The Blackest Bird (33 page)

“W
hat we have learned,” stated Hays to his daughter, joining her at the stove where his luncheon, a quartered capon, stewed in an iron pot under her watchful eye, “Mr. Poe is capable of love and he is capable of violence. If that means he is capable of murder as our mayor charges, I cannot know or say.”

“I care not for nuance,” Olga seethed. “If Mary Rogers in fact died during a premature delivery, does that not already qualify as murder, Papa? Not only her murder, but also the murder of her unborn child as well. I beg of you, Papa, had this poor girl already felt the quickening? Had she already felt the life of her child inside her?”

It was obvious to Hays that his daughter was already settled on her opinion. He watched her move the bird from pot to table. “Olga, I could not agree more,” he told her, taking his place, from where he continued to study her. “I do not need to be convinced. Even more disturbing, the troubling fact is that not only did she die during this illegal procedure, but also, and arguably worse, the perpetrator chose to disguise the heinous act by desecrating his victim’s body to make it appear as rape and murder.”

Olga had neglected to make a setting for herself. She sat down to watch her father eat. “And why would he do that?” she asked.

“I have wondered myself the same. The answer, perhaps, to deflect attention away from himself.”

“Yet your purported prime suspect, Mr. Edgar Poe, seems too eager to attract that very attention!” Her eyes gleamed.

“Olga, I know you revere him, but the man is a suspect, and he could be a murderer,” said Hays.

“‘Could’ is a very large word, Papa. It remains to be seen. There might be a scenario wherein we consider the violence only a ruse.”

Hays sat up. “How so, Olga?”

“I have said it before. For the moment, think of these terrible actions against Mary Rogers as a cloak, Papa. To have died during the shame of an abortion is one thing in our society, to have died at the hands of a murderer—a monster at that, or monsters—another. But the violence perpetrated on the victim might very well be taken as a crude and horrific disguise, committed entirely to salvage her virtue. Papa, is it only me, or do you not find Mayor Harper’s attitude toward Mr. Poe at the very least—curious?”

“Again, I have made my consideration just the same, Olga. Tell me, strictly with Mr. Poe’s defense in mind, is there any reason you know why Mayor Harper might entertain vendetta directed against Mr. Poe?”

“I can think of several reasons, Papa,” she said. “Firstly, let us go to the most obvious: outright jealousy. Over the years, if all is as you say, Mr. Harper has been frequent visitor to Mr. Anderson’s tobacco haven. He told you he called Mary Rogers daughter, did he not? I would describe the distilled emotion he carries as something else, something more potent, even lecherous. If Mr. Harper is spewing the brand of fury you describe, if he is accusing Mr. Poe in this manner of an indigestible, clandestine, loathsome, supposed, just-now-discovered liaison with Miss Rogers, true or false, I must say I would not be unduly surprised if Mr. Harper himself was the nurturer of some deep-seated, unrequited infatuation for Miss Rogers.”

She continued. “Mr. Harper, no doubt, blames Edgar Poe for nothing less than just being Edgar Poe: handsome, talented, acerbic, brilliant, tainted. But I daresay there is a second, an economic aspect to Mr. Harper’s accusation as well. Only a few years ago, the Harper Brothers were on the verge of bankruptcy. Today they are quite healthy, far from the brink, the single largest employer in the city. Mr. Harper’s recent success, it can be argued, in no small part is due to the lack of laws governing international copyright, and the enormous profits enabled by depriving certain authors of what some might see as their fair share. Mr. Poe has continuously positioned himself an advocate and vociferous supporter of native literature and copyright legislation. Mr. Harper, on the other hand, is vociferous supporter of his own profits. Which by the way, Papa, I understand, as a businessman he should be, although his tactics clearly make it that much more difficult economically for writers emanating from our own native soil. Thus, Mr. Poe has enjoined Mr. Harper’s enmity, and, in turn, Mr. Harper Mr. Poe’s.

“Some years ago, Mr. Poe wrote a volume on conchology for the very well-respected firm of Haswell, Barrington & Haswell. This publisher came to Poe—despite what James Harper has frequently charged, Poe did not go to them—eager for a text on this very specific, if esoteric, subject, and the resultant work was exclusively at their behest, solely for Poe’s monetary advantage, and strictly for hire. But in the end, in a time of uncertainty and economic unrest, Poe’s book served to drive a previously lucrative, similar volume of the Harper Brothers out of print. I have heard many times over, Papa, that Mr. Harper has never forgiven Mr. Poe for such indiscretion.”

“And conchology is what, Olga? Pardon my ignorance.”

“The science of seashells and mollusks et al., Papa.”

Hays eyes widened. “And there is market for such a work?”

Olga shrugged. “There must be. Wouldn’t you agree? Because Mr. Harper certainly seems to remain vexed enough on the matter in regard to Mr. Poe. Eventually Poe’s hackwork, entitled
The
Conchologist’s
First Book; or, A System of Testaceous Malacology
, attracted some attention. The cover was a very lovely illustration, as I remember, with stamps of shells, weeds, and grasses. As it turned out in the end, a similar book had been published some years before in Scotland, and apparently Poe, having gotten hold of the manuscript, took this as his easy master, barely changing a word or sentiment of the basic text, introduction, or even elemental phraseology. When the transgression was inevitably uncovered, blatant charges of plagiarism were leveled against Poe. Harper seemingly has never forgiven him.”

“And is this the all of it, Olga? Is this why Poe is so disliked by Harper and his fellows?”

“I would not say he is disliked,” she answered. “You must understand, Papa, people are more afraid of him than they dislike him. And for good reason. He is a formidable presence. A wicked critic. It is the risk he takes with full knowledge. He attacks and attacks. He cannot perceive there will be no consequence. Worse, he charges others with transgressions of which he himself, it turns out, is guilty.”

“You refer back to his plagiarism with Harper’s mollusks?” Hays said.

“I do. After that bit of scandal, it was discovered that Poe’s much-discussed and grudgingly admired theory of poetry, cited over and over again in American magazine essays, articles, and monographs, was directly lifted—virtually word for word—from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s own published theory on verse.”

“Is this serious?”

“My word, yes, Papa.”

“And how was this discovered?”

Olga shook her head. “Let it be enough said that Mr. Harper is the American publisher of Coleridge. He was not about to let Poe get away with it, not, as you say, after the mollusk book. He went after him, and since that day, as a trigger defense, Mr. Poe is quick to point his own finger at others, guilty or not, for the very same transgression of which he had been himself humiliated. Most recently he has gone
after Longfellow, the New England poet. The two have feuded bitterly in the journals, although I must say it is decidedly more on the one side of Poe’s than on his counterpart.”

“And what is this about?”

“For the most part the charges began and involve themselves with a comparison of Longfellow’s poem ‘The Good George Campbell’ with a Scots ballad, ‘The Bonnie George Campbell.’ Frankly, it is all minor and ridiculous, Papa. More recently, Mr. Poe has charged Mr. Longfellow with lifting his poem ‘The Beleaguered City’ from Poe’s own ‘The Haunted Palace,’ vehemently labeling the sin first gross plagiarism, then nothing less than undetected palming off.”

“Have people conviction for this sort of besmirching?”

“They do indeed,” Olga said seriously. “The
Boston Atlas
has responded to Mr. Poe’s histrionics against their native son by labeling Poe nothing less than a ‘dunderheaded critic.’ In addition, I cannot help but vividly recall him called as well a ‘dancing dog’ and a ‘somersaulting monkey.’ The New England press has enjoyed themselves immensely, mocking him as ‘Poo,’ which I have been graciously informed by my good friend Lynchie is a direct and not unsubtle reference to his father, a failed actor, who was booed off the Boston stage under denigrating circumstances with similar unkind calls.”

“And how has Mr. Poe reacted to this onslaught?”

“He has simply reiterated his countercharges. He is quick to blame James Harper, and any and all of his enemies. In retaliation, Harper has risen up and bitterly repeated his allegations that Poe had made up citations in much of his criticism, as well as reading texts in translation rather than in their original language. Poe then recharged Harper with passing up American authors in favor of foreign scribes to whom his firm would not be required to pay royalties because of the lack of an international copyright law.”

“Is that true?”

“The way Harper’s argument goes is that literature, like all imaginative creations, should not be ruled by law and commerce. His point is
that the free availability of authors’ works to publishers is an absolute imperative to nations such as ours. He maintains that the citizens of this nation, being both undercapitalized and underculturized, without access to public libraries and collections, need inexpensive access to ideas and entertainment. These, it is obvious, our citizenry cannot generate for themselves. Therefore, providing the public with access to native authors’ works affords more to advance reputation and long-term earning potential than the restricted circulation created by the higher price of books on which a copyright royalty is paid could ever.”

Hays smiled tightly. “This is Harper’s thinking?”

“It is. So expressed. And he is not alone. Far from it, Papa. As I say, Mr. Poe is as strong and vociferous an advocate of an international copyright law as any of our native authors. Many more publishers than James Harper could do without him. Yet to think James Harper that perturbed, that vindictive, to accuse Edgar Poe of this heinous crime against this poor young woman and her unborn child, I find such action unfathomable.”

“We shall see,” Hays said. “After I speak with Mr. Poe, hopefully I will be better able to judge. All I can say for sure, Olga, if he is guilty, he will stand in front of the court.”

“Yet you have no idea where the man is?”

“A number of individuals, including our mayor, swear he is in the city. I was hoping that Mrs. Jenkins might afford me the exact location, but she did not.”

“Then how will you find him?”

“If you have no objection, you will find him for me, my dear. Do you think, Olga, you might do me the good service to go to the offices of the
New York Sun
and have a word with their editor in charge of Poe’s balloon hoax, and perhaps ascertain from him where the author in question thereof might be found. I would send one of my assistant constables, but, as you know, they have all been sacked ruthlessly by your old boss, my new boss, our honorable new mayor, Mr. Harper. You, of course, Olga, have not been sacked, have you?”

She gave him a sidelong look, going for his constabulary staff as if to bash him, but eventually said, “I don’t mind, Papa. I shall go gladly.”

She took off almost immediately after lunch, leaving him to clear the table and wash the dishes, and returning some hours later that afternoon.

To Hays’ inquiry she replied the
Sun
offices crowded, but not unduly so. She swore there was no frenzy to gain hold of the Atlantic Crossing broadsheets, nor to read breathlessly fomented and contrived extra edition accounts of the alleged daring aviation feat. The prints were selling briskly, no doubt, she conceded, but nothing like what she remembered as a girl of the frenzy surrounding the Moon Hoax.

She informed her father (who remained sufficiently reclined in Colt’s leather patent chair) she had spoken with the chief editor, Moses Beach, directly. In accordance, she handed Hays an address on Greenwich Street, not far from the Barkley Street pier, two blocks off the river, one of the very last places where Mary Rogers had reportedly been seen alive with her dark-complexioned gentleman of military or naval carriage. The residence number proved to be that of a small, nondescript boardinghouse. It was a two-story brick building with dormer windows and a slant roof.