Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (27 page)

I could not resist prodding Dupin. “Perhaps English is the language of the afterlife?”

“Then that is a very good reason to deny the existence of it,” he retorted. “Admittedly, Mrs. Fontaine took me by surprise at the séance, but it became all too clear later that her show was but a clever way of undermining my critical faculties. This was part of her larger plan—and the professor's—to imprison you.”

My face must have expressed the shock I had hoped to rouse in Dupin. “The professor?”

“Who of course was the scrivener at the hanging and also the man I chased at your reading. Quite the master of disguise, it would seem.”

I reflected upon each man, not convinced by Dupin's accusation. “They were of various heights, I am quite certain.”

“It was the shoes. Heels of different sizes,” Dupin said. “You would do well to remember the abilities of your own grandparents,” he added.

As reluctant as I was to cast Mrs. Fontaine as the villainess, I could without difficulty imagine the snake-eyed man as a scoundrel.

“If you are in doubt, still, about the relationship between Mrs. Fontaine and the alleged professor, consider the brooches they wear.” Dupin smiled at my confusion. “I trust you noticed the unusual jewel Mrs. Fontaine had on her dress—painted most accurately to resemble a human eye.”

I nodded, remembering the brown eye fixed in a piercing glare. “It was life-like and terribly unpleasant.”

“That should not surprise us when we consider the eye from which it was painted.”

“No, no, Dupin. Mrs. Fontaine's eyes are an attractive violetgray. They are not brown at all.”

“You are missing the point. She does not wear a brooch that depicts her own eye, but rather that of her lover. It is a peculiar tradition. Lovers who cannot be together, whether star-crossed or inconveniently married, are known to wear such brooches as a discreet declaration of their love. The glaring brown eye belongs to Mrs. Fontaine's lover and he, in turn, wears a brooch with a violet-gray eye.”

If I had not witnessed myself the brooch pinned to Mrs. Fontaine, I would not believe such a fantastic story.

“The professor—or scrivener or man of literature, whichever is his true nature—wears his brooch pinned to his waistcoat. I noticed it for a moment when we were made to hold hands during the séance, but did not put the pieces together until after your abduction.”

“I find it difficult to believe that a woman of Mrs. Fontaine's standing would take such a low-bred ruffian for a lover, that she would be in collusion with a man who would
murder
me.”

“It is an admirable trait to be protective of the weaker sex, Poe, but one must not deify womankind. An attractive visage does not guarantee moral principles.”

“I am quite aware of that, but surely the false professor is manipulating her in some nefarious way. She is a married
woman and it would seem from her attire, if not her address, that her husband is comfortably off.”

“Of course that is not her address. It is either the home of her lover or she rents the building for her activities as a medium. It would be unseemly for her to hold a séance at her own abode, particularly if her husband is unaware that she claims to commune with spirits.”

There was a disturbing ring of truth about Dupin's statements. How had I missed the obvious earlier?

“I did some research on Mrs. Fontaine during your convalescence, and I doubt it will surprise you to hear that she was once an actress. Mr. James Fontaine saw her upon the stage and was beguiled. After a brief courtship, they were married. It seems clear that Mrs. Fontaine—or Miss Rowena Greene of Chatham as she was back then—knew the scrivener before her marriage, but did the practical thing and married the rich rather than the poor man.”

“You make her sound very calculating.”

“Calculating? Most assuredly. She was a moderately successful actress of humble means who was given the opportunity to advance herself. She married well, but continues an illicit affair with the impoverished scrivener who posed as an elderly professor at the seance. Hence, the lovers wear the eye brooches as a love token. But the real question is, why did her lover wish to imprison you in that cellar and why was she in support of that foul desire?”

“And why the ourang-outang skeleton disguised as a dead man clutching a letter written by my grandmother?”

“Indeed. Your nemesis does not seem to wish you dead at this point in time. You were meant to read the letter after being terrorized by your imprisonment, and we might also presume that I was meant to rescue you before you expired. Of course I knew the address where the séance was held and went there as
soon as I discovered that you had not returned to the hotel. If you were held captive at that address, it had to be in the attic or the cellar.”

“And so I was imprisoned by my nemesis just as Rhynwick Williams was imprisoned on the thirteenth of June 1790.”

Dupin nodded. “Yes, there is a symmetry there. But we still have not solved the mystery of the scrivener's rhyme—what was Elizabeth Arnold's treachery? Of course she concealed her own guilt of the Monster's crimes, but I believe there is more.”

I shivered at his words, imagining the snake-eyed man creeping into my chamber, looking through my things, putting the bottle of cognac there. The threatening note:
Nemo me impune lacessit
. The dank cellar. Cold settled into me like a hard frost.

“At this point in time, you said. My nemesis does not wish me dead
at this point in time
. But you believe that will change in future.”

Dupin gave a gentle shrug. “We must consider that possibility.”

“Then we must catch the murderous scrivener before he kills one or both of us.”

“That is very true indeed. Now let us put aside such thoughts for a while and walk. Our goal today is to refresh our minds.”

Dupin led us toward the southeast corner of the park. There was a welcome sense of levity as children played with hoops, raced around with each other or tagged after men with water-carts. We exited the park at York Gate, crossed New Road and came to a walled garden which fronted a house set back from the street. Dupin gazed at me expectantly.

I looked at the house, which was very handsome with a portico of brick and stone and two tall semi-circular bow windows. Dupin was also examining the house with interest, but seemed to have no intention of telling me why we were at that address.

“Do we have an assignation here?” I finally asked.

“No pre-arrangement. I thought we might make an impromptu visit to One Devonshire Terrace as we are in the area.”

“I am afraid that yet again I am not following you.” And then I remembered the letter that accompanied the bottle of brandy. “Mr. Dickens's house?”

Dupin nodded. “It seems that your schedules rarely coincide. Now that we are here, you shall meet face to face and exchange pleasantries. We might offer to take him to dine nearby to thank him for his interest in your work.”

I could feel my face flush with the impropriety of it. “Arrive unannounced at an acquaintance's doorstep? Mr. Dickens may be offended. And given recent events, I am not at all certain of his interest in my writing.”

“Nonsense. You corresponded before your arrival, and Mr. Dickens made clear his appreciation of your work. He has offered to help you find a publisher here—this is not promised lightly. He inserted an announcement in the newspaper of your arrival in London and intent to give a public reading. It now seems doubtful that he organized the reading at the Institute, but I intend to discover the truth of that matter. Clearly Mr. Dickens is a busy man, but you will not remain in London indefinitely. You have the opportunity now to make his acquaintance in the flesh and thank him for his help. Few are offended by genuine expressions of gratitude—indeed it is lack of gratitude that offends.”

I stared at Dupin, overwhelmed by anxiety. Normally he was a champion of propriety, and yet he was goading me into what might only be described as rude behavior in polite society. This was Dickens's home—a place for retreat—not an office or a gentleman's club.

Dupin observed my anxiety and impatience settled upon his features. “Are you confident that you will have the opportunity
to meet Mr. Dickens? Is a friendly letter sufficient to thank him for taking an interest?”

Clearly it was not, but I still had the lingering sense that Mr. Dickens had printed the announcement of my London visit solely because I was a magazine editor who admired his work, but that truly he had no real interest in meeting me, a fellow writer. Dupin's patience finally expired. He gripped the brass door knocker and let it fall three times. A weighty silence followed, and I presumed that the house was empty, but then the sound of footsteps came closer and the door swung open. A handsome woman in capable clothing stood before us, a quizzical expression upon her face. Dupin bowed his head in greeting.

“Good afternoon. We are here to see Mr. Dickens. This is Mr. Edgar Poe and I am Chevalier Auguste Dupin. We would like to thank him personally for organizing Mr. Poe's reading on the eighth of July.”

“We are sorry to intrude,” I began.

“Mr. Dickens could not attend the reading due to illness,” Dupin interjected. “We hope he is now recovered.” He stared intently at the woman, scrutinizing her reaction to his words. “I suppose you are aware of the kind gesture of your husband?”

She seemed to ponder for a moment and then her features eased into the hint of a smile. “Ah, yes, Mr. Poe. My husband has indeed mentioned you. He admires your work.” She looked from me to Dupin and back again. “Unfortunately, he is not in.”

“So he is recovered,” Dupin said pointedly.

Mrs. Dickens frowned at what must have seemed an odd comment. “He is quite well, thank you,” she answered.

“Halloa old girl,” a hoarse voice croaked from inside the house. “Halloa.”

Dupin and I could not help but stare into the vestibule, but saw no one.

Unease crossed Mrs. Dickens's face. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said. There was an odd shuffling sound inside the house, and she looked anxiously over her shoulder.

An ancient voice rasped, “Polly, put the kettle on, and we'll all have tea!”

Mrs. Dickens turned her back to us and flapped her skirts. “Shoo! Get back!”

“Put the kettle on! Hurrah! All have tea!”

Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts again then squealed and skipped to one side. “Get away, you horrid thing!”

Dupin and I were instantly over the threshold, poised to defend Mrs. Dickens, but what we saw next threw us into a state of confusion. A large black raven was hopping across the vestibule floor, attempting to peck at Mrs. Dickens's ankles. “Halloa, old girl,” the devilish creature squawked.

Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts again and skipped backward, trying to preserve her feet from the bird's snapping beak. “Close the door, please,” she gasped. “He must not fly away—as much as that would please me. Charles will be most upset if the horrid creature disappears.” She flapped her skirts again.

“Does it have a name?” Dupin watched the bird hopping toward Mrs. Dickens. Its wings were half-raised, which seemed to double its size.

“Grip—my husband calls him Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing, depending upon the temper the creature is in.”

“I'm a devil!” rejoined the raven promptly.

“That he is indeed!” She eyed the bird warily.

“Never say die.
Bow wow
wow!”

Mrs. Dickens closed her eyes and shook her head. “My husband teaches him some terrible nonsense.”

“Very clever birds. Ravens are capable of accumulating quite a vocabulary,” Dupin said.

“Clever, perhaps. Certainly greedy He won't stop until I feed him something.” Mrs. Dickens said. “Would you care for some tea while I am attending to the creature?”

“Put the kettle on! Hurrah! All have tea!” the raven jabbered.

Mrs. Dickens swished her skirts at him again. “Charles is meant to be home for dinner. You may wait for him if you wish.”

I was about decline the good lady's offer, but Dupin waded in. “Tea would be most pleasant, Mrs. Dickens.”

The bird scampered toward the lady's feet, but Dupin deftly put his walking stick in its path and the creature stepped upon it like a roost, then tilted his head to examine Dupin.

“Tea?” Dupin asked it.

The bird bobbed up and down on his walking stick in an excited manner, watching Dupin all the while with what seemed to be genuine interest.

Mrs. Dickens eyed the bird and Dupin nervously. “Follow me,” she said and led us from the large vestibule into a spacious square hall. The raven remained perched upon Dupin's walking stick and he carried it along with him. “I think the library would be best,” she said, leading us into a chamber on the right. It was a crowded room, pleasingly filled with books, Dickens's desk and several chairs. It had a view of the garden, with stairs that led out to it. The raven leapt into flight, startling us all, and soared to the top of a bookcase, where he watched us like a god from the heavens. Mrs. Dickens glared at the bird then made her way to the door. “I will just speak with cook. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Dupin and I settled ourselves into chairs. “An impressive library,” I observed.

“And an unusual pet,” Dupin said.

The bird eyed us insolently, head tilted. Then,
pop
! The sound of a cork emerging from a bottle. I looked for the noise's
source and discovered that once again it was the uncanny bird. It imitated the sound of a popping cork several times and danced with delight at our reactions. “Keep up your spirits,” it said, with a snap of its wings.

Dupin raised his eyebrows. “Acutely observant too.”

“I wonder if the creature torments Mr. Dickens as it does his wife.”