Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  “Mr. Poe! Are you there?” a hearty voice sounded as the door handle rattled.

  A woman’s more gentle tones intervened. “Mr. Poe? I have your cleaned clothing here and fresh bedding.” It was my guardian. I unbolted the door for her, but a heavily bearded, portly man forced his way inside.

  “Poe! Good to see you up. Let’s have a look at you.” He pushed me into a chair. “Bring a candle, will you, dearest?”

  The fair-haired angel lit a candle and held it up to my face. Even that small flame was like a dart shot into my skull. I tried to focus on her beauty, but my tormentor leaned in to study my eyes, then unceremoniously yanked down my jaw and peered into my mouth.

  “Hmm.” He pushed my jaw back into position. “There will be no more going to rum-addled sailors for medicine, sir. It will be the death of you next time.” He punctuated this admonishment with a guffaw that was unsettling.

  “You must listen to my husband, Mr. Poe. Loneliness cannot be conquered with the contents of a bottle.”

  “Indeed. If you are troubled with seasickness again, you must come to me.”

  I nodded, but was distracted by his wife, who busied herself with stripping the linen from my bed. My face reddened as I thought of the moist, fetid sheets in her dainty hands. “Please, do not go to such trouble,” I implored in a small voice that was scarcely my own.

  “It is no trouble.” She shook out the fresh linen, which quivered like a sail in the gentlest of breezes and floated down onto the berth. “A boy will collect the old linen for the laundry.” My nurse settled her eyes upon me. They were large and very striking, emphasized by the golden curls that framed her face. “We’ll leave you for now, Mr. Poe, and hope to see you at supper. Six o’clock.”

  The doctor drew out his pocket watch and tapped it. “That is in one hour. And do listen to my wife. She is quite the capable nurse. Until later, sir.” And they left me.

  Alone once more, I went to my trunk and lifted out the mahogany box that was secreted there. My heart began to race again when I saw the key was in the lock, but upon lifting the lid, I was relieved to discover that the bundle of letters was still inside, knotted up with the green ribbon. I then turned my attention to the papers I had gathered from the floor. Amongst them was a solitary page written in a precise, relentless script:

  No.33 rue Dunôt, Faubourg, St. Germain, Paris

  6 April 1840

  My dear Poe,

  Your letter, so wilfully opaque, has succeeded in capturing my imagination. Amicis semper fidelis—as your friend, I will of course be honoured to assist you in your investigation. Indeed your request is most opportune as I have business to pursue in London.

  I will meet you on the first of July at Brown’s Genteel Inn, 23 Dover Street as you suggest and look forward to learning the details of the peculiar mystery to which you allude.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  C. Auguste Dupin

  With unsteady hands I placed Dupin’s letter to one side and gathered up the other ink-stained, crumpled sheets. This is what, with increasing consternation, I read:

  The Ariel, 13 June 1840

  Darling Sissy, my dearest wife,

  I am writing to you from my stateroom on board a ship bound for hell. We are but a week out of port, and I fear I cannot stand the endless pitching of this vessel any longer. My health declines more every day, and it is impossible to maintain a grip on the earthly world when surrounded by nothing but water, day after endless day—water that won’t lie still, but heaves and boils and threatens to swallow us entirely. With this fear of drowning constantly upon me, I worry all the more about losing you—my darling, my anchor. For I have lied to you. I have told you that I am visiting London on writerly business, when in fact I seek to uncover terrible secrets—secrets that may prove my blood tainted. If this mysterious box of letters is not an elaborate hoax and my inheritance is indeed a scandalous and sordid one, I fear your love and all its brightness will drop like a dying star into the dreaded brine that surrounds me. And if that love, that brightest truest love is lost to me, then surely I too will be extinguished.

  A storm rages outside, my emotions made manifest. It tears at the ship’s sails and at the very fabric of my being, so rash was I to leave my family in search of answers about a past that claims to be mine by blood if not by action. I must prove it wrong! For surely words upon the page tell lies if the writer wishes to deceive.

  But know, dear Sissy, that my sentiments are true. I will entomb them inside a bottle and cast it into those tormenting waves so they might carry it across the miles, to the place where the sea transforms into the Schuylkill River, and that bottle will ride the currents all the way into Philadelphia until it finds you walking along the river bank, as we do of an evening. And when you capture this bottle and claim its contents, then you will know, Sissy, my love, that Eddy thinks of you still from the very bottom of the sea.

  I remain with devotion,

  Your dear lost boy

  The letter clutched in my trembling fingers stunned me. Only I could have written it, and yet I had no recollection of having done so. Once again my sinister twin, the shadowy figure who possesses me on occasion, was taunting me. I had promised full temperance to Sissy and although I had no memory of breaking my pledge, there was more than enough evidence to prove my failing. No eyes but mine must ever see that letter. I gathered up the pages, stuffed them in my pocket, and left my stateroom, determined to deliver the evidence to the bottom of the sea.

  The saloon was empty, and I managed to escape onto the deck without notice. The ship bucked and charged like an untamed horse and vertigo assailed me as I staggered aft. I grabbed for the side of the ship as my legs buckled under me, but too late. I collapsed onto the deck and all was darkness.

  “Mr. Poe!”

  I heard a voice above me. Strong hands gripped the undersides of my arms and lifted me back to my feet.

  “Still no sea legs. Let me help you to the saloon.”

  The robust doctor hauled me along beside him, his arm locked around my back. While not happy that my mission had been interrupted, I was relieved to be rescued from further embarrassment—fellow passengers would inevitably think me the victim of drink if I were found lying senseless on the deck.

  “Ah, Mr. Poe.” I heard the mellifluous tones of the doctor’s lovely wife. “We are so pleased that you will be joining us for supper, but you must take care on such a treacherous night.” She linked her arm through mine, and the two Samaritans guided me back to the dining area.

  The saloon was now awash with candlelight and three strangers stared up at me as I entered the room. Their countenances ranged from mildly welcoming to hostile, or so it appeared to me.

  “Mr. Poe is back with us,” the doctor said.

  “So we observe, Dr. Wallis.” A thin, sallow-faced man, bald but for two parallel hanks of hair draped over his pate, scrutinized me with pale eyes. He was dressed in somber clothes not unlike my own and his demeanor was self-righteous. “Have you quite recovered, Mr. Poe?” His query had the tone of an accusation.

  “He is rather delicate still, Mr. Asquith,” the doctor’s wife interrupted. “We must all assist Mr. Poe along the road to recovery.”

  Mr. Asquith’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled audibly through his nostrils. “The man who resists the agents of Satan will follow life’s path to Heaven’s door.”

  “And it is our duty to assist our fellow travelers along that path,” she responded.

  “It is our duty indeed. And forgiveness is a gift from God,” declared a woman of middle age with hair that matched her pewter-colored dress. “We are pleased you are able to break bread with us again, Mr. Poe.”

  “Madam, thank you. I am appreciative of your kind support.”

  I presented a nervous smile to my fellow diners and noted that one person had yet to comment on my appearance. He was a short man of athletic build—thirty years old, perhaps—with auburn hair and mustache, dressed in an alarming green fro
ck coat, yellow neckcloth and dandyish trousers with a wide green stripe down the leg. He might be considered handsome if one overlooked his arrogant expression and garish clothing. The fellow shifted his insolent green eyes from the doctor’s wife and focused on me like a cat stalking a wounded bird.

  “Ah, Poe. We are indeed delighted to see you on your feet again. Much more befitting for a man of your position.” His theatrical voice boomed through the small room, and I recognized an accent from my childhood—Virginia or further south.

  “Mr. Poe, do sit. The food will be here shortly, or so we all hope. They are devilishly slow with supper most nights.” The doctor indicated the bench in front of me and once I had seated myself, he took the position to my right. His wife gracefully arranged herself on my left.

  “You were privileged to have Mrs. Wallis as a nurse. I was almost envious of your compromised health.” The man in the vulgar frock coat inflected the last two words with just enough sarcasm to avoid straying from the bounds of polite conversation. Mrs. Wallis flushed. I awaited a remonstrance from her husband, but he was focused on lighting a cigar and appeared oblivious to the scoundrel’s words. “And please know that I have taken no offense at your critique of my pathetic scribblings. It was educational to have the opinion of a professional editor.”

  I could feel a wave of heat rush up from my neck to my face, but was saved the embarrassment of making an immediate reply by the arrival of two young men carrying in soup, meat and bread.

  “Mr. Mackie, please,” the doctor’s wife intervened in a soft voice. “The food is here. Now is the time for pleasant conversation.”

  Mr. Mackie nodded his acquiescence to her and smiled, but his eyes were chill when he gazed back at me. Pathetic scribblings—his words or mine? I had no recollection of the man and certainly no memory of his writing. But making an enemy when imprisoned on a vessel in the middle of the sea was not a terribly prudent course of action. The smell of the food and Dr. Wallis’s newly lit cigar had an unpleasant effect on my stomach. Anxiety added to my discomfort.

  “Stick with the soup, Mr. Poe,” Dr. Wallis said through a cloud of smoke. “Your stomach is unlikely to be ready for meat yet.”

  Mrs. Wallis filled my bowl with a dark broth and placed it in front of me. I managed a few spoonfuls, but as the pungent steam rose up and mixed with cigar smoke, cooked meat and potatoes, the ship commenced a terrible dipping and rising. The effect on my senses was immediate and awful. I struggled to escape my position on the bench, and when at last I was on my feet, rushed from the saloon before I could disgrace myself further. The booming laughter of the man in the terrible suit followed me as I emerged into open air and staggered for the side of the ship, where I expelled the contents of my stomach, thankfully without witness. After the waves of dyspepsia passed, I gulped down the night air. How could I rejoin my fellow travelers after my uncouth exit? Then I remembered the letter. I retrieved it from my pocket and hurled it toward the hungry sea before my mission could be interrupted again. As the sheets of paper disappeared into the night, I wished my humiliation would fly away with them.

  When at last I turned from the water, fear tugged at me as a shadow flitted across the deck and hid itself in the murk. Had the antagonized scribbler come to defend his artistry in a cowardly manner? I stood there, frozen, fear prickling up and down my back with each creak and groan of the ship, knowing that in my enervated condition, a confrontation would surely not go my way.

  “Wandering the vessel alone in darkness is foolhardy, Mr. Poe,” Dr. Wallis said, as he and his wife emerged from the gloom to rescue me again. “The decks are treacherous when slick with seawater. Come, let us lead the way.” My new friends linked their arms through mine, led me to my stateroom, and bade me goodnight.

  If I had hoped that solitude would provide succor from my shame, I was wrong. The wan candlelight and creeping shadows added unease to my self-reproach. Finally I put pen to paper and wrote a letter to my beloved wife, describing the camaraderie amongst the passengers, the benevolent weather, the halcyon sea, the tales and poems I had completed to profitably pass the time. And then I sealed that wild fiction with wax and left it in my writing desk until it could be sent back to Philadelphia when the ship returned.

  27 Bury Street, London

  Wednesday morning, 19 March 1788

  Henry, dearest,

  I am relieved to find you at home this morning, seemingly well but for some over-indulgence in drink, judging by the heaviness of your slumbers. Our little company was concerned when you failed to arrive at the chophouse after the performance last night, and we awaited you in vain throughout supper.

  Miss Cole was in a temper as she had witnessed you in lengthy conversation with a Mrs. Wright and her younger sister Miss Pierce, who has yet to snare a husband. The two sisters attend the theatre regularly, but Miss Cole swore that Mrs. Wright had designs on someone associated with the Royalty. Indeed, she was adamant that the lady was in pursuit of your attentions.

  When I confessed that I really could not place Mrs. Wright at all, Miss Cole obliged me with a description: “Scrawnier than a drowned cat, but with feet as large as an elephant’s and a pockmarked face shaped like that of a horse.” This melange from the animal kingdom did little to focus the woman in my mind’s eye, but when Annie added that the lady in question had been wearing a blue and yellow ensemble and a necklace of large blue stones set in what looked to be gold, I instantly knew of whom she was speaking. The dress was an unattractive combination of cerulean blue and canary yellow, made more vulgar with three flounces around the hem, lace ruffles on the sleeves and neckline, and an unfashionable red sash.

  Mr. Blanchard confirmed your lengthy dalliance with Mrs. Wright. He had been obliged to make small talk with her spinster sister while Mrs. Wright regaled you with fascinating tales of her deceased husband’s stationery shop on Watling Street, where she spends her afternoons assisting customers. How sorry I am to have missed such delightful conversation. Mr. Blanchard also rescued me from the intolerable embarrassment of confessing to all assembled that I did not have the price of my supper in my pocket. I have assured him that you will reimburse him in full tomorrow. I trust you will create a splendid story to explain your absence to Mr. Blanchard and will ensure that my dignity is not damaged further.

  Your Wife,

  Elizabeth

  27 Bury Street, London

  Friday, 21 March 1788

  My dear Elizabeth,

  Please forgive my delay in responding, but I have only just found your letter tucked under a flask of gin on the shelf. If my thirst had not got the better of me, I might not have discovered it at all!

  First, I am sorry I failed to escort you to the chophouse on Tuesday night, but have no fear—your reputation is intact with Mr. Blanchard. He was most concerned when I informed him that a pickpocket accosted me outside the theatre and when I gave chase, the ruffian clouted me about the head. The blows left me disoriented, and I had no recourse but to proceed home for fear of ending up senseless in the street. Mr. Blanchard agreed to accept reimbursement for your supper after wages are distributed at the theatre.

  As for Mrs. Wright, I am once more wounded by the envenomed tongue of slander. But unlike Lady Sneerwell, I take no pleasure in reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation. I really cannot say whose attentions Mrs. Wright was pursuing on Tuesday night, but yesterday evening she was courted in a most pointed manner. The tantalising theatrical unfolded thusly:

  Mrs. Wright locked up her stationer’s shop, walked down Watling Street and turned into Bow Lane. She had progressed a short distance when she felt someone brush against her and a sharp scratch upon her haunches. As she cried out, a man in red breeches, black surtout and a cocked hat with high brim and a cockade ran like the Devil down Bow Lane. Worse still, the culprit was laughing, and Mrs. Wright fell to the ground dizzy with fear and pain. She struggled back to the shop to collect herself and discovered to her distress that the backside of her
dress had been slashed. That dress of cerulean blue and canary yellow you disliked so much is tattered, as is Mrs. Wright’s posterior. She is quite unable to salve her nerves.

  It is particularly disconcerting to note that details of Mrs. Wright’s ordeal have a startling similarity to the assault upon Miss Cole—a slash across the hindquarters, a ruined dress and the danger of a ruined reputation. And is it not peculiar that both women had been to the Royalty before they were attacked? This makes me fear for your safety, my dear, as these violent escapades occurred in broad daylight, were completely unprovoked, and, inexplicably, the ladies were not robbed. Please exercise utmost caution when going about your business.

  With concern,

  Henry

  LIVERPOOL TO LONDON, WEDNESDAY, 1 JULY 1840

  More than three weeks at sea took me to the brink of madness, but I survived the remainder of the journey without further recourse to intemperance. Daily I wrote to Sissy and Muddy, my mother-in-law, a diary of my journey that was rather maudlin. I had promised my wife that I would use my time at sea productively to write a collection of stories and tried to draw inspiration from my monotonous surroundings, but after penning the beginnings of some sea adventures and pirate stories that sent yet another ship and its crew to the bottom of the ocean, I threw my half-hearted tales to a watery grave instead.

  When the Ariel finally sailed into the port of Liverpool at dawn, my heart lifted. At last! I could put my sins behind me and become Edgar Poe—writer, critic and scholar. The man who inhabited my stateroom on the ship would be left behind. I pondered how arriving in another country gave a man the opportunity to begin again. It was possible to redefine one’s character, adjust mistakes and start over if determined enough. This thought struck me as important, and I vowed to return to it when in a less anxious state of mind. First I had to find my way to the railway station and board a train bound for London without falling prey to the unsavory characters who frequented Liverpool’s tippling dens and spent their days and nights wandering the vicinity’s streets and alleys, looking for the chance to swindle an honest citizen. It was the same in every port, or so I presumed from the tales I had heard in the taverns down near the docks of Philadelphia.