Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  “Not precisely, but both were birds that Andrew Mathews claimed to have observed in the Chachapoyan mountains, whereas in actuality those birds are only native to this area, not Peru.”

  “Most interesting. Not mistakes an experienced bird collector would make. We must presume the errors were intentional.”

  “That is what Father Keane thought. He supposed they were clues of some sort.”

  “A very good deduction.”

  “Someone ransacked Father Keane’s office and took the diorama. I believe they were looking for the journal, but don’t think they found it. I suspect Father Keane has hidden it.” I retrieved the key on the long red string, which I had secured to my waistcoat, and showed it to Dupin. “This is what he put in the envelope for me that he left with Father Nolan. Nolan believes it’s a key to one of the cabinets in the library where the antique treasure books are kept.”

  “I shall look forward to investigating those,” said my friend, who had made the libraries and book stores of Paris his second home.

  “It will not be that simple,” I cautioned. “Father Moriarty, who is in charge at the academy, has closed the library and was angry to find me there yesterday.”

  “We need to find a way. Certainly there must be a clue in the book cabinet as to the whereabouts of the journal. Perhaps your friend was alerting you to the presence of a book with vital information about the mysterious treasure the murderer seems to be seeking.”

  Dupin was right. We had to risk the fury of Father Moriarty, no matter what the consequences might be. “I did ask Father Nolan if I might come by early this morning, when Father Moriarty is breaking his fast.”

  “Excellent. Then let us go immediately. Time is of the essence. The sooner we find the journal, the sooner we will be able to locate Miss Loddiges. I fear her abductor may find her a burden before long if she cannot or will not provide him with the information he wants. And when he wearies of hiding Miss Loddiges, he is likely to dispose of her, as he cannot free her with impunity.”

  At that moment, the ducks that had been swimming languidly in the Schuylkill exploded into flight, setting my heart banging against my chest. I pivoted to look all around us, fearful that we had been tracked by Father Keane’s murderer. Dupin was equally alert, eyes scanning the area for any movement.

  “If a predator was stalking the ducks, it failed to capture its quarry,” he observed. “And if it is a person stalking us, he is very well hidden.”

  I felt in my bones that someone was watching us and could tell from Dupin’s increased vigilance that he felt the same.

  “This way,” I said, pointing to a path across a field that would lead us back into the city and on to St. Augustine Church. As we hurried away from the river, fear walked with me, larger and more brutish than it had been before.

  20

  We arrived at the academy library at a quarter to eight o’clock and, true to his word, Father Nolan was there alone, tidying up the bookshelves. He offered me a smile, which faded when he saw my companion.

  “Father Nolan, may I present the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, who arrived last night and is here to help discover the identity of Father Keane’s murderer. He is often called upon to assist the prefect of police when he is back home in Paris.”

  This clearly impressed Father Nolan, whose nervous expression transformed to one of hope. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Chevalier Dupin. I pray you will uncover something we have missed. Father Keane was well liked by the students and his brothers. It is impossible for us to believe that anyone from St. Augustine’s might have harmed him.”

  Dupin nodded politely and refrained from expressing what I knew he was thinking: that “belief” often got in the way of perceiving the truth, and evil-doers used this to their advantage.

  “May we examine the treasure books?” he asked. “It seems highly likely that Father Keane hid a message or clue there, given that he left the key for Mr. Poe.”

  “Yes, of course. I came in early this morning and checked the keys to the cabinets. The missing one opens this door.” Father Nolan indicated a cabinet filled with magnificent treasure books, named as much for the artistry of their bindings as the value of their contents. Dupin’s face was immediately suffused with a kind of lust, and I knew he wished he might spend a solid month examining every volume in that cabinet. I removed the key from my waistcoat pocket and inserted it in the cabinet door lock. It did indeed fit. As the door swung open to better reveal the books, their great beauty was more apparent—exquisite book bindings that encased important histories, memoirs, scientific studies and religious texts.

  “Are they organized by title or author?” Dupin asked.

  “Title,” Father Nolan replied. “Many do not have an author attributed to them.”

  Dupin nodded as he scanned the double row of books. The more elaborate treasure books were bound in gold or silver, decorated with intricate designs and embellished with precious gems. I was amazed that Father Keane’s murderer had not stolen any of the valuable books. Had he somehow managed to miss them in the dimly lit library or was there only one book that was of any value to him: Jeremiah Mathews’s bird-collecting journal?

  Dupin was moving down the row of books, scrutinizing each one without touching any of them. He paused for a time in front of one volume with a golden spine studded with rubies and amethysts in the shape of a cross, but moved along down the row and then made his way back again. He finally stopped in front of a green leather book, its title in silver.

  “Conference of the Birds,” Dupin murmured. “Intriguing.” He turned to Father Nolan and me. “See here,” he said, indicating the volume. “It is the only book not in line with all the others.”

  It was perhaps an inch, if that, in front of the other volumes, but as they were all so perfectly aligned, it did seem intentional.

  “I believe the book may contain a message, particularly given its title. May I?” Dupin asked Father Nolan.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Dupin removed the book from the shelf and its full beauty became apparent. The green leather was thick and soft, the front patterned with delicate silver leaves and decorated with emeralds and peridots. He opened the book and the frontispiece was sublime—it depicted a conference of luminescent, exotic birds presented in a medieval style.

  “How magnificent,” I said.

  “And in excellent condition. The text was written by Farid al-Din Attar in 1177. This is not quite that old, but is an ancient volume nonetheless.” Dupin carefully turned the pages of the book, which were filled with extraordinary images. The calligraphy alone was beautiful, made all the more exquisite by the illustrations of birds that spilled down the margins. I wished I had asked to look through these astonishing works previously, when I had the leisure, but we all knew there was little time to admire the artistry of the tome. If my murdered friend had left a clue, we had to find it before Father Moriarty finished his breakfast and began his rounds of St. Augustine’s. Dupin continued to turn the pages carefully, seemingly unconcerned. When he had leafed through more than half the volume, he paused. Pressed into the fold of the book was a strip of paper so small it would be missed if one were not searching for it. He opened it and in Father Keane’s tiny handwriting were the words: 1 Kings 17:2–6.

  “Elijah and the ravens,” Dupin and Father Nolan said in unison. Father Nolan’s face lit up with joy.

  “You are of the faith?” he asked Dupin.

  “I was raised by a family who were ardent believers.”

  “Very good.” Father Nolan beamed, presuming that Dupin too was a believer.

  Dupin did not bother to correct him. Instead he asked, “Is there a depiction of Elijah and the ravens somewhere in St. Augustine’s?”

  Father Nolan thought carefully while Dupin stared at the two pages between which the note had been wedged, as if memorizing all that was there. Indeed, that was his wont, as his memory for detail was near infallible. I peered over his shoulder at the exquisite
work, which featured a conference of birds beautifully arranged over two pages. Flowering vines crept around the margins, providing elegant perches for a nightingale, parrot, goldfinch and turtle dove on the left page. On the right, an owl gazed down on a partridge and a peacock in full display. There was a soaring falcon, a swimming duck, a heron balanced upon one leg. At the top, presiding over them all, was an elegant hoopoe, its crest fanned out, its striped wings flared.

  When Dupin had absorbed every detail of the composition and content, he shifted his gaze to Father Nolan, who grew flustered under his scrutiny and stuttered: “I cannot think of any such depiction. We have St. Jerome.” He indicated the stained-glass window that hummed with color in the morning light. “And St. Augustine, of course, and St. Antony.” He furrowed his brow and closed his eyes as if imagining various parts of the church.

  Dupin slipped the small note into his pocket and closed the treasure book. “Poe, perhaps you would look to see if there is any reference to Elijah or a raven within the library. We must make haste as Father Moriarty may have begun his rounds.” He carried the treasure book to the cabinet, and I made my way to a stone relief on the wall opposite the entrance. It was a simple plaque of marble affixed to the wall on which two words were emblazoned in bas relief: Tolle Lege. I had of course observed it each time I entered the library and knew that the exhortation to “Take up and read” was both a command to the students and a reference to the legend of St. Augustine. Was there some other inscription or symbol upon those hallowed walls that might refer to Elijah or his ravens? I looked all around me, but there was none that I could immediately see. I tried to imagine where Father Keane might hide the journal, but my thoughts fluttered like a moth against the window glass, so worried was I that Father Moriarty would interrupt our search. My friend would have known that his office would be the first place his aggressors would search for the book and surely more than one villain attacked him, for Father Keane was a burly man who would not succumb easily, even if taken by surprise. Only frustration would lead the villains to disrupt his office so completely and to murder Father Keane. The journal was cleverly hidden so that only I might find it, either in the library or some other place at St. Augustine’s that I could easily gain access to. My thoughts were interrupted by the imperious voice I dreaded hearing.

  “Father Nolan, did I not request that the library remain closed this week in honor of Father Keane?” Father Moriarty presented a calm face, but the strength of his anger was apparent from the rigidity of his stance and the fierceness of his eyes.

  Father Nolan did not have time to stumble over an excuse, for Dupin stepped forward. “I am afraid I must take full responsibility for convincing Father Nolan to let us into the library. He did his best to dissuade us, but I have travelled all the way from France and he took pity on me. My father, the Chevalier Dupin, had expressed a desire to visit St. Augustine Church in Philadelphia, but his wish was never achieved as he was lost on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I have taken it upon myself to visit in his stead.”

  “How admirable of you, sir,” Father Moriarty said coolly. “T’is a pity you did not write to us, as we would have been delighted to organize a tour for you. As it happens, you have come at a most terrible time.”

  “So I understand. Please accept my condolences regarding Father Keane and my apologies for arriving unannounced, but Bishop Kenrick himself requested that I visit St. Augustine Church, and it would be awkward to refuse him, I am certain you will agree.” Dupin stared at Father Moriarty, his threat disguised as an apology. I did not think that Dupin knew the Philadelphia bishop, but it was not impossible given his secretive nature.

  Father Moriarty’s heavy brows shifted downward, as if he too were evaluating Dupin’s words.

  “Some believe that Father Keane’s death was unnatural. Is there any truth in that rumor?” Dupin asked, as if voicing a query from the bishop himself.

  A look of surprise flickered across Father Moriarty’s face. “We believe Father Keane succumbed to a weak heart.”

  “Frightened by his attackers, no doubt,” Dupin said. “If nothing was stolen, then it would seem likely that an enemy of the Church committed the act—the Nativists, for example.”

  “That is not likely at all. The Nativists would not dare to enter our premises,” Father Moriarty declared.

  “And yet common thieves would not commit murder unless under duress,” Dupin observed. “That does not seem to be the picture here.”

  “The Nativists grow bolder,” Father Nolan said. “They have attacked our brothers on the street. The devils might have followed Father Keane into the library and taken him by surprise.”

  Father Moriarty’s face turned to thunder. “Enough of this talk of the Nativists, Father Nolan. You stir unease amongst our brothers and the students. Let us stick to the facts. No intruders were seen in the building last night or this morning, until now,” he said, glowering at Dupin and I. “And until we are certain what caused the death of Father Keane, there will be no more talk of Nativists committing murder in this library. Am I understood?”

  Father Nolan nodded, his expression contrite.

  “Now, you will excuse me, sirs, I have much to do. I trust you will gain comfort from your visit to St. Augustine’s, Chevalier Dupin, and that Father Nolan proves a worthy guide. Go with God,” he said, dismissing us.

  “Thank you, Father Moriarty. I will remember you to Bishop Kenrick,” Dupin said, before turning and leading Father Nolan and I from the library. The heavy doors immediately closed behind us and the lock clicked into place.

  “Let us go to the church,” Dupin said, “before Father Moriarty sends someone to follow us.”

  Our hurried footsteps echoed around us and the very air was charged with solemnity as we entered the church and made our way up the nave. Upon nearing the altar, the shadows were unexpectedly fractured by splinters of dazzling colored light. An assembly of saints hovered above us, as in a painting made of glass, and the light that spilled through brought the figures to life. We stood in awe for a moment, so wondrous was the sight, and as my gaze drifted downward, I perceived large golden letters above the altar that declared: THE LORD SEETH. A chill settled into me.

  “There,” said Dupin in a low voice. He nodded at the glowing windows and, looking more closely, I saw a raven, something grasped in its beak, hovering above a ragged man.

  “St. Elijah,” Father Nolan muttered. “Why did I not recollect he was there?”

  “He may be above us, but surely the journal is not,” I said.

  Dupin walked in a careful circle, gazing up at the depiction of Elijah and the raven. He then turned to face the direction in which the raven was flying and raised one hand straight in front of him and pointed. We all looked at the spot he was now indicating and saw a quiet alcove, illuminated with the tiny flames of votive candles.

  “St. Francis,” Father Nolan murmured.

  “Who preached to the birds,” Dupin said in a low voice. “We must search there, but cautiously. There are many places in here where a person might observe us without our knowledge.”

  Father Nolan’s apprehension was clear and he stayed close to us as we walked to the statue of St. Francis, which was glazed with shimmering light. At first glance, I could not see where the journal might be hidden, but then I spied a small door beneath the table where the votive candles were arranged.

  “Perhaps you might tell me something about this shrine while Mr. Poe looks for the journal? If we stand here, we should obscure his activity from anyone who might be watching.”

  “Yes, of course,” Father Nolan said cautiously. “What would you like to know?”

  “Begin, perhaps, with the history of St. Augustine Church.”

  Father Nolan began a rambling account of all that led to the establishment of the church and I hoped I would soon find the journal, as Dupin’s patience would quickly wear thin. At first I saw nothing in the small cabinet but a store of votive candles, but when I reached i
nto the far corner, my hand touched soft leather and something cold—metal. I gingerly pulled out the items and, by the flickering light, could not help but gasp when I saw that I held Jeremiah Mathews’s journal and a treasure book that was simpler in design than those we had looked at in the library, but quite obviously very ancient. I tucked both under my coat.

  “Success?” Dupin asked.

  “Indeed. Is there somewhere safe that we may look at the books?” I asked Father Nolan.

  “Books?” Dupin asked.

  “Yes. A treasure book was with the journal.”

  “Then there is nowhere safe here to study it,” Dupin said. “We must take it to your home, Poe.”

  “A book from the library?” Father Nolan was clearly very distressed.

  “We cannot know that right now, but rest assured, it will not be lost or damaged. Father Keane will have hidden it there for an important reason, so I beg you to have faith in him and us,” Dupin said firmly.

  Father Nolan nodded, his expression miserable. “Please God that it helps you to learn who murdered Father Keane,” he said softly. “And that you bring him to justice.”

  21

  The flames hissed and fluttered and filled the parlor with a welcome heat. We had ignored Muddy’s entreaties to partake of a late breakfast, immediately setting to work. Sissy joined us, and I recounted what had transpired at St. Augustine’s.

  “Am I correct in understanding that Father Keane’s death was not natural? That someone took his life?” Sissy asked.

  “Yes,” I confirmed softly.

  Her face revealed a mix of sorrow and anger. “Such a good man,” she murmured.

  “Father Moriarty is hiding something,” Dupin said.

  “It would do the church little good if it were widely known that one of the priests was murdered,” I agreed.

  Sissy frowned. “Surely it is more than that.”