The Blackest Bird (32 page)

Putnam’s mouth fell open. “God no,” he replied immediately. “Do you think that, sir? Does Harper? The death of Mary Rogers is a tragedy, sir, surely not a crime. And Mr. Poe’s involvement? What aspect possibly do you believe can his involvement take?”

“I ask you.”

Putnam made a noise deep in his throat, considering for several seconds before speaking.

“Mr. Poe has received inordinate public attention of late. I’ll grant you, not all of it in good light.” Putnam turned his soft white palms
upward in a gesture of supplication. “Mary Rogers was well loved. There was resentment directed at Mr. Poe that the two were at one time close. But that fell away. Poe was married after all. As far as I know, they had gone their separate ways. You are certainly aware of Mr. Poe’s recent arrival in New York from Philadelphia? The man has reputation as pure troublemaker, I’ll give you that. He is the most feared critic in the nation, taking on any and all comers. Many of his fiercest adversaries feel his vehemence stems simply from jealousy and pique. Knowing him the way I do, I am prone to agree. The only time it seems Mr. Poe has anything nice to say about anyone is when he needs something from them, me included: a job, money, a favorable review. The man is the consummate careerist, sir, there is no denying that. I regret to tell you he is only interested in himself. But, High Constable, if you are asking me if I believe him a murderer, the murderer of Mary Cecilia Rogers, I must say, No!”

I
n his younger days High Constable Jacob Hays nightly patrolled afoot the streets north to south from the Bayard Mount to Castle Garden, west to east from the North River to the East. The offices of Wiley & Putnam were located on Broadway at Cedar Street, five blocks below the leafy environs of City Hall Park. Hays undertook to walk his way back to the Tombs after leaving Putnam, thus vesting himself opportunity to exercise his lungs and air his mind.

Meanwhile, as quitting time grew nigh, a tribe of young clerks and steady old fellows emptied into the broad avenue and lesser lanes to mix with the porters, sweeps, and piemen, the coal-heavers, organ-grinders, umbrella makers, balladmongers, ragged artisans, and exhausted laborers of every description already crowding and jumbling the byways. Avoiding the press of them as all turned dark yet splendid in light spewed from the gas lamps, the high constable paused as he passed at the segar store where the unfortunate Mary Rogers had once been employed.

He was surprised when he stepped inside. Hays had not seen John Anderson for more than a few months. The proprietor, a relatively young man, certainly in comparison to the aged high constable, showed visible signs of having aged, and not well.

The tobacconist stood behind his counter, hunched over, shoulders stooped badly, transferring aromatic leaves from one canister to another. Seeing Hays, he immediately straightened up, but Hays signaled for him to continue with what he was doing, watching the gentleman silently for some minutes while he worked. Some pleasantries were exchanged after the completion of Anderson’s duties, before Hays eventually steered the conversation in an alternate direction: “Mr. Anderson, are you of the acquaintance of one Mr. Edgar Poe, a gentleman, I am given to believe, who has over the years patronized your establishment?”

Indeed the segar man did know Mr. Poe. “He stops by from time to time when he is in New York,” he told Hays. “More in the past than in the present, but plainly put, rarely has he money. Often another customer, taking pity on him, will buy him a sock of tobacco for his pipe, and he might sit with the others and talk their lofty literary talk, perhaps drink a mulled cider or port wine.”

“Would you know if Mr. Poe is presently in the city?”

“If he is, I am not aware,” Anderson replied.

“Let us say Mr. Poe
is
in the city.” Could Mr. Anderson venture where he might be found?

“No, I could not.”

“I see,” said Hays. “Mr. Anderson, as far as you have observed, does Mr. Poe get along with his fellows?”

Anderson shrugged. “With some. With others—no. Like any man.”

“With whom does he not get along?”

“I could not say in good conscience.”

“Understood. And with the late Miss Rogers, what was the nature of Mr. Poe’s interest in her, if any?”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed proportionally.

“Like the others. Everyone was enthralled by my Mary,” he said flatly.

“Mr. Anderson, did Mr. Poe ever make overture to Miss Rogers that you observed?”

Anderson flushed before addressing Hays’ question. To Hays the shopkeeper looked like he had swallowed a hard chaw of his own Solace tobacco, before admitting hesitantly there were times when he thought them close, but he could not remember specific instances. He concluded he would not be surprised if Poe had.

“Had what?”

“Been intimate with her. They were all trying to make their assignations with her. As a whole they are not such a likeable lot, these literary types. Such a beautiful girl. Such unpleasant, self-involved men.” He coughed wetly, a rather prolonged, grating jag. “A pity,” the tobacconist finally managed. Tears had brimmed in his eyes, Hays assessed, either from the violence of the gagging or merely mention of the man’s Mary.

As was the custom of the shop, there was a small coterie of gentlemen seated around the low-slung table in the rear partaking in their share of mulled cider and sharp yellow cheese. At some point, the bulk of James Gordon Bennett, of the
Herald
, emerged mightily from their midst.

“So you are back on the scent of Mary Rogers, High Constable?” Bennett said without endorsement of “Hello” or even “Excuse me.”

“I’m unhappy to tell you I’ve never left the pain of it, sir,” replied Hays. “Progress moves its own slow pace, Mr. Bennett.”

“I am embarrassed to admit that I have inadvertently overheard you mention to Mr. Anderson the name Poe. Is that the author Poe of whom you speak?” Obviously knowing full well it was. “Surely, sir, after all these years,” Bennett continued, “Mr. Poe is not implicated in some manner in this horrid case?”

“No, not implicated.” Hays returned Bennett’s oily smile. “I am simply making my inquiries. Is there something you would like to tell me, sir?”

“What could I tell you that you do not already know, High Constable? Let me see. Surely you are aware of Mr. Poe’s latest three efforts, all of which have set the sharp tongues of our local literati to wag. The
first is entitled ‘Thou Art the Man.’ The second, ‘The Oblong Box.’ Both, as I am sure you know, make rather perverse reference to the John Colt murder affair.”

A third story, Bennett added rather gleefully, “The Spectacles,” involved, according to him, some kind of demented affair of love and dalliance between a young man and his elderly mother. “Some acerbs are commenting it is not unlike the realm of reality in which Mr. Poe finds himself in real life: married to his child cousin, his own aunt his mother-in-law. Spurious rumors, surely unfounded, I hope, are that Mr. Poe has chosen to lay down with his own elderly blood relative,” Bennett finished.

Hays said he had heard nothing of such aspersions. “Who would level such charges?” he wondered.

“Who can say where rumors begin?” answered Bennett.

“Is there any other loose talk involving the author you need to share with me, Mr. Bennett?”

“Of Mr. Poe?” the editor spoke, making pause for dramatic effect, with little or no heed for any deprecatory tone he might himself have detected in the high constable’s voice. “I can tell you he is not well liked. I can tell you he is a drinker of some repute and a drug taker of equal repute. A womanizer who likes them young and dreamy, and a gentleman of somewhat inflated ego. Other than that … who can say, High Constable?” Bennett shrugged. “But I can tell you this: If you truly seek him of whom we speak, I know of a woman who may be able to help. As I recall, her name is Mrs. Mary Jenkins, and she was once fiancée to Mr. Poe back in his youth in Baltimore. Some years ago, you might recall, after the woeful John Colt breach against society, the confused Mr. Poe was found wandering the woods near this woman’s home in Jersey City, muttering of his love for Mary. If it was this Mary, Mrs. Jenkins, or some other Mary, an individual by happenchance sharing the same Christian name, say Mary Rogers, I am not the one prepared to say.”

J
ames Harper proved a man of his word. The next morning, following the meeting in his office in City Hall, in no way taking Hays by surprise but disappointing him, the high constable learned, indeed, his constabulary had been dissolved by the new mayor. Only Balboa remained for him, the one trusted soul left under Old Hays’ auspice to be sent forthwith on the ferry to Jersey City to ferret out Mrs. Mary Jenkins. Referring to the voter and taxation rolls, Hudson County justice of the peace Merritt provided Hays’ envoy with her address, informing him she lived near the north wood, and was married to a fellow who worked as a merchant tailor not far from the Wall Street countinghouses.

Balboa returned by the Courtland Street steam ferry with a woman aged approximately thirty years, fit and hale, with a healthy complexion to her, and rich, bright auburn-colored hair.

When she was escorted onto the prison floor, Hays stood, trying to be as affable as he might. He introduced himself, and told Mrs. Jenkins the purpose of her visit to him.

She half curtsied. “I have been informed what this is about,” she said. “Justice Merritt has spoken with me briefly, but as I told him, I
have no information to afford about Mr. Poe, and know not his whereabouts.”

Hays did not argue with her. He did remind her, “Mrs. Jenkins, good citizens, be they of the male gender or female, will tell the truth,” adding that he appreciated her cooperation and honesty. He apologized for inconveniencing her.

“How well do you know him?” he inquired.

“He was in love with me once, and I with him.”

“Forgive my intrusion on these personal matters, Mrs. Jenkins, but what happened?”

“It was when I lived in Baltimore,” she said. “My maiden name was Starr, but I was using the name Mary Devereaux in those days, imagining it romantic. I was just a young girl, seventeen. I had a friend, Mary Newman, who lived next door on Essex Street in Old Town. She was quite nice, and we used to love to sit on the stoops in front of our houses, with only the balustrade between us, and watch the world pass by. Edgar was living next to me at the Clemm house. I knew who he was. He was a young soldier, and a poet. His brother had written a tragic play about him and his love affair with a girl in Richmond called Elmira Royster, and it was the talk of the town. He cut quite a romantic figure for a young girl such as I. He spent his time in the third-floor attic writing and from my own back window I could see him at his desk composing. One day our eyes met, and he waved a white handkerchief at me. After that it became a frequent occurrence, waving our handkerchiefs, him at me or I at him, or blowing kisses back and forth, using our hands as rackets and the kisses our shuttlecocks. At one point he sent his little cousin Virginia, who at the time was a sweet schoolgirl, plump and hearty, no more than nine, to my house, requesting a lock of my hair. Of course, I never told Mary Newman any of this, but then one day we were sitting on our respective stoops, as I say, and all at once we both saw Eddie approaching from across the street. Mary asked me in a rushed whisper if I knew him. I lied and said no. ‘Why, that’s Edgar Poe!’ she said in a gush.
‘And who might Edgar Poe be?’ I asked. ‘He has recently come from West Point,’ she told me. ‘He writes poetry too. Why, I declare! Here he comes across the street. Oh! Isn’t he handsome!’”

Hays smiled. “My own daughter certainly thinks so,” he said. “She has been to several of his dramatic readings, and thinks him not only a stunning exemplar of this nation’s manhood, but also the possessor of a wonderful voice and manner.”

Mrs. Jenkins returned Hays’ smile. “To a young girl at the time, even more so. He said hello to Mary but sat down next to me, and immediately he began about my hair. I confess I swooned for it. He went on how I had the most beautiful head of hair he had ever seen. He said I had the hair poets always raved about. From that day on he visited me every evening for a year.”

“He must have been veritably smitten. If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Jenkins, how did he comport himself during that period?” Hays’ eyes shone with interest. “Was he affectionate?” he inquired.

“Affectionate, sir? He was so passionate in his love that most of my girlfriends were afraid of him and forsook me on his account. He made a great show of despising ignorant people and held no stock for trifling or small talk. He would say when he loved, he loved desperately, and I found this to be true.”

“I suspect things have not changed on his part.”

“To this I cannot vouch. I must say, though tender, he had a quick and passionate temper. He was very jealous. His feelings were always intense, and he had little control over them. He was not well balanced. These failings, in all likelihood, continue to this day. I often joked he had too much brain. But he saw nothing funny about it. He scoffed at everything sacred, and never went to church. He often lowered his voice and declared that there was a mystery hanging over him he never could fathom. He swore he believed wholeheartedly that he was born to suffer and this embittered his whole life. We were young and only thought of love. His darling little cousin Virginia always carried his notes to me. He repeatedly told me his favorite name was Mary.
My family was not in favor of him. When my brother heard Eddie was coming around so much, he took me aside and said, ‘You are not going to marry that man, Mary? I would rather see you in your grave than that man’s wife. He can’t support himself, let alone you.’ Being as romantic as Eddie, I replied that I would sooner live on a crust of bread with him than in a palace with any other man.”

“Was your brother furious at such response?”

“He most certainly was.”

“Please continue, madam. What happened?”

“Well, one day a gentleman came to the house and Eddie became very jealous of him. The man’s name was Mr. Morris. I can recall it as if it were yesterday. He was a friend of my father’s and he knew Eddie somewhat, and took pleasure to tease him by pretending intimacy with me and calling me by the familiar ‘Mary.’ Having surreptitiously learned Eddie’s favorite song was ‘Come, Rest in This Bosom,’ Mr. Morris asked me to sing it for him. The whole time I sang, Eddie paced the floor biting his nails. After Mr. Morris left, Eddie stayed. We quarreled. He stormed off, saying he would return. I waited for him, but he did not come. I cried, and then he appeared, drunk, the only time I ever saw him drunk in that year I knew him. He said he had been out walking and, while crossing the bridge, had run into some old friends, cadets from West Point, where he had once attended, and they had gone out to Barnum’s Hotel, where they had supper and champagne. I went and opened the door and sat on the stoop with him in the moonlight. We then quarreled further and I jumped up and ran around the house weeping and into the room where my mother was doing her sewing.

“‘Mary! Mary!’ she said. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

“Eddie had followed me into my mother’s room, and I was much frightened by his state of mind. My mother told me to go upstairs and I did so.

“Then Eddie said to my mother, ‘I want to talk to your daughter. If you don’t tell her to come downstairs, I will go up after her.’ My
mother was a tall woman, and she placed her back against the stairway door and told him outright, ‘You have no right; you cannot go upstairs.’

“Eddie answered, ‘I have every right. She is my wife in the sight of heaven!’”

Here Mary Jenkins shook her head, apparently half in disbelief, half in amusement. “Can you imagine?” she laughed, her eyes brimming, to Hays unclear whether from pleasure or pain.

She collected herself. “My mother had had enough,” she went on. “She scolded him, saying he had better go home and get to bed.”

“Did he do as your mother ordered?”

“He went away. After that I didn’t see him much. Frankly, I was lucky to get away from him. He was not a man of much principle, and valued the laws of neither man nor God. He was an atheist, and would just as soon have lived with a woman being married to her as not. I made narrow escape in not marrying him.”

“I suspect you might be right.”

“Oh, I know I am. After such a bitter quarrel I broke off all communication with him. He wrote me a letter, but I returned it unopened. He wrote again and again and then finally, against my better judgment, I opened his letter. He addressed me formally. ‘Dear Miss Devereaux,’ he wrote. He upbraided me in satiric terms for my heartless, unforgiving disposition. I showed the letter to my mother, who in turn showed it to my grandmother, who shared it with my Uncle James.

“As head of the family, my uncle was very indignant, and sent Eddie his own cutting letter, without my knowledge. At the same time, Eddie published in a Baltimore newspaper a poem of six or eight verses, entitled ‘To Mary.’ The poem was very severe and spoke of fickleness and inconstancy. All my friends and family saw it, and knew the verse was directed at me.

“Eddie was incensed by my uncle’s letter. He bought a cowhide and went to my uncle’s place of business and after a short conversation
struck him with this implement. My uncle was a man of over fifty years at the time. My aunt and cousins rushed to my uncle’s aid when they saw Eddie beating him, and in the struggle to defend my uncle tore Eddie’s black frock coat from collar to skirt at the back. Eddie then put the cowhide up his sleeve and, with his torn coat flapping, went out into the street, followed by an excited crowd of boys. He came to my house, pulled out my uncle’s letter, said he resented the insult, and announced he had been to see him at his store and had cowhided him in response. He then pulled the weapon out of his sleeve, threw it down at my feet, and cried, ‘There, I make you a present of it!’ With that, he stormed off, and since then, frankly, I have seen very little of him.”

“He came around last year to your house in Jersey City, did he not?”

“Last year? No, the year before. He was in a terrible state. I worried for him.”

“But to no ill result, assuredly? He is all right today.”

“I cannot say. I have not seen him.”

“But you have heard?”

“Heard what?”

“That he is in New York. Do you know where he is, madam? Do you know where I can find him?”

“No,” Mrs. Jenkins said, looking away, staring off as if into the past. “No, I do not.”