Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  I made my way through the church, doing my best not to disturb the prayerful huddled upon the pews as I searched for someone who might help me. There must have been something suspicious in my actions for as I turned to shift my attentions to another part of the church, I found myself face to face with a very tall, stern-faced elderly man with white hair and piercing blue eyes who wore the simple black cassock of a clergyman.

  “Are you lost, sir?” he asked in a deep, hard voice. If it were he who recited the verse exhorting repentance to the condemned, they would go to the gallows with true fear in their hearts.

  “I was searching for someone to assist me in finding a record of baptism. I was informed by Mr. Turley that it would be here.”

  He stared at me as if he had intuited my slight exaggeration regarding what Mr. Turley had said. “Why do you seek this record? Do you believe that the person has not truly been baptized or is a pretender to some other’s identity?”

  My excitement at having discovered that Rhynwick Williams might have a son had made me overlook the possibility that I might meet with resistance in gaining access to that vital piece of information: his son’s name. How should I respond? If I hid the truth would he fathom my deception with his gimlet eye, and if I told the truth would he deny me if he happened to know the history of Rhynwick Williams and the Monster?

  “I am looking for the record of an infant baptized in May of the year 1795. I am afraid I do not know the precise date. His father was Rhynwick Williams. He and the child’s mother were both imprisoned in Newgate at the time of the child’s birth. I am a relation of Miss Sarah Porter of Margate, who was attacked most fearfully by Rhynwick Williams. She is now being terrorized by some other demon she suspects to be the Monster’s son. I am here to help Miss Porter by verifying whether Williams had a son and if so, what his name is.”

  The clergyman examined me as a taxidermist might study a dead bird. He grunted once, opened the door before me and stepped inside. The room held a desk and shelves filled with books. He advanced to the shelves and quickly found a large, leather-bound volume and sat down at the desk with it. I hovered in the doorway and without a glance or a word, he beckoned me in with a brusque wave. I sat in the chair in front of the desk and waited while he ran his finger down the pages as he read them.

  “Christened in May 1795. Father, Rhynwick Williams?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mother, Elizabeth Robins?”

  “I believe so,” I lied.

  “Their son George Rhynwick Williams was christened here on the thirty-first of May 1795.” He turned the volume round and indicated the entry.

  “But Rhynwick Williams was still a prisoner then. He was not released until December 1795. Surely the date is incorrect.”

  “The date is correct,” the clergyman said firmly. “Such situations occur more often than we like amongst the criminal classes imprisoned in Newgate.”

  “The child was named George Rhynwick Williams?”

  “That is what I said.” He closed the leather-bound volume.

  “Many thanks, sir.”

  “I hope the information will aid Miss Porter.”

  “It will, I am certain.”

  He simply raised his heavy brows and said, “Good day, sir.”

  * * *

  My mood was jubilant as the coach jounced through the narrow streets that led back to Brown’s Genteel Inn. Rhynwick Williams had a son of five and forty years, an age that coincided with the man who posed as the scrivener, professor and the glowering man at my reading. Given Dupin’s relentless pursuit of Valdemar, the man who had destroyed his family, I could not deny that George Williams might wish to harm me, even if I had nothing to do with my grandmother’s false accusation of his father Rhynwick Williams. I also could not deny it was conceivable that Dr. Wallis was George Williams in disguise, but the horror of that possibility was leavened by the knowledge of my aggressor’s true identity. It would be more difficult for George Williams to remain a ghost with uncanny powers.

  When I entered Brown’s Genteel Inn, I was looking forward to discussing what I had discovered with Dupin, but all disappeared from my mind when the desk clerk delivered over a small packet addressed to me in Muddy’s hand. At last! News from home; words from those I loved. I was overjoyed at this unexpected treasure and returned to my chambers in haste, where I immediately tore open the packet. Eight letters spilled onto the onyx table, and I settled into the armchair to read of every small thing my darling wife had spent her time on. After a deeply pleasant interlude, I read the letter from Muddy and all my joy turned to ash.

  Philadelphia, 10 June 1840

  My dearest Eddy,

  Virginia has not been well. When she took to her bed the evening after you left, I presumed her heartsick with your absence, but she was unable to keep down anything but broth for three days and remains poorly. She has begged me to tell you nothing of her illness, but I would not like to deceive you. If you return to us sooner rather than later, it is bound to have a restorative effect upon our girl.

  With greatest affection,

  Muddy

  More than a month for news to cross the Atlantic! How helpless I felt, which was further compounded by the fact that it would take six weeks to sail to Philadelphia. What would I discover when I arrived there in the closing days of August?

  I immediately set about organizing my return and enlisted the aid of the dour night desk clerk, who showed surprising sympathy for my predicament. He promised to arrange the earliest passage he could and was true to his word. Several hours later I had a ticket to sail on the Grampus from London to New York on the evening of July the twenty-first. An anxious heart drove me to bed early, where I re-read Sissy’s letters, hoping they would sweeten my dreams. When I extinguished the light and settled into the darkness, it occurred to me how much the letter sent but never received might alter a person’s life.

  Broad Street Theatre, Charleston

  16 March 1798

  My dearest Daughter,

  I am writing this on the eleventh anniversary of your birth, a day that has always been so dear to me. Enclosed here is a lock of my hair to help you remember me, for I fear our time together might not be as long as I would wish. If you were not of such tender years, I would endeavour to explain what I must leave to you in written form.

  First, know that you are truly gifted as an actress—such an ability to charm an audience! I have found some success upon the stage, but you will surpass me if you pursue the same calling. If so, I hope your talent will serve you well and the theatrical life will continue to be to your liking, for it is not an easy one.

  And now I must broach less pleasant subjects. The enclosed key is for a box that will be released to you along with this letter upon your sixteenth birthday should I die before that happy occasion. Letters are concealed inside the box that were written during a terrible time in our lives in England and explain the demise of your father. Should I too die unexpectedly, they will surely reveal who is responsible.

  This Pandora’s box has held other letters I should have committed to the fire in England, but until now I could not do it as they were all that remained of my life with your father. Nostalgia is a dangerous emotion and too often I have read those letters to remind myself what a strange and unexpected journey my life has been. If fate intervenes and the letters—one might call them love letters—are still within the box, I beg you to destroy them unopened. It pains me to imagine that anything might make you lose your affection for me. Being the good daughter that you are, I know you will respect this wish.

  Never doubt my love for you, dear Eliza. If I unwillingly leave you, your stepfather will provide for you—as will your talent—but if tragedy befalls your stepfather, Mr. Usher and Mrs. Snowden have given me their word that they will take you under their wing.

  Let me end this missive on a more cheerful note. I hope every birthday you celebrate will be as delightful as today. I am certain, my dear daughter, that
you will more than equal my successes and will avoid my many mistakes. Always know that I cherish you and that every hard choice I have been forced to make was always with a view to best serving the two of us so that we might remain together.

  I remain affectionately,

  Your Mother

  LONDON, MONDAY, 20 JULY 1840

  The coach swerved and jostled along at great speed, bouncing through every hole and catapulting off each rise, which had us both clinging grimly to the seat and warding off the ceiling. We had set off infernally early to a location Dupin would not reveal, and while I had been cross about leaving Brown’s without coffee, I was now truly awake without it.

  After Dupin banged on the coach ceiling for the third time, the vehicle’s pace slowed enough for me to finish telling him what I had learned during my trip to Newgate Prison.

  “His name is George Rhynwick Williams and he is forty-five years of age—surely he must be my tormentor.”

  Dupin took a moment to compose himself, such was his astonishment. “I am surprised that I did not discover anything of the son’s existence in the newspapers, given the Monster’s notoriety.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “But now that we know the identity of my aggressor, I am at a loss as to what I should do.”

  “Nemo me impune lacessit—let us not forget Williams’s warning: ‘No one insults me with impunity.’ If that is the motto of one’s adversary, then it is prudent to assume he also subscribes to the dictum: ‘If you insult my family, you insult me.’”

  Dupin’s presupposition filled me with revulsion, but it seemed likely that he was correct.

  “Knowledge always gives some advantage, Poe. George Williams can no longer play the malevolent ghost. He has made you suffer and, as we discussed before, he will take his final revenge when he chooses to reveal himself, for surely he wishes you to beg for mercy.”

  “And you know this because it is what you would wish from Valdemar?”

  “Not at all. I did not wish to make him a supplicant. I want the justice of his death.”

  Dupin’s cold words hit me hard. “But I am innocent! I am not responsible for my grandparents’ crimes.”

  “Williams sees things differently, I assure you. Your grandmother gave a performance at Rhynwick Williams’s trial that ensured he was sent to prison in her stead. No son would forgive that. There is bad blood between your families and that presents you with two choices. Now that you know who your aggressor is, you could take all that we have fathomed to the police and hope that they believe you. Perhaps they will arrest George Williams and Mrs. Fontaine for locking you in the cellar, poisoning you with belladonna and pushing you into the sea. Of course we do not have conclusive proof of any of these events, beyond my corroboration of your claims. And if the police do believe your accusations, the story of your grandparents’ crimes will be revealed to the world.”

  My joy at discovering the identity of my aggressor was now fully tarnished as I felt the truth of Dupin’s words. “And what is my other choice?”

  “Kill George Williams before he destroys you,” Dupin replied.

  “Murder? You are advocating that I murder the son of the man whose life my grandmother helped ruin?”

  Dupin shrugged with a nonchalance that horrified me. “It is clear that Williams will not rest until you are in your grave. One cannot truly consider it murder when you are defending your own life. Think about your wife and her mother, for they will not be safe so long as Williams pursues you.” Dupin paused to let me absorb his words, then added, “Of course your situation is not unlike that of your grandmother.”

  I could not deny that, but equally I could not easily take a man’s life.

  “Amicis semper fidelis, Poe. The faithful friend stands at your back, hand on the hilt of his sword. George Williams is your enemy and therefore mine—I will not hesitate to destroy him, fear not.”

  Perhaps I should have felt more gratified at Dupin’s pledge, but his talk of calculated murder was too cold, too near to madness. “Thank you,” I said carefully. “Let us hope that neither of us need face a confrontation with Williams, for I am sailing to Philadelphia tomorrow.”

  “Truly?” Dupin asked with surprise.

  “I received a letter from my mother-in-law informing me that Sissy has been ill. I arranged passage as soon as I found out. I should have told you last night.”

  Dupin waved away my apology. “I only wish that I might have been of assistance. As your wife was in good health when you left Philadelphia, it is likely that she has fully recovered, but of course it is your duty to return immediately.”

  “It is more than duty, there is simply no other fathomable course of action, and I can only pray that her health has indeed improved. I could not forgive myself if that proves not to be the case.”

  “It is important that you put all thoughts of your wife’s health to one side until you are by her side or you will undermine your own constitution,” Dupin advised.

  “I will do my best. It is horribly difficult, but I am aware of the truth in your words.”

  We sat in contemplative silence until the coach slowed and drew to a halt on Fleet Street.

  “I failed to find anything useful about Rhynwick Williams at the British Museum yesterday,” Dupin said. “But I did discover something I believe you will find of interest.” He opened the coach door and got out. I followed and found that we were outside a neo-Gothic church. “St. Dunstan-in-the-West,” Dupin announced. “It was rebuilt in 1831, but there has been a church on this site for eight hundred years. You will find this information relevant,” he added. Rather than leading us into the church itself, Dupin made his way to the churchyard. He walked methodically and without hesitation through the burial ground until we reached the northeast corner of the cemetery, where the stones were most disfigured by time and nature. He stopped in front of a small, plain gravestone, and I was dumbstruck by its inscription.

  HENRY ARNOLD

  MUSICIAN, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER.

  BORN 15 AUGUST 1760.

  LEFT THIS WORLD 25 JULY 1790.

  “Proof that Elizabeth Arnold used the funds provided by her father to give her husband a decent burial—if she did indeed receive the funds promised in the letter dated fifth of August 1790 from Mrs. William Smith.”

  I managed a nod, but my words stuttered into dry air—truly I had not expected to feel grief cutting into me so harshly. Dupin quietly moved several paces away and left me alone in contemplation. I read the simple words again and again, a life summed up with terrible brevity. It was true that my grandmother had done the honorable thing and given her husband a decent burial, but was he not worthy of a longer epitaph? Perhaps a verse and a cherub or two? I tried to think of a prayer or appropriate poem, but my mind was dulled by sadness. His death had been wretched and here he was alone without family or friends to visit his grave. No one deserved to be remembered—or perhaps forgotten—in such a way. As I stood above the bones of my grandfather, I wept as though I had known him, for whatever he had done and however he had died, it was certain that my mother had dearly loved him.

  The shrieks of a magpie broke my solitary contemplation. I watched as it pattered along a seraph’s shoulder and hopped onto the heavenly creature’s flared white wing. The bird rasped again. One for sorrow.

  “Most appropriate,” Dupin said softly, voicing my thoughts. He turned his gaze from the bird back to me. “Your grandmother was quite a remarkable woman. She managed to leave her husband with a memorial, despite her precarious financial position and opposition from her father and his wife. Indeed, it is clear from her letters if not her final actions that she cared deeply for him. Her affection may have been embroidered with the darkest of emotions, but it cannot be denied that she loved him.”

  I looked to Dupin with surprise, but his eyes were focused on the cavalier magpie as it preened its own feathers while roosted upon the mighty marble wing.

  “Do not forget that Truth,” Dupin said
, waving his hand at the glistening angel before us, “can be manipulated through context. Your nemesis—George Rhynwick Williams—has delivered the letters he has wished you to see. The tale he has constructed for you is designed to cause you pain. Do not give him that satisfaction,” he said.

  “Thank you, Dupin. Most truly.”

  * * *

  The coach ride back to Browns Genteel Inn was subdued, with each of us lost in contemplation. Neither Dupin nor I had truly concluded our personal missions satisfactorily, but it was not possible to remedy that on this journey. It was noon when we entered Brown’s.

  “I am going to organize my things for the journey tomorrow, but would you care to join me somewhere for an early supper?”

  “Perhaps we might try Rules in Covent Garden for supper at six o’clock?” Dupin suggested.

  “Very good.”

  As we made our way toward the stairs, the desk clerk called out, “A message for you, Mr. Poe.”

  My heart near stopped with fear that dreadful news had crossed the Atlantic. I rushed over to the desk and he handed me a letter sealed with black wax. I snatched it from his hands and collapsed into a chair in the foyer, where I immediately ripped the letter open. My fear was slightly dulled when I recognized the elegant hand of the scrivener—of George Rhynwick Williams. Dupin hovered nearby as I read the note.

  The Assignation

  Five o’clock, 20 July 1840,

  The catacombs beneath the Anglican Chapel,

  All Souls Cemetery, Kensal Green.

  There was no signature, but who else could it be but my nemesis? I handed the note to Dupin.

  “Williams is aware you are leaving,” Dupin said. “You would be wise to ignore his invitation.”