Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  “But our objective is to rescue Helena, not to play at ciphers and hope they are treasure maps,” my wife said tartly. “We must make a plan for tomorrow night.”

  “Quite right, my dear. This is what I suggest. Dupin and I will make our way to Renelle Mansion so we arrive after midnight in hopes that Miss Thomassen and Mr. Jimmerson are asleep. We will attempt to enter the house through the passageway from the springhouse that Dupin observed Miss Thomassen use. If that endeavor fails, Dupin may need to use his considerable lock-picking skills on the kitchen door. We will then make our way to the turret room and rescue Miss Loddiges without waking Miss Thomassen, bring her back home and, when Miss Loddiges is ready to testify to his crimes, report Professor Renellle to the officers of the police.”

  “You mention the officers of the police—might it not be more sensible to send them to free Miss Loddiges?” Sissy asked.

  “You would not suggest that if you had met Lieutenant Webster and Captain Johnson. Remember that Father Keane and I reported Miss Loddiges’s abduction and they did not seem to believe our story. They certainly made no effort to find our friend. We would have to explain everything to an officer of the police in Germantown. Given that the Renelles are a prestigious local family, I do not believe it would be possible to persuade an officer to search the mansion to see whether he is holding a lady prisoner.”

  “And if an officer of the police should reveal our accusations to Professor Renelle,” Dupin said, “he would certainly move the lady to another location or, perhaps, dispose of her if she is of no further value to him.”

  Sissy shivered at his words. “What will my task be?”

  “If we do not return before dawn, you must summon the night watch,” I said.

  “You mean I am to sit and do nothing?” Sissy complained. “Surely I can help in some way, as I did today.”

  “Mrs. Poe, your courage and loyalty are admirable, but if the three of us enter Renelle Mansion and our plan goes awry, four lives will be in danger,” Dupin said. “Truly, we need you to remain vigilant at home, prepared to send help if we do not return by dawn.”

  Sissy was not happy with our little plot, but before she could further argue its logic, we heard shouting.

  “Save the Bible!”

  “Go home, papists—leave these shores!”

  A gang of brawling men tumbled from a side street, exchanging blows with fists and feet and loathsome words.

  “This does not look good,” Sissy murmured.

  Dupin’s eyes narrowed as he watched the altercation, trying, as I was, to gauge its tenor.

  “On, on, Americans, native Americans!”

  Three of the melee were priests, who did their best to avoid the blows of their aggressors, but when the most elderly of the trio was shoved to his knees, a different cry went up.

  “Leave him be, you brutes.”

  “A man of God—shame!”

  Both men and women from the street went to the aid of the priest, which only served to enflame the Nativist gang further.

  “Foreigners out!”

  “Irish thieves plundering our work!”

  Sissy clutched my hand and I stood ready to shield her, glad to have Muddy’s stout, wooden walking stick in hand. Dupin had his cane gripped in both hands, the golden cobra glaring at the crowd with its ruby eyes. He stepped forward and positioned himself in front of the two of us.

  It was difficult to know who first employed a weapon, but suddenly we were in the midst of full warfare, with fists and sticks and rocks hurled, and words of hatred flung in every direction. And then there were more men, with cudgels and shillelaghs that crashed into flesh and bone most hideously, sending victims earthward with a groan.

  My wife trembled like a deer surrounded by wolves, her frightened eyes flitting in every direction, her breath overly fast. She cried out as a missile sailed over our heads and a bottle broke at our feet.

  “On, on, Americans, native Americans!”

  “By the Holy Virgin, send every heretic to burn!”

  There was a loud crack. I feared gunfire and so, it seemed, did Dupin, for he released the rapier concealed within his walking stick and thrust it at the first brute that approached us, a brick gripped in his paw and growling the challenge: “Are you native or foreign?”

  Dupin’s rapier lashed through the air and bit the man on his wrist so fiercely he dropped his missile with a shriek. “Prejudice is what fools use for reason,” Dupin snapped. And he drove his way onward, rapier slashing, disarming the most brutal stick-fighter. Sissy and I dashed along in the wake of his charge until we were free of the mob that wished any person of a different origin or faith either gone or dead.

  39

  The playwright who called himself George Reynolds was undoubtedly pleased, for the opening night of his drama at the Chestnut Street Theater looked to have a full house and the audience was loud in its appreciation of the dubious work entitled The Lovers’ Escape. I was more interested in the theater than the terrible play, as my mother had performed there when she was but a girl, just after the death of her own mother. It gave me enormous pleasure to think that she had graced that stage and pleased an audience as large as this one. In truth the theater had been rebuilt since my mother’s performances there, for it had burned to the ground in 1820. William Strickland had designed the new structure, which was most grand, with space for two thousand theatergoers, the seats arranged in a horseshoe shape, with a triple tier of boxes. Despite all that, I could feel my mother’s spirit within the place and her success there gave me the courage to sit through Reynolds’s latest travesty.

  “Mr. Reynolds must be pleased,” Sissy whispered. “I cannot see an empty seat.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “It is surprising given—”

  “Eddy, please.”

  I let my words dissolve in my mouth and turned my gaze back to Mrs. Reynolds, who stood alone in the glow of the gaslights, pining interminably for her lost lover, or that is what I gathered.

  “She is indeed talented,” I whispered to Sissy. “To remember such a long and tepid speech would be beyond the skills of most.”

  Sissy put her finger to her lips and frowned. What felt like hours later, Mrs. Reynolds drooped her head, tormented by the absence of her true love, and on cue the lights dimmed until the stage was in darkness. A noise like thunder rumbled up from all around us as the crowd applauded vigorously.

  “Let’s take some air. The intermission is likely to be lengthy and I need to revive myself,” I murmured to Sissy.

  My wife shook her head. “I am fine here—it’s far warmer than outside.”

  I leaned to kiss her cheek and made my way toward the foyer. As I neared the door, a voice called out, “Mr. Poe! A message for Mr. Poe!” A young man dressed neatly in black stood in the aisle, his hand in the air to call attention to his location. “Mr. Poe, please!”

  “Here, sir,” I called out, waving back at him.

  “A message from Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, beckoning me toward him. “She would like to meet you upstairs. There isn’t much time. Come, I will show you the way.” The young man turned heel and I followed him. I wondered what was so urgent that it could not wait until after the show, then I remembered how her admirers had surrounded her at the play’s end. The young man I was following paused and pointed at a set of stairs. “This way, sir. She is waiting for you in her visiting room.”

  “Thank you.”

  But he was gone, disappeared into the crowd of people filling the foyer. I climbed the thickly carpeted stairs, racking my mind for some platitude to bestow that the astute lady might accept without accusing me of insincerity. I was halfway up the staircase when a woman’s scream rang out. Instantly I dashed up the remaining stairs, then through the door at the top. The room was dimly lit by a flickering gaslight, and I saw a monstrous shadow grappling with a ghostly woman. She emitted a strangled scream, a horrid gagging noise, and there was a terrible thud as she banged against the wall, struggling to
get loose from her assailant’s grip.

  “Stand back!” I shouted at the brute as I ran toward him, but it was as if I were transported into a terrible nightmare, each moment slowed, every sound distorted and far too loud. Before I could reach him, the devil gave the lady a mighty push, and I was horrified to see her slam into the open window, which engulfed her like a gaping mouth.

  “No!” The word came up from my very soul. I threw myself toward her, hoping to catch her skirts and halt the inevitable, but the villain knocked me off course as he barreled from the room. There was a terrible swish of silk along the window sill, a thunk as her foot hit the window ledge, and the lady disappeared gracefully into the darkness, one dainty slipper dropping gently to the floor like a lost memory. I crashed down empty-handed and saw that both victim and assailant had vanished. Horror struck, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered to the window, ill at the thought of what I might see, yet with the ridiculous hope that the lady had managed to grasp some part of the building, that she was clinging to for her very life and I might still rescue her. But when I looked out, all hope fizzled away, for there, far below in the street, lay the sprawled figure of Rowena Reynolds, broken like a china doll. I reeled back from the macabre scene and saw the young man who had showed me to the room standing in the doorway, mouth agape.

  “Fetch a doctor,” I shouted as I ran past him and down the stairs, then pushed my way through panicked theatergoers to the exterior of the theater, where a circle of people had gathered around the actress. A man was crouched by her side, checking for signs of life, but it was amply clear from the nimbus of blood about her head that she would not be revived. Moments later, a night watchman arrived at the scene, led by a member of the public. He was a young man, perhaps new to the job, but full of bluster, and his gait suggested he had fortified himself against the cold night air with a bottle of something strong.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, but when he saw Mrs. Reynolds, he staggered and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Is she dead?” he asked, betraying his lack of experience.

  “I am afraid she is,” the man crouched near her said. “I’m Dr. Green,” he added. “I saw what happened but there was no way to save her.”

  “Did she jump?” the watchman asked.

  “She fell backwards through the window, so it seems unlikely,” the doctor said.

  And suddenly my heart ceased its beating—where was Sissy? I had left her alone in the theater! I dashed for the entrance, struggling through the gawping crowd, and heard my name called out. When I saw her face frozen in shock, I knew my wife had seen Mrs. Reynolds lying on the ground. I rushed to her and she threw her arms around me.

  “Did you see it happen?” she whispered.

  “Yes, my love. A man pushed her. I tried to save her, but could not.” I gently stroked her cheek. “Forgive me for leaving you alone. I am relieved you are safe.”

  “There he is!” a voice rang out.

  I looked up to see the young man who had invited me to meet with Mrs Reynolds. He was in the company of the watchman. I felt a chill. This could not be mere coincidence.

  “That is the man who pushed her,” he said, pointing at me.

  The watchman strode toward me and a small gang of men from the crowd followed him. “We have witnesses that say you pushed Mrs. Reynolds—that you pushed her to her death.” He leaned toward me in a threatening manner and I could smell the heavy perfume of whiskey.

  “No! I tried to save her. There was another man fighting with her when I walked into the room. He pushed her and she fell through the window. There was nothing I could do, it happened so quickly.”

  “And what did the man look like?” the watchman asked.

  “I . . . it was dark. I’m not certain. Very tall and exceedingly strong. His face was concealed. He was wearing his coat and a hat and he shoved me to the ground before running from the room.” It was not the solid truth, as I could not recall with certainty if I had tripped in my efforts to save the lady or the villain had pushed me.

  The young watchman looked at me, unsure, but the crowd did not believe me.

  “He’s lying!”

  “Take him in!”

  “It was not me—there was another man! You must have seen him,” I said to my accuser.

  “I saw no one but you,” the young man said.

  “What is your name?” the watchman asked, with steel in his voice.

  “Edgar Poe. But honestly I tried to save Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “My husband most certainly did,” my wife said firmly, but she was interrupted before she could say more.

  “There’s something in her mouth,” the doctor called out. “Shall I remove it?”

  The watchman hesitated for a moment, but the crowd was far more decisive and he echoed their demands. “Yes,” he agreed.

  The doctor tugged and pulled a piece of cloth from the lady’s mouth like he was executing a conjurer’s macabre trick. I thought back to the struggle I had witnessed and wondered if the villain had subdued Mrs. Reynolds with a hanky soaked in ether. Certainly it explained the terrible silence as she fell to her death.

  “There is something inside the handkerchief,” the doctor said. He extracted a square of paper from the folds. “Shall I open it?”

  “Yes. And tell us what it says.” The watchman gestured for a lamp and the doctor held the paper in the light.

  “’Ah, broken is the golden bowl,’” he read aloud, “‘the spirit flown forever.’” In my mind, I joined in with him as he spoke the words that followed. “‘Let the bell toll—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.’”

  “Your poem, Eddy. Why was your poem in her mouth?” Sissy whispered.

  “I do not know, my dear,’ I said softly.

  “Sounds like a threat,” a voice said grimly from behind us. I turned and was face to face with my old enemy, whose brown eyes were filled with fury, despite the trails of tears upon his cheeks. “Arrest him now, for surely this man murdered my wife.”

  “No! That is preposterous,” I protested. “I did my best to save her.”

  “He was seen at the window from which she fell,” he continued. “And those are the opening lines from a poem he wrote. A poem about the death of a beautiful woman; a sentiment he has clearly put into action.”

  “You know that is not true!”

  But George Williams, the man who now called himself George Reynolds the playwright, stared into my eyes, his gaze radiating hatred, and pronounced: “He is guilty.” Then he crouched down by his wife and began to sob, which set the crowd muttering sympathetically.

  The watchman took me roughly by the arm and said, “Come with me. I am placing you under arrest.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Stop your arguing,” he said gruffly. “And cause no trouble or it won’t go well for you. If you are telling the truth, then you have nothing to fear. And if you’re a fabricator—well, then justice will be served.”

  And with that he began to march me away from the theater and the crowd, fingers firmly clutching my arm. I could hear my wife trying to catch up with us, arguing my innocence, but her words fell upon deaf ears.

  “Tell Dupin,” I shouted back to Sissy. And then the noise of the crowd rose up like the sound of swarming bees and consumed her reply. Dread took hold of me with an implacable grip.

  40

  FRIDAY, 22 MARCH 1844

  Time became thick and unwieldy, a dark and ill-natured thing that would not shift as I lay on a hard pallet, tormented by demonic noises in darkness so deep the sun feared it. When at last dawn came, it was gray and recalcitrant, and I found that my lips were sealed with wax, my tongue swollen to fill my mouth. There was a tin cup on the floor, and I tried to sip some water to ease the tickling aridity of my throat, only to find that something was lodged under my tongue. I irrigated my mouth and spat it onto the floor, expelling a feather that was bright red, like blood. And then I retched, knowing that the thing could not have got ther
e on its own.

  I pulled the scratchy, thin blanket up to my ears and tried to suppress the dreadful sounds that had plagued me all night—moans of pain, shrieks of terror, mutterings of diseased minds. All of any value had been taken from me, and I was locked into my cell, a small empty room with a tiny window that was too high to reach. Minutes, then hours, ticked away and still no one came. I feared I would never leave that nightmare, that my family was lost to me.

  When at last I heard footsteps echoing in the cavernous hallway, I rushed to the barred wall.

  “Hello! There has been an error—I should not be here.”

  From the shadows a specter emerged, tall and stern with a long saturnine face. I wondered if he were the Devil himself.

  “I should not be here. The true murderer has escaped,” I pleaded.

  The man looked at me through the bars as if examining a dangerous creature that he had whipped into submission and would destroy without a second thought.

  “You must believe me. A man was with Mrs. Reynolds in that room. He stuffed the handkerchief into her mouth and pushed her from the window.”

  At last he opened my cell door. “Follow me,” he instructed as he began to walk down a long corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. Our footsteps echoed against the cold, stone floor, but not as loudly as the laughter from the villains we walked past, each recidivist pressing his face up against the bars of his cell, which distorted his features into those of a cackling demon, shouting out words I could not understand, curses and incantations from the depths of Hell itself. Some thrust their hands through the bars, grabbed at my clothing, pulled and tugged so that I stumbled from one side of the corridor to the other, tortured by their pinching fingers, the ragged edges of their nails digging into my flesh. Was this the corridor that led to Hell itself?

  “Where are we going?” I cried out to my jailer.

  “You shall see,” he growled, without turning to look at me.

  “You shall see!” cackled the inmates from their cages. “You shall see!”