Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  Miss Loddiges succeeded in capturing the tiny white bird in her hands and transferred it into the smaller cage.

  “The jewel,” Dupin said, a mixture of wonder and annoyance in his voice. “How did I not fathom it?”

  “This is the jewel?” And then I remembered the Cloud Warrior crown with its hummingbird and Andrew Mathews’s seemingly unfinished drawing of the spatuletail hummingbird in his strange picture of the birds in the tree.

  Dupin nodded. “This is the specimen referred to in Jeremiah Mathews’s log of the birds he collected: ‘Mathewsii nubes, live’. It is the jewel he kept hidden in his ship cabin—Jeremiah Mathews captured the rarest example of an elusive hummingbird species.”

  “And that hummingbird is mine.”

  I spun round to see Professor Renelle standing in the doorway, pistol leveled at us.

  Dupin turned slowly. He appeared unsurprised by Renelle’s presence. “The speaking engagement was a hoax?” he asked genially.

  “Naturally,” Renelle said, as he haphazardly aimed the pistol at each of us.

  “Please put away the gun, professor,” I said in my most reasonable voice. “Murder is not a result that any of us would wish for.”

  “I believe the law will be on my side when I report that I fired on intruders who broke into my home.”

  “It is clear you are not averse to murder,” Dupin said, as if making pleasant small talk. “What provoked you to kill Andrew Mathews?”

  “He fell victim to an accident—I did not kill him.”

  “Oh? What happened?” Dupin asked.

  “The man refused to divulge what he found on my expedition. He tried to prevent me from collecting artifacts in the burial chamber. He was belligerent and threatening and careless,” Renelle said. “When climbing a ladder up to the cave, he slipped and fell.”

  Dupin nodded as if Renelle’s explanation was perfectly plausible. “And did you come to know what Andrew Mathews found?”

  “I believe he found the derrotero,” Renelle said impatiently. “The map that shows where the king’s tomb is. He was inside the burial chamber when I was not there, he and that guide. They were in collusion. But Mathews died before he could find the king’s tomb.”

  “So what happened to the derrotero?” Dupin asked.

  “He must have hidden it in his bird collecting journal, which disappeared. It was my property, but someone took it. When Loddiges sent Andrew Mathews’s son to collect birds on my last expedition, I was suspicious. When he poisoned my water so that I could not travel and went on to the lost city by himself, I knew young Mathews had the map.”

  Renelle’s fury was tangible. I began to fear that Dupin was making the situation worse, that his need to fully unravel the mystery might result in our murders. And then I noticed that he was inching slowly and carefully toward Renelle, doing his best to keep the professor focused on airing his grievances.

  “So you presumed that Jeremiah Mathews had found the legendary jewel and hidden it in his cabin,” I said, hoping to divert Renelle’s attention from Dupin. “And when you were refused permission to board the Bounteous at the Lazaretto, you hired the Schuylkill rangers to loot his cabin. Jeremiah Mathews tried to stop the thieves and was drowned, and so you ended up with the true jewel of the Chachapoyas, but did not know that at the time.”

  Renelle scowled at me, making it clear my supposition was correct. Dupin quickly edged closer to the professor.

  “You didn’t find the emerald or treasure map you were seeking in Jeremiah Mathews’s cabin, but you still believed that he and his father had made discoveries about the king’s tomb they were hiding from you,” I continued.

  “Recorded in those infernal notebooks they were continually scribbling in,” Renelle snapped, waving the pistol again.

  “It must have been very disappointing to learn that Miss Loddiges had passed the journal into the care of Mr. Poe,” Dupin said.

  Renelle couldn’t help taking on the stance of a rooster, chest puffed out with pride. “Not especially. Miss Loddiges had far more to offer me than simply the journal, you see. I had every intention of using her to progress my negotiations more quickly.”

  “The hummingbird,” Miss Loddiges interjected. “He wrote to my father about the spatuletail, claiming he found it on the expedition. He took daguerreotypes of the bird and sent some as proof of its existence. He believed my father would pay a very high price for such a rarity,” she added bitterly. “But my father refused to offer him the fee he desired for the spatuletail alive, so Professor Renelle wanted me to kill and preserve the bird in order to sell it to another collector.”

  “And the stupid girl refused. It is the most rare and exquisite hummingbird known to man and should be preserved forever while it is in peak condition. Her recalcitrance is unforgivable.”

  “I will not kill such a rare and sublime creature. I simply will not.”

  Renelle shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. “I truly wished for you to stuff the bird, Miss Loddiges, as you have immense skill. I had hoped you would kill the creature in such a way that the body would remain perfect, but if I must shoot it myself and get someone else to preserve it, then so I shall.” Renelle aimed his pistol at the tiny bird. There was a click as he pulled back the hammer.

  “No!” Miss Loddiges gasped.

  As if in answer to her shouted prayer, Renelle suddenly collapsed forward and the gun skittered across the floorboards out of reach. Then a man dressed all in black was roping him up like a steer. When he was finished, he hauled Renelle over and got to his feet.

  Renelle, dazed, looked up at his aggressor and growled, “You.”

  “Yes.” The man had a deep voice, and when candlelight illuminated his features, the doppelgänger of Jeremiah Mathews was before us. Miss Loddiges was frozen with wonder. He left Renelle in his ignominious position on the floor and approached the bird cage. A beatific smile illuminated his solemn countenance as he studied the hummingbird. He muttered something, perhaps a prayer.

  “Was it you who went into the glasshouse with our hummingbird?” Miss Loddiges asked in a voice that faltered with emotion. “And did you move the birds displayed in my sitting room?” She stared at the man as if examining his every feature, then whispered, “Was it you in my room that night?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am sorry if I frightened you. I was searching for la Joya.” His words were inflected with a Spanish accent and his sentiment sounded genuine.

  “I was not frightened. I just . . . hoped you were someone else.” Miss Loddiges looked as though her heart would break.

  “From Professor Renelle’s reaction, I presume you were on the first expedition with him and that you were a friend to Andrew Mathews. May I ask who you are?” Dupin’s polite inquiry was all the more strange given the circumstances we found ourselves in.

  The man scrutinized Dupin for a moment, then said, “Andrew Mathews and I were friends. I was on the 1841 expedition as a guide and translator—my people come from the Chachapoyan mountains. This one,” he said, tapping Renelle’s foot with his own, “endangered everyone on the expedition with his reckless behavior. Two of my people died and he wanted to leave their bodies where they fell.” The man said the words as if they hurt his mouth. “Because Andrew was hired by the lady’s father to collect birds, he went where he wanted to go, which made this one angrier. He warned Andrew not to try to hide anything from him.”

  “So Andrew Mathews put clues in his journal?” Dupin asked.

  The man shrugged. “Perhaps. He asked me to make sure his son received the journal if he met the same fate as my friends. I agreed because he was a man of honor. When Andrew discovered la Joya and I told him the legend of this bird—how she is sacred to us—he let her remain in her home.”

  “Ridiculous,” Renelle growled. “The hummingbird is a rarity that must be studied by scientists, not kept in confinement or eaten by savages.”

  The Chachapoyan’s expression suggested that he migh
t like to murder Renelle.

  “You made the bird call to warn us about the lockpick,” Dupin said. “And you released the pigeon into the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “So that we might find Renelle and make it easier for you to take the bird?”

  The man did not confirm Dupin’s theory, nor did he contradict him. He turned instead to Miss Loddiges, whose eyes were still fixed on him in wonderment. “La Joya embodies the spirit of the Cloud People. She must be returned to her home.”

  “Did you know Jeremiah?” she asked softly. “Were you on the expedition with him?”

  The man shook his head. “I was working in the Chincha Islands. I could not protect la Joya or inform Andrew’s son of his error. I believe he would have understood, as his father did, that we need la Joya for our people to rise again.”

  “Pure nonsense. The Cloud People are finished. The Spaniards and the Incas saw to that centuries ago,” Renelle grunted from the floor. “Will you truly let this heathen take one of the rarest and most elusive birds in all of creation away with him?”

  Dupin’s face creased with disdain. “It is not my decision.”

  “Miss Loddiges must make that choice,” I said. “It was her friend who captured the hummingbird for her father and who died trying to bring the creature to its new home.”

  Miss Loddiges peered through the bars of the cage at the miniature bird, which was in calm repose on its tiny perch. “So beautiful,” she whispered. “So very beautiful.” A moment later she gathered herself and announced in a clear voice, “I would like to have all the daguerreotypes of the spatuletail Professor Renelle kept for himself.”

  “No!” Renelle shouted. “Absolutely not.”

  “I believe I have the right,” Miss Loddiges said coldly. “You are nothing more than a thief and a cold-blooded killer. Furthermore, Jeremiah’s journal must be returned to me and la Joya must go back to the Chachapoyas. It is the just thing to do.”

  The Chachapoyan nodded, his expression solemn.

  Miss Loddiges’s face was full of sorrow as she gazed at the tiny bird. “You will get her back safely, won’t you?” she said quietly.

  “I believe that I will,” he replied. “It is the destiny of la Joya to go home.”

  Miss Loddiges nodded and wrapped a heavy cover around the bird cage. “Will you tell me your name?” she asked the Chachapoyan as she held the cage toward him.

  He took it and said, “I am Colibrí.”

  “Colibrí. Very good,” she said with the faintest smile. “I am Helena.”

  “Helena,” he echoed softly, then turned to leave.

  “I believe you know where Bartram’s estate is,” she called out hurriedly as he reached the door. The Chachapoyan stopped and faced her, but said nothing. “I thought I saw Jeremiah there one night, but I suppose it was you.” Miss Loddiges looked as if she might weep, but gathered herself and said, “I worry for the spatuletail. She is so delicate and Peru is so very far away.” She waved a trembling hand at the covered bird cage. “Come to Bartram’s estate tomorrow. I cannot bear the thought that she might die.” It was clear from the Chachapoyan’s expression that he was mistrustful of Miss Loddiges’s intentions, which she quickly perceived. “I give you my word that we will assist you in returning the spatuletail—the jewel or la Joya as you say—to your homeland. I will pay for your passage to Peru if you will come to Bartram’s tomorrow afternoon,” she added. When Colibrí remained silent, she said with more than a little desperation, “My friend was murdered trying to bring the bird to our nursery in Paradise Fields so it might live within our glasshouses there. I see now that he was in error, but he did not deserve to lose his life. Mrs. Carr is my friend, and I pledge to you that she and her husband will assist you.” Miss Loddiges stared at the Chachapoyan, who held her gaze for such a long time it seemed that he was examining her very soul.

  “Perhaps,” he finally said. Then he slipped away with the ghostly hummingbird like a phantom from an exotic dream.

  43

  Candlelight scuttled along the walls, enlarging our shadows into grotesque monsters. Miss Loddiges preceded me down the hallway, despite my attempts to overtake her. We had left Dupin to watch over Renelle, who was secured in his study, and had taken the devil’s pistol and keys so we might disarm his housekeeper and caretaker. I held the gun clumsily and was not certain that my aim would prove true, should I be required to use it—I dearly hoped that would not be the case.

  When we reached the housekeeper’s door, some of my anxiousness abated as a reverberating snore was audible. While my own mother-in-law disrupted our sleep on occasion with the clacking of her breathing, this was very loud indeed and there was no doubt that the sleeper was immersed in her dreams. Miss Loddiges boldly threw open the door before I could stop her and there lay the housekeeper, her noisy emanations obscuring all other sounds. It was impossible that she might have heard the earlier scuffle. Miss Loddiges shook the slumbering lady until she emerged to wakefulness and let out a wail of pure terror. She pulled the quilt right up to her nose, so only her eyes peered out from the gap between it and her large nightcap.

  “Hush now, Miss Thomassen. There is no point in making a fuss,” Miss Loddiges instructed sternly. “We have Professor Renelle in custody and the night watch will arrive soon. You will be locked in your room until they question you.”

  Miss Thomassen immediately burst into noisy tears. “But I am innocent!” she sniffled, gulping air like a land-anchored fish. “I did nothing wrong!”

  “You most certainly did. You are an accomplice to Professor Renelle’s crime,” I said.

  “No! That was Jimmerson. He helped take the lady.”

  “And you did nothing to address what you knew to be a crime,” I retorted. “It was your duty to inform the police and if you fail in that tonight, things will go very badly for you indeed.” It was something of an idle threat given that I had no way of knowing what influence Renelle might have over the local officers of the law, but I hoped it might deter the housekeeper from corroborating any untruths he might tell. A gasp from Miss Loddiges interrupted my thoughts, and I saw that she was staring at a pair of very small boots on top of the dresser, like a religious artifact upon an altar.

  “My boots.” She grabbed them and sat in a rocking chair to pull them on.

  Miss Thomassen’s weeping increased in volume, whether at the loss of the boots or fear of prison was not clear. She curled up into a ball like a small child and sniveled, “It’s not my fault. I did nothing wrong. It’s not my fault!”

  “You will have to prove that,” Miss Loddiges said, adding her own threat to mine.

  “Now where is Jimmerson?” I said. “Is he in the house?”

  “The cottage. Or he should be. He retired before I did,” she whimpered.

  “Thank you kindly,” Miss Loddiges said coldly and marched from the room.

  “Remember, tell the truth and things will go more easily for you,” I advised, taking the key from the inside of the door and pulling it shut. I hurriedly locked the housekeeper in and ran after the determined young taxidermist, fearful that she might try to confront Jimmerson on her own. I reached her side just as she was approaching the front door.

  “This way,” I said, indicating the hall leading to the kitchen. “There is a tunnel connecting the kitchen and the springhouse, which will provide an element of surprise.”

  “For what purpose?” Miss Loddiges said. “You have Renelle’s pistol.”

  “What if the caretaker has a hunting rifle or some other firearm? I’ve no wish to duel with the fellow.” I did not reveal my lack of confidence in hitting a moving target or out-shooting someone intent on killing us. “If Jimmerson heard the scuffle with Renelle, he will be expecting me to approach the cottage from the side of the house and will have an unimpeded shot as I cross the lawn. But if I emerge from the springhouse, he will not be able to see me from the window, thus providing me a chance to capture him unawares.”

&nb
sp; “I am going with you,” Miss Loddiges said.

  “Certainly not. I cannot in good conscience put you in harm’s way again.”

  Miss Loddiges picked up the poker from the fireplace. “Two against one gives us better odds, and you will not keep me imprisoned in the kitchen. The man wronged me, and I will not stand by and do nothing.” Her words sounded all the more fierce when expounded in her small, angry voice.

  “I disagree with your decision, but time is too short to argue. Stay behind me, please. If I am to be thought a cad after this folly, at least allow me to shield you as best I can.”

  She nodded, and I opened the door that appeared to lead to a cupboard and descended down the stone steps, Miss Loddiges at my heels. We both inhaled sharply as a rush of cold air near swallowed the candle flames, but they recovered and we continued through the dank tunnel. I cautiously pushed open the door that led into the springhouse. There was a scurry of feet and a mouse or something larger disappeared into its lair. Thankfully the springhouse was otherwise empty.

  “The moon is bright enough to make our way without the candles,” I said.

  Miss Loddiges nodded and blew out the flame she carried.

  “But please wait here,” I pleaded. “It would be infinitely safer.”

  “I will not. I am not afraid, and I wish to know if Jimmerson had anything to do with Jeremiah’s death. Now let us capture the villain before he escapes.” She pushed open the door, so I had no choice but to extinguish my candle flame and step out into the thin moonlight with her. We scuttled across the lawn like night creatures and waited at the side of the cottage, listening for any movement inside. All was quiet. I put my hand to the pistol and felt the reassuring cool of its metal barrel and its wooden handle. I ardently hoped I would not have to use it, but knew that I must make the caretaker think that I would. Taking a deep breath, I threw open the cottage door.

  “Mr. Jimmerson, sit up and show me your hands!” I shouted.