All of London is now enjoying the tale of how the Monster threatened “a terrified beauty” with a nosegay, and I have been more than a little terrified myself that the Welshman might tell what he saw to the magistrate in hopes of pocketing Angerstein’s damnable reward. But then it occurred to me that a seller of artificial posies may be viewed with considerable suspicion by those eager to corner our Monster. Indeed, as I write, a plan is forming in my mind that may be the saving of us. Dear Henry, I wish this letter could deliver itself of its own accord and bring you home.
Yours,
Elizabeth
LONDON, THURSDAY, 9 JULY 1840
I heard a crackling sound, like feet breaking through a crust of snow; when I tried to lift my head, a fiery brand pierced through it. A shadow loomed over me, a presence.
“Poe, can you hear me? Poe?” A damp coolness soothed my brow. I tried to open my eyes again. A blurred face was above mine. “Can you hear my voice?”
Yes, but very far away. Or that is what I thought, but could not say. My throat was a desert and my body ached. Again, I tried to lift my eyelids, but light flared into them, glinting like the summer sun on water. I could not place where I was.
“Let me help you up.”
I tried to push myself into a sitting position and felt a flash of pain through my palm. Someone tugged under my arms and I was heaved up. At first my legs refused to follow my commands, but at last I scrabbled upward with assistance and staggered to an armchair, where I collapsed again.
When eventually I opened my eyes, Dupin was seated next to me and a pool of shattered glass was upon the floor.
“Here.” Dupin handed me a damp towel and glass of water. As I placed the cloth against my brow, I saw Dupin’s eyes slide to the near empty bottle of cognac upon the table, but he said nothing. We sat in silence as I sipped at the water and waited for the room to stop moving like a ship upon rough waves.
“Perhaps you should retreat to your bed now. Shall I have them fetch a doctor?” He nodded toward my hand, which was inexplicably bound in a handkerchief, its white stained with fresh blood.
I shook my head and pointed at the letter, which lay on the floor amidst the shattered mirror. Dupin picked it up and brought it to me. I pointed at the shards upon the floor. “The mirror,” I rasped, rattling the sheet of paper. “The mirror.”
Dupin seemed to understand. He retrieved the largest shard and, with shaking hands, I held the note up to the fragment of mirror so he could read its contents.
“Nemo me impune lacessit,” he muttered. Dupin looked up at me, his face very serious.
“Your nemesis has been in this room.”
I nodded and my head felt as if a metal spike had been driven into it.
“I must urge you again to avoid that farcical séance. If you go, no good will come of it. He means to harm you—here is the proof.” Dupin shook the note to emphasize his words.
“I must go, don’t you see.” I could not raise my voice above a whisper. “There is a message for me. I am certain of it.”
Dupin’s brow furrowed; his lips tightened. “You must sleep, Poe. You are still delirious with the cognac.”
Dupin helped me get to my feet and guided me to the bed. He poured another glass of water from the jug, took a small apothecary bottle from his jacket pocket and held it over the glass until three luminous droplets fell into the vessel. I watched as the iridescent liquid roiled—alive and dangerous—then blended chameleon-like into the water around it.
“Drink,” he said.
And when the glass pressed against my mouth, I could not resist. The world receded as did the metronomic pounding in my head and all went black like spilled ink upon paper.
* * *
Moments or perhaps hours later, I heard a voice. “My darlings, my time with you is almost done.” My mother’s face emerged from the darkness. It was the color of bed linen, spectrally pale, the bones pressed up against the skin, revealing the shape of her skull. Her parched lips were translucent as a housefly’s wings and taut against her ghoulishly exposed teeth. When she coughed, roses flowered on her handkerchief.
“Don’t leave us,” I whispered.
“I will watch you from Heaven—remember me from this, for it will be yours.” Her eyes guided mine to the miniature portrait of her on the bedside table. I clasped my mother’s skeletal hands in mine, and her breath rattled like an infernal locust as she gripped my fingers with preternatural strength, pulling me into the abyss with her.
“Poe!”
My eyes opened to the shadowy interior of a coach and Dupin’s urgent hand upon my shoulder.
“Exhaustion has overcome you. It is not too late to turn back.”
“I was dreaming of my mother.” I put my hand to the place where my locket was concealed under my shirt. “Surely a sign that I must proceed, that my grandmother needs to communicate a message to me through Mrs. Fontaine.”
“She is a charlatan, I assure you.” The coach stopped before Dupin could say more and the coachman rapped to signal that we had reached our destination. I opened the door and stepped out.
“I will go alone if you wish.”
“I wish only that you would see the truth.” But Dupin exited the coach and followed me toward the unexpectedly insalubrious house that was sixteen Bayham Street. It was not difficult to fathom why the coach driver had demanded payment before ferrying us to Camden Town, which he declared was inhabited by beggars, thieves, prostitutes and murderers.
A serving girl with a pockmarked face and a dour manner ushered us into the drawing room, which proved to be a plain room decorated with cobweb skeins and dimly lit by a few tapers set in wall sconces. The wavering light sent shadows scrabbling along the walls and up across the smoke-stained ceiling. The floorboards were bare, and heavy curtains framed tall windows that glinted with moonlight. A round table stood at the room’s center and seven chairs encircled it.
Three matrons of advanced years were in a huddle. They were all dressed unappealingly in purple and bedecked with necklaces and brooches featuring silver skulls, coffins, weeping women, willow trees—the memento mori jewelry so fashionable with ladies of a highly sentimental temperament. An elderly gentleman with white whiskers and hair, wearing very thick spectacles, stood quietly to one side, pipe in mouth. The tobacco was pungent and smelled oddly of overripe cherries, which added to the oppressiveness of the surroundings. Moments later, the delightful Mrs. Fontaine joined us. She was dressed ethereally in a cream-colored gown with large sleeves, a wide collar and a flowing lace shawl, which gave her the appearance of an angel in the flickering light.
“Mr. Poe, I am so glad that you have joined us.” Her voice was warm, her expression pleased.
“You have met my friend Chevalier Dupin. He is interested in your work and insisted upon attending.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Fontaine said. “I do hope we won’t disappoint you, Chevalier.” She dipped into the hint of a curtsy; Dupin inclined his head toward her, his skepticism plain. Mrs. Fontaine did not seem to notice Dupin’s rudeness for she tilted her head gently, one ear directed toward the heavens, then nodded. “The spirits wish us to begin,” she announced. “Ladies and gentlemen, will you join me around the table.” She pointed at the chairs. Dupin arched his eyebrow with this pronouncement, but he refrained from comment. Mrs. Fontaine approached the table and rested her hands on the back of a chair. “Ladies, please. Take these seats if you will.” She indicated three chairs at the other side of the table. The three elderly women, who appeared to be sisters, ceased their chattering and sat down where Mrs. Fontaine indicated. “Mr. Poe, here. Professor, perhaps here.”
My seat was to be between the professor and Mrs. Fontaine, which left Dupin situated next to the serving girl and one of the garrulous sisters, who asked in a loud whisper, “Have the spirit guides descended?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Mrs. Fontaine said solemnly. “Can you feel their presence?”
The shortest and plumpest of
the sisters contemplated this thought for a moment and declared, “Yes. I feel a presence.”
Dupin cleared his throat and arched his brows again, but I shifted my eyes away from him as his supercilious attitude was beginning to irk me.
“Sarah, would you, please?” Mrs. Fontaine nodded at the wall sconces and the serving girl took a candle-snuffer from her apron pocket and extinguished the tapers, until all that illumined the room was the moonlight. When the girl rejoined the table, Mrs. Fontaine said, “Let us join hands.” Her soft hand enclosed mine, as did the professor’s, whose grip was surprisingly strong. Mrs. Fontaine closed her eyes and tipped back her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. I felt her hand grasp mine more tightly. “What did you say?” she asked suddenly. “Are you here, spirit? Have you something to say?” She appeared to listen intently, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed tightly. And then, Mrs. Fontaine began to sing a hymn in a clear pleasant voice. Her maid and the three ladies joined in to less agreeable effect. The hymn was unfamiliar to me, and I presumed the same of Dupin. I stole a glance at the professor and found his eyes upon me, or so it seemed as the moonlight danced most oddly upon the glass of his spectacles.
“Would you all please hum along if you do not know the hymn. We must produce enough energy for the spirits to use.” Mrs. Fontaine began to sing more loudly, as did the ladies and girl. The professor commenced a tuneless droning, and I joined in, more mellifluously, I hoped, than the tone-deaf professor. Only Dupin remained silent. As the volume of the living increased, the temperature of the room seemed to descend until it felt as if it were the middle of winter rather than a warm July night.
“Do you feel them?” Mrs. Fontaine whispered. “They have arrived, most surely. Sing!”
The ladies near shouted out the rollicking hymn and without instruction we began to undulate our clasped hands. There was a loud tapping upon the table, followed by a muffled shriek from one of the ladies.
“Do not break the circle,” Mrs. Fontaine cried out. “Our energy must be unified. Do not break the circle until the spirit has gained strength!” Her hand clasped mine more firmly, as did the professor’s. “Do you hear me, spirit? Rap twice for yes.”
Two loud taps followed her words. Despite the dim light, I could see that all hands were held firmly clasped above the table and a chill ran through me.
“Have you come with a message? Rap twice for yes and once for no.”
Again, two loud taps.
“For whom is the message intended, spirit?”
I wondered how the spirit would manage this with a simple “yes” or “no” and then the most uncanny thing happened. An object fell from the gloom and landed upon the table. The three ladies shrieked and broke the circle, pressing their hands up to their astonished mouths.
“Thank you, spirit. Thank you.” Mrs. Fontaine reached across the table and picked up the object. “A rose. A white rose. It symbolizes purity of spirit, eternal faithful love, and Heaven. It is for you, Miss Castleton. It is from a young man.”
The three ladies began to murmur like bees.
“Is it Charlie?” Miss Castleton asked with quavering voice.
“Yes,” Mrs. Fontaine said firmly. “He has something to say to you.” She touched the rose to her forehead. “Wait, it is coming. I almost have it. Yes, thank you, spirit. Charlie says that if he may be so bold as to tell you, he has always loved you.”
A cry of distress mixed with joy escaped Miss Castleton.
“He is waiting for you. True love does not fade with time. He brings this white rose because—thank you, spirit—he wanted to give you a bouquet of white roses on your wedding day. Yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fontaine said, face turned toward the invisible. “Death may have stopped your union on Earth, but you will be joined in holy matrimony in Heaven.”
Miss Castleton emitted a sob. Her sister extracted a handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to her. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, weeping into its lacy folds.
“Tell him what is in your heart before he leaves us,” Mrs. Fontaine instructed. “You must tell him now. His strength is fading.”
“Dear Charlie, I have never forgotten you! I count the days until we are together,” Miss Castleton cried out.
“He is leaving us,” Mrs. Fontaine said. “He says, farewell, my darling Lucy, farewell.”
Miss Castleton broke into fresh sobs, and tears glittered on the cheeks of her sisters.
“Take this rose, my dear. Take this rose as a keepsake and dry your tears. Few of us are lucky enough to find one who loves us so dearly.” Mrs. Fontaine handed the rose to Miss Castleton, who took it with trembling hands. I felt quite moved by the exchange, but Dupin and the professor remained inscrutable.
“Let us join hands again. There are more messages from the other side. I can feel it.”
We reformed our circle, and Mrs. Fontaine began to sing another obscure hymn that preached of everlasting life and the joys of Heaven, but she abruptly terminated the chorus.
“The energy is weak. I can feel the spirits but I cannot discern their words.” She dropped my hand and the serving girl’s and stood up. Mrs. Fontaine pulled back her lace shawl, and I caught sight of that eye—that human eye—pinned to her breast. It stared at me most evilly, rendering me incapable of movement or speech until a clanging jarred me back into the world of the living. Mrs. Fontaine was ringing a hand bell, which was attached by a ribbon to her waist. She began to circle the table, ringing the bell continuously. “Please clasp hands,” she said. “I can feel . . . a woman.”
My heart leapt at this pronouncement.
“Yes, a woman. A very talented woman—most learned.” The hand bell clanged and clanged. “Speak to me, spirit!” Mrs. Fontaine stopped near the window and allowed the bell to fall back to her side. The moonlight seemed to gild her with a phosphorescent ice, transforming her into a creature from a fairytale. Again, she tilted her face to the heavens. “Yes, I hear you. He must stop. He is in danger. Yes, I hear. She says that the time has passed to take revenge upon the man who betrayed us. His task now is to redeem our name.”
A chill settled upon me, and for a moment the darkness seemed to deepen into a velvety black, with only Mrs. Fontaine illumined by the spectral light. Was this the warning from my grandmother? If so, I was baffled by her message.
Mrs. Fontaine stood up very straight, her eyes directed toward us and as she began to speak, her voice took on a new inflection. Her accent seemed almost French.
“We who are falsely accused by the duplicitous—by those who are enemies to the truth and to the highest principles of man—we go to our deaths safe in the knowledge that we and we alone are upholding the very spirit of France: liberty, reason and equality. Our innocence will be confirmed in time and our enemies will finally be vanquished. I accept my murder with love for my homeland and all that she truly stands for, and I condemn those who seek to defeat her through treachery and dishonor.” A terrible gasp escaped Mrs. Fontaine and her hands fluttered to her throat before she sank to her knees and collapsed into a faint.
“Miss Rowena!” The serving girl jumped up and rushed to her mistress. She began to pat her cheeks gently. I arose from my chair to assist and noticed that Dupin was frozen, his face a mask of astonishment, and then he stormed from the room. I was torn between following him and going to Mrs. Fontaine’s aid. The three ladies clucked like over-fed hens, but remained glued to their chairs, as did the professor, who seemed unmoved by Mrs. Fontaine’s collapse—I was compelled to go to the stricken lady’s assistance.
“Mrs. Fontaine, can you hear me?” She was scarcley breathing. I looked to the serving girl. “Fetch her some water and a damp cloth.”
The girl gave me an unexpectedly poisonous look and leaned closer to her mistress.
“Miss Rowena,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”
Mrs. Fontaine’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. “Oh, I feel most . . . depleted. She was powerful. Terribly powerful. Please,
help me up.”
“Would you like some water? A compress?”
“No, no. I am fine. But they are pressing upon me. I must . . . I must comply or they will torment me all night. Help me up. Please.”
The serving girl and I helped Mrs. Fontaine to her feet.
“Dear, you gave us quite a fright,” one of the sisters stuttered.
“Please sit,” said the other.
“Yes, please do,” added Miss Castleton.
“No, I cannot. We must . . . we must adjourn to the cellar. The spirits command it. They will torment me until we do as they ask. Please, help me down the stairs.” She grasped onto my arm and led me toward the opposite wall, where there was an open door I had not noticed before. Mrs. Fontaine clung to my arm to steady herself and the serving girl carried a candle, which did little to dispel the deep shadows below us as we descended into the musty cellar. The girl placed the taper into a candleholder that stood on a table and its beam jittered in the blackness, shivering with fear. A pile of stones was arranged on the table top, but I could see nothing else.
“Please, would everyone take several stones,” Mrs. Fontaine instructed. “We must raise the energy again. I can feel a presence, a strong presence, but I cannot discern what he or she is saying to me. Let us sing.” She launched into another hymn and the ladies immediately accompanied her, their countenances flaccid with fear. The professor began to hum, occasionally breaking into words: “I am but a sinner. Dear Lord, forgive me my sins.”
Mrs. Fontaine threw a pebble into the darkness that shrouded the other end of the cellar. The ladies followed suit, as did the professor and I. Still singing and humming, we all threw another stone. Mrs. Fontaine sang more loudly and threw yet another. The room reverberated with song made unpalatable by the fear that tinged each note.
“Ouch!” Miss Castleton broke off from singing with a sharp cry. “My word, I have been hit!” A second pebble came flying back at us.
“They are here!” Mrs. Fontaine’s voice contained joy whereas the chill of fear infected the rest of us. “Do you have a message for us?” Another stone flew through the air and hit my arm. “For Mr. Poe?” Again, another stone pattered against me and my heart sped up. “Speak through me, spirit, speak through me.” Mrs. Fontaine tilted her face upward. “Yes, I hear you.” Mrs. Fontaine’s voice seemed to alter as she spoke, dropping in tone, taking on a peculiar accent. “I looked to those who were to protect my innocence, with confidence in impartiality. I believed that truth and innocence would triumph over falsehood, but I suffered from prejudice and truth did not prevail. I have tried to forgive, but is there justice when a lie convicts a man and sets the true perpetrator free? Is there justice when a child is condemned to prison before his birth? Surely, when there is no justice, we must make it ourselves?”
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster Page 18