Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (20 page)

“You may wonder how I know these objects belonged to my family if they were stolen before my birth.” Dupin again anticipated the question that preyed upon my mind. “My grandfather was a meticulous and prescient man. In his will, he noted in precise detail every family heirloom that his son—my father—was to inherit. The list is etched upon my memory.”

“How did you know that the items were going to auction here?”

Dupin laughed bitterly. “I was sent the catalogue.”

“But surely the thief would wish to keep any such sale a secret from you?”

“Not at all, Poe. He took great delight in taunting my father and now he enjoys mocking me.”

“Forgive me for asking, but can you be truly certain these are the heirlooms described in your grandfather's will? The owner of the estate has not provided his name.”

“I will show you. Here, beyond doubt, is my proof.” Dupin indicated the glass case that contained an array of magnificent jewels and a large silver jewel box decorated with glittering stones. “Many of these were crafted by Henri Toutin in the seventeenth century.” He pointed at a group of very fine enameled pieces decorated with hunting scenes, mythological figures and life-like flowers. “Notice the ring in particular. It too is of the Toutin school, but fashioned in the late eighteenth century. Look very closely.”

It was a gold ring set with an exquisite painting of Cupid on enamel, which cleverly fronted a locket. As I peered more closely at the open locket, I saw there were two beautifully rendered miniature portraits inside it: a man and a woman.

“Do you recognize them?”

I was baffled by Dupin's question until I realized that I
did
recognize the images, for they were the likenesses of the decapitated man and woman in Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors—of Chevalier and Madame Dupin.

“Do you need further evidence?” Dupin asked.

I shook my head. “But what shall we do now? Surely these are stolen items being sold under false pretenses. Will the authorities have them returned to you?”

Dupin's face tensed again. “That is a battle I am unlikely to win. Property stolen during the Terror is rarely returned to its rightful owner—indeed many do not consider
seized
property stolen at all. London auction houses have been very busy with such items for quite some time.” Dupin stared at the magnificent display in front of us, as if committing the detail of each item to memory. Finally he spoke, very softly. “All I can do is take note of who purchases the objects in the hope that one day I shall be in the position to buy back the most personal items.” Just then there was a hearty
rap-rap-rap
and the auctioneer's hammer brought the crowd much nearer to quiet.

“Ladies and gentleman, please take your seats so we may begin the auction of these most desirable objects.” The auctioneer rapped his gavel yet again and the potential buyers made their way to seats near the front while the spectators stood at the back, curious to see what might be bid upon.

“One final question, Dupin. What is the name of the thief?”

He exhaled audibly then spoke as if the words pained him. “Monsieur Ernest Valdemar—the murderer of my grandparents and, I believe, my mother. He was my father's nemesis and therefore is mine. Ernest Valdemar is the man who did his utmost to destroy the Dupin family and very nearly succeeded.”

The auctioneer rapped his gavel once again and announced, “Let us begin. Item one, a
bleu turquoise
Vincennes vase with a floral decoration, circa 1748.”

The assistant auctioneer, a dapper fellow in a somber suit and white gloves, held up the vase for all to see. It proved a popular piece and the bidding was fierce, each potential buyer holding up their numbered paddle or simply nodding his or her head if they believed themselves sufficiently known to the auctioneer. When the vase was finally sold, Dupin noted down the buyer's number. Every vase and porcelain figurine sold with great rapidity, and he repeated the procedure of noting down the purchaser's number or name. There was something of a short intermission and the spectators gossiped amongst themselves as the assistant set up an easel and placed the first painting upon it. It was a worthy seascape and proved highly popular also. Indeed, all the scenic paintings on offer sold very quickly for impressive amounts. Object after elegant object went under the hammer and all the items sold, those going for the highest prices getting a round of applause from the spectators. Dupin's expression grew increasingly morose, but he continued his careful notations and said nothing. The jewelry was the last collection to go up for sale. The auctioneer gave a
short introduction to the Toutin school to raise the crowd's interest and swiftly sold a number of pieces. Then the locket ring went under the hammer.

“A gold and enamel ring of the Toutin school. Notice the exquisite painted enamel front-piece—how life-like the flowers, how mischievous the Cupid!” The auctioneer gestured at the delicate image that no one in the audience could appreciate given the distance. “But there is much more to this ring. Ever so much more.” The assistant opened the enamel front to reveal the two portraits.

Dupin leaned in closer as if hypnotized by the visages he knew so well through depiction, but had never met in the flesh.

“It should not be difficult to remove the portraits currently within the locket or replace them with gems, perhaps, if that is preferred.”

Dupin's body tensed up and instinctively I held an arm in front of him, lest he leap from his seat and attack the auctioneer.

“Who will bid on this intriguing ring?”

I immediately raised my paddle, and felt Dupin's gaze burn into me.

“Thank you, sir. Do we have any others in our discerning audience who understand the quality of this piece and wish to add it to his or her collection?” the auctioneer asked, and he did. The cost of the locket ring rose ever higher thanks to my determination and that of my rival, who stood somewhere at the back. The crowd around us enjoyed our tussle immensely, the ladies gasping and fluttering fans with each incremental bid and the men murmuring amongst themselves like a hive of agitated bees. My excitement increased accordingly until I hardly heard the price announced by the auctioneer.

“Poe, you must stop. The gem is not worth half that and surely your pockets are not lined with gold.”

“Sir?” the auctioneer questioned, his gaze back upon me.

My paddle went up. The auctioneer stared to the back of the crowd, as did all seated around me.

“Once,” the auctioneer said loudly, gavel poised above his rostrum.

I turned to look at my competitor and saw an unprepossessing man of perhaps thirty years dressed in a somber suit that befitted a personal secretary.

“Twice!”

My opponent's eyes met mine and he put his hands together in silent applause, acknowledging his own defeat.

The rap of the gavel rang through the room. “The gold and enamel locket ring,” the auctioneer said, as he scanned a paper on his rostrum, “goes to Mr. Poe.” Thunderous applause met this announcement and all seemed to turn to look at me.

“Madness, Poe, utter madness,” Dupin whispered.

“It would be madness to let someone destroy such an important memento. The ring, if nothing else, had to be saved.”

When the auction ended, I made my way to the auctioneer with my number so that I might pay a deposit and collect my receipt for the ring. The rashness of my actions was setting in—I had been far too caught up in auction fever and had not thought clearly about how I would finance the purchase. Common sense begged me to put down the pen, embrace humiliation and return to Dupin with an apology, but instead I was determined to pay the deposit.

“Thank you, Poe. I am indebted to you,” Dupin said, walking beside me.

“There is, of course, no debt between us.
Amicis semper fidelis
.”

Dupin nodded gravely. “I value your words as much as the gem itself and hope you understand that the pledge is reciprocated most completely.”

“Of course.”

But when we reached the clerk's desk an extraordinary thing happened. “Excuse me a moment,” the auction clerk said. He carried the ledger and my receipt to the man at the desk behind him and whispered in an urgent manner. He, in turn, frowned and looked up at us.

“Is there a difficulty?” I asked.

The man in the elegant suit took the ledger and receipt and approached us. “Good evening. I am William Augustus Phillips, the owner of the auction house. Mr. Poe and—” He looked inquiringly at Dupin.

“Chevalier Dupin.”

“Mr. Phillips,” I interjected. “If there is a problem, inform us immediately.”

The auction house owner directed his gaze to me. “I am afraid there is. A most unusual problem, Mr. Poe.”

“The ring was stolen?” Dupin asked as if he had half-expected it.

“No, nothing like that. I am afraid the owner decided against selling the piece. Most unusual. He paid the auction house the commission it would have received for the sum you bid and withdrew it. Under the terms of the auction, there is little we can do.”

Fury welled up within me. “This is most unethical, sir.”

“It is unfortunate, but it is the owner's prerogative, I am afraid.”

“And given the commission the auction house will receive for the ring and other items sold, you will not refuse Mr. Valdemar,” Dupin said.

“I would not put it quite that way,” Mr. Phillips protested.

“I will take action, you shall see. This must be a breach of contract,” I countered.

“Come, Poe. The ring is gone, as is the culprit's agent. There is nothing to be done. It is, however, some small consolation
that Mr. Phillips has confirmed what I suspected but could not prove: the French aristocrat who wished to preserve his anonymity is Monsieur Ernest Valdemar. Thank you kindly, sir.” He gave the auctioneer a mocking bow and Mr. Phillips flushed crimson, doubly confirming what Dupin had fathomed through ratiocination.

93 Jermyn Street, London
20 April 1790

My Dear,

Fret not about the role of the Monster—Brinsley will never perform it as well as you. Our own play will be far superior to that silly musical, for ours draws on true experience not mere rumours. Indeed, your performance this evening exceeded that of yesterday, and I was so inspired by your dashing display that I went straight back to our lodgings ablaze. I have revised the closing verse and completed the chorus for the “wronged young maidens”, both of which are enclosed. Perhaps you will find time to set the chorus to a simple tune if you find it good enough?

My mind is still dancing with ideas. What do you think of the title:
The Odious Monster at Large
? I believe now that our villain should escape from Newgate, not through a grand scheme or with assistance from a fellow villain, but he should simply vanish like a ghost into the night. And our narrator will inform the audience that the Monster was never heard of again in London town.
But
—and imagine the lights flickering as he speaks—one warm summer night, a pretty young girl is on her way home from the theatre. She is incautiously alone, thinking herself completely safe in the charming seaside town, amongst the crowds on the promenade. She is lost in contemplation of the marvellous play she has just attended, but as she reaches the sanctuary of her own doorstep, her reverie
is shattered. A man—nay, a
monster
—materialises behind her and before she can call out for assistance a silvery blade tears through her silk skirts, her petticoats and then her flesh. The theatre plunges into darkness—and then . . . a piercing scream! Would that not be a most chilling effect?

With deepest affection,

Your Wife

93 Jermyn Street, London
27 April 1790

Dear Elizabeth,

The audience that watched Brinsley when he took to the boards missed a far finer performance last night. The Monster leapt from the shadows and
—swish
! His blade slid across her breast, through her dress, her chemise and into her pink tender flesh. And then gone—back into the shadows the Monster went, merrily singing the tune I wrote for our play. Brinsley may get the applause tonight, but our Monster will be in the newspapers.

Yours,

Henry

93 Jermyn Street, London
30 April 1790

Dearest,

Our Monster has reached the pinnacle of notoriety! All the chatter about the need for copper skirts or pots and pans to preserve the rumps of London's ladies has inspired Mr. John Julius Angerstein, a man of wealth and little common sense, to offer a one hundred pound reward for the capture and conviction of the Monster. The posters have been pasted up all over town, and every man and woman of little means will accuse his or her neighbour in hopes of securing the bounty. Please let us be cautious. The streets are a-buzz with four attacks in the past few days—the Monster is far too busy when so many are seeking him!

Yours,

E.

LONDON, WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1840

The rain unfurled from the sky in long, twisting sheets and the road was a muddy river—my mood made manifest. As I leaned against the coach window, the cool of the glass against my cheek, an odd thought came into my mind. I was
inside
, always—a clear, perfect pane of glass between me and the world; the room that I inhabited was airless, still and empty. The thought filled me with melancholia made deeper by the weeping skies. How I missed Sissy and Muddy and our quiet summer days on the banks of the Schuylkill River.

“Poe? We have almost arrived.”

“So soon?”

I should not have been surprised. The coach driver had conveyed us through London at a speed that suggested Lucifer himself was riding full pelt behind us. We reached Wellington Street more than half an hour before the appointed reading time and alighted at our destination with an unsteadiness of foot that looked like intemperance, but truly was caused by something akin to seasickness.