Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (38 page)

This Pandora's box has held other letters I should have committed to the fire in England, but until now I could not do it as they were all that remained of my life with your father. Nostalgia is a dangerous emotion and too often I have read those letters to remind myself
what a strange and unexpected journey my life has been. If fate intervenes and the letters—one might call them love letters—are still within the box, I beg you to destroy them unopened. It pains me to imagine that anything might make you lose your affection for me. Being the good daughter that you are, I know you will respect this wish.

Never doubt my love for you, dear Eliza. If I unwillingly leave you, your stepfather will provide for you—as will your talent—but if tragedy befalls your stepfather, Mr. Usher and Mrs. Snowden have given me their word that they will take you under their wing.

Let me end this missive on a more cheerful note. I hope every birthday you celebrate will be as delightful as today. I am certain, my dear daughter, that you will more than equal my successes and will avoid my many mistakes. Always know that I cherish you and that every hard choice I have been forced to make was always with a view to best serving the two of us so that we might remain together.

I remain affectionately,

Your Mother

LONDON, MONDAY, 20 JULY 1840

The coach swerved and jostled along at great speed, bouncing through every hole and catapulting off each rise, which had us both clinging grimly to the seat and warding off the ceiling. We had set off infernally early to a location Dupin would not reveal, and while I had been cross about leaving Brown's without coffee, I was now truly awake without it.

After Dupin banged on the coach ceiling for the third time, the vehicle's pace slowed enough for me to finish telling him what I had learned during my trip to Newgate Prison.

“His name is George Rhynwick Williams and he is forty-five years of age—surely he must be my tormentor.”

Dupin took a moment to compose himself, such was his astonishment. “I am surprised that I did not discover anything of the son's existence in the newspapers, given the Monster's notoriety.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“But now that we know the identity of my aggressor, I am at a loss as to what I should do.”

“Nemo me impune lacessit
—let us not forget Williams's warning: ‘No one insults me with impunity.' If that is the motto of one's adversary, then it is prudent to assume he also subscribes to the dictum: ‘If you insult my family, you insult me.'”

Dupin's presupposition filled me with revulsion, but it seemed likely that he was correct.

“Knowledge always gives some advantage, Poe. George Williams can no longer play the malevolent ghost. He has made you suffer and, as we discussed before, he will take his final revenge when he chooses to reveal himself, for surely he wishes you to beg for mercy.”

“And you know this because it is what you would wish from Valdemar?”

“Not at all. I did not wish to make him a supplicant. I want the justice of his death.”

Dupin's cold words hit me hard. “But I am innocent! I am not responsible for my grandparents' crimes.”

“Williams sees things differently, I assure you. Your grandmother gave a performance at Rhynwick Williams's trial that ensured he was sent to prison in her stead. No son would forgive that. There is bad blood between your families and that presents you with two choices. Now that you know who your aggressor is, you could take all that we have fathomed to the police and hope that they believe you. Perhaps they will arrest George Williams and Mrs. Fontaine for locking you in the cellar, poisoning you with belladonna and pushing you into the sea. Of course we do not have conclusive proof of any of these events, beyond my corroboration of your claims. And if the police do believe your accusations, the story of your grandparents' crimes will be revealed to the world.”

My joy at discovering the identity of my aggressor was now fully tarnished as I felt the truth of Dupin's words. “And what is my other choice?”

“Kill George Williams before he destroys you,” Dupin replied.

“Murder? You are advocating that I murder the son of the man whose life my grandmother helped ruin?”

Dupin shrugged with a nonchalance that horrified me. “It is
clear that Williams will not rest until you are in your grave. One cannot truly consider it murder when you are defending your own life. Think about your wife and her mother, for they will not be safe so long as Williams pursues you.” Dupin paused to let me absorb his words, then added, “Of course your situation is not unlike that of your grandmother.”

I could not deny that, but equally I could not easily take a man's life.

“Amicis semper fidelis
, Poe. The faithful friend stands at your back, hand on the hilt of his sword. George Williams is your enemy and therefore mine—I will not hesitate to destroy him, fear not.”

Perhaps I should have felt more gratified at Dupin's pledge, but his talk of calculated murder was too cold, too near to madness. “Thank you,” I said carefully. “Let us hope that neither of us need face a confrontation with Williams, for I am sailing to Philadelphia tomorrow.”

“Truly?” Dupin asked with surprise.

“I received a letter from my mother-in-law informing me that Sissy has been ill. I arranged passage as soon as I found out. I should have told you last night.”

Dupin waved away my apology. “I only wish that I might have been of assistance. As your wife was in good health when you left Philadelphia, it is likely that she has fully recovered, but of course it is your duty to return immediately.”

“It is more than duty, there is simply no other fathomable course of action, and I can only pray that her health has indeed improved. I could not forgive myself if that proves not to be the case.”

“It is important that you put all thoughts of your wife's health to one side until you are by her side or you will undermine your own constitution,” Dupin advised.

“I will do my best. It is horribly difficult, but I am aware of the truth in your words.”

We sat in contemplative silence until the coach slowed and drew to a halt on Fleet Street.

“I failed to find anything useful about Rhynwick Williams at the British Museum yesterday,” Dupin said. “But I did discover something I believe you will find of interest.” He opened the coach door and got out. I followed and found that we were outside a neo-Gothic church. “St. Dunstan-in-the-West,” Dupin announced. “It was rebuilt in 1831, but there has been a church on this site for eight hundred years. You will find this information relevant,” he added. Rather than leading us into the church itself, Dupin made his way to the churchyard. He walked methodically and without hesitation through the burial ground until we reached the northeast corner of the cemetery, where the stones were most disfigured by time and nature. He stopped in front of a small, plain gravestone, and I was dumbstruck by its inscription.

HENRY ARNOLD
MUSICIAN, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER.
BORN 15 AUGUST 1760.
LEFT THIS WORLD 25 JULY 1790.

“Proof that Elizabeth Arnold used the funds provided by her father to give her husband a decent burial—if she did indeed receive the funds promised in the letter dated fifth of August 1790 from Mrs. William Smith.”

I managed a nod, but my words stuttered into dry air—truly I had not expected to feel grief cutting into me so harshly. Dupin quietly moved several paces away and left me alone in contemplation. I read the simple words again and again, a life summed up with terrible brevity. It was true that my grandmother had done the honorable thing and given her husband a decent burial, but was he not worthy of a longer epitaph?
Perhaps a verse and a cherub or two? I tried to think of a prayer or appropriate poem, but my mind was dulled by sadness. His death had been wretched and here he was alone without family or friends to visit his grave. No one deserved to be remembered—or perhaps forgotten—in such a way. As I stood above the bones of my grandfather, I wept as though I had known him, for whatever he had done and however he had died, it was certain that my mother had dearly loved him.

The shrieks of a magpie broke my solitary contemplation. I watched as it pattered along a seraph's shoulder and hopped onto the heavenly creature's flared white wing. The bird rasped again.
One for sorrow
.

“Most appropriate,” Dupin said softly, voicing my thoughts. He turned his gaze from the bird back to me. “Your grandmother was quite a remarkable woman. She managed to leave her husband with a memorial, despite her precarious financial position and opposition from her father and his wife. Indeed, it is clear from her letters if not her final actions that she cared deeply for him. Her affection may have been embroidered with the darkest of emotions, but it cannot be denied that she loved him.”

I looked to Dupin with surprise, but his eyes were focused on the cavalier magpie as it preened its own feathers while roosted upon the mighty marble wing.

“Do not forget that Truth,” Dupin said, waving his hand at the glistening angel before us, “can be manipulated through context. Your nemesis—George Rhynwick Williams—has delivered the letters he has wished you to see. The tale he has constructed for you is designed to cause you pain. Do not give him that satisfaction,” he said.

“Thank you, Dupin. Most truly.”

* * *

The coach ride back to Browns Genteel Inn was subdued, with each of us lost in contemplation. Neither Dupin nor I had truly concluded our personal missions satisfactorily, but it was not possible to remedy that on this journey. It was noon when we entered Brown's.

“I am going to organize my things for the journey tomorrow, but would you care to join me somewhere for an early supper?”

“Perhaps we might try Rules in Covent Garden for supper at six o'clock?” Dupin suggested.

“Very good.”

As we made our way toward the stairs, the desk clerk called out, “A message for you, Mr. Poe.”

My heart near stopped with fear that dreadful news had crossed the Atlantic. I rushed over to the desk and he handed me a letter sealed with black wax. I snatched it from his hands and collapsed into a chair in the foyer, where I immediately ripped the letter open. My fear was slightly dulled when I recognized the elegant hand of the scrivener—of George Rhynwick Williams. Dupin hovered nearby as I read the note.

The Assignation
Five o'clock, 20 July 1840
,
The catacombs beneath the Anglican Chapel
,
All Souls Cemetery, Kensal Green
.

There was no signature, but who else could it be but my nemesis? I handed the note to Dupin.

“Williams is aware you are leaving,” Dupin said. “You would be wise to ignore his invitation.”

“You know I cannot do that.”

“Make a counter-offer then. Suggest a meeting place that is less isolated and, frankly, less macabre.”

“How? Williams knows where to find me, but the reverse is not true and I set sail tomorrow.”

“Not if you are murdered.”

“You confuse me, Dupin. Earlier you urged me to take action against Williams as you declared he would not rest until I was in my grave. Now you wish me to flee from him.”

Dupin frowned. “If you meet with Williams in the catacombs, he will have all the advantage, for surely he has well-acquainted himself with the location.”

“If we stand together, Williams will find it difficult to murder me. And I would hope to reason with him, to apologize for the actions of my grandparents. I will make it clear that I do not condone what they did and that until the letters arrived, I was completely unaware of what had occurred. Surely that will be enough reparation for him—we are not Montagues and Capulets.”

“I believe Philadelphia's William Penn said, ‘Knowledge is the treasure of a wise man.' If you will not be dissuaded from this folly, then we must go fully prepared. I will hasten to the British Museum and search for a plan of the catacombs. I suggest that you purchase supplies: two lanterns, candles and, if possible, a weapon for yourself. We should set off by three o'clock so we might arrive at the catacombs before your nemesis and gain some advantage.”

“Let us prove ourselves to be wise men,” I agreed. “And let us vanquish George Williams's enmity with reason if we are able.”

Dupin raised up his walking stick and gazed into the ruby eyes of the golden cobra. “We might try,” he said.

* * *

At three o'clock, we were in a coach traveling west to Kensal Green as planned. Dupin unfurled a scroll of paper, which revealed an intricate plan of the catacombs.

“Very meticulous work, as always.”

“Accuracy is important when one's survival might depend upon navigating a strange location. This shows the relationship of the chapel and colonnades to the catacombs beneath them, which cover nearly an acre of ground. As you can see, Williams will have numerous places to conceal himself.” Dupin said. “There are two entrances—a flight of stairs from the west of this terrace and a staircase here that descends from the interior of the chapel into the catacombs.” He indicated each with his index finger. “And see here—from the central area a main passageway runs north to south and another runs east to west. The vaults radiate out in four directions from these. There is said to be space for a thousand coffins, which are to be laid on stone racks in numbered loculi. The numbering is not noted on the plan, but might prove useful when we are inside. Ventilation shafts were to be constructed to allow light into the catacombs, but we must be prepared for full darkness.” He nodded at the lanterns I had bought.

“Presumably Williams will have his own copy of the plans and has explored the catacombs previously.”

“Indeed,” Dupin said. ‘And that gives him strong advantage.”

“But we are two, which must be in our favor.”

“We should not presume that Williams will come alone. While it is unlikely Mrs. Fontaine will participate in this meeting, they certainly had another accomplice at the Bayham Street house—in addition to the serving girl, of course.”