Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (32 page)

“Valdemar has stolen much from you,” I said quietly.

Dupin returned his gaze to mine. “Yes. That is why my father was so fond of saying, ‘Unlike property, knowledge cannot be stolen.' I try to live by his words.”

“Wise words indeed.”

“And I will avenge my family. Valdemar may murder me also, but if so, my last breath will mingle with his own. Shall we?” He indicated the next chamber.

We stepped over the threshold into the final room and both froze—it was the most dramatic and peculiar of all. The chamber was utterly shrouded in black velvet and there were no furnishings but for an immense ebony clock that stood in one corner of the room, its pendulum counting out the seconds. A monstrous chandelier was suspended above the center of the room. One would presume from the previous chambers that the chandelier would cast a shadowy light, but this was not the case. Each crystal was of scarlet and the globes that encased the tapers were crimson. The light that spilled from this chandelier seemed to bathe the room in blood. Directly underneath the gruesome fixture was a rectangular frame covered in a black sheet. It was the size, perhaps, of a bear's cage, but no sound came from within it—indeed the room was silent but for the portentous ticking. And then, a terrible clang arose from the ebony clock, and I saw that midnight had arrived. As the disharmonious bells chimed, more and more guests hurried into the chamber, as if compelled by the ominous sound. When at last the bells of midnight ceased to echo in the shadowy hall, Madame Tussaud made her way to the veiled cage before us. The room was now completely full and through our precipitous timing, Dupin and I stood at the very front of the crowd.

“Fellow guests—brothers and sisters,” she said in French. “Thank you for attending
le Bal des Victimes
—it is your birthright and our honorable host, Monsieur Victor Delamar, specifically invited each one of you. I hope the decorations and the atmosphere have met your expectations.” Madame paused momentarily, anticipating the thunderous applause she duly received. “Thank you. I am honored. It is as our host wished. And now it is time to unveil the
pièce de résistance
.”

She lifted her arm into the air and as she did so, the wires attached to the black shroud pulled it away from the large rectangular frame to reveal a regal man seated in a magnificent oriental chair shaped like a golden dragon, its wings outspread, ruby eyes glinting monstrously, fearsome head reared up in protection of its master who was dressed as if in the court of Louis XVI: a velvet coat, extravagant cravat pinned with an immense jewel, elegant breeches, silk stockings, a waistcoat embroidered with violets and diamond-buckled shoes. The livid flickering light stained his ensemble and the white mask that concealed his face. Behind the throne-like chair stood, most ominously, the guillotine normally present in Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors.

“Ladies, gentlemen, may I present our host, Monsieur Victor Delamar.”

Applause rang out again. Monsieur Delamar sat silently, calmly, absorbing the adulation.

“We will have a few words from our gracious host, but first I must attend to his final instructions. Joseph!” Madame's son appeared from the crowd and joined her. “Please prepare.” Joseph nodded to his mother and moved to Monsieur Delamar's side. Madame Tussaud unrolled the scroll she held in her hand and began to read. “‘Brothers and sisters. It was my greatest wish to bring you together in celebration of our heritage—our families and our country. The life of the émigré is not easy,
even if blessed with material riches, for when one loses his family and dearest friends, suffering is eternal. I have long worn a mask, presenting a façade of contentment—all here have shared my burden. Now is the time to remove our masks and bring
le Bal des Victimes
to its conclusion!'”

Madame removed her mask with a flourish, as did her son. The guests did the same, with spontaneous cries of joy. Caught up in the moment, I removed my own black mask before noticing that Dupin's remained in place. My attention was quickly returned to Monsieur Delamar as Joseph Tussaud reached up and lifted our host's mask, slowly, ever so slowly, until finally the flickering crimson light revealed his countenance. It was a gaunt face, thin-lipped and unsmiling with a high-bridged nose and deep-set piercing eyes. It was a face that emanated evil.

A hush fell over the unmasked guests, but the silence was pierced by an unearthly cry as Dupin, in one fluid movement, unsheathed the rapier from his cobra-headed walking stick and leapt at the man seated before us. Like a dark avenging angel, he plunged his glittering sword deep into the heart of Monsieur Victor Delamar. A gasp erupted from the mob as they took in the blood-red scene, but Delamar remained silent and very still. I watched as Dupin's face contorted with absolute horror. Then he collapsed, as if dead, at Delamar's feet.

MARGATE, WEDNESDAY, 15 JULY 1840

The maroon and black mail coach
—Meteor
was its name—had red painted wheels, brightly polished brass work and four handsome jet-colored horses. It created a dashing picture as it sped through verdant countryside on the road from London to Margate.

Comfort and conversation were utterly absent from the first part of our journey. Six of us were crowded into the coach and ten more people were perched on its roof, but the number of passengers did not diminish the driver's ambition to travel at breakneck speed. This had a negative effect on the constitution of a young man who sat across from us, hemmed in by two burly fellows. His complaints of seasickness were met with boisterous ridicule until the contents of his stomach were nearly deposited onto the coach floor. The unfortunate fellow was forced by his companions to take a seat on the roof, which was unlikely to improve how he was feeling, but alleviated the necessity of making any more emergency stops.

Dupin seemed not to notice any of this, and my efforts to break his brooding silence were rebuffed. It was not until he had drunk liberally from a second flask of brandy that he said a word.

“I was certain it was
him
. Certain of it. Madame exceeded herself.”

“It is undoubtedly a good thing that your victim was made of wax or you would be in Newgate, as would I as your accomplice.”

Dupin tensed and lowered the flask. “I
knew
the repercussions of taking action,” he said, jabbing at his head. “But I reacted from
here
.” He pulled at the fabric above his heart. “I should have seen the truth.”

“The theater of the event was irresistible. It seduced all who were there.”

Dupin sighed and took another swallow of brandy. “You cannot comprehend what I would sacrifice to turn the heart I impaled with my rapier from wax to beating flesh.”

“I do not know what quarrel you have with Victor Delamar, but it is not worth losing your liberty or your life for him.”

“You do not understand,” he snapped.

“Then illuminate me.” My recalcitrant companion had sorely thinned my patience.

Dupin blinked his eyes disdainfully like a cat. They were full of the coldest anger when he turned to face me fully. “It was not Victor Delamar that I ran through with my blade, nor was it his wax effigy. It was
Ernest Valdemar
, the monster that betrayed my grandparents and then took everything they had of value for his own. The devilish figure Madame Tussaud was paid so well to create is the man who did his utmost to destroy the Dupin family.”

“He and Delamar are working together?”

“So it would appear.”

“And what will you do?”

Dupin turned his gaze to the window and the world outside. “For now I will do nothing. We will solve your mystery, then I will find a way to force Delamar to lead me to his master.”

Any hopes I had of Dupin telling me more about Victor Delamar or the treacherous Ernest Valdemar were dashed as Dupin managed to sleep, or perhaps feigned it, until we stopped at a coaching inn for food, where he ate sparingly and drank liberally, which facilitated his slumbers when we resumed our journey. I was left to answer my fellow passengers' questions about America, which I did as thoroughly as I was able, despite the aggravating persistence of a fellow whose impression of my homeland was formed solely from
The Leatherstocking Tales
. He thought me an English impostor who had never been to that great frontier across the Atlantic as I was not dressed in buckskin leggings and beaded moccasins like Natty Bumppo. Eventually I too retreated into feigned sleep until true slumber possessed me.

When the coach bounced through a large hole in the road and jolted me awake, I wondered if Dupin's theories about the importance of dreams to unlock one's memories were correct, for the grand balloon we had seen above Hyde Park had sailed persistently through my slumbering mind. Once awake the image continued to haunt me—the golden sea-serpent swimming through the cobalt waves, poised to devour the sun with the face of Louis XVI, and the words in golden letters:
Le Grand Serpent de la Mer
. Then an image from the victim's ball came back to me—the dragon on the tapestry in the blue chamber. It was so like the creature adorning the balloon! Le Grand Serpent
de la Mer
. . . so similar to
Delamar
, indeed to
Valdemar
. And then it came to me.

“Dupin.” I shook his shoulder. “It was hidden in plain sight.”

“What was?” he snapped.

“Victor Delamar
is a partial anagram of
Ernest Valdemar
.”

Dupin frowned, his humor still very dark.

“
Le Grand Serpent de la Mer
—the words on the balloon with the golden sea-serpent. There were seven chambers at the
victim's ball, each in a different color. We pondered the meanings of each color, but what we failed to consider was that each chamber featured a dragon or a serpent.”

Dupin's brow furrowed in concentration as he summoned back the night of the ball and his eyes flicked back and forth as he looked inwardly, mentally dissecting each of the seven chambers.

“There was indeed a dragon on the blue tapestry,” he said slowly. “And there was a serpent with the green apple in its mouth, and the brazier shaped from a golden dragon spewing orange flames.”

“The yellow Chinese lanterns had dragon decorations, the glass bowl in the winter chamber had a frosted dragon etched upon it, silver serpents held platters full of grapes in the Dionysian room and the final room had the magnificent dragon chair. A most purposeful motif. Indeed, the invitation had the peculiar caduceus seal imprinted on it.”

“Yes,” Dupin nodded. “The serpent that I would crush beneath my heel considers himself a dragon. How like Valdemar.”

And suddenly it was very clear. “Valdemar wanted you to attend
le Bal des Victimes
. He knew that Madame Tussaud as your dear friend would secure you an invitation.”

“And Valdemar was there somewhere, watching me humiliate myself by thrusting a sword through a waxen heart.” Dupin glowered with a darker fury, which made me sorry that I had solved the little puzzle.

For the rest of the journey I feigned sleep so I would not have to contend with his foul humor, but his self-pitying behavior had a surprising effect on me. I felt galvanized. It was not a demon or malevolent ghost terrorizing me: it was but a man, and the villain needed to be apprehended. If I let my emotions conquer me as Dupin's had him, my aggressor would never be
brought to justice. I was determined to forget what I had suffered and continue my own investigation with a calm heart and clear head.

When we arrived at last in Margate, darkness had fallen, but perambulators were enjoying the night air, which was much fresher than that of London. We rolled along the seafront, where a number of shops faced the road, their windows covered with highly polished and pleasingly decorated shutters; although it was nearly ten o'clock, some of the premises were just closing. Minutes later, we arrived at the White Hart Hotel, which had a rather grand exterior and was situated on the Parade facing the sea.

“Shall we take a walk along the promenade and refresh ourselves?”

Dupin winced as he picked up his bag. “I am afraid I would prefer to retire for the night. Let us meet again at breakfast.”

“Very well, Dupin. I hope a good night's sleep awaits you.”

“Unlikely,” he said as he strode into the hotel.

* * *

My chamber was not so fine as my rooms at Brown's Genteel Inn, but was perfectly pleasant. I opened the window to breathe in the air and discovered a panoramic view of the sea. The moon was a day past full and silvered the breakers as they roamed to and fro. My limbs ached from their lengthy imprisonment in that uncomfortable coach, which had the perverse effect of banishing sleep, so I retrieved the mahogany box from my suitcase and re-read the letters that referred to the attack on the Porter sisters after the Queen's birthday ball. It was Anne Porter who accused Rhynwick Williams on that fateful thirteenth of June and both she and her sister Sarah Porter swore in court that Rhynwick Williams was the Monster. Mr. Coleman
collected Angerstein's reward and, purportedly, used it toward the purchase of the lodging house in Neptune Square, so Miss Anne Porter had benefitted from the reward indirectly if she had not received a share of the money. Meeting with Miss Porter was bound to reveal some vital information, I was certain of it. If she had knowingly committed perjury in court I could not fully condemn her, for Rhynwick Williams's incarceration surely saved my grandparents from hanging or, at the least, from being transported. Would I have existed at all if the Porter sisters had recognized Elizabeth Arnold as the Monster?

I looked at the address Mrs. Fenton had written down and then at the handsome map that was drawn on the verso of the White Hart Hotel handbill. I could not see Neptune Square on the map, but Margate was of a modest size compared to London, and I was confident we would manage to find Miss Porter. Whether she would speak to us was quite another thing.