Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  “He must have worked out that Father Keane hid the journal, for surely it was Father Nolan who ransacked his office looking for it. He was devious enough to let us find it, and the treasure book, for him. Of course he did not have a subtle way of stopping us from taking either away from St. Augustine’s without appearing guilty.”

  “Very true. I also suspect his claim that Father Moriarty conducts inventory of the treasure books is false—as librarian it would surely be his duty, giving him ample opportunity to conduct his illicit trade,” Dupin said. “Certainly Nolan has proved himself to be utterly ruthless and manipulative when we consider Father Keane’s fate. Your friend must have uncovered something that endangered Nolan’s plans—perhaps his theft of the books or his association with Renelle.”

  The image of Father Keane sprawled on the floor, framed in splashes of colored light, returned to me like a bad dream. Dupin’s supposition did seem the most likely scenario. And then I thought back to how I had been summoned to the library, how calmly Father Nolan had shown me my friend’s body, which had been left on the floor since his life was stolen from him. Only a ruthless man could behave in such a way.

  “Do you think Father Nolan’s actions are driven purely by greed?” I asked. “I wonder if he seeks power. It is plain that he and Father Moriarty have little or no affection for each other.”

  Dupin considered this and nodded. “Father Nolan is an accomplished dissembler who plays the lamb to gain one’s confidence and ferret out information. The lust for power often motivates such people. He pretends to be cowed by Father Moriarty, but it would not surprise me if Father Nolan covets his superior’s role at St. Augustine’s.”

  Sissy’s face filled with worry. “Did he notice you at the Philosophical Hall?”

  “I don’t think Nolan observed either of us there,” Dupin said. “I blocked your husband from his view and did my best to obscure my identity.”

  “Tinted spectacles and copious amounts of smoke from his meerschaum,” I explained. “I myself could barely discern his features.”

  My wife smiled, somewhat reassured.

  “The most pressing question at this time,” Dupin continued, “is how to persuade Professor Renelle to invite you to his home. We must find out if Miss Loddiges is being held there and if so how we might rescue her.”

  “That sounds a dangerous proposition,” Sissy murmured.

  “It is not without risk, but I believe we will prevail if Renelle and Nolan remain ignorant of what we have learned so far. While they both know that you have Jeremiah Mathews’s journal, Poe, and that you realize someone desperately wants it, they don’t know what we have gleaned from piecing together the evidence—quite literally with respect to Renelle’s name. For example, they are unaware we have determined that Professor Renelle travelled to Peru with both Andrew and Jeremiah Mathews and is responsible directly or indirectly for their deaths. Or that we presume he abducted Miss Loddiges, given his desire to obtain Jeremiah Mathews’s journal.”

  I could not fault Dupin’s presumptions. Nolan knew of our determination to bring Father Keane’s murderer to justice, but we had never spoken to him of our investigation into the deaths of Andrew or Jeremiah Mathews or the abduction of Miss Loddiges.

  “Father Nolan may have told Renelle that we suspect treasure books have been stolen from St. Augustine’s library, but will think he has duped us into believing his innocence,” I said.

  “But Professor Renelle certainly knows who you are, Eddy, from Helena, by name if not by sight. And Father Nolan has met both of you, so may have provided his accomplice with your descriptions,” Sissy pointed out.

  “We must indeed presume this is the case, hence why I stress the importance of feigning to know nothing of what Renelle is up to,” Dupin said.

  “Perhaps there is something to be gained by pretending to be a treasure hunter, too. If I approach Professor Renelle as an investor in his next expedition, asking for a percentage of whatever is found, he may then conclude that my interest in the journal springs from my own dreams of finding the emerald, and the king’s treasure,” I suggested.

  “Which explains why you and your wife are at Renelle’s lecture. Excellent idea. And I believe your attendance is crucial, Mrs. Poe,” Dupin added, when he took note of her surprise to be included.

  Muddy, who had been taking little notice of the conversation, looked as alarmed as I felt.

  “How do you mean?” my wife said cautiously.

  “From my assessment of the professor’s attire and demeanor, he is a man full of arrogance and self-regard, the sort of man whose pride and vanity leads him into error. If you both approach him after the lecture and Poe professes a keen interest in antiquities, suggesting he wishes to invest in Renelle’s next expedition, perhaps you might charm him into inviting you both to his home to discuss the proposal in more detail.”

  Sissy considered this and nodded. “And should we receive an invitation to Professor Renelle’s, we will be able to keep him occupied while you investigate the premises and fathom the best way to rescue Miss Loddiges.”

  “Exactly,” Dupin said. “If you have no objections. We must be bold if we are to rescue your friend.”

  “I have no objections. Indeed, I am determined to help.”

  “Poe?”

  I did not like the sound of Dupin’s suggestion at all, especially as it was presented in such a way as to make it difficult for Sissy to refuse.

  “Let us take the measure of Renelle tomorrow evening,” I said. “I will not promise anything that might put my wife in danger.”

  Muddy’s expression was one of relief, which contrasted sharply with Sissy’s look of determination.

  33

  WEDNESDAY, 20 MARCH 1844

  The wind tasted of ice and the water was slate gray and choppy as we sailed on the steamer that would take us to the Lazaretto. We had made an early start and the morning sky still held a rosy glow that contrasted with the murky waves beneath us as we left the city, heading south along the Delaware River. Dupin was absorbed by the journey—the grand houses that lined the river, the simple design of Old Swedes Church, the factories further south. When we neared the Neck, the spot where the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers met, the smell of death permeated the air, from the industries of bone-boiling and manufacture of fertilizer. The gulls that reeled and screeched overhead were joined by more stately herons and egrets standing in the marshlands that softened the Pennsylvanian shoreline. This part of the river was renowned for its shad fishing and the animosity between the fishermen of Pennsylvania and New Jersey regarding where they might seek their prey. When Little Tinicum Island came into sight, I knew we were nearing our destination, and moments later I caught a glimpse of a yellow flag fluttering on the breeze.

  “There,” I said. “The Lazaretto. I am certain this place holds the truth of Jeremiah Mathews’s last days. Any ship transporting collections of bird skins and plants from exotic places would be obliged to stop for what might be quite a lengthy quarantine inspection.”

  “I hope we will have the opportunity to see firsthand how the quarantine procedure operates,” Dupin said, nodding at a ship that was moored. “It will assist us in unraveling the circumstances of Jeremiah’s death—if he is indeed deceased.”

  “I suggest we interview both the quarantine master and the physician. There should be records of the ship’s landing and all who travelled on board.”

  An imposing red-brick building came into view that seemed designed to give a cordial yet austere welcome to those approaching. Its central section was three stories high, with a cupola and weathervane at its top, with two wings on either side that were a story lower and gave it a pleasing symmetry. Once the steamship was docked, the captain gave a friendly nod as we disembarked. He had agreed to ferry us to and from the Lazaretto as he delivered supplies, satisfied with the handsome “gratuity” that supplemented my tale of misplaced permits to enter the station to conduct urgent business. The captain had infor
med us that the Quarantine Master’s House was about forty yards to the southeast of the main building and the Physician’s House mirrored it on the southwest side.

  I began to make my way toward the quarantine master’s accommodation, but Dupin paused to gaze at the moored ship, which was called the Hopewell. There were people on the deck, including some women with children huddled together against the cold.

  “I wonder how long they have been moored here,” I said. “It must be terrible to be so close to one’s destination and yet forced to wait.”

  “Steerage passengers, I believe. The cold air must be preferable to that inside the ship.”

  “In my experience, that is the case even when one has a cabin,” I muttered, remembering without any trace of fondness my own journeys across the Atlantic to London and back again.

  “Let us go find out more,” Dupin said.

  When we reached the home of Mr. Pollard, the quarantine master, a servant let us in the door. We waited almost a quarter of an hour for him to appear and lead us into his study. Mr. Pollard was a lively man of about forty-five years, in well-made if ill-fitting somber clothing. From the traces of toasted bread and egg yolk in his gray mustache and beard, it seemed we had interrupted his breakfast.

  “How might I help you, gentleman?” he asked after all the introductions were out of the way. “You have questions about bringing goods into the city of Philadelphia from foreign climes?” He looked from Dupin to me and back again with inquisitive dark eyes and the skittish manner of a squirrel.

  “Correct, sir. We import plants and ornithological specimens of interest to the Bartram’s Botanical Gardens here in Philadelphia and the Loddiges’s nursery in London. We had a minor interest in a cargo that arrived from Peru in October of last year and wish to understand how better to organize our next expedition and subsequent cargo,” Dupin announced before I could say a word. I hoped my face did not reveal my astonishment at his words.

  “Very good,” Mr. Pollard said with great approval. “If more were aware of the necessary procedures there would be far less trouble all round. My duty is to protect the city of Philadelphia from pestilence—it is of no consequence to me whether a ship is moored here for a day or a month and a day if that proves to be necessary.”

  “Quite right, sir. My own grandmother died of the yellow fever. No one should wish to revisit the horror of the 1793 epidemic,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Pollard said with a shudder. “My parents survived it or I would not be here today.”

  “How lucky for you,” Dupin said, with an utterly serious face. “If you please, tell us the procedure you go through when a ship arrives at the Lazaretto,” he added.

  “Well, as you will perhaps have noticed, the Lazaretto operates rather like an island, cut off from the mainland for its main purpose. Accommodation is provided for those employed here.” He waved his hands at the four walls around us. “We also have extensive gardens for food, and necessary supplies are brought in by steamboat. Some of those employed here rarely leave the Lazaretto—”

  “Interesting,” Dupin interjected, with little attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what is the procedure when a ship arrives?”

  “When inbound vessels are sighted, the lookout rings the Watch House bell to alert Dr. Henderson and myself. The ship is moored and no one is permitted to disembark. We travel out to the ship and examine both the cargo and the passengers. If the doctor finds that anyone is ill enough to require treatment in our hospital, they are then taken there and, of course, all is recorded.”

  “So all within the ship is examined when moored. No one disembarks and nothing is taken off the ship except under your direct instruction.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And how long does the quarantine process take?” I asked.

  “Normally a day, if all are in good health and nothing on board needs fumigation. I present the ship’s captain with a certificate of health and he may then sail up the river to Philadelphia.”

  “And what if someone is ill?” Dupin asked.

  “If there is any sickness on board, or the ship has been to a port where there is known to be a contagious disease outbreak, the ship is detained here. Those afflicted are removed and taken to the hospital.”

  “And what of the others?” I asked.

  “They must wait on board to ensure they are not harboring any disease. The ship is thoroughly scoured and its cargo fumigated with burning sulfur and alcohol.”

  “What is the procedure regarding ships with cargo from exotic climes, such as ornithological specimens from Peru?” Dupin queried.

  “Fumigation, most certainly,” Mr. Pollard said.

  “Do you recall such a ship arriving from Peru last October?” Dupin continued. “It contained a cargo of ornithological specimens, plants, seeds and primitive antiquities?”

  “Ornithological specimens, Peru . . .” Mr. Pollard squinted as if trying to look back in time and the frown deepened on his face. “I do have a recollection of such a cargo. There was a most troublesome investor. Came here several times and demanded to board the ship, which was, of course, not permitted.”

  A shiver crept up my back, like a spider. Dupin’s eyes met mine and I knew he was wondering the same thing.

  “Do you mean Professor Renelle?” I asked.

  Mr. Pollard squinted again. “He was quite a tall fellow, or perhaps his bearing made him seem so. Hair like a lion’s mane. Loud voice. Unpardonably unpleasant.”

  His description was very like the man we had observed with Father Nolan at the Philosophical Society.

  “You say he came to the Lazaretto several times—you are certain he was not a part of the expedition?” Dupin asked.

  “Sir, if he were a member of the expedition, he would be on board the ship, would he not?”

  Dupin laughed. “Indeed, that is what we believed. I am afraid the fellow misled us not only about discoveries made on that journey to the mountains of Peru, but also about the fate of a young man who most certainly was on that expedition and the ship of which you speak—a young man called Jeremiah Mathews. His friends were informed that he drowned in Philadelphia, but they have no proof of his demise. We now must wonder if the young man died at all.”

  “The family should have received an official notification of his death,” Mr. Pollard said.

  “No official document was sent that we are aware of,” I told him. Another shiver crept up my back. Given what we had just learned, Miss Loddiges’s ghost might very well be flesh and blood as Dupin had suggested.

  “I should be able to answer that for you,” Mr. Pollard said. “For all is noted in the day books. October 1843, you say?”

  “Indeed, sir,” I confirmed.

  Mr. Pollard made his way to the bookshelves and examined a row of volumes all bound in the same plain brown leather, but stamped with dates. He selected one and returned to us. “Now let me see.” He opened the volume and carefully leafed through the pages, which were neatly annotated. “It is all by date. I keep a record of the ship’s name, the captain, all the passengers, the ship’s cargo and any notes that I deem relevant.” Mr. Pollard’s fingers flew through the pages until he finally said: “Twenty-fourth of October, 1843, the Bounteous arrived. The cargo and most of the crew originated in Peru. The expedition members sailed from Peru to Panama on the Santa Theresa, transported their cargo overland and then sailed north from Colón on the Bounteous, arriving here, as I said, on the twenty-fourth of October.” Mr. Pollard looked up at us. “The ship was held in quarantine for five days. One crew member seemed to be suffering from dysentery but recovered in the hospital and no one else on board took ill.”

  “And was that crew member Mr. Mathews?” I asked.

  Mr. Pollard glanced back down at the logbook. “It was a Peter Shaw, nineteen years of age, sailor.”

  “Interesting,” Dupin said. “But no mention of Jeremiah Mathews?”

  Mr. Pollard turned back to the log and ran his finger
down the crew list. “Yes, yes. There is a Jeremiah Mathews, occupation noted as bird collector. He was quarantined on the ship with the rest of them.”

  “And he left the Lazaretto in good health,” I said.

  Mr. Pollard turned the page. “Ah, I am afraid not,” he said. “The young man drowned two days after arriving. Terribly careless of him. Fell overboard.”

  “There were witnesses?” I asked, imagining young Mathews being pushed by some shadowy figure.

  “‘The young man indulged in too much grog and was foolhardy on deck,’” Mr. Pollard read out. “That was the testimony of the captain.”

  “And you saw his body?” Dupin asked.

  “I don’t seem to recall. Many ships arrive here, you see. And it really is not my domain. Dr. Henderson will have been called to tend to the body.”

  “Of course,” Dupin said. “You have been marvelously informative, Mr. Pollard. May I impose upon you for one more thing?”

  “Yes?” Mr. Pollard said with a certain amount of caution.

  “May I write down the names of the passengers who traveled with Mr. Mathews to Philadelphia?”

  Mr. Pollard considered Dupin’s request. “I cannot see why not,” he finally said. He retrieved a sheet of paper, ink and a pen, then turned the day book to face Dupin, who quickly began to list the names of those who had arrived on the Bounteous with Jeremiah Mathews.

  A thought occurred to me. “You say that the Bounteous was quarantined here at the Lazaretto for five days and then was permitted to sail on to Philadelphia. The final destination of much of the cargo from Peru was London. Did the Bounteous sail on to London from Philadelphia?”

  “No, Philadelphia was recorded as the final destination of the Bounteous with that crew and cargo. If, as you say, the articles from Peru were to be sent on to London, it would be with another ship.”

  “And would you have inspected that ship on its way to London? We know the cargo arrived in London in early December.”