Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  “Mr. Courvoisier is a devious man. He uses Newgate novels as his defense, playing on the misplaced morality of those who believe we may be driven to murder by Art itself.”

  Dupin nodded. “Mr. Dickens has been accused of writing Newgate novels as has Mr. Thackeray. These allegations raise a number of questions. If one writes truthfully of evil or diseased characters, does it valorize them? Must our perceptions of a person’s character be formed by the subjects he chooses to write about?”

  “And should a tale’s merit be judged solely by the factual elements within it without considering its imaginative qualities, originality or overall effect?” I added.

  Dupin turned his gaze to the scaffold before us. “But most importantly, is it possible for a person to pen a tale, whether truth or fiction, that drives its reader to murder? Clearly all the questions raised by Courvoisier’s crimes are of special interest to any writer who examines characters motivated by the darker forces.” Dupin frowned in contemplation. “We must wonder why your nemesis deems Courvoisier’s fate important—why he invited you here. There must be a connection with the letters.”

  As Dupin uttered those words, St. Sepulchre’s chimed eight o’clock. The time was upon us for Courvoisier’s hanging! This provoked a horrible reaction—the vast melee around us began to murmur and hum like a swarm of terrible insects. As if in response to this hideous sound, women and children commenced shrieking and my blood turned to ice. All eyes focused on the stage before us. I scanned the faces around me one last time; if Mackie was nearby, he had concealed himself very well.

  The crowd’s noise increased and all turned to face the scaffold, as if hypnotized. A pale face emerged from the prison-door—a man in black appeared on the scaffold. The condemned murderer, accompanied by four men, walked to his destiny, arms tied in front of him, face contorted into a peculiar smile. He looked at the crowd, or so it seemed, before he placed himself under the beam and faced St. Sepulchre’s, perhaps in prayer. The hangman abruptly turned Courvoisier around and put a nightcap over his head and face. I was filled with horror and yet could scarcely avert my eyes from the spectacle until Dupin, bafflingly, turned to face the mob behind us. His countenance was determined, yet calm. He scanned the faces that were focused on Courvoisier and his executioner.

  The clergyman began to chant and my own gaze returned again to the scaffold, drawn by some infernal magic. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”—the rest merged with the strange mutterings of the mob, which increased in volume as the rope was put around Courvoisier’s neck. And then—crack! The floor disappeared from beneath his feet and Courvoisier was dangling and jerking from the rope like a ghoulish marionette. A man emerged from the black hole beneath his feet and seized the kicking legs—pulling down until the very life oozed from Courvoisier and trickled into the darkness beneath him, into those gaping jaws that could only lead to Hell. The lifeless body of Courvoisier swayed gently, dead at last, and would continue to hang for a full hour, as was the law. The drama was over, but the crowd was in no hurry to leave the theater. Spectators expressed their satisfaction as they prepared for the journey home. “Kill a man and you must be killed in turn. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—blood demands blood.”

  “Cowards,” Dupin muttered, still facing the crowd, his face contorted, his body held as stiffly as a military general on parade.

  “But how can you bear to be here when your grandparents were executed on the public stage—when you have just witnessed their brutalized effigies!” And then a more unsettling thought occurred to me. “You chose to watch the hanging amongst this throng. Why immerse yourself in the basest of human reactions to a man’s death?”

  Dupin raised his shoulders and shook his head gently. “I did not watch the execution, I observed the mob. Now I have experienced firsthand how Paris reacted to my grandparents’ execution.” Dupin’s eyes met mine with great solemnity. “And because I now have a sense of what they experienced when facing death, perhaps I know them better for it.”

  “They were brave, I am certain.”

  “Unlike the man who murdered them,” Dupin said softly.

  Before I could ask what he meant, our path was barred by a weasel-faced man with extraordinary whiskers and spectacles that magnified his eyes. He was wearing a battered rabbit-skin hat and an over-sized, patched coat with enormous pockets.

  “Here, sir! The last lamentation of Courvoisier, his final words written in his cell at dawn, just hours before his hanging. Read on the page the poetic outpourings of his condemned soul!”

  Dupin turned to face the ballad seller. “And how did you come by Mr. Courvoisier’s final lament? Are you a friend of his?”

  The little man scuffled closer and winked. “Not a friend of Courvoisier’s, sir, but a friend of his jailer. Sat outside his cell all night and at dawn these words fairly spilled from his soul. It’s often the case—a man faced with death wishes to relieve his burden.” He held up a scroll of paper. “His final words in rhyming couplets.”

  “If only we all were so talented,” Dupin said dryly.

  “Common knowledge that imminent death brings out the muse in all of us. You will see that Courvoisier’s lament is written down in a very fine hand. I was a scrivener in better days. See here. Eminently legible.”

  A disproportionate number of scribes I had encountered—in drinking establishments, it was true—drank to alleviate the boredom of their work and then lost the very work that had driven them to excess. The page before me was indeed in a very fine hand, but without the tell-tale wavering lines of the habitual drunk.

  “And you may purchase the original and sole copy of his final lamentation for no more than a penny.”

  Dupin opened his mouth to answer, but I interjected first. “Here is your penny.” I took the little scroll from his hands.

  “Thank you, good sirs.” The be-whiskered man backed away, smiling broadly, the morning light glinting off his spectacles. “Remember, sirs,” he shouted merrily, “only our actions will tell if we’ll dwell with the saints or are doomed to Hell.” And the man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

  “A peculiar fellow,” Dupin murmured.

  “Most peculiar.” An impatient urge to read Courvoisier’s lament came over me, and I unfurled the scroll.

  The Innocent’s Lament

  (Written by Himself)

  Rhynwick Williams was held to shame,

  Foul crimes besmirch his good Welsh name,

  While, blade whettedfor a lady’s gown,

  A Monster still roams London town.

  Thus wrote the innocent, deceiv’d,

  Condemn’d, thus he bequeathed

  His last and only legacy,

  Revenge for E—A—’s treachery

  On her whole line, beyond her death,

  Their heart’s last beat, theirfinal breath.

  I stared at the paper shivering in my hands, then wildly into the crowd surrounding us.

  “He is gone, Poe,” Dupin said gently. “We shall never find him now.”

  I nodded, baffled by the wretched lament that was written down so prettily.

  “It would appear that we have another mystery to solve,” Dupin added.

  “Who is Rhynwick Williams?” I wondered aloud.

  “That should be simple enough to discover,” Dupin said. “More importantly, who was the man with the false whiskers and how did he find us in this monstrous crowd?”

  The Swann Inn, Tunbridge Wells

  14 January 1790

  My Dearest,

  If I had your gift with rhyme, I would pen a poem to soothe your ruffled feathers and to damn that impertinent woman your father married, for surely it is not her invitation to withhold. Your new dress would render you the most delightful woman at the Queen’s birthday ball and if you are absent, the event will surely suffer. But do not fear your gown wasted just yet. Do you recall Stubbs the footman? I saw him three days previously with my former employer, Mr. Richardson, who, wh
ether he is deep in his cups or utterly dry at breakfast time, seems not to remember me at all. Stubbs has not changed a whit and takes great advantage of Mr. Richardson’s weak memory. According to Stubbs, dear old Richardson is in receipt of several invitations to the Queen’s birthday celebrations at St. James’s Palace. I am working to secure us a pair, but with or without them, we shall attend the ball!

  Your devoted husband,

  Henry

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  16 January 1790

  My Darling,

  I cannot tell you how much your words mean to me—it matters not if they are expressed in rhyme when they are so full of reason and, dare I say, sympathy. As for my gown, it is hardly new, only made to seem so by its new decorations. I decided upon a royal theme in honour of Her Majesty—specifically, velvet violets in royal purple. Miniature bouquets of this dainty flower now embellish the decolletage and the new sash of pale lavender, which is quite striking against the silver muslin. But the details of my gown are unlikely to truly interest you; you may, however, find the following twist of fate intriguing.

  When I went to Monsieur Amabel Mitchell’s flower factory on Dover Street to have my gown refurbished, I was intrigued to discover that the flower makers are all women from France with the exception of a Welshman who looked terribly familiar. I could not recall who he was or how I knew him—he appeared to be about my age, but from the state of his clothes, quite down on his luck. It was clear from the man’s covert gazes that he recognised me also, but perhaps was too ashamed of his reduced circumstances to address me. I have an empathy for this condition and did not press matters.

  However, when I had agreed the number of violets and silk ribbon required for my gown, Monsieur Mitchell relayed my order to the man in question and the fellow’s identity came to me. He was none other than the luckless Welsh ballet dancer who was apprenticed to Gallini! Do you remember? We were at the King’s Theatre and had the misfortune of observing the wretch’s attempts as a dancer—indeed all of Gallini’s dancers were utterly without talent. Surely you must recall the debacle of a performance that Gallini refused to end, despite the abundant hisses, until the audience turned mob and charged the stage, threatening to murder all of us? The Welshman survived that terrible performance, but was finally dismissed when Gallini accused him of stealing his watch. The Welshman did not suffer the penalty of law for the alleged theft, but the accusation must surely have put him in his current dismal circumstances. I am happy to report that our heavy-footed friend seems quite dextrous at his new profession.

  Eliza and I look forward to your return, dearest,

  Your Wife

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  19 January 1790

  Dear Father,

  Thank you tremendously for securing our invitations to the Queen’s birthday celebrations—what a thrill it was to attend incognito—our own secret masquerade! How amusing to play your son rather than your brother on this occasion—I am confident your lessons from the nunnery contributed to a most masculine performance.

  In my guise as a wealthy gentleman bachelor, I found the assemblage a veritable garden, gaudy perhaps, but a delight to the hungry eye. Those bold posies vied to capture my attention—what colour and coquetry there was! As I swaggered through a bed of roses with colours ranging from the virginal ivory shades to the first blush of pink, moving through every rosy hue until the heated flush of lusty reds, I discovered that each dress was a reflection of its owner’s experience. How I longed to slide my blade through the profusion of their petals, to feel it slip through the delicate silk, the sheen of organza, the soft-furred nape of velvet. But, as we agreed, I bided my time—it would not do to be caught pruning those showy blooms during the festivities themselves. I continued exploring this fine garden and discovered dramatic lilies in oranges and yellows, and stately delphiniums in rich blues and purples—though, dare I say, a fine display of violets would not have gone amiss. How I wished to supplant those insipid flowers that danced in your arms all night!

  When the celebrations finished, I followed two unwary flowers—one in pale pink, the other wearing yellow—and a stout elderly woman who was their chaperone along St. James’s Street. One lagged behind her companions, her feet seemingly injured from the dancing. As I approached, I recognised her as a plain girl who had flirted ferociously from the gallery, and when I said, “What ho, is that you?” she smiled with recognition. But as I advanced upon her, prepared to strike, she leaned unexpectedly to adjust her slipper, and I inadvertently clouted her on the head. The wretch shrieked and began to run, her sore feet utterly recovered. She passed her sister and chaperone and began to knock frantically upon the door of Pero’s Bagnio. As her companions charged after her, I followed—a fearless Monster—and nipped the sister on the rump, slicing through the rosy silk of her ball gown, her petticoats and into the ample cushion of her flesh. And then, the door to Pero’s flew open and the females pushed their way inside as a young man stared out at me. I gave an elegant bow, then turned heel and hurried away, the cries of the hysterical ladies echoing in the night.

  But the Monster was not sated! I crossed over Piccadilly and hastened into Dover Street, where I discovered a lady walking quite alone, not far from the flower factory. I offered to escort her home, but when she hesitated, I gave her a sharp prod in the posterior to hurry her response. “Murder!” she shrieked, but I had already disappeared into the darkness. Two victims claimed in one evening—I hope your adventures were equally exciting, mon père!

  Your respectful Son,

  Mr. George Richardson

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  20 January 1790

  My dear Son,

  It was with great paternal satisfaction that I read of your enjoyment of the ball and all the flowers therein. Most surely the missing violets were a great loss, but your presence at the event, dressed in your suit and astonishing whiskers were a fine thing to witness. And I very much enjoyed my performance as Mr. Richardson the elder. Age does not diminish one’s attractiveness with the ladies when a wealthy man! My feet were sore with dancing by the evening’s end, and it was a relief that the Queen decided to retire early or I would not have had the legs to chase my quarry.

  When we parted on St. James’s Street, I came upon a group of five ladies who had been in the gallery at the ball. What a challenge! I singled out the prettiest, and after a brief courtship of words, I directed my blade at the lady’s posterior. It penetrated the silk and then the undergarments until tasting the fleshy peach beneath. I did not tarry to savour the sweetness, but went in search of further prey and quickly found a lady alone on the street. I tickled her rump with my blade, which brought forth quite a shriek. As she ran from my attentions, I dissolved into the shadows near Brook’s Club and waited for another chance. A lady and gentleman strolled past my hiding place—another challenge! My blade flew through the air and slipped through the cloth of the lady’s dress until it pierced the skin of her posterior—how soft it was! How fragile! But I did not tarry to watch the effect of my actions. I vanished into the night, satisfied with three victims in one evening.

  With greatest affection,

  Your daring Father

  LONDON, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1840

  The dim light, the cool atmosphere and the heaviness of history erased the chaos of the outside world—it was a place designed to make a man forget for a time his daily cares and lose himself in intellectual contemplation. I studied the exhibitions around me as I made my way to my rendezvous point with Dupin in the British Museum library The antiquities on display were absorbing, but it was not the jeweled artifacts from far-flung lands that captivated me, nor the mummified kings and queens of the Nile that fashionable ladies and gentlemen clamored to see. Rather, it was the wood and glass cases crammed full of oddities from some well-traveled old gentleman’s collection, objects placed with little regard to logic or aesthetic order: sea shells from the Pacific, bird eggs, fossilized ocean creatures, pinned
butterflies. There was an array of fauna frozen in time by a taxidermist’s expertise: owls, stoats, an eagle, a fox, startled rabbits and mice, whose postures gave them the semblance of life, eternally preserved.

  In stark contrast, one glass case contained the tiny corpses of gem-colored hummingbirds, huddled forlornly upon green paper; their feathers luminescent, but fragile, vanquished, the beauty of their flickering wings stilled forever. Miss Loddiges had extinguished a goodly quantity of such beauteous creatures during her ornithological studies, and I could not help but think of the lady when I gazed at the delicate hummingbirds within the case. After the macabre execution, I had failed to find sleep when we finally returned to Brown’s Genteel Inn and had traveled to Paradise Fields, Hackney, to meet my benefactress, who had extended an open invitation to visit and see her collection of avian skeletons that had inspired the book I had edited for her. My interest in the collection was limited, but I was more than curious to meet the woman who had done me a great service and with whom I hoped to work again. The visit had not raised my spirits as I had hoped it would. While my gratitude to Miss Loddiges was undiminished, the lady’s Art had repelled me, and seeing the tiny birds abandoned inside the glass case at the British Museum filled me with a terrible sadness. I left the dusty chamber with a shiver and went in search of Dupin.

  The library was predictably quiet with a quantity of scholars at work. It did not take me long to locate my friend, and I drew up a chair alongside him.

  “I trust your visit with your benefactress was pleasant,” he said in a low voice.

  “It was illuminating. She is an accomplished woman, but taxidermy is a peculiar Art,” I said. “And has your research here revealed anything of value?”

  Triumph gleamed in Dupin’s eyes. “While I am afraid the scrivener’s intent remains a mystery, I have uncovered propitious information about Rhynwick Williams.”