“I am sorry, sir. Nothing today.”
“Does that fill you with relief or consternation?”
I turned to see Dupin emerge from the shadows, a piece of paper in his hands. How had I not seen him just moments before?
“Dupin—apologies and good morning,” I said, determined to hide my discomfort. “Is that an itinerary for our perambulation?”
Dupin stared, unblinking, like a mesmerist, silently demanding an answer to his question before he responded to mine.
“A certain amount of relief, I confess. I have yet to truly absorb the contents of those letters left here yesterday.”
“Those you have read. We must discuss the others as well. As for the letter from Mr. Dickens that you are awaiting so anxiously, he will contact you tomorrow or, at latest, on Sunday morning.”
I did not bother to question his pronouncement, in part because I had become accustomed to such declarations from my time in Paris, but primarily because I so hoped that he would be proved accurate yet again.
Dupin folded the paper in his hands into quarters and tucked it into his coat pocket, then extracted a meerschaum. “Shall we? The weather seems accommodating.”
“Of course. What is on our itinerary?” I nodded at his coat pocket.
Dupin frowned. “It is not an itinerary, but merely a guide. It is often useful to see something by daylight and then again by night. Or vice versa,” he said cryptically. He opened the door and gestured for me to precede him.
As we stepped outside, a sense of aggravation rose up in me. I had wished to keep my hopes of meeting Charles Dickens private, but Dupin had, with his usual acuity, deduced them. He flaunted that fact, and yet was secretive about his own intent for our excursion. To compound matters, he took a pair of green spectacles from his pocket and put them on.
“My eyes are further enervated by the sun’s glare,” he said, rather disingenuously. In Paris he had worn the green spectacles to ward off the sun’s rays, but had also donned them indoors when questioning a person of suspicion. The green of the spectacle glass made it impossible to fathom where he was truly gazing, a disconcerting effect.
We walked down Dover Street in silence, toward a destination Dupin had yet to divulge, curling eddies of tobacco smoke trailing after us. Slowly my antagonism abated in the pleasant weather. The temperature was moderate for July, when compared with what one would expect in Philadelphia.
“Whist. A very instructive game,” Dupin said suddenly and inexplicably.
“Yes?” I had played many games of whist in my youth, much to my detriment. My luck had always been variable with cards, particularly so when in my cups.
“Consider how the skills of an analyst make him the superior player of whist to one who merely adheres to the rules. The analyst makes a host of observations and inferences regarding his opponent by examining his countenance. He notes how the face varies as the game progresses, the differences in the expression, be it certainty, surprise, triumph or chagrin. He can judge a feint by how a card is thrown down. After two games are played, the analyst can read the games as if the other players had the faces of their cards turned outwards.” We reached Piccadilly, walked west briefly and crossed into Green Park. “But remember,” he continued, “that while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.” Dupin turned his face toward mine, waiting for me to acknowledge his discourse. Light flared off the green spectacles.
“Quite right,” I muttered, despite my confusion as to his point.
“Very good.” He lapsed into silence again as we made our way through the park. I amused myself by watching the perambulators around us as Dupin worked upon some riddle in his own mind. Three pretty, young ladies caught my attention—nursemaids by their uniforms. Each pushed a large perambulator, and they were in lively conversation. Three young children chased around them in circles, immersed in some incomprehensible childhood game.
“Have you had any further memories about the artificial-flower seller or thoughts as to why someone might wish you to remember the attempted kidnapping?”
His question took me by surprise as he no doubt had intended, which was compounded by his decision to veer to the left and stride across the parkland toward the boundary wall. I hurried after him, sorry to lose sight of the children frolicking with enjoyment. It occurred to me then that I too had been an innocent child at play, completely unaware that someone had been watching me—indeed stalking me.
“I have remembered nothing more about the flower-seller and cannot answer your question, but in truth I have keenly felt the presence of some other ever since I received my unwanted legacy.”
Dupin nodded. “Your aggressor has been observing you for some time and knows a great deal about you. He sent the seven letters in the mahogany box to your home in Philadelphia and the fourteen additional letters to your accommodation in London. We must now determine what it is he wants from you.”
At that moment we arrived at a gated passageway and I followed Dupin through it.
“Dupin, has our tour properly begun?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Will you illuminate me as to its purpose?”
“We are investigating all avenues, including your theory that the letters are forgeries.”
“But how?” I asked.
“Would you agree that we each know far less of London than we do our home cities?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And that the letters note a number of specific locations that may or may not exist?” Dupin continued.
I immediately saw Dupin’s point. “Or if they do exist it might be that they are unlikely locations for the events described within the letters.”
Dupin gave a thin smile. “Correct.” He slowed to a halt and looked around him. “St. James’s Place.”
It was a quiet, elegant street of imposing houses. Dupin retreated into silence as if absorbing the very atmosphere. From our excursions in Paris, I knew better than to interrupt when he was in ardent contemplation. He then consulted his paper briefly and led us a short distance north on St. James’s Street before turning left into Bennet Street, where he repeated his solitary contemplation of the area. Dupin retraced his steps then led us north on St. James’s Street for a short distance before crossing over Jermyn Street and walking down Bury Street. When he halted, I saw that the address was number twenty-seven—the address noted on the letters delivered in the mahogany box! Such had been my shock at the content of the letters, I had thought little of the addresses written upon them, but Dupin missed nothing.
As he stood in front of what was once the Arnolds’ home, he seemed to be scrutinizing every brick of the handsome, tall building. I looked from window to window, half-expecting to hear a rap upon the glass, to see a ghostly face peering out at me.
“Which floor do you think they lived on?” I asked, but Dupin did not favor me with an answer. Instead, he abruptly turned on his heel and headed back toward Jermyn Street, the fragrant smoke of his meerschaum trailing behind him. As we made our way past elegant men’s clothing shops and the back of Fortnum and Mason, I imagined Elizabeth and Henry Arnold passing these very same establishments.
Our destination—ninety-three Jermyn Street—proved to be a bustling cheese shop.
“When you read the remaining letters, you will see that the Arnolds also lived at ninety-three and twenty-two Jermyn Street. I believe their lodgings were on the top floor at both addresses,” Dupin said, and without further explanation he continued along Jermyn Street, leaving me to scurry after. I was beginning to profoundly regret my decision to give the letters to Dupin before I had properly read them. He now knew more about my grandparents than I did—indeed, he was privy to secrets that I had willingly relinquished to him. We paused at twenty-two Jermyn Street, an imposing white building that housed a cloth merchant’s premises; there were four floors above the shop, each with paired windows that decreased in size as one ascended. I had no doubt th
at Elizabeth and Henry Arnold had lived for a time on the top floor with its less generous view out onto the world.
As Dupin led us across Haymarket and along Coventry Street, I tried to recall the precise details of the letters I had read without much success. We continued through Leicester Square with its rather grand equestrian statue of George I and turned into Leicester Street, which was lined with single-story shops. Again, Dupin slowed to a halt and silently studied the area.
“The site of another attack?” I asked.
Dupin merely nodded and would not be drawn. To ameliorate my annoyance, I watched two young acrobats for a time as they walked on their hands and helped each other somersault through the air. The raggedy children had probably never seen the inside of a schoolhouse, but had learned to earn their supper from the tricks they did on the street. Dupin ignored their antics and led the way to Charing Cross; we strolled north at a pace considerably slower than that adhered to earlier.
When we stopped again, he retrieved his watch, checked the time, then returned it to his waistcoat pocket.
“May I ask what you are trying to fathom?”
“The distance a lady would walk in the evening unaccompanied,” he replied enigmatically. He turned to look at me, and the light flared off his green spectacles. “We have not yet discussed what happened last night,” he added.
“No.” I was not eager to change that situation.
“And of course we must. Why did you chase the old man? Had you met him before? Or had you been intemperate before our excursion to the tavern?”
I felt the urge to rigorously defend myself, but knew my actions had been peculiar. “I was quite sober. The man reminded me of someone. That is all I can honestly say.”
“Someone you are angry with? Your grandfather perhaps?”
“I did not know my grandfather.” I could feel Dupin scrutinizing me from behind the green spectacles, willing me to continue. “He did not sail to America with my grandmother. If he is alive, it is possible that he is still in London.”
Dupin briefly contemplated this. “From the elopement announcement, we know that he would now be seventy-nine years of age. The vagrant you pursued looked as ancient as that, but moved with unlikely speed for one in his extreme dotage.”
“True.”
Dupin turned abruptly away from me and led us up Charing Cross Road without another word. As Charing Cross transitioned into Tottenham Court Road, it became busier with coaches and increasingly shabby, but this did not divert Dupin from his private reverie. He turned left onto Percy Street and then right on Charlotte Street. His pace slowed until he paused in front of a narrow house. He took out his pocket watch again, noted the time, then carefully refilled his meerschaum as he studied the building in front of him. At last, Dupin faced me.
“Very good. Shall we go back to Brown’s for coffee?”
It was not truly a question. Frustrated and not a little annoyed, I nodded despite myself. We circled back to Brown’s Genteel Inn.
* * *
The maid left a tray of coffee on the octagonal marble table and scurried from the room. Dupin seemed to frighten her, an effect he often had on the opposing sex. He poured the coffee then removed the green spectacles that gave him the advantage of scrutinizing his opponent unseen. My thoughts took me by surprise. Opponent? Truly I meant companion. As I sipped my coffee, Dupin carefully unrolled a paper and weighed it down with four small paperweights. It was a map of London, elegantly drawn in his meticulous hand.
“Here is the hotel.” Dupin pointed at Dover Street where there was a tiny square drawn in black ink. “And here are the three locations the Arnolds resided at in London.” He indicated small black squares at twenty-seven Bury Street, twenty-two Jermyn Street and ninety-three Jermyn Street. “And these initials mark where the attacks described by Elizabeth Arnold and Henry Arnold occurred.” A minute “E” or “H” was inscribed in blue ink at Cannon Street, Bow Lane, Johnson’s Court, St. James’s Place and Jermyn Street.
“The attacks described in the letters that came with the mahogany box?”
“Yes. And these in green ink indicate the assaults described in the letters delivered to you at Brown’s Genteel Inn, a number of which you have yet to read.” He indicated Charlotte Street, Bennet Street, New Boswell Court and St. James’s Street. A small black square was labeled “Covent Garden Theatre.”
I traced out our recent walk with my finger. “And so we visited the sites of five attacks today.”
“Yes, of course. All very near your grandparents’ lodgings, which makes it clear that the logistics of these attacks are credible.”
I now understood Dupin’s use of his pocket watch and careful surveillance of the areas we visited.
“They are also near enough to Brown’s Genteel Inn, which is intriguing,” he added.
“Surely a coincidence?”
Dupin raised his brows slightly, but ignored my comment. “I have also noted on the map where you lived as a child and the location of the attempted abduction and yesterday’s assault, as I believe them relevant, given the location of the attacks, the mysterious boutonniere and the recently delivered letters.” He indicated the red-inked P’s drawn on Southampton Row and Russell Square, then settled back in his armchair, filled his meerschaum and lit the tobacco. “Now, let us analyze the situation, beginning with the earliest two letters. We understand that the Arnolds were actors, performing at the Royalty Theatre as noted in the letter dated the fifth of March 1788. Henry Arnold frequently neglected to go home of an evening, which did not please Elizabeth Arnold. As we ascertained from her handwriting, she was a passionate woman—dictatorial, but feminine, spirited and forceful. She decided to take revenge on her husband’s mistress, but in a peculiar manner. Mrs. Arnold borrowed a costume from the theater, transformed herself into a man and slashed her rival’s dress and hindquarters—a very pointed lesson indeed. She then informed her husband of her crime, albeit obliquely. She repeated this strategy on the twentieth of March 1788, slashing Mrs. Wright’s gown and posterior.”
“Or a hoaxer would like us to believe that Elizabeth Arnold slashed those dresses.” I interjected.
“I agree that we must consider whether a hoaxer might wish to falsely accuse Elizabeth and Henry Arnold.”
“Perhaps they had enemies.”
Dupin exhaled impatiently and smoke whirled around him as if he were the Devil himself. “Perhaps. In any case, it is very obvious that you do.”
His words unsettled me deeply, and truly I did not wish to believe them despite the compelling evidence. “We all make enemies when our ambitions collide with another’s, but I do not fathom how my enemies might be connected to the letters.”
“This is clearly our main task. And it will not be a simple mystery to solve.” He puffed on his meerschaum for a time, in apparent contemplation. “We have agreed to discard the notion that your adoptive father’s wife sent the letters—this was merely a ruse to persuade you to take a serious interest in the contents of the mahogany box. And while the note, purportedly from Mrs. Allan, is a forgery, the message itself contains truthful information and, therefore, is an important clue.” He retrieved the missive from the box and read it aloud: “ ‘Dear Mr. Poe, I am turning over to you certain artifacts that are your birthright. Most truly, Mrs. John Allan.’ The letters and the box are your birthright as the grandson of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold. We can presume, I think, that the mahogany box is the one referred to in the rather poor acrostic Valentine written in your grandmother’s hand and delivered with the latest set of letters.”
Dupin’s condemnation of the little poem, weak as it was, irritated me, but I shrugged to acknowledge the possibility of his words and nodded for him to continue.
“I would propose that with the use of the term ‘birthright’, the forger is insinuating that you have inherited responsibility for the actions of your forebears as described in the letters.”
“What? Surely not. There is no logic to that.”<
br />
“We need not consider something logical to discover that it is true, particularly in matters that contravene law or principles of honor.”
I had to concede that this was correct.
“So let us return to the correspondence and your grandparents’ relationship portrayed therein. The letters delivered anonymously to Brown’s Genteel Inn include three missives dated April 1784, which refer to the elopement of Elizabeth Smith and Henry Arnold. It is clear, then, that the impressionable sixteen-year-old Miss Elizabeth Smith was infatuated with the bombastic Mr. Henry Arnold, who carefully seduced her. She risked disinheritance to elope with him.”
“His manner may be florid, but my sense is that Henry Arnold truly pledged his heart to Elizabeth.”
“As you wish,” said Dupin, pausing again to puff on his meerschaum as he gently shuffled through the correspondence in question. “But we know from the letters sent to you in the mahogany box that his fidelity did not last—or so his wife believed—for her jealousy drove her to extreme measures. The letters between the Arnolds then cease until the clumsy acrostic Valentine dated the fourteenth of February 1789 and ten more letters dated from May to September 1789. We might observe from the letters that the disharmonious relationship of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold improved greatly by the spring of 1789.” Here he paused and directed his glance from the pages in his hands to me.
“To confirm your surmise, I would have to read all the letters, but of course I presume you to be correct.”
“One must also notice,” he continued with a rather unnecessary sense of drama, “that the act of disguising themselves in order to accost women on the London streets and slash their garments and posteriors had such a beneficial effect on your grandparents’ marital harmony that, by May 1789, the letters are positively amorous.”
A smile seemed to tilt Dupin’s lips, and I flushed to wonder what he might have read. Why had I given him those letters before reading them myself?
“All these uncontrolled emotions and peculiar actions make it difficult for me to believe that a hoaxer concocted the tale within the letters,” he concluded. “Do you see, Poe?”
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster Page 8
