Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (6 page)

I was filled with gratitude. Solving the mystery of the box of letters was the primary reason for my journey, but I had two additional aspirations for my visit to London, my childhood home. I had written to an author whose work I had greatly admired when I reviewed it for the
Southern Literary Messenger
and more recently for
Burton's Gentleman's Magazine
, a man whose newest effort,
Nicholas Nickleby
, was his best—superlative praise indeed. From his tales I felt him to be a kindred spirit and expressed my hope that Mr. Charles Dickens's schedule would allow for a meeting. I enclosed a copy of my
Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque
with my letter and put my position to him honestly: I wished to find a publisher in England and his assistance in this would put me forever in his debt. If the opportunity to read some of my own tales to a London audience arose, or perhaps to give a lecture on the art of composition or
literary criticism, I would be highly gratified to do so. It seemed from the newspaper announcement, which Mr. Dickens had surely placed, that the honorable man was advancing my cause in a careful and delicate manner. I could now look forward to receiving some communication from Mr. Dickens with details of this lecture.

I finished my tea and rose to my feet feeling invigorated. I would write my daily letter to Sissy, have a perambulation in Green Park, and return well before eleven so I might collect myself before meeting Dupin. Perhaps correspondence from Mr. Dickens would be awaiting me at that time.

* * *

My walk in Green Park did much to revive me, but my hopes of hearing from Mr. Dickens were dashed when I re-entered Brown's. I retrieved Mrs. Allan's letter from my room, then made my way to Dupin's chambers. The welcome smell of coffee greeted me as my friend opened the door.

“I hope you are feeling rested, Poe. The coffee is very good here—a fine restorative. Shall I pour you some?”

“Please. And here is the letter from Mrs. Allan that you requested.”

“Excellent.”

Dupin placed it on top of the other letters, which were stacked neatly on the octagonal table next to the mahogany box. We settled ourselves into the armchairs and sipped at the coffee for several minutes before Dupin spoke. Many would find his lengthy pondering silences unnerving, but I was familiar with his eccentric manners and took no offense.

“The first question you would like answered is whether the letters are a hoax,” he said, while staring into his coffee cup, as if some vision there had mesmerized him.

“Yes, that would seem the correct place to begin.”

“To elaborate, you wonder if the crimes referred to are fabricated and if the signatures on the letters are forgeries.”

“Indeed. Everything about the letters is a mystery to me. I undertook some research in Philadelphia, but discovered nothing relevant. Perhaps the truth is to be found only in London, where the crimes allegedly took place.”

Dupin nodded. “As you know from our time together in Paris, I have conducted an extensive study of the science of autography, building on the early research of Camillo Baldo, which indisputably demonstrates that no one person writes like another and that character is revealed through his chirology.”

“Your research is of great interest to me, and I confess that I have dabbled in the subject myself.”

“Very good. I would like to conduct an experiment if you are willing.”

“Of course, I am perfectly willing,” I replied.

Dupin retreated to another room and returned moments later carrying a portable writing desk, which he placed on the table in front of me. It was a fine piece made of ebony, inlaid with tortoise shell and brass. He lifted the upper lid and exposed a mahogany compartment complete with stationery, two inkwells, pounce holder, pens and other writing utensils. The front panel opened to reveal a leather writing surface, upon which Dupin placed a sheet of excellent paper—stout yet soft, with gilt edges.

“If you would oblige me with the following—please write your usual signature and today's date.” After I had finished he said, “Now please write out the names Elizabeth Arnold and Henry Arnold and the year 1788.”

When I had completed my task, Dupin placed two of the antique letters and the missive from Mrs. Allan that had
accompanied my legacy next to the signatures I had just penned. He studied the four pieces of paper carefully.

“Interesting, a most interesting case. Look here at the ‘E' and the A' in your signature. Now consider the ‘E' and A of Elizabeth Arnold's signature.” Dupin held the two names side by side. “Quite a similarity between the construction of your characters and Elizabeth Arnold's.”

I felt my face flush. “Sir, you are not suggesting that I am the true author of Elizabeth Arnold's letters?”

Dupin looked amused at my discomfiture. “Do not jump to conclusions. I am merely indicating a certain likeness of style.” He indicated my attempts to write the Arnolds' names. “We can see here that your efforts are very different to the genuine signatures. Further, it is obvious to even the untrained eye that the paper of these letters is far older than that of your letter to me.”

“But the age of the paper does not guarantee the letters' authenticity,” I suggested.

“No, it does not, but let us examine the letters more precisely. Through the science of autography, we are able to learn much about an author's character as revealed through his or her handwriting.” Dupin indicated my letter to him. “The paper on which you wrote to me is excellent, the seal red. This indicates the refined taste of the author. The penmanship is highly legible and the punctuation is faultless. The lines are at proper intervals and perfectly straight. There are no superfluous flourishes and there is an air of deliberate precision to the writing, a mingled solidity and grace that speaks of the scholar.”

I felt obliged to protest Dupin's flattery, but he waved his hand to silence me.

“Consider Elizabeth Arnold's letter. The paper is good, the seal small—of green wax—and without impression. This penmanship is quite different. The characters are well-sized,
distinct and elegantly but not ostentatiously formed. The paper has a clean appearance, and she is scrupulously attentive to the margin. The t's are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the pen. While the letter is written with a very good running hand, the lines are not straight. One would suppose it written in a violent hurry. The whole air of the letter is dictatorial, but still sufficiently feminine. There is a good deal of spirit and some force.”

“And Henry Arnold's letter?”

“Quite a different character. The writing has an air of swagger about it and would seem to indicate a mind without settled aims, restless and full of activity. The characters are bold, large, sprawling and frequently impaired by an undue straining after effect, but by no means illegible. There are too many dashes and the tails of the long letters are too long. Few of the characters are written twice in the same manner, and their direction varies continually. Sometimes the words lie perpendicularly on the page, then slope to the right, then fly off in an opposite way. The thickness of the characters is also changeable—sometimes very light and fine, sometimes excessively heavy. It would require no great stretch of fancy to imagine the writer to be a man of unbounded ambition, greatly interfered with by frequent moods of doubt and depression, and by unsettled ideas of the beautiful.”

This interpretation did not surprise me when I remembered the content of the letters.

“And now we must consider the letter written by Mrs. Allan.” Dupin picked up the folded paper and laid it flat before us. As he studied it, a frown settled between his brows. “You say this note accompanied the box of letters?”

“Yes, most assuredly.”

“You are certain that Mrs. Allan composed it or you presume so?”

“Well, of course I must presume so.” Dupin's frown deepened, so I elaborated. “I have never exchanged letters with my Pa's wife as she did not deign to respond to anything I sent her. Her lawyer communicated with me about my disinheritance.”

Dupin nodded, a satisfied expression on his face.

“Why do you ask? Do you suspect that the letter is not from Mrs. Allan?”

“Do you?” Dupin puffed on his cigar and studied me, which lent the uncomfortable sensation of being on trial.

“No, why would I? Does the handwriting indicate that someone else penned it? What does the handwriting suggest of Mrs. Allan's character?” I hastily added before Dupin could counter my question with one of his own.

He scanned the page again. “The author seems to take pains with her handwriting—the letters are well-formed, every ‘t' is crossed, every ‘i' dotted, the punctuation is very precise and there is a sense of uniformity throughout. This suggests a methodical, determined character with a steadiness of purpose. An autocratic air pervades the whole, however, and the sharpness of the upstrokes and the downstrokes indicates a vengeful nature. The flourishes, which are not many, seem deliberately planned and firmly executed, as if the author is consciously presenting a cultured façade to the world. The paper is very good and the seal is gold, which adds to this illusion of cultivation. And while the handwriting has a pleasing overall appearance, it differs from that of her sex in general by an air of great force and its lack of feminine delicacy.”

“I must say that this description of Mrs. Allan is more than accurate. I am astonished how much of her character you are able to fathom with the aid of such a short text.”

Dupin narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing as he looked carefully at each letter again before setting them down upon the table. “Of course we must also reflect on the
similarities between elements of your handwriting and that of Elizabeth Arnold's. What secrets might this hold?” Dupin scrutinized my face as if it were handwriting on the page.

My desire to escape Dupin's questions overwhelmed me. “I am sorry, but I suddenly feel most unwell. I must either retire to my bed or seek air to refresh me.”

Dupin gently placed his fingertips upon the letters before him and adjusted them into a perfect line. “I would advise fresh air,” he said. “Perhaps you should visit the haunts of your youth, those associated with happier times. It is all too common to be held captive by one's own darker thoughts, and too much solitary contemplation leads one down the path toward madness.” I felt my hackles rise at Dupin's unflattering words, but he continued before I could speak. “Your company in Paris saved me from myself, Poe. I did not like to admit it then, but I see it now. I trust you will allow me to return the favor. You were truthful with me then, and I hope you will always do me the honor of such candor.”

No suitable response came to me, so I simply nodded.

“I have research I can pursue for the remainder of the day,” Dupin continued. “Might we meet again this evening with refreshed minds? At eight o'clock at the Smyrna Coffee House in St. James's?”

“Very good. Thank you, Dupin.”

He shrugged away my thanks. “May I keep the letters for now? I would like to study the details of the crimes.”

“Of course.” I left Dupin's rooms, already knowing what my destination would be that afternoon. I would walk to Bloomsbury parish where my Pa had rented apartments for our family more than twenty years previously. I had long been curious to see the place again.

* * *

The desk clerk that morning was a middle-aged man who was immaculately dressed but of dour demeanor. While I had the fanciful notion that my feet would guide me to my childhood home, I asked him for guidance in finding my destination and also some shops where I might purchase some charming fripperies for my wife and mother-in-law. The fellow was left-handed and held his pen at an awkward angle to avoid dragging his hand through the ink, but the map was elegantly drawn and noted several purveyors of ladies' finery.

I left Brown's Genteel Inn, map in hand, using my umbrella as a walking stick, and made my way down Dover Street to Piccadilly and on through Burlington Arcade, which had an array of wonderful shops. I was particularly captivated by window displays that ingeniously promoted the virtues of the products sold within. The hatters, for example, had a pair of scales in the window to prove the lightness of a hat and a glass globe filled with water in which a hat was placed to demonstrate its superior waterproofing. But it was on Oxford Street that I saw a window display that stilled my breath. A company of varying ages—three gentlemen, four ladies and three children—dressed in elegant mourning costumes, stood solemnly before an ornate casket decorated with a large immortelle wreath of porcelain lilies. This
tableau vivant
proved to be an illusion when a window dresser stepped amongst the wax figures to make adjustments to their funereal accouterments—black kidskin gloves, sober hats, necklaces of jet. I hurried away, determined to shake off the gloom that had descended upon me. I would look for gifts on the way back to Brown's.

My mood lightened again as I neared High Holborn, which was lively with a variety of pedestrians: coal-men delivering small barrows of coal to houses; girls carrying baskets upon their heads containing fresh vegetables and herbs for sale; men hurrying toward their places of employment; and women
attending to the purchase of household necessities in the shops. A milkmaid wearing a yoke to carry her wares shouted “Milk!” at each person she wandered past, with little strategy and even less success in terms of selling her load. The distinctive sound of horse hooves on cobbles mixed with the rattle of the coaches, and the shouted commands of their drivers added to the bustle of this busy thoroughfare. Two men armed with shovels roved the area, collecting the manure deposited in copious amounts by the carriage horses. Straw was scattered on the walkways and in front of shops to aid the absorption of the previous night's rain, the mud and other less pleasant effluvia, but it did little to alleviate the stink, which was pungent as old meat and amplified to a terrible degree. I soon wished that I had doused my handkerchief with cologne.