Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (28 page)

“Hardly,” she said as she briskly re-entered the room. “Charles spoils the creature. It torments all but its master.”

“I'm a devil, I'm a devil,
bow wow
wow.” Its eyes gleamed with malice.

I had to agree with the tiresome creature. His nonsensical chatter had worn my patience already. “How did Mr. Dickens come by the bird?”

“A purported friend gave it to him.”

“The actions of friends can at times make them seem the enemy,” I said, inadvertently catching Dupin's eye.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Dickens said, nodding.

“Most often when those actions are in your best interest,” Dupin said waspishly.

The cook entered the library carrying a large tea tray. She set it upon a small table, curtsied and left. Mrs. Dickens poured tea for the three of us and offered us buttered bread from a covered silver dish, but before we had the chance to partake, the bold creature soared down from the bookshelf and made a grab for the bread. Mrs. Dickens deftly slammed down the lid and the bird landed on the top of a high-backed chair. It eyed the silver dish greedily.

“Would you place this on the floor over there? Then we might have some peace.” Mrs. Dickens handed Dupin another covered dish. He did as she requested and lifted the lid to reveal a small plate of raw meat. The raven jumped from his makeshift perch and strode over to the dish like a soldier. It ate the
meat greedily and the sight was infinitely disturbing. One could imagine carrion crows on the battlefield, chewing through the flesh of the fallen. Dupin coolly observed the creature.

“Covus corax
, a highly intelligent bird and quite human in a number of ways, though dare I say their human qualities are not what makes them clever.” Dupin's thin smile indicated this was a jest, but in truth this probably was his opinion. “They inhabit most parts of the world and adapt to almost any environment—certainly they will eat almost anything.”

The ebony bird listened intently, turning his head from one speaker to another as if drinking in each word.

“True, indeed,” Mrs. Dickens agreed. “The bird will consume anything, including my letters, pieces of the staircase and any jewels I forget to lock up in my jewel box.”

“It has probably buried or hidden the jewels,” Dupin said.
“Corvus corax
do have a propensity for stealing and then hiding their spoils.”

“Not unlike some humans,” I said.

“It has stolen any number of teaspoons from the dining table and buried them in the garden,” Mrs. Dickens told us. “I am sure we haven't found half of them. And he chews away at the garden wall, digging out all the mortar, and scrapes the putty from the windows so the glass falls out. He is a bothersome devil.”

“I'm a devil,” croaked Grip, before dipping his beak back into the raw meat.

Dupin smiled at this exchange. “Highly intelligent,” he said again. “And loyal. Ravens mate for life and live up to forty years.”

“Forty years?” Mrs. Dickens muttered with despair.

“Surely the creatures are better known for their scavenging than their loyalty,” I said.

“They are indeed scavengers, but Nature needs such creatures. And they are not just opportunists. Ravens are said to
lead hunters to deer and caribou so they can enjoy the remains—both hunter and scavenger benefit.”

I looked at the raven and found that he was staring at me, head tilted to one side, his gimlet eye fixed on mine, as if daring me to contradict Dupin. The bird gulped down the rest of its meat and launched itself into the air, skimming past my head, before resuming its station on top of the bookcase.

“He is indeed a devil,” I muttered.

“Some do believe so,” Dupin said. “Or similar. It is said that ravens are the ghosts of murdered people or the souls of the damned. Some native peoples from your country believe ravens can transform themselves into human beings. And of course the kings of this country allow ravens to consume—”

“Never say die! Keep your spirits up,” croaked the imp from the bookcase. It was balanced on tiptoe and moved its body up and down in a bobbing dance.

“I think we might discuss more pleasant topics,” I said pointedly, noting Mrs. Dickens's blanched face.

“No doubt Mrs. Dickens has heard much more about the history of the raven from her husband,” Dupin said.

“In truth, sir, my husband prefers to dwell on the creature's intelligence and canny ways. I have not heard him speak of such dark tales,” she said, giving Dupin a suspicious look.

“Forgive us, please, Mrs. Dickens. We men of letters spend too much time with our books and quickly forget good manners and how to converse with a lady. I hope my friend did not upset you when you have been so hospitable.”

“It is quite all right,” the lady said with a taut manner, which indicated most clearly that it was not. My impatience with Dupin grew—first he showed us to be louts without manners arriving unannounced at the Dickens's home, and then he frightened the poor woman with talk of the Devil. My worries were cut short when we heard the front door opening. I leapt
to my feet, ready to meet Mr. Dickens at last, but the temporary silence was quickly broken by the sound of pattering feet. Mrs. Dickens stood and said, “Nanny has brought the children home.”

Dupin rose to his feet also, just as the sound of a childish voice floated into the library. Moments later a small boy ran into the room. He was a cheerful-looking child of perhaps three or four years old.

“This is Mr. Poe and Chevalier Dupin. They are acquaintances of your father. Say hello to them.”

“Hello,” the boy said, retreating behind his mother's skirts.

“And?”

“My name is Charley Dickens. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the boy recited.

“Very pleased to meet you, Charley,” I said.

Dupin nodded his head in concurrence, but said nothing. He seemed more at ease dealing with a talking bird than a child. Moments later a tiny girl peeped into the room.

“This is Mamie,” Mrs. Dickens said. “Say hello, dear.”

“Hello,” the girl said in a tiny voice before putting all her fingers into her mouth.

Our conversation, such as it was, was terminated by a baby's squalling. The raven squawked once, leapt from the bookcase and soared overhead. The children screamed and ran from the room, the raven swooping after them, calling out: “Halloa, halloa, halloa! What's the matter here!” The baby's crying increased in volume.

Mrs. Dickens reddened and said, “My other daughter. Katey is troubled with colic.”

I stood up promptly and said, “It was so kind of you to entertain us, Mrs. Dickens. Please give our warmest regards to Mr. Dickens and tell him we are sorely disappointed to miss him again.”

Dupin stood also. “Indeed, we are grateful for your hospitality. Please extend our regards to your husband.”

We followed our hostess down the hall to the vestibule, where her two children, the maid and wailing baby were cornered by the raven.

“I'm a devil,” he croaked. “Hurrah!” And then the infernal creature began to whistle, pirouetting on top of something, as if guarding it from all present.

Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts at the raven again. “Shoo, you devil, shoo!”

But Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing did not budge. Dupin stepped toward the creature and held out his walking stick again.

“Up!” he commanded. The noisy imp immediately jumped onto the makeshift perch, and Dupin raised it up away from the small packet on the floor. Mrs. Dickens quickly retrieved it and reacted with surprise when she glanced at the packet. “It is addressed to you, Mr. Poe.”

The bird stared at me, his eyes shining like the Devil's own, as I reached for the packet with trembling hand. “Most unusual. Thank you, Mrs. Dickens,” I stuttered with embarrassment before bowing quickly and rushing out of the house.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Keep up your spirits!” The raven's words flew out the door after me.

93 Jermyn Street, London.
Thursday, 8 July 1790

Dear Henry,

What a disgraceful theatrical you missed today! A crowd of the Monster's victims were assembled in the court, all baying with the delusion that Rhynwick Williams was the monster who attacked them. Miss Anne Porter led the fray, adamant that she recognised Williams as her attacker, and nothing in heaven or hell would dissuade her of this. Surely it is no coincidence that her fiancé, Mr. Coleman, collected the Angerstein reward after claiming to witness Rhynwick Williams accost her in the manner of the Monster.

Mr. Pigott presented the extraordinary case to judge and jury in grandiose fashion. The prisoner at the bar had made a wanton, wilful, cruel and inhuman attack upon the most beautiful, the most innocent, the most lovely, the best work of nature! Oh, indeed. It was obvious to all in the courtroom that Miss Porter does not merit superlatives. It should have been equally obvious that Mr. Pigott was engaged in blatant rabble-rousing, but this mattered not a whit because the audience was gripped. They listened with wonderment as he described in much dull detail the journey of Miss Anne Porter, her sister Sarah Porter and their chaperone from the ballroom at St. James's to the Porter residence. Mr. Pigott then claimed that Rhynwick was spied by the ladies, who ran in terror for the safety of their home. Miss Anne, who was bringing up the rear of the charge
(so to speak), was slashed across the fundament. The crowd hissed and booed at Rhynwick, who cowered in his chair. I felt a sharp stab of pity for him—as if the Monster himself had pricked me—such a ferocious beast was the mob before us. When the crowd quieted down, Mr. Pigott continued Miss Porter's dull tale in infinite detail. I could not help but wonder at the crowd's gullibility. Who could ever mistake Rhynwick Williams for our daring Monster? He is such an insipid, whining little man—a crime, perhaps, in good society—but his actions were on trial, not his character. No real evidence was presented that proved Williams guilty of the crimes in question. I had the strangest desire to stand up and declare, “The worm is innocent—I am the London Monster!” What a sensation that would have provoked! But it was vanity combined with a guilty conscience that provoked such thoughts, and good common sense rescued me from my desire to speak the truth, as I do not wish to dance upon the end of a rope at Newgate.

Mr. Pigott finally concluded Miss Porter's dull tale with the words: “And that is proof that this man before you is the perpetrator.” The crowd exploded into an amalgam of cheers, whistles and boos. I could not help but wonder how the Porter spinsters' ability to recognise Rhynwick a day after seeing him on their doorstep in Mr. Coleman's hopeful grip proved anything at all. It was a most terrible travesty. Mr. Pigott completed his assassination by relaying to the court that Rhynwick Williams lodged at a public house in Bury Street, St. James, in a room with three beds in which six men slept—Rhynwick being one of them. Mr. Pigott proclaimed that only a man of unsavoury character would stay in such despicable lodgings and could the
word of such a villain be trusted? He asserted that the victims were ladies of unquestionable morals and would never perjure themselves by giving false testimony in court. Oh, indeed!

Miss Anne Porter took the stand first—a dowdy girl of not yet twenty—and the audience erupted into applause and cheers. She flushed, but seemed most taken with her leading lady status. Mr. Shepherd of the prosecution proceeded to ask her uninspired questions, and incredibly we had to sit through the entire story once again! But the audience enjoyed the repeat performance as much as the first. When Miss Anne claimed that Rhynwick had previously insulted her and her sisters with “very gross and indelicate language” and on the night in question had walked behind her and
muttered
, the crowd roared its objection to such atrocious behaviour. She then displayed to the audience the clothing she had worn on the Queen's birthday—the carnation-pink silk gown, a shift, three petticoats (one of silk and two of linen) and a pair of stays. There was a rent across the back of the dress, which Miss Anne declared impossible to mend. (Clearly she has little affinity for the art of the needle and thread.) She testified that her petticoats were torn, and her flesh had also been cut. Only her stays had saved her from further ruin. All in the court roared at this declaration. (They might have roared with laughter had any been privy to the unappealing sight of the Porter posterior.) Miss Anne concluded with the oath that she'd had a full and complete view of her attacker's face. Rhynwick was the guilty party, and it was impossible that she was mistaken. Obviously the lady's sight is deficient, but no one thought to test this in the court.

Mr. Shepherd then made enquiries about her attacker's clothing. Miss Porter stated that he wore a light coat, which fell across his shoulders, and she believed he wore another coat under that. This of course is true enough, but it is impossible that such coats as described could have been found at the despicable room Rhynwick shared with five other men, because those garments, to the best of my knowledge, are safely in your wardrobe where they belong.

The remainder of the trial did not improve for Rhynwick. Amabel Mitchell, his employer at the decorative flower factory, and the French women who worked with him were hissed and booed when they attested to his good character. Lady Egalatine Wallace—that renowned playwright whose work
The Ton
had its actors booed off the stage—gave her own performance on the stand. She had accused the Monster of attacking her in late May, but declared that the accusation has been one of her little jokes and therefore Rhynwick Williams was certainly not guilty of attacking her.

The accused was at last permitted to present his defence, which was much more eloquent than that of the prosecution, but it was clear that he was presumed guilty unless he could prove otherwise. And as Rhynwick faced the crowd, the last words of his testimony dying on his lips, he looked nervously from face to face until his eyes somehow found mine and his brow furrowed as if trying to remember who I was and where we had met. While locked in this uncomfortable
tête-à-tête
, time stilled and each second felt like an eternity as fear dampened my palms and my heart fluttered like a bird's wings within my chest. Would he accuse me of poking that woman with the nosegay? Would he
condemn
me?
When he opened his mouth to speak, dizziness truly enveloped me and with a cry I tipped over in an artificial swoon. I lay upon the floor, eyes closed, hoping that my diversion might be enough to distract Rhynwick and our audience. When finally I was helped onto my chair and was sipping at the water given to me, I surreptitiously glanced at Rhynwick. His eyes were still upon me, his face full of recognition—of that I am certain. There was but one thing I could do. “That man,” I whispered. “That man!” With shaking finger, I pointed at Rhynwick Williams and said, “That is the man who attacked me when I was leaving the theatre last month!” Horror distorted Rhynwick's features while the crowd roared its disapproval and would not quiet down until the verdict was at last delivered:
guilty
.