Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (21 page)

The Literary and Scientific Institute was quite new, built in a stuccoed Grecian style, and was handsome enough, The manager met us at the door. He was a small man both in
stature and bulk—he might have resembled a child of twelve years or so if it weren't for the worry lines etched in his forehead, the bald pate and boisterous eyebrows. He looked from Dupin to me and back again to Dupin.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Poe. I am Matthew Godwin. Mr. Dickens has sung your praises vociferously.” He grasped Dupin's hand and shook it vigorously.

“Monsieur Godwin, I am afraid that you mistake me for my esteemed colleague,” Dupin said, his accent oddly emphasized. “I am Chevalier Dupin and simply a champion of Mr. Poe's works.”

“Ah, of course.” Godwin dropped Dupin's hand and grabbed for mine. “Mr. Poe. It is obvious now that I look more closely. You do indeed have the appearance of an author.” He shook my hand ever more energetically. “Come inside. Please do.” Mr. Godwin scurried through the door. Dupin and I struggled to keep up with the nimble little man as he led us down a dimly lit corridor.

“Right through here. I trust it will suit your purposes. Won't know how many will come until they get here.”

“Indeed,” Dupin said with the hint of a smile.

The lecture theater proved larger than I had expected—quite capable of seating several hundred people. While I was grateful for Mr. Dickens's optimism, I hoped I would not be facing an under-populated theater.

“I will ensure that the spectators sit at the front. It will undo the effect of your work if you must shout to the back of the theater.”

“Thank you, Dupin. It is a relief to have you here.” We both turned to examine the room more closely. White walls—lamps upon them lit the room. A lectern faced the spectators' chairs. It was a good height and had adequate space for my papers, but the room seemed more appropriate for discussions of science
than for a literary reading. I thought of the theater and how it influenced the audience—the costumes, the backdrop, the props, the lighting. “Perhaps a candelabrum on either side of the lectern for effect. Is that possible?”

Mr. Godwin looked confused but nodded. “Yes, if you like.”

“Very good.” I looked at my pocket watch—twenty minutes before my reading.

“Perhaps it is best to wait elsewhere and make more of an entrance when your audience is in place,” Dupin suggested.

He was quite right. Waiting anxiously at the lectern was not good theater. Much better to enter the room once the audience was seated and quiet, carrying the candelabra for effect. I looked to Mr. Godwin. “Is there somewhere else I might wait?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Come to my office. I will make some tea, or perhaps you would prefer a dash of Scotch courage?” He winked and grasped my elbow, propelling me toward a side door. Dupin watched us go but made no move to follow.

Mr. Godwin's office was a cluttered, windowless room. “Please, have a seat.” He retrieved a flask and two dusty tumblers, which he filled. “I'll just go find the candelabra. The library, I think . . .” And he was gone.

I sipped the whisky and looked through my papers. I had read for Sissy and Muddy and at several Philadelphian taverns (of which I had little recollection), but never to an audience of such a size—presuming we would have an audience at all.

“Are these suitable?” It was Dupin with a candelabrum in each hand. They were terribly tarnished, but stately enough and fitted with fresh tapers.

“Thank you. Where is Mr. Godwin?”

“Ushering in your audience—punctual crowd. Shall I put a glass of water on the lectern for you?”

“You think of everything.”

“It is a pleasure. If you make your entrance in five minutes, the crowd should be settled.” Dupin left the room.

I helped myself to some more Scotch courage and drank it down in one.

* * *

I entered from the back of the room and walked toward the lectern, carrying two candelabra with tapers that burned eerily in the darkness. The theater was more full than I had dared to hope. Ladies in the crowd gasped, and I heard muted whispers. When I reached my position, I placed each candelabrum on a small table situated either side of the lectern. Dupin had judged the position of the tables perfectly—the candle flames flickered below my face, casting spectral shadows. I stood quietly for a moment, gazing at my audience, and noted that Dupin was seated near the door.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. My name is Edgar Allan Poe.” Polite applause met this announcement. “Thank you for joining me this evening. I will be reading my new tale
William Wilson
and am happy to receive questions afterwards.”

I scanned the audience, looking for Mr. Dickens. Dupin's eyes met with mine, and he nodded imperceptibly. I gathered myself and began, conscious to project my voice.

“Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation.'”

The candle glow shivered from an intangible draft in the room—all to good effect, as the capricious light threw mysterious shadows across my face and, perhaps, the shimmer of a halo round my head.

“‘Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle . . .'”

As I continued with my performance, I scanned the crowd.
Was
Mr. Dickens in the room? My eyes searched the very back row, but I did not see a face that met the image I knew from his novel's front-piece. And then I caught sight of a countenance I did recognize and almost stumbled over my lines. Square jaw, thin lips, auburn hair—a man in a rambunctious checked suit popular with dandies who possess few critical faculties. Was he my nemesis, planning to humiliate me in public? My voice trembled and the text evaporated from my mind. I sought to control myself and adopted a faux-whispering voice for dramatic effect.

“‘I have said before, or should have said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins.'”

My mind went blank again. I looked down at my papers, pretending a dramatic pause. It was not the correct page. With a sense of panic, I turned one page and then another. Finally, I found my place and continued. But just as I had regained my concentration, using all my will not to look in Mackie's direction, a glint in the low light caught my gaze, and I noticed a man of about forty-five years of age with dark eyes and hair. He was utterly focused on my words and radiated tension like a venomous snake poised to strike.

“‘The same name! The same contour of person! The same day of arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner!'”

I was transfixed now by the man with the snake-like eyes and glinting lapel. There was something familiar about him, but I could not place him. My anxiety grew and my memory failed me more than once, but I struggled through to the crescendo of the tale, scrabbling to find the correct page, throwing others onto the ground. Faster and faster I recited and read out the
text; my anxiety must have added to the effect for my audience looked both frightened and absorbed.

“‘Scoundrel! Impostor! Accursed villain! You shall not—you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!'”

At that very moment, there was a slight commotion as Dupin sprang from his seat and ran through the door in pursuit of someone. My eyes scanned the audience—an empty seat where the glowering man had sat. My words dried up and, again, I feigned a pause for dramatic effect. I thought of my grandmother alone on the stage, singing to hundreds without fear, a mob that might shower her with applause or garbage from the streets. I was of her blood and now was the time to prove I had inherited some of her skill.

“‘It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:
You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead—dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst thou exist
—
and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.'”

With those words, I lowered my head. At first there was ominous silence, then like a throng of birds rising up in flight the applause began, hands pattering together like beating wings. But I had failed. The muse who inspired my grandmother and my mother on stage had declined to touch me. I waited where I stood, maintaining a solemn expression, when truly I wanted to bang my fists against the wooden lectern. Members of the audience slowly rose to their feet and those at the back filed out. Others hovered near their seats, chatting with their neighbors. Scanning the crowd for Mackie, I caught sight of a striking woman with raven hair who, despite the dearth of light, wore tinted spectacles, which only served to enhance her beauty. I wondered if she were blind, but she stood
and undoubtedly smiled at me. And then my nemesis planted himself in front of me.

“Poe! Quite a story you gave to us. Highly unusual. Twins and tormentation and, finally, murder. Not a cheerful tale.
Dark
, one might say. And rather on the long side, perhaps. Do you find it difficult to edit your own work?” Mr. Mackie paused for breath, his green eyes staring into mine. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain my aggressor could hear it. Where was Dupin? Why had he vanished when I needed him? I did my utmost to exude complete calm and clasped my nervous hands behind my back.

“I am sorry my tale disappointed you, Mr. Mackie.”

“Disappointed indeed. I had expected superlative things from you. What with your rigorous critiques of the great American writers and of their lesser cousins—my own poor scribblings for example. Yes, I had expected more.” He took a step forward while I instinctively took one back.

“What a powerful story, Mr. Poe,” I heard a mellifluous voice say. “I had no preconceived expectations, being unfamiliar with your work, but find myself deeply impressed.” The raven-haired woman was next to my nemesis, the candlelight glinting off the olive green lenses of her spectacles. “It was chilling and compelling with elements of
the other
.” She gestured gracefully at the invisible around us, then turned to Mr. Mackie. “It was such a pleasure, sir. I do hope we shall meet again at another literary evening.” She gave a half-curtsy and, with a solemn nod of her head, elegantly dismissed him.

Mackie hesitated a moment, confusion upon his features, but such was her charm, he did not seem to realize that she had usurped his position. My nemesis merely dipped his head in return and said, “It is all my pleasure, madam. I, too, hope we meet again.” He smiled at her as he backed away. “Farewell, Poe. I trust we shall have a deeper discussion in future.” With
those ominous words, Mr. Mackie strode away. I scanned the room for Dupin—where the Devil was he? He would miss his chance to interrogate Mackie.

“Fear not, Mr. Poe. You will not meet that self-opinionated gentleman again,” the lady before me pronounced.

“While in many ways I hope you are correct, I suspect the gentleman and I shall convene again in less than friendly circumstances,” I replied. While I more than loathed Mr. Mackie, I had to find out why he was tormenting me.

My delightful companion paused for a moment. I could see her eyes behind the green glass widen and then close. Her lips moved in a silent whisper until she shivered slightly and returned her gaze to mine. “You will find that I am indeed correct,” she said softly. “I regret to say that Mr. Mackie will cross over far sooner than anyone might expect.” Her expression was solemn, her voice filled with compassion. “A pity. A terrible pity, the ruffians who roam this city.” My face must have reflected the sense of horror I felt at her words, for she reached out and touched my arm. “Fear not, Mr. Poe, fear not.” She flicked her eyes toward the heavens and nodded gently as if in acknowledgement to some invisible creature hovering above us. “The future will be far kinder to you.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to think of a more appropriate response.

“Prescience is oft times a curse as well as a blessing,” she murmured. “But our fate is unavoidable, as Mr. Mackie shall discover.”

“As shall we all.” The words came from me unbidden, but they seemed to please my companion, for she smiled and held her hand toward mine, palm facing downward.

“I am Mrs. Fontaine. Rowena Fontaine.”

“An enchanting name. Most appropriate for its owner.” I clasped her delicate hand in mine and wondered at the softness
of her skin. An almost imperceptible scent of flowers—roses and perhaps honeysuckle—drifted through the air. She gently extracted her hand.

“You are too kind, Mr. Poe,” she demurred. “It is true that I found your tale superbly crafted, but I was compelled to come and speak with you. I have a message.” Mrs. Fontaine fixed her eyes on mine. “From your grandmother.”

Her words made my muscles contract as if with cramp. “But I am afraid—”

“That she has passed,” Mrs. Fontaine said, completing my thoughts. “Yes, of course. I have a connection with the other side. I am a conduit, one might say. It is a great responsibility.”

I could think of no reply and merely nodded.

“My spirit guide normally connects me with those who have passed, but on occasion messages come to me unbidden and it is my duty to seek out the person for whom it is intended.”

“And you have a message for me?” I asked in a whisper not unlike that of William Wilson.

“Your grandmother needs to speak with you—through me. You must come to our gathering tomorrow night.”

“You are a medium?”

“I prefer the appellation
sensitive
.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Dupin re-enter the room and somehow this threw me into a state of confusion. Consternation tautened his features as he approached.