Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  Dupin extracted the letters from the compartment. As he read, I focused on all that was around me and tried to steady myself. Our captain wore a gold-braided uniform and a top hat—the former gave him a military bearing and the latter made him resemble an undertaker. A notice was posted on the paddle steamer that instructed: Do not speak to the man at the wheel, which did little to deter our fellow passengers. I wished that I could feel some of the gaiety that surrounded me.

  “Most interesting,” Dupin said. “Rhynwick Williams certainly wished to take revenge upon your grandmother and if he succeeded, perhaps it gave him access to your grandparents’ letters.”

  Dupin’s words made sense. “Although I suspect Williams did not read the hidden letters, for surely he would have destroyed the threat he made to my grandmother.”

  “That is indeed likely,” Dupin agreed.

  “And if Rhynwick Williams is determined to take revenge for my grandmother’s treachery ‘on her whole line, beyond her death’—as the letter states—then we might presume that he has tried to keep his identity a secret, to prevent me from having him arrested.”

  Dupin considered this for a moment. “That is a logical conclusion if Rhynwick Williams is your aggressor, or is behind the attacks made upon you,” he eventually said. “We cannot, however, forget Mrs. Fontaine and her inamorato, a man of many disguises. As it seems likely that you were surreptitiously poisoned with belladonna yesterday, we must also consider whether your compromised condition on board the Ariel was in fact inflicted upon you rather than self-inflicted.”

  I had blamed myself for succumbing to the imp of the perverse and breaking my promise to Sissy, but if Dupin were correct, my conscience would be salved, despite the damage to my reputation.

  “Given that Mrs. Fontaine and the professor colluded to imprison you in that cellar, we must wonder if they also drugged you on the Ariel. While it is clear that Mr. Mackie was antagonistic toward you, from what you have told me, there were other passengers who had access to your quarters.”

  I felt as if I had been pummeled in the stomach. “Impossible, Dupin, absolutely impossible. Mrs. Wallis nursed me when I was ill and her husband the doctor examined me. It cannot be them.”

  “It would not have been difficult for Dr. Wallis and his wife to feed you wine mixed with laudanum and then persuade you in the aftermath of the concoction’s deleterious effects that you had overindulged in drink. One would only need to add the elixir to your wine at dinner or to your drinking water and, once the effects had taken hold, place empty bottles of drink in your stateroom. Posing as a doctor and his nurse would allow them both complete access to you. It is quite simple to keep a person in a compromised state if one pretends to be caring for him. Of course I have not seen Dr. and Mrs. Wallis—is it at all possible that they might be Mrs. Fontaine and the professor in disguise, remembering her virtuosity as an actress and the many roles the scrivener has capably performed?”

  The vision of Mrs. Wallis appearing in the door of my stateroom in a halo of light came back to me. “But Mrs. Wallis was fair-haired—like an angel—and Mrs. Fontaine is dark-haired,” I said.

  “Let us not forget the many disguises your grandmother and grandfather wore when playing the Monster. Surely Mrs. Fontaine is capable of donning a fair wig to deceive you.”

  Dupin’s theory filled me with horror, but I could not find a flaw in his scenario. Had I been confined to my bed, delirious and vulnerable, in complete disarray mentally and physically through their actions? How they must have laughed at my deplorable condition! And they would have been free to go through my most personal possessions, all my thoughts put to paper, all my emotions turned to words. And while I was lost in the endless darkness of my nightmares, they could have murdered me at any time of their choosing. I had been utterly at their mercy and yet I lived.

  “They enjoyed tormenting me upon the Ariel and by delivering the letters in uncanny ways so that I might suffer more as the full story of my grandparents was disclosed to me. Presumably I am only alive as my aggressor wishes to communicate something else to me.”

  “Yes,” Dupin agreed.

  “Therefore, I must fathom my aggressor’s identity for if he reveals himself with the final piece of his story, he will murder me.

  “I believe that is correct,” Dupin said. “But we will discover him first, have no fear.”

  As much as I valued Dupin’s friendship and intellect, I was not confident these assets would fully protect me from a villain who seemed capable of walking through walls and vanishing into thin air.

  LONDON, SUNDAY, 19 JULY 1840

  There was a brilliance to the morning, as if all around me had been repainted with colors a shade or two richer. Street sweepers scurried with their brooms, hoping to earn a coin by clearing the path for a lady’s skirts or a gentleman’s good boots. A young girl decorated in spangles performed a lively dance upon a square of cloth for pennies thrown at her feet. Nearby, an ancient man who could scarcely move his rag-stuffed shoes shuffled slowly and sang in a voice so broken the words were indiscernible. The sunlight had drawn out other street entertainers like summer butterflies: an Oriental juggler, an acrobat who could twist his body into shapes that defied natural human form, and a conjuror who plucked coins and colored scarves from the pockets, hats and ears of his spectators.

  This atmosphere of life and color died away when I reached Newgate Prison. It was as imposing by daylight as it had been at night surrounded by the mob, for it had been designed to instill fear in those who gazed upon it. The ponderous building was dark and squat like an ancient toad crouched in some dank place; the carved chains over the entrance and the dearth of windows instilled a sense of unease as the architect had intended. I had made my way to Newgate alone, as Dupin had advocated spending the day at the British Museum, combing through newspapers for information about Rhynwick Williams. He had little faith that Miss Porter’s former husband would yield up any illuminating information, but I disagreed, for surely there was knowledge to be gleaned from someone who had been imprisoned with Rhynwick Williams.

  The man who stood before me was the prison’s turnkey. Mr. Turley was perhaps five and thirty years of age, very short, and appeared to greatly relish his food, as the black suit he wore fit him so tightly his breathing was inhibited. His broad-brimmed hat imbued him with a comical air rather than the gust of dignity he was aiming for, but he seemed kind and was eager to please. I had claimed I was writing a scholarly article about the prison for a learned Philadelphian journal and had offered to pay a gratuity for a tour and interview with Mr. Nicholson, who was indeed residing in Newgate as Miss Porter had claimed. Mr. Turley was under the misplaced notion that he would gain great renown in Philadelphia if he assisted me.

  “We’ll go to the men’s yard first,” he informed me as he led the way from the keeper’s house at a nimble pace, absent-mindedly jangling the large set of keys he carried. “That is where the more respectable class of men is confined—debtors and the like.”

  “Is that where we will find Mr. Nicholson?”

  “Indeed it is,” Mr. Turley said, shaking his head. “If he were able to gamble away his very soul, he would do so.”

  “So I have heard.”

  We passed the turnkey’s lodges and bedrooms, walked through a heavy oaken gate, then down a long, narrow maze of a stone passageway. As we walked, Mr. Turley regaled me with factual information about the prison until we reached the men’s quarters, which was a large whitewashed room without decoration that housed two dozen inmates, who stared sullenly at us.

  “This is where they take their meals,” Mr. Turley said, indicating the table, “and where they sleep.” He pointed at the floor and the row of mats that dangled on large hooks above it. “And that is where the prisoners normally meet with visitors.” I peered through the iron grating he showed me and spied another grating about one yard away. “Nothing can be passed between the prisoner and his visitor—no tools for escape and no forbidden ite
ms.”

  “I assure you, I have no such implements upon my person,” I told him with a smile.

  “I wouldn’t presume so, sir,” he said solemnly. “But it has happened, indeed it has.” He shook his head, remembering some dark event, then turned to gesture at the men before us. “And these are the prisoners.”

  “Thinking of moving in, sir?” an insolent-looking boy of about fourteen years piped up. “Me—I’d prefer Botany Bay to here. Or where you’re from if they was still having us.”

  “Quiet, you. Stop your impertinence,” Mr. Turley said without much feeling or authority.

  There were three men who looked to be over the age of seventy, and I wondered which had been the friend of Rhynwick Williams. “May I interview Mr. Nicholson?” I reminded my guide.

  “Nicholson—come here, please,” Mr. Turley called out. “Mr. Poe here would like to speak with you. He is visiting from Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia, the Quaker city? That is quite a journey.” A wizened man emerged from the group and tottered toward me. He had one good eye and one that was pearled white. His clothes had been very fashionable many years previously and gave him the air of a specter emerged from the past. “Robert Nicholson,” he said, extending his hand. I shook it gently as the flesh was withered to the bone, the skin as papery as dried corn husks.

  “You have the privilege of meeting Mr. Poe, a scholar who is writing an article for a learned journal,” Mr. Turley informed the old man. “Mr. Nicholson is from Scotland, but Newgate has frequently been his home. He has left us many times, but never fails to return.”

  “Born in Inverness, made impecunious in London,” Mr. Nicholson explained with a smile that revealed a paucity of teeth.

  “Habitual debtor. Many have come to Mr. Nicholson’s assistance, but he is unable to avoid the gaming table, despite losing much more often than he wins.”

  I found I could not judge the man an utter reprobate, for certainly my mother was saved from the poorhouse by kind friends, and I had accumulated considerable debt through gambling in my youth.

  “I was told that you knew Rhynwick Williams, the man convicted as the Monster.” I expected Nicholson to hem and haw, but he responded immediately.

  “Of course, yes. Rhynwick Williams, sent to Newgate as the Monster. I attended the ball he held here. I remember it very well,” the ancient man said. “Indeed I remember many things from my distant past more completely than what occurred just yesterday. Quite a night it was,” he added.

  “A ball, Mr. Nicholson? Where?” The turnkey frowned.

  “In the yard,” he said. “August 1790 and the weather was good. I had not been here long, nor had Rhynwick Williams.”

  “Please tell me more about this ball, Mr. Nicholson. Surely Newgate is not the usual location for such an event,” I said.

  Mr. Nicholson nodded. “To call it a ball is perhaps an exaggeration. It was a gathering of perhaps fifty people. Williams sent invitations to his relatives, friends from the flower factory—some lovely French ladies as I recall—other acquaintances who supported him during his trial. Some fellow prisoners such as myself attended also as we were, of course, already here. We had tea and light refreshments to begin and there was music for dancing—violins and a flute. Our host was quite an accomplished dancer. I believe he was once on the stage.”

  Such details made it difficult to doubt Mr. Nicholson’s story. I nodded to encourage him.

  “Later we had a cold supper and a goodly amount of wine. The other guests departed at nine o’clock as that was when the prison doors were locked.”

  I looked to Mr. Turley, who eventually grasped my silent question. “No visitors are allowed to speak with prisoners after nine, it is true, but a prisoner may not host a ball. Truly you must be misremembering, sir.” Mr. Turley was discomfited by the notion and continued to shake his head gently in denial.

  “Perhaps it was possible in 1790? Do you think it might have been possible then, Mr. Turley?”

  “Well,” he said. “I would not know for I was not there. Fifty years ago the rules may have been different. But certainly not now.”

  “It was quite an event,” Mr. Nicholson said wistfully. “I do not think I have participated in as lively an occasion since.”

  “And you will not again,” the turnkey said firmly, determined to nip any rebellious thoughts in the bud.

  “What about me, sir?” the young rascal piped up. “My mother oft calls me a monster. Might I have a ball like that one did?”

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Turley said.

  “It is my understanding that Rhynwick Williams persisted in claiming his innocence and petitioned for a retrial, which was granted in December 1790. He was found guilty again, but for the reduced charge of misdemeanor. Given your knowledge of the man, Mr. Nicholson, do you believe he was guilty or innocent?”

  The old man laughed. “Rhynwick Williams certainly admired the ladies, but in truth he was rather afraid of the fairer sex. It is difficult to believe that he would have had the bravado to slash a woman’s skirts, much less attack a host of women. Certainly he was frightened of his wife.”

  I felt a scurrying like a column of ants along my spine. “Wife? Rhynwick Williams had a wife?”

  “Indeed, sir. He met her at the Monster’s Ball as it was called. She was a prisoner also, although I do not know her crime—penury perhaps, but she had an unpleasant temper, so her crime might have had a more violent aspect to it.”

  “I was not aware that male and female prisoners might fraternize.” My words were spoken in part to myself, but Mr. Turley took it upon himself to answer.

  “It happens,” he said, offended piety constricting his words. “With unfortunate consequences that add misery to misfortune.”

  Mr. Nicholson chuckled. “Certainly that was the situation for Rhynwick Williams. Destitute, imprisoned, with a newborn infant and a woman determined that he would support her and the child.”

  “A son born in Newgate?” The tingle along my spine grew stronger.

  Mr. Nicholson nodded. “His brother the apothecary was most displeased—additional mouths for him to feed.”

  I immediately began to calculate what age Rhynwick Williams’s son might now be. Rhynwick Williams was imprisoned from July 1790 to late 1796. If the child were born when he was incarcerated, his son would now be somewhere between forty-five and forty-nine years of age. But I needed proof of the son’s existence, not simply an old man’s memories.

  “Do you remember the year of the child’s birth?”

  Old Mr. Nicholson thought for a moment, his good eye closed, his cloudy eye directed toward me. “I cannot remember when he was born,” he said, his words sinking my hopes. “But he was christened in May 1795—when I was not long out of Newgate and living with my sister. I recollect this as I was invited to the christening.”

  “Where was he christened?” I demanded, excitement getting the better of my manners.

  The old man shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “St. Sepulchre’s Church.”

  “The infants of prisoners are all christened there, given the church is just across the street,” Mr. Turley added.

  Of course it made sense, and I was anxious to visit the place and try to find out more about Rhynwick Williams’s mysterious son.

  “Thank you, Mr. Nicholson. You have been exceedingly helpful.”

  “I am glad of it. And dare I say I would be more glad if you found it in your heart to advance me a small loan that might assist me from my current situation.” The old man gave me a gap-toothed smile that flooded me with guilt, but as my hand approached my pocket, Mr. Turley shook his head.

  “Be happy that you have assisted a scholar, Mr. Nicholson. Let that be your reward. It is the duty of your friends and family to remedy your debts, not Mr. Poe.” And Mr. Turley whisked me away before I or the old man could say another word. He led me down another dark corridor at a lively pace until we came to an open quadrangle.

  “This is wher
e the condemned men may take exercise,” he informed me. “And where Mr. Nicholson claims the ball was held.” He shook his head again, clearly upset with the notion.

  “Extraordinary,” I said.

  I was desperate to run to St. Sepulchre’s to see if I could find proof that Williams had a son, but I had no choice but to finish the tour. We proceeded at pace through the yard and eventually came to the press-room, a long murky chamber with but two small windows in the stone wall. A pair of men were slumped upon the floor in a posture of absolute dejection.

  “Dead men,” Mr. Turley said. “The condemned are brought here on the morning of their execution.”

  The prisoners must have heard this pronouncement, but neither acknowledged it. I remembered poor Mr. Courvoisier, how his spirit must have suffered sitting in this place before he dangled from the rope. My grandmother must also have feared such a fate, hence her treachery.

  Mr. Turley led me through a maze of winding corridors, and I asked questions about the construction of the prison, its history and its most notorious inmates out of courtesy, but absorbed little of what he told me. My excitement regarding what I might discover at St. Sepulchre’s Church made the blood tingle in my veins and my thoughts jitter as if influenced by a quantity of mint juleps. At last we reached the entrance to the prison, where I mumbled some promises about sending Mr. Turley a copy of my scholarly article and made a less than gracious exit.

  * * *

  The harsh sounds of Snow Hill dissipated as I stepped inside St. Sepulchre’s Church. I paused to absorb the grandeur of its interior—two rows of Tuscan columns divided the space into three aisles and the edges of the groined ceilings were ornamented with doves. An elaborate carved and gilded altar stood majestically beneath three windows and there was a magnificent organ. Gentle light filtered through small windows and the air dozed with quietude.

  And yet, death connected St. Sepulchre’s and Newgate. Before every execution, the bellman traversed the tunnel that led from the church to the prison and when he reached his destination, would toll his hand bell twelve times, exhorting the prisoners waiting for the noose to repent. But what of the babe, the child of a criminal imprisoned in Newgate, awaiting baptism?