Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  Dupin continued to puff on his cigar, his expression unchanged. “In two distinct hands, you say?”

  I nodded. “Those of an Elizabeth and Henry Arnold.”

  Dupin scrutinized the bundle of letters, the smoke from his cigar curling around him like an unearthly mist.

  “And what do you know of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold?” he asked, fixing his eyes upon me like a baleful cat.

  “Very little,” I said cautiously. “Only what I find in this correspondence. That they were husband and wife, and actors on the London stage.”

  Dupin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It is peculiar that the box and the letters within it were released to you in such an inexplicably tardy manner if truly a legacy from your adoptive father. Was there any note from him?”

  “No. Just a letter from Mrs. Allan.”

  “Do you still have her letter?”

  “Yes, but I did not think to bring it with me this evening.”

  “I should like to see it.” Dupin ran his finger along the edge of the mahogany box, then leaned to peer inside it. “Quite a large vessel for its cargo,” he murmured before settling back to sip his cognac. I wished I had not drained my glass quite so quickly, but did not wish to play the glutton and ask for another.

  “Let me be direct, Dupin,” I said. “I think these letters must be forgeries, designed by the pernicious Mrs. Allen to distress me by suggesting that I have some connection to the scandal contained therein.” A sigh escaped me. “It is one thing to disinherit the child one has raised, it is quite another to burden him with such a peculiar legacy, and while my adoptive father was certainly aware of my passion for conundrums, he never sought to encourage such intellectual proclivities within me. I cannot believe that he wished the box to be sent to me.”

  “And so you think that John Allan’s widow desires to cause you pain by sending you a box of forged letters?”

  He tapped ash from his cigar and then drew on it until it flared crimson like a demon’s eye, hypnotic and cruel. It was what I believed, but when Dupin expressed my thoughts, he made them sound ridiculous.

  “Read the letters. You will see what I mean.” The cigar smoke and heavily perfumed tapers in the candelabrum began to overwhelm my senses and an intolerable weariness swept over me. “Thank you for dinner, but I am terribly tired. Shall we take up this conversation tomorrow? At eleven perhaps?”

  Dupin’s eyes were fixed upon mine. “Of course. Leave the letters with me. I would like to read them.”

  * * *

  Once back in my room, I thought to calm myself by writing a letter to Sissy, but found I had nothing to tell her that would not make her anxious. The windows began to rattle with a hard driving rain and a chill came upon me. Feeling utterly enervated, I fell into my bed, but sleep eluded me. An iciness pervaded the atmosphere and with a sickening of my heart, I sensed a presence in the room, a presence that emitted a pestilent and mystic vapor, which grew stronger and brighter, like a flash of lightning captured by storm clouds and frozen. Then a glowing red eye pierced through the blue haze—a solitary eye of fire, mesmerizing me, completely overwhelming me. The bedclothes clasped my body like some supernatural entity and as I struggled to breathe, I wondered if I would ever see my darling wife again. Just as I drifted toward nothingness, the veil was lifted and my eyes fluttered open.

  I was at once confused and relieved to discover that it was morning.

  27 Bury Street, London

  8 May 1788

  Henry,

  I had expected that we would meet yesterday evening at the Westminster School of Eloquence as planned, but my hopes were in vain. I wonder if you have managed to secure us a tour for the summer season as you promised? I am increasingly concerned for the well-being of our daughter if our finances remain so precarious. Surely you understand that I cannot request aid from my father again. The fact that he has a new wife does little to aid my attempts to placate him.

  The disagreeable state of our personal affairs made the topic of the last night’s debate all the more pertinent: “Is the common saying true, that there is no medium in the marriage state, but that it must always be extremely happy or very miserable?” I was curious to hear your opinion on this subject. The audience was divided on the issue. Many argued that a medium between happiness and misery is the norm in marriage, that one cannot expect perfect happiness in a union, as man and woman are fallible creatures more often driven by emotion than reason. And one must not accept perfect misery, despite the ignominy of divorce. This last statement caused much controversy. Some in the audience declared that it was the duty of husband and wife to sustain the marriage state as they had forged a bond under the eyes of God; it was of little consequence if their characters were of conflicting humours and there was no joy in their union.

  The heated argument that ensued reminded me of the April debate at the Coachmakers’ Hall. The subject, if you remember, was whether jealousy in a husband or inconstancy in a wife is more destructive to matrimonial happiness. A woman who had written a novel entitled The Fair Inconstant had suggested the topic and the eventual consensus of the audience was that inconstancy in a wife is the more destructive. I suggested that the debate should be extended to inconstant husbands and jealous wives. You might remember that Mrs. Maria Smyth, an acquaintance from my youth who is now profitably married to Dr. William Smyth, claimed it was the jealousy of wives that caused inconstancy in husbands and, therefore, the subject was not worthy of debate.

  Mrs. Smyth was also present at last night’s debate, and it was quite clear from her limited contributions that her intellect has failed to improve at all. She made a point of humiliating me in front of her witless companions and dullard husband by commenting on your absence and then stating with mock commiseration that a stable marriage was requisite if a couple were to discuss the evening’s topic in public.

  I am still smarting from her slight and your broken promise. I trust I shall see you at the theatre tonight.

  Your Wife,

  Elizabeth

  27 Bury Street, London

  13 May 1788

  Dear Elizabeth,

  It is hardly ideal for a husband and wife to be forced to spend so much time apart, and I am truly repentant for missing our assignation at the School of Eloquence, for I know how greatly you relish the opportunity to display your superior education. But my absence from home these last few days has been unavoidable as I have been working unrelentingly to secure us employment over the summer season and, thankfully, have succeeded. I cannot divulge the full details yet, but it is likely that we will spend the next few months, and perhaps longer, at the Theatre Royal in Margate. I hope this makes you feel a little more kindly towards me. And perhaps a smile will be brought to your face when I tell you of the indignity that befell Mrs. Smyth the evening following the debate at the School of Eloquence.

  She was walking in Fleet Street, on the way to an informal soiree at a friend’s house and claims that a thin, vulgar-looking man wearing a blue greatcoat and cocked hat began to follow her—a man of middle size, with a villainous, narrow face and very ugly legs and feet. His voice was peculiar—rather high and tremulous—and he made shocking comments to her. Mrs. Smyth attempted to ignore him and quickened her pace, but the ruffian stalked her all the way to the house in Johnson’s Court, which was her destination. As she banged desperately upon the door, the man leapt onto the step beside her, struck her a blow beneath her left breast and slashed at her left thigh. This violence was committed with perfect composure and the rascal gloated as Mrs. Smyth began to swoon. He took to his heels only when the door to the house finally opened and her friends helped her inside.

  The wound on her thigh was slight and the blood was stopped with balsam. Mrs. Smyth’s stays protected her breast, but her clothing was quite ruined by the weapon, which she believed was a lancet or penknife. The damage to her dress especially aggrieved Mrs. Smyth as it was, she claimed, a very expensive Polonaise gown made of imported, hand-painted co
tton. She demanded that her attacker be pursued and arrested for destroying her dress and her derrière (in that order, I believe), but Mrs. Smyth’s friends begged her to keep the incident quiet for the sake of her reputation. Oddly, they have little hesitation in discussing the matter quite openly themselves. The good Dr. Smyth is concerned about his wife’s fragile nerves and, being a cautious man, wishes to gather more information before accusing any specific person of the attack. I will follow his enquiries with interest.

  You wonder what my opinion is on the subject of marriage and whether it must always be extremely happy or extremely miserable. It seems that I am not a man of the crowd for I do not see the misery in extremes, but rather the excitement. We creatures of the theatre must thrive on the variances of emotion, or how would we perform the roles required of us? It seems to me, my dear, that you understand this very well.

  Yours,

  Henry

  27 Bury Street, London

  26 May 1788

  Dearest Henry,

  Have you heard? Not one, but two females were assaulted yesterday. This is terribly disconcerting as both ladies were attacked at approximately the same time, which would indicate two ruffians at work. It would seem that one scoundrel is imitating the other. I wonder if his motives spring from admiration for the original performance or some peculiar titillation of his own?

  The victim I am most familiar with is Mrs. Chippingdale, who is the lady’s maid of Viscountess Malden. She is also the sister of vocalist Mrs. Davenett, who introduced me to her at the theatre. Mrs. Chippingdale has a haughty nature as she believes that her employer’s status somehow reflects brightly onto her own reputation, and while one of her position should have a mastery of the finer points of etiquette, Mrs. Chippingdale requires some further lessons in good manners.

  Mrs. Davenett and Mrs. Chippingdale make a habit of visiting their aged mother on Sunday afternoons, but dispense with their show of sisterly affection after the meeting and go their separate ways. Mrs. Chippingdale was soon confronted by a rascal who declared that her over-festive dress gave her the appearance of a lady of ill-repute. The garish costume was of rose-coloured silk with pink stripes and a rosebud pattern. Pink roses were embroidered around the decolletage and a cascade of frills adorned the ends of her sleeves. It was the perfect Spring ensemble for a young girl meeting her beau for an afternoon stroll, but far less appropriate for a woman of her years alone after dusk. The predatory rogue attacked her on St. James’s Place, first making filthy proposals. (I have some doubts as to the veracity of this.) He then produced a knife and quickly attacked her garments. The pink silk tore open under the sharp blade, exposing her cotton petticoats. Her attacker slashed the costly silk again, splitting the fabric across her derrière and quite destroying the dress and her hindquarters. As her costume is no longer in a condition to wear in high society (even in the position of lady’s maid), perhaps Mrs. Chippingdale will display some generosity and donate it to her sister for use in the theatre?

  Of the second attack, I have far less to tell you. It seems that a very pretty maidservant was accosted on Jermyn Street at approximately the same time that Mrs. Chippingdale met her nemesis. She described her attacker as a tall, stout officer dressed in his uniform and one would hardly think anything more of her story except for her claim that the rogue declared, “Submit to Captain Belleville” and “I demand my rights to your affection!” As you and I and any other folk familiar with Mrs. Brooke’s play Rosina know, the correct lines are: “Allow me to retire, brother, and learn at a distance from you to correct those errors into which the fire of youth, and bad example, have hurried me. When I am worthy of your esteem, I will return, and demand my rights in your affection.”

  How very appropriate those words are, would you not agree? I will be relieved to adjourn to Margate and leave such horseplay behind us.

  Your Wife,

  Elizabeth

  LONDON, THURSDAY, 2 JULY 1840

  Despite the torments of the night, my first morning in London began most satisfactorily. A large breakfast was brought to my room at nine o’clock as requested, along with a copy of The Morning Chronicle. I scanned the newspaper while drinking very good English breakfast tea and eating sausage, toast and egg, which had a positive effect upon my constitution.

  There were some accounts of local crimes in the Chronicle’s pages that might inspire a tale or two. I was intrigued by the story of Edward Oxford, who was to be tried for high treason at the Old Bailey on the sixth of July. The eighteen-year-old public house waiter had discharged two pistols at Queen Victoria as she rode with Prince Albert in an open carriage on the tenth of June—the boy objected to the country being ruled by a woman. The uncanny tale of a criminal transported to New South Wales a decade ago for the theft of three linen handkerchiefs appealed to my imagination. He had recently returned to England a wealthy man and bought a mansion near his birthplace, much to the displeasure of certain persons of distinction. No explanation was given for the man’s surprising reversal of fortunes or his return to his childhood home. Had he committed a more profitable crime? Had luck become his friend and allowed him the discovery of gold or opals or some other precious commodity? Or did he make a pact with the Devil or whatever other accursed creature wanders the deserts of that far-flung colony? I resolved to keep this story for further contemplation.

  I flicked through the other pages of the newspaper and found nothing else of interest until the “Announcements” on the back page.

  Arrived in Liverpool on the first of July from Philadelphia, the packet-ship Ariel, having on board Mr. Edgar A. Poe, highly regarded American author and critic. Mr. Poe proceeded immediately to London by train to take up residence at Brown’s Genteel Inn. He will be available during his stay for public recitations of his newest tales and a lecture on the Art of the Literary Critic. We will confirm in these pages the date and venue of this much-anticipated literary evening.

  I was filled with gratitude. Solving the mystery of the box of letters was the primary reason for my journey, but I had two additional aspirations for my visit to London, my childhood home. I had written to an author whose work I had greatly admired when I reviewed it for the Southern Literary Messenger and more recently for Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, a man whose newest effort, Nicholas Nickleby, was his best—superlative praise indeed. From his tales I felt him to be a kindred spirit and expressed my hope that Mr. Charles Dickens’s schedule would allow for a meeting. I enclosed a copy of my Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque with my letter and put my position to him honestly: I wished to find a publisher in England and his assistance in this would put me forever in his debt. If the opportunity to read some of my own tales to a London audience arose, or perhaps to give a lecture on the art of composition or literary criticism, I would be highly gratified to do so. It seemed from the newspaper announcement, which Mr. Dickens had surely placed, that the honorable man was advancing my cause in a careful and delicate manner. I could now look forward to receiving some communication from Mr. Dickens with details of this lecture.

  I finished my tea and rose to my feet feeling invigorated. I would write my daily letter to Sissy, have a perambulation in Green Park, and return well before eleven so I might collect myself before meeting Dupin. Perhaps correspondence from Mr. Dickens would be awaiting me at that time.

  * * *

  My walk in Green Park did much to revive me, but my hopes of hearing from Mr. Dickens were dashed when I re-entered Brown’s. I retrieved Mrs. Allan’s letter from my room, then made my way to Dupin’s chambers. The welcome smell of coffee greeted me as my friend opened the door.

  “I hope you are feeling rested, Poe. The coffee is very good here—a fine restorative. Shall I pour you some?”

  “Please. And here is the letter from Mrs. Allan that you requested.”

  “Excellent.”

  Dupin placed it on top of the other letters, which were stacked neatly on the octagonal table next to the mahogany box. We settled ou
rselves into the armchairs and sipped at the coffee for several minutes before Dupin spoke. Many would find his lengthy pondering silences unnerving, but I was familiar with his eccentric manners and took no offense.

  “The first question you would like answered is whether the letters are a hoax,” he said, while staring into his coffee cup, as if some vision there had mesmerized him.

  “Yes, that would seem the correct place to begin.”

  “To elaborate, you wonder if the crimes referred to are fabricated and if the signatures on the letters are forgeries.”

  “Indeed. Everything about the letters is a mystery to me. I undertook some research in Philadelphia, but discovered nothing relevant. Perhaps the truth is to be found only in London, where the crimes allegedly took place.”

  Dupin nodded. “As you know from our time together in Paris, I have conducted an extensive study of the science of autography, building on the early research of Camillo Baldo, which indisputably demonstrates that no one person writes like another and that character is revealed through his chirology.”

  “Your research is of great interest to me, and I confess that I have dabbled in the subject myself.”

  “Very good. I would like to conduct an experiment if you are willing.”

  “Of course, I am perfectly willing,” I replied.

  Dupin retreated to another room and returned moments later carrying a portable writing desk, which he placed on the table in front of me. It was a fine piece made of ebony, inlaid with tortoise shell and brass. He lifted the upper lid and exposed a mahogany compartment complete with stationery, two inkwells, pounce holder, pens and other writing utensils. The front panel opened to reveal a leather writing surface, upon which Dupin placed a sheet of excellent paper—stout yet soft, with gilt edges.

  “If you would oblige me with the following—please write your usual signature and today’s date.” After I had finished he said, “Now please write out the names Elizabeth Arnold and Henry Arnold and the year 1788.”