The lieutenant looked up from his newspaper, while the captain continued reading without a glance at us.
“And you are?” the lieutenant asked. He had the build and demeanor of a fighting dog and looked us over as a canine of that ilk might before lunging at one’s throat.
“Edgar Poe of 234 North Seventh Street, above Spring Garden.”
“Father Michael Keane of the St. Augustine Academy.”
“And who have you lost? Some of your flock?” The lieutenant’s eyes lingered on Father Keane. The captain of the watch, a red-faced man who smelled of last night’s whiskey, gave a snort of laughter.
“Miss Helena Loddiges. A visitor from London,” I told him. “We were at Wissahickon Creek observing the passenger pigeons and the lady was taken. We are fearful that her abduction might be connected to the death—perhaps murder—of Mr. Jeremiah Mathews last October when on board a vessel that had recently arrived in Philadelphia from Peru.”
“Are you writing that down, Johnson?” the pugnacious lieutenant asked.
“Of course, sir.”
I was surprised to see that Captain Johnson had a pen in hand and was diligently transcribing something onto a sheet of paper before him.
“Are you familiar with the murder of a Jeremiah Mathews, Johnson? Around the docks?”
“No, Lieutenant Webster. Notorious spot, Hell Town, for characters of ill repute. Murder is all too common.”
“Jeremiah Mathews was not a criminal. He was a bird collector who worked for Miss Loddiges’s father. He was waiting to board a ship back to England, but died before his departure.”
“Ill-advised to go to Hell Town at night,” Johnson said, as if it were Jeremiah Mathews’s fault entirely that he had died.
“When did Miss Loddiges go missing?” Lieutenant Webster asked.
“Yesterday,” I said.
“A day is twenty-four hours long. Exactly when?”
The red-faced watchman guffawed again.
“We arrived at Wissahickon Creek at three o’clock in the afternoon,” Father Keane interjected. “We watched the pigeons for one hour until a large number of hunters arrived, and it became perilous as they were firing recklessly at the birds. Mr. Poe and I agreed that we should leave, but when we looked for Miss Loddiges she had disappeared.”
“One moment she was there, gazing at the pigeons, and the next she had vanished,” I added.
“Like a conjurer’s trick,” Webster smirked.
“No,” Father Keane countered evenly. “Like an abduction. We and all the hunters combed every inch of the surrounding area and found an embellishment from her bonnet and two of her gloves, but the lady herself was nowhere to be seen.”
I unfolded the brown paper in which I had wrapped Miss Loddiges’s discarded possessions. Webster examined each glove, then poked at the hummingbird with a cautious fingertip.
“What is this?”
“A decoration from her bonnet. She knew that if we came across the hummingbird we would identify it as hers. Miss Loddiges is partial to the creatures,” I explained. “And there are none this far north this time of year.”
Webster stared at me as if I were mad. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Father Keane said. “She dropped the gloves on a pathway from the woods to the road that leads east toward Philadelphia. It was clear from tracks in the earth that a coach had been stationed on the side of the road and presumably she was forced into that coach.”
Webster pursed his lips as he considered Father Keane’s words and absently smoothed out the gloves until they were like two dismembered yellow hands resting upon the paper.
“Small woman,” he observed.
“I would say she is about five foot tall with auburn hair and green eyes. She was wearing a bright blue cape trimmed in yellow the same shade as the gloves, and a bonnet decorated with several hummingbirds and artificial flowers,” I said. “And she is English, visiting from London. Staying at the Bartram estate with Mrs. Carr.”
“The lady is a friend of Colonel Carr and his wife?”
“Wealthy then,” Johnson noted.
“And why didn’t Colonel Carr report the abduction?” Webster asked suspiciously.
“We thought it best if we made the report first thing this morning as we were with the lady when she disappeared,” I told him.
“To suggest your innocence,” Webster said. Both officers stared at us in a manner that could only be described as challenging.
“Miss Loddiges is my benefactress,” I protested.
“Benefactress? She gives you charity?”
“No! What I mean is that I edited a book for her several years ago, and she paid me for the work. She has just employed me to edit a second book for her.”
Webster looked to Johnson, who raised his brows and scribbled faster.
“The lady writes books?”
“About birds. She is an ornithologist and taxidermist, hence her interest in the passenger pigeons,” Father Keane said.
“I do know what an ornithologist is.” Webster’s eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze to Father Keane. “Philadelphians receive a free education. We have no need here for papist academies, do we, Johnson?”
“No, we don’t, sir.”
“There is no denying that Philadelphia offers an admirable public education system,” I said. “Father Keane’s occupation is surely not relevant to the fact that a young woman is missing and likely to be in terrible danger.”
Webster turned his cynical gaze to me and seemed to absorb every detail of my countenance and frame. “Consider my point of view, Mr. Poe. Two men take a young, wealthy English woman, who is a visitor in Philadelphia, out to Wissahickon Creek to watch a flock of pigeons, and she mysteriously disappears. One man is a writer of little means and the other an Irish priest newly arrived on our shores to spread the Pope’s word. Should I receive their story as innocently as Miss Helena Loddiges supposedly did? What do you think, Johnson?”
“You’d be a dunderhead if you did, sir.”
“That’s just what I think.”
My face began to glow, but Father Keane spoke before my anger sparked into words. “We appreciate that you are leaving no stone unturned in considering what might have happened to Miss Loddiges. We will, of course, be ready to answer any of your questions and to assist in any manner. Now, would you like to keep Miss Loddiges’s possessions for your inquiries?”
“Yes, we will keep them.” Webster folded the paper up and handed the packet over to his colleague.
“Is there anything more you need from us at this time?” Father Keane asked.
“We know where to find you,” Lieutenant Webster said, his words an unambiguous threat.
“And you will keep us informed about your investigation—if you unearth anything at all?” I suggested.
Webster frowned. “You’ll hear from us if we need anything from you,” he said flatly.
“Good day, sirs.” Father Keane nodded amiably to each officer of the police, then left the station without a backward glance. I could do nothing but follow without looking entirely foolish.
Such was Father Keane’s pace that it took me several minutes to draw aside him.
“I did not expect to be treated as a criminal,” I said angrily. I presumed to see fury on the priest’s face, but he was perfectly calm.
“I don’t think anything will come of the insinuations. Truly their ire was directed at me.”
“You were nothing if not cordial.”
Father Keane sighed. “There is the Bible business, as you must know. Bishop Kenrick wrote to the Board of Controllers of Philadelphia’s public schools to request permission for Catholic children to read the Douay version and for the children to be excused from any religious teachings while at school, which was agreed, but the Nativists complained that this was an attack against the Protestant Bible.” He shook his head. “Of course it should not matter to anyone else which Bible we use at St. Augustine’s. The truth is there are those born in this country
who mistrust newcomers, believing they will bring unwelcome change by introducing new faiths and customs. Or that they will steal, as they put it, opportunities away from them. And then violence follows.”
I nodded reluctantly, knowing the truth in his words. “I had not expected it from officers of the police.”
Father Keane shrugged. “It is everywhere, even the academy.”
“Your students have been attacked?”
“Not by adults, no, but children learn from their parents and have threatened our pupils. The worst violence has been inflicted by adults, particularly against newly arrived Catholics, and people have died, but the police have been oddly ineffectual at catching the perpetrators, despite the assistance of witnesses.”
“I am surprised you wished to accompany me to the police office.”
“It is, of course, my duty. We cannot hide away from those who persecute us or they have beaten us by default. And then the children will become precisely what the Nativists accuse their parents of being: criminals.”
I could see Father Keane’s point, but was still smarting from the way we had been treated.
“If Miss Loddiges is to be found,” I said, “then it appears we will have to search for her ourselves.”
“Yes, I believe you are correct and that it is our duty to find the lady, for she disappeared when in our company. Shall we go to the academy? I noticed a few anomalies in Jeremiah Mathews’s journal that might prove of interest. We have nearly two hours before I must be with the students.”
“Excellent.”
And we both increased our pace until the vapor of our breaths streamed behind us in the cold air, like steam from a locomotive engine.
16
The yard of the St. Augustine Academy was lively with boys engaged in rambunctious play before their classes began, and when we entered the school itself, the cheerful din ebbed away, replaced by a thick stillness that threw the noise of our footsteps all around us. The atmosphere changed again as we entered Father Keane’s study with its book-lined walls, proudly displayed bird egg collection and the assortment of scientific implements on his desk. The overall effect was of organized scholarship, but for the macabre diorama that disturbed the harmony of the room.
“Please.” Father Keane indicated the chair situated in front of his desk. He took the seat behind it, unlocked a drawer and withdrew Jeremiah Mathews’s journal, which he placed between us on the desk top. I had not looked at it carefully when Miss Loddiges had given it to me, such was my lack of enthusiasm for assisting her in what I had thought was a mere fantasy. The journal’s binding was of cordovan brown leather, once handsome, but it had been attacked by mildew. Two initials were embossed in gold on its spine and the lower right of the front cover: J.M. The edges of the journal were gilded, but sadly that too had been spoiled by rough treatment and an unsympathetic climate. All in all, it was an impractical item to take into the wilds of Peru, which either made young Mathews foolish or overly romantic.
“I presume the journal was a gift, perhaps from his father, the bird collector?”
“It was a token from Miss Loddiges,” I explained.
Two feathers were tucked into the journal’s pages, taken, it appeared, from the jar of waterfowl plumes Father Keane kept on his desk to use as bookmarks. He opened the journal where one was situated and revealed a page filled with small, meticulous handwriting and neat ink drawings of exotic birds.
“This is an Agyrtria franciae—an Andean emerald hummingbird,” he said, pointing to one of the images. “Indigenous to the mountains of Peru. The drawing captures its key aspects, and note how he describes the coloring and markings of each bird and that he has attached feather samples in some instances.”
“Very neatly done.”
“Yes.” Father Keane nodded. “It is a clear and precise record of the birds Mathews observed and captured. Here at the back he has listed all the specimens collected on the expedition by date and location of capture, the bird’s scientific classification, its condition and the number of the box it was stored in.”
I scanned the entries and saw that several birds were noted as spoiled when shot, but most others had been skinned and were in good to excellent condition.
“I see. I presume this sort of log is common practice for bird collectors, so their employer has a record of their activities?”
“It would seem logical,” Father Keane agreed. “There is one anomaly, however. Look here.” He turned the page.
“‘Mathewsii nubes of the Trochilidae family,’” I murmured. The word in the next column took me by surprise. “‘Live’?”
“Yes, most unusual. Of course, exotic birds such as parrots, macaws and peafowl have been successfully transported live, but a hummingbird? It would seem quite a feat to transport one from Peru to Philadelphia given its fragile nature.”
“It has been achieved,” I said. “Andrew Mathews succeeded in bringing one to London. I saw it with my own eyes when I was there. He had dreams of establishing a colony of them in the Loddiges glasshouses.”
“How interesting,” Father Keane said. “I wonder how he transported it.”
“That I cannot tell you, unfortunately. I was too struck with the wonder of it to question Mr. Mathews and our meeting was very brief.”
“And what of this hummingbird?” Father Keane said, tapping the journal page. “Did it arrive in London with the rest of the cargo?”
“I don’t know. Miss Loddiges did not mention it. She did say that items from the inventory were missing, but did not specify a hummingbird.”
Father Keane nodded. “There is something else I noticed, which may be connected to the last journal entry: ‘They seek the Jewel. All is within.’”
He turned to the very back of the journal and indicated where heavy marbled paper bound the cover to the pages. He gently peeled it back, revealing a paper sleeve where additional pages had been stored, which he removed and spread onto the desk. If Jeremiah Mathews’s journal entries were neat and organized, these pages were far more lively. The handwriting was larger and highly expressive, the illustrations exuberantly rendered and colored with bright inks.
“Do you see the date?” Father Keane asked. “1841. This must be the work of Andrew Mathews, recording his own expedition to the Chachapoyan mountains.”
I looked more closely at the loose pages. The descriptions of the birds were incorporated into the journal entries, creating a lively narrative, and it was clear from the pages in front of us that the author and artist had the deepest affinity for birds.
“These are glorious. What would possess young Mathews to ruin his father’s expedition journal by removing these pages?” I murmured, impressed by the artistry of pére Mathews.
“I believe it is because they contain errors. Peculiar errors.”
“What sort of errors?”
“See here.” Father Keane indicated a drawing of a seagull. The white bird had a silvery gray back and wings, yellow legs, and a black band encircled a lemon-colored bill. Its glaring yellow eye rimmed with red captured its thieving nature. “Larus delawarensis, more commonly know as the ring-billed gull. As you will have guessed from its name, it is a bird found in these parts, very common along the Delaware River. It migrates south, but only as far as Mexico.”
“In other words, it is not a gull found in Peru.”
Father Keane nodded.
“Might Andrew Mathews have made an error? Confused it with another type of gull endemic to Peru?”
“Such an experienced bird collector? Certainly not. It is so common a bird that any amateur ornithologist would readily identify it. And here on this page is another error.”
The creature was standing on a pine bough and looked to me like a blackbird, but with a green and purple sheen to its feathers. Its eye was pale yellow and it wore a startled expression.
“Euphagus carolinus, the rusty blackbird. It lives in the coniferous forests of Canada and winters in this area, particularly near acorn-produ
cing oaks.”
“And a bird collector would be well aware that rusty blackbirds are not to be found in Peru.”
“Correct. I believe Andrew Mathews made intentional errors in his journal, which his son detected but did not fully understand. Perhaps he felt the answers would be in the Chachapoyas.”
Father Keane’s supposition seemed plausible. “And perhaps the intentional errors are clues to something he came upon there, something that led to his murder,” I suggested. “Is there any connection between the ring-billed gull and the rusty blackbird? What they eat? Some peculiar habit?”
“Beyond the fact that they can both be found here, they would seem to have little in common, the gull being of the Charadriiformes order and the blackbird of the Passeriformes.”
“That both birds are found in Philadelphia seems beyond mere coincidence,” I said.
“It does require further thought.”
“And what of this drawing?” I said, picking up a sketch of a strange and wondrous tree growing inside a chamber, almost like a plant ready to emerge from a seed. Its roots twisted like an octopus’s tentacles into the earth and large branches reached up to a hole in the chamber’s domed roof. The leaves were long and narrow and grew from a stalk so that they resembled ferns hanging from the branches. Clusters of pink berries decorated the tree and vivid tropical birds roosted in its branches. “‘Schinus molle,’” I read out. “What a peculiar drawing. It’s quite fantastical.”
“The branches and the roots make me think of crann bethadh—the tree of life in Irish lore. But the berries and the birds . . .” He shrugged.
“It reminds me of George Loddiges’s famous hummingbird cabinet—an exquisitely constructed kingdom of the birds that Miss Loddiges created, derived from the imagination more than nature.”
“These all look to be birds endemic to Peru, but certainly they would not roost together. And the drawing is unfinished.” Father Keane indicated a hummingbird with long tail feathers near the top of the tree, outlined in ink but without the water-color-tinted feathers that made its companions so vibrant.
“And these little drawings are most strange, almost primitive.” I indicated a row of images to the left of the tree, line drawings of what I presumed to be indigenous Peruvian creatures sketched in ochre crayon: a lizard, a monkey, a spider, all in single file, following the lead of a bird in flight whose long bill pointed towards the Schinus molle. “Why would Andrew Mathews include such a peculiar drawing in his journal when his task was to record the birds and plants he saw on the expedition?”
Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru Page 9