My Clockwork Muse (17 page)

With the pepperbox revolver in one pocket and
plenty of ammunition for it in the other, I left the gun seller
behind and made my way down the street to the chemist's shop.
Having passed the place on my way from Burton's, it had put me in
mind of the laudanum vial stored in my desk drawer at the Fordham
cottage. I knew what I must do. And now, buoyed by the weight of
the multi-barreled revolver banging against my hip, I was not
afraid to do it.

The chemist came out from behind the counter
to wait on me. He was a thin, angular man with a prominent Adam's
apple, a bald head with a fringe of unkempt gray hair and long,
knuckly fingers. There was a reclusive, scholarly air about the
man—one A.G. Witherspoon, judging by the sign on his door.

Adopting an imperious manner, I took a quick
survey of the various powders and potions displayed on the shelves.
Then I broached the reason for my visit. I asked if it was possible
to divine the properties of a liquid from a sliver of hardened
syrup such as existed in my laudanum vial.

"I couldn't say precisely," the chemist
replied, looking at me suspiciously over the half-moons of his
pince-nez eyeglasses, "without first seeing the substance in
question. Why would you be wanting to know? Is it of some vital
importance—"

"Of vital importance to
me
, yes," I
said. Spying an open door behind the man, I craned my neck to see
into the darkened room beyond. The brass barrel of a microscope
gleamed at me dully from a table within. "Ah," I said, moving
around the counter towards the open door. "And you would conduct
your investigation here, I suppose?"

"Investigation?" The man stood in alarm and
followed quickly on my heels. "What is this? Who do you think you
are that you simply—?"

I turned. "Inspector Auguste Dupin, of the
New York City Police," I declared hotly. "And, yes, the substance
in question is indeed of vital importance, having been used in the
commission of a crime, sir. A crime of the most heinous nature," I
added.

The chemist straightened abruptly. As at the
boarding house, it was the Imp of the Perverse who advised my
actions now. I found that I enjoyed the chemist's sudden enthusiasm
as much as I enjoyed the irony of my masquerade.

At once, the man scurried to the nearest lamp
and lit it, brightening the room. He glanced furtively through a
crack in the door before turning back to me.

"A heinous crime, you say? Murder, by
chance?"

"Of the most vicious sort," I confided to
him.

"And this substance is a poison then, I take
it?"

"Perhaps. But I can divulge no more. I must
only know if you can ascertain its properties."

He assured me he could. He then directed my
attention to all of his various mortars and pestles and his racks
of powders and solutions of all sorts. He enthusiastically led me
to observe some substance in his microscope—newly arrived from
England, he said—as he informed me of the material's structure and
properties.

"Oh, you'll know what the stuff is, Inspector
Dupin," the chemist assured me proudly when he had finished his
demonstration. "By the time I'm through with it, you will have your
substance, without a doubt."

I only wanted him to remember me when I
returned the next day with the vial. I had a feeling he would not
forget. In fact, I had a feeling he might not be able to sleep that
night.

Rest would not come easily for either of us,
for it occurred to me now that retrieving the vial might not be as
simple a matter as it seemed. Gessler was no doubt looking for me
and would expect me to return to the cottage. But I had no choice.
The vial was perhaps the only piece of exculpatory evidence I had.
I would just have to make sure I was not seen. Or if I was—Well, at
least the pepperbox revolver in my pocket offered me a little
solace.

I just hoped I wouldn't have to use it.

When I got off the train in Fordham, I walked
the couple of miles towards my cottage, but ducked behind a bush
when I reached the familiar fork in the road, deciding at once to
take detour from my usual route. I knew I could not approach the
place directly, so I decided to cut through the churchyard and
enter by the back. When I got to within sight of the house, I found
a shadow behind a twisted black oak and concealed myself in it.
From there, I could observe the place unseen by any who might have
been watching for me.

But as I peered out from behind the trunk, I
noticed nothing out of the ordinary. The cottage looked to be as I
had left it and I could find no hiding place from where Gessler's
agents could spy the house unobserved by me.

Satisfied, I was about to push myself away
from the tree when I felt something brush my ankle. With a start, I
looked down and saw that it was Pluto. I wondered immediately what
mischief he had planned for me. I braced myself against his
inevitable lunge at my face, but he did no such thing. Instead, he
padded back and forth around and between my legs, arching his back
and purring loudly.

I found the cat's behavior baffling. I had
grown accustomed to the single-mindedness with which he usually
plotted my destruction. If his thirst for revenge had not been so
painful and frightening, I might even have admired him for his
unwavering dedication. Pluto wanted nothing less than justice—and I
couldn't say I blamed him.

But he was obviously of two minds now,
alternating between his desire to snatch my eye as I had cruelly
snatched his and his unaccountable displays of feline tenderness. I
did not know which was worse. The one filled me with dread while
the other filled me with guilt. I almost hoped that this purring
kitty was not Pluto at all, but some neighborhood cat who had
wandered away from his master. But when he gazed up at me, I saw
that he did so out of a single big yellow eye. Where the other
should have been there was nothing but a black hole.

I felt full of remorse and opened my arms to
him. This was, after all, Virginia's loving kitty. Perhaps I was
forgiven. But when he saw my hands coming towards him, Pluto darted
off under a bush and I saw him no more.

When he was gone, I turned my attention back
to the house. Although I was reasonably certain by now that I was
not being watched, I still did not feel safe to approach the
cottage openly. So once I had crept through the churchyard
gate—being careful to muffle the screeching of the iron hinges—I
dashed from tree trunk to bush to trunk to house, utilizing
whatever cover was available along my path. This, coupled with the
deepening shadows of the day, ensured that I arrived undetected. I
ducked under the kitchen window and, crouching there, waited,
listening.

Suddenly, there came a clatter from inside.
Someone was there.

Cautiously, I raised my head until my eyes
were just barely above the window sill. Then I looked inside. An
overturned wash basin lay on the floor, accounting for the noise.
Somehow, it must have fallen. I certainly did not remember in what
manner I had left it. Perhaps it had been perched precariously on
the edge of the table and had only now found reason to fall due to
some natural inevitability.

"Yeah, right..."

That was Tap's voice. The damned bird was in
my head. But he was right.
Natural inevitability, my
ass.

I ducked back down and began fumbling at my
pocket. I drew my revolver, checked to make sure it was loaded and
carefully peered in again.

But I saw nothing more—an empty room with an
overturned basin on the floor. Basins do not just fall, I told
myself.

Gessler!

I crouched, glad that I had the revolver.
Gessler knew I would come back. Already suspecting me of having
revisited the scene of the Amontillado murder to destroy evidence,
perhaps he had even left the laudanum vial and torn label behind
intentionally to bait me into returning here, a move he would soon
regret.
Poe will have the last laugh,
I thought. I cocked
the hammer and duck-walked to the door, spinning on my heel to put
myself beyond the door frame and within reach of the knob. Finding
it locked, I fished in my pocket for the key. After some awkward
fumbling, I found it and unlocked the door. I then turned the knob
carefully, disengaging the bolt with scarcely an audible click.

I gently pushed the door open, waited a
heartbeat, and then threw myself inside, rolling on my shoulder and
alighting in a kneeling position, gun poised. I swung the barrel to
the left and then the right, ready to fire at any threat. But none
materialized. I aimed at all points of an empty room. There was no
movement but lazy motes of dust drifting through the bars of
sunlight that slanted through the front windows.

I rose, feeling more annoyed than
embarrassed.
Why shouldn't I be cautious?
I argued. I once
again became aware of my throbbing temples. I found the basin on
the floor, stooped and picked it up. I gave it a cursory
inspection, as if I half-expected to find some mark that might
offer a clue as to how it had fallen. Finding none, however, I
replaced the basin on the table without further thought.

That still left the rest of the house. With
my arm bent at the elbow, I held the pepperbox upright at my
shoulder. Just because no one had been awaiting me at the door,
didn't mean the house was empty. I jerked my head around the wall
between kitchen and sitting room, and then finally relaxed when I
saw no one there. I put the pistol in my pocket and made my way to
the desk where I had left the laudanum vial.

Tap had not exaggerated. His handiwork was
all over the drawer handle. A huge white glob was piled atop it
like a little snow drift, with white streaks spilling down the
front of the desk and onto the floor. My feeling of love for Tap
had diminished substantially by this time, I had to admit, replaced
by a feeling of disgust and horror at the sheer prodigiousness of
his deposit. Placing my fingers just so, I pinched the befouled
handle and pulled the drawer open, giving an involuntary shudder at
the proximity of Tap's "love dump" to my bare skin.

Inside, I found what Tap had saved for me and
I warmed to him once again. I scooped out the laudanum vial—knowing
now that my chemist friend would soon divine its secrets—as well as
the sheet of
L
's and the damning torn label. I stuffed them
all into my pocket. As soon as I did, I felt the air go out of me
and I fell slumped into the chair.

Though I could not clearly define it, I felt
I had completed the first step of some grim task. I sat with my
head in my hands. Anxiety and fear had kept my demons at bay, but
now in my relief they began to assail me anew.

I did not know how long I dared stay. If I
had not encountered Gessler now, I feared I soon would. Perhaps his
men watched the house at regular intervals and I had merely chanced
to arrive between patrols.

Thus, I knew that every minute I lingered was
a minute borrowed from the moment of my discovery. Yet I felt I had
not the strength to continue. Not today. I had been constantly on
the move since Gessler had dragged me into the Amontillado affair.
A few minutes of rest was not too much to ask, I counseled myself.
What would it hurt to lie in my own bed—at least until the deepest
of my melancholy passed?

Feeling weary as well as morose, I stood and
made my way to the bedroom door. I had no more than laid my hand on
the knob, however, when I was overcome with a sudden impulse to
wait. Was it a sound from inside? Or mere intuition? The knob was
cold in my palm as I listened.

Faintly, I heard a sound like the rustling of
bed sheets from behind the door.

Bed sheets?

Yes! As though someone had flung aside the
covers. There could be no mistaking it. Someone had just risen from
my bed!

The hairs on my arms stood on end. I had not
thought to check the bedroom. Now a picture formed in my mind.
Having heard me approaching the back door, the intruder had dashed
through the kitchen, toppling the basin in his haste, and had
concealed himself in my bedroom. My hand recoiled from the knob as
if it were some repulsive thing I had mistakenly grasped in the
blackness of the night. I was shaking as I reached for my
revolver.

I pressed my ear to the door and stood
listening, wide-eyed. In a moment, the sound of a soft footfall
reached my ear.

Having risen from the bed, the thing now took
a step towards the door.

Thing, I say, because I realized that if it
were Gessler's man, why had he not just arrested me already? Why
conceal himself?

My mind raced. What form of being had lain
upon my bed and now stood, I was certain, just inches from my face?
When I flung open the door, what would I see? Burton, dead again,
his swollen tongue protruding between blackening lips?

"Who's there?" I called, my voice tremulous
despite my best efforts. I pulled back the hammer on my pistol,
making no attempt to conceal the audible click. "I am armed," I
warned in case the thing on the other side of the door did not
understand the meaning of the sound.

But there was no reply.

I turned the knob, waited for a moment, and
then threw open the door. Amid a piercing yowl, a black shape
leaped at me, striking my face. Thrown off-balance by the attack, I
whirled on my heel and the air was rent with the crack of my pistol
shot. Plaster dropped from the ceiling in a cloud as my eyes found
the shape of my attacker, a black cat, racing across the floor. The
thing stopped and turned, baring its sharp white teeth, hissing—and
glaring at me through a single big yellow eye.

Pluto!

I had had enough. I cocked my pistol, but the
damned thing had the sense to scamper away out of my sight before I
could pull the trigger and end my torment once and for all.