Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (37 page)

Such details made it difficult to doubt Mr. Nicholson's story. I nodded to encourage him.

“Later we had a cold supper and a goodly amount of wine. The other guests departed at nine o'clock as that was when the prison doors were locked.”

I looked to Mr. Turley, who eventually grasped my silent question. “No visitors are allowed to speak with prisoners after nine, it is true, but a prisoner may not host a ball. Truly you must be misremembering, sir.” Mr. Turley was discomfited by the notion and continued to shake his head gently in denial.

“Perhaps it was possible in 1790? Do you think it might have been possible then, Mr. Turley?”

“Well,” he said. “I would not know for I was not there. Fifty years ago the rules may have been different. But certainly not now.”

“It was quite an event,” Mr. Nicholson said wistfully. “I do not think I have participated in as lively an occasion since.”

“And you will not again,” the turnkey said firmly, determined to nip any rebellious thoughts in the bud.

“What about me, sir?” the young rascal piped up. “My mother oft calls me a monster. Might I have a ball like that one did?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Turley said.

“It is my understanding that Rhynwick Williams persisted in claiming his innocence and petitioned for a retrial, which was granted in December 1790. He was found guilty again, but for the reduced charge of misdemeanor. Given your knowledge of the man, Mr. Nicholson, do you believe he was guilty or innocent?”

The old man laughed. “Rhynwick Williams certainly admired the ladies, but in truth he was rather afraid of the fairer sex. It is difficult to believe that he would have had the bravado to slash a woman's skirts, much less attack a host of women. Certainly he was frightened of his wife.”

I felt a scurrying like a column of ants along my spine. “Wife? Rhynwick Williams had a wife?”

“Indeed, sir. He met her at the Monster's Ball as it was called. She was a prisoner also, although I do not know her crime—penury perhaps, but she had an unpleasant temper, so her crime might have had a more violent aspect to it.”

“I was not aware that male and female prisoners might fraternize.” My words were spoken in part to myself, but Mr. Turley took it upon himself to answer.

“It happens,” he said, offended piety constricting his words. “With unfortunate consequences that add misery to misfortune.”

Mr. Nicholson chuckled. “Certainly that was the situation for Rhynwick Williams. Destitute, imprisoned, with a newborn infant and a woman determined that he would support her and the child.”

“A son born in Newgate?” The tingle along my spine grew stronger.

Mr. Nicholson nodded. “His brother the apothecary was most displeased—additional mouths for him to feed.”

I immediately began to calculate what age Rhynwick Williams's son might now be. Rhynwick Williams was imprisoned from July 1790 to late 1796. If the child were born when he was incarcerated, his son would now be somewhere between forty-five and forty-nine years of age. But I needed proof of the son's existence, not simply an old man's memories.

“Do you remember the year of the child's birth?”

Old Mr. Nicholson thought for a moment, his good eye closed, his cloudy eye directed toward me. “I cannot remember
when he was born,” he said, his words sinking my hopes. “But he was christened in May 1795—when I was not long out of Newgate and living with my sister. I recollect this as I was invited to the christening.”

“Where was he christened?” I demanded, excitement getting the better of my manners.

The old man shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “St. Sepulchre's Church.”

“The infants of prisoners are all christened there, given the church is just across the street,” Mr. Turley added.

Of course it made sense, and I was anxious to visit the place and try to find out more about Rhynwick Williams's mysterious son.

“Thank you, Mr. Nicholson. You have been exceedingly helpful.”

“I am glad of it. And dare I say I would be more glad if you found it in your heart to advance me a small loan that might assist me from my current situation.” The old man gave me a gap-toothed smile that flooded me with guilt, but as my hand approached my pocket, Mr. Turley shook his head.

“Be happy that you have assisted a scholar, Mr. Nicholson. Let that be your reward. It is the duty of your friends and family to remedy your debts, not Mr. Poe.” And Mr. Turley whisked me away before I or the old man could say another word. He led me down another dark corridor at a lively pace until we came to an open quadrangle.

“This is where the condemned men may take exercise,” he informed me. “And where Mr. Nicholson claims the ball was held.” He shook his head again, clearly upset with the notion.

“Extraordinary,” I said.

I was desperate to run to St. Sepulchre's to see if I could find proof that Williams had a son, but I had no choice but to finish the tour. We proceeded at pace through the yard and eventually
came to the press-room, a long murky chamber with but two small windows in the stone wall. A pair of men were slumped upon the floor in a posture of absolute dejection.

“Dead men,” Mr. Turley said. “The condemned are brought here on the morning of their execution.”

The prisoners must have heard this pronouncement, but neither acknowledged it. I remembered poor Mr. Courvoisier, how his spirit must have suffered sitting in this place before he dangled from the rope. My grandmother must also have feared such a fate, hence her treachery.

Mr. Turley led me through a maze of winding corridors, and I asked questions about the construction of the prison, its history and its most notorious inmates out of courtesy, but absorbed little of what he told me. My excitement regarding what I might discover at St. Sepulchre's Church made the blood tingle in my veins and my thoughts jitter as if influenced by a quantity of mint juleps. At last we reached the entrance to the prison, where I mumbled some promises about sending Mr. Turley a copy of my scholarly article and made a less than gracious exit.

* * *

The harsh sounds of Snow Hill dissipated as I stepped inside St. Sepulchre's Church. I paused to absorb the grandeur of its interior—two rows of Tuscan columns divided the space into three aisles and the edges of the groined ceilings were ornamented with doves. An elaborate carved and gilded altar stood majestically beneath three windows and there was a magnificent organ. Gentle light filtered through small windows and the air dozed with quietude.

And yet, death connected St. Sepulchre's and Newgate. Before every execution, the bellman traversed the tunnel that led from the church to the prison and when he reached his destination,
would toll his hand bell twelve times, exhorting the prisoners waiting for the noose to repent. But what of the babe, the child of a criminal imprisoned in Newgate, awaiting baptism?

I made my way through the church, doing my best not to disturb the prayerful huddled upon the pews as I searched for someone who might help me. There must have been something suspicious in my actions for as I turned to shift my attentions to another part of the church, I found myself face to face with a very tall, stern-faced elderly man with white hair and piercing blue eyes who wore the simple black cassock of a clergyman.

“Are you lost, sir?” he asked in a deep, hard voice. If it were he who recited the verse exhorting repentance to the condemned, they would go to the gallows with true fear in their hearts.

“I was searching for someone to assist me in finding a record of baptism. I was informed by Mr. Turley that it would be here.”

He stared at me as if he had intuited my slight exaggeration regarding what Mr. Turley had said. “Why do you seek this record? Do you believe that the person has not truly been baptized or is a pretender to some other's identity?”

My excitement at having discovered that Rhynwick Williams might have a son had made me overlook the possibility that I might meet with resistance in gaining access to that vital piece of information: his son's name. How should I respond? If I hid the truth would he fathom my deception with his gimlet eye, and if I told the truth would he deny me if he happened to know the history of Rhynwick Williams and the Monster?

“I am looking for the record of an infant baptized in May of the year 1795. I am afraid I do not know the precise date. His father was Rhynwick Williams. He and the child's mother were both imprisoned in Newgate at the time of the child's birth. I am a relation of Miss Sarah Porter of Margate, who was attacked most fearfully by Rhynwick Williams. She is now being
terrorized by some other demon she suspects to be the Monster's son. I am here to help Miss Porter by verifying whether Williams had a son and if so, what his name is.”

The clergyman examined me as a taxidermist might study a dead bird. He grunted once, opened the door before me and stepped inside. The room held a desk and shelves filled with books. He advanced to the shelves and quickly found a large, leather-bound volume and sat down at the desk with it. I hovered in the doorway and without a glance or a word, he beckoned me in with a brusque wave. I sat in the chair in front of the desk and waited while he ran his finger down the pages as he read them.

“Christened in May 1795. Father, Rhynwick Williams?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Mother, Elizabeth Robins?”

“I believe so,” I lied.

“Their son George Rhynwick Williams was christened here on the thirty-first of May 1795.” He turned the volume round and indicated the entry.

“But Rhynwick Williams was still a prisoner then. He was not released until December 1795. Surely the date is incorrect.”

“The date is correct,” the clergyman said firmly. “Such situations occur more often than we like amongst the criminal classes imprisoned in Newgate.”

“The child was named George Rhynwick Williams?”

“That is what I said.” He closed the leather-bound volume.

“Many thanks, sir.”

“I hope the information will aid Miss Porter.”

“It will, I am certain.”

He simply raised his heavy brows and said, “Good day, sir.”

* * *

My mood was jubilant as the coach jounced through the narrow streets that led back to Brown's Genteel Inn. Rhynwick Williams had a son of five and forty years, an age that coincided with the man who posed as the scrivener, professor and the glowering man at my reading. Given Dupin's relentless pursuit of Valdemar, the man who had destroyed his family, I could not deny that George Williams might wish to harm me, even if I had nothing to do with my grandmother's false accusation of his father Rhynwick Williams. I also could not deny it was conceivable that Dr. Wallis was George Williams in disguise, but the horror of that possibility was leavened by the knowledge of my aggressor's true identity. It would be more difficult for George Williams to remain a ghost with uncanny powers.

When I entered Brown's Genteel Inn, I was looking forward to discussing what I had discovered with Dupin, but all disappeared from my mind when the desk clerk delivered over a small packet addressed to me in Muddy's hand. At last! News from home; words from those I loved. I was overjoyed at this unexpected treasure and returned to my chambers in haste, where I immediately tore open the packet. Eight letters spilled onto the onyx table, and I settled into the armchair to read of every small thing my darling wife had spent her time on. After a deeply pleasant interlude, I read the letter from Muddy and all my joy turned to ash.

Philadelphia, 10 June 1840

My dearest Eddy,

Virginia has not been well. When she took to her bed the evening after you left, I presumed her heartsick with your absence, but she was unable to keep down anything but broth for three days and remains poorly. She has begged me to tell you nothing of her illness,
but I would not like to deceive you. If you return to us sooner rather than later, it is bound to have a restorative effect upon our girl.

With greatest affection,

Muddy

More than a month for news to cross the Atlantic! How helpless I felt, which was further compounded by the fact that it would take six weeks to sail to Philadelphia. What would I discover when I arrived there in the closing days of August?

I immediately set about organizing my return and enlisted the aid of the dour night desk clerk, who showed surprising sympathy for my predicament. He promised to arrange the earliest passage he could and was true to his word. Several hours later I had a ticket to sail on the
Grampus
from London to New York on the evening of July the twenty-first. An anxious heart drove me to bed early, where I re-read Sissy's letters, hoping they would sweeten my dreams. When I extinguished the light and settled into the darkness, it occurred to me how much the letter sent but never received might alter a person's life.

Broad Street Theatre, Charleston
16 March 1798

My dearest Daughter,

I am writing this on the eleventh anniversary of your birth, a day that has always been so dear to me. Enclosed here is a lock of my hair to help you remember me, for I fear our time together might not be as long as I would wish. If you were not of such tender years, I would endeavour to explain what I must leave to you in written form.

First, know that you are truly gifted as an actress—such an ability to charm an audience! I have found some success upon the stage, but you will surpass me if you pursue the same calling. If so, I hope your talent will serve you well and the theatrical life will continue to be to your liking, for it is not an easy one.

And now I must broach less pleasant subjects. The enclosed key is for a box that will be released to you along with this letter upon your sixteenth birthday should I die before that happy occasion. Letters are concealed inside the box that were written during a terrible time in our lives in England and explain the demise of your father. Should I too die unexpectedly, they will surely reveal who is responsible.