The Blackest Bird

by Joel Rose

  “To what end?” Hays asked. He was paying attention.

  “He wants revenge. He blames Edgar. He thinks he has forever defamed and destroyed the good name of Fanny Osgood.”

  “And the Reverend Griswold? Why would he partake?”

  “Jealousy, pure and simple. He means to destroy Edgar’s literary reputation. He is jealous, jealous, jealous! It is nothing new. He has always been. Muddie informed me Bennett possesses papers alleging Griswold Edgar’s literary executor with power of attorney. She is distraught from his visit because that unconscionable, unctuous being had the audacity to make strong, scathing attempt to bully her, and now I see her right. The two are set to destroy the lifework and literary reputation of he whom she loved so deeply and they detested equally deeply.”

  “Olga, I fear I have more disturbing news than literary slight and besmirchment. I have been to the Tombs yesterday, and early this morning I have had a most interesting journey by skiff to the hospital at the southern end of Blackwell’s Island.”

  She was confused. “To what effect, Papa?” she asked.

  “After you left with Annie the other day to go to Fordham, I received a package sent to me by Edgar. In the package was a manuscript of poetry and a curious note.”

  “What kind of note?”

  “Before his death, Mr. Poe professed to being followed.”

  Olga veritably leaped at her father. “Followed?” she cried. “Mrs. Clemm received similar note. She thought it Eddie’s paranoia. What of the manuscript?”

  “That of John Colt. Poe’s note to me made reference to some message hidden therein.”

  “Where is the manuscript?” Olga clamored, coming closer. “Is anything in evidence?”

  He indicated where said manuscript occupied a place on a table by the arm of his chair.

  “I have been through it any number of times. I noted something inordinate almost immediately. After his escape, if you remember, I visited Colt’s cell, and there, beneath a black silk handkerchief, found a poem written in regard to the murder of Samuel Adams. The same poem I again observed in the manuscript Poe received while living at Turtle Bay. In this manuscript sent to me, however, the poem included has undergone some kind of transformation. It has been altered.”

  “Altered? How so?”

  “It is a bastardization. The initial effort concerned itself ostensibly with the death of Samuel Adams, yet here, in this doctored manuscript, this very similar poem is embellished with curious reference to the death of a woman who might be taken for Mary Rogers. My eye is not trained to the art of the scratcher, but I thought my observation keen enough to detect alteration by a hand not the hand of the original writer.”

  “But why, Papa? And by whom?”

  “It is why I found myself at the Blackwell’s Island hospital. James Holdgate, the forger, is held there in poor state, not likely to endure, suffering from a debilitative ailment of the alimentary canal. I asked him amidst his suffering if he might not have a look at the Colt manuscript. Between yelps and howls, he said that he would not object, and although giving continuous sign of pronounced discomfort, proceeded to examine the poems and paper they were written on. He said without doubt the poem in question has not been written by the same person, nor is it on the same paper as the rest.”

  “Meaning you are kerrect, Papa, in assuming it has been altered by Edgar.”

  “This is my assumption, and it has been concurred by Holdgate when I showed him samples of Poe’s handwriting which I had seen to bring with me.”

  “But we must assess for what reason would Edgar Poe change these rhymes?”

  “In his note to me he alluded to some kind of cryptic. When I visited the Poes at Turtle Bay, Edgar was not in the cottage at first. Instead I encountered Virginia. She showed me a verse she had concocted for her husband on the occasion of Valentine’s Day. Within its lines, as a kind of tribute, she disguised his name in the first letters of each phrase reading down the page. I checked the one poem in question, however, and then each and every other poem of Mr. Colt’s, yet could make no sense of such system.”

  Olga now had the manuscript in her clutches, having grabbed it literally out of the hands of her father.

  “Three years ago at Annie Lynch’s salon,” she said excitedly, already bent over, scrutinizing the verses, “I am sure it was on Valentine’s Day as well, Edgar read a poem he called ‘To Her Whose Name Is Written Below.’ At first glance no name was decipherable, but I later learned the secret. If one were to designate the first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second, and so on, down the twenty lines of the poem, one was able to spell out the camouflaged name, ‘Frances Sargent Osgood.’ Virginia must have taken a model not unlike that as her inspiration. I have no doubt Eddie Poe is sending us a message from the beyond. It is only up to us to discern it.”

  “Take notice of the verse that begins, ‘Ligeia, there a body lies.’”

  It took no more than a few seconds before she blurted, “See here, Papa! Right here, this coded acronym! The first four lines spell out the word ‘LOOK’!” Her excitement, however, immediately cooled. Her expression turned glum. “But after that, as far as I can make out, nothing,” she said.

  Hays moved closer to his daughter, adjusting his irksome spectacles on his face so that he might see and study as well.

  “It does not follow,” she lamented. “After the initial ‘LOOK’ it is all gibberish and gobbledygook nonsense.”

  Together they continued to further scan the poem.

  “Olga, instead of following the bias down the page,” Old Hays suddenly declared, “after that first discernible word, permit us to start again at the beginning of the next line. Do you not see the second word now? It spells: ‘NO. LOOK NO.’ Then back to the start again: ‘FURTHER’!”

  “Then ‘SAMUEL’! Yes, I do see!” she exclaimed.

  Ligeia, there a body lies.

  GO, the miserable deed done, but one ugly fear

  StOrms over me now, to touch this thing.

  LooK, nothing remains to struggle against me here,

  Not in this lifeless heap.

  HOw much more could I only wish it would spring

  Full and grasp me, and strike at me, as I did it

  BUt only a moment or two before?

  ItRied to lift the head, but it dropped, and slid

  FasT from my grasp to its bed of gore.

  What Have you to do with this horrible thing?

  Down—o’Er grub a grave in the ground!

  Grub daRk with your nails! If you choose you may sing

  That song so often sung. Don’t start and look around!

  SHould I dig? How terribly slow you are!

  Go And dig! The dawn in the East begins to grow!

  ShaN’t you dig? The birds are all chirping. Bury there

  So deep that body at once, and for God’s sake just go!

  O, All the world will be up in less than an hour,

  RaM and rattle and ring along the clear road.

  StrUmpet, your fault. Dig for your life!

  DeepEr still, Dig for your deed!

  Dig fuLl speed, for what more can you do?

  Cast it out upon the water? There

  SO close to shore. Where the tides rush and the shad tarry.

  AlL there! Cast it out! Cast it out! Cast it out!

  ZanTe, fairest of all flowers. Cast it out. Nevermore.

  O Nevermore!

  “But what does it mean, Papa? ‘LOOK NO FURTHER THAN SAMUEL COLT’?”

  “I cannot say, Olga. Perhaps that question need be asked of that individual mentioned by name, the Colonel, Mr. Samuel Colt himself.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Old Hays found himself before dawn, lying abed, unable to sleep, composing in his mind a concise note to be expressed to Colonel Colt, eliciting his presence.

  Finally he rose, and by candlelight carefully worded his request for an audience with this gentleman. He had decided not to specify why he needed to see hi
m, but sent the message to Hartford by courier, explaining that the Colonel’s presence was required urgently on a matter affecting his family and the constabulary. He excused himself in the letter, writing, because the trip to Connecticut remained long for a man of his age, in deference, might Colonel Colt make time for Mr. Jacob Hays, at his convenience, but sooner than later, even at once, here in the city.

  Word came back the next afternoon to Hays by return courier. “Assuredly,” Colonel Colt would gladly come to New York to meet with the high constable. They could rendezvous at an arranged hour within a few days at the Astor House on Broadway at Chambers or anywhere of Mr. Hays’ choosing.

  On the day indicated, thirty minutes before the appointed hour, Balboa awaited Old Hays outside his front door on Lispenard Street to take him to the settee. On their way down Broadway, Hays reached for his meerschaum pipe, a gift from Olga, but found his stash of tobacco sadly near empty. As they were coming to the intersection where Anderson’s tobacco shop is so situated, Old Hays called up to Balboa to come to rest.

  He gingerly alit on the west side of that avenue, waiting some minutes for the vying streams of traffic to subsist long enough for him to ford the broad width. The statue of the knighted Raleigh stood watch outside, as always, and Hays found himself reaching out to lay hands on this gentleman’s hard varnished skin.

  Inside, the familiar aroma of tobacco met Hays. Behind the counter at his usual post stood Anderson. In front of him a gentleman, half bent, peered through the glass of the display case. The man rose.

  “Halleck.”

  “High Constable.”

  “Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, sir.”

  “Has something befallen you, Halleck? You appear drawn. Are you troubled?”

  “You remain as perceptive as your reputation suggests, sir. It is a difficult day indeed, High Constable. Have you not heard? My employer has passed on to a better place.”

  “John Jacob Astor dead?”

  “Yes, only this morning.”

  “My condolences, but it could not have been sudden. I had heard that he was ill. What has befallen him?”

  Halleck smiled slightly. “Nothing untoward. The cause of death was natural. He had a good life. He lived longer than most. Still … ”

  “Surely, sir,” said Hays, “I need not remind you, none of us exits this life alive. We must all be thankful for what we are given.”

  “Eternal life holds no temptation for you, Mr. Hays? To some, living forever holds unquestionable appeal.”

  “So many are the aches and pains that befall us with the march of time, so much the fatigue, I cannot, even for a minute, imagine the agony after one hundred fifty or two hundred years.”

  Halleck laughed, relieved. “How right you are, Mr. Hays. On his deathbed, I did inquire of Mr. Astor if there was anything in the course of his life which he might have lived to regret, expecting him to answer if only I had been more honorable in my business practices, or more considerate to my son and heir, something to that effect. But no. Do you know how he responded, High Constable? He said, and this was very nearly his last gasp: ‘My only regret, my dear Halleck,’ he veritably wheezed, I swear to you, ‘is that I did not put all of my money into New York City real estate.’” Halleck shook his head with the audacity of it. “Can you believe it, Mr. Hays?” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was this gentleman to the last.”

  They spoke briefly of Poe, his passing. “Sad. So sad,” Halleck said. “A man of such vivid intelligence and talent.”

  Hays chose two socks. One a Cuban cut, another a blond full-leaf Carolina. As Anderson wrapped his purchase, the shopkeeper seemed to Hays to be peering at him in a most peculiar manner, eventually answering to Hays’ inquiry that he had something “tantamount” to relate. He then proceeded to confide he had been paid clandestine visit by the ghost of Mary Rogers. The apparition, Anderson said, promising to reveal the identity of her murderer to him at a later date.

  Hays said, “When the presence returns, please, sir, send immediate word to me,” upon which he most quickly departed.

  AT THE ASTOR HOUSE, within the confines of a private drawing room decorated with plush red velvet and black kid leather, Colonel Colt awaited Old Hays on a brocaded divan, situated beneath a gas sconce.

  “Sir, how are you?” Colonel Colt leaped to his feet.

  “I am fine, Colonel, but I just encountered that gentleman Fitz-Greene Halleck, who shared with me some unsettling news. John Jacob Astor is dead. Died this morning.”

  “Astor dead!” Colt snorted. “First Poe, now this. Well, I must say it’s about time. For how many years now have I heard that Astor was only able to take his daily sustenance from a woman’s full breast? Mother’s milk straight from the glimmer mort, all him capable of imbibing. Ah well, not to denigrate the poor fellow and his proclivities, but who would deny, not such a bad way to go either! I must say, Hays, all my life my temperament has been sanguine, ardent, enthusiastic, even rash, and for all that time I have prided myself always as a devoted admirer of women. That being so, I must say, if it was my decision to make, I would exit this earth just the same as old John Jacob, plenty of money in my craw and my greedy mouth to the nipple. What say you, Mr. Hays? No discernible torture there?”

  “Mr. Colt—”

  “Forgive me, High Constable. Before we get down to your concerns, whatever they could be, I have something especially for you that I have had manufactured with you in mind and insist on giving. There’ll be no point in refusing this time. There is no one else to possess them, and I insist.”

  He heaved himself from his chair. A cherrywood case with a blue silk lining containing a new brace of Walker repeating revolvers rested on the sideboard. The cylinder of each gun had been scrupulously engraved with the figure of a police constable, not unlike Hays himself, bowler hat on his head, constabulary staff in one hand, pistol in the other, caught in the act of shooting three street ruffians in soft caps, brandishing knives and truncheons.

  “I cannot take these,” Hays said.

  “And why not? You don’t relish them? Look at the detail, man. Even the star on the constable’s chest is eight-pointed.”

  “The guns are things of beauty, but I have no use for them.”

  “You might surprise yourself, High Constable. Have mercy! What am I going to do with them if you don’t take them? I beg you, it will give me pleasure if you will have them, even if only to look at and admire.”

  Hays took the box, holding it stiffly on his lap. “Then let’s be on with it, because after our conversation I do not know your estimate will remain,” he said. “I am here to inform you, Good Citizen Colt, that I have received from the late Edgar Allan Poe a package, sent to me before his death.”

  “And in this package?”

  “A manuscript of poems reportedly written by your brother John.”

  “I see. I have heard nothing of this artifact.”

  “Be that as it may, with these pages, undoubtedly your brother’s, Poe sent a note. The note said I would find something hidden within the text, camouflaged by the words. After carefully scrutinizing the verses, I did discover something.”

  Colt had not sat back down, but remained on his feet. He stood straight over Hays, an ominous presence, his attention unwavering.

  “And what was that?” he asked.

  “A ciphered message.”

  “Ciphered message? To what effect?”

  “Once decoded it read: ‘LOOK NO FURTHER THAN SAMUEL COLT.’”

  Colt’s brow furrowed. “What can that mean?” he asked.

  “I do not know. I was hoping you would tell me. Why would Poe secret a message such as this with said implication?”

  “I cannot say. I find it all highly doubtful. Poe and my brother had a complicated association.”

  “It is my understanding Edgar Poe made a recent trip to your manufacturing plant in Hartford, Connecticut, sir.”

  “Yes, he did.”
>
  “If you don’t mind telling me, what was the purpose of that visit?”

  “He wanted money. He said he was in pursuit of a recently divorced woman and her family had balked at the prospect of having him for a son-in-law. I can’t say that I blame them. It was one of those instances where Poe asks: ‘Will you marry me? If you cannot, will you lend me five dollars?’” Colt chuckled at the wit of it. “You must admit, High Constable, it is all too true.”

  “After he left you, he informed his aunt he felt himself being followed.”

  Colt’s expression changed, grew more somber. Hays thought he glimpsed something he recognized, heretofore hidden deep within. “I cannot say,” Colonel Colt was saying. “I know nothing about such circumstance. There are some rough characters in and around Hartford, but Poe did not present himself as a man of wealth. I gave him a few hundred dollars, but I doubt he was brandishing it around. Did some dip steal it from him?”

  “No, not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Do not trifle with me, sir. I warn you, I shall have the truth from you. You were the one married to Caroline Henshaw, were you not? I have spoken with your family friend, the songwriter John Howard Payne, and taken time to scrutinize certain papers at the Hall of Records. The baby, carried and subsequently delivered by Miss Henshaw, was not your brother’s, but your own. Is this not so? The child was christened Samuel Colt Jr., not John Colt Jr., after all. Do not deny it!”

  “If it is true, I do not now, and have never denied it.”

  “Why did your brother not say something at his trial by way of explanation? Surely he would have received a sentence other than death if the public saw him in a different light. As it was, they saw him a cad for impregnating Miss Henshaw and not having the common decency to marry her.”