Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  Muddy immediately bustled into the kitchen, but not without gawping openly at Dupin as she passed him.

  “Dearest, take Monsieur Dupin’s coat, then let us settle by the fire,” my wife instructed.

  Dupin handed his overcoat and hat to me, then followed Sissy into the parlor as cautiously as an animal shy of a trap. I put his apparel on the coat stand and hurried after them.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Sissy indicated my chair, which faced her own. “It’s frightfully cold tonight.”

  Dupin did as he was bid and stretched his feet toward the crackling blaze. It was then, as the soft amber light glimmered over his features, that I understood why Muddy had reacted with such consternation, for my friend was seated directly beneath the portrait of me and one would be forgiven for thinking that it was his replica rather than mine. Indeed, every element of the portrait that I thought a poor depiction of me in flesh and spirit was a perfect reproduction of Dupin.

  “Was the crossing rough?” Sissy asked, her voice bringing me from my reverie. “You look fearfully exhausted.”

  “There was a terrible storm two days before we reached the port of Boston. The waves that crashed over the steamship were so mighty I feared they would take us under, and of course I could not sleep.”

  “How awful,” Sissy commiserated. “I enjoy short journeys by boat, but Eddy tells me that crossing the Atlantic can make one very ill in foul weather. I hope your trip from Boston to Philadelphia was less onerous.”

  Dupin nodded and scrutinized his hands as if they were some new addition to his arms, until the clatter of tea things sent his gaze to the doorway. Muddy set a tray down on the table and poured three cups of tea.

  “Thank you kindly, madame.” Dupin’s words mixed with the chatter of the cup upon the saucer as he took the steaming beverage from her, the tremor of his hands audible if not visible.

  Muddy nodded gravely. “I’ll make up a bed in your study, Eddy,” she said and left the room.

  “Please do not go to any trouble,” Dupin called after her.

  “Dupin, you have traveled from France to Philadelphia with the sole aim of assisting me in a mystery I do not yet fully understand. It is most surely no trouble.”

  “And Eddy has told me of your hospitality in Paris. We are delighted to reciprocate,” Sissy added.

  The three of us then sat in awkward silence, sipping our tea.

  “I sent a second letter,” I finally began, “but it will still be making its way across the Atlantic. I do not know where to begin in describing all that has happened these past few weeks.”

  “And you will not tonight, Eddy,” Sissy declared, rising to her feet, “for it is plain that Monsieur Dupin needs sleep. Shall I make you another cup of tea to take up with you?”

  “Tea would be more than appreciated. I fear the night’s chill has set into me,” Dupin replied.

  I stood up. “I’ll make the tea, my dear.”

  My wife raised her brows but refrained from comment. “Goodnight then, Monsieur Dupin. I will retire now and leave you in my husband’s care. Till morning.”

  “Thank you again for your hospitality. I am more than grateful.”

  I followed my wife to the parlor door and into the hallway.

  “Do not stay up all night talking, dearest. He needs rest.”

  “I will see you shortly,” I said and kissed her.

  When I returned to the parlor, Dupin was perched warily upon his chair, looking wide awake despite his haggard countenance. I fetched a bottle from the cupboard near the fireplace.

  “I cannot adequately describe how much your presence fills me with relief,” I said as I tilted the bottle and a delicate stream of amber liquid flowed into two glasses waiting with open mouths. I offered a toast: “Amicis semper fidelis—you are as ever true to your words, Dupin, and I am forever in your debt.”

  “Please do not insult me with the presumption of any debt. If someone has threatened you or your family, it is my absolute pleasure to assist you.”

  Dupin and I both drank deeply from our glasses and sat in companionable silence for a moment, letting the whiskey and fire warm us through.

  When the drink seemed to have banished the frost from my friend’s blood and chased the pallor from his face, I said, “There is much I have to tell you—sad and fearful things—but my wife is right to insist that I let it wait until morning. However, let me repeat one question from my second letter—what of Valdemar? Have you unearthed anything further?”

  Dupin gave a brusque shrug. “His name appears here and there in regard to some trivial social engagement or bequests he has made to advance his name.”

  “With your family’s money.”

  “Of course. And each year he holds another Bal des Victimes in some obscure place, and sends an invitation to mock me,” he added bitterly.

  I knew from Dupin’s expression that he was remembering events from a Bal des Victimes we had attended together at Madame Tussaud’s macabre waxwork exhibition hall. He had come close to capturing the man who had stolen his family’s property, leaving them penniless, but to his fury Valdemar had succeeded once again in getting the better of him.

  “When you last wrote to me, you mentioned a sighting of him in the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal. Was it rumor or did you see him yourself?”

  “I saw him, I am certain, and immediately pursued him, but he vanished as if into the air itself. It was more than strange. There must be a pattern and I will find it—and him.”

  This had been the nature of Dupin’s pursuit of his nemesis for years. It seemed hardly possible that Valdemar was human, so quickly did he disappear.

  “I did manage to secure an item you will recognize, however.” He tugged at something hidden beneath his neckcloth and brought forth a ring hanging on a golden chain. Dupin unclasped the necklace and passed it to me. The ring was also fashioned from gold and set with a charming painting of Cupid on enamel. It was a ring I knew very well.

  “May I?”

  Dupin nodded his assent and I opened the hinged front to reveal two beautifully rendered miniature portraits: Dupin’s grandmother and grandfather. Both were executed during the Revolution, victims of M. Ernest Valdemar.

  “I am relieved to see the portraits are still intact. How ever did you manage to re-secure the jewel?”

  “I was wandering the rue d’Enfer and I came across a shop one might easily miss, it was so small and without character. There was a window filled with esoteric objects, things that would seem of little value to the untrained eye. It was there in the center of the display, and my gaze was immediately drawn to it. The interior of the shop was crammed with all manner of things and it took me quite some time to locate the old man who owns the place. When I asked about the ring, he presumed I was the person who had made an arrangement with the purported owner and simply gave it to me. Of course I did not reveal his error.”

  I handed back the necklace, which he slipped around his neck, and my fingers drifted to the locket hidden beneath my shirt that contained the miniature portrait of my own mother.

  “Fate led you to the ring,” I said. “Or perhaps it was the spirit of your grandparents.” I smiled, anticipating Dupin’s dismissal of such a fanciful notion, but he was silent, his attention focused on the floor. I followed his gaze and saw that Catterina had crept into the room and was crouched before him, staring as fixedly at Dupin as he was at her, their eyes uncannily the same shade of green, her tail swishing back and forth across the floor in agitation. Without warning, our gentle cat, who hid from most strangers, launched herself at Dupin and curled up in his lap like she belonged there. He looked horrified, as if she were a deadly creature he should not startle.

  “What have you done to Catterina?” I asked, half in jest. “I have never seen her like this. Do you have catnip hidden upon your person?”

  “Catnip? Certainly not. The animal is mad.”

  “You, sir, do not merit the affections of this most excell
ent feline. I cannot think why she is humiliating herself in such a manner.”

  “And I wish it would not,” Dupin retorted.

  “Catterina, come.” I snapped my fingers at her, but she looked at me and did not move an inch. “Unfaithful beast,” I said.

  Dupin sat rigidly in my chair, utterly uncomfortable with the situation. “Go to your master,” he said, waving his hands at Catterina. She merely looked up at him, then lowered her chin onto her paws. I tried to smother my enjoyment of his discomfort and was determined to make it last a bit longer, for Dupin had made me appear foolish innumerable times. There was no doubt that he was a true friend, the truest I had ever had, but when the chance came to deflate his pomposity, rarely could I resist it.

  “Let me pour you another glass of whiskey to banish the chill completely, and I will tell you all that has happened since I sent you that first letter. Sissy will be asleep by now and will not know if we spend half the night talking.”

  Dupin’s face tensed into a grimace as he looked down at Catterina; he seemed to believe he would invite dreadful consequences if he pushed her from his lap.

  “I fear I am unable to keep my eyes open much longer, Poe, and will disgrace myself. Might we continue talking in the morning?”

  “Of course.” I stood and scooped up Catterina. He immediately rose to his feet, brushing at his clothing, removing invisible cat hair. “Come, I will show you where the study is and all you might need.”

  And as I climbed the stairs, Dupin padding quietly behind me, my heart felt infinitely lighter, for I was certain that through ratiocination, my friend would find Miss Loddiges and bring Father Keane’s murderer to justice.

  19

  SATURDAY, 16 MARCH 1844

  It was a glorious day, and I hoped to venture out for a brisk walk before Dupin arose, for surely he was exhausted after his arduous journey. I crept down the stairs, anxious not to awaken him, Catterina at my heels like a shadow. When I entered the kitchen, I was startled to see him seated at the table with a cup of coffee in hand while Muddy bustled around him nervously. Catterina stopped short and stared at our guest as if bewitched. He narrowed his eyes at her and immediately readjusted his position so that she could not claim his lap for a seat. Muddy handed me a cup of coffee and I drank deeply, enjoying the warmth coursing through me.

  “Is it not your habit to walk along the river in the morning?” Dupin asked. “I thought we might go together and discuss the matters outlined in your letter.”

  Of course this was an excellent idea as I had no wish to frighten my mother-in-law with the pernicious events that had occurred since I had written to Dupin.

  “It is indeed my morning ritual and if you are content to join me then let us go on our way and break our fast when we return.”

  Dupin stood up and bowed cordially to Muddy. “My deepest thanks, madame. The coffee was bracing.”

  She looked at Dupin, then me, then back at Dupin again, and shook her head in disbelief at the resemblance she perceived.

  The morning sky was the color of a robin’s egg and there was a faint scent of snow in the air mixed with sun-warmed earth and new grass. Dupin and I walked along the Schuylkill River footpath as the birds sang around us. It was a delightful morning, but the events of the previous day cast a pall upon it.

  “Enjoy this splendid morning for a bit, Dupin, for I have nothing but dreadful news to relay to you.”

  “That is why I am here,” he said. “To help ease your burden and to unravel whatever mystery plagues you.”

  “Your assistance is a godsend. I can make little sense of all that has occurred. My friend Father Keane of St. Augustine Church died yesterday. In truth, he was murdered.”

  Dupin was silent for a moment. “My deepest condolences. It is terrible when Death claims a friend and worse still when a fiend in human form is responsible.”

  “Thank you, Dupin. And that is not all. My benefactress, Miss Helena Loddiges, the English amateur ornithologist I have told you about, has been abducted, and I believe the two nefarious events to be connected.”

  “I see,” said Dupin, his attention fully captured. “Please, tell me all from the beginning.”

  As we walked, I recounted everything that had happened, right back to the surprising arrival of Miss Loddiges on the tenth of March—how our lives had altered since then! I also outlined the mystery she had tasked me with and described the mysterious diorama she sent to me. Dupin was rather impressed.

  “It is indeed an odd way to relay a message, but quite clever,” he mused. “The tableau spelled out her imputations well enough and it is something one would take notice of, whereas you might have dismissed a letter detailing her accusations as the fears of an impressionable young woman. Instead, you and Father Keane invested time in attempting to decipher the tableau she prepared and, thus, were more easily committed to helping the lady with her mystery.”

  “Perhaps,” I said reluctantly. “It is difficult to imagine Miss Loddiges being quite so strategic.”

  “And perhaps you underestimate the lady? If I remember correctly, you admired her book on ornithology for being extremely thorough, and she is, it seems, a gifted taxidermist, which requires precision.”

  “If you had met Miss Loddiges, you might understand my hesitation better. She is certainly intelligent but highly eccentric in both her appearance and manner. For example, she seems to govern her life by ornithomancy.”

  Dupin shrugged. “It is not wise to repudiate such an ancient art. What we dismiss today as superstition, science may prove to be fully valid in future.”

  This I had not expected from Dupin.

  “You are surprised by my lack of skepticism?” he said with a thin smile. “Remember our discussion of the cleverness of the raven when we met with Mr. Dickens’s pet? It has long been known that birds sense things we do not—imminent earthquakes and other disasters of nature, for example. Consider their migratory pathways. Is there some invisible force they intuit that governs the direction of their flight? And what of the flocking of birds, the strangeness of a murmuration of starlings, which you must have witnessed in England as a child. Why does a group of birds cast such strange and marvelous shapes in the heavens, as if each avian being is but part of one larger creature? Civilizations more advanced than ours practiced ornithomancy. I would not dismiss Miss Loddiges’s observations so readily.”

  Perhaps I should not have been surprised by Dupin’s speech, as his relentless quest for knowledge made him expert in numerous esoteric studies, including, it seemed, ornithomancy. I continued on with my strange tale, telling Dupin all that I knew about Andrew and Jeremiah Mathews, their journeys to Peru, and the bird collecting journal that went missing the night Father Keane was murdered.

  “Tell me more about his death. What precisely were the circumstances?”

  “He was found dead on the library floor with an anti-Catholic broadsheet pinned to his cassock. His friend Father Nolan summoned me to the library as Father Keane had left me a message. According to Nolan, Keane had seemed fearful after he went on an errand yesterday evening. Nolan believes the nativists are behind his murder. The pastor of St. Augustine Church, Father Moriarty, is trying to suppress any such rumors.”

  Dupin raised his brows at this. “So, the same night your friend was murdered, the journal and the diorama disappeared. I agree that it is unlikely to be a coincidence.”

  He retreated into silent contemplation for a few moments, eyes restlessly examining the landscape, the end of his cobra-headed walking stick hitting the soft earth with regular beats as we made our way along the footpath.

  “Tell me more about the journal,” he finally said.

  “In truth, I do not have much to tell, for I did not examine it carefully—I gave it to Father Keane as he knew far more about birds than I do.”

  “Tell me anything you can recall. The more facts and suppositions, the better,” Dupin instructed.

  “Miss Loddiges received a package that Jeremi
ah Mathews sent to her from Panama. In it was his journal, which she treasures as a memento, and a note. Not long after receiving the journal, Miss Loddiges had news of Jeremiah Mathews’s death by drowning in Philadelphia. As you may have gathered, she loved him and he her.”

  Dupin nodded. “You say there was a note with the journal?”

  “Yes, the letter from young Mr. Mathews asked her to take care of the journal for him. He said the expedition was a success, but the tenor of the message was guarded and suggested that he expected trouble on the journey back. His final journal entry on 3 October 1843 was oddly cryptic: ‘They seek the Jewel. All is within.’”

  “Cryptic indeed.”

  “I should add that when Miss Loddiges dreamt of seeing Jeremiah Mathews after his death, he asked her where the jewel was. She recalled her father and Andrew Mathews speaking of a lost treasure in Peru but did not think they truly believed in its existence. This journal entry added to her conviction that both father and son were murdered, perhaps by rogues in search of treasure.”

  Dupin contemplated this briefly. “Treasure hunters and looters,” he said. “The bane of scholars of antiquity. A person of that ilk might resort to murder if he believed Mathews knew where to find treasure he was seeking. Perhaps the villain and his accomplices—for surely he has them—is convinced that the journal holds the key to the treasure’s location.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Miss Loddiges mentioned that her father complained that some of the inventory listed in the journal was missing when the shipment arrived in London, which could mean that a thief searched through the specimens Jeremiah Mathews collected. And Father Keane made a discovery that Miss Loddiges had overlooked: seven pages hidden at the back of the journal in a pocket with thick marbled paper pasted over it. The pages were apparently written by Andrew Mathews during his final expedition in 1841. Father Keane immediately noticed two errors in those pages.”

  Dupin slowed to a stop as a raft of mallard ducks launched from the shore and into the river with a noisy splashing of water. “Do you recall the errors?” he asked.