Yours,
Elizabeth
LONDON, 11-12 JULY 1840
The address was sixteen Bayham Street, but it did not much resemble the house I had been to. Decayed trees stood sentry either side of the door and the gray stone façade was overspread with peculiar, faintly luminous fungi, which seemed to draw sustenance from the stone itself. As I approached the house, a violent wind arose and the door opened, drawing me inside, and there before me was the séance table and a chair, the room devoid of all other furnishings. I was compelled to sit in the chair and there I waited, for what I did not know—all I could hear was the howling of the wind and a strange thump, thump, thump. And yet I sat and waited, as if bound to the chair with ghostly cords. The wind grew ever louder and stronger until it hammered at the window glass as if something were demanding admission, but all I could see there was a blood-red moon in its fullest phase, glaring in like a god of war.
And then I heard a scraping and the drag of something heavy on the floorboards, closer, ever closer behind me. I turned in my chair and froze in terror at what I saw. There, emerged from the door that led to the cellar, was the man—or what was left of him—who had been interred in the pit, risen to his feet and dragging himself toward me with torturous gait. I cowered at the séance table, unable to flee. There was a terrible rumbling and the window glass shattered—as the glittering fragments flew around me in the cyclonic air, my gaze was drawn to the ceiling, where a fissure was zigzagging across the plasterwork. This was mirrored by a fissure in the floor, which rapidly widened like an ominous crack in thawing ice. And still the glowing remains of the dead man shuffled toward me, feet scraping along, the wind blowing through the holes that were once his eyes, a solitary sheet of paper flapping wildly in his extended hand. Hypnotized, I reached out to take the letter from him, but the building split asunder and we plunged into the endless depths of the cellar as the fragments of the house rained down upon us.
* * *
I jolted as if I had fallen from a great height. My bedclothes were twisted from battling with them and my skin damp with the dew of fear. I had slept through a full day, or had tried to, but the same nightmare had visited me again and again, leaving me ever more exhausted and unable to leave the safety of my room.
The honest smell of a cooked breakfast sailed through the air and my belly persuaded me to enter the sitting room. Dupin was seated at the table and immediately poured coffee.
“You must eat. And if you feel ready, perhaps we might venture out.”
“I am not an invalid, Dupin. Indeed, I am voracious. Sleep was what I needed.”
“Certainly your character seems quite recovered if not improved.” He smiled slightly to indicate a jest.
I had not forgotten his exchange with Dr. Froissart. I began my breakfast, wondering the best way to find out the truth of what they had been discussing and decided a direct approach was best.
“You have something to tell me, I believe? Something regarding the house on Bayham Street?”
A look of surprise passed over Dupin’s face and he took his time eating before dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “Given your ordeal, it would be wise to step back from the investigation for another day.”
“I disagree. To cower in my room will lead my nemesis to believe he has intimidated me and this might embolden him when he advances his next attack.”
“Ah, so you agree that Mrs. Fontaine is in league with your enemy?”
“I did not say that, precisely. It is possible she was his victim also.” Despite the evidence, I could not quite believe in her guilt. I picked up my cup of coffee, but the tremor in my hand caught Dupin’s notice. I wondered if the twitch in my eyelid was also visible to him. He did not comment on either, just shook his head imperceptibly.
“It is possible to make Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained or a mind too clouded by fear. Let us divert our minds today. When our intellects are refreshed we shall see much more. I suggest we play the tourist. Shall we visit the Regent’s Park? The design is said to be attractive as are the Zoological and Botanic Gardens. The Colosseum is also regarded as noteworthy.”
The idea of Dupin as a tourist was so improbable it immediately persuaded me. He embarked on activities with purpose rather than pleasure, by his own admission. Dupin might visit an exhibition of paintings, but it was to study the technique of an artist, not to enjoy the beauty of the works. He spent considerable time in libraries and museums, but his objective was to broaden the mind rather than satisfy the imagination. Even his appreciation of wine was overshadowed by his comprehensive knowledge of the wine-making process and the best vintages.
“A novel idea, Dupin. Most interesting. I think I shall enjoy being a tourist with you.”
But I was doubly determined to get an answer to my question before we finished our excursion.
* * *
We entered the Regent’s Park through Macclesfield Gate, which was very pleasant as the north side of the park looked out over open countryside, the verdant areas of Primrose Hill and Hampstead. Despite the beauty of the place, each creeping shadow and unexpected noise provoked my overly sharpened senses and made my heart race. The park was merry with perambulators enjoying the fine weather and slowly, ever so slowly, the acute memory of the Bayham Street cellar and its venomous spirits began to recede. Dupin had purchased a small guidebook and proceeded to illuminate me with its contents. The Regent’s Park had been open to the public for just two years as the Prince Regent had intended to build a residence in the northeast of the park, but he changed his mind and London society gained another handsome space in which to scrutinize their contemporaries and be scrutinized in turn. As we made our way toward the Zoological Gardens, Dupin described the size of the park and the intent of the architect. Whenever I tried to steer him toward the discovery at Bayham Street, he deftly batted away my questions.
“There it is just there. This should be a most lively entertainment. Listen—the roar of a lion. We might be in the jungles of Africa,” Dupin said with mock gravity, indicating the manicured gardens around us. I could not help but smile and he delved back into the guidebook. “‘The menageries from the Tower of London and Windsor were brought to the Zoological Gardens at Regent’s Park. There are over one thousand living animals, including mammalia, birds and reptiles.’”
“Quite the collection.” We paid the entrance fee and followed the terrace walk to the gardens, which were admirably arranged. The buildings that housed the exotic creatures were attractive and well-adapted for the animals’ needs. Each spacious cage held a surprise, be it a panting polar bear, a sleeping leopard or a grazing rhinoceros. All of these creatures were new to me in the flesh, and I was as entranced as my fellow spectators. Several ostriches grazed on open ground, their flightless wings ensuring that they remained captive without the need for an overhead enclosure. Four giraffes stood together, long necks swaying this way and that as they surveyed a horizon not visible to those of lesser stature.
“The giraffes were herded along like sheep or cattle from Blackwall, their landing place, to Regent’s Park,” Dupin said.
“Quite the spectacle that would have been. Imagine awaking to see these creatures pass by your window.”
“Indeed. Although I believe they were driven through unpopulated areas.” Dupin led us onward. “Ah, llamas. Interesting creatures. From Peru.” The llama pair grazed side by side, oblivious to our gaze.
“Surely the giraffes are rather more unusual or does the guidebook reveal something extraordinary about the llamas?”
Dupin shrugged slightly. “Perhaps it is the country of their origin more than the animal itself that appeals to me.”
“Peru? I was not aware that you had any special interest in the place.”
“It is a country I traveled to in my youth—a most extraordinary place. The flora and fauna are unparalleled, particularly the bird-life which is highly sought after by collectors.”
“You
traveled to Peru?” My astonishment was acute.
“Yes,” Dupin said with a studied casual air. “Does that surprise you?”
My laugh of incredulity could not be suppressed. The notion of the urbane Dupin traveling through the wilds of South America stretched my imagination beyond its considerable limits.
“Ah, look here. The simians.”
In a series of enclosures before us were a variety of primates. Dupin strode past the exuberant monkeys and a sullen chimpanzee before stopping before a large cage. I quickly followed.
“Pongo pygmaeus,” Dupin said. “The animal nearest to the human in intelligence. Indeed, the average ourang-outang may surpass the human of limited intelligence.”
“Indeed?” I joined Dupin at the enclosure and examined the creature before us.
“Ourang-outangs sometimes live over thirty years, whether in captivity or in the wild.” He paused for a moment and examined the beast. “They look almost human, do they not?” Dupin awaited a response.
“Yes, quite. But the legs are rather shorter and the arms are far longer. I would imagine the skull is a different shape, judging by his aspect in the flesh.”
Dupin nodded. “Most correct. But if one were to see a deceased Pongo pygmaeus dressed in human clothing, posed in an attitude of prayer in a darkened chamber, one might presume that the creature were human.”
“Possibly.” And then I understood Dupin’s suggestion. “Bayham Street.”
“Yes. When I collected the letter from the skeleton’s hand, I had my suspicions. The clothing, lack of light and posture disguised the obvious elements, so I broke off a finger bone to show Dr. Froissart, who has a superb understanding of anatomy. He confirmed my suspicions when he saw the skeleton intact at Bayham Street. Dr. Froissart estimated that the ourang-outang was dead for more than a decade, given the condition of its skeleton.”
I could think of no reply, it was so obvious. How had I succumbed to such a farce?
“Do not torture yourself, Poe. It was a clever fabrication designed to terrorize. The environment contributed to the veracity. You should be relieved that it was a contrivance rather than murder.”
No doubt Dupin was correct, but I felt quite numb as I followed him away from the simian enclosures. Dupin took his time, admiring the various mammals on show, saying little more than the Latin names of each creature we saw. Eventually we reached the reptile house.
“Shall we? The collection is meant to be impressive, but perhaps you would prefer to remain outdoors?”
“I think we can be certain that any venomous creatures are securely locked up.” I led the way inside, feeling that he had issued me with a challenge. I was determined to prove to Dupin and myself that I was recovered from my ordeal—especially as it was based entirely on a hoax—and fit to continue our investigation. But as soon as the cool, dimly lit chamber enveloped me, I was forced to suppress the bile that rose up in me, as toxic as any reptile’s venom. The presence of ladies in the company helped me quell the urge to retch, and I presented a calm façade as we studied the specimens within their glass prisons. These ranged from the innocuous but colorful snake to deadlier varieties, including pythons and a cobra that closely resembled the creature that decorated Dupin’s walking stick. When he raised the stick to compare it with the live cobra, the cold-blooded, living thing slithered from its lair at the back of the enclosure and reared up directly in front of us. It stared into the ruby eyes of the golden counterfeit, apparently transfixed, and then suddenly lunged at its twin, fangs exposed, and hit the glass with such force a mere window would have shattered. A lady standing close to us cried out and fainted dead away as if bitten. The reptile, not content with its unsuccessful attack, reared up again.
“I will crush you under my heel like a snake,” Dupin said softly in Latin, his eyes staring into the cobra’s, utterly unblinking, utterly without fear, until the ghastly thing slithered back to the ground and coiled in upon itself.
“Oh, my word,” someone behind us whispered.
“Come, Dupin. I think we have seen enough.”
He woke as if from a trance, his face hard, his eyes hooded, and followed me from the reptile house, walking stick tap-tapping on the ground behind me. Once back out in the open air, I confronted him.
“What possessed you to torment the creature?” I asked with an anger I did not fully comprehend myself.
“It was unintentional. I had not expected such a response from the snake.”
“And yet you were goading it to strike again, playing the snake charmer!”
Dupin frowned. “No, I attempted to make it submit to my will, and it seems that I succeeded.”
“It could have killed us—and the other observers.”
“The glass was very strong. That was obvious. We were all quite safe.”
Of course he was correct, but I was aggravated by his game, and we walked along in silence until the ornamental plantations succeeded in quieting my temper.
“I am sorry for my outburst. I fear my nerves are strained after my containment.”
Dupin nodded. “I should have taken that into account and avoided the reptile house. It was completely my error. Shall we explore the Botanic Gardens? They are sure to refresh our minds—an example of man’s artistry combined with nature’s, and it is highly unlikely any deadly creatures will be lurking there.”
“Let us hope you are correct.” I smiled.
As we strolled through the delightful gardens, I thought how much Sissy and Muddy would enjoy them. The atmosphere was certainly a tonic for my nerves and presently my soul grew stronger. I had been duped, yes, but it would not happen so easily again. I was all the more determined to defeat my aggressors.
“You were a reluctant participant in the seance, believing it a hoax from the beginning, and yet you stormed away when your grandmother spoke to you. Why, Dupin?”
Dupin grimaced at my words. “When Mrs. Fontaine spoke to me. The lady is adept at gathering information. It is how she makes her living—duping naive and lonely ladies from their money.”
“That does not answer my question.”
He grimaced again. “It was quite a masterly hoax, and I confess that I was caught up in the moment. I cannot adequately explain my reaction.”
“The atmosphere was persuasive.”
“To most, perhaps. But it is clear how the effect was contrived. The singing of hymns promoted an atmosphere of truth, and the white rose was an impressive theatrical start. Mrs. Fontaine knew her subject’s history very well. Either the good lady had confessed it to her at an earlier sitting or Mrs. Fontaine had done some excellent research before commencing her iniquitous charade.”
“Was it so iniquitous? She made the lady happy.”
“She told her what she wanted to hear. There was no truth in it.
“How do you know, Dupin? Can you be certain that the lady’s long-dead lover is not waiting for her in the afterlife?”
“I am a man of science, Poe, not a dreamer of fiction.”
“If Mrs. Fontaine is a charlatan, why did she provoke such a reaction from you when she allowed the French lady to speak through her? The lady who, it seems, made a speech before her execution? If Mrs. Fontaine is a fraud, how did she know about your grandmother?” I watched Dupin’s face, waiting for incredulity to cross his countenance, as it had during the séance, but I was disappointed.
“As I believe I suggested previously, I am not the ghost you believe me to be. One might easily discover what happened to my grandparents, and this performance was made unconvincing by the simple fact that my grandmother, if she contacted me from beyond the grave, would have spoken to me in French as she did not speak a word of English.”
I could not resist prodding Dupin. “Perhaps English is the language of the afterlife?”
“Then that is a very good reason to deny the existence of it,” he retorted. “Admittedly, Mrs. Fontaine took me by surprise at the séance, but it became all too clear later that her show was
but a clever way of undermining my critical faculties. This was part of her larger plan—and the professor’s—to imprison you.”
My face must have expressed the shock I had hoped to rouse in Dupin. “The professor?”
“Who of course was the scrivener at the hanging and also the man I chased at your reading. Quite the master of disguise, it would seem.”
I reflected upon each man, not convinced by Dupin’s accusation. “They were of various heights, I am quite certain.”
“It was the shoes. Heels of different sizes,” Dupin said. “You would do well to remember the abilities of your own grandparents,” he added.
As reluctant as I was to cast Mrs. Fontaine as the villainess, I could without difficulty imagine the snake-eyed man as a scoundrel.
“If you are in doubt, still, about the relationship between Mrs. Fontaine and the alleged professor, consider the brooches they wear.” Dupin smiled at my confusion. “I trust you noticed the unusual jewel Mrs. Fontaine had on her dress—painted most accurately to resemble a human eye.”
I nodded, remembering the brown eye fixed in a piercing glare. “It was life-like and terribly unpleasant.”
“That should not surprise us when we consider the eye from which it was painted.”
“No, no, Dupin. Mrs. Fontaine’s eyes are an attractive violetgray. They are not brown at all.”
“You are missing the point. She does not wear a brooch that depicts her own eye, but rather that of her lover. It is a peculiar tradition. Lovers who cannot be together, whether star-crossed or inconveniently married, are known to wear such brooches as a discreet declaration of their love. The glaring brown eye belongs to Mrs. Fontaine’s lover and he, in turn, wears a brooch with a violet-gray eye.”
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster Page 20
