Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (41 page)

“What precisely did he say?” Dupin asked.

“‘How might we escape the phantom that seeks retribution when time does not defeat it?” I said softly. “Williams asked me that—or words to that effect.”

“Endless retribution, the persecutor but a ghost. How fitting. Was there more?”

I did not need to rack my memory, for the words came to me unbidden. “‘The guilty die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, on account of sins they dare not reveal.'”

Dupin slapped his hand upon the table in anger. “Of course. Hidden within plain sight, and yet I failed to see it.”

“I am afraid that I still do not.”

“While we fathomed that it was not your adoptive father's widow who sent your curious legacy to you and eventually concluded that the sender was somehow connected to Rhynwick Williams, we failed to adequately question how your nemesis originally obtained the letters. It seems likely that Rhynwick Williams bequeathed the mahogany box and its letters to his own son, George.”

“But how did Rhynwick Williams obtain them? Certainly no one would presume such letters existed and my grandmother
would not tell anyone of their existence. Indeed, I am surprised she did not destroy them as she suggests was her intent in the letter written to my mother.”

Dupin nodded. “The letters concealed in the hidden compartment tell us that Elizabeth Arnold feared for her life. More precisely, she feared that Rhynwick Williams might try to murder her. If Rhynwick Williams was in Charleston in March 1798 as her letter to your mother suggests, we might dare presume that Elizabeth Arnold's death is connected to Williams's arrival in America.”

My breakfast soured in my stomach. “You are suggesting that Rhynwick Williams murdered her? But we were told she died of yellow fever.”

“That may be the cause of her death, but what if Williams watched her succumb to the disease and then made off with the mahogany box and its contents? And if Rhynwick Williams recently expired, his possessions would pass to his son. And so began the repercussions of your legacy.”

Then I remembered what Williams had said to me and was filled with horror. “The twentieth of July 1798,” I muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Williams recited that date when in the catacombs, but did not explain himself.”

Dupin nodded. “One might presume that it is the date your grandmother died, the date that Rhynwick Williams found the evidence that would have incriminated her if she had survived. We do not know when George Williams discovered that your grandparents were the true culprits—did his father complain of the injustice to his family? Did he reveal the letters to his wife when he stole them from your grandmother? Or did George Williams only become aware of the letters upon the death of his own father? These are the questions that you are unlikely ever to
answer now that Williams is dead, but it must be somewhat comforting to know that you and your family are now safe from his wrath.”

I nodded. “Again, I thank you. Truly, Dupin, this journey has been more than bewildering and in many ways frightening, but I do not doubt that had you not come to my aid and joined me in this investigation, my family and I might have suffered a mysterious demise in Philadelphia.”

“I have said it many times, but that is because the words are true:
Amicis semper fidelis
.”

And then a sense of shame came over me. “You did not tell me what occurred during your meeting with Dr. Froissart, and I was too preoccupied to ask. Did the doctor discover anything of value?”

“Only that Valdemar has returned to Paris. He had some information that might prove useful in future, but nothing of immediate worth. I was heartened to learn that my reputation was not ruined when I made myself ridiculous. Madame—ever the true friend—convinced all that it was part of the show. Only Valdemar knows otherwise. I do not doubt that I will destroy him, but unfortunately that was not my destiny here in London.” He looked at his timepiece. “I must allow you to finish your preparations for your journey. I hope you will not mind if I do not accompany you to the ship.”

“Not at all.”

He stood up, as did I, and Dupin solemnly shook my hand. “Perhaps you will return to Paris and conduct a reading of your works. Please know that my home is yours.”

“What a pleasure that would be. Or perhaps you will venture to our shores. There are certain to be crimes in Philadelphia that would benefit from your skills.”

“Perhaps.” Dupin opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Farewell, Poe. Safe journey.”

And as the door closed softly between us, I wondered if I would ever see my friend again. I hoped that I would.

* * *

It was oddly strange to be leaving Brown's Genteel Inn, the place that had been my home for several weeks. When I entered reception, I found the dour desk clerk waiting for me with my final account, which I settled up.

“We are sorry you have curtailed your stay with us, Mr. Poe, but time will not wait for you—if your wife is ill, of course you must return to her side. Our family is all that matters. We at Brown's Genteel Inn wish you a very safe journey home. Thank you for staying with us.”

Soon I was in a coach on the way to the East India docks, where I would board the
Grampus
. I tried to lift my spirits with the thought that soon I would be on my way to Philadelphia and those I loved. My journey to London had begun with the aim of proving that my grandparents had been defamed by a slanderous hoax, but had concluded with the discovery that I was indeed descended from criminals, both of whom had died ignobly. And I had learned a much more disconcerting truth—that like my grandmother, I would kill a man if he threatened the safety of those I love.

EPILOGUE

PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER 1840

Home. I closed my eyes and took in the sounds and smells of Philadelphia as the
Grampus
sailed into port. Sleep had not been my friend during the six weeks it took to traverse the Atlantic. By day I worried about my wife's health, while darkness took me back to the catacombs and my final encounter with George Williams that had so nearly culminated in my demise rather than his. But when at last I arrived at our faithful brick house on the first day of September and crossed the threshold to embrace my wife and her dear mother, all that had happened in London that summer seemed to evaporate like shadow exposed to sunlight. I was home and with those I loved; surely the past did not matter if I left it locked up with those infernal letters?

Sissy's health had improved since Muddy had written of her decline. To set her further to rights and to improve my own compromised state, we returned to our routine of walking along the river. The Delaware Indians named it the Ganshohawanee, which means
roaring waters
; the Dutch called it the Schuylkill—
hidden creek
. It was a river of contradictions, full of bold energy
and secret dark pools that drowned the unwary. It was a contradiction that reminded me of myself, the side I showed to my family and the dark twin I concealed from them.

We enjoyed an Indian summer that lasted until the middle of October. Sissy would sit and do needlework or read while I swam to rebuild my strength, and Muddy collected wild greens for our supper. For my wife's sake, I tried to shake off the melancholia that had gripped me since that evening in the catacombs when Death had chosen my nemesis over me. Attuned to my moods, she had invited me to unburden myself on more than one occasion, but I had retreated into silence. Why worry her with what might have happened? And, in truth, I could not help but fear that the actions of my forebears would taint her view of me. Would she have pledged herself to the grandson of a common criminal and a murderess? I did not think so.

The late October winds scattered orange and red leaves through the air like sparks until the trees rattled bony fingers, and when the river shallows thickened to ice, our idyll along the Schuylkill came to a close. As darkness increasingly outweighed daylight, I wrote with a fury to unburden my very soul, transforming the memories that haunted me into tales that I hoped to sell. With this thought in mind, I accepted the invitation of artist John Sartain to join him at the Artists' Fund Hall for an exhibition on the eighteenth of November. Sartain had recently been hired to do some embellishments for the first edition of George Graham's new magazine, and I had ambitions to place some tales there.

The exhibition proved a pleasant diversion for Sissy, and Mr. Sartain did his best to charm. It was an impressive collection and I thoroughly enjoyed the tour until the very end when I spied a familiar countenance. My heart stilled. No! It could not be! Violet eyes stared boldly into mine
—her
violet eyes. I could not be mistaken for I gazed daily into their counterfeit, the gem
kept hidden in my waistcoat pocket, the talisman that had protected me from Williams's blade down in the catacombs. I stepped forward, her name upon my lips—
Mrs
.
Fontaine
. And then I shook my head to wake from the half-slumber that had overtaken me and saw that it was but a painting before me, a portrait in a gilded oval frame done in a vignette manner—the arms, the bosom, the hair melted into the shadowy background, which added to the image's veracity, as if the lady were a radiant specter emerging from the gloom. The portrait transfixed me, its features and expression so life-like that it seemed Mrs. Rowena Fontaine was right there before me, as though she had followed me from that wretched house in Camden Town to the Artists' Fund Hall in Philadelphia.

“A most extraordinary subject. It was difficult to do her justice in paint.”

I turned to see a dark-haired fellow staring at me. Sartain and my wife were with him.

“Allow me to introduce the artist, Mr. Robert Street,” Sartain said.

“Most impressive, sir. A very fine collection of paintings.” I shook the hand of Sartain's friend, who studied me intently,
too
intently, which made my nerves jangle all the more. Mr. Street turned back to the painting I had been examining.

“Yes, a fine collection, thank you, although many say that no other painting here is so fine as this one.”

“It is wonderful, indeed. Who is the subject?” I hoped against all hope Mrs. Fontaine had a doppelganger in Philadelphia, and she remained in the country of her birth.

The artist frowned, tilted his head this way and that, and then waved his hand dismissively. “An actress, I believe, from London.”

The chill that had enveloped me deepened. “When did you paint the portrait of Mrs. Fontaine?” My words turned to dust
in my mouth when I saw my wife knit her brows, wondering how I knew the name of the woman in the portrait.

“Mrs. Fontaine?” The eccentric painter frowned and then smiled broadly. “Ah, yes. You are quite right. I painted the portrait in early October soon ater she arrived in Philadelphia.”

Mrs. Fontaine in Philadelphia, recently arrived. It could not be coincidence. What business had she in this city other than revenge for the death of her beloved George Williams?

“But really you must be painted, Mrs. Poe.” The artist was smiling brightly at my wife. “I hope you will not be offended if I say that your beauty is extraordinary. I would be honored to paint your portrait.”

My wife smiled. “Thank you for your kind offer. Perhaps in future.”

“Oh, but you must allow it now. Beauty fades, time diminishes us.”

She shook her head again, and he turned his attentions to me. “Then I must paint you, sir. One must never underestimate the power of posterity.” He indicated the portraits that hung from the walls surrounding us. “These men will never be forgotten.”

“No doubt you are correct, but I am afraid I must decline,” I told the artist. And I knew that some things
should
be forgotten. How I wished that I could forget Mrs. Fontaine and George Williams and all that connected us. And yet how could I if Mrs. Fontaine were now truly in Philadelphia?

Sissy and I made our way home in a haze of unease, my wife watching me carefully as if for signs of fever and me peppering the air with words of no consequence to keep the truth from spilling out. The wind taunted us as we walked and there was a smell of snow in the air—I said as much as I pushed my quaking hands deep into the pockets of my coat. When the fingers of my left hand met with a folded square of paper, a gasp of
pure fear escaped me. I knew that the pocket had been empty before we attended the exhibition, I was more than certain. How? How had she done it? I wanted to shout the words but swallowed them back as Sissy's hand touched my arm.

“What is it, Eddie? Are you hurt?”

What could I tell her? That the woman whose portrait she had admired had been there, at the Artist's Fund Hall, watching me—watching
us
. Somehow she had slipped the paper into my pocket as if she were a phantom or a demon from Hell itself. How could I tell my beloved wife that the woman who wished harm to me and to all those I loved had traveled to Philadelphia to watch and wait for her moment?

“I am quite all right,” I lied. “Truly I am.” A flickering light appeared in the darkness like an apparition—candlelight dancing behind window glass. “Look, we are almost home. Come, let us get into the warm.” I took my wife's arm and led her to our house, my fingers still clutching that venomous square of paper.

I did not take it from my pocket until later that night. We ate the meal Muddy cooked for us. We discussed the paintings and the peculiar Mr. Street. I talked about my plans for a new magazine. And when Sissy and Muddy retired to bed, I at last removed the letter and unfolded it.

Philadelphia, 18 November 1840

Dear Mr. Poe,

Our few meetings in London did not culminate as I had planned, but we will meet again, you have my word.
Nemo me impune lacessit
. My arrival will be unexpected. You will think it is nothing—the wind in the chimney, a mouse crossing the floor, a cricket which has made a single chirp. But you will comfort
yourself with these delusions in vain. When the time comes for our final meeting, you will know the terror felt by my father when he stood trial, the anguish he suffered in Newgate, the sorrow of his family when he was taken from them. Your only solace will be a swift retribution and when I have taken that, my father's business will, at last, be finished.