“In your presentation, you mentioned that the Cloud Warriors were defeated by the Spaniards and the Incas—do they still exist as a people?” I asked.
“The accounts of Spaniards who witnessed those battles state that the Cloud Warriors were destroyed as a race, but there are rumors amongst the natives of the area that a small group of Cloud Warriors fled into the forest and made their way to another city higher still in the mountains. The location of this sanctuary remains a mystery.”
“Imagine,” Sissy murmured. “A city on the doorstep of the heavens where one might see for hundreds of miles.”
Professor Renelle grinned wolfishly. “Not only can I imagine it, madam, I wish to discover it. Untold treasures are hidden in the Chachapoyas, waiting to be found by the most intrepid explorers. Once I finance this next expedition,” he said, banging his fist on his desk, “I will bring back marvels that will astound both antiquarians and ordinary folk.” Renelle’s eyes gleamed with the thought of what he might achieve and his fervor was unsettling. Hoping to redirect the subject to calmer waters, I pointed at a trio of demons leering over his shoulder.
“The masks on the shelf behind you, are they artifacts from the Chachapoyas?”
“No, those were made by the Aztec, a blood-thirsty people from Mexico. We did not find any masks at the Chachapoyan site, just the strange statues I showed during my presentation.”
“They had very somber visages, like judges staring down on the world,” Sissy offered. “You believe they were idols worshipped by the Cloud Warriors—their gods?”
“Yes, for certainly they are not things of beauty. But let me show you the quipu. I am intrigued by your notion that it might be a derrotero.” Renelle turned, unlocked a cabinet door in the bookcase and drew out the quipu he had displayed at his lecture. It was pinned to a board, its thick string tied into a circle as if fastened around a person’s neck, and the numerous strands hanging from it were stretched out like sun rays. He placed it on the desk so that we might see it better.
“It is a strange thing, but quite lovely.” Sissy leaned in to look at it more closely. “You said it is made from llama wool?”
“Yes, colored with dyes made from local plants, or so I was told.”
“So many shades and so subtle—it was difficult to see the different colors in the lecture,” Sissy added. “Perhaps each has a meaning.” She glanced at me to interject.
“That seems likely indeed if the quipu was devised to contain a message,” I said. “Are they still in use today, Professor Renelle?”
“I have seen very primitive quipus in use, primarily as a way of recording the number of livestock, but this is far more complex.” Renelle fixed his eyes back on me and waited for my interpretation of the quipu. I knew it was a test, and if I failed to convince him I risked exposing the charade we were putting on.
I stared quietly at the strange and beautiful object, taking in the shape of it, its colors, the knots, and immediately I saw a simple pattern—there were four strings of the same length dyed red that divided the quipu strings into quadrants. Four strings of orange were evenly placed between the red strings. It reminded me of the points of a compass. In addition, there were eight green strings and twenty-four yellow ones. Again, the pattern was simple: two green strings were placed equidistant between the red strings and two yellow strings divided the twelve sections created by the green and red strings. There were a quantity of oatmeal-colored strings and I quickly counted those in the first quadrant and found there were eighty, which supported what I had intuited.
“I presume you noticed that the quipu has three hundred and sixty strings?” I said to Professor Renelle. “Like the degrees of a compass?”
Professor Renelle’s face indicated that he had not. “Like a compass,” he muttered, staring at the strings.
“The red strings would appear to represent the cardinal directions and the orange strings the intermediate directions.”
“And what of these?” Sissy asked. “The green and yellow strings?”
“The green strings divide the quadrants formed by the red strings into sections—of thirty degrees if we think again of a compass.”
“And the yellow strings divide each of those sections into ten degrees,” Renelle murmured.
“Which leaves the oatmeal-colored strings, which mark out the rest of the degrees on the compass,” I concluded.
Professor Renelle stared at the quipu, both intrigued by what we had perceived and irritated that he had not seen the obvious pattern himself.
“That is all very interesting,” he said crossly. “But I don’t see how it might be a map.”
“I believe it is something to do with the knots tied in the strings,” I said. “They appear to be decorative, but perhaps they form a message.”
“Well? Illuminate me,” Professor Renelle snapped.
In truth, I did believe a message was concealed within the quipu, but I would need more than an afternoon to work it out. Silent, focused pondering was not going to help keep Professor Renelle occupied for long, so I decided to extemporize as best I could in order that Dupin could learn as much as possible.
“See these seven oatmeal-colored threads? Each has a knot tied in exactly the same manner. Seven is quite a special number. There are seven days in a week, seven heavenly bodies known to the ancients. Perhaps the quipu gives points on a compass and also refers to the heavens—a star map of some kind.”
“All very interesting, but I still do not see how this might be the derrotero. How might the knots in the quipu reveal the location of the king’s tomb?” Renelle demanded.
“It is complex, I admit. I would need more time to study it, I’m afraid.”
“Clearly the quipu is a masterly puzzle or you would have deciphered its secrets already,” Sissy added.
Renelle nodded at this. “I will have to continue the task at my leisure then, as it seems we will get no further in unraveling the mystery today. Let me offer you some refreshments before you are on your way.” The professor pulled a cord behind him, which I presumed rang a bell in the kitchen to alert his housekeeper. It would be a useful alert to Dupin as well if he were somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Professor Renelle led us downstairs and into the elegant parlor, which had pistachio-colored walls and white trim, a thick oriental carpet in peacock-feather tones and silvery draperies framing the windows. The chandelier bloomed from a decorative white ceiling festooned with what looked to be angel wings, and the furniture was a muted rose velvet. Despite the ostentatiousness of the decor, the room was surprisingly tranquil and pleasing to the senses. Renelle indicated that Sissy and I should take the sofa while he arranged himself in a plump armchair. Moments later, Miss Thomassen lumbered in carrying a large tea tray, which she placed on the table in front of us.
“You asked me to remind you about this, sir.” Miss Thomassen retrieved an envelope from her apron pocket and handed it to Professor Renelle.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Miss Thomassen.”
She nodded and poured us each a cup of tea.
“I am a Friend of the Chestnut Street Theater and that pleasant euphemism means that I receive tickets to their theatricals. I cannot attend the performance tonight as I am traveling to New York early tomorrow morning to deliver several lectures at Columbia University.” He removed two tickets from the envelope and handed them to my wife. “But I hope you might enjoy seeing the play, Mrs. Poe. I could not help but notice last night that you are acquainted with Mrs. Reynolds.”
This remark did not sit well with me, but Sissy beamed. “Thank you, Professor Renelle. I do so admire her. She is the most gifted performer.”
My heart sank at the thought of sitting through another of George Reynolds’s theatricals, but the news of Renelle’s imminent travels was promising.
“I am sorry not to see the lady perform again,” the professor said, before turning to me. “Are you an admirer of her work also, Mr. Poe?” His smirk suggested he had observed my lack
of enthusiasm.
“She is quite the actress,” I said carefully. “And she does the best with the material she has to work with.”
Professor Renelle laughed. “I see. Well, perhaps you should pen something for the lady.”
“I am not a playwright, sir, but perhaps I should try.”
“What a lovely painting that is over the fireplace,” Sissy interrupted before I could say anything overtly negative about George Reynolds’s writing skills. “Am I correct in thinking I see a family resemblance?”
“You are indeed. It is my mother and my father.”
The woman depicted was very handsome, with abundant coppery locks piled in an extravagant hairstyle and a formidable expression that was surprising as she looked to be no more than eighteen years of age. In contrast, pére Renelle appeared a good twenty-five years older than his wife, with saturnine features and a dour expression.
“She is very beautiful. You resemble her greatly,” my wife said.
“You flatter me, Mrs. Poe. My mother was both beautiful and a strong character. I was saddened to lose her when I was still a child. She entirely redecorated Renelle Mansion, making it one of Philadelphia’s most admired homes, and my father enjoyed bringing her ideas to fruition, no matter what the cost. I do my best to keep the house and property in good condition, as they would have wished.”
“And you have succeeded admirably,” Sissy replied.
“It is my duty,” he said, “but also my pleasure. My grandfather made a fortune in France through trade with Senegal and my father made a second fortune here, mining for stone, as he put it.”
Senegal? I remembered the bird clues left by Andrew Mathews—the two birds from Senegal. I wondered if the trade with Senegal that Renelle’s grandfather had profited so handsomely from was the slave trade.
“I find there is symmetry in the fact that my father provided the basic materials to help build a city and that my vocation is to search for lost civilizations, ancient and mysterious cities overtaken by nature and forgotten,” Renelle added.
And treasure, I thought, but did not say.
“It is an honor to present my discoveries to audiences who will never venture to the places I have dared to visit and to expand the canon of knowledge,” Renelle pronounced, as if he had just been given an award by a learned society.
I wondered how he would explain away his lies about trekking to the lost city a second time when in truth he had been confined to his sick bed, and how he would rationalize his involvement in the murder of three men and the abduction of a determined young woman during his quest for treasure when he was finally called to account for his actions.
38
The journey back from Germantown seemed to take twice as long as the journey out. Sissy and I were desperate to learn what Dupin had been able to find out at the mansion. When the carriage stopped at last, I was surprised to see that we were outside the undertaker’s premises on Coates Street. Dupin, in enterprising spirit, had hired the horse and brougham from there.
“How ever did you know of Helverson’s?” I asked him, as we began walking west toward home.
Dupin looked as baffled as I felt. “You wrote to me about the undertaker and his coffin business when you were residing on Coates Street—it inspired an idea for a tale.”
“Of course, that’s right,’ I replied, though I had no recollection of telling Dupin. I marveled again at his uncanny memory and hoped it would lead us to success in our bold adventure.
“I am anxious to hear what you observed at Renelle Mansion,” my wife said to him. “I certainly found it an illuminating visit. The house means a great deal to Professor Renelle, and it would not surprise me if his greed springs in part from the need to pay for its upkeep, which must be considerable as the house and its grounds are enormous. We met Miss Thomassen, his housekeeper, but surely he has many more servants.”
“Were there any additional servants in the kitchen, Dupin? A horse groom such as yourself?”
“There is indeed a horse groom, a gardener, a general repairman and a pigeon keeper,” Dupin replied, ignoring my little joke. “But they are all one and the same person: a man called Jimmerson. He has his own cottage in the grounds directly behind the house, but came to the kitchen for his dinner. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and, from his actions, seems to believe himself to be superior to Miss Thomassen—perhaps his parents also worked for the Renelles. I did not see any evidence of other servants.”
“Which suggests Renelle cannot afford them, for surely, given his high self-regard, he would have a veritable army of them to tend to his whims.”
Dupin guffawed at this. “I do believe you are correct, Poe, but Miss Thomassen seems to do all his domestic chores, including preparing his meals and those of his guests. Or unwilling guests in this instance.”
“You saw Helena?” Sissy asked, her face full of hope.
“I’m afraid not, but I did observe two things that make me confident she is at Renelle Mansion. First, there were a number of coats hanging on pegs near the kitchen door. There was a bright blue cloak with yellow trim amongst them. If I remember correctly, you told me that Miss Loddiges has such a garment?”
“Yes! That is Helena’s cloak. It’s very specific,” my wife said. “And her bonnet is the same blue and of silk, decorated with flowers and hummingbirds.”
Dupin nodded. “Also very specific. I think Miss Thomassen rather coveted both items. When she went to fetch Jimmerson for his dinner, she put on the cloak, and then I discovered something highly useful.” He looked at each of us and swung his cane jauntily as he walked, leading us down Second Street.
“Well, go on, Dupin,” I said impatiently.
“Rather than exit through the kitchen door as I expected, Miss Thomassen opened a pantry door, revealing a passageway at the back of it. She took a lantern and went down it. I presume the tunnel leads to the springhouse that is visible through the kitchen window, positioned close to Jimmerson’s cottage. She returned with eggs and Jimmerson arrived for his dinner a few minutes later.”
“You think the spring house tunnel might offer a way into the kitchen at night?” Sissy asked.
“Indeed. And I should mention that after Miss Thomassen and Mr. Jimmerson finished their dinners in the kitchen, he returned to his duties outdoors, and she prepared a tray with soup and bread, which she carried from the kitchen. I crept after her and watched as Miss Thomassen ascended the stairs and walked in the direction of the turret room.”
“Excellent. We will know where to search for her tomorrow evening,” I said.
Dupin raised his brows and simply waited for me to explain myself.
“Renelle will be traveling to New York early tomorrow and will not return until next week. He bestowed two theater tickets on Sissy for Mrs. Reynolds’s performance at the Chestnut Street Theater tonight as he cannot attend.”
Sissy’s face suddenly fell. “Two tickets. You must take Monsieur Dupin. It may be his only chance to see Mrs. Reynolds on stage.”
“You forget that I saw the lady perform several times in London, so there is no need for me to attend this theatrical.” When Sissy hesitated he added, “It would offend me terribly if you did not take the opportunity to use the tickets with your husband.”
The happiness was perfectly clear on Sissy’s face, whereas self-pity was equally visible on mine.
“Fear not, Poe,” Dupin said with a mocking smile directed at me. “The lady’s talent is sure to make up for the deficits of the play itself.”
“Would you care to make a wager regarding that?” I muttered.
“Be kind, Eddy,” Sissy interjected. “One might think you were envious of Mr. Reynolds’s success.”
Dupin barked with mirth. “Quite right, Poe. And that would please him enormously. Do you wish to give Reynolds that satisfaction?”
“Certainly not. I will give him a fair and honest appraisal of his work should the opportunity arise.”
“You will not play
the critic tonight,” my wife instructed. “I wish to enjoy myself without your huffings and puffings.”
“Fine. I will suffer the spectacle in silence and will improvise my own audacious fiction if we meet the actress and her husband.”
“Thank you,” my wife said cheerily, pretending not to hear my discontentment.
Dupin’s eyes crinkled in mirth. I had never witnessed such a surfeit of good humor in him before and was not pleased that it was at my expense.
“That is settled then,” he said as we turned right into Spring Garden Street and began our way down that pleasant thoroughfare. “Did you learn anything more about Renelle’s motivation for abducting Miss Loddiges? Or what he thinks he might gain from Jeremiah Mathews’s journal?”
“There was no way to ask him directly of course, but when examining the mummies in the burial chamber, he came across an earthenware jar placed with a mummy that proved to hold several emeralds, including a sizable one shaped like a turtle. I suspect he sold the smaller emeralds, but the turtle is used as a paperweight on his desk—clearly it has whetted his appetite for finding more treasure. From his remarks, he has read Fernandez’s book and the tale of the huge emerald. He must believe that Jeremiah found the jewel and perhaps the location of the king’s burial chamber. Certainly he hoped the quipu would reveal that location, but he was not impressed with my efforts to decipher it.”
“Did you notice anything of interest?” Dupin asked. “I would relish the chance to examine the quipu properly.”
“There is certainly a message hidden within it—I wondered if it could be a sort of sky map.”
Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru Page 25