Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  It was difficult to dispute Dupin’s dry analysis, but I could not believe that my grandparents were base criminals. “I will clear their names, Dupin, I must!”

  A look of contrition softened Dupin’s face. He picked up the mahogany box and placed it on the marble table in front of me. “Read all the letters,” he said. “It was not appropriate for me to study them before you. I am sorry.”

  “Please do not apologize—I insisted upon it.” But I was grateful for his words and Dupin nodded as if in acknowledgement of my unspoken sentiments.

  “I strongly believe that delving more deeply into your past here in London will reveal useful information, but remember that a surfeit of emotion will seduce you into error or hurry you into miscalculation. We must employ the art of ratiocination above all else.”

  “Of course.”

  Dupin retreated into silence as he puffed on his meerschaum, then gently ran his finger from one mark on his extraordinary map to the next. “I do comprehend the need to defend one’s family honor, Poe. Particularly when one is the last to remain outside the familial tomb. It is both a duty,” he said softly, “and a curse.”

  22 Jermyn Street, London

  3 June 1789

  Dearest Wife,

  How is the air at Margate? Is it true that half of London society has decamped to the seaside to enjoy its effects? As you so wisely recommended, I have spent my time educationally while denied the company of our Lady the Theatre, but I long for our reunion. Have you advanced our cause?

  And now I must apologise for my tardiness in writing. I was determined to fulfil the delightful challenge you set me before putting pen to paper, but have met with unforeseen obstacles. The path to success is never without adversity! I had hoped to take to the London stage on the night of the Spanish Ambassador’s gala to celebrate the renewed health of our King. There was to be a display of fireworks, which I felt would be a fitting backdrop for my performance. However, the damnable girl failed to arrive at our lodgings, and I had no mind to leave our little Eliza with that gin-soaked wretch downstairs again, so I postponed my performance and took a summer evening perambulation in Green Park with our daughter.

  Our journey to the park was made jolly by the festive household illuminations—lighted candles glowed in windows and pretty lamps in a multitude of colours hung outside the houses, some with the most glorious transparent paintings. Eliza clapped her hands to witness those! She is very much the little lady and insisted on toddling a distance without the aid of her wooden walker, although she was happy enough to ride upon her horsey’s shoulders when her little legs tired.

  The park was lively with folk hoping to catch sight of the fireworks, and Eliza drew female strollers to her like bees to honey The ladies were admiring of our daughter’s sweet features and astonished that her dear Papa was playing her nursemaid. Eliza revelled in the attentions of her audience—how like her mother, even at the tender age of two. The sooner her education begins in the theatre itself, the quicker she shall achieve greatness. A worthy rival in time to Mrs. Siddons! Distinction is in her blood.

  Yours,

  Henry

  The King’s Head, High Street, Margate

  4 June 1789

  Dear Henry,

  It makes me happy to hear that you and Eliza are doing so well in my absence, although I am quite certain that Eliza was not the only one revelling in the attentions of the female strollers. But it cannot be a bad thing for a father to play nursemaid on occasion, particularly when the daughter is such a delightful creature, the perfect combination of her parents with her ability to charm and her delight in independence. She will prove herself in the theatre before much longer as distinction is indeed in her blood.

  Happily, my journey to Margate has not been a waste of time nor money. I have secured a role for myself in A Bold Stroke for a Husband, playing Carlos’s mistress, Laura. An adventurous casting against type! It is not Covent Garden, but it is a good rehearsal for better things and to be paid for one’s Art must only be good. Unfortunately, it was impossible for me to secure you a role, but please join me here with speed since you may then become your own petitioner.

  I hope I do not need to remind you that you must take good care and attention when rehearsing upon the open stage. Teach a lesson, but do not tarry for the applause. Make your exit quickly—your audience will not always be kind.

  With love,

  Elizabeth

  22 Jermyn Street, London

  5 June 1789

  Dear Elizabeth,

  To be paid for one’s Art is no bad thing, of course, but on occasion the Muse commands that we take to the boards without recompense and without the confines of a simple theatre. Let me tell you, dearest, of the most extraordinary, the most daring performance that has just taken place on the greatest stage of all—London itself!

  The story begins yesterday evening. Eliza was in the care of a good lady friend, and I prepared my costume carefully, contriving curly hair in abundance and a very long nose, which looked convincing by evening light. I made my way to Vauxhall Gardens as it attracts self-important ladies in need of a sharp reprimand. I soon noticed a young woman quite alone in the gardens—uncommon for a lady of good character. Indeed, I recognised her from a tavern in St. James’s Street I visit on occasion, a pretty enough girl known as Kitty for her sharp-clawed manner, daughter of old Parsloe the tavern owner. I prepared for my attack by way of some remarks designed to unsettle her, but the wretch was quite unfazed and shouted to a pack of philanderers who had also been observing her. They thought to teach me a lesson to impress her, and I thought it best to beat a hasty retreat.

  But it is the man of fortitude who achieves success. This very afternoon I resumed my costume and took to the tavern in St. James’s Street. My disguise proved a success. Some who know me well failed to recognise me, which reflected positively on my artistry, but Kitty the tavern owner’s daughter was not serving ale that day. I was told she had gone to Green Park for a perambulation with her sister.

  Undeterred, I made my way to the footpath near the edge of the park, certain I would spy the wench and her sister on their way home. My prediction was correct, and I followed them to Bennet Street, where I made my approach—swish! My blade cut through her skirts with one slash, and I ran off as they shrieked, “Monster! Fiend!”

  It is indeed time to leave London. Eliza and I will make our way to Margate as soon as I have sold some old things unworthy of transport.

  With anticipation of seeing you,

  Henry

  The King’s Head, High Street, Margate

  7 June 1789

  Dear Henry,

  While your tale is undoubtedly very well-told, I wonder if you have taken dramatic liberties with it to spare me worry? The attack upon Miss Kitty Wheeler was reported to the Bow Street magistrate and published in The World. The account claims that when a rogue insulted the girl, he was tackled by her father, Parsloe Wheeler, who shook him ferociously. The rogue shouted, “Murder!” as the two grappled, and a rough crowd gathered around them. Mr. Wheeler was deemed the villain and the crowd secured the release of the man in his clutches, who quickly ran away. It was also noted in the paper, in far less detail, that a pretty servant girl was accosted on New Boswell Court and had her thigh cut.

  Dearest, I urge you to exercise caution and retreat to Margate immediately. The best disguise is one used at a good distance from your audience.

  With concern,

  Elizabeth

  LONDON, SATURDAY, 4 JULY 1840

  The journey to Stoke Newington was reasonably comfortable and our speed was good, the navigation steady. I felt quite confident we would reach our destination without mishap. Dupin seemed less certain as he muttered with each bump we hit and gripped the edge of the seat whenever the coach veered sharply. He had planned to spend much of the day engaged in research at the British Museum, but when at breakfast I confirmed that I had read all the newly delivered letters and intended to take an exc
ursion to the school I had been sent to after leaving the Dubourg sisters, Dupin declared a wish to join me.

  The desk clerk directed us to Bond Street for a coach and advised us to carefully inspect them at the stand to ensure a peaceful journey. I settled on a solid-looking green vehicle with yellow wheels that appeared to be all the same size. Both horses seemed well-conditioned fellows with calm dispositions and the interior of the coach was clean enough. Once underway, we moved at a steady if slow pace through London, Dupin playing the role of Grand Tour guide, pointing out places of interest, including St. George’s Church, where my grandparents had been married. Our speed increased when we reached Islington and continued on to Newington Green, where the noxious air of London began to recede. Eventually we came to Green Lanes, a long rather winding road leading to Enfield, which I remembered well from my youth.

  “Any memories, Poe?” Dupin asked as if he had read my mind.

  “Nothing significant. I absconded from school several times to come here with the older boys and watch trotting matches held by the trades-folk. On a few occasions we were taken for a swim in the New River, which I greatly enjoyed.”

  “I believe that is now forbidden as the river supplies the reservoirs.”

  “What a pity,” I said.

  “Not for the Londoners who now have clean water,” Dupin observed.

  I prickled with annoyance. Hadn’t Dupin asked me to look to my past for answers? And yet when I confided my memories, Dupin dismissed them as little more than nonsense. It seemed that he had never had a childhood. Certainly he had never swum in a river for the sheer pleasure of it.

  From Green Lanes we turned into a narrow road, Church Street, which was lined with attractive red-brick dwelling-houses fronted by decorative iron railings to screen them from the street. Stoke Newington, or “new town in the wood,” had expanded considerably since I lived there twenty years previously. London was creeping ever closer, like a subterranean creature looking to feed on fresh flesh.

  I had instructed the driver to stop about half-way down Church Street, but the coach rumbled past our destination despite my poundings on the coach wall. When at last we came to a stop and I exited, an unsettling scene met my eyes.

  “What is this place?”

  The jovial and, I suspect, somewhat intoxicated driver squinted at the scene in front of us. “Looks like there’s a burial ground in there, sir.”

  It did indeed, but I had no recollection of such a place in Stoke Newington. The air in my lungs fizzled away, and a sense of foreboding settled upon me—what I had remembered as genteel parkland was now a congregation of the dead.

  “Are we in the wrong location?” Dupin asked.

  “No, this is the correct street.” I smoothed the perspiration from my brow and breathed deeply. “It’s just that this was not here before.” I indicated the burial ground.

  “Well, it seems a good place to wait,” Dupin said, gesturing at the horses that had busied themselves with the grass verge. “I doubt we will be more than an hour,” he said to the driver. “Shall we?” He indicated that I should lead the way and so I set off walking west.

  There were more houses than I remembered on Church Street, but the place retained a village atmosphere. My heart’s beat accelerated as I caught sight of a large white early eighteenth-century house with grand sash windows. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the building, but Bransby’s Manor House School had been my home for two years and the place had made a deep impression upon me.

  I walked up to the school gates and peered inside the courtyard. My eyes immediately connected with those of a young boy. He looked to be approximately the age I was when I attended the school, and I was curious to hear the young scholar’s opinion of the place.

  “You, there. Come here,” I said in a low voice.

  The boy stared at me and then at Dupin, his eyes widening as he took a step backward.

  “Closer.” I beckoned the boy toward me.

  Instead he took two more steps back, his face the very picture of fear, and ran. It was then that a memory began to coalesce.

  “Something happened here, something terrible, I remember fragments.”

  “Something that made you run from it. Or someone,” Dupin prompted.

  “Yes.” The faint picture in my mind became stronger, sharper.

  “It was a bright day. Our studies were finished, and I was failing to find ways to amuse myself in the enclosed yard at the rear of the house. We were permitted excursions in the park on Saturday afternoons, in the company of two ushers, but were not permitted out on our own. The alluring weather made me increasingly enamored with the idea of exploring the twin lakes in Clissold Park, where there were a variety of water birds and, allegedly, a population of terrapins. I was determined to capture one, thinking it would make a fine pet. This yearning to escape the boundaries of our school walls would have remained just that, but some force—I cannot remember what—directed my attention to the front gate. It was moving very slightly, pushed by the breeze, unlatched and unlocked. I did not stop to consider any consequences for my actions, but slipped through the gate and scurried down Church Street, jubilant with my unexpected freedom.”

  And so I began to enact my childhood adventure, walking away from the school with Dupin following. In truth, I soon forgot he was there, so lost was I in my own reverie. The summer heat faded away—it was spring in Clissold Park and I was ten years old again. Couples promenaded around the perimeter, families sat on the grass with picnics, children threw scraps to the squabbling ducks. When we perambulated the area en masse on a Saturday, Reverend Bransby never missed the opportunity to educate us. The lakes were the last trace of Hackney Brook, one of London’s lost rivers. It had once flowed through Stoke Newington to merge with the River Lea, but had long since vanished beneath London. This tale fascinated me and made the lakes all the more alluring. How could a river simply disappear? What mysterious force had compelled it to sink beneath the earth’s surface, into the foul, Plutonian waterways? I had written some childish verse on the subject, which rather impressed my teacher and my dear Ma.

  But on the day in question, I was more determined to find myself a pet terrapin. I scoured the lakes’ shores for the hiding spots to little avail and began to lose interest in my quest as a feeling of unease settled upon me. Something was not right, but I was determined to wear the bold mantle of an explorer and my terrapin hunt continued until I reached the far side of the lakes. There I came upon a collection of flat stones, the kind best suited for skimming across a lake’s surface. Perhaps another boy had collected them and been called away from the pleasure of using his horde.

  As I poised myself to hurl one of the stones, a flash of movement startled me. I stared hard at a copse of trees to my left, but could see nothing lurking there. Unwilling to give up my temporary freedom too soon, I continued to skip rocks until I reached four skips in one throw. But as the shadows lengthened, I perceived a flitting—something edging ever closer, as if it were tracking me.

  Fear rose up in me when I remembered the butcher’s lurcher, an evil dog that would appear suddenly and silently, baring its teeth like a wolf. It was no friend to the pupils of Bransby’s Manor House School as the older boys had a habit of tormenting the creature. Without the security of the pack around me, I felt increasingly ill at ease, and when the church bells rang out half past five I thought it best to end my adventure.

  When I reached Church Street, my sense of being followed became more intense. I listened hard for the sound of a dog’s feet skittering on gravel and turned frequently to look behind me, trying to catch a glimpse of my pursuer, but saw nothing. Still, my sense of dread grew.

  When I reached the school gates, I discovered to my horror they were locked. I would have to find a way to scramble over the wall or pull the bell and face certain punishment from Reverend Bransby.

  Then something caught at my coat and as I turned to free myself, I saw gnarled fingers plucking at t
he fabric. A thin man with lank gray hair and shabby clothes had my coat in his grip. He was probably in his middle years but looked older, haggard and unhealthy, in the same condition as the beggars I had seen in London. I tried to tug myself from his grasp, but he held on tight.

  “I know who you are, boy. I know who you are,” the gray man whispered, his stale breath buffeting my nostrils.

  “What?” I tried to answer. “Who are you?” But no words escaped my lips. I wrenched against his grasp but he held tight and tighter still. I reached for the bell pull and yanked at it with all my might.

  The gray man reached into his pocket, then silently raised his arm. There was a flash of silver and a knife swept through the air. The gray man hissed, “Tell your mother I know where you are.” His eyes held mine captive. “I know where you are.” And he disappeared like the Devil himself. I stood frozen until the sound of feet on gravel turned my fear into words.

  “Help! Let me in!” I shouted. “Murder!”

  The startled face of the young housemaid Bess peered through the gate. “What in Heaven’s name! Get in here right now, young fellow.”

  I shook the bars pathetically.

  “Locked out after sneaking out, are you? You’ll be in a world of trouble.” She pulled a bundle of keys from her apron and unlocked the gate.

  I was one of Bess’s favorite boys and confess that the comforting sight of her brought tears to my eyes.

  “Oh, stop that now.” She pulled me inside and tousled my hair.

  “But that man . . .” My words were interspersed by little gasps for air.

  “What man? I didn’t see any man.”

  “He ran away after he tried to murder me. See.” I patted my back and put my hands in front of me, expecting them to be covered with blood.

  “And very grubby hands they are too. Let’s get you inside and wash those.” As she pushed me through the door, she discovered a long rent down the back of my jacket. “You little scamp! And that a new jacket just last month.”