Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  My paddle went up. The auctioneer stared to the back of the crowd, as did all seated around me.

  “Once,” the auctioneer said loudly, gavel poised above his rostrum.

  I turned to look at my competitor and saw an unprepossessing man of perhaps thirty years dressed in a somber suit that befitted a personal secretary.

  “Twice!”

  My opponent’s eyes met mine and he put his hands together in silent applause, acknowledging his own defeat.

  The rap of the gavel rang through the room. “The gold and enamel locket ring,” the auctioneer said, as he scanned a paper on his rostrum, “goes to Mr. Poe.” Thunderous applause met this announcement and all seemed to turn to look at me.

  “Madness, Poe, utter madness,” Dupin whispered.

  “It would be madness to let someone destroy such an important memento. The ring, if nothing else, had to be saved.”

  When the auction ended, I made my way to the auctioneer with my number so that I might pay a deposit and collect my receipt for the ring. The rashness of my actions was setting in—I had been far too caught up in auction fever and had not thought clearly about how I would finance the purchase. Common sense begged me to put down the pen, embrace humiliation and return to Dupin with an apology, but instead I was determined to pay the deposit.

  “Thank you, Poe. I am indebted to you,” Dupin said, walking beside me.

  “There is, of course, no debt between us. Amicis semper fidelis.”

  Dupin nodded gravely. “I value your words as much as the gem itself and hope you understand that the pledge is reciprocated most completely.”

  “Of course.”

  But when we reached the clerk’s desk an extraordinary thing happened. “Excuse me a moment,” the auction clerk said. He carried the ledger and my receipt to the man at the desk behind him and whispered in an urgent manner. He, in turn, frowned and looked up at us.

  “Is there a difficulty?” I asked.

  The man in the elegant suit took the ledger and receipt and approached us. “Good evening. I am William Augustus Phillips, the owner of the auction house. Mr. Poe and—” He looked inquiringly at Dupin.

  “Chevalier Dupin.”

  “Mr. Phillips,” I interjected. “If there is a problem, inform us immediately.”

  The auction house owner directed his gaze to me. “I am afraid there is. A most unusual problem, Mr. Poe.”

  “The ring was stolen?” Dupin asked as if he had half-expected it.

  “No, nothing like that. I am afraid the owner decided against selling the piece. Most unusual. He paid the auction house the commission it would have received for the sum you bid and withdrew it. Under the terms of the auction, there is little we can do.”

  Fury welled up within me. “This is most unethical, sir.”

  “It is unfortunate, but it is the owner’s prerogative, I am afraid.”

  “And given the commission the auction house will receive for the ring and other items sold, you will not refuse Mr. Valdemar,” Dupin said.

  “I would not put it quite that way,” Mr. Phillips protested.

  “I will take action, you shall see. This must be a breach of contract,” I countered.

  “Come, Poe. The ring is gone, as is the culprit’s agent. There is nothing to be done. It is, however, some small consolation that Mr. Phillips has confirmed what I suspected but could not prove: the French aristocrat who wished to preserve his anonymity is Monsieur Ernest Valdemar. Thank you kindly, sir.” He gave the auctioneer a mocking bow and Mr. Phillips flushed crimson, doubly confirming what Dupin had fathomed through ratiocination.

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  20 April 1790

  My Dear,

  Fret not about the role of the Monster—Brinsley will never perform it as well as you. Our own play will be far superior to that silly musical, for ours draws on true experience not mere rumours. Indeed, your performance this evening exceeded that of yesterday, and I was so inspired by your dashing display that I went straight back to our lodgings ablaze. I have revised the closing verse and completed the chorus for the “wronged young maidens”, both of which are enclosed. Perhaps you will find time to set the chorus to a simple tune if you find it good enough?

  My mind is still dancing with ideas. What do you think of the title: The Odious Monster at Large? I believe now that our villain should escape from Newgate, not through a grand scheme or with assistance from a fellow villain, but he should simply vanish like a ghost into the night. And our narrator will inform the audience that the Monster was never heard of again in London town. But—and imagine the lights flickering as he speaks—one warm summer night, a pretty young girl is on her way home from the theatre. She is incautiously alone, thinking herself completely safe in the charming seaside town, amongst the crowds on the promenade. She is lost in contemplation of the marvellous play she has just attended, but as she reaches the sanctuary of her own doorstep, her reverie is shattered. A man—nay, a monster—materialises behind her and before she can call out for assistance a silvery blade tears through her silk skirts, her petticoats and then her flesh. The theatre plunges into darkness—and then . . . a piercing scream! Would that not be a most chilling effect?

  With deepest affection,

  Your Wife

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  27 April 1790

  Dear Elizabeth,

  The audience that watched Brinsley when he took to the boards missed a far finer performance last night. The Monster leapt from the shadows and—swish! His blade slid across her breast, through her dress, her chemise and into her pink tender flesh. And then gone—back into the shadows the Monster went, merrily singing the tune I wrote for our play. Brinsley may get the applause tonight, but our Monster will be in the newspapers.

  Yours,

  Henry

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  30 April 1790

  Dearest,

  Our Monster has reached the pinnacle of notoriety! All the chatter about the need for copper skirts or pots and pans to preserve the rumps of London’s ladies has inspired Mr. John Julius Angerstein, a man of wealth and little common sense, to offer a one hundred pound reward for the capture and conviction of the Monster. The posters have been pasted up all over town, and every man and woman of little means will accuse his or her neighbour in hopes of securing the bounty. Please let us be cautious. The streets are a-buzz with four attacks in the past few days—the Monster is far too busy when so many are seeking him!

  Yours,

  E.

  LONDON, WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1840

  The rain unfurled from the sky in long, twisting sheets and the road was a muddy river—my mood made manifest. As I leaned against the coach window, the cool of the glass against my cheek, an odd thought came into my mind. I was inside, always—a clear, perfect pane of glass between me and the world; the room that I inhabited was airless, still and empty. The thought filled me with melancholia made deeper by the weeping skies. How I missed Sissy and Muddy and our quiet summer days on the banks of the Schuylkill River.

  “Poe? We have almost arrived.”

  “So soon?”

  I should not have been surprised. The coach driver had conveyed us through London at a speed that suggested Lucifer himself was riding full pelt behind us. We reached Wellington Street more than half an hour before the appointed reading time and alighted at our destination with an unsteadiness of foot that looked like intemperance, but truly was caused by something akin to seasickness.

  The Literary and Scientific Institute was quite new, built in a stuccoed Grecian style, and was handsome enough, The manager met us at the door. He was a small man both in stature and bulk—he might have resembled a child of twelve years or so if it weren’t for the worry lines etched in his forehead, the bald pate and boisterous eyebrows. He looked from Dupin to me and back again to Dupin.

  “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Poe. I am Matthew Godwin. Mr. Dickens has sung your praises vociferously.” He gras
ped Dupin’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Monsieur Godwin, I am afraid that you mistake me for my esteemed colleague,” Dupin said, his accent oddly emphasized. “I am Chevalier Dupin and simply a champion of Mr. Poe’s works.”

  “Ah, of course.” Godwin dropped Dupin’s hand and grabbed for mine. “Mr. Poe. It is obvious now that I look more closely. You do indeed have the appearance of an author.” He shook my hand ever more energetically. “Come inside. Please do.” Mr. Godwin scurried through the door. Dupin and I struggled to keep up with the nimble little man as he led us down a dimly lit corridor.

  “Right through here. I trust it will suit your purposes. Won’t know how many will come until they get here.”

  “Indeed,” Dupin said with the hint of a smile.

  The lecture theater proved larger than I had expected—quite capable of seating several hundred people. While I was grateful for Mr. Dickens’s optimism, I hoped I would not be facing an under-populated theater.

  “I will ensure that the spectators sit at the front. It will undo the effect of your work if you must shout to the back of the theater.”

  “Thank you, Dupin. It is a relief to have you here.” We both turned to examine the room more closely. White walls—lamps upon them lit the room. A lectern faced the spectators’ chairs. It was a good height and had adequate space for my papers, but the room seemed more appropriate for discussions of science than for a literary reading. I thought of the theater and how it influenced the audience—the costumes, the backdrop, the props, the lighting. “Perhaps a candelabrum on either side of the lectern for effect. Is that possible?”

  Mr. Godwin looked confused but nodded. “Yes, if you like.”

  “Very good.” I looked at my pocket watch—twenty minutes before my reading.

  “Perhaps it is best to wait elsewhere and make more of an entrance when your audience is in place,” Dupin suggested.

  He was quite right. Waiting anxiously at the lectern was not good theater. Much better to enter the room once the audience was seated and quiet, carrying the candelabra for effect. I looked to Mr. Godwin. “Is there somewhere else I might wait?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Come to my office. I will make some tea, or perhaps you would prefer a dash of Scotch courage?” He winked and grasped my elbow, propelling me toward a side door. Dupin watched us go but made no move to follow.

  Mr. Godwin’s office was a cluttered, windowless room. “Please, have a seat.” He retrieved a flask and two dusty tumblers, which he filled. “I’ll just go find the candelabra. The library, I think . . .” And he was gone.

  I sipped the whisky and looked through my papers. I had read for Sissy and Muddy and at several Philadelphian taverns (of which I had little recollection), but never to an audience of such a size—presuming we would have an audience at all.

  “Are these suitable?” It was Dupin with a candelabrum in each hand. They were terribly tarnished, but stately enough and fitted with fresh tapers.

  “Thank you. Where is Mr. Godwin?”

  “Ushering in your audience—punctual crowd. Shall I put a glass of water on the lectern for you?”

  “You think of everything.”

  “It is a pleasure. If you make your entrance in five minutes, the crowd should be settled.” Dupin left the room.

  I helped myself to some more Scotch courage and drank it down in one.

  * * *

  I entered from the back of the room and walked toward the lectern, carrying two candelabra with tapers that burned eerily in the darkness. The theater was more full than I had dared to hope. Ladies in the crowd gasped, and I heard muted whispers. When I reached my position, I placed each candelabrum on a small table situated either side of the lectern. Dupin had judged the position of the tables perfectly—the candle flames flickered below my face, casting spectral shadows. I stood quietly for a moment, gazing at my audience, and noted that Dupin was seated near the door.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. My name is Edgar Allan Poe.” Polite applause met this announcement. “Thank you for joining me this evening. I will be reading my new tale William Wilson and am happy to receive questions afterwards.”

  I scanned the audience, looking for Mr. Dickens. Dupin’s eyes met with mine, and he nodded imperceptibly. I gathered myself and began, conscious to project my voice.

  “Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation.’”

  The candle glow shivered from an intangible draft in the room—all to good effect, as the capricious light threw mysterious shadows across my face and, perhaps, the shimmer of a halo round my head.

  “‘Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle . . .’”

  As I continued with my performance, I scanned the crowd. Was Mr. Dickens in the room? My eyes searched the very back row, but I did not see a face that met the image I knew from his novel’s front-piece. And then I caught sight of a countenance I did recognize and almost stumbled over my lines. Square jaw, thin lips, auburn hair—a man in a rambunctious checked suit popular with dandies who possess few critical faculties. Was he my nemesis, planning to humiliate me in public? My voice trembled and the text evaporated from my mind. I sought to control myself and adopted a faux-whispering voice for dramatic effect.

  “‘I have said before, or should have said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins.’”

  My mind went blank again. I looked down at my papers, pretending a dramatic pause. It was not the correct page. With a sense of panic, I turned one page and then another. Finally, I found my place and continued. But just as I had regained my concentration, using all my will not to look in Mackie’s direction, a glint in the low light caught my gaze, and I noticed a man of about forty-five years of age with dark eyes and hair. He was utterly focused on my words and radiated tension like a venomous snake poised to strike.

  “‘The same name! The same contour of person! The same day of arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner!’”

  I was transfixed now by the man with the snake-like eyes and glinting lapel. There was something familiar about him, but I could not place him. My anxiety grew and my memory failed me more than once, but I struggled through to the crescendo of the tale, scrabbling to find the correct page, throwing others onto the ground. Faster and faster I recited and read out the text; my anxiety must have added to the effect for my audience looked both frightened and absorbed.

  “‘Scoundrel! Impostor! Accursed villain! You shall not—you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!’”

  At that very moment, there was a slight commotion as Dupin sprang from his seat and ran through the door in pursuit of someone. My eyes scanned the audience—an empty seat where the glowering man had sat. My words dried up and, again, I feigned a pause for dramatic effect. I thought of my grandmother alone on the stage, singing to hundreds without fear, a mob that might shower her with applause or garbage from the streets. I was of her blood and now was the time to prove I had inherited some of her skill.

  “‘It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said: You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead—dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.’”

  With those words, I lowered my head. At first there was ominous silence, then like a throng of birds rising up in flight the applause began, hands pattering together like beating wings. But I had failed. The muse who inspired my grandmother and my mother on stage had declined to touch me. I waited where I stood, maintaining a solemn expression, when truly I wanted to bang my fists against the wooden lectern. Me
mbers of the audience slowly rose to their feet and those at the back filed out. Others hovered near their seats, chatting with their neighbors. Scanning the crowd for Mackie, I caught sight of a striking woman with raven hair who, despite the dearth of light, wore tinted spectacles, which only served to enhance her beauty. I wondered if she were blind, but she stood and undoubtedly smiled at me. And then my nemesis planted himself in front of me.

  “Poe! Quite a story you gave to us. Highly unusual. Twins and tormentation and, finally, murder. Not a cheerful tale. Dark, one might say. And rather on the long side, perhaps. Do you find it difficult to edit your own work?” Mr. Mackie paused for breath, his green eyes staring into mine. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain my aggressor could hear it. Where was Dupin? Why had he vanished when I needed him? I did my utmost to exude complete calm and clasped my nervous hands behind my back.

  “I am sorry my tale disappointed you, Mr. Mackie.”

  “Disappointed indeed. I had expected superlative things from you. What with your rigorous critiques of the great American writers and of their lesser cousins—my own poor scribblings for example. Yes, I had expected more.” He took a step forward while I instinctively took one back.

  “What a powerful story, Mr. Poe,” I heard a mellifluous voice say. “I had no preconceived expectations, being unfamiliar with your work, but find myself deeply impressed.” The raven-haired woman was next to my nemesis, the candlelight glinting off the olive green lenses of her spectacles. “It was chilling and compelling with elements of the other.” She gestured gracefully at the invisible around us, then turned to Mr. Mackie. “It was such a pleasure, sir. I do hope we shall meet again at another literary evening.” She gave a half-curtsy and, with a solemn nod of her head, elegantly dismissed him.

  Mackie hesitated a moment, confusion upon his features, but such was her charm, he did not seem to realize that she had usurped his position. My nemesis merely dipped his head in return and said, “It is all my pleasure, madam. I, too, hope we meet again.” He smiled at her as he backed away. “Farewell, Poe. I trust we shall have a deeper discussion in future.” With those ominous words, Mr. Mackie strode away. I scanned the room for Dupin—where the Devil was he? He would miss his chance to interrogate Mackie.