Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  When I had completed my task, Dupin placed two of the antique letters and the missive from Mrs. Allan that had accompanied my legacy next to the signatures I had just penned. He studied the four pieces of paper carefully.

  “Interesting, a most interesting case. Look here at the ‘E’ and the A’ in your signature. Now consider the ‘E’ and A of Elizabeth Arnold’s signature.” Dupin held the two names side by side. “Quite a similarity between the construction of your characters and Elizabeth Arnold’s.”

  I felt my face flush. “Sir, you are not suggesting that I am the true author of Elizabeth Arnold’s letters?”

  Dupin looked amused at my discomfiture. “Do not jump to conclusions. I am merely indicating a certain likeness of style.” He indicated my attempts to write the Arnolds’ names. “We can see here that your efforts are very different to the genuine signatures. Further, it is obvious to even the untrained eye that the paper of these letters is far older than that of your letter to me.”

  “But the age of the paper does not guarantee the letters’ authenticity,” I suggested.

  “No, it does not, but let us examine the letters more precisely. Through the science of autography, we are able to learn much about an author’s character as revealed through his or her handwriting.” Dupin indicated my letter to him. “The paper on which you wrote to me is excellent, the seal red. This indicates the refined taste of the author. The penmanship is highly legible and the punctuation is faultless. The lines are at proper intervals and perfectly straight. There are no superfluous flourishes and there is an air of deliberate precision to the writing, a mingled solidity and grace that speaks of the scholar.”

  I felt obliged to protest Dupin’s flattery, but he waved his hand to silence me.

  “Consider Elizabeth Arnold’s letter. The paper is good, the seal small—of green wax—and without impression. This penmanship is quite different. The characters are well-sized, distinct and elegantly but not ostentatiously formed. The paper has a clean appearance, and she is scrupulously attentive to the margin. The t’s are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the pen. While the letter is written with a very good running hand, the lines are not straight. One would suppose it written in a violent hurry. The whole air of the letter is dictatorial, but still sufficiently feminine. There is a good deal of spirit and some force.”

  “And Henry Arnold’s letter?”

  “Quite a different character. The writing has an air of swagger about it and would seem to indicate a mind without settled aims, restless and full of activity. The characters are bold, large, sprawling and frequently impaired by an undue straining after effect, but by no means illegible. There are too many dashes and the tails of the long letters are too long. Few of the characters are written twice in the same manner, and their direction varies continually. Sometimes the words lie perpendicularly on the page, then slope to the right, then fly off in an opposite way. The thickness of the characters is also changeable—sometimes very light and fine, sometimes excessively heavy. It would require no great stretch of fancy to imagine the writer to be a man of unbounded ambition, greatly interfered with by frequent moods of doubt and depression, and by unsettled ideas of the beautiful.”

  This interpretation did not surprise me when I remembered the content of the letters.

  “And now we must consider the letter written by Mrs. Allan.” Dupin picked up the folded paper and laid it flat before us. As he studied it, a frown settled between his brows. “You say this note accompanied the box of letters?”

  “Yes, most assuredly.”

  “You are certain that Mrs. Allan composed it or you presume so?”

  “Well, of course I must presume so.” Dupin’s frown deepened, so I elaborated. “I have never exchanged letters with my Pa’s wife as she did not deign to respond to anything I sent her. Her lawyer communicated with me about my disinheritance.”

  Dupin nodded, a satisfied expression on his face.

  “Why do you ask? Do you suspect that the letter is not from Mrs. Allan?”

  “Do you?” Dupin puffed on his cigar and studied me, which lent the uncomfortable sensation of being on trial.

  “No, why would I? Does the handwriting indicate that someone else penned it? What does the handwriting suggest of Mrs. Allan’s character?” I hastily added before Dupin could counter my question with one of his own.

  He scanned the page again. “The author seems to take pains with her handwriting—the letters are well-formed, every ‘t’ is crossed, every ‘i’ dotted, the punctuation is very precise and there is a sense of uniformity throughout. This suggests a methodical, determined character with a steadiness of purpose. An autocratic air pervades the whole, however, and the sharpness of the upstrokes and the downstrokes indicates a vengeful nature. The flourishes, which are not many, seem deliberately planned and firmly executed, as if the author is consciously presenting a cultured façade to the world. The paper is very good and the seal is gold, which adds to this illusion of cultivation. And while the handwriting has a pleasing overall appearance, it differs from that of her sex in general by an air of great force and its lack of feminine delicacy.”

  “I must say that this description of Mrs. Allan is more than accurate. I am astonished how much of her character you are able to fathom with the aid of such a short text.”

  Dupin narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing as he looked carefully at each letter again before setting them down upon the table. “Of course we must also reflect on the similarities between elements of your handwriting and that of Elizabeth Arnold’s. What secrets might this hold?” Dupin scrutinized my face as if it were handwriting on the page.

  My desire to escape Dupin’s questions overwhelmed me. “I am sorry, but I suddenly feel most unwell. I must either retire to my bed or seek air to refresh me.”

  Dupin gently placed his fingertips upon the letters before him and adjusted them into a perfect line. “I would advise fresh air,” he said. “Perhaps you should visit the haunts of your youth, those associated with happier times. It is all too common to be held captive by one’s own darker thoughts, and too much solitary contemplation leads one down the path toward madness.” I felt my hackles rise at Dupin’s unflattering words, but he continued before I could speak. “Your company in Paris saved me from myself, Poe. I did not like to admit it then, but I see it now. I trust you will allow me to return the favor. You were truthful with me then, and I hope you will always do me the honor of such candor.”

  No suitable response came to me, so I simply nodded.

  “I have research I can pursue for the remainder of the day,” Dupin continued. “Might we meet again this evening with refreshed minds? At eight o’clock at the Smyrna Coffee House in St. James’s?”

  “Very good. Thank you, Dupin.”

  He shrugged away my thanks. “May I keep the letters for now? I would like to study the details of the crimes.”

  “Of course.” I left Dupin’s rooms, already knowing what my destination would be that afternoon. I would walk to Bloomsbury parish where my Pa had rented apartments for our family more than twenty years previously. I had long been curious to see the place again.

  * * *

  The desk clerk that morning was a middle-aged man who was immaculately dressed but of dour demeanor. While I had the fanciful notion that my feet would guide me to my childhood home, I asked him for guidance in finding my destination and also some shops where I might purchase some charming fripperies for my wife and mother-in-law. The fellow was left-handed and held his pen at an awkward angle to avoid dragging his hand through the ink, but the map was elegantly drawn and noted several purveyors of ladies’ finery.

  I left Brown’s Genteel Inn, map in hand, using my umbrella as a walking stick, and made my way down Dover Street to Piccadilly and on through Burlington Arcade, which had an array of wonderful shops. I was particularly captivated by window displays that ingeniously promoted the virtues of the products sold within. The hatters, for example, ha
d a pair of scales in the window to prove the lightness of a hat and a glass globe filled with water in which a hat was placed to demonstrate its superior waterproofing. But it was on Oxford Street that I saw a window display that stilled my breath. A company of varying ages—three gentlemen, four ladies and three children—dressed in elegant mourning costumes, stood solemnly before an ornate casket decorated with a large immortelle wreath of porcelain lilies. This tableau vivant proved to be an illusion when a window dresser stepped amongst the wax figures to make adjustments to their funereal accouterments—black kidskin gloves, sober hats, necklaces of jet. I hurried away, determined to shake off the gloom that had descended upon me. I would look for gifts on the way back to Brown’s.

  My mood lightened again as I neared High Holborn, which was lively with a variety of pedestrians: coal-men delivering small barrows of coal to houses; girls carrying baskets upon their heads containing fresh vegetables and herbs for sale; men hurrying toward their places of employment; and women attending to the purchase of household necessities in the shops. A milkmaid wearing a yoke to carry her wares shouted “Milk!” at each person she wandered past, with little strategy and even less success in terms of selling her load. The distinctive sound of horse hooves on cobbles mixed with the rattle of the coaches, and the shouted commands of their drivers added to the bustle of this busy thoroughfare. Two men armed with shovels roved the area, collecting the manure deposited in copious amounts by the carriage horses. Straw was scattered on the walkways and in front of shops to aid the absorption of the previous night’s rain, the mud and other less pleasant effluvia, but it did little to alleviate the stink, which was pungent as old meat and amplified to a terrible degree. I soon wished that I had doused my handkerchief with cologne.

  After turning into Southampton Row, I quickly located number forty-seven. It was our first home in London, quite a cozy place where I spent a few pleasant months with Ma and her sister Nancy before being sent away to boarding school in Chelsea. The exterior was tidy enough but not exceptional—a plain brick façade similar to its companions along the row. I had remembered the architecture as far more imposing, but youth’s perspective tends to exaggerate the scale of things. I felt an urge to knock on the door and ask to see inside, but decided against this foolish whim. Instead, I walked the short distance back down to number thirty-nine, a rather larger apartment my Pa had rented during our final year in London. While the lodgings were more commodious, they had held little joy for me during my brief time spent within their walls due to my dear Ma’s unhappiness. As if in sympathy with this memory, a light rain began to fall, and I unfurled my umbrella. Tempted as I was to return to the comfort of Brown’s Genteel Inn, first I wished to go to Russell Square, a park I had visited often with my Aunt Nancy. She was charged with my care when I returned home from boarding school for holidays or a special weekend, and was typically as eager as I was to escape the confines of our Bloomsbury home when the weather was fine.

  When I turned into Russell Square, I entered the park at the entrance near a curious statue that had fascinated me as a child. Francis Russell, fifth Duke of Bedford, had one hand upon a plough and ears of corn clutched in the other. Beneath his pedestal, there was a sheep and four cherubs representing the seasons, all quite unclothed with the exception of a heavily bundled up “Winter.” I had remembered the statue as poetic, imbued with the very spirit of agriculture, but with maturity found it over-stated and somewhat repellent. Keen to further my exploration, I made my way along the horseshoe-shaped pathway under the lime trees, and was pleased to discover that Russell Square was quite as I had remembered it: neatly laid out and well-planted with attractive flowers and shrubbery, not quite the English garden my Ma had so admired, but dignified and pleasing to the eye. Due to the inclement weather, the square was empty of the attractive, well-dressed ladies who had strolled through the pathways when I was a child, which made the place rather less picturesque.

  I thought to rest a bit on one of the seats in the trellis-covered shelter, but found a bedraggled woman sitting there, a small child tucked up under her shawl. As I stared at this apparition, an inexplicable sense of dread came over me. Shaking off my nervousness, I set down my umbrella and fumbled inside my frock coat for the purse that hung from my belt, determined to give the woman some coins for her child. Suddenly, my head was blasted with pain, the ground tilted, and I fell to a place of perfect stillness.

  * * *

  How much later was it that I came back to myself? I could not fathom this with any accuracy. As the world emerged from shadow, I found blue eyes staring into my own and felt damp earth against my cheek. My head throbbed, and there was a tugging at my frock coat and then a hand wormed its way into my trousers pocket. What insult was this? I thrashed out and heard a yelp. When I struggled to a sitting position, a small urchin was squatting next to me. His mother was busily scrambling backward down the footpath, fear imprinted upon her features. Then I heard the sound of running footsteps and turned to see her accomplice dashing in the opposite direction. Another woman! Slight of build and fleet of foot, the treacherous pickpocket vanished. I patted at my chest and discovered with much relief that my locket was still in place. Only my purse was gone, the contents of which I had been willing to give to the woman with the child in charity, but now I had a sore head for my efforts and felt most aggrieved.

  “Go to your mother,” I said to the small creature. “Leave me quickly or I will thrash you with this umbrella.” As I shook it feebly, the child scuttled away as fast as its broken shoes would allow.

  I got to my feet. The unpleasant sensation of my wet clothing and the additional discomfort of my throbbing head brought me back to full cognizance. As I tidied myself as best I could with my handkerchief, I discovered the most extraordinary thing. In my buttonhole was a small boutonniere of violets—artificial flowers of purple and green velvet so precisely crafted they appeared to be genuine upon first glance. I had most assuredly not been wearing them earlier and the only explanation for their mysterious appearance upon my person was that my attackers had attached them to my frock coat. The thought repelled me so utterly I threw the thing away from me as if it harbored some creeping disease. A deep foreboding settled upon me, and as much as I tried to divert my thoughts away from those feral mendicants, they haunted me as I made my way back toward Brown’s. There was something terribly familiar about them. I revisited the attack again and again as I hurried through the London streets—the mind is like a box with many locked compartments and the secrets therein are recovered when the correct key is found. I was determined to find that key. The violet boutonniere tickled at my memory until I remembered where I had first come across those seemingly innocent velvet flowers.

  * * *

  “You will receive a fine education, my boy. That I promise you. And you will make us proud, won’t you, Eddy?”

  “I will do my best, Pa.”

  It was the day of my interview at the Dubourg boarding school in Chelsea. The school was run by two sisters—the Misses Dubourg—whose brother was a bookkeeper at my father’s company. The interview with the two ladies went very well. They declared me a “delightful boy,” so Pa decided to take Ma, Aunt Nancy and me for a celebratory luncheon nearby. We had walked just a short distance from the school when we came across a peculiar character, a gaunt ragbag of a man who wore several hats upon his head and, it seemed, all of his clothing at once, with an old military jacket over the top. He had but one arm and wore a long beard that was yellowed from the sulfurous fumes of hell, or so I imagined. A wonderful wooden ship and an old cap sat in front of him; Aunt Nancy hastily dropped some small coins into the cap as we passed him.

  “Have you bought me the ship?” I cried delightedly.

  She flushed quite crimson. “Hush,” she whispered as she grabbed my arm and marched me smartly away.

  I eventually managed to wriggle out of her grasp and planted myself in front of her. “Why did you pay him for the ship and leave it behi
nd?” I demanded.

  “I did not pay him for the ship, Eddy. I gave him money for food.”

  “Why give him money? He is a grown man.”

  “It is called charity,” my Ma said. “We must be kind to those who suffer. He lost his arm fighting for his country.” She looked anxiously at my Pa as she spoke and was terribly flustered.

  “And so he deserved to,” said my Pa, “for indeed he was fighting against us.”

  I was mightily confused. “But how do you know that? We did not speak to the man.”

  Aunt Nancy sighed with exasperation. “So many questions! It is enough to drive one quite mad.”

  “But you will tell me.” I took her hand and my mother’s and smiled up at both of them.

  “We did not need to speak to the man to know his story,” Pa explained. “His wooden ship informs us that he was a sailor, and the ragged jacket he wears suggests that he has seen battle, as does the empty sleeve of it. A one-armed sailor is not of much use in the navy, and so he must find other ways to make his living, or he must plead for charity.”

  “War is an evil thing, Eddy, most particularly war against one’s parent nation. You must hope you never are faced with it.”

  I nodded, but hoped no such thing. War seemed a great adventure to me, especially battles at sea with flying cannon balls, the pirates’ sails ablaze and treasure sinking to the bottom of the sea. Then an extraordinary sight was revealed to me. On the street outside a somber building we came upon a crowd of men in uniforms—both sailors and soldiers—and their uniforms were in a condition as tattered as the men themselves, most of whom had lost an arm or a leg. As I gazed at the military men, a fearful notion sprang into my head.

  “Is there to be another war, Pa? Will they come to fight with us again?” I had no true memory of the War of 1812, but had overheard my adoptive father speak with much fervor of its repercussions on his business.