Not Quite Dead (15 page)

I had not experienced such an intense sensation in my life—though, as you know, I was a married man. The sad fact was that, in Southern American society, the few circumstances in which a man might meet a woman who was neither servant nor relative—church functions, family gatherings, afternoon teas contrived for the purpose—were purposely arranged to keep ardent feelings to a minimum.

Under such a constriction of opportunity, courtship becomes a process of elimination more than attraction. No wonder that so many men, like Eddie, married their cousins. As for womankind, no doubt this explains the popularity of romance novels, in which a couple’s passion for one another is paramount—delicious, because it so rarely happens in life.

I chose a woman who possessed every quality one could possibly wish for in a spouse, with one exception. She was taller than me. A good deal taller. The resulting awkwardness became self-perpetuating; it spread into other areas, and gave our private life a tentative wariness neither of us knew how to acknowledge, let alone cure.

I readily admit to a smallness of spirit throughout my marriage. I am mortified that I was not able to overcome my own squeamishness at this superficial difference. Yet I believe I am not the only
man susceptible to arbitrary physical tastes and aversions when it comes to the opposite sex.

In my mind, sexual congress with my wife was like fighting my way through a jungle of arms and legs. This struggle—and it was a struggle—combined with the normally embarrassing aspects of physical intimacy, which resulted in a relatively chaste marriage. (But not quite chaste enough, unfortunately for her.)

Likewise I suspect that there was something about my form or behavior that my late wife could never quite get over, something seemingly trivial that would have embarrassed her beyond measure were it brought into the open. I wonder if it was my smell—for there does exist a doctor’s smell, and it cannot be entirely pleasant. Or it could have been something as simple as the sight of my hands, an inability to entirely banish the thought of where they had been. Or perhaps my baldness put her off. Once you begin to make a list, there is really no end to it.

In any event, seated in the Exchange Hotel, I had no precedent for the quickening heartbeat, the roaring in the ears, the rush of blood causing the cheeks to redden, the involuntary and unwelcome tumescence of the loins, the signals of genuine desire—over tea.

What could account for it? I wondered, while liquid sloshed over the rim of my trembling cup. Certainly not her accent—though I found it familiar enough. Nor was I stimulated by her conversation, which seemed strangely elliptical, as though even a comment on the weather contained a second, unspecified meaning.

It might have been her eyes. She possessed floating irises, in which the whites are visible beneath the iris. Common practice has it that such a gaze indicates a spiritually turbulent nature. To the object of her gaze, she somehow gave the impression that she could see my thoughts—a most unsettling idea, in this instance.

My unanticipated passion for Elmira Royster rendered it doubly difficult for me to approach the issue at hand—to wit, that the cadaver in the coffin was not Edgar Allan Poe. It was inconceivable that she did not know this, having wandered the graveyard with him only days before. Yet she had gazed into the coffin with complete equanimity, commenting on Eddie’s fine appearance, while looking directly at me.

Perhaps it was not the man in the coffin she meant to describe as
looking so well, but the man who had escaped it. Perhaps it was not his appearance, but his disappearance that had pleased her.

All of which assumed that I was in my right mind at the time. Having had little sleep, I was now open to the possibility that it was indeed Eddie Poe we buried—that the substitution had itself been a dream.

“It is unseasonably cold for the time of year,” I said, putting a toe into conversational water, however inane.

“It is evah so much colder than in Richmond,” she replied, elongating her James River vowels. “I worried that I might not have sufficient clothing.”

“Always wise to avoid a chill,” I agreed, unnerved by the notion of insufficient clothing.

“Chill rhymes with kill, and a grave to fill,” she replied. “That might make a handy rule in instructing children.”

“Instructing them about what, ma’am?”

“About life and death, suh.”

I nodded thoughtfully and sipped my tea. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Her accent had begun to unnerve me; I had no wish to revisit longings that had tormented me as a young man.

“Rhymes,” she continued, “are evah so much more pleasant than spelling things out, don’t you think?”

My heart sank. Another poetic sensibility.

“Miz. Royster, I mean Shelton, may I say that I was very surprised to see you at the burial of our mutual friend Eddie Poe.”

“Yes, you might say that—in fact, you said the same thing in your note. You are repeating yourself, suh,” she said, toying with the silver spoon in her fingers.

“May I ask how you came to be at the ceremony?”

“No, you mayn’t, suh.”

“Then might I ask why you refuse to tell me?” I asked, cursing her elusiveness, throbbing with desire.

“Dr. Chivahs, do you believe it possible for information to travel between two souls, without the use of the five senses?”

“Certainly, ma’am, if the information has already been agreed upon, as at seances and carnival acts.”

“Then there is scarcely a point in my telling you.”

“Are you suggesting that you arrived at the cemetery by occult means?”

“Do you mean did I ride astride a broomstick?”

“No, ma’am, that is not at all what I meant.” I could feel my teeth grinding together. Despite my passion I was beginning to find Elmira Royster a most irritating woman.

“I went because Eddie asked me to. That is rightly all I can tell you.” She sipped her tea, smiling to herself as though a third person had said something amusing.

The conversation continued in this maddeningly oblique fashion until the teapot was empty and my mind had nearly snapped under the strain. It would not be the first time such damage inflicted itself upon me in the presence of Elmira Royster.

“Miz Royster, I mean Shelton, I am going to be utterly frank with you, at the risk of my reputation, my occupation, my freedom— everything I possess. I beg you to answer one question in a straightforward manner. My life depends upon it.”

“Tell me, suh, why do you persist in calling me by my maiden name?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I suppose it is a trick of memory, and feeling.”

“Dr. Chivahs, I am right shocked by the, the
passion
in your face. It is well-nigh indecent.”

“Forgive me, ma’am, but for heaven’s sake tell me—when you opened the casket,
what did you see?”

She thought about this, or appeared to. “Dr. Chivahs, as a professional man, do you believe in life after death?”

“Certainly, if you mean the life of maggots and worms.”

“And what is your opinion of the spirit?”

“I know nothing about the spirit, but believe it is a much-abused word.”

“Then you cannot possibly understand when I tell you. Yet I shall. When I opened the casket, I saw Eddie Poe.”

“But it was not! You know it was not Edgar Allan Poe in that coffin! You know this!”

“Dr. Chivahs, I must ask you to kindly lower your voice.”

Indeed, she was correct. Other patrons had turned their heads in our direction, birdlike and in unison.

I leaned forward and repeated my request in an urgent whisper. “Miz Shelton, I am in possession of a pocket pistol, and I swear to
you that I will shoot myself here at this table if you do not answer one question with a simple, direct answer.”

“You have a pistol, suh? Let me see it.”

“I will not,” I replied, feebly, for of course I had none. It was the first time since I was a child that a woman had bested me in a discussion.

“Dr. Chivahs, please understand that I do not like threats, especially empty ones. What is your question?”

“What is your relation with Edgar Allan Poe?”

“He is my fiancé. We are engaged.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Philadelphia

N
ever having entered the offices of a publisher before, Shad-duck was surprised how friendly and homey it all seemed, like an expensively appointed den, where deep thoughts were shared and everybody understood Greek. It had a pleasant messiness, a what-the-hell quality, papers strewn everywhere, as though an editor had become overstimulated and had run amok.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said to the tanned, tidy gentleman behind the desk. “I am Inspector Shadduck. I reckon you know what it is about. You are Mr. Topham’s secretary?”

“No. I am his partner,” the gentleman replied, without a hint of displeasure, rising from his desk. “Bailey is my name.”

“Bailey—of Topham and Lea?”

“That is correct, sah.” Not a hint of irony as the gentleman rose from behind the desk and extended his hand.

“My condolences to you,” said the inspector, “over the demotion, the demise of your employer. “Mr. Topham was a mighty fine gentleman, I’m told.”

“Indeed, sah. He was like a father to me.” Mr. Bailey paused to light a cheroot. His hand shook as he did so.

“You seem jumpy, sir,” said Shadduck. “You seem all in a lather.”

“I am not in a lather, Inspector. I am tired and bereaved. It has been a vexatious week.”

“I understand you, sir. Any feller in your position would feel peevish. Tell me, Mr. Bailey, are you sensible of anyone with the demency to do such a thing? Was an old malice harrowed up in recent times? Mr. Topham in a scrape—any tattle of that sort?”

“Mr. Topham was universally respected. A giant in the publishing field. He was in the forefront of American letters. I weep for the culture of America, sah, with Mr. Topham no longer on this earth.” Mr. Bailey exhaled a pensive gust of smoke.

“High praise for certain,” said the inspector, glancing about the room. “And I see, both here and in his residence, that he had powerful taste in art as well. Of the sort that might be seen in the National Gallery—
is
in the National Gallery, last time I heard tell.”

Shadduck abruptly turned so that he might catch the man’s reaction, but Mr. Bailey did not flinch; just a glint of alertness in the eye, enough to suggest that he knew of what Shadduck spoke, that he was not unaware of Mr. Topham’s various illicit activities. And so his praise of the man was all humbug.

“Yes, sah,” said Mr. Bailey, all too smoothly. “I believe Mr. Topham’s collection is—was—second to none in the county.”

“And all fraudulent for certain. Like yourself, sir, I am sorry to say.”

Though he had never particularly enjoyed it, Shadduck knew how to dress down a man, take his story apart, stick in the knife, and get what he needed. A distasteful but necessary technique, one of many such in wartime, when dealing with civilians.

“I beg your pardon, sah,” said Bailey, and Shadduck noticed that his high forehead now shone in the light from the window. “You have lost me there.”

“Let us get a thing straight out, Mr. Bailey. You are of the Negro persuasion, are you not?”

A long pause followed, which the inspector filled by examining the titles on the display table. He wondered what it might feel like, if all the information that lurked within these books were imprinted upon his brain. Would he be better off? Would he be any the wiser? “I have heard of Mr. Poe and Mr. Dickens,” he continued. “‘The Raven,’ I read for certain. Just saying the word
Nevermore
is enough to frighten children nowadays.”

“True,” said Mr. Bailey in a sad whisper that told Shadduck he had him by the ball bag. “They are the most well known among the general public. But they are not necessarily the best.”

“How do you know, sir? How do you know what is the best?”

“I cannot tell you, sah. I am only a poor black sambo.”

Another pause followed. Mr. Bailey remained perfectly still.

“There can’t be many men of color in the publishing business, sir,” said Shadduck. “Not even here in Philadelphy”

“That is true, sah.” Mr. Bailey leaned back in his chair and smoked his cheroot as though it would be his last, blowing smoke at the ceiling
with a half-smile of resignation. It occurred to Shadduck that the faces of Bailey’s ancestors formed that same expression when they glimpsed the slave ships gliding into the harbor.

The inspector resisted the temptation to cut the tension. If you wait long enough, everybody talks.

And he did.

“I was born on a farm near Easton, Maryland, sah. My mother was Harriet Bailey. My father I never met, but believe he was my master, Captain Aaron Anthony. When Mr. Anthony died, I was given to Mr. Auld, whose wife Lucretia broke the law by teaching me the letters of the alphabet. I escaped the plantation with a slave map disguised as a quilt. I obtained the identification papers of a free seaman. I came to Quaker City and was taken in by Quakers. I attended the Negro school on Ninth Street. And now I am here.” Mr. Bailey shrugged, as though none of it mattered now.

“Well done, sir. I will trouble you no further. Do not hesitate to look me up, if need be.”

“It seems I am at your mercy, sah. A Negro makes an excellent suspect when none else can be found.”

“We hope to do better in this case, sir.”

Outwardly calm but shiny with sweat, Mr. Bailey produced his pocket watch, looked at it, and put it to his ear. “I believe my watch has stopped, sah. Will you give a colored boy the time of day?”

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Baltimore

I
had never been so close to self-murder in my life—and I had been reasonably close, as you know. There I stood upon Kerr’s wharf with my father’s alligator bag in my hand, staring down at the slimy black water; my immediate plan involved a triple dosage of morphine, followed by a swim in Baltimore Harbor: The morphine would take care of the initial discomfort, and shock would take care of the rest.