Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  “No, no,” Mr. Pollard said. “A ship’s cargo is inspected before it enters Philadelphia. There is no need for us to conduct a quarantine inspection when a ship leaves the city. There are warehouses up in what is known as Hell Town where cargo is stored, and ships transporting goods across the Atlantic often load up at the docks there.”

  Dupin and I exchanged a glance. “Warehouses near the Mermaid tavern?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir, for I do not frequent Hell Town. If I wish to see drunken sailors I can watch them on the ships moored here,” Mr. Pollard said smugly.

  Dupin finished his handiwork with a flourish. Mr. Pollard picked up a whimsical pounce pot in the shape of a laughing goose and sprinkled the page with fine sand, then expertly tipped the pounce back into the silver goose’s open bill. Satisfied that the ink was dry, Dupin folded the page and secreted it in his pocket.

  “We cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Mr. Pollard,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “If only all were as courteous and helpful as you have proven to be. Thank you, sir,” I added, as I too stood up. Mr. Pollard rose from his chair, a rather disappointed look on his face.

  “It was my pleasure. It is not often that I have the opportunity to speak of my work with learned fellows such as yourselves.”

  “Perhaps you should make a presentation at the Philosophical Society?” I suggested. “I believe you would find an attentive audience there.”

  Mr. Pollard brightened at the thought. “I will certainly consider that.”

  We left the gentleman dwelling on that idea and made our way to Dr. Henderson’s accommodation. A housekeeper opened the door and informed us that Dr. Henderson had gone to the quarantined ship to do his rounds, so we walked over to the wharf and waited for his boat to return.

  “This has been a most productive journey,” Dupin said. “Miss Loddiges’s fears regarding Andrew Mathews and his son seem to have basis in fact after all.”

  “Yes, I fear I was in error to dismiss the lady’s story as nonsense.”

  “It is not unusual to disbelieve tales of ghosts and warnings from birds when we hear them and, indeed, skepticism is typically a logical approach to such matters,” Dupin said. “I hope that we will be clearer still about Jeremiah Mathews’s fate once we hear what the doctor has to tell us.” He nodded at two men climbing from the ship into the barge that was moored to it. It wasn’t long before the bargeman delivered the doctor to the shore and we introduced ourselves. Dr. Henderson was as reserved as Mr. Pollard was loquacious and his frame was so spare that it looked as if he felt the act of consuming food was a mortal sin.

  “I do not recall the ship you mention,” he said after hearing details of the arrival of the Bounteous and Jeremiah Mathews’s apparent death by drowning. “As you might imagine, numerous vessels arrive at the Lazaretto and one would need a prodigious memory to recall even a quarter of them.”

  “Of course. But you must keep a log, as Mr. Pollard does,” Dupin observed. “It would be most helpful if you would check your notes for us, please.”

  “I am extremely busy, gentlemen.”

  “And your time is valuable, sir. But it is imperative that I avail myself of your knowledge, for I will be returning to Paris in the next few days and there are certain facts I must present to the prefect of police there, for whom I have undertaken an urgent task. Here, let me present my card.” Dupin removed a card case from his coat pocket and with some sleight of hand passed several gold coins along with his personal card. Dr. Henderson immediately became more accommodating.

  “Remind me of the date the ship arrived at the Lazaretto?”

  “Twenty-fourth of October, 1843.”

  “A ship from Panama with passengers and cargo from Peru?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And a young man, Jeremiah Mathews, who drowned according to Mr. Pollard. We wish to know more details of his fate.”

  “Come with me.” Dr. Henderson led us back to his accommodation and into an office with a desk and a quantity of books. He had his own shelf of leather-bound logbooks and quickly selected the relevant tome, then leafed through it with his overly large yet dextrous hands.

  “Here we are. Jeremiah Mathews. Born fifteenth of July, 1821, deceased twenty-sixth of October, 1843. His body was seen by the watchman that morning, but he was too long drowned to be revived. He was identified by the ship’s captain, who received a certificate of his death.”

  “But not the body?” Dupin said.

  “No, he is buried here,” Dr. Henderson said. “That is normal procedure. We cannot release the deceased for fear of the spread of infection.”

  “Even if the deceased is drowned?”

  Dr. Henderson shrugged. “It is procedure. In any case, sailors are a superstitious lot and reluctant to transport a corpse for fear of pestilence and ill luck from spirits.”

  “Would you mind showing us where he is buried? I should like to be able to convey the details of his resting spot to a dear friend of his.”

  Dr. Henderson nodded. “I believe I will be able to locate it.” He marched from the room, and we hurried after.

  We walked through the pleasant grounds of the Lazaretto, which bustled with the activities of those employed there: farmhands, general laborers, nurses, washerwomen, cooks and cleaners. The outbuildings were attractive and the area pleasingly landscaped. The vegetable gardens were large and there was an array of farm animals—chickens, pigs, cows, goats—to provide food for those who lived and labored there. It wasn’t long before we arrived at a burial ground that had none of the hopeful pomp of many cemeteries I had visited. Here each grave was marked with a simple wooden cross with a name and date of birth and death inscribed upon it in black paint. The oldest graves were the furthest away and the dead were buried according to date of demise. Dr. Henderson made his way to a small wooden cross upon which was written: Jeremiah Mathews 1821-1843. It was a forlorn sight, one that I felt would only add to Miss Loddiges’s sorrow. It made me even more determined to bring the young man’s killer to justice, for surely he had been murdered and thrown into the river.

  Dupin broke the silence. “Thank you, Dr. Henderson. Your assistance is deeply appreciated.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “One more question, sir,” I said, as we walked away from the burial ground. “You mentioned that the watchman spied Mr. Mathews’s body in the water and you found that it was too late to revive him. Is there any way of knowing whether Mr. Mathews died from drowning or if he was dead before he landed in the water?”

  Dr. Henderson thought about this as we made our way to the wharf closest to where the Hopewell was anchored. “Not decisively. If Mr. Mathews had a visible wound, it would have been considered as a possible cause of death. Obviously that was not the case and witnesses stated that the victim had imbibed a surfeit of alcohol,” the doctor said stiffly.

  “Of course you would have investigated any wounds upon Jeremiah Mathews’s person,” I continued. “But if he were poisoned or perhaps struck unconscious and thrown into the water, it would not be immediately apparent.”

  “No,” Dr. Henderson conceded.

  “I see.”

  Dupin laughed as if I had been jesting. “My friend has quite an imagination. If young Mr. Mathews survived the journey all the way from Peru to the Philadelphia Lazaretto with all who were on board the Bounteous, it makes little sense that he would be murdered here.” Dupin raised his brows at me and I realized from that subtle gesture that he did not entirely trust the good doctor. An infant’s wail sailed on the breeze to us and drew our gaze to the vessel moored in the waters before us. More passengers had gathered on the Hopewell’s decks since we had arrived at the Lazaretto, and the infant’s cries seem to sum up the general mood of the ship’s passengers.

  “Before we part ways, good sir, tell us about the Hopewell. Where did she sail from? What is her cargo?” I asked.

  “She is from Liverpool and her cargo is those you see on her
decks.”

  “How long has the Hopewell been moored here?” Dupin’s tone was casual.

  “Five days. There were several cases of black tongue on board. Two have died. So we must wait and see if more fall ill or if we are to send forth more papists to fill the slums of Southwark and Kensington,” he said without any effort to hide his contempt for the Hopewell’s passengers.

  Dupin’s expression suggested that something had been confirmed to him.

  “Thank you again, Dr. Henderson,” I said.

  “My pleasure.” The doctor turned to leave.

  “Phileo adelphos,” Dupin said, voice slightly raised. The doctor turned his head to look back at him, brow furrowed. “The love of one’s brother,” Dupin continued, his tone acerbic. “The Quaker William Penn named your city with great optimism. Good day to you, sir.” He bowed with mock gravity and walked toward the wharf without a backward glance.

  34

  We arrived at the Front Street wharf at half past two and made our way to the Mermaid tavern with the aim of uncovering information regarding the crew of the Bounteous, but my rumbling belly demanded sustenance, and I hoped we might also find something edible to ease the pangs of hunger. As we stepped from the afternoon light into the deep shadow of the tavern, the noise of tipplers who had imbibed too much and the smell of greasy food assaulted us. We made our way to a space at the counter and Dupin ordered two tankards of ale from the tavern keeper, a tall, brown-skinned man so full of muscle that few would dare to antagonize him.

  “Might we also have something to eat? A plate of cheese and bread, perhaps,” I suggested, as the tavern keeper passed us our tankards. I didn’t think it wise to have any meat or even fish, despite our proximity to the river. Dupin surveyed the drinkers ensconced at the dingy tables, several of whom were wolfing down their dinners.

  “What is the soup?” he asked.

  “Oyster,” the tavern keeper replied.

  Dupin examined the food that was visible on the shelves behind the bar. “Two cups of the soup, bread, cheese, the smoked sausage and the pâté there.”

  “Liverwurst,” the tavern keeper corrected him.

  “And what is that?” He indicated a large jar of spherical objects in wine-colored liquid.

  “Pickled eggs in beet juice.”

  “Two of those.”

  The tavern keeper began to fill two plates with food.

  “Would you know if any of your customers might have sailed back from Peru last autumn?” Dupin asked.

  The tavern keeper scrutinized him for a moment, then said: “There was some talk of Peru, but I can’t recall more than that. She’ll know.” He nodded at Mrs. Mermaid, who was stationed in exactly the same place as before, her potions in baskets around her feet and her hyacinth macaw perched on her shoulder, snacking on tasty morsels he found lurking in her tufts of gray hair.

  Dupin looked dubious. “There is no one with perhaps a better memory?”

  The tavern keeper shook his head.

  “Make up a plate of whatever she likes best,” Dupin instructed. “And a drink.” He placed a silver dollar on the counter. The tavern keeper slid some coins back his way, but Dupin held up his hand in dismissal and the tavern keeper pocketed them, his mouth edging toward a smile. The taciturn fellow heaped the third plate high with food and filled a cup with a noxious-looking drink from an unlabeled bottle. He nodded at Mrs. Mermaid.

  “I’ll bring it over.”

  We picked up our tankards and plates, then made our way to an empty table directly in front of the lady. Just as we sat down, the tavern keeper brought Mrs. Mermaid her dinner and whispered something into her ear. She nodded and fixed a rheumy eye of turquoise on each of us, which was a disconcerting feat in itself.

  “Kind of you, gentlemen. I was getting quite peckish.” She spit her chewing tobacco onto the floor and I fear I winced, for she laughed and raised her cup to me. “Here’s to your good fortune.” She took a deep drink of the stuff, then attacked the food in front of her with such ferocity I hoped I would never meet her in a lonesome spot at night. “So, my dears, you’re wanting information about sailors gone to Peru.”

  “Indeed, madame. On a ship called the Bounteous, arrived at the Lazaretto on the twenty-fourth of October, then at the docks here a week later.”

  The old woman contemplated this as she gnawed on a link of smoked sausage, her teeth surprisingly large and sturdy-looking for one of her apparent age. I had expected the stench of her to be overpowering, but her ancient clothes were surprisingly clean, yellowed with age rather than dirt. She smelled of camphor and vinegar and had sprigs of dried rosemary pinned to her bonnet and breast as if they were brooches.

  “I know more of the ships that depart from the port here, as the sailors come to me for various essentials.”

  “Some of the crew from the Bounteous sailed on to London with cargo from Peru—bird skins, plants, some artifacts from the natives there,” Dupin said. “Would you know of any sailors who were on that ship?”

  The old lady did not immediately answer, directing her attention to the remainder of her dinner. Dupin and I slowly spooned soup into our mouths and watched her.

  “And your connection to the ship?” she asked.

  I was not certain we should reveal anything of consequence to her, given that the insalubrious place we were in was frequented by priests who had sent a lockpick to my house and had, perhaps, murdered my friend.

  “A young man, Jeremiah Mathews, died on the Bounteous at the Lazaretto. Or, more precisely, he drowned. We believe he was murdered,” Dupin said.

  “Do you now.” She drank back the remains of the liquid in her cup. “I’d enjoy another of those,” she said, jiggling the empty vessel.

  Dupin turned to the tavern keeper, who simply nodded and poured another dose of the stuff and brought it over.

  “Fetch Davey down,” she said to the tavern keeper. He nodded again and disappeared through a door that seemed to lead upstairs. Both Dupin and I tensed at this and she cackled. “Fear not, my friends, fear not.” She reached into her bosom and removed a small cloth bundle. She gently unrolled it on the tabletop and I was horrified to see what appeared to be a human finger bone lying on the cloth. “Davey brought it back from that ancient city for me. It’s the finger of an Indian emperor—very powerful magic. And very costly,” she added, eyeing us with the gleam of avarice in her eyes.

  Dupin looked at the bone, then said politely, “I’m sure you will get a very good price for it, madame.”

  She directed her gaze to me, but I quickly shook my head and with a sigh she wrapped the thing up and tucked it into her bosom again.

  “You wanted me?”

  Dupin and I turned to see a boy of about eleven years. My friend’s face tensed with annoyance, certain that we had been duped.

  “You sailed on the Bounteous with Jeremiah Mathews?” I said, skepticism sharpening my voice.

  He nodded. “I did. My father was a sailor and my mother’s dead,” he added, as if that explained anything. “Mostly I’m on the ships—they send me up the crow’s nest and I do whatever chores they give me. And if not on the ships I’m here at my uncle’s tavern.”

  Dupin’s face relaxed and he said, “Tell us what you know of Mr. Mathews.”

  “He drew lovely pictures—birds and plants mostly, but also the mules and sometimes the fellows to make them laugh.” The boy was grinning with the memory, then his face dropped. “I was very sorry when he died.”

  “Had he too much to drink the night he drowned?” Dupin asked.

  “That’s what they told the men at the Lazaretto,” Davey said cautiously.

  “But you don’t believe that was the truth of it?” Dupin pressed.

  “Tell all, lad. You have nowt to fear,” Mrs. Mermaid said.

  “Jeremiah was a teetotaler.”

  “So you do not believe he was inebriated and fell in the water?”

  The boy shrugged and shook his head. “I tried to tell the
doctor at the Lazaretto but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I presume you were not on the expedition to the lost city and you took the bone from the cargo they brought back,” Dupin said, and the boy nodded sheepishly. “Did you hear anyone mention a jewel? Or any kind of treasure?”

  Davey’s eyes went wide, as if Dupin had supernatural powers and had somehow read his mind. “There was talk that Jeremiah had found treasure in the ancient city, but no one saw anything but dead birds and plants and bits of pottery and cloth. Some of the crew said that Jeremiah kept the treasure in his cabin as the door was always shut and no one was allowed inside but him.”

  “What happened to all that was in Mr. Mathews’s cabin after he died?”

  “First the professor came and said he needed to get on the ship, but the quarantine master forbade it.”

  “Professor Renelle?” I interjected.

  “Yes,” Davey replied. “The quarantine master didn’t like him much and said nothing could leave the ship until it was disinfected.” The boy smirked. “He was terrible angry and said it was his expedition and everything on the ship was his, but nothing he did changed the quarantine master’s mind.”

  “What truly happened to Jeremiah?” I asked.

  Davey’s face crumpled and for a moment he struggled to find his words. “The Schuylkill rangers came very late one night and took things from Jeremiah’s cabin—I heard them board, but stayed in my bunk because you don’t get in their way, you let them take what they want. Everyone knows that.” He shook his head. “So I didn’t see exactly what happened. But next morning Jeremiah was found floating in the water, drowned. And the captain told the story of him being on the grog and falling overboard.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you, Davey,” I said. The boy nodded, like the young man’s death was his fault.

  “The items from Jeremiah Mathews’s cabin—were they smuggled away from the Lazaretto?” Dupin asked.

  “That’s what I heard from those who saw the rangers. That’s what always happens.” He shrugged. Then a thought came to the boy and he looked at us with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “But not his book with the bird drawings. They didn’t get that. He had me send it to his lady friend in England when we were in Panama. He didn’t trust the two priests that came along on the expedition with the professor. They were always watching him.”