Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (2 page)

And when you arise from yours, I shall be home and we can discuss these matters more fully. I hope to have good news about our future.

Your admiring husband,

Henry

ON BOARD THE
ARIEL
, PHILADELPHIA TO LONDON, JUNE 1840

Thin, greenish light trickled over my face, coaxing me from insentience. An unpleasant odor permeated the atmosphere—the scent of brimstone or the perfume of decay. I tried to rouse myself, but could not move for I was twisted up in a shroud, my limbs bound to my sides by the dank fabric. Fear struck like a ravenous seabird delving into flesh—dead! Dead and laid out in a sepulcher by the sea. As darkness pulled my reluctant soul toward the abyss, a terrible thrumming rose up around me—louder, louder,
louder
. And when the shadows had near dragged me under, it came to me that the noise echoing in my ears was the palpitations of my own heart, and I had not yet succumbed to the conqueror worm.

But the terror did not recede, for surely I had been entombed alive by some monstrous error. The scream that formed in my throat could find no release as I struggled against the cataleptic trance that held me prisoner and as the very air turned to dust, a macabre thought took seed within my mind. What if no error had been made? What if this were
murder
? Driven by some superhuman energy, I struggled upright and gasped as the semblance of life settled over me. My eyes slowly adjusted
to the shadows, and I saw that I was entangled in bedsheets soaked through with the brine from my own body. The room around me was in disarray, and bottles were clustered on the night table. Gradually I recognized it as the stateroom I occupied on board the ship bound for London. Fever, natural or self-induced, had subjugated me, and I had no sense of how long I had been confined to my chamber. Unfurling my body, I stretched my legs toward the floor, and as I stood up, my vision fizzled away like oil on a hot skillet.

* * *

When I awoke again, my face lay against cool wood and sheets of paper surrounded me. At once fear had me in its grip again—the letters from the mahogany box! Had my room been ransacked? I dragged the nearest page toward my eyes and as my vision cleared, my heart calmed. It did not belong to the peculiar correspondence that had occasioned my voyage to London, for the paper was new, the script frenzied, the ink smudged and blotted by a careless hand. I staggered to the jug on the washstand, praying it contained water no matter how stale or I would surely perish. Thankfully it held a clear elixir I immediately gulped down—it mattered not if the liquid was laced with poison or was from the sea itself, for my thirst was as feverish as my mind. When the jug was fully drained, I sank back onto the bed and looked more carefully around me. It was the den of a madman, my possessions thrown about the room, my clothes trampled and dirty. I turned my gaze to the mob of bottles—surely the cause of all that I saw—and in urgent need of comfort, reached for the closest with quaking hand. It was a large flask of rum, a type favored by the most hardened sailor, and there was but a solitary finger of drink remaining. Beside it stood its vanquished twin, a depleted
bottle of laudanum, and an empty apothecary bottle that had no label. As I held the rum to my lips, its thick smell made my stomach heave like the waves that tortured me, and I cursed the demon that had drawn me under its tutelage yet again.

I am not certain how much time passed as I sat huddled in my room, trying to muster the energy to tidy my garments and the courage to leave my crypt. How could I brave the company of my fellow passengers when I had no recollection of what I might have said or done during my spree? After a night at the Crooked Billet, Wasp and Frolic, or Man Full of Trouble drinking establishments, a friend was sure to steer me from catastrophe and guide me back home. I had no such friend upon the ship.

A gentle tapping broke through my morbid thoughts and the door swung open to reveal an angel framed in light.

“You are with us at last. We were worried, Mr. Poe.”

The empyrean creature approached and I shrank into myself—was I awaiting the mercy of God after all? As she came nearer, I saw that she was carrying a tray holding a jug and dish of bread. When she placed her burden upon the table, her eyes slid to the empty bottles, and I was filled with shame.

“You have had quite a time, but my husband and I are determined to remedy that.” She held her hand over the jug and several glistening drops fell into the vessel like celestial rain. “Drink as much water as you are able and try to partake of some bread. I have had your shirt and suit cleaned and will have the same done with those if you will kindly put on fresh attire. My husband will come by presently to check on you.” With those words, my guardian angel dissolved into the light that flooded through the door.

I felt no hunger but managed to consume the bread after dipping bite after bite into a cup of the water. As I ate, I tried
to remember the events that took place before my quarantine, but beyond boarding the ship and a nightmarish memory of seasickness, my mind was blank. When I finished the bread and a goodly amount of water, I peered into the looking glass to assess the damage and recoiled as a wraith with sunken cheeks and feverish eyes greeted me, its hair unkempt, lips parched, skin sallow. The clothing it wore was a disgrace—rumpled trousers and a loosened shirt tinged gray, with a split along one seam. My aggravated breath accelerated with a greater fear when I remembered my locket and my fingers crawled like a horde of spiders through my shirt until at last I found the jewel secreted in its folds and opened it to gaze at the portrait within. My mother's gentle smile greeted me, but I drew no consolation from it, only admonishment.

For modesty's sake, I locked my stateroom door and proceeded to remove the soiled attire. Shame overwhelmed me—how my appearance must have repelled my seraph visitor! I washed with the remainder of the water and retrieved the last clean set of clothes from my trunk. When I was as presentable as I could make myself, I straightened up the soured bedclothes, collected the scattered papers and arranged my personal effects.

“Mr. Poe! Are you there?” a hearty voice sounded as the door handle rattled.

A woman's more gentle tones intervened. “Mr. Poe? I have your cleaned clothing here and fresh bedding.” It was my guardian. I unbolted the door for her, but a heavily bearded, portly man forced his way inside.

“Poe! Good to see you up. Let's have a look at you.” He pushed me into a chair. “Bring a candle, will you, dearest?”

The fair-haired angel lit a candle and held it up to my face. Even that small flame was like a dart shot into my skull. I tried to focus on her beauty, but my tormentor leaned in to study
my eyes, then unceremoniously yanked down my jaw and peered into my mouth.

“Hmm.” He pushed my jaw back into position. “There will be no more going to rum-addled sailors for medicine, sir. It will be the death of you next time.” He punctuated this admonishment with a guffaw that was unsettling.

“You must listen to my husband, Mr. Poe. Loneliness cannot be conquered with the contents of a bottle.”

“Indeed. If you are troubled with seasickness again, you must come to me.”

I nodded, but was distracted by his wife, who busied herself with stripping the linen from my bed. My face reddened as I thought of the moist, fetid sheets in her dainty hands. “Please, do not go to such trouble,” I implored in a small voice that was scarcely my own.

“It is no trouble.” She shook out the fresh linen, which quivered like a sail in the gentlest of breezes and floated down onto the berth. “A boy will collect the old linen for the laundry.” My nurse settled her eyes upon me. They were large and very striking, emphasized by the golden curls that framed her face. “We'll leave you for now, Mr. Poe, and hope to see you at supper. Six o'clock.”

The doctor drew out his pocket watch and tapped it. “That is in one hour. And do listen to my wife. She is quite the capable nurse. Until later, sir.” And they left me.

Alone once more, I went to my trunk and lifted out the mahogany box that was secreted there. My heart began to race again when I saw the key was in the lock, but upon lifting the lid, I was relieved to discover that the bundle of letters was still inside, knotted up with the green ribbon. I then turned my attention to the papers I had gathered from the floor. Amongst them was a solitary page written in a precise, relentless script:

No.33 rue Dunôt, Faubourg, St. Germain, Paris
6 April 1840

My dear Poe,

Your letter, so wilfully opaque, has succeeded in capturing my imagination.
Amicis semper fidelis
—as your friend, I will of course be honoured to assist you in your investigation. Indeed your request is most opportune as I have business to pursue in London.

I will meet you on the first of July at Brown's Genteel Inn, 23 Dover Street as you suggest and look forward to learning the details of the peculiar mystery to which you allude.

Your Obedient Servant,

C. Auguste Dupin

With unsteady hands I placed Dupin's letter to one side and gathered up the other ink-stained, crumpled sheets. This is what, with increasing consternation, I read:

The
Ariel
, 13 June 1840

Darling Sissy, my dearest wife,

I am writing to you from my stateroom on board a ship bound for hell. We are but a week out of port, and I fear I cannot stand the endless pitching of this vessel any longer. My health declines more every day, and it is impossible to maintain a grip on the earthly world when surrounded by nothing but water, day after endless day—water that won't lie still, but heaves and boils and threatens to swallow us entirely. With this fear of drowning constantly upon me, I worry all the more about losing you—my darling, my anchor. For I have
lied to you. I have told you that I am visiting London on writerly business, when in fact I seek to uncover terrible secrets—secrets that may prove my blood tainted. If this mysterious box of letters is not an elaborate hoax and my inheritance is indeed a scandalous and sordid one, I fear your love and all its brightness will drop like a dying star into the dreaded brine that surrounds me. And if that love, that brightest truest love is lost to me, then surely I too will be extinguished.

A storm rages outside, my emotions made manifest. It tears at the ship's sails and at the very fabric of my being, so rash was I to leave my family in search of answers about a past that claims to be mine by blood if not by action. I must prove it wrong! For surely words upon the page tell lies if the writer wishes to deceive.

But know, dear Sissy, that my sentiments are true. I will entomb them inside a bottle and cast it into those tormenting waves so they might carry it across the miles, to the place where the sea transforms into the Schuylkill River, and that bottle will ride the currents all the way into Philadelphia until it finds you walking along the river bank, as we do of an evening. And when you capture this bottle and claim its contents, then you will know, Sissy, my love, that Eddy thinks of you still from the very bottom of the sea.

I remain with devotion,

Your dear lost boy

The letter clutched in my trembling fingers stunned me. Only
I
could have written it, and yet I had no recollection of having done so. Once again my sinister twin, the shadowy figure who possesses me on occasion, was taunting me. I had promised full temperance to Sissy and although I had no memory of
breaking my pledge, there was more than enough evidence to prove my failing. No eyes but mine must ever see that letter. I gathered up the pages, stuffed them in my pocket, and left my stateroom, determined to deliver the evidence to the bottom of the sea.

The saloon was empty, and I managed to escape onto the deck without notice. The ship bucked and charged like an untamed horse and vertigo assailed me as I staggered aft. I grabbed for the side of the ship as my legs buckled under me, but too late. I collapsed onto the deck and all was darkness.

“Mr. Poe!”

I heard a voice above me. Strong hands gripped the undersides of my arms and lifted me back to my feet.

“Still no sea legs. Let me help you to the saloon.”

The robust doctor hauled me along beside him, his arm locked around my back. While not happy that my mission had been interrupted, I was relieved to be rescued from further embarrassment—fellow passengers would inevitably think me the victim of drink if I were found lying senseless on the deck.

“Ah, Mr. Poe.” I heard the mellifluous tones of the doctor's lovely wife. “We are so pleased that you will be joining us for supper, but you must take care on such a treacherous night.” She linked her arm through mine, and the two Samaritans guided me back to the dining area.

The saloon was now awash with candlelight and three strangers stared up at me as I entered the room. Their countenances ranged from mildly welcoming to hostile, or so it appeared to me.

“Mr. Poe is back with us,” the doctor said.

“So we observe, Dr. Wallis.” A thin, sallow-faced man, bald but for two parallel hanks of hair draped over his pate, scrutinized me with pale eyes. He was dressed in somber clothes not unlike my own and his demeanor was self-righteous. “Have
you quite recovered, Mr. Poe?” His query had the tone of an accusation.

“He is rather delicate still, Mr. Asquith,” the doctor's wife interrupted. “We must all assist Mr. Poe along the road to recovery.”

Mr. Asquith's eyes narrowed as he exhaled audibly through his nostrils. “The man who resists the agents of Satan will follow life's path to Heaven's door.”

“And it is our duty to assist our fellow travelers along that path,” she responded.

“It is our duty indeed. And forgiveness is a gift from God,” declared a woman of middle age with hair that matched her pewter-colored dress. “We are pleased you are able to break bread with us again, Mr. Poe.”

“Madam, thank you. I am appreciative of your kind support.”