Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (39 page)

I recalled the pebbles thrown at us—purportedly by the spirits—when Mrs. Fontaine, the professor and serving girl were all standing next to me. Dupin was correct. Williams had another accomplice, perhaps two. This knowledge should have made me anxious, but instead a strange exhilaration swept over me. Soon the final piece of the puzzle would be revealed by George Rhynwick Williams, and I hoped the confrontation between
us might result in a kind of truce. But if Williams were determined to murder me, Dupin and I would put an end to his mission. And soon, very soon, I would be on my way home, the past truly put behind me, for it would most certainly never be visited upon my wife.

The coach left us just near the gate to All Soul's Cemetery an hour before our assignation. I was immediately struck by the deceptive allure of the place. A pleasant gloaming was created by the avenues of silver firs, flowering shrubs and herbaceous plants—it would be an enchanting location for a picnic or afternoon perambulation if one did not know it was a refuge for the Dead. As we made our way toward the catacombs, we moved deeper into a netherworld inhabited by hosts of angels mingling with phoenixes and butterflies, all carved from marble, and imposing mausoleums decorated with symbols borrowed from ancient cultures: pyramids, lotus-flower reliefs, Egyptianizing heads, obelisks. Vaults were adorned with friezes of wreaths or garlands, eternal flames and curling snakes that held their own tails in their mouths—promises of immortality, eternity, Death vanquished. We moved in silence along the pathway between elegant and overwrought tombs. I knew that the location was chosen to unsettle me, but that did not ease the sense of creeping doom. From his expression, Dupin felt it too. When an imposing building came into view, he murmured: “The Anglican Chapel.”

It was a stately construction that gleamed white against the backdrop of green vegetation. Four colossal Doric pillars composed the chapel's portico, which faced the Central Avenue. Double covered colonnades stretched on either side of it and it was paved with stone flags and granite setts. The overall effect was one of grandeur and judgment.

“The entrance to the necropolis,” Dupin said, scanning the area around us carefully. “The chapel doors remain open, but
there is no attendant in sight. It is likely that Williams paid him to go home for the evening. I had hoped we would enter the catacombs before him, but we cannot rely on that hope.”

“Surely if he has made himself well-acquainted with the catacombs before today, there is little need for him to arrive much before the time he appointed.”

“Perhaps,” Dupin said. “But caution must rule us. Let us find an advantageous place to position ourselves.” He gazed intently at me. “It is not too late to abandon this madness.”

“It is,” I said firmly. And it was. I felt like a soldier marching into battle when the enemy had the upper hand, but duty and belief denied retreat.

We mounted the stairs and entered the chapel, which had a beautifully painted ceiling and a stained glass window that lifted the spirit while the bier in the center of the room had the opposite effect. Dupin walked to a door on the left side of the chapel, opened it and peered in. “The catacombs' entrance,” he said in a low voice. “Do you recall from the map the general layout below?”

“I believe so.”

“Let us wait to light the lanterns until we are away from the staircase. That way if Williams is now inside, he cannot know if it is us or some other come to visit the dead. And descend carefully as the stairs are narrow and winding.”

I nodded. We stepped inside, and I pulled the door closed behind me. This left the stairway very dark, concealing us but also anyone who might lurk below in shadow. The temperature dropped as we descended cautiously and the smell of damp earth with a hint of decay made me feel faint with revulsion. It was as if I were back in the cellar, with the rats and the bones of the creature lying in the pit. Perhaps there was more to Dupin's suggestion of portents than I had cared to realize. When we reached the bottom, Dupin moved forward and I
quickly followed lest I lose him. I could see nothing in the inky blackness and heard little but the faint rustle of Dupin's clothing. I felt my way along the damp walls until I came to a gap and then another and yet another—entrances to vaults, I presumed. At the fourth entrance, I heard a scratching sound and saw a very faint light.

“In here.” Dupin's voice. I turned inside. “There should be light coming from the portals, but nothing. It was an error not to check them from outside.”

“Should we return to the surface?”

“Too late,” Dupin said. “We would forfeit any advantage we might have gained. We need to explore the catacombs undetected by Williams so I may situate myself in a place to easily come to your aid when you meet him—if, of course, he shows himself.”

It had not occurred to me that Williams might not meet me face to face, but Dupin was correct—my presumption was naive. What criminal would forfeit the upper hand in such a situation?

“And check the loculi numbers should you need to orient yourself.” He lifted his lantern and spilled light onto an arched vault, which was fronted with a cast-iron grill. Coffins rested on the shelves inside and I reeled at the sight of them. Behind me was another arched vault with twelve loculi, some sealed with individual iron grills and some left open without regard for the potential looters that plagued other burial grounds. They were numbered as Dupin had said. A flash of red in the lamplight made my heart still—someone crouching in the darkness! Then I saw it was but a scarlet cloth atop a coffin.

“Let us advance north,” Dupin said. “Avoid the main passageway so it is more difficult to track us. Light your lantern only if necessary. That way Williams may mistake me for you.” The light from Dupin's lantern glimmered on the catacomb walls,
but had little effect on the murky black that surrounded us, which made it difficult to see the shape of the interior. We wove our way through narrow vault passageways, but halted as a staccato rush of noise assaulted us. Creeping forward we were met with a furious shadow flickering in the light that spilled through the bars of the western gate.

“A bird,” Dupin whispered and my captured breath hissed out from my throat. “Let us make our way forward and then head east and circle back to the stairwell,” he instructed.

He crept on but I was mesmerized by the terrified creature that fluttered against the bars again and again. To release it would put me in plain view; I hoped it would not succumb to its own fear before the gates were opened in the morning.

“Poe.” Dupin's voice trickled back to me, and I followed the soft glow of his lantern. We zigzagged from vault to vault to obscure our trail and crossed the northern passageway into the northeast quadrant of the catacombs. As I followed Dupin, the light from his lantern bobbing like a ghostly creature, the content of the loculi, were illumined in short bursts. Some coffins were decorated with brass stud-work patterns; others were covered with gold-embroidered cloths that glinted in the candlelight or wreaths of immortelles that resembled fresh blooms in the shadow. Some coffins were very plain, and some were tiny and on the highest shelf, the final resting place of a child or infant—the air was thick with melancholy there. Some loculi were sealed up with mortar to prevent unwanted entry to the tomb or perhaps exit from it. Dupin searched for any sign that Williams had preceded us, illuminating first the left and then the right—a number of the vaults were quite empty and could provide ample space for a person to conceal himself.

Just as we began to cross the eastern pathway near the far edge of the catacombs, an unearthly wind blew through them and Dupin's lamp was extinguished. Instinctively I crouched to
the ground, hoping to avoid a blow to the head that might incapacitate me.

“Quickly.” Dupin whispered.

We scuttled like subterranean creatures along the floor. The rustle of clothing and scratch of shoe leather on stone reverberated through the dank air. I tried to quell the noise of my breathing until dizziness threatened to conquer. We entered another vault where Dupin paused. The harsh scratch of a Lucifer match, the stench of sulfur, then a glimmer of light. Dupin cautiously held his lantern aloft as we pressed our backs against the wall and surveyed the vault. Nothing. And then there was a faint sound: a careful footfall upon the catacomb floor or perhaps some other creature—rat or mouse or injured bird—pattering along the ground, but the location was difficult to ascertain. Moments later, there was another sound, the clang of metal upon metal, and a deep voice with a French inflection echoed through the gloom.

“You believe that your forebears were innocents sent to the guillotine, Chevalier Dupin? That they were deceived by me?”

The reverberating question took me by surprise and increased my sense of wariness. I had of course expected to hear the voice of George Williams, but instead we were issued with a challenge from someone masquerading as Dupin's nemesis. The deception was utterly plain—why speak in English when both Valdemar and Dupin were French? The note had been sent to me rather than Dupin and it was preposterous to think that Valdemar was in league with George Williams.

“It is time to face their misdeeds—to learn what the Dupin family did to earn the eternal enmity of the Valdemar family.”

Before I could say a word, Dupin ran back from whence we had come, lantern in hand, abandoning me to the treacherous darkness.

With shaking hands I tried to strike a Lucifer match, but could not conquer the darkness. Fear accelerated my thoughts. Surely this was a ploy concocted by Williams to separate us and, astonishingly, he had succeeded—Dupin's obsession had endangered both our lives. At last a match caught and I touched it to the candle wick. The flame took hold and wavered in the hostile air. I did not know whether to follow Dupin or wait where I was and hope that I might find a way to rescue both of us.

It was then that I heard footsteps on the wooden stairs, or so it seemed. I crept along the corridor, making my way toward the center of the catacombs, looking for a shadow that might indicate Williams's presence or that of an accomplice. Every sound was amplified ten-fold and seemed to be coming from several directions at once. I could not fathom if this was because of the structure of the catacombs or my quivering nerves. When I reached the end of a vault that provided a view of the staircase, I peered out, searching for Williams's lamplight, but there were only shadows before me. I listened for any sound that might reveal his location—or that of Dupin and the man who played at being Valdemar. As I waited, each muffled noise set me on edge until the tension became unbearable, and before I could stop myself, my thoughts became words.

“Williams, are you there? Williams?”

There was a scrabbling sound behind me, and I whirled to face it. Candlelight shimmered across the walls, but I saw no one, heard no one. I moved east, away from the catacomb door, a peculiar desperation arising within me. “Or perhaps it is Monsieur Valdemar?”

A voice somewhere to my left, in another vault, stilled my feet. “You were correct the first time, Mr. Poe. Well done. It took you some time, but you arrived at the truth. Monsieur Valdemar is not here. Your friend Dupin should take caution. It is often what we cannot see that poses the greatest threat to us.”

That thought was indeed foremost in my mind, for I still could not fathom where my nemesis was situated.

“Show yourself, Williams. Why play the coward?”

His poisonous laugh echoed in the darkness, circled me, taunted me. “I am not the player, Mr. Poe—although it has been said that all men and women are merely that. Truly it was the Arnolds who played many parts.”

“As have you during our brief acquaintance—a scrivener and ballad seller, a professor at the seance, a literary critic at my reading and now Valdemar. Why the disguises, why the riddles? What is it you want, Mr. Williams? An apology for the actions of my forebears? If so, I gladly grant you that, but surely you cannot blame me for your father's troubles.”

The air went thick and dead with silence. Ghostly fingers slid over my skin—I could
feel
my enemy's presence but could neither see nor hear him. I inched my way to the next vault, but found only caskets and empty loculi.

“I was not yet born when he was incarcerated,” I said to the darkness, my voice quivering like a candle flame.

A serpent-tongued breeze licked the back of my neck as Williams's voice slithered into my ear: “Fine words from a man whose grandmother relied on disguise and whose lies sent an innocent man to Newgate in her stead.”

I whirled to grab onto him, but he was not there. I must have gasped my frustration as his laugh—or the Devil's—echoed from another vault.

“If what you say is true, I am certain she regretted her action.”

“I fear I know much more of that than you do, Mr. Poe, and your presumption has no basis in truth.”

“How can you know that? Surely you never met my grandmother and cannot know what she thought,” I said desperately.

“Charleston. The twentieth of July 1798. Precisely forty-two years ago—quite uncanny, one might say. Or fated.”

My heart stilled. Charleston—where my grandmother last performed. Where she was last seen and where she purportedly died. “Explain yourself, Williams.”

“The guilty die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, on account of sins they dare not reveal.” Williams's voice came from behind me and I whirled, flinging lantern light in a circle around me, but there was no one there. I turned again, backing my way down the vault's corridor, swaying my lantern left and right, its weak beam barely disturbing the shadows that pressed in upon me. Despite the cool air, perspiration trickled down my back. Williams seemed everywhere and nowhere at once.

“I am sorry for how your father and your family suffered, but tormenting me will not erase the past. I—”