“I suspect that Jeremiah Mathews wondered that same thing when he saw this,” my friend replied. He moved the seven pages into a line and stared at them for a time, then shook his head. “Perhaps I am missing something. May I keep the journal a bit longer so I might scrutinize it in more detail? There are some books in our library that should prove useful.”
“Yes, of course. I feel ill-equipped to locate any further errors in the journal. Indeed, I feel overwhelmed by this entire situation.”
I could not help but glance at the diorama. Father Keane had positioned the peculiar figure of Helena Loddiges at her miniature dissecting table and the manikin appeared to be staring directly at me, its eyes accusing, one tiny hand gripping a black feather and the other clenched tight in fury.
17
FRIDAY, 15 MARCH 1844
Dawn had just retreated, its rosy glow cooled to blue. Catterina was stretched across my desk, gazing at me with one half-open eye, wondering why I was at work at such an early hour. I had not been able to sleep, such was my worry for Miss Loddiges, so I had retreated to my study to work on a tale of a man entombed alive. I felt the emotions of that situation acutely, for I was unable to assist my benefactress in any way. It did not seem likely that the officers of the police would act upon our report of her abduction, and it was difficult to see how Father Keane and I might discover who had spirited the lady away. Her notion that Jeremiah Mathews had been murdered seemed credible now, which made her situation all the more disturbing. Catterina stretched out one paw and tapped the edge of the page where my pen was hovering; when I looked up, both green eyes were fixed upon me, as if she were commiserating.
“We must do something,” I muttered to her. “But I cannot fathom what.”
A ferocious pounding on the front door interrupted my thought. Catterina dived under my desk and I leapt to my feet, certain that ominous news awaited me. Was it a miscreant demanding ransom, or, worse still, had time run out to rescue Miss Loddiges? I hurried down the stairs and arrived at the door just as Sissy did.
“Let me, please,” I said in a low voice. “It might not be safe.”
Sissy backed away from the entrance, but remained in the hall, determined to see who had arrived so unexpectedly. I took a breath to calm myself and opened the door to find a boy of perhaps fourteen years of age.
“Mr. Poe?” His face was contorted with fear.
“Yes?”
“Father Nolan sent me—it’s Father Keane. Something terrible has happened. Will you come with me to the school?”
I turned to Sissy, and she held my overcoat and hat toward me. “Go.”
“We must hurry,” the boy urged. “Father Nolan made me promise.”
He and I ran and did not stop until we reached St. Augustine’s. When we arrived at the academy’s entrance, I was none the wiser as to what had happened, for the boy had been too terrified to tell me anything.
“Father Nolan is waiting in the library,” the boy informed me.
“I know the way.”
Relief was plain on his face, and the boy disappeared before I could thank him. I hurried down the empty corridor, disconcerted further by the heavy silence. Father Nolan was pacing anxiously at the library entrance and beckoned me inside, shutting the door behind me. He was the academy’s librarian, a particularly esteemed position given the quality of the library and its prestige as a center of knowledge. It went without saying that he was an extremely learned man, and I had been privileged to engage in many fruitful conversations with him about a variety of topics. His habitual expression of gentle commiseration had deepened to utter sorrow.
“Is he badly hurt?” I asked, hoping not to hear what I felt to be inevitable.
“He has passed to God,” Father Nolan said, his words thick with grief. We were both struck silent for a moment, then the priest said quietly: “When Father Keane returned from an errand last night, he seemed most shaken. I have known him for many years and he is not easily intimidated, but something unnerved him yesterday evening, so much so that he made me promise to send word to you immediately should anything happen to him. Truly his words made me terribly anxious, but never did I believe for a moment . . .” His voice trailed off, and I feared the priest would begin to weep.
“Where is he?” I asked gently.
“He is where I found him, his soul already gone. It is a terrible sight.”
“Take me to him.”
He nodded and led me further into the tomb-like library. The chamber was spacious with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of books and rows of wooden tables for the students to work at. The calm beauty of that empty place countered the beating of my heart as I followed Father Nolan toward a wall with a large stained-glass window that featured St. Jerome. And there on the floor, beneath that saint of scholars, lay Father Keane, spears of colored light illuminating his stilled body, flurries of dust motes glimmering around his head like a halo. His sightless blue eyes stared up at Heaven and his arms were flung back above his head. Slowly the terrible sight before me softened to a haze, blurred by the tears that veiled my eyes.
“How?” I asked, when at last my voice returned.
Father Nolan raised his shoulders and turned his palms upward in a gesture of hopelessness. “That I cannot tell you for certain. But this was pinned to his cassock.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. When I opened it, I saw that it was an incendiary broadsheet with an image of the so-called “Nativist” flag and some anti-Catholic doggerel beneath it.
“Pinned to his garment—like a warning?” I asked, handing the paper back to him.
“That is how we read it.” Father Nolan shook his head, the worry plain on his face. “Father Moriarty instructed me to remove it,” he said. “The children are fearful enough.”
“You think Nativists might be responsible for Father Keane’s death? Inside St. Augustine’s library?” I asked in disbelief.
“They grow bolder,” Father Nolan said. “They want us gone.”
I thought back to our visit to the office of the police and how Father Keane had been treated there and could not offer any words of reassurance. The sight of my friend sprawled on the floor, dead, was a nightmare I hoped to awaken from.
“I am more sorry than I can express,” I said.
Father Nolan nodded solemnly. “Words cannot convey the pain inside us when forced to part with a friend. Know that Father Keane deeply valued your friendship. Indeed, he asked me to give you this.” He reached into his sleeve and began to pull out an envelope, but an imperious voice sounded and he immediately pushed it back in place.
“Father Nolan, why are you in here and who is this?” A darkhaired man who resembled a bull and looked to be roughly forty years of age strode up to us, his robes flapping like sails.
“It is Mr. Poe, Father Keane’s friend,” he stammered, then turning to me, “And this is the Very Reverend Doctor Moriarty, pastor of St. Augustine Church.”
“It is hardly time for superfluous introductions,” the priest snapped. “I asked for the library to remain locked. Why is this man here?” Father Moriarty glowered at both of us.
Father Nolan became very red in the face and could not hide his fear. Before he could stumble through a badly told lie, I said: “Father Keane arranged to meet me here this morning and Father Nolan broke the terrible news to me. I will assist in any way I can to apprehend the perpetrator.”
“Perpetrator? Do you intend to apprehend Death himself? I do not understand what you suggest, sir.” Father Moriarty stared at me. “And now I bid you good day. We must tend to our brother.” Father Moriarty waved in two priests who had appeared in the doorway. “Father Nolan, if you would see your guest out, please. The library will remain closed today.”
Father Nolan nodded meekly and ushered me from the library. Once we were outside, I thought of the journal my friend had been studying for me. If I did not retrieve it now then I might never be able to do so. “I need to see Father Keane’s study,” I told Father
Nolan in a low voice. “He had a book that belongs to a friend of mine.”
Father Nolan looked bewildered and his nervousness increased. “We must be hasty as Father Moriarty is likely to send someone there.”
“Yes, of course.”
I followed Father Nolan, who scurried down the corridor as if being chased. When he opened the door to Father Keane’s sanctuary, we were both thunderstruck, for the normally meticulous place had been ransacked.
“My word,” Father Nolan murmured. “How dreadful.”
“The rogues. All his precious things destroyed.”
Papers and books littered the floor, his scientific treasures were strewn across his desk, and I felt as if my sternum had received an egregious blow when I saw that his bird egg collection was crushed. Then I noticed something most peculiar. The Wardian case was intact upon the table, empty but for its layer of dirt, which looked as if someone had raked through it. Gone were the figures of Jeremiah Mathews and Miss Loddiges, the taxidermist’s table, the Chachapoyan backdrop. I made my way toward it, stepping over the scattered tomes and searched around the table. The hatbox with its cache of raven parts was gone as well. Surely this was not the work of Nativists who had taken against a Catholic priest. Everything connected to Miss Loddiges’s mystery had vanished.
“We must be quick, Mr. Poe.”
“Yes, I understand, but this is very important. There was a peculiar diorama of miniature figures—they are gone. And a box containing taxidermied birds. Father Keane was keeping them for me. Would you happen to know when they were taken away?”
“I remember seeing the diorama yesterday afternoon when Father Keane and I spoke. It was a very strange diorama.”
“May I look in his desk?” I was not hopeful that the journal would be there, given the state of Father Keane’s study, but not to search would be folly.
“Yes, but quickly, then we must go.”
I went through the drawers while Father Nolan stood sentry at the door, peering down the hallway. There was nothing, as I had suspected.
“Someone is coming,” he said in a low, urgent voice, and I immediately followed him from the room. Father Nolan scurried down the corridor and I dogged his heels until we reached a door that led to the church gardens.
It was a relief to escape the building into bright sunshine. The sound of clucking chickens and restless pigeons made cheerful music, and the air smelled of freshly tilled earth.
Father Nolan gestured that we should sit on a bench that faced out over the garden and produced the envelope he had tried to give me earlier. “Father Keane said it was important that you receive this and that I help you with it.”
The envelope was sealed and addressed to me in Father Keane’s large, flowing hand. I immediately opened it and found a brass key with an elaborate bow through which a long red cord was looped.
“Do you recognize it?” I asked.
Father Nolan frowned as he scrutinized the key. “I believe it is from a ring of keys I keep in my desk—it unlocks one of the bookcases that house our antique books.” He seemed surprised by his own words, as if unconvinced that Father Keane would either take the key or allow an outsider access to the library’s most priceless tomes.
“It would seem that he wished me to look at one of the books. Is there one about birds, perhaps? Birds of Peru?” I wondered if he had left me a message about the inaccuracies in the journal, some clues that would help me to find Miss Loddiges.
“I am not certain. There are many precious books in the cabinet, and we are not encouraged to remove them.”
“Is there a time when I might come to the library and examine them?”
Father Nolan sighed and stared up at the sky as if waiting for a message from Father Keane in Heaven. “Outsiders have never been allowed access to the treasure books without Father Moriarty in attendance,” he said. “And I doubt he will be accommodating.”
“But I must try. I owe it to Father Keane.”
Father Nolan pondered for a moment, then said, “The best time would be when Father Moriarty breaks his fast, between half past seven and eight o’clock. His meal is brought to him in his office as a matter of routine.”
“Might I come tomorrow morning?” I asked. “The culprits will never be brought to justice if I fail to act quickly.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes, of course. I will make sure to be in the library at that time.”
“Thank you, Father Nolan. And I will do anything I can to help bring our friend’s murderer to justice.”
“Thank you, sir. Here, it’s best perhaps to leave this way to avoid crossing paths with Father Moriarty again.” He led me to a bolted door in the garden wall large enough for wagons to pass through, which had a smaller wicket door cut within it for pedestrians. He unlocked it and let me out.
“Go with God, Mr. Poe.”
As I stepped outside the peaceful confines of St. Augustine Church, a vision of Father Keane sprawled on the floor sprang into my mind, and I wondered what kind of devil could have murdered such an estimable man.
18
The parlor walls shimmered with light and shadow cast from the fire, which danced to the metronomic tick-tick of Muddy’s knitting needles. Sissy was softly playing a mournful air on the piano that reflected the mood set by Father Keane’s death. Muddy had appreciated his practical knowledge, the way he could fashion useful objects from the gifts of Nature and knew which wild plants were edible. He was perhaps my only friend that she enjoyed conversing with. I had not conveyed the details of his strange demise, but Sissy had sensed that something untoward had occurred and was both saddened and anxious, her mood matching my own. The book I held under the glow of the Argand lamp was no more than a prop, for the vision of Father Keane lying on the floor kept drawing me back, like a doleful ghost, to the library at St. Augustine’s. As night thickened, so did our melancholy, until Muddy sighed and put her work to one side.
“Goodnight, my dears,” she said, but our replies were cut short by a firm rapping at the door. Sissy’s eyes immediately met mine and my own fear was reflected within them—we were expecting no one and it was not the hour for a spontaneous social call.
Muddy murmured, “How strange . . .” as she stepped toward the door.
“Please wait here,” I said, leaping to my feet. After the morning’s terrible events, I feared that danger might be waiting impatiently upon our doorstep.
Again, there was a rapping.
“Do not open it!” Sissy cried out.
“I will just peer from the window.” I left the parlor and made my way to the front of the house before she could protest again and drew back the curtains slowly, so that I might capture a glimpse of the visitor but remain unseen. I could discern a man on the doorstep hunched up against the cold, with his back to the door.
“Who is there?” I said, doing my best to keep my voice steady. The figure shuffled but did not answer. I rapped upon the glass and fairly shouted, “Who is there? What is it you want at this hour?”
The person turned, stepped toward the window and gazed in. “T’is I, Dupin.”
Dupin? It could only be an imposter using my friend’s name to gain entrance for some iniquitous reason.
“It cannot be. Now go, you rogue.” My demand sounded weak to my own ears, but I could not think of anything more persuasive, for surely we were prisoners within the house until morning and window glass was a fragile barrier against a determined villain.
“Poe, I received your letter and knew at once that you were in need of assistance—that you were in danger, not I—so I immediately set sail. The ship arrived in port several hours ago. Such was my rush to depart, I did not make any arrangements for accommodation, and hope you will assist me in finding somewhere suitable.”
His words transformed my limbs to marble, my voice to empty air, until Dupin uttered my name again, releasing me like a magical spell undone. I undid the latch, threw open the door and embraced my friend. His body tensed, but he suffered m
y effusions until I pulled away and said, “Come in! Come in from the cold.”
He picked up a small leather valise and stepped into the hallway, but abruptly halted. I followed his gaze and saw that Sissy and Muddy were peering from the parlor entrance.
“This is the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. You have, of course, heard me speak of him. Come, meet my wife and mother-in-law,” I said, all fear transformed into relief at the surprise arrival of my friend.
My wife walked down the hallway toward us and her mother followed at her heels.
“Monsieur Dupin, I have heard so many good things about you and am delighted to meet you at last,” she said.
Dupin bowed deeply but with the rigidity of a soldier. “Madame Poe, it is utterly my pleasure, and I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive my arrival at such an unseemly hour.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You are a friend in a strange city, of course you must come to us.”
“And this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm,” I said, indicating Muddy, who was staring at Dupin with ill-concealed astonishment.
“My word, Eddy,” she muttered, looking from me to Dupin and back again. “He might be your twin.” Unease deepened the lines on her face and she shuffled back slightly as if Dupin were an unpredictable dog.
“Your son-in-law is like a brother to me, such is my high regard for him,” Dupin said graciously. “And if that kinship has given us a similar countenance, then I am flattered.”
Muddy nodded cautiously, and from her posture I could see that she was still wary.
“Shall we perhaps have tea?” I suggested. “It might prove a fine restorative for us all given the weather and circumstances.”
Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru Page 10