Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (16 page)

I flushed to wonder what conclusions the gimlet-eyed creature had drawn based on my own lack of dandified attire.

Surprisingly, Dupin seemed to take no offense. “Your eyes miss nothing. Suffice to say that your observations are correct, but I fear it is too late for me to acquire your business acumen and so my wardrobe must suffer and, no doubt, see me to the grave also.”

Madame nodded benignly. “I am most fortunate. These figures are like my children to me—precious. You may not prosper from your Art as I have, but that does not tarnish the value of your skills. Remember that, dear Auguste. Now come, follow me. You and Mr. Poe will find the Adjoining Room of particular interest, I am certain.”

Madame moved with more speed than I had assumed her capable of. I followed Dupin like his shadow, and fear followed me. Each tableau in the next chamber was constructed by the hand of Death, whether through the foul deed of murder, the justice of execution, or the two in terrifying combination.

“The public calls this Bluebeard's Chamber,” Madame said. She indicated the first tableau, which resembled the interior of a barn and featured a young woman who had been fatally shot by a young man. “The murder of Maria Martin by William Corder. A terrible story. Corder promised to marry Mademoiselle Martin after he got her with child, but she disappeared. Her stepmother repeatedly dreamed that the girl had been shot and buried under the barn. The premonitions were accurate. Corder was arrested, half-insane with guilt, as he believed he could hear the beating of his victim's heart beneath the floorboards.”

The grisly story made my own heart pound uncontrollably. Madame looked to me for comment. “The agony of guilt can drive a man to the edge of madness and beyond,” I offered.

Dupin nodded his head in agreement. “And lead to a confession when the dead come back to haunt their murderers.” He indicated Corder's face, which was terrifyingly realistic in its depiction of murderous fury. “Madame had the privilege of constructing Corder's death mask after his hanging. Imagine how much her hands have learned about human character through these reconstructions. Consider how her work might advance the science of phrenology.”

Somehow, I could not see this as a privilege. The thought of caressing the hanged man's features into a mask of death was repugnant to me, despite the secrets that might be unlocked with phrenology.

Madame indicated another tableau that featured two men of clear ill-repute. “William Burke and William Hare. Very famous.”

“They made a habit of killing impoverished men living on the streets and selling their bodies to Edinburgh Hospital,” Dupin added. He indicated the craniums of the murderers before us. “Note the over-development of the fourth, fifth and seventh brain sub-organs. It seems certain that a combative character mixed with a destructive nature might tend toward violent murder. And if the subject is also inclined toward covetousness, we may deduce through simple ratiocination that the motive for murder is money.”

“We might also venture that the twenty-fourth and thirty-first sub-organs are under-developed or faulty, resulting in a lack of compassion for their fellow man and little reverence for God,” I suggested.

A bitter look came over Dupin's face. “Yes, in my experience that would seem accurate. Most astute, Poe.”

“I know little of phrenology,” Madame said. “But your words ring with truth as surely this must reveal.” She indicated the chamber's main display—a guillotine surrounded by severed heads. “This is a working model of the guillotine used in Paris with the actual blade and lunette. It was a terrible time,” Madame murmured. “Crowds baying for blood. Innocents forced to kneel beneath her blade.”

The display had an unfortunate effect upon my constitution, and I found it difficult to physically contain my horror. I expected Dupin to be unaffected by the gruesome tableau, but once again he surprised me. He was focused on a basket of severed heads that were arranged—most ghoulishly—like cabbages at market. Two heads at the apex of the heap secured his clearest attention: a man of perhaps thirty-five, solemn of expression, with dark hair, an aquiline nose and a determined chin; and a woman, very attractive, with ebony curls, porcelain skin, a small well-formed mouth and clear gray eyes that shone with intelligence—or so one might think if the eerie craniums had truly been fashioned by Nature herself. Their features were frozen at the moment of death, or perhaps at the soul's abdication, and yet fear was entirely absent on either countenance. Dupin wore an odd expression as he gazed upon these peculiar memento mori—brooding, or indeed one might almost say
pensive
. This was not an emotion I had ever discerned upon Dupin's face before. Objective, dismissive, impatient, arrogant, perhaps, but never one of the weaker emotions.

“Que Dieu apaise leurs âmes
,” Madame whispered and crossed herself.
“Je n'ai pas pu les sauver
,
et il était de mon devoir de préserver leurs corps sinon leurs vies.”

“Ils en auraient autant de reconnaissance que je n'en ai moi-même
,” Dupin murmured.

“Si cela vous réconforte
,
je suis satisfaite
,
Chevalier
.”

Dupin nodded and presented Madame with a faint smile. “What is your opinion of the display, Poe?”

“Most macabre,” I could not help but mutter.

“Macabre? Perhaps. But it is history, my dear sir. This was the fate of French nobility during the Terror and almost the fate of Madame Tussaud. She was arrested on suspicion of royalist sympathies and imprisoned to await execution.”

Madame nodded. I felt ashamed by my squeamishness when the display had such personal resonance for my companions.

“Please, tell me more.”

“I was admired as a waxworks artist in Paris and was invited to Versailles to give Louis XVl's sister, Madame Elizabeth, lessons in the art of wax modeling. I lived there for a time, but returned to Paris after the storming of the Bastille. Then I was imprisoned. Thankfully, my talent saved me from execution.” Madame held up her gnarled hands. “I was commanded to make death masks of those they executed. Many of the victims were my friends.” She indicated the basket of severed heads.

“It took much courage to deal with such a terrible situation,” I said.

Madame Tussaud fixed her sharp eyes on mine. “It was a privilege, dear sir. A privilege to make my friends immortal.” She stared at the execution victims before her, a wistful look upon her face.

“Madame, there is much to learn from your example. Some day, I hope, you will instruct me in the art of replicating the human form, which is far more complex than reconstructing human motive.”

“Perhaps, dear Chevalier. If the Fates allow. But now I must leave you. Take your time and enjoy the manifestation of history. Come find me at my station before you leave.”

“Thank you, Madame. The experience has been all the more vivid through your guardianship,” I said.

She nodded like a queen and silence descended fell us when she left the room. Dupin's eyes remained fixed upon the guillotine, his expression enigmatic. I had no doubt that my own face revealed my horror at the gruesome tableau. I could think of nothing to say and as the silence grew increasingly uncomfortable, Dupin indicated the door and said, “Shall we?” We made our way from the exhibition chambers to the hall where Madame Tussaud now presided, taking money from more visitors to her macabre waxworks.

“Gentlemen! You are leaving so soon?”

“I am afraid so. It was an informative experience and now we must use what we have learned.” He smiled warmly at Madame, who beamed in return.

“I am glad my menagerie has helped your investigation in some small way.” She looked to me for comment or, more accurately, for praise.

I bowed and said, “Madame, I hope you won't mind me saying that your collection is both disturbing and spectacular. The artistry is undeniable, but your chamber of horrors would make the bravest of hearts accelerate with fear.”

Madame Tussaud's face creased with a broad smile. “Chamber of horrors? Monsieur Poe, you have a gift for description. It will be the making of you, mark my words.” She turned to Dupin. “I hope to see you in nine days' time, but if that proves impossible, please visit me again before I find my place in Heaven.”

“Madame, Heaven will be impatient to receive you for many more years.”

“Et
lorsque le paradis m'accueillera
,
je raconterai à vos chers grand-parents quel homme exceptionnel vous êtes devenu
.”

“Et
je leurs dirai avec quel grand art vous avez honoré leur mémoire
.” Dupin leaned to kiss her wizened hand.

For the briefest of moments, the rose of youth settled on her features, and I caught sight of the woman as she was in an early
incarnation, but her rusted voice erased the illusion.
“Ce fût un honneur pour moi.”

My facility with the French language had diminished with limited use, but I grasped Madame Tussaud's reference to Dupin's grandparents. He rarely spoke of his forebears, and while I was, of course, aware that he descended from noble stock, only in that moment did I fathom that his grandparents had been victims of the Terror and were now immortalized in Madame Tussaud's collection. Icy fingers gripped my chest as a vivid image of the basket of severed heads materialized before me. The solemn gentleman with noble expression, aquiline nose, dark hair, lofty forehead and the handsome, porcelain-skinned woman with delicate mouth and large gray eyes so full of clarity—combine their features and one would have the very double of Dupin. How could I have missed the ghastly truth behind the tableau? Madame Tussaud had indeed preserved the mortal images of her two dear friends, when their souls had not long been separated from their still warm bodies. I was ashamed to have missed the obvious hidden in plain sight, blinded by my emotions regarding my own family.

“Au revoir, Monsieur Poe. Perhaps some day you and your brother Dupin will join my grand menagerie.”

Her words brought a deep chill to my heart. “Thank you, Madame. I hope I prove worthy of such a compliment.” I bowed politely and hurried with undue haste to the doorway, leaving Dupin to make a more gracious farewell. As I stepped into the afternoon sunlight, I could not shake off a lingering sense of fear, as if the eyes of the ancient crone's subjects were still upon me. When Dupin joined me at last, we searched for a coach stand but had little luck until a whistle pierced through the noise of the busy street and, fortuitously, a coach stood before us. We asked the driver to take us to Brown's Genteel Inn and climbed inside.

“I am sorry, Dupin. It must be distressing to see such a gruesome homage to your grandparents.”

“Not at all. Indeed I draw strength from it.”

“Will you tell me more about Monsieur Valdemar and why you are so anxious to find him?”

“All will become plain in due course. Let us focus on your mystery first.”

Just then the coach shuddered and bounced; something slid across the floor and hit my feet. I looked down and saw a parcel—some unfortunate lady had forgotten her shopping. But when I picked up the package, I saw it had an address on it, and a pall enveloped me that rendered my flesh as cold as those entities that inhabited Madame Tussaud's kingdom of the dead. Mr.
Edgar Allan Poe
,
Brown's Genteel Inn
was written in elegant, flowing script across the brown paper of the package I held in my trembling hands.

AN INVITATION

Mr. François Benjamin Courvoisier,
convicted of the crime of murder,
will be publicly hanged by the neck at Newgate until he is dead.
The performance begins promptly at Eight o'clock,
Monday morning, the sixth of July 1840
.
It is recommended to take a position at the
barriers nearest to the scaffold
no later than seven o'clock
.

LONDON, MONDAY, 6 JULY 1840

Darkness, utter darkness. As I lay upon my bed in the pitch blackness, I
felt
the bedroom door creep open, little by little, pushed steadily by an unseen hand, yet I could see nothing, could say nothing, my fear was so acute. Slowly, my hearing sharpened as my nervousness increased—was it minutes or hours as the door inched inexorably inwards and the ominous presence filled the doorframe?

“Who is there?” a voice cried out, vibrating with terror. “Who!” I realized the voice was my own.

Three wavering flames appeared in the darkness. A form slowly materialized—a hand holding a candelabrum, and then a spectral face—Hermes come to lead me to Hell's gate. “It is time. Are you ready?”

My heart pounded like a drum, and fear held my throat shut. The candle-glare flickered, mesmerizing me.

“Poe, it is time.” The specter proceeded to light the candles in my bedchamber, one by one, and as the room glowed with sinister light, sleep released me from its grasp.

“Dupin, it is you,” I muttered with relief.

He was swathed in black as if with the night itself and, like the moon, his pale face hovered in the gloom.
“Were you expecting another?” he asked with saturnine amusement.

“Given yesterday's events, perhaps.”

“I am sorry if I frightened you. I thought the din would have awakened you.”

It was only then that I heard the sound of people in the corridors and out on the street. I picked up my pocket watch. Half past three in the morning and the entire city seemed awake. Dupin had proposed that we rise at this ungodly hour and set off for our destination well before dawn—a destination that filled me with horror.

“Come, Poe. I have had coffee sent to my room. We should commence our journey in twenty minutes if we are to find your aggressor at the assigned location.” Dupin retreated, candelabrum in hand.

I arose from bed, shivering despite the warm summer night, and peered out the window. Small gangs of people walked north along Dover Street, lighting their way with gaily colored lanterns and passing flasks amongst themselves, which no doubt contributed to their celebratory mood. This made me tremble all the more, but I dressed quickly, extinguished the tapers and hurried to Dupin's room. When I entered his chambers, the aroma of coffee brought me closer to full cognizance.