Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  “A legendary Peruvian jewel,” I murmured. “Well, I will read the journal with curiosity and hope to find something that may shed light on this mystery,” I said truthfully.

  “Thank you, Mr. Poe.”

  “It is an honor to assist you.” We sat in awkward silence until I recalled Sissy’s request. “My wife wonders if you would care to join us for an excursion tomorrow. There are many fine things to see in Philadelphia, and she feels it would divert your attention from your grief.”

  Miss Loddiges nodded gravely. “That is very kind. I would enjoy that.”

  “Very good. Virginia will be pleased. Shall we meet at our house at one o’clock?”

  “I will be there.” She paused a moment, then said tentatively: “There is one thing I would like to do while I am here in America.”

  “I will do my best to help you achieve it, of course.”

  “I would very much like to see a flocking of passenger pigeons.”

  For a moment I was startled by her request, then realized what a wondrous sight it would seem to an amateur ornithologist from London. I hadn’t an inkling of how to find the birds, but if anyone knew, it would be Father Keane.

  “I will visit a friend today who may be able to assist with that.”

  “How wonderful.” She smiled. “I know you will succeed. In everything.”

  She was like the small child who believes her father has supernatural abilities, and I felt the weight of that faith.

  “I will do my best. That is all I can promise.”

  And so I left that miniature tropical paradise and made my way to see Father Keane, hoping to persuade my friend to embark on a bizarre investigation with me instigated by Charles Dickens’s deceased pet, that infernal devil Grip.

  11

  TUESDAY, 12 MARCH 1844

  Miss Loddiges stood very still, staring up, completely oblivious to the pedestrians forced to skirt around her on the footpath; they, however, gawped unashamedly at her, betraying their polite Philadelphian upbringings. In truth, her costume was more than startling. The lady had protected herself against the chill with a vibrant azure woolen cloak composed of four voluminous layers, each finished with a furbelow of daffodil yellow. The fussiness of the garment was exacerbated by the silken bonnet she wore, also blue and decorated with a quantity of artificial posies which harbored several feasting hummingbirds. I had innocently asked if Miss Loddiges’s garments were the current fashion in London, where I had noted a flair for the eccentric compared to our more conservative attire. Sissy tried to interject, fearing the lady would take offense, but Miss Loddiges was merely bemused.

  “No, no, it is my creation. When I have no birds to work on, I often sew articles of clothing. I find that my taxidermy work inspires me, for what is more perfect than the artful plumage of a bird designed by Nature herself?”

  “What a wonderful talent to have,” my wife said somewhat disingenuously, given her own considerable skill as a seamstress. “Too many simply buy what they are told is fashionable by ladies’ journals.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Loddiges murmured, her eyes still directed upwards. “That is a wonderful eagle,” she finally remarked. “Quite perfect in form and demeanor. Truly it should be inside the museum rather than outside.”

  I followed her gaze to the grand eagle carved from wood that was mounted above the doorway to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. “Ah, indeed. It is by William Rush, who was an exceptional artist. I believe his master work is a life-sized statue of the Crucifixion at St. Augustine Church. Perhaps we will have time to see it, for we are meeting my friend Father Keane at the church tomorrow after he finishes teaching. He has an idea of where we might see a flocking of passenger pigeons.”

  Miss Loddiges whirled around, her face luminous with joy. “How marvelous! It has long been a dream of mine to see the pigeons.”

  “Please remember that our trip is but a hope and not a certainty,” I cautioned. “One cannot truly predict the flight of the birds.”

  Miss Loddiges raised her brows as if she did not believe me. “Yes, of course, I understand. If I witness the pigeons darkening the sky, even at a distance, that will be something. Thank you, Mr. Poe. I am ever grateful that I made your acquaintance,” she said solemnly. “Shall we go in?” And our guest was through the door before I could return the nicety.

  We spent nearly two hours exploring the Academy, home to the best collection of art in the country, including works by European masters and contemporary American artists. There was an impressive exhibition of religious art on show, but this did not seem to move Miss Loddiges at all. She was equally unimpressed with some very fine works by Claude Lorrain and Benjamin West’s Death on the Pale Horse, which was the pride of the Academy and had been purchased at great expense. Elegant portraits by West’s protégé, Gilbert Stuart, did not capture her interest, nor did the works of Thomas Sully and Joshua Shaw, despite my efforts to explain why they were so highly regarded.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Poe,” she finally said. “I did have sketching and painting lessons as a young girl, and of course I realize that it requires great skill to paint a portrait that so captures the essence of a person or the atmosphere of a landscape, but I fear such works fail to move me. They are so flat, so lifeless. Perhaps that is my attraction to taxidermy—the bird is rendered immortal by capturing it in a life-like pose and the spectator can view it from different aspects and see something new each time. If a work is well done, it should evoke a sense of anticipation in the observer, a feeling that the bird might take flight at any moment.”

  I did not know how to respond to my guest’s admission that she was unenthused by the art of painting—most would have pretended interest out of politeness. And I did not understand her passion for the birds she reconstructed, as to me the smell of death lingered on her creations. Thankfully my wife intervened.

  “What of the illustrations by Mr. Audubon?” Sissy asked. “Do you think they capture the essence of his subjects?”

  Miss Loddiges smiled. “Mr. Audubon is exceptional. I do enjoy how he depicts birds, often in motion or feeding. It gives them such life and spirit. I especially admire how he studies creatures in their habitat, for it is something I have had little opportunity to do.”

  “It sounds as if you know Audubon’s work very well,” I said as I paused to admire a Sully portrait. To my mind, Sully’s art was more sublime than Audubon’s, but Miss Loddiges seemed hardly to notice the painting in front of her.

  “My father gave me Audubon’s Birds of America and John Gould’s Birds of Europe as he felt they would help me with my work. Both are treasures and I have studied them extensively. And while the artistry of Gould’s books is exceptional, I find that Audubon’s positioning of the birds and his backgrounds have been the most inspirational. I do my best to pose my birds in an equally life-like manner.”

  “And you succeed admirably,” I said.

  Miss Loddiges shrugged. “It is difficult to achieve much veracity when displaying a bird in a glass case. My hummingbird cabinet is quite a successful work, I think, but hardly naturalistic. My father wished to display a great quantity of his collection in one place—a symptom of his pride rather than any predilection for science—and so I complied. I tried to imagine a kingdom of hummingbirds and what its hierarchy might be. My arrangement reflects that vision.”

  “Eddy described the cabinet to me, and that night I dreamt of just such a kingdom of birds. You cannot imagine how much I have wished to look at the piece.”

  Miss Loddiges seemed thrilled with my wife’s words. “Then you must come to Paradise Fields to see it. It would be such a pleasure to have you as our guests in London.” She glanced at another masterpiece, then turned to face Sissy. “I think you would enjoy it. People come from all over to see our glasshouses and the array of plants we have. And I hope to make Jeremiah’s dream a reality some day, to include living exotic birds in our glasshouse gardens. Wouldn’t that be extraordinary? Jeremiah was both a man o
f science and a visionary—an artist, truly.”

  “What a wonderful notion. Jeremiah sounds an exceptional man.” Sissy looked at Miss Loddiges with quiet compassion—she had a gift for putting people at ease. “And I would very much enjoy a trip to London and to see your home,” she declared. “I have never left these shores, which is a particular grievance of mine.”

  Miss Loddiges became so absorbed with the notion of us traveling to London that she no longer bothered to give the paintings anything other than a cursory glance, almost chivvying us along whenever I paused to examine a work more closely. But then she stopped abruptly and stared, and when I joined her in front of the painting that had captured her attention, my breath caught in my throat, for it was a portrait my wife and I had viewed at an Artists’ Fund Hall exhibition three years previously. The portrait was in a gilded, oval frame and done in a vignette manner; its background was shadowy, but the subject’s eyes were luminous, almost alive. A small brass plaque was attached to the frame with the words:

  Mrs. Reynolds, actress

  (Robert Street, 1840)

  The irrepressible Mr. Street had painted Mrs. Rowena Fontaine, an anonymous immigrant recently arrived from London in October 1840, and in three short years that work had been transformed as if by magic into the portrait of the very popular actress Mrs. Reynolds, and deemed worthy of display at the Academy of Fine Arts.

  “I remember her,” Miss Loddiges murmured after studying the painting for a time. “She came to see our glasshouses.”

  I was rather surprised by Miss Loddiges’s pronouncement and noticed that she seemed troubled by the portrait. “Are you certain it was her? The lady emigrated to America more than three years ago and surely any number of people visit Paradise Fields.”

  “Yes, I am absolutely certain. In fact, she came to the glasshouses the day you called on me—the day you met Andrew and Jeremiah.”

  “Why did Mrs. Reynolds make such an impression?” my wife asked.

  Miss Loddiges thought carefully for a moment, as if she were looking back in time and reliving the memory. “It was a peculiar day from the beginning, in truth. Mr. Poe’s visit occurred on the date of a meeting my father had arranged to plan an expedition to Peru. My mother wanted me to find an orchid for the table and as I was searching for something suitable, a small group of visitors entered the glasshouse with my brother, who was conducting a tour. This lady”—she indicated the painting—“was amongst them. I noticed her because she seemed to have no interest in anything inside the glasshouse, and kept looking outside as if searching for someone or something. And then there was the screech of a bird in distress and a magpie swooped down from Lord knows where and struck at the lady’s head—once and then again. She screamed in the most horrible manner until my brother chased the bird out of the door. And then the serving girl came to fetch me as you, Mr. Poe, had arrived and were waiting in my sitting room.” Miss Loddiges shivered. “I had terrible dreams that night. I felt certain it was a warning—one for sorrow.”

  I nodded, my gaze caught in the violet eyes that were so perfectly rendered they seemed to be staring back at me. Miss Fontaine was at Paradise Fields on the one day I had travelled there? She had followed me, without doubt, and then she was attacked by a bird that was where it should not have been. I did not know what it meant, but I felt as unnerved as Miss Loddiges.

  My wife put her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. “I would like some tea,” she said. “I think I have had enough art for today and the recital at the Musical Fund Hall begins in one hour.”

  After Miss Loddiges’s revelation, I knew there was little point in trying to sit through a musical evening when my mind would be fully elsewhere. I also knew that my wife was likely to enjoy the recital more if solely in the company of Miss Loddiges, for I doubted the performance by the Hutchinson Family Singers would be entirely to my taste.

  “I fear I have some work to be getting on with this evening, particularly as Miss Loddiges and I must set off by noon tomorrow to meet Father Keane, but you ladies should go to the Musical Fund Hall. It is a very American entertainment,” I told Miss Loddiges. “I think you will enjoy it.”

  “Oh, you will!” Sissy’s delight was clear. “It will be a wonderful evening.”

  “I will come back to meet you after the entertainment finishes.”

  “There is no need, my dear.”

  “If you are certain?”

  “Of course. If Miss Loddiges is capable of finding her way from London to Philadelphia on her own, I believe I can find my own way home.” The two women exchanged a smile.

  We walked back through the door of the Academy and onto a bustling Chestnut Street. “I shall take my leave then,” I said. “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon.”

  Miss Loddiges gave a tentative smile. “And thank you for your extraordinary kindness, Mr. and Mrs. Poe. I believe you are the truest friends I have now that Jeremiah is gone, and it makes my heart glad.”

  Sissy caught her breath as she heard those words and she grasped Miss Loddiges’s hands in her own. “And we are so very glad of that.”

  Any lingering annoyance I had harbored at the lady’s lack of interest in the paintings had disappeared with her words, for I had known the cruelty of loneliness in the past.

  “Very glad indeed,” I said, meaning every word. If assisting her to find out more about Jeremiah Mathews’s death helped in some small way to assuage her loneliness, then I would do all I could with an open heart.

  12

  After my ungentlemanly abandonment of my wife and Miss Loddiges, I made my way home, more than certain that the two would enjoy the recital much more now that they had the opportunity to talk about whatever it was ladies discuss when not in the company of the opposing sex. Once arrived, I immediately went to my study and wrote Dupin a letter.

  234 North Seventh Street, Philadelphia

  12 March 1844

  My dear Dupin,

  I have the most extraordinary news to relay about events that have occurred since my last letter—certain surprising facts have been revealed to me and my fears that George Williams was planning to murder you now appear groundless.

  I had believed that Williams was tormenting me again by delivering macabre poppets that suggested murder—indeed, your murder. There was a reference to Peru in the threats I received and I recalled that you had journeyed there, which made me think you were his intended victim. Recently I was sent another manikin, this time in the shape of a woman, and I had presumed it to be Sissy, which terrified me. On that very day, however, we had an unexpected visit from Miss Helen Loddiges, the English ornithologist. You will remember that I edited her book and met with her one day during our time in London. The lady had made the journey here on her own, against her father’s wishes, and it was she who had sent the strange dolls in an attempt to inform me cryptically of a mystery she wishes me to solve. Miss Loddiges ardently believes that her father’s bird collector and his son were murdered, despite official verdicts of succumbing to an accidental fall and drowning. She has asked me to investigate their deaths, for she seems to credit me with your skills of ratiocination. How I wish you were here, my friend! I cannot see where to begin, for there is no real evidence that either man was a victim of malice. In my opinion, the lady is overcome with grief, for she loved the young man, Jeremiah Mathews, who died this past October in Philadelphia. She speaks of seeing ghosts, of receiving messages from birds and of a mysterious jewel from Peru. I would not get involved in the matter at all, but my wife insists that I help the lady.

  As for George Williams and his paramour, Mrs. Rowena Fontaine, they are indeed in Philadelphia, but they now go by the name of Reynolds, perhaps to escape some crime committed under their true appellations. They are also married, or claim to be, and the lady is a popular actress who performs in plays written by her husband. My wife and I had an audience with Mrs. Reynolds, who swears that she has persuaded her husband to let go of the past and to absolve me of the cri
mes of my grandparents. I have not had that pledge from Williams himself, however, but I am gratified that he does not seem to be a threat to you as I had presumed. I would not forgive myself if our friendship brought you to harm.

  I hope that your own quest has progressed. Please write soon and tell me any news of Valdemar. In your last letter you mentioned a sighting of him in the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal. Have you discovered anything further?

  With greatest respect,

  Edgar A. Poe

  I gave my letter to my mother-in-law to post the following day while we undertook our quest to find passenger pigeons, then sat down to do a final review of a tale entitled “The Spectacles” that I had written for The Dollar newspaper. I could not help but think of Mrs. Reynolds when working on it, for truly she too suffered from the vice of vanity, which was likely to be her undoing. Despite all the ways she had tormented me, I pitied her ill health and ravaged beauty.

  Later, at eight o’clock, I was seated in the kitchen, Catterina warming my knees and rumbling with contentment while I was restless with worry. The recital was long over, and I had presumed Sissy would be home for supper, but she still had not returned. I had reassured Muddy that nothing was amiss and so she had retired, but I had little confidence in my own words. At last I heard the door open and the rustle of outer clothing being removed.

  “Eddy! Dearest, I’m home.”

  Sissy walked into the kitchen, beaming, and I pretended that I had been engrossed in my book rather than anxiously waiting.

  “How was your evening?” I asked.

  “Oh, it was marvelous. The Hutchinson family truly are a wonder. Their four-part harmonizing is perfect and young Abby has such poise—as much or more than her brothers.”