Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  “Poe?” A voice, faint. The touch of fingers upon my shoulder. I struggled to sit up.

  “Williams . . .”

  “It is Dupin.”

  My mind was fogged and my right hand was clenched. When I opened it, that eye so gruesomely cut from its socket stared back at me. I gasped in terror and then saw that it was the eye that had decorated Williams’s waistcoat at the séance, the replica of Mrs. Fontaine’s enchanting violet eyes—and somehow it seemed appropriate that it had rescued me from certain death. I slipped it into my own waistcoat pocket.

  “Williams had a blade—a sword or knife. He tried to murder me, but I believe it is a minor wound.”

  “Let me see,” Dupin said in a low voice as he raised his lantern. I turned, revealing where Williams had tried to cut me. “You were fortunate,” he said. “The blade cut through your coat, but merely scratched the flesh.” I turned back around. Dupin’s voice was as grim as his countenance. “I am sorry. So terribly sorry. I gave chase to Valdemar, but he seemed to be everywhere at once. When I heard your shout, I ran this way and saw Williams near your prone body. I drew my sword, but Williams knocked the lantern from my grip. I could hear his breath and struck, but while my blade found flesh, I could not know if the wound were mortal. He retaliated, swinging wildly with his fists so that I lost my footing and hit my head on the edge of a loculus. And then I lost him.” He lifted the lantern and peered into the shadows.

  “Do you fear he is waiting to attack again?” I whispered.

  “He may have taken the opportunity to escape, but we cannot discount the possibility that he is still here.”

  “Then we must leave this place quickly.” I relit my lantern from Dupin’s candle and struggled up to my feet. We made our way cautiously toward the staircase—throwing lamplight into all the shadows. I preceded Dupin up the stairs and when we reached the top, I pushed the door, but it would not open. I tried again, rattling at the handle, but it was tightly shut.

  “Let us push together,” Dupin said. A moan of pain escaped him as we heaved against the door, which remained stubbornly closed. “He has sealed it shut. We must try the west gate and hope that it is not locked.”

  We made our way down the stairway, Dupin in obvious pain, his step faltering. Every sound that met my ears filled me with dread, knowing that Williams might be lurking in the shadows, waiting for his opportunity to vanquish me. But we made it to the gate safely, and when I saw daylight falling through the bars, my spirits were lifted until I noticed the bird upon the ground—dead. This filled me with unspeakable horror. I shook the gate, knowing before I touched the iron bars that it was securely locked.

  “We should wait until darkness to light the second tapers,” Dupin said, “and find a way to conceal ourselves in the loculi should he return.”

  Nausea swept over me: lie amongst bones and corpses, the unquiet ghosts and mournful specters? “I cannot do that. I would rather sit here and risk Williams’s blade again. I cannot hide amongst the Dead for truly it will drive me mad.” As if prompted by my words, my candle sputtered into a heap of wax.

  Dupin nodded and closed his eyes in pain or perhaps contemplation. Eventually he spoke again. “I have a thought.” He made his way back toward the stairway, with me trailing directly behind him, wary of every hint of movement. He stopped in front of two metal poles that connected floor to ceiling, placed his lantern on the floor and began to wind a handle attached to one of the poles, but why was a mystery to me. “This is a catafalque, although I cannot be certain it is operational.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Dupin paused to press his fingers to his head, then breathed in deeply and worked at winding the lever again. “Look up, Poe.”

  In the lamplight I saw a dark shape emerging from the ceiling—a shape the size of a coffin. “The bier from above?”

  “Yes.” The catafalque descended slowly, and Dupin paused again, his breathing labored.

  “Will we be able to climb the pole up through the floor?”

  “No,” Dupin said. He held up his lantern. “I believe iron plates close to conceal the bier’s descent into the catacomb.”

  “Then why? What have we to gain?”

  “Observe the catafalque.” Dupin turned the handle in the other direction and when I held the lantern aloft, I saw that the bier was rising up toward the ceiling again.

  “We will escape on top of it?”

  “We can hope.”

  I took over the labor of winding the handle and the mechanism creaked like some ancient machine until at last it rested at the bottom. The bier was wide enough to hold a casket and a single person.

  “Clearly we may only ascend one at a time, with one operating the catafalque,” Dupin said.

  “You must ascend first,” I said. “You are wounded.” But as the words left my lips, I felt subterranea closing in—the damp walls and earth, the darkness, creatures that fed on flesh, Death itself. Panic seized me as Dupin climbed onto the bier—how like a corpse he looked! I filled my lungs with air and puffed it out, then did so again, and again, until I heard nothing but the whistling of my own breath. I took the catafalque handle in my palms and began to turn it, using the rhythm of my breathing to winch the bier up bit by bit. And as I did, I could hear my pocket watch—tick, tick, tick—each second percussing more loudly than the previous one until its beating was as nervous as the uneven patter of my heart. My hands were slick with moisture born from fear and as the bier stuttered its way upward, each inch hard won, I was increasingly anxious that the catafalque would plunge back down to the catacomb floor. Beads of sweat slithered down my back; each rustle and scratch behind me made my skin prickle and heart stutter, anticipating the whistle of blade through air. My arms began to ache with the effort and my palms to hurt as blisters formed upon them. The catafalque creaked as metal scratched against metal, setting my teeth on edge, and each passing second was agony. I tried to turn the handle faster to speed the bier to the catacomb ceiling and my left hand slipped. For a terrible moment, I feared all was lost, that the catafalque would come crashing down and Dupin would be flung to the unforgiving stone floor, but I secured it with my elbow and re-gripped the handle. Fear gave me strength, and I turned that handle like a madman, putting all my weight into it, each painful gasp echoing in the catacombs until at last the catafalque reached the top. I prayed that the mechanical doors to the chapel would open.

  The bier vanished, as if by magic, and I felt a moment of relief. And then an unearthly squealing noise cut me to the core. My fears coalesced into chiaroscuro visions of Williams piercing Dupin’s chest with a blade, of Dupin falling to the chapel floor, bleeding, dying. But a glimmer pierced the black—the door was opening!

  “Poe, quickly!”

  I ran toward Dupin’s voice as if the Devil himself were after me and leapt through the puddles of light on the stairs until I reached the upper floor. When I emerged into the chapel, which glowed with the last of evening’s glorious pink and golden light, my relief curdled. There on the floor, in a cloud of blood, was the genial desk clerk, the man I had exchanged pleasantries with most every day since I had arrived in London. There he was, eyes wide open, face contorted with shock and pain.

  “George Rhynwick Williams,” Dupin said softly. “It is over, Poe. Your nemesis is dead.”

  * * *

  The mysterious scent of Dupin’s special unguent brought me round from my stupor. He applied some under his own nose and breathed in deeply, after which he looked considerably revived.

  “How? How can it be him? And . . . and this?” I gestured at the blood.

  “It is surprising. I pierced him with my blade, but as I was in full darkness, I did not presume to wound him mortally.”

  I could not take my eyes away from the desk clerk, from George Williams. I should have felt relieved that my nemesis, that man who wished to kill me, was dead himself, but oddly I felt cheated. I had wanted to reason with him, to make him understand that his desire to m
urder me was unmerited, and now I was denied that.

  “Poe, it is better this way. You are wrong to think words would have stopped him from seeking his revenge. I know.” He gripped my arms and shook me gently. “You must believe me. Now come, let us make our way back to Dover Street.”

  I nodded, but the sight of Williams on the ground brought another wave of nausea upon me. “Will we simply leave him here?”

  Dupin shrugged. “What other option do you see?”

  Truly there was none, but it seemed callous—wrong. I wondered if I would feel the same if Williams’s face had a more hardened, vicious aspect. “We might inform the gatekeeper,” I finally said.

  “Perhaps, but the gatekeeper would be obliged to summon the police, who are unlikely to let you set sail until they fully investigate the matter,” Dupin reasoned. “You must remember that the man attempted to murder you. Do not feel you are obliged to do the honorable thing. In this instance, it would be foolish.”

  I rose to my feet and followed Dupin out of the chapel. The last of the day’s light was seeping away, rendering the sky cerulean and the figures that guarded the memorials luminous. As we crept past them, I felt that every angel, every cherub, glared at us with righteous fury for leaving a dead man awash in blood on the chapel floor and telling no one of his murder.

  LONDON, TUESDAY, 21 JULY 1840

  The relentless thrumming of rain continued all night and the sea was turbulent. Thunder cracked and the mast was hit by a jagged sword of fire that sent blue flames up and down its length. With an intolerable bang, the mast was split in two and the top half fell slowly toward the sea, sails flapping like gigantic wings around it. A huge wave leapt up in response and flooded across the deck where I stood, frozen with terror, and then, I know not how, I was tangled up in the sails and roiling sea water, and I felt hands—dead hands—upon me, pulling me through dark water, the ghost of a sailor abandoned to the waves somewhere far away from the sight of land. I thrashed and fought, but the breath oozed from my lungs as the water filled them and darkness took hold of me.

  I awoke in my bed full of relief, only to discover the furniture a-glow with phosphorescence from the sea and water lapping all around me, rising ever higher with great speed, my bed a sinking boat. The sound of splashing footsteps circled around me, but I saw no one.

  “Help!” I cried out. “Help me!”

  “No one will help you,” a voice whispered, “for no one will believe you.” And with those words, the ghostly sailor pushed my head under the water and held it there, his decaying light fizzing around me like a trapped bluebottle.

  * * *

  How many hours later?

  I resurfaced to light trickling over my face and something scrabbling at the door. More asleep than awake, I leapt from my bed and, wearing my nightshirt like an avenging angel’s tunic, flung open the door. Dupin recoiled—as did I—for it seemed that my double was before me, the horror in my own eyes reflected in his. We stood in absolute silence for I know not how long until a girl delivering breakfast arrived and stared at us both with unease.

  “We agreed to meet at eight o’clock,” Dupin said hesitantly.

  “Yes. Of course. I fear I have overslept. Please, come in. I shan’t be long.”

  A short time later I returned to Dupin and greedily drank down the coffee he poured for me.

  “You must be gratified that you were able to conclude your mystery before returning home,” he said.

  “Indeed. Without your assistance, that would not have been possible. I am most grateful, Dupin, and apologize if I seem distracted. I am still bewildered by the identity of my nemesis.”

  Dupin nodded. “When a person exhibits positive qualities and has a genial countenance, it is difficult to imagine that they might engage in nefarious activities. Of course it is highly accomplished criminals who are able to do this, to hide their true selves behind a contradictory façade.”

  “A most convincing façade. And Williams’s position here gave him access to our comings and goings.”

  ’And our rooms,” Dupin added. “It was not difficult for him to contrive the illusion of a ghost tormenting you.”

  “Yes, I can see that now. But I do not understand how Williams came to have my grandparents” letters, and now I will never know.”

  Dupin frowned. “I must confess, I presumed Williams would tell you everything before he attempted to murder you. It is the way of such criminals who engineer a complex crime—they wish you to know how clever they are.”

  “Certainly that seems true, although I could fathom little of what Williams said to me in the catacombs.”

  “What precisely did he say?” Dupin asked.

  “‘How might we escape the phantom that seeks retribution when time does not defeat it?” I said softly. “Williams asked me that—or words to that effect.”

  “Endless retribution, the persecutor but a ghost. How fitting. Was there more?”

  I did not need to rack my memory, for the words came to me unbidden. “‘The guilty die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, on account of sins they dare not reveal.’”

  Dupin slapped his hand upon the table in anger. “Of course. Hidden within plain sight, and yet I failed to see it.”

  “I am afraid that I still do not.”

  “While we fathomed that it was not your adoptive father’s widow who sent your curious legacy to you and eventually concluded that the sender was somehow connected to Rhynwick Williams, we failed to adequately question how your nemesis originally obtained the letters. It seems likely that Rhynwick Williams bequeathed the mahogany box and its letters to his own son, George.”

  “But how did Rhynwick Williams obtain them? Certainly no one would presume such letters existed and my grandmother would not tell anyone of their existence. Indeed, I am surprised she did not destroy them as she suggests was her intent in the letter written to my mother.”

  Dupin nodded. “The letters concealed in the hidden compartment tell us that Elizabeth Arnold feared for her life. More precisely, she feared that Rhynwick Williams might try to murder her. If Rhynwick Williams was in Charleston in March 1798 as her letter to your mother suggests, we might dare presume that Elizabeth Arnold’s death is connected to Williams’s arrival in America.”

  My breakfast soured in my stomach. “You are suggesting that Rhynwick Williams murdered her? But we were told she died of yellow fever.”

  “That may be the cause of her death, but what if Williams watched her succumb to the disease and then made off with the mahogany box and its contents? And if Rhynwick Williams recently expired, his possessions would pass to his son. And so began the repercussions of your legacy.”

  Then I remembered what Williams had said to me and was filled with horror. “The twentieth of July 1798,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Williams recited that date when in the catacombs, but did not explain himself.”

  Dupin nodded. “One might presume that it is the date your grandmother died, the date that Rhynwick Williams found the evidence that would have incriminated her if she had survived. We do not know when George Williams discovered that your grandparents were the true culprits—did his father complain of the injustice to his family? Did he reveal the letters to his wife when he stole them from your grandmother? Or did George Williams only become aware of the letters upon the death of his own father? These are the questions that you are unlikely ever to answer now that Williams is dead, but it must be somewhat comforting to know that you and your family are now safe from his wrath.”

  I nodded. “Again, I thank you. Truly, Dupin, this journey has been more than bewildering and in many ways frightening, but I do not doubt that had you not come to my aid and joined me in this investigation, my family and I might have suffered a mysterious demise in Philadelphia.”

  “I have said it many times, but that is because the words are true: Amicis semper fidelis.”

  And then a sense of shame c
ame over me. “You did not tell me what occurred during your meeting with Dr. Froissart, and I was too preoccupied to ask. Did the doctor discover anything of value?”

  “Only that Valdemar has returned to Paris. He had some information that might prove useful in future, but nothing of immediate worth. I was heartened to learn that my reputation was not ruined when I made myself ridiculous. Madame—ever the true friend—convinced all that it was part of the show. Only Valdemar knows otherwise. I do not doubt that I will destroy him, but unfortunately that was not my destiny here in London.” He looked at his timepiece. “I must allow you to finish your preparations for your journey. I hope you will not mind if I do not accompany you to the ship.”

  “Not at all.”

  He stood up, as did I, and Dupin solemnly shook my hand. “Perhaps you will return to Paris and conduct a reading of your works. Please know that my home is yours.”

  “What a pleasure that would be. Or perhaps you will venture to our shores. There are certain to be crimes in Philadelphia that would benefit from your skills.”

  “Perhaps.” Dupin opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Farewell, Poe. Safe journey.”

  And as the door closed softly between us, I wondered if I would ever see my friend again. I hoped that I would.

  * * *

  It was oddly strange to be leaving Brown’s Genteel Inn, the place that had been my home for several weeks. When I entered reception, I found the dour desk clerk waiting for me with my final account, which I settled up.

  “We are sorry you have curtailed your stay with us, Mr. Poe, but time will not wait for you—if your wife is ill, of course you must return to her side. Our family is all that matters. We at Brown’s Genteel Inn wish you a very safe journey home. Thank you for staying with us.”

  Soon I was in a coach on the way to the East India docks, where I would board the Grampus. I tried to lift my spirits with the thought that soon I would be on my way to Philadelphia and those I loved. My journey to London had begun with the aim of proving that my grandparents had been defamed by a slanderous hoax, but had concluded with the discovery that I was indeed descended from criminals, both of whom had died ignobly. And I had learned a much more disconcerting truth—that like my grandmother, I would kill a man if he threatened the safety of those I love.