Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (19 page)

With greatest affection,

Your daring Father

LONDON, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1840

The dim light, the cool atmosphere and the heaviness of history erased the chaos of the outside world—it was a place designed to make a man forget for a time his daily cares and lose himself in intellectual contemplation. I studied the exhibitions around me as I made my way to my rendezvous point with Dupin in the British Museum library The antiquities on display were absorbing, but it was not the jeweled artifacts from far-flung lands that captivated me, nor the mummified kings and queens of the Nile that fashionable ladies and gentlemen clamored to see. Rather, it was the wood and glass cases crammed full of oddities from some well-traveled old gentleman's collection, objects placed with little regard to logic or aesthetic order: sea shells from the Pacific, bird eggs, fossilized ocean creatures, pinned butterflies. There was an array of fauna frozen in time by a taxidermist's expertise: owls, stoats, an eagle, a fox, startled rabbits and mice, whose postures gave them the semblance of life, eternally preserved.

In stark contrast, one glass case contained the tiny corpses of gem-colored hummingbirds, huddled forlornly upon green paper; their feathers luminescent, but fragile,
vanquished
, the beauty of their flickering wings stilled forever. Miss Loddiges
had extinguished a goodly quantity of such beauteous creatures during her ornithological studies, and I could not help but think of the lady when I gazed at the delicate hummingbirds within the case. After the macabre execution, I had failed to find sleep when we finally returned to Brown's Genteel Inn and had traveled to Paradise Fields, Hackney, to meet my benefactress, who had extended an open invitation to visit and see her collection of avian skeletons that had inspired the book I had edited for her. My interest in the collection was limited, but I was more than curious to meet the woman who had done me a great service and with whom I hoped to work again. The visit had not raised my spirits as I had hoped it would. While my gratitude to Miss Loddiges was undiminished, the lady's Art had repelled me, and seeing the tiny birds abandoned inside the glass case at the British Museum filled me with a terrible sadness. I left the dusty chamber with a shiver and went in search of Dupin.

The library was predictably quiet with a quantity of scholars at work. It did not take me long to locate my friend, and I drew up a chair alongside him.

“I trust your visit with your benefactress was pleasant,” he said in a low voice.

“It was illuminating. She is an accomplished woman, but taxidermy is a peculiar Art,” I said. “And has your research here revealed anything of value?”

Triumph gleamed in Dupin's eyes. “While I am afraid the scrivener's intent remains a mystery, I have uncovered propitious information about Rhynwick Williams.”

“He truly existed?”

“Rhynwick Williams stood trial at the Old Bailey on the eighth of July 1790, accused of the crimes committed by the London Monster.”

“The London Monster?”

Dupin nodded. “An infamous villain—presumed to be a man—who took to slashing the hindquarters of attractive females and thereby terrorized London for two years.”

Dupin's pronouncement hit me forcibly. “Truly? And what was the verdict?”

“Guilty,” Dupin said.

This pronouncement was more shocking than the first. “He was found guilty? And so my grandparents did not commit the crimes they write of in their letters?”

“I did not say that,” Dupin answered. “I did not say that at all.”

Confusion settled upon me as it often did when Dupin was gripped in the state of ratiocination. “Perhaps you could first explain how you discovered this information and proceed from there.”

Dupin nodded. “Of course.” The map he had drawn was on the table in front of him and he tapped at the key, which noted the dates and locations of the attacks referred to in the letters. “I carefully read through the London newspapers from that period, searching for any mention of these crimes. I found little of interest until April 1790 when all of London seemed suddenly alert to the activities of the villain called ‘the Monster' who had been attacking the ‘defenceless and generally handsome women' of London. The newspapers were full of salacious cartoons depicting a vile creature—half-man, half-demon—cutting the posteriors of attractive young ladies with a vicious dagger and further depictions of these same ladies affixing copper pots to their derrières to prevent the Monster from damaging their nether regions and dignity. Then John Julius Angerstein posted notice that he would award one hundred pounds to anyone who captured the Monster. I followed the trail, so to speak, and discovered that Rhynwick Williams was caught on the thirteenth of June and accused of being the Monster. Of course the
man who lodged the accusation made claim to Angerstein's reward. Williams went to trial on the eighth of July for the crimes of the London Monster, and we must remember that to assault any person in the public streets, with intent to tear, spoil, cut, burn or deface the garments, was a felony punishable by death or, at best, transportation. Over fifty ladies claimed that they were attacked by the Monster between 1788 and 1790. As I said, Williams was found guilty on the eighth of July 1790, but he disputed his conviction. His case was taken up by a lawyer called Theophilus Swift, and Williams was given a second trial on the thirteenth of December 1790.”

“And was found innocent?”

Dupin shook his head. “Guilty again, but for crimes deemed misdemeanors rather than felonies, with a far better outcome of six years' imprisonment rather than execution or transportation.”

“But you believe the conviction to be faulty.”

“Yes. The letters exchanged between Elizabeth and Henry Arnold perfectly reflect the events described in the newspapers, and some of those attacks, particularly on the eighteenth of January 1790, the Queen's birthday ball, were made simultaneously upon different victims at different locations—impossible for a solo perpetrator. The letters suggest that Elizabeth Arnold secured a role in a play about the Monster's exploits, but Henry Arnold did not, and
The Morning Herald
of the second of April 1790 confirms that a musical play entitled
The Monster
opened at Astley's Theatre on the first of April. And we must also remember that the lament tells us that Rhynwick Williams was Welsh. The letters do not mention him by name, but most certainly they refer to Rhynwick Williams.”

“The flower factory,” I said. “She recognized the Welshman employed there as a ballet dancer who had been booed off the stage at the King's Theatre.”

“Yes, and the transcripts of the trial note that Williams had formerly been apprenticed to ballet master Gallini and, at the time of the crimes, was employed at Amabel Mitchell's flower factory in Dover Street.”

“And so,” I said slowly, expressing my thoughts as they came to me, “you believe my aggressor reserved rooms for me at Brown's Genteel Inn because it is in the same street where the flower factory once stood? The flower factory where my grandmother had a reunion—as it were—with Rhynwick Williams?”

Dupin nodded. “Autography suggests that Courvoisier's lament was penned by a left-handed person, as was the case with the handbill for Brown's Genteel Inn. It is revealed in the way the characters slant and the pressure upon the page. I have carefully studied the handwriting of both documents and am certain they were penned by the same person. Thus, if Mr. Mackie is left-handed, we will know that he is your aggressor. If the scrivener who sought us out at the hanging truly did pen the lament, he may be in league with Mr. Mackie, or he himself might be your aggressor. And let us not forget the artificial violet boutonniere put in your lapel when you were attacked in Russell Square.”

That simple fact chilled me—it made allusion to both my grandmother's visit to the flower factory and the attack made upon me by the artificial-flower seller when I was a child. “‘Thus wrote the innocent, deceiv'd/Condemn'd, thus he bequeathed/His last and only legacy,/Revenge for E—A—'s treachery,'” Dupin said softly. “It cannot be a coincidence. I suspect you will receive more letters that will reveal how Elizabeth Arnold deceived Rhynwick Williams and how that led to his imprisonment.”

I knew he was right and shuddered as I remembered the last two lines of the lament: On
her whole line, beyond her death,/Their heart's last beat, their final breath
.

Dupin looked at his time-piece and stood up. “Do not dwell on the threat within the lament, Poe,” he said as if he had heard my thoughts. “Only cowards make threats from the shadows. We will solve your mystery and vanquish your nemesis, have no fear.”

“Thank you, Dupin. I shall do my best to heed your advice.”

“The library is soon to close—let us abandon our reflections until our minds are refreshed with sleep.” He ushered me before him through the corridors of the British Museum that echoed with the footsteps of other scholars leaving its hallowed confines.

When we reached the street, I began to make my way toward Brown's Genteel Inn, but Dupin hovered.

“Until morning, Poe,” he said and bowed, dismissing me.

So curious was this I immediately retraced my steps. “Surely we will walk to Brown's together?”

A look that might only be described as evasive came over Dupin's countenance. “I am riven by exhaustion, but there is an event I am obliged to attend this evening. You must sleep, however. One of us must have a mind that is not dulled by fatigue.”

I immediately knew that Dupin was being disingenuous—he went nights at a time without sleep. So piqued was my curiosity all thoughts of my nemesis lost their grip on me.

“What is this mysterious meeting, Dupin? Am I to think that you have an assignation with one of the fairer sex?”

I could not conceive of a more unlikely
tête-à-tête
as Dupin far preferred an evening spent in solitude with his books and rarely could be enjoined to attend a play or some other entertainment. My comment was designed to vex him, for when Dupin was vexed he was more apt to reveal the truth.

“I have no meeting planned,” he said evenly. “It is an event, as I said, and in truth I do not particularly wish to attend, but it is my duty.” He removed a pamphlet from his pocket and
handed it to me. It was a Phillips Auctioneers catalogue for an auction to be held at seventy-three New Bond Street that very evening, following a reception at six o'clock. And then I remembered Dupin's cryptic comment in his letter accepting my request for help.

“The business in London you mentioned in your missive?”

Dupin nodded.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

I opened the catalogue. The introduction stated that the items listed therein were part of an estate sale being conducted on behalf of a French aristocrat who wished to preserve his anonymity and that the unique and splendid effects were of the highest quality, produced by renowned artisans in France. I paged through the catalogue and noticed that a number of articles were notated—randomly it seemed—with numbers. “There are articles in the collection that interest you?”

Dupin raised his brows and nodded his assent, but gave no further explanation. I checked my own pocket-watch.

“Let us make our way there now, for the reception is about to begin.”

Dupin was immediately and unusually flustered. “There is no need for you to accompany me. It is bound to be tedious.”

Dupin's reluctance made me all the more determined. “Not at all. I should like to experience a London auction.”

And so we made our way to seventy-three New Bond Street, me making observations about the streets of London and Dupin more than a little aggravated by my presence.

* * *

The auction rooms were far more crowded than I had anticipated, allowing little space to maneuver. All of London's
aristocracy appeared to be there along with art dealers and, apparently, journalists, who scrutinized all assembled and scribbled into their notebooks. There was wine to drink and the crowd imbibed freely while gossiping and flirting. Dupin scanned the room carefully, but did not seem to find whatever he was looking for. He made his way to the back, where there was a doorway to another chamber with chairs set out before a rostrum and the items to be auctioned were available for viewing. There were
objets d'art
of both the European and Oriental schools: tapestries, some paintings, fine silverware, precious jewels, beautifully crafted time-pieces. Dupin opened his catalogue and began to compare the lots he had annotated with the items on display. He did not speak until he was finished.

“What do you think of the collection?” he asked.

“Most impressive. Very fine and wide-ranging, probably gathered over several generations as it is a family collection.”

“Correct.” Dupin walked closer to one of the glass cabinets that held a selection of exquisite jewelry, and as his walking stick clicked hard against the marble floor, the sinews of his right hand revealed how tightly he held it in his grasp. “A family collection indeed.” He turned to face me, and I saw that his gray eyes burned with the icy fervor born from hatred. “But it is not the property of the person who is selling it.”

It then occurred to me why Dupin—who had little interest in such events—had decided to attend this particular auction at seventy-three New Bond Street.

“These items belonged to your family?”

“Yes.” Dupin's fierce grip upon his walking stick did not decrease, and I began to fear that he would swing the implement, shatter the glass case and sweep up the jewels that were exhibited inside, but he maintained his composure. “You wonder how our family possessions were lost to us?” he asked.

“Quite,” I muttered.

“A liar and a thief betrayed my grandparents and, after they met with Madame Guillotine, he stole everything they had. My father was but a boy at the time and was sent to live with the de Bourdeille family—his mother's sister—who provided him with an excellent education but did not have the capacity to give him anything more than that.” He raised his left hand and stared for a moment at the
chevalière
that bore the Dupin coat-of-arms. “Little remained of his legacy beyond this
chevalière
—and this.” Dupin tossed his walking stick upward and caught it, revealing its top—the golden cobra with glaring eyes of Burmese rubies, its fangs exposed to strike. I knew from our previous discussions that the fearsome object had been in the Dupin family for generations and the beautiful yet deadly snake was a part of his family coat-of-arms. Indeed, I had seen a magnificent rendering of it displayed in his Paris apartment: against a field of azure, a golden human foot crushed a serpent that had its fangs embedded in its heel.