"And what did he look like?"
"Well," Maggie began reluctantly.
"Go on," Gessler urged.
"Well, if you don't mind me sayin', I thought he looked like him." Maggie pointed at me. She looked fearful at first, but then uttered a nervous titter. "You give me a fright downstairs, sar. I thought you were him, you see. When I noticed your injured eye, I thought perhaps you were the inspector's prisoner, and not his associate. Crazy the thoughts that go through your head when there's criminals creepin' about."
"Are you sure about that, Maggie? It was a dark night and you're seeing the man from a second floor window—"
"Oh, I'm sure of it, sar. He had a moustache just like his, pale complexion, but dark around the eyes. Sort of a large forehead. No offense, sar." Maggie looked down at her feet.
Gessler said nothing, but went to the window and again looked down on the garden. I joined him. He tapped on the glass and the gardener looked up over his shoulder. Seeing us, he waved cheerfully. From where we stood, we could make out his features clearly. I knew that was what Gessler wanted to see. The window was not so high, nor so far as to preclude a reliable identification of a man in the garden.
Gessler let the curtain fall. "Thank you, Maggie. Might my associate and I have a moment alone?"
"Cartainly, sar."
As she closed the door behind her, I could contain myself no longer.
"I was attacked by a masked man at the site of the Rue Morgue murder," I exclaimed, trying to keep my voice down. I expected Gessler to jump at the news, but he made no reaction.
"So I've heard," he said gravely.
He obviously did not comprehend the importance of the maid's testimony. But it excited me to my core. "This was him! This was the man at the Rue Morgue. He was just as Maggie described. A slight man in a black mask. Again, this can be no coincidence."
"You will forgive me, Mr. Poe, but—" Before I knew what was happening, Gessler had reached into the pocket of my frock coat and withdrew my revolver. He pointed it at the level of my gut. "—I must ask that you explain what you were doing in the garden on that night."
"You can't be serious!"
"And at the scene of the Amontillado murder," he added. "We have the testimony of the cook."
~ * * * ~
"I am being framed! You know this to be true, Inspector. They are trying to drive me mad—to make the world believe that I am mad—and, failing that, to kill me outright."
"That's a lot they are trying to accomplish, Mr. Poe. Just who is this extraordinarily enterprising they, sir."
I could not believe my ears. Tap warned me of Gessler's deceitful nature. To think that he could have witnessed what we had both seen with our own eyes just that morning and still suspect me was beyond the powers of my reason to grasp.
"Why, Coppelius, of course," I said, dumbfounded. "In league with Billy Burton. You saw it yourself. The vial that was found at the Amontillado scene matches the concoction from Coppelius' lab."
"You refer, of course, to the vial that you found at the Amontillado scene. And the vial that you found in the lab. The lab of your doctor, I might add. The very doctor who rescued you from me when I had come to arrest you."
I could find no words to answer him. I felt I was trapped in a nightmare.
When I failed to respond, Gessler continued. "That was not Burton down in that garden. That was you. And that was you at the boarding house that night. You left your vial—and your trowel!—and you returned to retrieve them. Oh, yes, I know about the trowel. I let it remain on purpose to see if you would return for it. And you did."
"Ah! But there were two men dragging Burton down that hallway, Inspector. I questioned the cook myself."
"I am aware of that, Monsieur Dupin," Gessler said sadly.
"But if I was one, then who was the other?"
"I believe I should ask you that question."
I felt my face redden with anger. "Then ask who attacked me down in that basement! Ask me that, and I will tell you that it was Burton, by God!"
Gessler shook his head sadly. "I have heard from many of your acquaintances, Mr. Poe, that you are your own worst enemy. I am beginning to believe it. Tell me: what other manifestations do you see during your spells of somnambulism?"
"You have spoken to Coppelius." I did not bother asking, but stated the fact dryly, for it did not surprise me. But I was suddenly consumed by the idea that Gessler and Coppelius were in league against me. If that were so, then I feared Olimpia was in great danger.
"I know of your condition, of course. When I came to arrest you that day at your cottage, I listened at your door for some time and heard you engaged in quite a lively discussion. Arguing, it seemed. When you let me in, however—sad to say—I found you there quite alone, Mr. Poe."
He had not found me alone, but with Tap. I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, but anything I said now would only further condemn me. I decided it would be best to hold my tongue.
Gessler went on, "Now, you will accompany me down to the Landor family crypt so we can have a look at your handiwork and you can describe to me the details of the crime." He waved my pistol towards the door. "Perhaps you will lead the way—since you undoubtedly know it well."
I turned and began walking, knowing only that the crypt was in the cellar. I would not give Gessler the satisfaction of further pleading my case. I was a fool to have trusted him. I could feel the broad nose of my own pepperbox revolver poking me in the back.
"I hope that you won't make it necessary for me to hold this gun on you the entire way," Gessler said.
"Only a madman would commit a crime that so clearly implicates himself."
"Indeed. Now, lead me to the crypt."
~ * * * ~
"You're making a mistake, Gessler," I told him as we made our way across the cellar floor.
"Let me worry about that."
I laughed. "Perhaps in my next detective story, I'll include an incompetent inspector. A recurring character, a fool to act as a foil to Dupin—though only a hack would ever think to employ such a recurring artifice."
"You'll be writing it from a prison cell, if what I believe proves out. Now, just keep walking."
Narrow windows set high in the walls allowed just enough sunlight to filter into the cellar for us to see. The air smelled of mold. Dust floated lazily through the beams of slanting sunlight. I had surmised the way to the crypt from our conversation with Mr. Landor. The crypt door, he had said, was next to a woodpile. Turning a corner, we came upon just such a feature. An axe jutted rigidly from a block, its handle making an elongated shadow on the wall that drew our eyes to a recess therein. Inside, three or four stone steps led down to what must have been the door of the crypt. A lantern hung from a hook on the wall. Supposing the interior would be black as a tomb, I removed it from its peg, lit it, and started down to the door.
"Damn you, Gessler," I said as I turned the latch. I had had enough of his crime scenes. Whoever's handiwork it turned out to be, I was not eager to lay eyes on the defiled remains of Mrs. Landor.
"Does any of this seem familiar to you yet, Mr. Poe?"
I set my jaw firmly, ignoring Gessler's taunt, and opened the door. It creaked gently and I peered inside. The glow of the lantern revealed a long chamber with an arched ceiling. An aisle separated two rows of stone pedestals. Atop them rested sarcophagi which contained, I supposed, the coffins of the departed. Ignoring the flutter in my stomach, I ducked under the lintel and entered a space just high enough to allow me to stand upright. Gessler followed close on my heels. As we walked down the aisle among the dead, I saw that the names of the deceased Landors were chiseled into the stone.
When I saw the final name, a chill went through me. Berenice. I had not been prepared for the shock of seeing the title of my story here in this crypt. The name itself was wedded in my mind to the hideous crime of my imagination. I could not see the word without seeing the deed. And there it was before me. Silent but so full of evil p
ortent that my hand began to quake, rattling the fittings on the lantern and causing the light to shudder.
The heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus stood propped up against the pedestal where it had fallen. Upon being dislodged, it must have struck the floor with some force, for I saw that it had cracked, suggesting great weight. I found a ledge and put my lantern upon it and, to satisfy my own curiosity, tried to lift the lid, but could not budge it. I looked at Gessler with a gleam of triumph in my eye. I nodded toward the fallen stone. "Try it."
The inspector came forward and gave the lid a cautious tug.
I smiled. "One man cannot lift it."
"He had only to slide it off," Gessler said. "Open the coffin."
The weight of the lid was a point in my favor. Even Gessler must have understood that. But he would not concede even the most obvious point. I feared I was doomed.
"Go on," he commanded, when I hesitated.
I felt the gun barrel poking my ribs, so, as ordered, I leaned forward and peered over the edge of the sarcophagus. Inside was an ornate coffin of highly polished pine. It had clearly been tampered with. The latches that secured the lid in place were broken. The coffin opened easily. I felt my stomach lurch.
There, inside, was Mrs. Landor—Berenice. Her eyes were closed in peaceful repose. Her white hair had been neatly styled as it might have been in life. She looked much as she must have on the day of her interment, only sallower and ... deader. Her cheeks were sunken and puckered beneath sharp jutting cheekbones. Her skin was waxy and gray. But it was the condition of her mouth that filled me with horror. Slightly open as her defiler had left it, I saw that the corners of her mouth had been ripped and ravaged where the madman must have pried apart her jaws. Between her pale lips, I caught a glimpse of bloody, toothless gums. I drew back in horror, afraid that I might retch.
"In Heaven's name, Gessler," I cried, "what is this you're having us do here?
Gessler stepped around me and glanced inside the coffin. Unmoved, he turned his back to the corpse and looked down at where I was kneeling on the floor. "I need the tools you used to do this, Poe. Are they here somewhere, hidden, like your vial." He turned his head from side to side, scanning the chamber.
I rose to one knee. I felt helpless and sick. "How can I make you believe that I did not do this?"
Gessler merely shook his head. "Where I made my mistake, Mr. Poe, was in supposing that you selected your victims after writing your stories—when indeed the reverse is the truth, isn't it? You didn't pen 'Berenice' and then set out to find one who happened to live nearby. You wrote the story after observing Mrs. Landor in life, didn't you?"
I rose to my feet, anger beginning to well up in me. "You're grasping at straws, Gessler."
"These walks of yours across the little stone bridge. You didn't stop at the bridge as you would have me believe. You continued on to the clearing at the top of the hill."
I merely laughed in reply.
"You observed Mrs. Landor from there. Plotting your evil all the while, conjuring your sick fantasies day after day until you were compelled to write them down and then, finally, to act them out."
"You don't know what you're saying."
"The Rue Morgue murderer did not select his victims based on your story. Rather, he wrote the story based on the victims he had already selected. Isn't that true? What a task it would be to find a house that matched the one in your tale! In this city? A needle in a haystack! How much simpler to write your story based on the house you had already found?" Gessler chuckled darkly. "You had me looking in the wrong place at the wrong time. Very clever of you, Mr. Poe."
I started to protest, but at that moment, Gessler shifted his weight from one leg to the other, affording me a view of the scene behind him. Over his shoulder, I saw that Berenice was sitting upright in her coffin, her clouded eyes staring, almost seeming to bulge out of their sockets, the evil grin on her face exposing her ragged, toothless gums. I was petrified. I could feel my mouth open to scream, but no sound emerged. It was not until she started to climb from her coffin, her eyes fixed on Gessler, that I was able to move.
"Look out, Inspector!" I lunged for him. I knew I risked being shot. But the corpse had reached out its cadaverous hand and I knew from Burton the strength of the creature's skeletal embrace. Once in the thing's grasp, who knew if one could ever escape? I launched myself at Gessler, taking him by surprise. My shoulder struck him square in the chest. The force of the blow sent us both sprawling across the floor—and Berenice's hand closed on empty air.
Gessler had dropped the revolver. I saw it spinning on the flagstones several feet from his outstretched fingers. The look of surprise on his face changed to terror as he turned his head to see the corpse shambling towards us. His mind was paralyzed with fear. His heels dug at the floor, vainly seeking purchase. The creature drew ever closer. I thought of lunging for the pistol, but saw that there was no time. Instead, I scrambled to my feet and hurled myself at the monster.
"The gun!" I cried to Gessler, hoping to revive him from his panic. Whether or not I succeeded, I could not tell. I had awkwardly grabbed the corpse around the neck. I tried flinging the monster aside, but it was like attempting to uproot a tree from the ground. The thing swung fiercely, but I hung on for dear life, knowing that if I allowed it to throw me it would do so with killing force. My face was pressed into the fiend's neck. I could smell its reeking breath and when I dared open my eyes, I peered directly into the gaping, toothless mouth. My horror mounted until I thought I would go mad.
The creature thrashed and my legs flapped uselessly through the air like those of a rag doll. I suddenly became afraid that Gessler had abandoned me to this monster. Having sought to see me hang, he would instead allow the unnatural fiend to act as my jury and executioner. Perhaps he had already fled, locking the door behind him.
In my horror, I cried out to him. Gessler! I meant to say, though no words but a guttural animal howl escaped my lips. I could feel my hold on the creature weakening and I knew that to relinquish my grasp was to die. I opened my eyes, hoping to find the inspector rushing to my aid. Instead, I found flashing before me a close-up view of the creature's neck. What I saw made time stand still—a puncture wound inside a ring of swollen, gray flesh. My mind reeled. It was the same mark I had seen on Virginia in my cemetery dream. It was the very mark I had discovered on my own neck!
I scarcely had time to consider the implications when an earsplitting crack of a gunshot filled the chamber. I winced, half-expecting to feel a bullet tear through me. Instead, I felt the zombie shudder. For an instant, it had ceased its flailing. I released my grip and flung myself from the monster's grasp. I plunged to the floor. When I looked up, I saw the corpse with a fresh black hole in its forehead and Gessler behind a cloud of smoke aiming the revolver directly at the creature's face.
Closing its eyes, the zombie teetered for a moment, a trail of liquid black goo trickling from the bullet hole. Gessler took a deep breath and seemed about to let the revolver fall to his side when the corpse steadied itself and its eyes suddenly snapped open. Grinning, it took a step forward. Gessler fired again. The bullet struck the creature high on the forehead this time, blowing away part of its skull. But it did not stop. It took another step, and Gessler fired again ... and again .... until the corpse's bosom was riddled with smoking bullet holes. None had any effect on the creature. It swatted the gun from Gessler's hands. He turned, but the thing caught him.
"Run, Poe!" he cried, as he fell to the floor.
I was tempted to take his advice, but then I remembered that it was with fire that I had stopped Burton.
Where had I left the lantern?
I looked around frantically and found it on the ledge next to the now-empty coffin. I jumped up and swiped it from its perch. Without hesitation, I grasped it by the handle and, swinging it in a wide arc, slammed it against the creature's head. The corpse was instantly engulfed in flames. It dropped to its knees, and then fell forward onto its face
, burning fiercely. Gessler tried to scramble out of its path, but the thing had grasped him around one ankle. I could see the pain on his face as the corpse squeezed.
"Arrrgh! Get it off!" he cried.
I didn't know what to do. I grabbed the corpse's wrist, but it was as solid as an iron bar. The flames were rapidly consuming the creature's body. But inside the conflagration, I could see that it was still moving, still a conscious being. I was afraid the flames would too quickly burn out and leave us in the blackness of the crypt with the undead creature. I looked around in near panic when I remembered the woodpile outside the door. I leapt to my feet and bolted from the room. Gessler screamed behind me. I knew he was afraid I was abandoning him to the whim of the monster, but I soon came rushing back with the axe I had pulled from the woodblock outside.
I raised it as high as the low ceiling would allow and brought it down with all of my strength, severing the creature's hand at the wrist. Gessler immediately pulled his leg free and scrambled out of reach of the burning corpse. I could see that it was still moving inside the flames. I walked over to it and it looked up at me. Most of the flesh had melted from its skull, and its eyeballs had long burnt out of its hollow sockets. I brought the axe down, this time on the thing's neck. The burning skull went rolling across the floor.
I turned to see Gessler cringing at the base of one of the stone pedestals, his eyes wide with terror as the skeletal hand, still living, pulled itself along the floor with clenched fingers, its nails cracking with the force of its efforts. I kicked it into the flames where its fingers flexed and clenched before burning to bone.
With a heavy sigh, I sat down next to the inspector and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. "Do you believe me now?" I asked.
Chapter 19
Maggie wiped the blood from Gessler's ankle. Three crescent-shaped lacerations—made when the creature's fingernails had dug into his flesh—continued to seep blood until Maggie pressed the cloth tight to his skin. She peeked beneath it from time to time until the bleeding had stopped. She soon had the wound cleaned and bandaged. "Good as new, sar," she said with an incongruous cheerfulness given that a burnt-out corpse lay just feet from where she stood.
My Clockwork Muse Page 20