Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

“Fear not. I dearly enjoy the water.”

  The dipper was not convinced by this declaration and hovered in the sea near me as if worried that I might plunge beneath it again.

  I noticed with some surprise that I was the only bather wearing a costume. While it is not uncommon practice in my homeland for men—particularly amongst the lower classes—to swim as God made them, this is never tolerated if females are present. I glanced over to the ladies’ bathing machines and saw that the nearest had an awning that stretched out from the machine to the water, completely covering the bather therein. Thus, the ladies remained obscured from male sight and vice versa, preserving modesty for all.

  It was then that the door to Dupin’s bathing machine finally opened. He emerged and stood at the top of the stepladder, staring out at the water all around him. Silence fell on the bathers as they stared up at Dupin, for he was dressed, most improbably, in a long flannel gown. His complexion had a green hue, extreme biliousness or perhaps merely the reflection of seawater upon his skin. He took two steps down the ladder and gripped its sides. His dipper approached, clutching a length of rope that was securely fastened to the bathing machine.

  “Allow me, sir,” he said, tying the rope around Dupin’s waist, which gave him the look of a penitent monk. The dipper offered his hand, but too late—a large wave surged forward and, without any regard for Dupin’s dignity, dislodged him from his perch. He disappeared beneath the water while his skirts billowed up like an inverted parachute. Truly Dupin’s element as a Frenchman was air and not water. I swam toward him, but the canny dipper used the rope to yank him up. Dupin spluttered and gasped.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Quite fine,” Dupin said, glaring. He staggered on the sandy bottom and paddled wildly with his arms to steady himself. His composure lapsed again when he noticed the other bathers’ state of undress and his complexion instantly shifted from green to pink.

  I nodded at the flannel gown. “Does it fit?” I could not resist asking.

  Dupin narrowed his eyes, but did not respond.

  “Would sir care to dip?” his attendant asked. “Very good for the constitution.”

  “Yes, of course he must dip.” The malicious words came forth before I could stop them.

  The dipper grasped Dupin by arm and with the other hand, pushed his head underwater. He hauled him up again and dipped him twice more, as if baptizing him. Dupin spluttered and flailed like a cat in water, but was no match for his assailant. When at last the ritual was finished, Dupin’s eyes were ablaze and, without a word, he climbed into the bathing machine and shut the door.

  “A few more minutes, sir,” I said to my dipper before striking out away from the shore. With each stroke, I wondered if Henry Arnold had tried to swim through these waters one dark July night, only to succumb to the waves. Had he managed to struggle to the shore and seek refuge in the bathing machine, a place that was a comfort to him as he lay dying? Or had he been placed there by someone who failed to save his life and abandoned his corpse in that makeshift tomb? Or, worse still, had he been murdered and his body hidden inside the vehicle, the villain knowing that he would not be discovered until morning? And how had he been murdered? The obituary revealed nothing concrete about my grandfather’s cause of death and none of the letters clarified the circumstances of his demise. When I climbed into the bathing machine, I was no closer to a solution.

  * * *

  My dipper had instructed us to follow the footpath that hugged the shoreline, and we found four Neptune Square without difficulty. The lodging house was very charming and Mrs. Coleman, the wife of Miss Porter’s nephew, was a cheerful pink-faced woman of middle years. I introduced us as journalists who were writing an essay concerning the affects of violent crime on innocent victims and said we wished to interview Miss Porter about the London Monster. Mrs. Coleman seemed oddly unsurprised; she merely requested that we take a walk along the promenade and if Miss Porter were happy to speak with us, she would be prepared by our return. We followed Mrs. Coleman’s instructions, and when we arrived back at the lodging house, Mrs. Coleman ushered us in.

  “Miss Sarah will see you in her sitting room.” She led us up a flight of stairs to a gloomy room and indicated that we should sit facing a gilded armchair I feared was decorated to resemble a throne. “She won’t be long.” And she closed the door.

  Velvet draperies like theater curtains concealed two windows and repelled the light. The room was oppressive with stale air and extraneous furnishings. A crowd of porcelain figurines—all courting couples dressed in garish costumes—was gathered on the mantelpiece, as if at a ball. Framed prints covered the walls.

  Dupin noticed where my gaze was directed and said, “Each is concerned with the London Monster. It is quite a collection.”

  Upon closer inspection, Dupin proved to be correct. There were colorful illustrations of ferocious knife-wielding demons chasing their victims, young ladies donning copper pots to protect themselves and lively courtroom scenes along with newspaper stories and pamphlets about the Monster.

  “It seems Miss Porter is accustomed to giving presentations about the Monster and for being recompensed for her time.” Dupin drew my attention to a faded, handwritten card that said Gratuities, which was placed next to a brass bowl on the occasional table adjacent to the throne-like chair. “Perhaps she is waiting for the sound of coins before she makes her entrance,” Dupin said sardonically, as he placed several coins in the bowl. “Let us hope my offering meets her expectations.”

  “And let us hope the performance has value.” I smiled.

  Almost immediately the door to Miss Porter’s other chamber opened and a Skye terrier with fur as yellowed as antique lace stalked into the room and emitted a low growl. I wondered if Mrs. Coleman had engineered a malicious prank and “Miss Sarah” was a performing dog, but there was a swish of silk and a very thin, stern woman with regal posture that belied her seventy years entered the room. She was swathed in an ill-fitting yellow silk ball gown from an earlier era, its low decolletage somewhat alleviated by the strategic placement of some lace.

  “Chevalier Dupin, Mr. Poe,” she said, nodding at us. “I am Miss Sarah Porter, victim of the Monster and sister-in-law of the man who captured him. I understand you wish to hear all the details of my terrible tale for your essay.”

  Dupin’s eyebrows inched up.

  “Indeed we would,” I said.

  Miss Porter eased into her ornate chair and the dog settled onto the footstool next to her. She indicated that we should take our seats. “Then let us begin.” She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “My sister Anne and I both had new gowns for the Queen’s birthday ball.” Miss Porter indicated the dress she was wearing. “It was quite an occasion and an honor to be invited, but little did we know that the notorious Monster was waiting in the darkness, determined to make us his victims.” Miss Porter projected her voice as if in a large theater and emphasized her words with peculiar stilted gestures, moving as if she were a very large marionette. She described the night of the Queen’s birthday ball in great detail; it was only when she related the specifics of the attack itself that her story diverged from my grandmother’s account.

  “The bells were about to chime midnight and we were making our way down St. James’s Street. Suddenly came a voice.” Miss Porter stood and cupped a hand to her ear. “‘What ho, is it you?’ It was then that I turned and saw . . . the Monster!”

  Miss Porter yanked open the window curtains to reveal a monster of a man with bulging eyes, snarling mouth, a nimbus of flame-colored hair, knife held aloft. I emitted a yelp and Dupin a gasp. Miss Porter smiled in triumph. It quickly became apparent that the figure before us was merely wax and had suffered badly from time and the elements, the hands malformed as if from some disease and the face made hideous.

  “I will not be humiliated again,” Dupin muttered. I pressed a hand to his shoulder to discourage him from leaping up.

  “The wax figure is extra
ordinary,” I said. “How did you come by such a terrifying creature?”

  “The Monster was a popular attraction at Mrs. Salmon’s wax works in Fleet Street and when the lady died, it was purchased for me, a gift I did not appreciate at the time. In the end, I suppose it has earned its considerable cost. Shall I continue with my oration?”

  “Please,” I said quickly before Dupin could offer a response.

  Miss Porter struck another wooden pose. “I ran to the doorstep as quickly as I was able, urging my sister to follow, and as I knocked upon the door and called out for help, I hoped we might be saved. But to no avail. I felt a terrible pain across my flank.” She showed us the back of her dress, which was torn, and her feisty little dog growled at the indignity his mistress had suffered. Miss Porter turned to face us again and said sotto voce, “He had cut right through my gown and into my flesh.”

  Dupin wore a façade of calm but there was acid in his voice. “The Monster cut both your gown and your sister’s?”

  “Indeed. Two silk gowns, one pale pink and one yellow, and all that lay beneath them were ruined by his terrible blade.”

  “How interesting. The transcripts of Rhynwick Williams’s trial state that your sister Anne Porter had her skirts cut by the Monster and that you were hit about the head,” Dupin continued.

  “All occurred as I am telling it,” she said in an offended tone. “I was there after all.”

  “Obviously you were,” I said, hoping to placate her.

  “Your attacker’s face was visible, despite the late hour? It was, without doubt, Rhynwick Williams?” Dupin pressed.

  “I saw him perfectly clearly. I have no need of spectacles, young man. Rhynwick Williams accosted me several times previously and was no stranger to me.”

  “And would you know if Rhynwick Williams is still alive? I believe he would be seventy-three or seventy-four years of age,” I asked.

  “I really could not tell you that. Of course his victims feared that he might resume his crimes upon his release, that he might seek revenge against those who testified against him.”

  “And did he?”

  “Mysterious things happened that he might have caused, but there was no proof,” she said enigmatically. “Of course he should never have been released. His crimes were a hanging offense—the lenient sentence was an affront to all the ladies of good breeding he injured and whose clothing he ruined. Such depravity and he received but six years in Newgate, where he was permitted to entertain visitors with music and dancing and flagons of wine? It was a holiday for him! You must put that in your essay.”

  “Rhynwick Williams was permitted to entertain visitors in Newgate prison? Did you witness these events?” Dupin asked.

  “The wretch mocked me by sending an invitation to a ‘ball’, but of course I did not go.”

  “What a pity.” Dupin’s expression made it clear that he thought the story a fabrication.

  “I have taken the stand at two trials, Chevalier Dupin, and have been interrogated by the reprehensible Theophilus Swift. I care not if you believe what I tell you, but you would be wise to scrutinize the evidence before forming an opinion, sir.” Miss Porter pointed at a framed notice on the wall.

  I quickly made my way to it and Dupin followed. Inside the frame was a handwritten invitation.

  Rhynwick Williams requests the pleasure of your company at

  The Monster’s Ball

  to be held at Four o’clock, 13 August 1790, Newgate Gaol.

  Entertainment, refreshments and supper to be provided.

  Répondez s’il vous plaît.

  A framed newspaper article from The Oracle, dated the twentieth of August 1790 was displayed next to it.

  “Perhaps you would do me the honor of reading the newspaper account aloud, Chevalier Dupin?” Miss Porter asked. It was obvious that she had taken great offense, but this did not worry Dupin, who read the article in a clear, neutral voice.

  “‘The depravity of the times was manifested last week, in an eminent degree, in Newgate. The Monster sent cards of invitation to about twenty couples, amongst whom were some of his alibi friends, his brothers, sisters, several of the prisoners and others, whom we shall take a future opportunity to notice. At four o’clock, the party sat to tea; this being over, two violins struck up, accompanied by a flute, and the company proceeded to exercise their limbs. In the merry dance, the cuts and entrechats of the Monster were much admired, and his adroitness in that amusement must be interesting, from the school in which he acquired this branch of his accomplishments.’” Dupin paused, grimacing slightly at The Oracle’s little joke about the former ballet-dancer turned frock-cutting villain, and continued. “‘About eight o’clock, the company partook of a cold supper and a variety of wines, such as would not discredit the most sumptuous gala, and about nine o’clock departed, that being the usual hour for locking the doors of the prison.’”

  Dupin turned to face Miss Porter and gave her a slight bow. “And did any of your acquaintances attend this purported ball?” he asked. “Your sister and Mr. Coleman must also have been invited if Rhynwick Williams was mocking you?”

  “Of course they did not go,” she snapped. “But if you do not trust the evidence before you, I am acquainted with someone who did attend the ball, and he will not be difficult to find.”

  “A friend of Rhynwick Williams’s?”

  “I suppose he may be that, although he claims to be my dearest friend when he is in need of assistance,” she complained.

  “What is this person’s name and where are we likely to find him?” I asked gently.

  “His name is Mr. Robert Nicholson and he is in Newgate prison. Or he was last week when he wrote to ask for another loan with which to satisfy his creditors.”

  “Mr. Nicholson’s crime is penury?” Dupin asked.

  “Penury is a misfortune, not a crime,” I protested.

  “Mr. Nicholson’s very words, spoken on many occasions, but it should not take a man fifty years to learn abstinence from gaming tables when he never wins at them.”

  “Persistent debtors make unreliable friends,” I offered.

  “And the most awful husbands,” Miss Porter said bitterly. “He took as much from me as the Monster and now I must exist on my historical orations and the charity of my nephew and his wife. If I had not secured a divorce from Mr. Nicholson, I would have joined him and the Monster in Newgate. What justice would there be in that?”

  “None, I am sure. Thank you for your marvelous oration. We are most obliged for your time.” I added some coins to the brass bowl, and dragged Dupin away before he could insult the lady again.

  MARGATE, FRIDAY, 17 JULY 1840

  “Edgar. Dear Edgar.”

  It was a woman’s low, sweet voice that came from far away, but I could hear each word distinctly. A shadow loomed over me, a presence.

  “Edgar. Open your eyes.”

  I struggled to do so for they were sewn shut with the thread of my lashes.

  “Edgar, I am here.”

  Dust glittered in the air and a face appeared in a nimbus of light. Her countenance was blurred by the radiance, but familiar—my grandmother.

  “I have a message for you. Listen closely.”

  I tried to focus on the face before me, but my eyes seemed swathed in a veil of gauze.

  “The mahogany box. Examine it carefully for it holds further secrets—secrets that may save you from my enemies and yours.”

  As I struggled to sit up, her features faded slowly into the glare that surrounded her, until all that was left was a beam of sunlight flickering through the gently swaying curtains and a shadow of angelic aspect dancing along the wall.

  Had I truly been dreaming? I climbed from my bed and tried to clear my head of fog and echoes. I would be spending the day alone as Dupin had received an urgent message from Dr. Froissart and was meeting him in Herne Bay. I had decided to visit all the places my grandparents might have frequented in Margate to look for unexpected clues and
perhaps to get a better sense of them.

  A serving girl arrived with a pot of tea, poached eggs with toast and sausages. While I broke my fast, I re-read the letters written while my grandparents were residing in Margate, but I could not erase from my mind the words I had dreamed or heard or imagined. The mahogany box. Examine it carefully. It holds further secrets. I picked up the box and scrutinized every aspect of it, convinced that there was something to discover that I had failed to see before. I rapped upon the top, the bottom and each side, then shook the thing vigorously. I tried the brass handles, the escutcheon, unlocked it, removed the letters, tested the weight. It did not feel overly light or overly heavy for a box of its size with a solid mahogany base. And then it came to me—a solid base of almost three inches? I prodded and prized each panel, then felt something shift. The right panel, loose. As I worked upon it, a crack developed where the side panel met the bottom. Slowly it slid upward, but no cavity was revealed. Perhaps the bottom was false after all. I pushed at the newly revealed edge of the base and it slid back revealing a gap, a chamber with papers within it. Hidden in plain sight. My fingers tugged and pushed until a small cache of letters fell out, three in total. I searched through them—the same handwriting, that of my grandmother, my grandfather . . . but why? Why hidden here when the other incriminating letters were not?

  Secrets that may save you from my enemies and yours. A portent from the dead. To ignore it would be folly. With hands that fluttered like insect wings, I unfolded the letters and discovered two threats and one plea for forgiveness. And I understood. If one is under dire attack, unsavory actions may be justified if in defense of one’s child and one’s own self. Had my nemesis found the compartment and read the letters? Surely not, for he would have removed and destroyed any evidence of his vengeful and violent nature. Now my exploration of Margate would have a clearer focus—I would search for an overlooked clue or detail that would answer the question of Henry Arnold’s demise: misfortune or murder?

  I gulped down the remaining tea and placed the map of Margate in front of me so I might mark the locations referred to in my grandparents’ letters. The Theatre Royal, promenade, pier, lighthouse, bathing machines and, of course, the White Hart Hotel were all noted on the map as were the main thoroughfares. But then I noticed something odd. There was an “x” drawn on the spot that I now knew to be the location of 4 Neptune Square. Looking more closely, I saw a “1” marked on Marine Parade, which the map key labeled as the White Hart Hotel. There was a “2” written at Cecil Square—it was not noted on the key, but I knew from the letters that my grandparents had rented rooms there. A “3” was written on Queen Street, but not defined, and “4” was identified as the Theatre Royal, on the corner of Hawley Square and Addington Street. Most peculiar.