Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  If I had not witnessed myself the brooch pinned to Mrs. Fontaine, I would not believe such a fantastic story.

  “The professor—or scrivener or man of literature, whichever is his true nature—wears his brooch pinned to his waistcoat. I noticed it for a moment when we were made to hold hands during the séance, but did not put the pieces together until after your abduction.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that a woman of Mrs. Fontaine’s standing would take such a low-bred ruffian for a lover, that she would be in collusion with a man who would murder me.”

  “It is an admirable trait to be protective of the weaker sex, Poe, but one must not deify womankind. An attractive visage does not guarantee moral principles.”

  “I am quite aware of that, but surely the false professor is manipulating her in some nefarious way. She is a married woman and it would seem from her attire, if not her address, that her husband is comfortably off.”

  “Of course that is not her address. It is either the home of her lover or she rents the building for her activities as a medium. It would be unseemly for her to hold a séance at her own abode, particularly if her husband is unaware that she claims to commune with spirits.”

  There was a disturbing ring of truth about Dupin’s statements. How had I missed the obvious earlier?

  “I did some research on Mrs. Fontaine during your convalescence, and I doubt it will surprise you to hear that she was once an actress. Mr. James Fontaine saw her upon the stage and was beguiled. After a brief courtship, they were married. It seems clear that Mrs. Fontaine—or Miss Rowena Greene of Chatham as she was back then—knew the scrivener before her marriage, but did the practical thing and married the rich rather than the poor man.”

  “You make her sound very calculating.”

  “Calculating? Most assuredly. She was a moderately successful actress of humble means who was given the opportunity to advance herself. She married well, but continues an illicit affair with the impoverished scrivener who posed as an elderly professor at the seance. Hence, the lovers wear the eye brooches as a love token. But the real question is, why did her lover wish to imprison you in that cellar and why was she in support of that foul desire?”

  “And why the ourang-outang skeleton disguised as a dead man clutching a letter written by my grandmother?”

  “Indeed. Your nemesis does not seem to wish you dead at this point in time. You were meant to read the letter after being terrorized by your imprisonment, and we might also presume that I was meant to rescue you before you expired. Of course I knew the address where the séance was held and went there as soon as I discovered that you had not returned to the hotel. If you were held captive at that address, it had to be in the attic or the cellar.”

  “And so I was imprisoned by my nemesis just as Rhynwick Williams was imprisoned on the thirteenth of June 1790.”

  Dupin nodded. “Yes, there is a symmetry there. But we still have not solved the mystery of the scrivener’s rhyme—what was Elizabeth Arnold’s treachery? Of course she concealed her own guilt of the Monster’s crimes, but I believe there is more.”

  I shivered at his words, imagining the snake-eyed man creeping into my chamber, looking through my things, putting the bottle of cognac there. The threatening note: Nemo me impune lacessit. The dank cellar. Cold settled into me like a hard frost.

  “At this point in time, you said. My nemesis does not wish me dead at this point in time. But you believe that will change in future.”

  Dupin gave a gentle shrug. “We must consider that possibility.”

  “Then we must catch the murderous scrivener before he kills one or both of us.”

  “That is very true indeed. Now let us put aside such thoughts for a while and walk. Our goal today is to refresh our minds.”

  Dupin led us toward the southeast corner of the park. There was a welcome sense of levity as children played with hoops, raced around with each other or tagged after men with water-carts. We exited the park at York Gate, crossed New Road and came to a walled garden which fronted a house set back from the street. Dupin gazed at me expectantly.

  I looked at the house, which was very handsome with a portico of brick and stone and two tall semi-circular bow windows. Dupin was also examining the house with interest, but seemed to have no intention of telling me why we were at that address.

  “Do we have an assignation here?” I finally asked.

  “No pre-arrangement. I thought we might make an impromptu visit to One Devonshire Terrace as we are in the area.”

  “I am afraid that yet again I am not following you.” And then I remembered the letter that accompanied the bottle of brandy. “Mr. Dickens’s house?”

  Dupin nodded. “It seems that your schedules rarely coincide. Now that we are here, you shall meet face to face and exchange pleasantries. We might offer to take him to dine nearby to thank him for his interest in your work.”

  I could feel my face flush with the impropriety of it. “Arrive unannounced at an acquaintance’s doorstep? Mr. Dickens may be offended. And given recent events, I am not at all certain of his interest in my writing.”

  “Nonsense. You corresponded before your arrival, and Mr. Dickens made clear his appreciation of your work. He has offered to help you find a publisher here—this is not promised lightly. He inserted an announcement in the newspaper of your arrival in London and intent to give a public reading. It now seems doubtful that he organized the reading at the Institute, but I intend to discover the truth of that matter. Clearly Mr. Dickens is a busy man, but you will not remain in London indefinitely. You have the opportunity now to make his acquaintance in the flesh and thank him for his help. Few are offended by genuine expressions of gratitude—indeed it is lack of gratitude that offends.”

  I stared at Dupin, overwhelmed by anxiety. Normally he was a champion of propriety, and yet he was goading me into what might only be described as rude behavior in polite society. This was Dickens’s home—a place for retreat—not an office or a gentleman’s club.

  Dupin observed my anxiety and impatience settled upon his features. “Are you confident that you will have the opportunity to meet Mr. Dickens? Is a friendly letter sufficient to thank him for taking an interest?”

  Clearly it was not, but I still had the lingering sense that Mr. Dickens had printed the announcement of my London visit solely because I was a magazine editor who admired his work, but that truly he had no real interest in meeting me, a fellow writer. Dupin’s patience finally expired. He gripped the brass door knocker and let it fall three times. A weighty silence followed, and I presumed that the house was empty, but then the sound of footsteps came closer and the door swung open. A handsome woman in capable clothing stood before us, a quizzical expression upon her face. Dupin bowed his head in greeting.

  “Good afternoon. We are here to see Mr. Dickens. This is Mr. Edgar Poe and I am Chevalier Auguste Dupin. We would like to thank him personally for organizing Mr. Poe’s reading on the eighth of July.”

  “We are sorry to intrude,” I began.

  “Mr. Dickens could not attend the reading due to illness,” Dupin interjected. “We hope he is now recovered.” He stared intently at the woman, scrutinizing her reaction to his words. “I suppose you are aware of the kind gesture of your husband?”

  She seemed to ponder for a moment and then her features eased into the hint of a smile. “Ah, yes, Mr. Poe. My husband has indeed mentioned you. He admires your work.” She looked from me to Dupin and back again. “Unfortunately, he is not in.”

  “So he is recovered,” Dupin said pointedly.

  Mrs. Dickens frowned at what must have seemed an odd comment. “He is quite well, thank you,” she answered.

  “Halloa old girl,” a hoarse voice croaked from inside the house. “Halloa.”

  Dupin and I could not help but stare into the vestibule, but saw no one.

  Unease crossed Mrs. Dickens’s face. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said. There was an odd shuffling sound
inside the house, and she looked anxiously over her shoulder.

  An ancient voice rasped, “Polly, put the kettle on, and we’ll all have tea!”

  Mrs. Dickens turned her back to us and flapped her skirts. “Shoo! Get back!”

  “Put the kettle on! Hurrah! All have tea!”

  Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts again then squealed and skipped to one side. “Get away, you horrid thing!”

  Dupin and I were instantly over the threshold, poised to defend Mrs. Dickens, but what we saw next threw us into a state of confusion. A large black raven was hopping across the vestibule floor, attempting to peck at Mrs. Dickens’s ankles. “Halloa, old girl,” the devilish creature squawked.

  Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts again and skipped backward, trying to preserve her feet from the bird’s snapping beak. “Close the door, please,” she gasped. “He must not fly away—as much as that would please me. Charles will be most upset if the horrid creature disappears.” She flapped her skirts again.

  “Does it have a name?” Dupin watched the bird hopping toward Mrs. Dickens. Its wings were half-raised, which seemed to double its size.

  “Grip—my husband calls him Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing, depending upon the temper the creature is in.”

  “I’m a devil!” rejoined the raven promptly.

  “That he is indeed!” She eyed the bird warily.

  “Never say die. Bow wow wow!”

  Mrs. Dickens closed her eyes and shook her head. “My husband teaches him some terrible nonsense.”

  “Very clever birds. Ravens are capable of accumulating quite a vocabulary,” Dupin said.

  “Clever, perhaps. Certainly greedy He won’t stop until I feed him something.” Mrs. Dickens said. “Would you care for some tea while I am attending to the creature?”

  “Put the kettle on! Hurrah! All have tea!” the raven jabbered.

  Mrs. Dickens swished her skirts at him again. “Charles is meant to be home for dinner. You may wait for him if you wish.”

  I was about decline the good lady’s offer, but Dupin waded in. “Tea would be most pleasant, Mrs. Dickens.”

  The bird scampered toward the lady’s feet, but Dupin deftly put his walking stick in its path and the creature stepped upon it like a roost, then tilted his head to examine Dupin.

  “Tea?” Dupin asked it.

  The bird bobbed up and down on his walking stick in an excited manner, watching Dupin all the while with what seemed to be genuine interest.

  Mrs. Dickens eyed the bird and Dupin nervously. “Follow me,” she said and led us from the large vestibule into a spacious square hall. The raven remained perched upon Dupin’s walking stick and he carried it along with him. “I think the library would be best,” she said, leading us into a chamber on the right. It was a crowded room, pleasingly filled with books, Dickens’s desk and several chairs. It had a view of the garden, with stairs that led out to it. The raven leapt into flight, startling us all, and soared to the top of a bookcase, where he watched us like a god from the heavens. Mrs. Dickens glared at the bird then made her way to the door. “I will just speak with cook. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Dupin and I settled ourselves into chairs. “An impressive library,” I observed.

  “And an unusual pet,” Dupin said.

  The bird eyed us insolently, head tilted. Then, pop! The sound of a cork emerging from a bottle. I looked for the noise’s source and discovered that once again it was the uncanny bird. It imitated the sound of a popping cork several times and danced with delight at our reactions. “Keep up your spirits,” it said, with a snap of its wings.

  Dupin raised his eyebrows. “Acutely observant too.”

  “I wonder if the creature torments Mr. Dickens as it does his wife.”

  “Hardly,” she said as she briskly re-entered the room. “Charles spoils the creature. It torments all but its master.”

  “I’m a devil, I’m a devil, bow wow wow.” Its eyes gleamed with malice.

  I had to agree with the tiresome creature. His nonsensical chatter had worn my patience already. “How did Mr. Dickens come by the bird?”

  “A purported friend gave it to him.”

  “The actions of friends can at times make them seem the enemy,” I said, inadvertently catching Dupin’s eye.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Dickens said, nodding.

  “Most often when those actions are in your best interest,” Dupin said waspishly.

  The cook entered the library carrying a large tea tray. She set it upon a small table, curtsied and left. Mrs. Dickens poured tea for the three of us and offered us buttered bread from a covered silver dish, but before we had the chance to partake, the bold creature soared down from the bookshelf and made a grab for the bread. Mrs. Dickens deftly slammed down the lid and the bird landed on the top of a high-backed chair. It eyed the silver dish greedily.

  “Would you place this on the floor over there? Then we might have some peace.” Mrs. Dickens handed Dupin another covered dish. He did as she requested and lifted the lid to reveal a small plate of raw meat. The raven jumped from his makeshift perch and strode over to the dish like a soldier. It ate the meat greedily and the sight was infinitely disturbing. One could imagine carrion crows on the battlefield, chewing through the flesh of the fallen. Dupin coolly observed the creature.

  “Covus corax, a highly intelligent bird and quite human in a number of ways, though dare I say their human qualities are not what makes them clever.” Dupin’s thin smile indicated this was a jest, but in truth this probably was his opinion. “They inhabit most parts of the world and adapt to almost any environment—certainly they will eat almost anything.”

  The ebony bird listened intently, turning his head from one speaker to another as if drinking in each word.

  “True, indeed,” Mrs. Dickens agreed. “The bird will consume anything, including my letters, pieces of the staircase and any jewels I forget to lock up in my jewel box.”

  “It has probably buried or hidden the jewels,” Dupin said. “Corvus corax do have a propensity for stealing and then hiding their spoils.”

  “Not unlike some humans,” I said.

  “It has stolen any number of teaspoons from the dining table and buried them in the garden,” Mrs. Dickens told us. “I am sure we haven’t found half of them. And he chews away at the garden wall, digging out all the mortar, and scrapes the putty from the windows so the glass falls out. He is a bothersome devil.”

  “I’m a devil,” croaked Grip, before dipping his beak back into the raw meat.

  Dupin smiled at this exchange. “Highly intelligent,” he said again. “And loyal. Ravens mate for life and live up to forty years.”

  “Forty years?” Mrs. Dickens muttered with despair.

  “Surely the creatures are better known for their scavenging than their loyalty,” I said.

  “They are indeed scavengers, but Nature needs such creatures. And they are not just opportunists. Ravens are said to lead hunters to deer and caribou so they can enjoy the remains—both hunter and scavenger benefit.”

  I looked at the raven and found that he was staring at me, head tilted to one side, his gimlet eye fixed on mine, as if daring me to contradict Dupin. The bird gulped down the rest of its meat and launched itself into the air, skimming past my head, before resuming its station on top of the bookcase.

  “He is indeed a devil,” I muttered.

  “Some do believe so,” Dupin said. “Or similar. It is said that ravens are the ghosts of murdered people or the souls of the damned. Some native peoples from your country believe ravens can transform themselves into human beings. And of course the kings of this country allow ravens to consume—”

  “Never say die! Keep your spirits up,” croaked the imp from the bookcase. It was balanced on tiptoe and moved its body up and down in a bobbing dance.

  “I think we might discuss more pleasant topics,” I said pointedly, noting Mrs. Dickens’s blanched face.

  “No doub
t Mrs. Dickens has heard much more about the history of the raven from her husband,” Dupin said.

  “In truth, sir, my husband prefers to dwell on the creature’s intelligence and canny ways. I have not heard him speak of such dark tales,” she said, giving Dupin a suspicious look.

  “Forgive us, please, Mrs. Dickens. We men of letters spend too much time with our books and quickly forget good manners and how to converse with a lady. I hope my friend did not upset you when you have been so hospitable.”

  “It is quite all right,” the lady said with a taut manner, which indicated most clearly that it was not. My impatience with Dupin grew—first he showed us to be louts without manners arriving unannounced at the Dickens’s home, and then he frightened the poor woman with talk of the Devil. My worries were cut short when we heard the front door opening. I leapt to my feet, ready to meet Mr. Dickens at last, but the temporary silence was quickly broken by the sound of pattering feet. Mrs. Dickens stood and said, “Nanny has brought the children home.”

  Dupin rose to his feet also, just as the sound of a childish voice floated into the library. Moments later a small boy ran into the room. He was a cheerful-looking child of perhaps three or four years old.

  “This is Mr. Poe and Chevalier Dupin. They are acquaintances of your father. Say hello to them.”

  “Hello,” the boy said, retreating behind his mother’s skirts.

  “And?”

  “My name is Charley Dickens. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the boy recited.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Charley,” I said.

  Dupin nodded his head in concurrence, but said nothing. He seemed more at ease dealing with a talking bird than a child. Moments later a tiny girl peeped into the room.

  “This is Mamie,” Mrs. Dickens said. “Say hello, dear.”