Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (15 page)

“Impossible,” Dupin said in a low voice.

Elegant golden letters were above the fearsome picture. “ ‘
Le Grand Serpent de la Mer
,' ” I read out loud before adding in an attempt at levity, “This balloon's element seems to be water.”

“Or metal in the shape of the guillotine. That is the face of Louis XVI imposed upon the sun, an image found upon some courtly decorations during his reign. The sun is obviously setting into the sea, powerless against the sea-serpent poised to devour it. A clumsy metaphor,” Dupin said, all jocularity gone from his voice.

“And who does the sea-serpent represent? The king's enemies?”

“One particular enemy, I believe. A man responsible for much evil.” Dupin wheeled to face the parachutist, who was now on his feet, watching the balloon descend with the rest of us. “Who owns this balloon?” Dupin demanded. At that moment a roar arose from the crowd, and we turned to see the hot-air balloon hovering just over our heads. Dupin turned from the hapless parachutist and pushed his way through the crowd toward the balloon, which provoked shouts of anger from fellow onlookers. “Who owns this hot-air balloon?” Dupin shouted at the pilot, attempting to grab the guide-rope as if he hoped to tether the balloon to the ground.

“Stand back, sir!” the aeronaut shouted at Dupin. “Back!”

“Answer me!”

“The man is quite mad,” the aeronaut said to the crowd. “Do not let him scale the basket!”

Several burly men grabbed Dupin by the arms and dragged him away from the balloon. There was nothing I could do that would not get us both soundly beaten. I scanned the mob for the parachutist, thinking to interrogate him myself, but he had vanished into the sea of spectators.

The balloonist raised his arms and shouted, “My colleague and I hope you enjoyed our aeronautical display. I have flown from England to Germany and have made many other daring aerial expeditions. We have crossed the English Channel in this balloon and with the support of our kind patron, intend to cross
the Atlantic in it. Until that glorious day, you may join us for a tethered balloon ascent at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.” And with that, he threw a flurry of pamphlets to the ground while the onlookers applauded and whooped some more. “Farewell,” the balloonist called out as the balloon began to ascend again. “Farewell! Remember, Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens!”

The balloon drifted ever higher, and I watched in bafflement as Dupin stood glowering at the aeronaut in his glorious flying machine until they were a mere speck in the sky.

“Dupin?” I stepped in front of him, attempting to break his gaze from the empty sky. “What the Devil is the matter?”

“The Devil is certainly involved,” he growled. When he shifted his gaze to me, it was so fearsome I could not help but recoil. Dupin immediately closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, forcibly calming himself. When at last he opened his eyes, he seemed much more himself again. “There is someone I would like you to meet if you are willing. Someone I hold in the highest regard.”

Never had I heard Dupin describe anyone in such an exalted manner. My surprise and curiosity were so strong I agreed without question.

“Then let us find a carriage,” Dupin said.

* * *

Once on our way, Dupin lapsed back into silence, his eyes fixed on the scenery outside with the alert tension of a cat stalking some invisible creature. I awaited an explanation for his behavior in Hyde Park until I could bear it no longer.

“The aeronauts and the balloon disturbed you most profoundly. May I ask why?”

“Ah, I can see we have almost arrived,” he said as if my question had never been voiced. “You are about to witness an
astonishing display and will meet, I hope, the extraordinary personage responsible for its creation.”

We alighted at the junction of Baker Street and Portman Square in front of a three-story building called The Bazaar. Dupin led the way inside. Horses and coaches were being sold on the ground floor of the building; Dupin continued to a hall, and we ascended a wide staircase to a salon embellished with a quantity of artificial flowers, arabesques and large mirrors. A long-faced man with lank gray hair and ill-fitting black clothes sat in front of the entrance to a larger hall. On a table next to him there was a metal cashbox and a large brass hand bell.

Dupin put some coins onto the table. “Entry for two, sir.”

The guardian of the entrance picked up most of the coins and slid the rest back to Dupin. “Go and mingle with the mighty,” he intoned.

I was surprised when a smile stirred on Dupin's lips. “We shall. Is Madame here today?”

The dour man silently nodded his assent.

Dupin removed a silver case from his coat pocket and took out a calling card. “Please give your dear mother this with my highest regards.”

The gray-haired man glanced at the card, slid it into the cashbox and stared at Dupin with pale eyes. “Sir,” he confirmed.

“Thank you. Shall we, Poe?”

“Of course.”

We proceeded to the first room, which was roughly one hundred feet by fifty feet in size. It resembled a very grand salon with ottomans for contemplation and conversation. Plate glass embellished the walls, which were hung with draperies and gilt ornaments. Statues circled the room. A small balcony held an orchestra that played softly.

“What do you think?”

I could not help but grimace. “Very highly decorated. Louis XVI?”

Dupin smiled. “Indeed. The curator appreciates glitter and pomp. Or perhaps she is simply aware that most of her customers do.”

This seemed to be the case. The sofas and ottomans were crowded with well-dressed people engaged in noisy conversation. At the room's periphery, silent observers contemplated the music. Dupin's interest in the gaudy salon puzzled me. He had never been a passionate connoisseur of the musical recital and his taste in interior design coincided with mine.

“The orchestra is very accomplished and the surroundings are certainly vivid, but I would not go so far as to describe it as an astonishing display.”

Dupin appeared momentarily bemused, then said: “Look around you, sir, look around you. Once again your emotions are getting the better of your faculties of observation. Avoid the decorations. Look at the spectators.''

I stifled my instinct to rebut his criticism and did his bidding. My eyes focused on the men and women who, despite the orchestra's best endeavors to retain their attention, were in voluble discussion. I could not perceive what it was that Dupin found worthy of observation. And then I looked to the quieter spectators and observed something highly peculiar. Unlike their garrulous counterparts, they were silent and utterly still. I strode over to the nearest figure—a dark-haired woman in a bold red dress. She had a regal bearing and imperious demeanor. To my consternation, I noted that her dramatic pose had been sustained for an impossible length of time.

“Maria Malibran, the opera singer. She was extremely popular here in London—and your New York.”

A chill came upon me as I observed Maria Malibran's pallid complexion. It was as if she had been kissed by death, but had
returned from the grave. Her forehead was high and very pale, her hair black as a raven's wing, her eyes strangely glassy. Her mouth was open as if in song, which tightened her lips and offered a glimpse of her teeth, which I found deeply disturbing. The veracity of her expression made it difficult for me to accept that this doppelganger had never sung a note, had never drawn breath. Indeed, I thought I could detect her scent—a hint of lilies and spice—and could feel her breath upon me as her green eyes gazed into mine.

“Maria Malibran had the misfortune of dying in the bloom of youth. Or one might argue that her early demise was fortunate as she makes a very comely memento mori.”

I thought of my mother, an actress known for her captivating voice, who faded from life at just twenty-three years of age. I thought of my maternal grandmother, also an actress and singer, who departed this world before I was born. And I thought of my wife with her beautiful voice and fragile constitution.

The woman before me seemed to draw breath as if preparing for song. I waited for her voice to align with the music, to captivate me. The lulling melody of the orchestra embraced me and words sprang from the music. I heard the voice of my Morella who, when the finger of Death was upon her bosom, declared, “I am dying, yet shall I live.” I thought of the daughter who takes breath after the death of her mother and strangely takes on her countenance and character though the years. Morella! She was before me, perfectly preserved. And in her pale features I saw my mothers, both gone, my mysterious grandmother and my delicate, gentle wife. From her waxen lips I heard their voices entwined in song and my skin prickled with icy kisses.

“Poe!” Dupin's sharp voice brought me back to myself. I tore my eyes away from the dark-haired siren and turned to face
him. By his side stood an ancient crone of four score years or more—I felt the blood seep from my face. Why had this witch, this creature of nightmares, cursed the songstress and turned her to stone? The crone's glinting eyes held mine tight. I watched in horror as her dry lips parted.

“Our opera singer is as feted in death as she was in life. Many people come here to see her.” Her cracked voice dropped to a confiding tone. “And on nights when the moon is full, Madame Malibran's voice has been heard coming from these very halls, singing an aria.”

Dupin intervened. “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague Edgar Poe.”

The crone lifted her palsied hand toward me. As I took it in mine, I wondered how her wizened flesh still pulsed with life, unlike the beauty next to us.

“This is the renowned Madame Tussaud,” Dupin continued.

I bowed my head toward her chilly hand, but could not bring myself to touch my lips to the flesh.

“
Enchanté
, Madame.”

“As you will know, she is the creator of this grand collection.”

Dupin's gallantry overshadowed veracity, but politeness required that I draw a thick veil over the truth. I nodded in deference to her age and her mysterious collection of creatures of which I knew nothing.

“Of course. Madame Tussaud's extraordinary collection is very well known, even in Philadelphia.”

Madame puffed with pride. “I am pleased to hear that, sir. Most pleased.” Her words were carefully enunciated, her accent very French. She turned her gaze to my companion. “What brings you to this city? It is rare for you to leave Paris.”

“A mystery, Madame, a mystery.”

“There are many mysteries in London, my dear Chevalier. And many are depicted in my salon.” Her eyes shifted to me and a shrewd smile creased her face.

“We look forward to investigating those,” Dupin responded. “But first I must ask, for your ears are privy to much information, most particularly regarding any French citizen here in London. Have you heard anything of Monsieur Valdemar's presence in the country?”

Madame frowned slightly. “Ah, the elusive Monsieur Valdemar who seems able to vanish into the air itself.”

Dupin grimaced. “Your allusion is more apt than you might have intended. I have certain information that indicates he may be in London very soon, but we had an encounter with a balloon aeronaut, which leads me to wonder if he has already arrived.”

Madame shook her head. “I cannot say, Auguste. I am acquainted with the man only by reputation, but would certainly find a way to inform you of his whereabouts if I were aware of them.”

“We are staying at Brown's Genteel Inn should you hear anything at all.”

Madame nodded. “I am, of course, terribly offended that you failed to inform me in advance of your sojourn to this city, but I cannot help but forgive you.” She smiled and continued before Dupin could protest. “There is a clandestine event in nine days' time that you may find informative. I can tell you no more than that as I have pledged my complete discretion. If you will be in London on that date, I will ensure that you gain access.”

Dupin's face lit up with what might only be described as vengeful hope. “Thank you, Madame. I will indeed be here in London and of course would never compromise you.” He bowed slightly and pressed her hand to his lips.

Madame smiled at his gallantry. “Monsieur Poe has waited so patiently while we have been exceedingly impolite. You must let me guide you around my exhibition. Few of my visitors have your capacity to truly understand the importance of my work.”

“You flatter me—and us—with your kind offer,” Dupin said. “It is time to introduce Mr. Poe to the true horrors of the Terror and only your instruction will do the tale justice.”

Madame looked moved by Dupin's cryptic declaration. “I would be honored to bear witness. Let us go, good sirs, and mingle with the mighty.”

“Indeed, Madame. With the mighty.” Dupin offered his arm. They made their way toward a doorway to another chamber, her small, crooked frame in stark contrast to his tall, erect one. I followed them across the threshold into a world of pomp and pageantry, of kings and queens. Henry VIII, Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth I, Charles I, William IV, George IV and Victoria stood before me. The tableaux were impressive in their opulence. And there stood Cromwell, the cuckoo within the nest.

“The Golden Chamber,” Madame said proudly. “A history of monarchy. I have worked to capture with precision the details of each monarch's attire. Physical details can give much insight into a subject's character. Look here. These are the original coronation robes of King George IV.” She lowered her voice. “Eighteen thousand pounds to make, and I purchased them for three hundred pounds.”

“Madame has an eye for detail and a head for business,” Dupin observed.

“You would do well to learn from my example, Chevalier. As you will have noticed, I am not one to follow the vagaries of fashion. My clothing is practical, well-made and will see me to the grave.” She indicated her plain brown skirt, white
high-necked blouse, woolen wrap and bonnet. “But you will forgive me for observing that while you are meticulously groomed, your clothing is of a style favored in Paris more than a decade ago. This of course causes me to make assumptions.”