Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  It was still early morning when we were released at last from the Ariel; my fellow passengers and I made our way to Lime Street Station where we cordially said our goodbyes. Dr. and Mrs. Wallis were remaining in Liverpool where she had family. Mr. Asquith was going on to Manchester to give a lecture on the moral benefits of temperance, and Miss Nicholson was returning to Preston to visit with her aged mother. Mr. Mackie was traveling to London for a “rich theatrical engagement of his own devising.” I wondered if a play he had penned was to be performed in some small theater, or if the dandified fellow had managed to persuade an innocent damsel of wealthy means to marry him, but I did not inquire further. We both boarded the London train, but made no plans to meet again, and seated ourselves in separate carriages.

  My compartment was reasonably comfortable and once settled in, I began to contemplate my assignation at Brown’s Genteel Inn with the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. I had first made Dupin’s acquaintance in 1832, when staying in Paris. The location of our meeting was a library on the rue Montmartre where we were searching for the same rare volume of verse, Tamerlane and Other Poems, and this coincidence provoked a lengthy conversation about our interests, revealing a shared passion for enigmas, conundrums and hieroglyphics. After a time, Dupin offered me accommodation at his residence, which I gratefully accepted as I was running low on funds. Dupin, it seemed, was also in straitened circumstances, but the neglected state of his house did not reflect that of his mind; he was a great scholar and ratiocinator who never failed to find the solution to any puzzle. Rarely have I enjoyed a more intellectually stimulating evening than those spent with Dupin, discussing the contents of his extensive library or exploring the city by night. This shared sympathy made me confident that together we would answer all the questions that had tormented me since the day my Pa’s new wife had sent me the mahogany box of letters and told me it was my legacy.

  My restless mind was eventually lulled by the hypnotic view through the carriage window: endless green fields, tenebrous woodlands and cloud-speckled sky, until that vision faded, and I fell into unquiet slumber. I know not how much time passed, but my eyes opened to utter darkness and the sense that someone was in my compartment. And then, in the blackness, I perceived the glint of two wild, violet-colored eyes. My body was chilled to stone as a pale-skinned woman with long curling ebony hair emerged from the shadows and moved toward me, gliding noiselessly as if she were a part of the night itself. She held a goblet in her hand and as she loomed above me, three or four drops of ruby-colored fluid fell into the goblet, like drops of brilliant blood, and she pressed the malevolent vessel to my lips, forcing me to drink the contents. As she pressed in closer still, her hair—blacker than raven wings—enveloped me, dragging me deeper, ever deeper, into the suffocating darkness.

  * * *

  The train’s whistle and my own ghastly yowl juddered me awake just as we pulled into Euston Station. I emerged into an eerie gas-lit world and quickly made my way to a hackney coach, bidding the driver to take me to Brown’s Genteel Inn. We moved at an uncanny pace through the streets of London, the horse’s hooves clattering like the Devil’s on the pavements. There were times when I wondered if the coach would fit through the narrow passageways, and if we would stay upright as we careered around a corner. I perceived very little of the city due to the soot-stained windows and my attempts to retain my dignity upon the slippery seat. When the coach stopped, I felt quite without breath, as if I had just finished a foot race.

  The fatigue from my long journey and my unsteady sea legs gave me the unfortunate appearance of a man on a spree, but the atmosphere of Brown’s Genteel Inn greatly improved my temper. The English reign supreme in the art of internal decoration and the hotel foyer proved this through example. There were none of the costly appurtenances so commonly found in American decor, which is fashioned on an aristocracy of dollars. In England, the true nobility of blood does not indulge in vulgar displays of wealth.

  The desk clerk, a mustachioed, balding fellow who was probably no more than five and thirty but looked a decade older, attended to me efficiently and courteously, despite the discomfort I tried to hide when he revealed the first week’s bill for my room and Dupin’s. As the agent who booked my sea passage had also secured rooms for us at Brown’s, I was ill-prepared for the cost, and if I had not invited my illustrious friend to aid me in my investigation, I would have searched for less expensive accommodation. I could not, of course, embarrass either of us by suggesting we move to shabbier lodgings, and vowed to enjoy the elegance denied to me since I was half-driven from the home of my adoptive parents.

  “We trust your suite will fully satisfy all your needs, but do not hesitate to ask if you require anything further,” the desk clerk said, handing me the key for room eight.

  “Cigars would be a pleasure.”

  “We have taken the liberty to supply those, sir.”

  “And I should like to leave a message for Chevalier Dupin who is also a guest here.”

  “He has left a message for you.” The desk clerk handed me a note, and I immediately broke the seal and opened it.

  Dear Sir,

  Shall we meet for a late supper tonight? Ten o’clock. Room twelve.

  Yours respectfully,

  C. Auguste Dupin

  He had anticipated my arrival perfectly. I retired to my chambers to refresh myself before supper, and when the door opened, my rooms were revealed to be gratifyingly genteel. An Argand lamp with a ground-glass shade emitted a tranquil radiance and the carpet was of Saxony material half an inch thick. Two windows offering a view of Dover Street were framed with draperies of rich crimson silk fringed with gold, their deep recesses curtained by thick silver tissue. An attractive landscape painting was hung above the fireplace; the sofa and two conversation chairs were of rosewood and covered with crimson silk patterned with gold flowers. Next to these was an octagonal marble table with a tall candelabrum upon it. If I had the means to house my family in a manner more compatible with my taste, these pleasant furnishings would compose the environment of my reading room, a place for contemplation, study and composition.

  As I unpacked my trunk and readied myself for supper, the pleasing environment raised my spirits. At ten o’clock I made my way to room twelve, carrying the mahogany box under my arm, and rapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  When I pushed the door open, Dupin rose from a large armchair to greet me, and I was momentarily taken aback—it was as if I were unexpectedly confronted by my own image in a looking glass. We were the same age, thirty-one, and of the same build and height. Even our clothing was similar, for Dupin habitually dressed entirely in black, like an entity of the night, as was my own predilection.

  “Poe, it is my great pleasure to see you again.”

  “And I am very pleased to see you, Dupin.” I stepped forward, prepared to shake his hand, but he dipped his head and shoulders into a formal bow; wrong-footed, I awkwardly reciprocated. My happiness at seeing my friend after such a lengthy interlude had made me forget his disinclination for displays of amity.

  “Please, sit.” He nodded to the armchair opposite his and made his way to a side table where a decanter of wine stood breathing. I did as he bid and placed the mahogany box next to my chair as the octagonal marble table was full with covered serving dishes, which could not contain the delicious aroma of our supper. Dupin handed me a glass of wine and retreated into his seat, where he gazed at me intently, waiting for me to speak. We might have been back in his library, debating some intellectual puzzle or a perplexing mystery delivered to him by the Paris Prefect of Police; it was as if eight years had not passed since we had last seen each other.

  “To your health.” I raised my glass and he reciprocated. As we sipped and contemplated the wine, I scrutinized my companion. Dupin had a noble bearing inherited from his illustrious family and a high forehead that added to his aura of intellect, but he had not been gifted with a robust constitution. I was gratified to note
that the usual drawn pallor of his face was improved, and his large gray eyes were clear and alert. I knew the same could not be said of my own appearance.

  “I hope your journey was bearable,” he offered, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Bearable enough.”

  “The hotel is most agreeable. I must—”

  “I am delighted you find the accommodation agreeable,” I said, halting his words of thanks so they might not embarrass us both. Dupin’s financial circumstances had improved little since our last meeting, and I had, of course, offered to finance our investigation. The poverty into which my Pa’s unkindness had thrown me had been auspiciously, if temporarily, alleviated by the handsome sum I had received from a wealthy English woman named Helena Loddiges for editing an amateur ornithologist’s study of rare Central and South American birds. The fact that my benefactress lived in London allowed me to provide my wife with a reason for my journey, and as I had every intention of calling on Miss Loddiges, my conscience was not burdened by a falsehood. “You do me a great favor, Dupin, and I am relieved that Brown’s Genteel Inn honors its name with such pleasing rooms.” Happily, his suite was of the same quality as mine, with the harmonious addition of several large Sevres vases filled with vivid flowers that curiously had no scent. “It may surprise you that I cannot find any fault with the decorations,” I added.

  Dupin smiled, knowing full well my philosophy of furniture. “Most surprised. But I am curious if there was a reason—beyond the exemplary décor—for choosing this particular inn.”

  “I confess that I knew nothing of the place beyond the handbill I sent to you with my letter.”

  He drew the elegant handbill from his coat pocket and passed it to me. I remembered it well, but inspected it again as Dupin seemed to expect me to. The paper was thick and of good quality, with an ink sketch of the establishment on the front and the descriptive details inside the folded paper, written in a hand so meticulous it might have been typeface:

  Brown’s Genteel Inn

  23 Dover Street,

  Mayfair, London

  Located in close proximity to Green Park,

  London’s theatres and historical locations,

  and shops patronised by the

  fashionable Ladies of London.

  This inn for Gentlefolk is furnished

  to the highest standard,

  with the strictest attention given to the comfort of those

  who may favour it with their patronage.

  All servants are charged for in the bill. Meals provided.

  Proprietor: Mr. James Brown, former valet of Lord Byron.

  “An unusual advertisement,” Dupin said. “How did you obtain it?”

  “It arrived with my ticket for the Ariel. The agent took the liberty of booking me accommodation, and organized an additional room at my request.”

  Dupin retrieved the handbill and returned it to his pocket. “Let us now see whether the establishment’s cooking is as commendable as its decoration.” He lifted the silver lids from our dishes to reveal a supper of roast chicken, carrots and potatoes. My stomach rumbled and Dupin quickly served us both. We spoke nary a word after picking up our cutlery. Once our appetites were sated and the dishes cleared onto the kitchen’s trolley, Dupin poured us each a cognac and clipped two cigars.

  “I believe you will find this more than satisfactory.” Dupin lit his own cigar with a friction match, then held the flame toward mine. As it caught, I savored the smoke.

  “Excellent.”

  “The New World produces some goods of very high quality.” His words seemed to transform into smoke, then back into words again. We enjoyed the cigars for several minutes, but Dupin’s silent curiosity brought a sense of disquiet to the room—the cerebral always took precedent over corporeal pleasures with Dupin. I placed the mahogany box on the marble table.

  “I must thank you for coming to my aid when I gave you so little information about what brought me to London.”

  “I am honored that you presumed I would,” Dupin responded. “And I am most curious to learn more about your historical puzzle.”

  I nodded at the mahogany box. “Of course this relates to my mystery, as you will have gathered.”

  “Of course.”

  “I am afraid the route to the heart of my problem will be circuitous if I am to make sure you are in possession of all the facts.”

  Dupin gave a hint of a smile. “You know me well. Better to presume that all details are important rather than the reverse, or we may overlook what is hidden in plain sight.”

  I took a goodly sip of cognac before commencing my tale. “I cannot recall if I ever mentioned that my mother was born here in London. While still a child, she emigrated to Boston with her mother who was an actress and made her own theater debut not long after arriving in her new homeland. My dear mother proved to be a fine actress and eventually met my father, who had ambitions to perform in the theater. He had little of her talent and perhaps envy was the cause of his abandonment, for he left her alone and penniless with three young children. She did her best to provide for us, but ill-health reduced her to ever more desperate straits, and she died in Richmond, Virginia, when I was not yet three years old.” I paused to inhale the rich smoke of my cigar as an all too familiar melancholia welled up within me. Dupin did the same, but his eyes remained intently focused upon me.

  “Happily, my mother had a great many friends who did their best to help, and we three children were distributed amongst as many families. I considered myself the most fortunate of my siblings as my adoptive parents, John and Frances Allan, took me into their Richmond home and treated me as if I were their son by birth, insisting that I call them ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’. I had a privileged life, an idyll that was only disrupted when we moved to London when I was six years old. We stayed in London for five years, but my Pa’s business venture proved unsuccessful and my Ma’s health began to decline. Even our return to my Ma’s beloved Richmond could not save her, and she left this world prematurely, which cut a deep wound into my heart. Her husband did not suffer as much, for he remarried with unseemly haste, which caused a terrible quarrel between us.”

  Dupin acknowledged the summary of my past with a single nod as he puffed on his cigar. My relations with my adoptive father had been acrimonious during my time in Paris, but Dupin knew little more than that.

  “When my Pa’s health suddenly declined, his new wife failed to inform me that he was ailing, and the opportunity was lost to reconcile with him. I made my way to Richmond for the funeral, but was treated as a person of no consequence. I am not ashamed to say that I had expected to be heir to a large fortune.”

  “It is a reasonable assumption, given the strength of the bond between you and your adoptive mother—and indeed for many years with your adoptive father.”

  I nodded vigorously, gratified that Dupin understood my position.

  “But of course the new Mrs. Allan would take a contrary position to Mr. Allan’s deceased wife,” Dupin continued, “and would wish that only her children would benefit from Mr. Allan’s fortune.”

  “Which is most dishonorable.” I felt my face flush with anger and gulped some cognac to cool myself.

  Dupin raised his brows. “Of course. But rarely is honor employed when it comes to property. The child may expect to inherit from his parents as is his right by blood, but even so, his legacy may be stolen by the cuckoo waiting by the nest.”

  “And certainly I was raised as if I were my Ma and Pa’s only son. It was cruel to cast me aside after Ma’s death—she would not have allowed my exclusion from my Pa’s will. I endeavored to make this point to my Pa’s widow after his funeral, but the discourteous woman utterly disregarded my presence in Richmond.”

  Dupin expelled a plume of smoke, which gave him rather a ferocious air, but his voice was typically measured. “It is natural to become embittered when one’s legacy is stolen by a rival with the scruples of a common thief, yet it is important to plan one’s r
etaliation most carefully. La vengeance se mange très-bien froide. Rarely do we prevail over our adversaries when hot with fury—it is he with the coolest head that is the eventual victor.”

  “Fear not. I have no plan to journey back to Richmond and take my revenge on the new Mrs. Allan, for I cherish my liberty too much. There is something far more pressing that I need your assistance with.”

  “Something that links your adoptive father’s widow, your legacy, London and this.” He nodded at the mahogany box.

  “Correct. Imagine my astonishment when in late February of this year, I received a large parcel from Mrs. Allan accompanied by a letter that stated she was turning over to me certain artifacts that were my birthright. Her words gave me some hope that she might at last behave honorably toward me, but these expectations were dashed when I opened the parcel and found this inside.” I indicated the box in question. The flat lid was mounted with a squared brass handle and a heart-shaped brass escutcheon adorned its front, which held a key decorated with a red tassel. I reached over and opened the box, revealing an interior lined with crimson leather and the bundle of letters knotted together with a green ribbon. I placed them on the marble table.

  “Seven missives written over half a century ago, in two distinct hands, and documenting a scandalous series of events.” I lowered my voice although there was no one else present to hear. “It appears that I have inherited evidence pertaining to several villainous attacks committed in London in the year 1788.”