Dupin circled the makeshift hummingbird case solemnly, scrutinizing every aspect of it. “Most impressive,” he said. “I would imagine that Jeremiah Mathews constructed something similar to transport the spatuletail on the arduous journey from Peru to Philadelphia.”
“I would think so,” Colonel Carr agreed. “Helena’s father sent me some sketches of the case Andrew Mathews used to successfully transport his Trochilus colubris three years ago, and we might presume Jeremiah used the same design or improved upon it.”
“Perhaps these successes will inspire ornithologists to collect live birds to study,” Sissy ventured.
“It is something I would like to try,” Miss Loddiges said. “To house exotic birds in our glasshouses in a facsimile of their habitat so visitors might appreciate the true beauty of them when alive.”
“It is a worthy goal,” I said. “I hope you will succeed in it.”
Colonel Carr glanced at his pocket watch. “Half past three o’clock,” he murmured with a despondency we all felt.
“Why don’t we have a walk around the spring garden,” Mrs. Carr suggested. “There is a wonderful array of daffodils and jonquils and so many purple crocuses they are like an exotic carpet. The forsythia is all ablaze too.”
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Sissy linked her arm through Miss Loddiges’s. “Let’s have a stroll, Helena. It may be some time before I manage to get back here for the early spring blooms.”
“Very well,” Miss Loddiges reluctantly agreed, and the three women made their way out into the brisk late afternoon while Dupin, Colonel Carr and I sat inside the glasshouse with the empty hummingbird case.
“Sunset is about half past six. I had rather hoped to see the bird by daylight,” Colonel Carr said.
“I would not hope too much,” Dupin said. “The Chachapoyan had utter faith in his destiny to return the bird to his homeland and is unlikely to take up the assistance offered. I fear he is being foolhardy, like so many men of faith, but perhaps luck will be with him.”
Colonel Carr shook his head, more than disappointed.
“He believed it to be a mystical bird,” Dupin added. “That la Joya, as he called it, was perhaps immortal. Of course, if there have been a number of white spatuletails recorded by his people over the centuries then it must be a species rather than a mere aberration—Mathewsii nubes as Jeremiah Mathews fittingly called it.”
“We must suggest that a record of it is lodged with that name,” I said.
“Indeed,” Dupin nodded. “To address another point, I will travel back to Europe with Miss Loddiges. I would not like to trust anyone claiming to be sent by her father to accompany her unless Colonel Carr personally knows the man.”
“Quite right,” the colonel said. “Any notion when Renelle will be sentenced?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied. “But I am more than pleased that he has taken my place at Moyamensing Prison.”
“Let us hope justice prevails and the rogue stays there,” Dupin said.
A half an hour passed in pleasant conversation until we saw the ladies approaching. They were just at the door to the glasshouse, about to enter, when a dark shadow thudded with a crack against the glass pane directly above Sissy’s head. She gave a little shriek and clasped her hands to her mouth as an object tumbled to the ground. I rushed outside, followed by Colonel Carr and Dupin.
“Ah, a bird,” Colonel Carr said. “Unfortunately they sometimes fly into the glass. They don’t see it, I presume.”
Miss Loddiges was crouched down, tenderly stroking the red-feathered breast of a robin, while tears slid from my wife’s eyes as she looked down at the dead bird, its normally cheery black eyes staring at oblivion.
“The poor darling thing,” Sissy murmured and I enclosed her in my arms.
“I’m sorry you saw that, dearest. Come inside where it’s warm.”
My wife nodded and let me lead her into the glasshouse. Mrs. Carr went to ask her housekeeper to bring us tea and once we had consumed that, Sissy regained a modicum of cheer, especially when describing the spring blossoms they had viewed.
“What an idyllic place,” she sighed. “Truly I would relish even the hardest labor digging in the dirt if the result were as glorious as your gardens, Mrs. Carr.”
“If more thought like you, Mrs. Poe, the world would be full of grace and beauty,” Dupin said.
“Hear, hear,” Colonel Carr agreed.
When nightfall came and Colibrí did not, Dupin and Sissy climbed into our host’s carriage, and I was just about to do the same when Miss Loddiges clutched my arm and gestured for me to lean closer.
“Beware the robin’s song, Mr. Poe. I feel you must leave Philadelphia. It is not a good place for Virginia. You must leave and soon.”
“The robin?” I said in a low voice. “A sign?”
She nodded. “You really must go from here. I feel it.”
“Thank you for your warning.” I climbed into the carriage and let the Carr’s coachman ferry us away from Bartram’s gardens, but Miss Loddiges’s words left me with an itch born of fear that could not be salved by logic.
47
WEDNESDAY, 27 MARCH 1844
Seagulls cartwheeled through the air and skimmed the water, their raucous calls an unfortunate accompaniment to their exuberant dance with the elements. The ship, the Martha, was anchored in the harbor, stately and elegant, gangplank extended from the edge of Philadelphia to its decks, an invitation to her passengers. We were approaching the ship when a figure emerged from the crowd and ran directly at us. I felt Sissy’s hand clutch my arm and knew she had the same fearful reaction. Was it someone in the employ of Renelle or Nolan bent on revenge? In the blink of an eye, Dupin’s rapier was unsheathed from his walking stick and directed at the chest of their attacker. The boy stopped in his tracks, utterly frightened.
“Don’t murder me, sir!”
I realized it was young Davey.
“Mr. Poe, sir, don’t let him murder me, please. I have a message.”
“From whom?” Dupin growled, rapier still directed at the boy’s chest.
“Is this the lady, Mr. Poe?” Davey asked, thoroughly frightened but determined to remain on his mission, whatever that was. “Is this Helena?”
“Yes, I am Helena,” Miss Loddiges told him gently. “How did you know my name?”
“Truly is it her, sir?” the boy asked me again.
“Yes, Davey, it is Miss Loddiges. Who has sent you?” I gestured for Dupin to lower his blade. “We met the boy, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Dupin snapped. “But I wish to know who sent him and for what purpose.”
“Jeremiah,” the boy cried out. “I have a message for Helena from Jeremiah.”
“That is impossible. Jeremiah Mathews is dead, as you well know,” Dupin said harshly.
“Yes, but he gave me this before he died, when we were moored at the Lazaretto.” The boy reached into his coat pocket and only when he brought out a sealed-up letter did Dupin lower his blade. “He told me to give it to Helena and only Helena when we next sailed to London. Her address is written on it, see?” He pushed the letter to Miss Loddiges, who took it and gasped.
“It is Jeremiah’s writing,” she said.
“Why did you keep the letter from us when you knew we were helping Miss Loddiges?” I asked.
A stubborn look came onto the boy’s face. “He made me swear that I would give the letter to no one but Helena. He was kind to me and I was very sorry that he drowned. And so I had to keep my word.”
“Jeremiah would have been proud of you, Davey,” Miss Loddiges said quietly.
The boy beamed and continued to stand there, clearly waiting for her to open the letter, as we all were, albeit rather more secretly. Miss Loddiges obliged us and broke the seal. As she scanned the page, her eyes became glassy with tears. She refolded the missive and tucked it carefully into the carpet bag she carried.
“He knew that he was being watched and feared that
he might be murdered when Professor Renelle came to the Lazaretto and made threats,” she said. “The only person he could trust on the ship was Davey.” She smiled at the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have done me a great service. And Jeremiah. I will treasure this letter forever,” she said. “And if you do sail to London, please come to visit me at Paradise Fields. You will be very welcome.” Miss Loddiges then reached up into her peculiar bonnet and removed one of the hummingbirds. She handed it to the boy in cupped hands, as if the thing were still alive. “This is a Heliothryx auritus—a black-eared fairy hummingbird. It is from Peru. Perhaps it will help you to remember us.”
The boy took the tiny bird in his own hands and examined its vibrant green wings and back, its white belly and black mask. “It looks alive, but it isn’t, is it?”
“No, but if you look at it in a certain light it can seem so, and it might tell you things as it does me.”
“Thank you, miss,” the boy said, beaming.
“Farewell, Davey.”
He grinned at her, then walked into the crowd, the little hummingbird nestling in his hands.
“It is time to board the ship, Miss Loddiges,” Dupin said. “And time for me to say farewell. Thank you again for your hospitality, Mrs. Poe. I had feared that your husband’s rapturous descriptions of you were exaggerations, but they have proved to be more than modest. Please know that I am at your service should you ever require assistance.” He bowed as if to a queen and then turned to me. “I hope that I have helped you in some small way, my friend, for it is my greatest honor to do so—Amicis semper fidelis. Never hesitate to call upon me when in need of aid.”
“And vice versa, of course.” I reached out to shake his hand and hoped I would prove as true a friend as Dupin if he ever needed my assistance.
“And I will never forget what you’ve done for me,” Miss Loddiges said to me. “Thank you, Mr. Poe.” She turned to Sissy and the two embraced. “I have made a dear friend in you, Virginia, and Lord knows I have few of those. Be well and be safe,” she said fiercely.
“I will expect many letters,” my wife replied. “Safe journey.”
Miss Loddiges gazed at us both as if memorizing our faces, then turned and walked with Dupin toward the Martha. They crossed the narrow bridge and when both had reached the safety of the deck, the two positioned themselves to gaze upon us. They were an odd pair, the tiny Miss Loddiges like an exotic bird in her bright blue embroidered cape, her hat secured to her head with a voluminous scarf, and Dupin dressed entirely in black as ever, his overcoat flapping in the breeze like stygian sails. They remained in that position when the ship weighed anchor and sailed from port, Miss Loddiges waving until the distance between us was too great to see her, whereas Dupin did not raise his hand in farewell at all—he simply remained silent and watchful by the lady’s side as the Martha journeyed out to the Atlantic.
“It is a great credit to you to have such devout friends,” my wife said when Dupin and Miss Loddiges were but shadowy forms upon the deck. “And I am happy to have met them, for I admire my husband all the more. Now let us go home.” And she gently touched her lips to my cheek.
48
MONDAY, 1 APRIL 1844
A haze of green surrounded me, a tender verdant tone particular to spring that deepens with time or is scorched to brown by the sun’s fierceness. Morning’s gentle chorus hummed: leaves rustling like silk mixed with the songbirds’ trills and the flow of the Schuylkill over its rocky bed. It glistened and splashed, then collected in dark, deep pools where I might swim in a few month’s time when the water warmed under the sun. The early morning air still had the bite of winter, but all around me was unfurling with life and the world felt new and good.
“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee”—the warning call rang out above the other morning birdsong. I glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a black-capped chickadee hanging from a twig, watching my progress along the river path. Moments later, I spied the bird’s mate peering out from the hollow of a white ash tree where the two had made their home. The male swooped from its roost, seizing an invisible insect, then flitted to the tree, delivering its prize to the female. I continued along the river, greatly cheered by all that I saw.
It was close to nine o’clock when I arrived home. The kitchen fire was reduced to embers and neither my wife nor Muddy were anywhere to be seen, which was more than unusual at that time of day. Moments later, the sound of my wife singing came to me from the parlor, and I made my way toward it, then stood for a moment in the hallway, relishing the pure beauty of her voice as she sang the popular ballad “Long, Long Ago”. When the song concluded, I threw open the door and stepped inside, offering my applause.
“Bravo!”
My mother-in-law smiled in greeting and my wife flushed prettily as she dipped a mock curtsey. And then another pair of hands began to clap in unison with mine.
“Bravo, indeed. Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Poe, for your delightful recital. It has brought great cheer to my heart, despite the song’s rather maudlin message.”
My hands fluttered down to my sides like a wounded bird, for there, sitting in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, was a man I had hoped never to see again.
“I am sorry if the ballad’s sentiments caused you any pain, Mr. Reynolds,” my wife said anxiously.
“Not at all. Rowena was terribly fond of the song. Indeed, she occasionally sang it herself on stage and was acquainted with Mr. Bayly, the song’s author, back in London.”
“Mr. Reynolds came to inform us that there will be a memorial concert for his wife at Christ Church this Friday evening, performed by her theater company to raise funds for a suitable memorial plaque for her at the Chestnut Street Theater.”
“I see.” I was unable to think of anything else that might hide my shock at finding my nemesis in my own home, particularly after his accusations at the theater had sent me to prison.
“I told him how terribly saddened we were by Mrs. Reynolds’s demise,” Sissy continued.
“Indeed,” I muttered.
“I so admired your wife’s talent and charm,” Sissy continued. “I feel lucky to have conversed with her.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poe, that is very kind. Rowena was utterly charmed by you. We had talked about calling on you, but there is never enough time to enjoy life’s small pleasures, and then, tragically, she was taken from me.” His head drooped in sorrow and a solitary tear ran down his cheek. “And still the police claim not to know the identity of her murderer.”
“We were terribly shaken by the false accusations against Eddy.”
“But without doubt it was Frederic Renelle who murdered your wife, as I testified to the officers of the police. He had motive and I am certain her assailant was the same size and build.”
“He denies it and there is no evidence to support your accusations,” Reynolds said.
My wife shook her head in commiseration. “Professor Renelle’s imprisonment must not be fully comforting for you, as it is for crimes other than your wife’s murder. I pray in time you will receive justice,” she said.
Reynolds’s face hardened. “That I will, most assuredly, Mrs. Poe,” he said, staring at me. “Rowena was no fool. She would not have accompanied a stranger to that room at the top of the theater. Her murderer was someone she did not fear. The culprit may believe he has escaped justice, but that will not be the case forever.” His eyes, cold and as unforgiving as obsidian, held mine until I was forced to glance away. Triumphant, he turned to my disconcerted wife. His grim face eased into a false smile and he said: “But I dwell too much on my sorrows, so much that I am hardly able to put pen to paper to complete the last play my wife and I were composing together. It would give me great comfort if you would sing again, Mrs. Poe, for truly your voice is that of an angel. Perhaps you might perform ‘The Little Turtledove’ if you know it. The song was a favorite of my wife.”
“Yes, of course. I know it well.” And Virginia began to sing, he
r gaze fixed on some invisible point, her voice clear and pure as spring water:
Oh, can’t you see yon little turtle dove,
Sitting under the mulberry tree?
See how that she doth mourn for her true love:
And I shall mourn for thee, my dear,
And I shall mourn for thee.
Reynolds murmured the words tunelessly, tapping the rhythm on his knee:
You leave me here to lament, and well-a-day!
My tears you will not see, my love,
My tears you will not see.
Reynolds’s voice increased in volume, bringing an unpleasant harshness as his voice merged with Sissy’s. My impatience and anger at his insolence grew until I stepped further into the room, prepared to interrupt the song and oust Reynolds from our home, but my anger was immediately forgotten when my wife’s voice broke mid-note and she clutched at her throat.
“My darling!” I rushed to her, as did Muddy. Reynolds leapt to his feet.
Sissy tried to speak and, as she did, red bubbled from her lips and splashed onto the white bodice of her dress. She coughed and sputtered until I pressed my handkerchief to her mouth—vermilion bloomed through it like a rose. She fainted away and I caught her in my arms, gently lowered her into the armchair.
“Oh my Lord, oh my Lord,” Muddy whimpered in repetitive prayer. She crouched down and stroked her daughter’s hand, utterly distraught.
Reynolds took a large shawl that was draped over the sofa and offered it to cover her. “Fear not, I will fetch a doctor,” he said, picking up his coat.
“Thank you, yes. I would be grateful.” I was in a daze of shock and grief as I followed Reynolds to the door. When I opened it, a gust of cold air pushed its way inside like a malevolent spirit. “I am appreciative, sir, and am relieved that the animosity of the past has at last been resolved between us,” I said, my words utterly heartfelt.
George Reynolds stepped out into the unforgiving glare of late morning, then looked back at me. “I gave my word to my wife that I would not pursue recompense for what your forbears did to mine, that it was time to allow the crimes of the dead to be buried with them. But the crimes of the living must be avenged one way or another. I will never forgive you for Rowena’s murder, for I believe you to be culpable,” he said with pure hatred on his face. “Now go attend to your wife, Poe,” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “For truly she is dying. You will know the pain I feel soon enough and that will give me deep satisfaction.”
Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru Page 31