“A pigeon that will make a fine supper if I get my hands around its neck.” She moved toward the kitchen, broom held aloft like a weapon. Dupin and I hurried after her.
“Quite the coincidence,” he said, voicing my own thoughts.
A thrumming sound filled the air, and Virginia scurried through the door, arms held over her head. “The beastly thing! It came in through the window and will not leave the same way.” She threw her arms around me, which caused me to huff in pain, and her face filled with concern. “What happened? It was all a ruse, wasn’t it? Are you terribly hurt?” She gently touched where the Duchess’s fist had connected with the side of my head.
“I am perfectly fine, dearest. Let us capture the bird first, then I will explain everything.” I extracted myself from her arms and followed Dupin into the kitchen. He stood at its center, watching a fine-looking pigeon saunter along a shelf, pink feet high-stepping and head bobbing, its feathers a decorous gray but for the black stripes across its wings and gleams of amethyst and emerald at its throat like a fanciful neckcloth.
“It is well cared for,” Dupin observed. “And, as we presumed, it did not enter your house by chance.”
“Quite impossible,” I agreed. “A homing pigeon only flies to its home. Someone must have purposefully released it here.”
“With a message. Notice its leg.” Dupin pointed at the bird, and I focused my gaze on the restless pigeon’s feet. There was indeed something attached to its leg, but the bird flew up into the air before I could get a proper look at it. The creature circled the room once, tried to perch upon the door lintel, then returned to the shelf.
“Another threat? But surely our adversaries believe they have stolen what they were after.”
“True,” Dupin agreed, his eyes staring into those of the pigeon’s like a mesmerist. He suddenly reached up and grasped the pigeon around its middle, pinning its wings to its body. The bird gave no resistance. “The message will tell us if the bird came from foe or friend.” He held the bird toward me, and I removed the small slip of folded paper that was attached to its leg with a piece of string as Sissy crept back into the room carrying a large hatbox, its lid punched with holes.
“For the bird.” She placed the box on the table and removed the lid. Dupin placed the now docile creature inside the box and replaced the lid. My wife nodded at the folded slip of paper in my hands. “What does it say?”
I quickly opened the note and read it out: “‘Noon, tomorrow. The Philosophical Hall. Two sold. Bring two more.’” Silent contemplation stilled the air.
“It is, of course, obvious that the message was not meant for us,” Dupin said. “The note suggests that the sender and the intended recipient have a usual meeting place at the Philosophical Hall, and that they are in league selling some commodity for mutual benefit. Given that Billy Sweeney’s employers at St. Augustine’s—the two criminal priests—relay messages to Old Blockley with pigeons, and considering the notes Father Keane hid within the treasure books in the library, I would venture to guess that it is treasure books that are being stolen and sold. They would, after all, be among the most valuable commodities at St. Augustine, yet they are relatively easily stolen and spirited away without raising suspicion—as I myself have demonstrated.” Dupin paused to allow us to consider his words. “I also believe that the bird was sent from the would-be journal thief or his accomplice to someone at St. Augustine’s.”
“It is conceivable,” I agreed. “If we station ourselves near the entrance of the Philosophical Hall prior to noon, perhaps we will discover who is after the journal and who murdered Jeremiah Mathews.”
“But it does not tell us why this bird and its message ended up in our kitchen,” Sissy observed.
“Indeed,” Dupin nodded. “It is obvious that someone captured the bird and delivered it through your window. We seem to have an ally.”
Sissy looked as surprised as I felt. She pondered Dupin’s declaration for a moment then said, “Do you think it is Billy? That he intercepted a carrier pigeon somehow to help us?”
“No,” Dupin said. “Your faith in the boy is admirable, but it is most certainly not his doing. Let us recall for a moment the ghost that haunted Miss Loddiges before her journey.”
“The ghost of Jeremiah Mathews.”
“Indeed. We have presumed that Miss Loddiges is overly imaginative,” Dupin said generously. “That in her grief she saw things that were not there. But what if she were not dreaming when she saw her beloved?” He paused for a moment to allow that thought to consume our consciousness.
“What if the ghost is not a ghost at all?” Sissy ventured.
Dupin nodded. “What proof do we have that Jeremiah Mathews has been murdered, other than accounts of his death delivered to George Loddiges?”
“Surely the young man was sent home for burial. It was the duty of Helena’s father to see to that if young Mr. Mathews died in his employ,” my mother-in-law declared.
She was not wrong, and yet I could not recall that Miss Loddiges had made any mention of grieving over Jeremiah Mathew’s lifeless form or of attending his burial.
“Miss Loddiges received a package sent by Jeremiah Mathews from Panama. It contained his journal and a letter asking her to take care of it for him. He hoped to see her by Christmas. Shortly after, George Loddiges received a letter informing him of Jeremiah Mathew’s death by drowning in Philadelphia, which arrived with the bird and plant specimens the young man had collected for him in Peru,” I summarized. “Miss Loddiges did not directly state that his body was returned to England, however. I had merely presumed that was the case.”
“So it is possible that his death is a hoax,” Sissy said. “But if Jeremiah Mathews is truly alive and Miss Loddiges caught sight of him in London, why did he not explain everything to her?”
“One step at a time,” Dupin advised, “or we will miss something. Let us first ascertain if the young man is truly dead or if he might be alive and in hiding. There must be an office that keeps an official record of the deaths in this city.”
“We might try the Lazaretto,” I said. “All ships bound for Philadelphia must dock there first and go through a strict quarantine inspection of both crew and cargo to prevent them bringing contagion into the city. We know the rough date of Jeremiah Mathews’s arrival in Philadelphia and where his ship came from. The quarantine inspection logs should record the date of arrival of all vessels, information regarding the crew and cargo, and the date each vessel was permitted to leave the quarantine station.”
“Very good,” Dupin said.
“As for that in the box,” Muddy interjected, “will you be releasing it or will I be cooking it for supper?”
The thought of roasted pigeon made my mouth water and I could see that Sissy and Dupin entertained similar thoughts.
“We had best release it,” my wife said, “with the message attached to its leg, or the intended recipient will not know about the meeting tomorrow.”
“True,” I agreed. “Dupin, would you do the honors, given your apparent ability to charm the creature?”
He refolded the paper, took the lid from the hatbox, and without any difficulty at all reaffixed the note to the pigeon, then put the lid back onto the box. “I have an idea,” he said.
Dupin picked up the hatbox and exited the house with it. Sissy and I rushed after, but when we reached the front porch, he had disappeared.
“Dupin?”
“Here, near the kitchen window.”
When we walked around the corner of the house, there he was, crouched on the ground, examining the dirt. “Did you find something?” I asked.
“Do not move,” he instructed, raising a hand to halt my progress. He was staring intently at the ground, but I could see nothing. “Most of the footprints have erased each other, but here is a very good one,” he added. “As it faces the window, I believe we might presume that it belongs to the person who released the pigeon into your home.”
I crouched down a
nd saw quite a clear footprint in the mud.
“From the size and depth of the print, I would suggest that the man who released the bird into the kitchen is smaller than both of us, but stocky—of a greater weight. And that he was wearing sturdy boots.”
“You are able to ascertain that from the footprint?” Sissy shook her head. “If Eddy had not told me so many tales of your skill in ratiocination, I would think you a sorcerer, Monsieur Dupin.”
“It is but an educated guess. I am as curious as you to see if it proves accurate.” Dupin smiled slightly, then said in a low voice, “The trick, of course, is to obscure one’s steps when explaining what one has divined through ratiocination. This gives the illusion of mystical powers, which can be advantageous if the adversary is wrong-footed by fear.”
“But I suppose one’s adversary might be adroit at the same game,” my wife said. “Which makes a mystery all the more difficult to solve.”
How right she was! Dupin and I had both lost at the game for a time in London.
“Correct again, Mrs. Poe. I hope we will always remain on the same side.”
“Surely there is no fear of that?” she said, smiling. “Now go set the bird free to deliver its mysterious message.”
30
A quarter of an hour later, I was striding along Vine Street with Dupin, who carried Sissy’s makeshift pigeon carrier in his hands, while I had Las Costumbres de la Gente de las Nubes in my coat pocket. Dupin had pointed out that it made no sense to release the bird from our home as we would not be able to track it for long, but if we released the creature near St. Augustine’s, we would soon know if someone at the church sent the message or was its intended recipient.
“What precisely is our plan now?” I asked as we neared our destination.
“The door in the stone wall that the priests entered by the night we followed them to St. Augustine’s—it leads into the gardens, correct?”
“Correct. Father Keane and I sat in the gardens on occasion, but I cannot recall if there are pigeon lofts there.”
As the stone wall that enclosed St. Augustine’s came into view, we observed a man leading a horse and cart through the large double door in it. The wagon’s contents were covered with a tarpaulin and the doors closed behind them.
“Interesting.” Dupin strode up to the doors and tried the latch to the smaller wicket cut into one of them. It swung several inches and he peered through, then said, “I will release the pigeon, then let us enter and observe what happens.”
“And if someone challenges us?”
“We are merely returning a book to Father Nolan in the library. Certainly he will gloss over our actions for fear of admonishment, or worse, from his superior.”
I thought of the formidable and seemingly heartless Father Moriarty and knew that Dupin was right. “Let us begin then.”
We stood on either side of the doors, obscured from anyone who might be in the garden, and Dupin lifted the lid from the hatbox. Nothing happened and I momentarily feared that the bird had met its end during our journey, but as soon as Dupin swept the hatbox up and back down again, the creature burst into flight and circled once high above us. We watched as it began to circle again, as if getting its bearings, then descended toward the garden. We immediately slipped inside the grounds of St. Augustine’s.
“There,” Dupin muttered, nodding his head at a turret built into the garden wall, and when our pigeon flew into a hole at the top of it, I realized it was an artfully constructed dovecot. A door at the base of the wall opened into the structure and another door on the side of the dovecot led to a walkway on top of the garden wall. We stood quietly in the garden, waiting for any indication that someone had received the pigeon’s message, but time stretched on and just as I was about to suggest that our presence there was going to raise suspicion, a small, wiry priest exited onto the walkway, a pigeon cupped in his hands. His size and something in his movements made me wonder if he were one of the priests we had followed from the Mermaid. He threw his hands toward the heavens and the pigeon erupted from them, no doubt with another slip of paper tethered to its leg.
“Keep sight of the bird,” Dupin muttered. “Try to gauge the direction in which it flies, for that is where the guilty priest’s accomplice resides.”
We stood and watched as the bird soared up, flying northwest until it disappeared into the blue.
“Not in the direction of Old Blockley,” I observed.
“Indeed. And I wonder if that is Father Carroll or Father Healey,” he murmured. “Presumably Healey, since he is the one who takes care of the birds here, according to our young lockpick.”
I watched the priest, who seemed intent on observing the flight of the pigeon he had released.
“Let us make our way to the library on the pretext of returning the book to Father Nolan as promised. I’d like to find out who has access to the treasure books and where the list of those held by the library is kept,” Dupin said.
I led the way inside and we found Father Nolan seated at a table in the library, engrossed in an ancient tome, oblivious to all around him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I said. “That appears compelling.”
The priest shied like a startled horse at my voice and his face was the picture of surprise when he looked up at us.
“Mr. Poe and Chevalier Dupin. What an unexpected surprise. I was attempting to steal some reading time before attending to my students.”
“It is difficult to find enough hours in the day to read,” Dupin agreed. “So we will not keep you for long.”
“I am more than happy to assist,” Father Nolan demurred.
“We have brought back the treasure book.” I retrieved it from my coat pocket and held it toward him.
“Thank you, sirs. That is a relief.” Father Nolan’s face was filled with that emotion as he took the volume from me. “I began to fear that Father Keane would be accused of theft, as the book’s absence has been noted.” He made his way to the treasure book cabinet and fished his set of cabinet keys from his pocket. Dupin joined him there as he opened the glass door, and I followed. We watched as he gazed at the books on the left of the shelf, then made space for Las Costumbres de la Gente de las Nubes.
Dupin stared intently at the books in the open cabinet, then began to scrutinize the display of books in the other locked cabinets. “I presume Father Moriarty takes an inventory of the treasure books on a regular basis?” Dupin asked as he looked at book after book.
“Indeed,” Father Nolan nodded. “I dissuaded him from doing so yesterday, but he will not be deterred again, of that I am certain.”
I wondered if Father Nolan did his own inventory and whether he was aware that the exquisite tome La Langue des Oiseaux was no longer in the treasure book cabinet.
“I noted during our last visit that the treasure books are arranged alphabetically by title. Is there an alphabetical listing of the books held here in the library?” Dupin asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“May I see it?” Dupin asked.
“Sir?” The priest’s shock at the request was more than clear.
“I believe that an illicit trade in treasure books is being conducted and would like to test my theory.”
Father Nolan remained in stunned silence for a moment. “You cannot believe that Father Keane removed additional books,” he said, indicating the tome we had returned.
“Of course not,” I said quickly. “Father Keane may have come upon a person or persons in the act of stealing books and been murdered for it. And the perpetrator is likely to be someone who resides at St. Augustine’s rather than a stranger.”
Father Nolan blanched and staggered slightly as if he had just received a physical blow. He shook his head and struggled to speak, but could not.
“The list of treasure books,” Dupin repeated. “May I see it?”
Father Nolan shut the cabinet and locked it. “Not today, I’m afraid. I would have to receive permission from Father Moriarty,
who keeps the ledger in his office. As I mentioned, he does the inventory and is the only person who has access to the official list.” A frown creased Father Nolan’s forehead, as if the thought caused him concern.
“And therefore he is the only person who would know if any books went missing,” Dupin said.
“In all likelihood,” Father Nolan agreed.
“Thank you, sir,” Dupin said, scanning the treasure book cabinets as he walked back toward us. “You have been most helpful.”
“I am glad if I have been of some small assistance.” Father Nolan looked to me, then Dupin, and back again, his demeanor and garb giving him the look of a nervous magpie.
“We will find Father Keane’s murderer, have no doubt,” I said. “And justice will be served.”
“That is some comfort,” Father Nolan said. “God rest his soul.” He solemnly made the sign of the cross and dismissed us with a gentle nod.
31
TUESDAY, 19 MARCH 1844
“It was an oasis contained by glass, filled with palm trees and orchids made strange by moonlight, and creeping vines with trumpet-shaped flowers, around which a tiny bird of emerald hovered and darted. I made my way like a thief from that exotic space through a dark passageway and entered a candlelit chamber I recognized: Miss Loddiges’s sitting room. It was crammed with Wardian cases filled with ferns and a flock of innumerable and diverse birds, frozen and silent, as if asleep. Then a glint, the flicker of something observing me from the darkness.
“‘Hello, old girl,’ a croaking voice said. ‘What the devil is going on here?’ With a flutter of wings, Grip the raven swooped down from a bookshelf and landed on a chair next to me. The bird observed me with its gimlet eye. ‘I told her,’ it said. ‘I told her and warned her.’
This was not the bird’s usual repertoire of nonsense.
“‘Where is she? Where is Miss Loddiges?’ I asked.
“‘Miss Loddiges,’ the creature chattered. ‘Hello, old girl.’ As he flew up to the bookcase, the sitting room door opened and in walked the lady herself, along with Andrew Mathews and his son Jeremiah. What an odd trio they were, Miss Loddiges in her peculiar clothing and hummingbird embellishments, the solemn Jeremiah Mathews in a plain dark suit and Andrew Mathews wearing a forest-green jacket with the diaphanous bubble attached to its front.
Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru Page 18
