Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  And moments later, I did. At the end of the interminable corridor was a room like a small theater. On the stage was a scaffold, a noose that seemed to glow in the darkness and a masked and hooded hangman, wide of girth and all in black, who stood silently next to the deadly contraption. And when I turned from that instrument of death to the theater benches, I saw that they were filled with convicts dressed in gray uniforms, their faces hideously eager.

  “We are ready,” my jailer said to the hangman, who stepped forward and grabbed me, his hand so monstrously large that it encircled my arm like it was but a thin spindle of wood. He wrenched me into place and pulled the noose over my head in one fluid movement. The audience burst into rapturous applause, their raspy voices ululating, feet stamping in terrible rhythm.

  “Now,” the jailer commanded before I could scream out, and then I was plummeting inexorably down into utter blackness, so fast that all breath whistled from my lungs. I grasped at the rope around my neck, amazed that my hands had not been secured, and kicked and flailed, trying to halt my descent, to stop that inevitable wrench of rope on neck. Until all went black.

  * * *

  Metal clanged on metal, driving a spike of fear into my heart. I felt the itch of rope around my throat, tugging, pulling, choking me. And then, a voice.

  “Up, do you hear me? Rise up.”

  Another clang. A set of keys against the bars. I opened my eyes. Peering through my cell bars was a specter—tall, stern, long saturnine face—the Devil’s now familiar face.

  “Wake, sir, wake!” he intoned.

  And yet I could not, for surely I had died. I rubbed at my eyes, hoping the apparition before me would disappear, that I would be returned home, delivered from my nightmare, but it was soon clear that only part of my nightmare had been a dream.

  “Here is your situation,” my jailer told me. “Have someone bring me the journal you have stolen if you wish this to end.”

  I was stupefied by his pronouncement. “What journal?” I whispered, appalled that the jailer at Moyamensing Prison was, it seemed, in league with Frederic Renelle.

  “Don’t play stupid, Mr. Poe.” He handed me a sheet of paper and a mechanical pencil through the bars. “Write a note stating you need the journal for evidence to prove your innocence and to secure your release. If it is delivered, we will make it so.”

  Thoughts crowded my mind as I considered his words. How many false witnesses were there to my supposed guilt? And what would happen to me in this terrible place before Dupin managed to secure my freedom?

  “Your employer seems to have taken Miss Loddiges hostage,” I said. “The lady whose disappearance was reported to the officers of the police. Will he release her if he receives the journal?”

  “If he has the lady, no doubt he will,” the jailer said.

  I could see no other option but to write the letter he had demanded. I then folded the note and handed it to my jailer. He put it into his pocket and disappeared down the dark corridor. I returned to my pallet to pray that when Renelle at last had the journal he would indeed release Miss Loddiges and myself. And yet I knew that he might more easily hide his crimes from the world if he murdered us both.

  41

  SATURDAY, 23 MARCH 1844

  The sunlight seemed sharper than usual, as did the noises of the street when I stepped out into the glare of morning. I paused for a moment to close my eyes and breathe in the scent of spring and freedom. When I opened them again, Dupin was before me, as if summoned from the air itself, and without exchanging a word, we began to walk in step away from the formidable marble facade and Gothic towers and battlements of Moyamensing Prison.

  “Shall I find us a carriage?” Dupin said after a while.

  “I’d like to walk further. The air will help clear my head.”

  Dupin nodded. “I am sorry for what happened, Poe. I should have guessed that Renelle had something planned when he gave you the tickets.”

  “How could you have? The man’s skills as an actor are comparable to those of Mrs. Reynolds. I did my best to save her, truly I did, and my failure will haunt me.”

  “You could not have succeeded and must not castigate yourself. I went through every detail of what occurred with your wife, who has an acute sense of observation and excellent memory. I then examined the theater in general and the room in which the murder took place, measuring each area most carefully. As the villain had already forced Mrs. Reynolds to the window when you came through the door, which is sixteen feet away, it was inconceivable that any human might reach her in time to prevent her death.”

  I did not bother to tell Dupin that he had not envisaged the scenario exactly as it had happened, for it was kind of him to endeavor to salve my conscience. Despite what he might say or Sissy might think or I might wish, the vision of the actress’s murder would never leave my mind—the silk of her dress slipping through the wood, her foot on the window frame as she fell through its gaping mouth, her dainty satin slipper huddled upon the floor.

  We walked along Passyunk Avenue until we came to Seventh Street, and then continued north in silence as I watched all around me, absorbing the life of the city, quietly rejoicing in it.

  “I wonder if Renelle truly had the means to keep me imprisoned if we did not deliver the journal.”

  Dupin was silent for a time, then answered carefully, “It is always surprising what people will do for money. I am certain justice would have prevailed, but it was not possible to ensure your safety while imprisoned amongst enemies. In any case, it is not important that he has the journal now. If there are clues regarding the location of the jewel he seeks or the king’s tomb, they must be in the pages drawn by Andrew Mathews in 1841, and of course we did not deliver those.”

  “Truly?” I asked, my heart lifting.

  “Why would we when only we know of their existence?”

  “And has he freed Miss Loddiges?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, but we did not expect him to. Miss Loddiges’s captor is both arrogant and dangerous, but I will free her tonight.”

  “I will be with you.”

  Dupin frowned slightly, surprised by my words. “Are you certain? I presumed you would wish to remain with your wife.”

  “Of course that is what I wish, but it is not what I will do. Sissy fervently hopes for Miss Loddiges’s safety and will understand that it is best if we undertake our plan together, for we cannot presume that Renelle has actually gone to New York if he has been masterminding this infernal scheme to get the journal.”

  “True,” Dupin agreed.

  “And he is less likely to anticipate trouble tonight, after all that has befallen me.”

  “If you genuinely believe yourself recovered enough, it is of course the best plan.”

  “The thought of bringing Renelle to justice tonight is a true tonic,” I said grimly. “How he uncovered the history between Reynolds’s family and mine I cannot fathom and what he did—for surely it was Renelle who murdered her—is the work of the Devil himself.”

  “Do not read too much into it. I would be surprised if Renelle knew anything of your history with George Reynolds. I believe he simply observed after his presentation that you and Reynolds deeply dislike each other, and his anger at Mrs. Reynolds for making him look the fool made him more than happy to sacrifice her to get to you.”

  Accurate as it no doubt was, Dupin’s logical dissection of what had occurred offered little comfort. Four years previously I might have appreciated any retribution meted out to the woman who had tried, with her paramour, to destroy me, but today I felt only guilt and grief.

  “Success and a new identity has not changed my nemesis,” I said. “But I think it improved his wife. Sissy liked her very much and she can sense a wicked heart in an instant. Despite all the ways that Mrs. Reynolds made me suffer in London without cause, I felt that I could forgive her when I observed how she spoke with Sissy. And I believe she tried to end the bad blood between her husband and me. All that she did to h
urt me in the past was because she loved George Reynolds. I cannot understand her love for such a man, but I could see that their love was true. And I will be forever sorry that she died because we crossed paths again.”

  Dupin nodded, but said nothing more. We walked on until my home came into view. Sissy and Muddy must have been stationed by the window in vigil, for the door flew open and my wife ran up the path and threw her arms around me. We stood quietly on the footpath, her face buried in my coat, her shoulders juddering. Muddy approached after a time and gently ushered us to the door.

  “Come into the warm,” she said. “Come into the warm, dear boy.”

  42

  We took the last train to Germantown and waited in a tavern until it closed, just after midnight, then set off for Renelle Mansion on foot. The waxing moon was near halfway to full and spilled enough light to help us to make our way through the woodland that surrounded the house. We had avoided the long private drive, hoping to keep our arrival concealed, but the journey through the trees was not easy as there were innumerable low branches to catch at one’s clothing or deliver a stinging blow to the face. The distance we had to travel was no more than four hundred yards, but it felt as if we had walked a mile by the time we reached the woodland’s perimeter at the back of the mansion. We both scanned the house—all the windows were dark, which was promising.

  “Thick draperies may be concealing candlelight, so we must proceed with caution,” Dupin said in a low voice. “I will make my way past the caretaker’s cottage to the springhouse to ensure it is safe for us to enter it and that there is access to a passageway to the kitchen. Should someone give chase or apprehend me, run in the opposite direction and, if you are able, make a diversion.”

  He scurried, bent low, toward the springhouse, and I tracked him with my eyes until his movements were lost to the darkness. As I waited anxiously, the sounds around me seemed to amplify—the unexpected crack of a twig, the rustling of leaves overhead and across the ground. I felt a blast of air across my shoulders and crouched to avoid a blow, but it was an owl on the wing, which swooped to the ground and glided back into the night sky with a field mouse grasped in its talons.

  Dupin materialized moments later. “It appears safe. The cottage is dark. I saw no one,” he said in a low voice. “The springhouse door is unlocked.”

  “And the tunnel?”

  I caught a flash of white as Dupin grinned. “It is as I suspected. There is a door inside and a tunnel leading towards the mansion. Come.”

  Dupin retraced his steps at a trot and I followed, crouching low as he did. He opened the springhouse door, and I flinched as it creaked. We slipped inside and cautiously made our way down four steps. A lucifer match rasped and the glow of Dupin’s candle dappled the springhouse walls and floor with gold. Where the two met there was a shallow trench filled with water in which perishable foodstuffs were placed to stay cool. A spring bubbled up somewhere at the far end of the structure. In the heavy gloom the place had the grim atmosphere of a dungeon.

  Dupin lit a candle for me, and we made our way into the tunnel, the light bouncing off greenish walls, the smell of damp hanging in the air like death. The thirsty darkness seemed to drink up the light, but we kept going until we came to another door. It appeared very solid, and I prayed that it wasn’t locked. Dupin handed his candle to me, reached for the latch and pushed. Nothing. He tried again, heaving against the wood with his shoulder. It creaked under his assault, then slowly the door swung into the kitchen and my heart fluttered with fear that an adversary might be waiting on the other side, pistol drawn. More shadow greeted us, and we cautiously made our way forward, Dupin leading. Only the faint red glow of dying embers in the fireplace lit the kitchen, which suggested that the housekeeper and caretaker had retired a good hour or more ago. I started to feel cautiously optimistic that we would achieve our mission. We came to the hallway and Dupin gestured that we should climb the stairs. The light from our candles illuminated the portraits of Renelle’s forebears, who glowered as we passed them. The hallway ran to the left and the right, and we had calculated from the size of the house that there were perhaps seven bedrooms, Renelle’s study and one other room up in the turret. We had initially presumed that Miss Loddiges was imprisoned there, but Dupin wondered if that were too obvious and Renelle might be sleeping there himself. Despite his concerns, I impetuously made my way to the turret stairs and when halfway up I noticed a glow under the door. Someone was surely inside. Dupin tugged upon my sleeve to halt my ascension.

  “Do not be hasty. It may be a trap,” he whispered.

  Dupin was correct to be cautious, for what excuse might we offer if the night watch were summoned? And yet, what choice did we have but to play housebreaker? Miss Loddiges had been missing for eleven days. Her friend had been murdered, as had his father. I felt in every fiber of my being that she was still alive, but might not remain so for long.

  I crept up further, gave Dupin my candle, then knelt down so I could peer through the gap beneath the door. The room seemed well-enough lit, presumably by an Argand lamp. The floorboards were bare and to the left I saw the iron legs of a bed. Thick curtains fell to the floor on the opposite wall, and a fire burned brightly in the hearth to the right. There in front of the fire was a chair and, to my relief, a woman’s long skirts. But a less reassuring thought came to me—was it Miss Loddiges or the housekeeper? I raised myself to my knees and Dupin held the candles so that they briefly illuminated the keyhole, which I immediately peered through. I had a good view of the window, a glimpse of the bed, and could just discern the back of the chair, but nothing useful about its occupant. It came to me then that there was only one course of action in the limited time we had. I knocked as softly as I could upon the door, then turned to Dupin with my finger held to my lips. He nodded. I heard the rustling of skirts but nothing more, and crouched again to peer through the keyhole. My view of the chair’s occupant was still obscured. I knocked again, a bit more firmly, but not loudly enough, I hoped, to disturb anyone in the bedrooms.

  “What is it?”

  My heart leaped—Miss Loddiges! It was her voice.

  “Miss Loddiges, it is I—Poe,” I said softly. “Do you know where the key is?”

  I peered through the keyhole and moments later my view was blocked by her eye peering back at me. I leaned back from the door and Dupin let the glow of the candle fall upon my face. I heard a gasp.

  “Mr. Poe!” she whispered. “Has he been arrested?”

  “No. So we must hurry. Do you know where the key is?”

  “His study, perhaps. The housekeeper has a key, but I believe she keeps them with her.”

  “Where is her room?” I whispered.

  “The first bedroom to the right of the staircase as you ascend.”

  “Here, Poe. Let me try.” Dupin gestured that I should let him near the keyhole. He withdrew a ring of keys from his pocket. “Please.” He indicated that I should hold both candles to illuminate the keyhole and selected one of the keys. He tried it, then another; the third key turned and there was a satisfying click. He quickly opened the door and we were inside, where Miss Loddiges waited, her hands held anxiously in front of her mouth. She was wearing a very plain rough-spun dress, much of the type a servant might wear, and house slippers.

  “Truly I thought I would perish here.” She threw her arms around me as a small child might, then pulled away and fluttered her hands about her eyes, blotting tears. She took a breath and her face set into a calmer, more English demeanor.

  “Did he confess why he has acted so treacherously?” I asked as softly as I could.

  “We must go,” Dupin said in a low voice. “All will be in vain if the housekeeper wakes or Renelle finds us.”

  “He has taken my coat, my boots, my bonnet,” Miss Loddiges said.

  “No matter. I will give you my coat. The slippers will have to suffice, I’m afraid. Now let us escape this place as quietly as we can.”

  Miss Loddiges picked u
p the Argand lamp, but I shook my head and handed her my candle. We made our way from her prison, creeping down the stairs before her so we might shield her if confronted. On the landing, Dupin paused to listen and all was reassuringly quiet. He began to descend the grand staircase and I took several steps after him until I noticed that Miss Loddiges was no longer dogging my footsteps. She had vanished. The housekeeper’s door was still closed and I heard no sound from within it. The door to the turret room was closed. And then I noticed a faint flickering glow emerging from Renelle’s study—I could only think that Miss Loddiges knew of evidence that would implicate Renelle in Jeremiah Mathews’s murder, but truly it was not the time to search for it. I hurried after her, and moments later candlelight glinted upon the wall and I knew that Dupin was on my heels. We entered Renelle’s study and found the door to an adjoining room ajar. I crept to its threshold and witnessed a peculiar tableau. Miss Loddiges had wedged her candle into a holder on the mantelpiece and had placed a small birdcage on a table. With visibly shaking hands, she was trying to unlock the door to an extremely large cage that appeared to be empty. Then a flittering motion caught my eye and shadows swarmed over the walls behind what looked to be a large white hawk-moth.

  “Miss Loddiges, there is no time!”

  “If I don’t take her now, he will murder her,” she said stubbornly.

  I was confounded by the lady’s eccentricity. “I don’t think—”

  “She is the reason he has kept me prisoner.”

  Dupin held his candle closer to the cage and gave a soft gasp.

  “Loddigesia mirabilis—your father’s namesake—and an albino,” he muttered. “It is a most elusive species, but this bird—she is exceptional.”

  I peered more closely and realized that what I had taken to be a large, pale moth was actually a hummingbird with a peculiar tail. The bird was exquisite, her white feathers glimmered under the candlelight like freshly fallen snow. Two, long wispy strands tipped with oval feathers sprang from either side of the bird’s tail feathers and bobbed in the air. It was like a creature from a fairy tale.