” the voice continues blithely. “Certainly one or both of those had to be the final straw. That is the trouble with you, Elias, you do all your thinking with the wrong head. Certainly it played no small part in getting you into this predicament as well.”
“You’re lying.” His voice wavered. “What did you scheme and trick her with, to turn her? She was loyal.”
“Ah, you mean ‘Samael’? Oh yes, she was quite loyal. It never does, after all, to double-cross an employer in her line of work. Bad for business, you understand.” A dossier spills onto the floor, filled with coded letters in Samael’s handwriting - all signed MNEMOSYNE. “So she was very loyal to me while she batted her eyelashes, and told you exactly what you wanted to hear, and twisted you around her dainty little finger. You asked me which one was mine, Elias. The truth is, she was mine - and Charles Milverton’s, before his untimely demise. A bespoke zealot, bought and paid for from the very beginning. And you were so mired in your unclerical thoughts that you never even noticed. You hid behind false faith, without considering who else may be doing the same… it was wonderfully entertaining.”
For the first time since he woke up, Crowe falls silent. His shoulders and head slump. Some time passes before he looks up again. “Well. You truly do commit to your craft. The most clever little rat in all of this cesspit of a city. Such a great deception to claim the credit for.”
“I will take that for the compliment it is. Truth be told, I did get some use out of you and your lunatic friends for a while. That devil that Samael and… Daniel, was it not? Yes, the pair of them worked together to kill him and burn down his fleapit gambling den. He was a rival of mine in the Great Game. Rather an unpleasant one, as well. Then you started to get dull, and I found better ways to dispose of thorns in my side, so I decided to just take you apart. It was stultifyingly easy, too… I would compare it to pulling the wings off a fly, but a fly would at least have struggled. You seemed to actively abet your own dismemberment. Well, excepting your current actual dismemberment, of course; that was largely my doing. My, but Roland Banning certainly got the better of you, didn’t he?”
Crowe spit onto the dossiers. “So easy, and yet such a process. The work I began in this year will be remembered. There will be another inspired by my actions, just as I was. One that will remember you, and tear the heart out of whatever holds your interest here.”
“Remember me?” A soft chuckle. “People rarely remember me. I have one of those faces, I suppose. Oh, but you are so keen to be remembered, are you not? I wonder… is that why you really did this? Did you ever truly believe you were on a mission from God, or did you just use his name to make yourself sound bigger than you really are?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t expect you to understand what a higher calling is. Nor do you deserve the satisfaction. All martyrs have their devotion questioned. It is only fitting that you question mine.”
“Oh, a martyr now, are you? How very lofty. Let us not kid ourselves here, shall we? Your only devotion has ever been to Elias Crowe. When I look at you, I don’t see a martyr, or a man with a purpose or a higher calling. What I see is…” A thoughtful pause. “Yes, this is rather apt, isn’t it? An angry child. A petulant little boy throwing the world’s biggest temper tantrum, knocking over an entire city with bombs and fire, all because nobody ever told him he was special. All to get Mother’s attention. Oh, you’ll never be loved. When people say your name they’ll curse it, and spit on the street, and say what a vile, deranged creature you were. But… that’s all you want, isn’t it? You don’t want people to praise your name. You just want them to say it.”
“As if your own name is worth a damn sight more mention,” he snaps, “As if you know or even care what it means to have done something of import! To be remembered! You’re nothing, a disgusting, skittering insect! Hiding in the shadows, too afraid to let a man you have at your mercy even see your face.” He thrashes in the chair, trying to turn it. The bolts attached to it hold fast.
“So I am right.” The voice is delightedly smug. “Oh, yes, I thought so. Nobody ever listened to Elias Crowe, did they? Not when he was a poor farm boy, scrabbling in the dirt. Not when he was a clergyman diddling prostitutes in the confessional and picking God’s pockets. Not when he came to the Neath and started spewing bile from street corners. Nobody cared what Elias Crowe had to say. Nobody thought Elias Crowe would ever amount to anything. Oh, but then… then you found Jeremiah Lakewood, didn’t you? You dug up a dead man’s boots, and you put them on, and you became Jeremiah Lakewood because Jeremiah Lakewood was so much more special and important than Elias Crowe ever had any hope of becoming.”
There is a pause, and then the voice continues, triumphantly self-satisfied. “And - ah, now here is the kicker, as they say. Jeremiah Lakewood will be the name they really remember. After all, you didn’t call it the Crowe Lodge, did you? No, you sought to bask in the light of legitimacy that Lakewood’s name brought you. And as a result, Londoners will curse the name of the Lakewood Lodge… and not spare a single second of thought for Elias Jasper Crowe.”
He looked down. His whole body shook, as did his voice when he spoke. “Kill me, then. You’ve done what you wanted, and seen me brought low. I’m glad that you were entertained, and happier still knowing you’ll be back to finding the same boredom that drove you to this. But enjoy the thrill. I know it won’t last. Not forever.” He looks at the direction of the voice. “So get on with it. Or are you too much of a spineless little bug to even look me in the eye when you do it?”
“Oh, of course. Where are my manners?” The figure steps from the shadows for the first time, grey eyes regarding Crowe in much the same manner as a scientist would regard an insect that had just performed an interesting trick. A smile plays across their features as they gently touch the brim of their hat with one hand - the other hand being occupied with a gleaming straight razor. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Truly - this has been very entertaining. But I suppose I cannot put it off any longer, alas.” The hand not holding the razor grips Crowe by the chin and raises his head to meet that steel gaze. “Enjoy your ignominious end, Elias Crowe. Oh - and when you meet the boatman? Do be a dear and tell him Jones sends their regards.”
The blade flashes, just once. It’s all that’s needed.
