Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

“It is likely that your instincts are correct, Mrs. Poe. Father Moriarty did not quite dare order us to leave as he could not be sure of the veracity of my claim to know the bishop, but he certainly does not want any officers of the police at the church or academy.”

  “That is scarcely surprising, given how they treated Father Keane when we reported Miss Loddiges’s abduction. Truly they acted as if he were a criminal.”

  “It is a pity your friend was treated without respect,” Dupin said. “I would presume from your descriptions of him that Father Keane was an honest man. But someone at the church is not.”

  “And why do you presume this?” I asked.

  Dupin retrieved his overcoat, which he had declined to hang up in the hallway, and from a capacious inside pocket he retrieved a book about the size of his hand, a thing of such beauty that both Sissy and I gasped at the sight of it. It was bound in silver inlaid with golden squares to make a checkerboard effect and each silver square was set with a precious gem. The spine was gold and adorned with amethysts and rubies that formed a cross.

  “Is it from the cabinet in the church library?” I asked tentatively, remembering the spine and knowing that there was no other possibility, yet reluctant to believe that Dupin would take such a precious item without permission. My astonishment was acute, and Sissy’s horrified expression made me feel mortified for my friend.

  “That is where I found it, of course,” Dupin said evenly. “Its true home is in quite another library, however.”

  Dupin undid the jeweled hinges that clasped the book shut and opened it to the frontispiece, which was magnificently illuminated and featured a variety of birds. The title was in French: La Langue des Oiseaux.

  “It is a very rare volume, several centuries old. I was aware of the book’s existence but had never seen it myself, for it was stolen before I was born. As I’ve told you previously, Poe, my grandfather kept very detailed descriptions of his most valued possessions and this book was indeed a treasure to him. When you and Father Nolan were searching for signs of Elijah and the raven in the library, I examined the frontispiece and my suspicions were confirmed.” He pointed to an insignia beneath the title: against an azure field, a large golden foot crushed a serpent that had embedded its fangs in its heel. I immediately recognized it as the Dupin coat of arms.

  “Valdemar stole it?” I asked.

  “Of course. This esoteric volume is most rare and was very precious to my family, more valuable than mere gold and jewels.”

  “Who is Valdemar?” Sissy asked.

  “A thief, a murderer and my sworn enemy,” Dupin said.

  “He was responsible for events that led to the execution of Chevalier Dupin’s grandparents and the death of his mother,” I quickly explained. “Valdemar plundered the Dupin family’s possessions during the revolution in France.”

  “How terrible,” Sissy murmured, her judgmental expression softening.

  “Do you suspect that someone at the church is in league with Valdemar?” I asked.

  Dupin contemplated my words briefly. “It is unwise to underestimate Valdemar’s wickedness, but in this instance I believe he simply sold the volume for a great deal of money.”

  “And someone at St. Augustine’s is purchasing stolen treasure books, hence your suspicions regarding Father Moriarty?” Sissy offered.

  “Indeed.”

  I thought of the locket ring Dupin now wore on a chain with its hidden miniature portraits of his grandparents. He had tracked it to an auction in London, and I had impetuously bid on it until Valdemar had snatched it from our very fingertips.

  “And that is why you removed the book without informing him that it was stolen from your family. You thought that you would never see it again,” she added.

  “Yes,” Dupin said. “I simply recovered what by right belonged to me. I cannot see that as theft, but my sincere apologies if you view my actions otherwise. If you knew how my family has suffered at the hands of the immoral Ernest Valdemar, you might judge me less harshly.”

  “I do not judge you,” my wife said. “You are Eddy’s dearest friend and that makes you a friend to us both.”

  “That is a precious gift,” Dupin said, his expression solemn.

  The silence that followed soon became too airless, so I said: “Shall we examine the volumes Father Keane hid away?”

  Dupin nodded with obvious relief. “Yes, of course.” He prodded the journal and the treasure book that lay on the table around which we were gathered. “We know the journal contains intentional errors that are likely to provide a clue about a mysterious jewel and a legendary treasure in Peru. Father Keane thought this book—Las Costumbres de la Gente de las Nubes—pertinent to the investigation.” He was silent for a moment, scrutinizing the exterior of the tome. The leather had once been supple and a rich scarlet, but was now scuffed and faded. The spine was of hammered gold, which also edged the binding, and the title was printed simply, again in gold, across the front. There was no other decoration, but for two small emeralds set in the golden clasps that held the volume closed.

  Dupin opened the book to the frontispiece, which was a beautifully rendered landscape, an exotic setting of immense tree-covered mountain peaks that pierced the clouds, and above those clouds a majestic city carved into the rocks, smiled upon by a sun with a benevolent human face. At the edge of the city, perched on a cliff face, were a cluster of peculiar statues with solemn expressions that looked out from the mountains like gods. The author of the work was noted as Diego Fernández, the date 1560.

  “Most interesting,” Dupin said. “Fernández was a respected Spanish historian who lived in Peru for a time. I have read his book Primera y Segunda Parte de la Historia del Peru which is a definitive work on the subject.”

  “Why does St. Augustine’s have such a singular tome in its library?” Sissy asked. “One would presume it would be held somewhere in Spain. Is it stolen also?”

  “I don’t think that is the case in this instance,” I said. “The library holds many rare books as the Augustinian friars wished to establish an exceptional center of scholarship at the academy. Father Keane told me that the Augustinians have a connection with Peru—Spanish Augustinians traveled there in the mid-sixteenth century.”

  Dupin slowly leafed through the pages, many of which were beautifully illuminated with images of exotic flora and fauna, the calligraphy of the text graceful enough. And just as Dupin began to turn the page again, I spied another slip of paper nestled in the fold of the book.

  “Wait.” I pointed at the paper. “Another note.”

  Dupin extracted it and unfolded the paper. We leaned in to read its contents and saw another quotation from the Bible written in Father Keane’s hand:

  Ecclesiastes 10:20

  Detract not the king, no not in thy thought; and speak not evil of the rich man in thy private chamber: because even the birds of the air will carry thy voice, and he that hath wings will tell what thou hast said.

  “A warning,” Sissy murmured.

  “A warning about someone with power, someone not to be trusted,” I said. “Could it be that he knew the person who murdered him? He feared no one previously, of that I am certain.”

  “It is possible, of course. If so, it would seem that Father Keane came upon something of consequence, something that would damage that person’s reputation enough for him to commit murder,” Dupin observed. “‘Detract not the king’—that insinuates someone high up at St. Augustine’s. Someone who may have any number of people spying for him—‘he that hath wings will tell what thou hast said.’”

  “Father Moriarty immediately springs to mind,” I said.

  “Indeed. But might he be protecting someone else? Certainly it would be unwise to trust him. And we must also consider why Father Keane left his warning within this book at this particular page, for it must be relevant,” Dupin said.

  I wondered again why Father Keane had not made the journey to our home, where he would have been safe if he believ
ed that someone at St. Augustine’s was such a threat to his very existence. Father Nolan said that our friend had been highly disconcerted when he returned to the academy after an errand. What was that errand and what happened to him on his journey back? Had someone threatened him? Had he seen something that shocked him? Perhaps someone he trusted or deemed above corruption had proved otherwise? And why hadn’t he left a note for me that plainly said what had transpired?

  “It seems likely that your friend feared for his life and left clues for you regarding the identities of his murderer and Miss Loddiges’s abductor, who may or may not be one and the same person. He may have intended to tell you in person what he discovered, but his fears were realized. I am sorry, Poe.”

  “As am I. Father Keane was an exceptional man.”

  “We will avenge him. But first we must read the journal and the work by Diego Fernández. Shall I begin with the journal, as I have some knowledge of Peruvian ornithology, while you study Las Costumbres de la Gente de las Nubes, beginning with this chapter?” Dupin placed the slip of paper back where it had been hidden and handed the tome to me. He then picked up the treasure book he had reclaimed and held it toward my wife. “Would you care to read it?” he asked. “It is a rather obscure text about the secret language practiced by my ancestors several hundred years ago, but quite fascinating.”

  I was astounded at Dupin’s offer, as was Sissy, who did not seem certain whether to accept or demur.

  “I do not wish to immerse myself in the work until I have time to study it seriously,” he added. “It is a most beautiful illuminated volume. You may enjoy its artistry.”

  Sissy took the exquisite treasure book with wide eyes and a slightly trembling hand. “I know I will enjoy it and promise to treat it with great care.”

  “I had no doubt,” Dupin said lightly. “Shall we reconvene later this evening to discuss what we find?”

  I looked at the thick volume I was tasked with reading. “I will do my best, but may not fathom enough so quickly. And you will find, I think, there is much to unravel in the journal. Father Keane was quite an expert ornithologist and found only two intentional errors, although he was certain there were more. Deciphering what Jeremiah Mathews was endeavoring to communicate surreptitiously might take longer than you imagine.”

  Dupin raised his brows, but did not contradict me.

  “Certainly we might share anything that seems relevant before the day finishes,” my wife said, “and reconvene tomorrow morning to fully discuss both volumes and formulate a plan to rescue Helena.”

  Again Dupin raised his brows, this time at Sissy’s presumption of her inclusion. “That seems a good idea,” he said politely. “But let us not forget that Miss Loddiges’s abductor is without scruples. We know that he wants the journal in our possession, as it is a key to gaining something he desperately desires. It is not yet clear why he has taken Miss Loddiges. Perhaps he thinks she knows where the journal is or that she has some other knowledge he seeks. Or perhaps he has demanded ransom from her father and is waiting for his demands to be met. But one thing seems certain. If Father Keane’s demise is connected to her abduction, as the evidence suggests, the devil will simply murder the lady if he does not get what he wants. Time is of the essence if we are to save your benefactress.”

  “And friend,” Sissy added. “Certainly I will find it impossible to sleep until we make Helena safe.” She carefully placed the treasure book on the table next to her chair and stood up. “I will organize coffee and, Eddy, if you would ensure there is enough wood for the fire so that we might continue to work unabated.”

  I could see that Dupin was not completely comfortable with Sissy’s involvement in our quest, but he did not object. It would be up to me to ensure that my wife was kept out of harm’s way.

  22

  It was unbearably hot and moisture thickened the air. The tails of our mules twitched and flicked as the flies jumped from one flank to the other or buzzed in circles around us, but the patient creatures continued onward led by the native Peruvian porters who had packed our supplies. We were in excellent botanizing territory, but the trail was rough and narrow, frequently disappearing into primeval forest, which seemed a cognizant entity—quarrelsome, powerful and constantly at war with our little troupe, rebuffing our efforts to collect specimens of its grasses, herbs, shrubs.

  We followed a fast-moving stream that cut through the greenery, and it too was remarkable, as emeralds and lumps of gold were mixed through the gravel of its bed. There was no time to collect these riches, however, as it was imperative that we reach our destination by dusk, which was almost upon us.

  Night enveloped the cloud forest with speed, and with the darkness came a myriad of dangers: venomous insects that might paralyze or kill us, deadly serpents and fierce jaguars on the prowl, or so we were warned by our expedition leader, known to us only as “the captain”. He was a man of medium height with the noble features and blue-black hair of the people indigenous to that area, but with surprisingly fair skin and eyes of turquoise. The porters whispered that our captain was descended from the Cloud People, fierce warriors that had staved off the marauding Incas and conquistadors, protecting their celestial cities that held secret troves of gold, silver and emeralds. The captain knew where these mysterious cities and their riches were located and believed it was his destiny to return there as rightful king, when his gods decreed it was time for his people to rise again.

  Three Peruvian guides slashed through the verdant foliage with machetes, and birds chattered above us, following our course with interest, as did other creatures we heard but did not see in the undergrowth. A quick-flying arrow sent a python slithering into the depths of the forest and a throng of parrots exploded from the tree canopy; airborne jewels that chattered noisily until retreating back into the leaves.

  The sky was a mix of bright pinks and yellows as the sun slipped down to the mountain tops and there was a rumbling sound as if the forest were ravenous, and the sound increased as we progressed until it was an angry roaring. Our guides signaled caution and hacked at low-hanging branches draped in vines and exotic flowers. The window in the green revealed the source of the noise—a monstrous waterfall. A few more oblivious steps had it been dark and we would have plunged into that watery maw.

  Onward we climbed, stumbling, sometimes crawling, through loose scree, as the captain urged us on to the place where we would make camp for the night. Fear made us scramble faster as the sun had dropped below the horizon and all the color leaked from the sky. We had to make our way by torchlight for a time until the landscape was immersed in silver spilled from an immense full moon.

  Moments later, we came to a plateau at the foot of a mountain, the place the captain had designated as our campsite. As we each looked up, our group fell into utter, breathless silence, for illuminated in the silvery light was an assembly of giants—white figures with large heads and enormous, dark eyes—and this host was suspended in the air like the strange ghosts of some alien race. I half-expected to be mown down by those frightful, silent creatures and retreated several steps, as did my companions.

  “Fear not,” the captain said. “They wait for their time.”

  I wished to believe there was nothing to fear from those Chachapoyan giants, but an unearthly screech pierced the quiet—a bird crying out as if in warning. And again it came, louder still . . .

  But I found myself awake in my bed, disoriented, the darkness of the mountains replaced with the shadows of our house immersed in deepest night. The peculiar bird-call sounded again, pulling me more firmly into the corporeal world. Had another crow inched its way down the chimney and into the kitchen? I slipped out of bed and crept to the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone, but was startled by the unmistakable sound of pottery shattering on stone. I did not think, merely ran down the stairs, determined to rescue Sissy’s crockery before the winged creature could do more harm. My heart near stopped its beating as a shadow loomed before me in the hallway.
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br />   “Take heed,” whispered Dupin. “I fear it is an intruder.”

  He ran for the parlor, and, still groggy with sleep, I turned into the kitchen, determined to arm myself. The fire had long been extinguished and the room was empty of light. I located the fire iron by memory and stood with my back to the wall, allowing my eyes to further adjust to the darkness. Moments later, a flickering glow crept along the hallway and I gripped my weapon more tightly. Dupin appeared in the doorway, his cobra walking stick in his left hand, a lit oil lamp in his right. Before I could speak, he took three quick strides into the kitchen and lunged forward, swinging his stick viciously. I threw myself to the wall and heard a yelp of pain as a person fell to the floor near my feet. Dupin pinned him with his walking stick.

  “Do not move,” he growled.

  “I won’t, sir,” a voice sniveled. “I’m not moving, sir.” He squealed again with pain as Dupin prodded him. I placed the fire iron against the wall and quickly lit two tapers and the mantelpiece lamp. The soft glow revealed that our adversary was but a boy of twelve or thirteen, tall for his age, but severely underfed with a pale freckled face and mop of ginger curls.

  “Rope?” Dupin asked.

  I spied a bundle of rosemary that Muddy had suspended from the ceiling rafter and fetched it down—the twine would have to suffice. I tied the boy’s hands behind his back, and Dupin searched him. He found no weapon, but located the tools of a housebreaker’s trade: a jemmy, several picklocks and a knife, along with a folded note. He opened the paper and showed it to me; the letters “J M” were scrawled upon it. We hoisted the boy into a chair and the roving shadows created by the candlelight enhanced the look of fear on the boy’s face.

  “Who sent you?” Dupin demanded.

  “No one! It’s my family, sir. We haven’t enough for food. There is a man who will buy valuable things—paintings and books and the like,” he said, his high-pitched voice cracking either with fear, his youth or both.