Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (29 page)

I fear that the pronouncement filled me with both guilt and relief. But what choice did I have? It is undeniable that if I had not staged my performance, Rhynwick would have made his own accusation and our destiny would be Newgate and the end of a noose. If only he had minded his own affairs that fateful evening back in mid-June! Angerstein's wretched reward made Rhynwick Williams the most reviled man in London and he forced me to cast the final stone.

How glad I am that this is now over. I will join you in Margate on Sunday and hope with all my heart that the town and its theatre will provide us with a new beginning. We have the chance now to leave our ill luck behind us if Rhynwick Williams is remembered as the Monster who terrorised London.

Your wife,

Elizabeth

LONDON, MONDAY, 13 JULY 1840

“Dickens's infernal bird had flown in through the window and landed upon my writing desk, a folded paper grasped in its beak. The missive contained a vital clue, but the devil would not relinquish it, and when I reached out to steal it, the creature flitted from one corner of the room to the other, eluding my grasp. I recited its repertoire to it, hoping it would respond and drop the paper, but Grip the Clever maintained his silence and kept his prize.”

“A most revealing dream. You fear you will never solve your mystery, despite the clues delivered to you,” Dupin observed.

“That is certainly true. And it seems that the raven was indeed a harbinger of death as you suggested.” I picked up the obituary from the
Kentish Gazette
that had been included in the packet discovered by the raven. Learning of my grandfather's demise had filled me with regret—of course it was highly unlikely that he was still alive at eighty years of age, but I had nursed a fantasy that I might discover Henry Arnold performing the role of revered patriarch in some London theater. Instead he had died in peculiar circumstances, leaving my grandmother at the mercy of her odious father and stepmother. This knowledge made me all the more determined to solve my mystery.

“Obviously the raven was not truly a harbinger of death, but rather a serendipitous embellishment to the supernatural effect your aggressor was striving for,” Dupin remarked.

“If only Grip the Wise could tell us who delivered the packet rather than reciting such nonsense! The bird is a devil with his endless patter of nonsense and irksome ways. It is surprising that Mr. Dickens keeps the creature indoors with such young children and a wife who clearly dislikes it.”

“Perhaps he uses the creature to escape from his family and work on his books.”

At first I presumed Dupin was jesting, then realized he was perfectly serious. “Escape his family? The children seem well-mannered and his wife was very pleasant, particularly when one considers the goading raven and our unannounced arrival.”

“The responsibilities of a family keep a man from accomplishing great things.”

“Absurd! History is full of examples of exemplary, accomplished men with families.”

“But how much more would they have accomplished without their time—and their thoughts—consumed by a wife and progeny?”

“Surely the affection a man receives from his wife and children more than compensates for the time not spent pursuing intellectual and creative endeavors. Indeed, such affection inspires a man.”

“Ah, the myth of the muse. If inspiration and genius does not rain upon us from God himself, then it springs from one's muse, who may conveniently be one's wife.” Dupin shook his head. “I believe that inspiration and genius are born from assiduous work—wide reading, deep study, contemplation and toiling at one's chosen discipline as if exercising the muscles. The true scholar is not a lazy man, nor a man with a mind divided by the duties of providing for a family. The true scholar
sacrifices all in the pursuit of knowledge and truth. My talent is ratiocination, and truly I believe that affections of the heart fog the mind.”

Dupin's expression showed his commitment to this philosophy, and I realized that I had no idea if he had ever ardently admired a woman or had experienced all the emotions of love, and yet I could not bring myself to ask him about his experiences of the heart. I suspected that such emotions were foreign to Dupin.

“It is clear we will not agree on the merits of love and family. In all honesty, if it is true that I will achieve less as a writer because I have a wife and children, then it is a sacrifice I am more than happy to make.”

“‘Tis a pity,” Dupin said softly.

His words brought a rush of emotion into me, and I could not stop the flurry that came from my mouth. “Without my wife and her mother, I would be nothing at all. My own dear mother was lost to me, but fate showed kindness when I was taken in by my adoptive mother and father. Fate turned on me again when my adoptive mother died, and I was replaced in my adoptive father's affections by his bastard child and new wife. The imp of the perverse would have conquered me if it were not for Sissy and Muddy—they undoubtedly saved me from myself. I could not write without my wife's steadying influence and dare say she is indeed my muse.”

Dupin shrugged his shoulders and sighed lightly. “I understand your grief at the behavior of your adoptive father. It is not how a father should act toward his son, whether natural or adopted. He made a pledge to you and was without honor when he broke that pledge. We must remember, however, that when a man is treated dishonorably, whether by family, friend or stranger, he has a choice: allow grief to overcome him or resolve to find justice.”

“Justice? I will never have the life I was promised. My adoptive father is dead and my inheritance is gone forever. All that remains is my talent—such that it is—and I must rely upon it and those I love. Never shall I commit the pernicious actions of my father and my adoptive father. I will cherish my offspring no matter what errors they may make for they are my future and through them my name will live on, if only in their hearts.”

Dupin considered my words, then said quietly: “It is true that my parents and my grandparents are immortal within my heart, and I will not rest until I restore their reputations. But I have no ties that interfere with my life's purpose. Your family is your Achilles heel, Poe. You have described how losing them would affect you. What if the reverse were true?”

Dupin's words hit me forcibly as he intended. “They would be left to beg for charity like my grandmother and my mother after her. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”

“Of course,” he said coolly. “Just as my father was forced to rely on charity. It is our duty to protect those we love from the same fate, is it not, Poe?”

My pride was quelled by truth. “It is our first duty, of course.”

“Our investigation is in support of that duty and each clue we uncover brings us closer to defeating your aggressor,” Dupin said. “The new letters reveal much. Now we know the precise details of your aggressor's accusation.”

My heart sank as I recalled the letter my grandmother had written to my grandfather on the eighth of July 1790, describing Rhynwick Williams's first trial. “Elizabeth Arnold's treachery,” I muttered.

“Indeed,” Dupin said. “And it is clear from her letter that she was not the only person who acted treacherously. Miss Anne Porter accused Rhynwick Williams on the thirteenth of June and he was arrested. The Porter sisters then swore in court that
Williams was their attacker, which is undoubtedly a lie. While Elizabeth Arnold twisted the truth to save her husband and herself from Newgate, the Porter sisters committed perjury to secure Mr. Angerstein's reward.”

“It is surprising my aggressor did not take revenge upon the Porter sisters, given that they were directly responsible for Rhynwick Williams's arrest and testified against him.”

“We do not know that Williams did not take revenge upon them,” Dupin pointed out.

This thought filled me with an odd sense of hope. “Quite right, Dupin. We might discover important information if we are able to find the Porter sisters. They were not yet twenty years old in 1790, so there is a good chance that one or both is living.”

“True, but surely it will be difficult to locate them.”

“I think it is worth the effort. We might begin with the family home and business—Pero's Bagnio. If the Porters no longer run the establishment, someone at the address may know what became of them.”

“It is possible,” he said reluctantly.

“Shall we try? Surely it is better to speak with the living about what happened during the Monster's reign than to rely on such material that might be found in the British Museum library. Gossip and lies oft reveal as much as purported factual records.”

Dupin glanced at his time-piece. “I wish you good luck in finding the Porter sisters, but I must decline your invitation for I have arranged to meet Madame Tussaud.”

“The clandestine event she so dramatically referred to?”

“Indeed.” The idea seemed to imbue him with a peculiar energy. “Until later, Poe. Let us discuss the other letters then.” And he was gone.

* * *

“Mackerel! Fresh mackerel!”

“Hot peascods!”

“Oranges. Lovely oranges.” A pretty girl held an apron full of the fruit toward me.

“Sheep's feet!” a matron shouted.

Covent Garden was raucous with life. The streets were crowded with people laden with produce as they exited the grand market, and the voices of food sellers rose up around me.

A mere girl with a fragrant basket at her feet entreated me to buy: “Rosemary, for a good memory, sir. Or mint, for your constitution.”

The music of the streets continued as I exited the market itself: street vendors hawking their wares, an ancient ballad-singer rasping old favorites, the ring of the dustman's bell. Men wandered up and down the streets wearing boards printed with notices recommending the purchase of household products, patent medicines and other purported constitutionals. The joyous life of the market compensated somewhat for the soot-burnished buildings and noisome effluvia accumulating in the streets. I skirted around brawling customers who had spilled from a public house and quieter ones in the gutter who substantiated the drinking establishment's promise: “Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for a tuppence.”

My perambulation through Covent Garden had a purpose. My opinion of my grandparents had been shaped by my aggressor; it was time I tried to learn more about them without that malign influence guiding me. I decided to visit the theater where my grandmother had reached her apogee as a performer in England and then to make my way to St. James's Street in hopes of locating one or both of the Porter sisters.

The entrance to the Covent Garden theater was on Bow Street and very handsome with a symmetrical Greek Doric
tetrastyle portico on a podium of three steps. The columns were a good thirty feet high, giving a grand air to the entire structure. I paid a man who was perhaps the theater manager an exorbitant amount so that I might watch the actors in rehearsal, a wish that seemed to cause him quiet amusement.

The auditorium was grand enough to take one's breath away and built to seat a very large crowd. The drapery was scarlet and enriched with golden wreaths, the moldings were gilt and there was a marvelous gold and crystal chandelier. Over the arch of the proscenium was the stage's motto spelled out in golden letters:
Veluti a Speculum
. What a wonderful place to face an audience!

I took a seat and watched as the players assembled. It was not the actual stage that my grandmother had graced, as that had burned to the ground over thirty years ago, but perhaps I would get a sense of the world she inhabited even so. When the musicians began to play, I was hopeful of an operetta of the type she often performed, but instead was presented with a ballet-pantomime of dubious quality. As I watched the dancers perform a piece that would please only the most witless audience, I could not help but imagine the dancers my grandmother had mocked—Gallini's dancers, with whom Rhynwick Williams had performed on that awful day at the King's Theatre when they were driven from the stage by an audience threatening murder. These dancers did not seem much better than Gallini's—far more rehearsal was needed if they were to avoid the hiss of the mob.

I tried my best to feel the presence of my grandmother in that most beautiful of theaters, but she simply was not there, so I left the place of my grandmother's greatest theatrical triumph, the ghostly admonishments of an exasperated ballet-master ringing in my ears.

* * *

“Pero's Bagnio” at number sixty-three St. James's Street had for many years been a cold-bath establishment, and the Porter sisters had lived there in their youth. It had been renamed Fenton's Hotel, and I hoped that one of the ladies had married a Mr. Fenton, who had taken over the management of what appeared to be a successful enterprise. It was an attractive building of four floors with arched windows and doors on the ground floor and window boxes filled with flowers at the upper windows. I knocked on the door, strangely nervous as to what I might discover. The door was opened by a woman I judged to be but a few years younger than myself, much too young to be either of the Porter sisters. I wondered if perhaps she was the granddaughter of one of the sisters.

“I'm afraid we have no rooms, sir,” she said.

“I am here on other business, in fact. My name is Edgar Poe, and I am a journalist in Philadelphia, visiting London to conduct research for an article I am writing,” I improvised. “I am interested in the Porter family who lived here in 1790 and was hoping to interview Miss Anne or Sarah Porter or a member of their family.”

The young woman looked me over and it seems that I passed inspection, for she said, “Sadly Mrs. Coleman—formerly Miss Anne Porter—passed away several years ago. A kind lady, she was. She would come to the hotel to visit with my mother-in-law—the first Mrs. Fenton,” she said, gesturing up at the name of the hotel. “Mrs. Coleman did tell amusing tales of the peculiar things that happened here when she was a girl.”