“Hello,” the girl said in a tiny voice before putting all her fingers into her mouth.
Our conversation, such as it was, was terminated by a baby’s squalling. The raven squawked once, leapt from the bookcase and soared overhead. The children screamed and ran from the room, the raven swooping after them, calling out: “Halloa, halloa, halloa! What’s the matter here!” The baby’s crying increased in volume.
Mrs. Dickens reddened and said, “My other daughter. Katey is troubled with colic.”
I stood up promptly and said, “It was so kind of you to entertain us, Mrs. Dickens. Please give our warmest regards to Mr. Dickens and tell him we are sorely disappointed to miss him again.”
Dupin stood also. “Indeed, we are grateful for your hospitality. Please extend our regards to your husband.”
We followed our hostess down the hall to the vestibule, where her two children, the maid and wailing baby were cornered by the raven.
“I’m a devil,” he croaked. “Hurrah!” And then the infernal creature began to whistle, pirouetting on top of something, as if guarding it from all present.
Mrs. Dickens flapped her skirts at the raven again. “Shoo, you devil, shoo!”
But Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing did not budge. Dupin stepped toward the creature and held out his walking stick again.
“Up!” he commanded. The noisy imp immediately jumped onto the makeshift perch, and Dupin raised it up away from the small packet on the floor. Mrs. Dickens quickly retrieved it and reacted with surprise when she glanced at the packet. “It is addressed to you, Mr. Poe.”
The bird stared at me, his eyes shining like the Devil’s own, as I reached for the packet with trembling hand. “Most unusual. Thank you, Mrs. Dickens,” I stuttered with embarrassment before bowing quickly and rushing out of the house.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Keep up your spirits!” The raven’s words flew out the door after me.
93 Jermyn Street, London.
Thursday, 8 July 1790
Dear Henry,
What a disgraceful theatrical you missed today! A crowd of the Monster’s victims were assembled in the court, all baying with the delusion that Rhynwick Williams was the monster who attacked them. Miss Anne Porter led the fray, adamant that she recognised Williams as her attacker, and nothing in heaven or hell would dissuade her of this. Surely it is no coincidence that her fiancé, Mr. Coleman, collected the Angerstein reward after claiming to witness Rhynwick Williams accost her in the manner of the Monster.
Mr. Pigott presented the extraordinary case to judge and jury in grandiose fashion. The prisoner at the bar had made a wanton, wilful, cruel and inhuman attack upon the most beautiful, the most innocent, the most lovely, the best work of nature! Oh, indeed. It was obvious to all in the courtroom that Miss Porter does not merit superlatives. It should have been equally obvious that Mr. Pigott was engaged in blatant rabble-rousing, but this mattered not a whit because the audience was gripped. They listened with wonderment as he described in much dull detail the journey of Miss Anne Porter, her sister Sarah Porter and their chaperone from the ballroom at St. James’s to the Porter residence. Mr. Pigott then claimed that Rhynwick was spied by the ladies, who ran in terror for the safety of their home. Miss Anne, who was bringing up the rear of the charge (so to speak), was slashed across the fundament. The crowd hissed and booed at Rhynwick, who cowered in his chair. I felt a sharp stab of pity for him—as if the Monster himself had pricked me—such a ferocious beast was the mob before us. When the crowd quieted down, Mr. Pigott continued Miss Porter’s dull tale in infinite detail. I could not help but wonder at the crowd’s gullibility. Who could ever mistake Rhynwick Williams for our daring Monster? He is such an insipid, whining little man—a crime, perhaps, in good society—but his actions were on trial, not his character. No real evidence was presented that proved Williams guilty of the crimes in question. I had the strangest desire to stand up and declare, “The worm is innocent—I am the London Monster!” What a sensation that would have provoked! But it was vanity combined with a guilty conscience that provoked such thoughts, and good common sense rescued me from my desire to speak the truth, as I do not wish to dance upon the end of a rope at Newgate.
Mr. Pigott finally concluded Miss Porter’s dull tale with the words: “And that is proof that this man before you is the perpetrator.” The crowd exploded into an amalgam of cheers, whistles and boos. I could not help but wonder how the Porter spinsters’ ability to recognise Rhynwick a day after seeing him on their doorstep in Mr. Coleman’s hopeful grip proved anything at all. It was a most terrible travesty. Mr. Pigott completed his assassination by relaying to the court that Rhynwick Williams lodged at a public house in Bury Street, St. James, in a room with three beds in which six men slept—Rhynwick being one of them. Mr. Pigott proclaimed that only a man of unsavoury character would stay in such despicable lodgings and could the word of such a villain be trusted? He asserted that the victims were ladies of unquestionable morals and would never perjure themselves by giving false testimony in court. Oh, indeed!
Miss Anne Porter took the stand first—a dowdy girl of not yet twenty—and the audience erupted into applause and cheers. She flushed, but seemed most taken with her leading lady status. Mr. Shepherd of the prosecution proceeded to ask her uninspired questions, and incredibly we had to sit through the entire story once again! But the audience enjoyed the repeat performance as much as the first. When Miss Anne claimed that Rhynwick had previously insulted her and her sisters with “very gross and indelicate language” and on the night in question had walked behind her and muttered, the crowd roared its objection to such atrocious behaviour. She then displayed to the audience the clothing she had worn on the Queen’s birthday—the carnation-pink silk gown, a shift, three petticoats (one of silk and two of linen) and a pair of stays. There was a rent across the back of the dress, which Miss Anne declared impossible to mend. (Clearly she has little affinity for the art of the needle and thread.) She testified that her petticoats were torn, and her flesh had also been cut. Only her stays had saved her from further ruin. All in the court roared at this declaration. (They might have roared with laughter had any been privy to the unappealing sight of the Porter posterior.) Miss Anne concluded with the oath that she’d had a full and complete view of her attacker’s face. Rhynwick was the guilty party, and it was impossible that she was mistaken. Obviously the lady’s sight is deficient, but no one thought to test this in the court.
Mr. Shepherd then made enquiries about her attacker’s clothing. Miss Porter stated that he wore a light coat, which fell across his shoulders, and she believed he wore another coat under that. This of course is true enough, but it is impossible that such coats as described could have been found at the despicable room Rhynwick shared with five other men, because those garments, to the best of my knowledge, are safely in your wardrobe where they belong.
The remainder of the trial did not improve for Rhynwick. Amabel Mitchell, his employer at the decorative flower factory, and the French women who worked with him were hissed and booed when they attested to his good character. Lady Egalatine Wallace—that renowned playwright whose work The Ton had its actors booed off the stage—gave her own performance on the stand. She had accused the Monster of attacking her in late May, but declared that the accusation has been one of her little jokes and therefore Rhynwick Williams was certainly not guilty of attacking her.
The accused was at last permitted to present his defence, which was much more eloquent than that of the prosecution, but it was clear that he was presumed guilty unless he could prove otherwise. And as Rhynwick faced the crowd, the last words of his testimony dying on his lips, he looked nervously from face to face until his eyes somehow found mine and his brow furrowed as if trying to remember who I was and where we had met. While locked in this uncomfortable tête-à-tête, time stilled and each second felt like an eternity as fear dampened my palms and my heart fluttered like a bird’s wings within my chest. Would he accuse me of
poking that woman with the nosegay? Would he condemn me? When he opened his mouth to speak, dizziness truly enveloped me and with a cry I tipped over in an artificial swoon. I lay upon the floor, eyes closed, hoping that my diversion might be enough to distract Rhynwick and our audience. When finally I was helped onto my chair and was sipping at the water given to me, I surreptitiously glanced at Rhynwick. His eyes were still upon me, his face full of recognition—of that I am certain. There was but one thing I could do. “That man,” I whispered. “That man!” With shaking finger, I pointed at Rhynwick Williams and said, “That is the man who attacked me when I was leaving the theatre last month!” Horror distorted Rhynwick’s features while the crowd roared its disapproval and would not quiet down until the verdict was at last delivered: guilty.
I fear that the pronouncement filled me with both guilt and relief. But what choice did I have? It is undeniable that if I had not staged my performance, Rhynwick would have made his own accusation and our destiny would be Newgate and the end of a noose. If only he had minded his own affairs that fateful evening back in mid-June! Angerstein’s wretched reward made Rhynwick Williams the most reviled man in London and he forced me to cast the final stone.
How glad I am that this is now over. I will join you in Margate on Sunday and hope with all my heart that the town and its theatre will provide us with a new beginning. We have the chance now to leave our ill luck behind us if Rhynwick Williams is remembered as the Monster who terrorised London.
Your wife,
Elizabeth
LONDON, MONDAY, 13 JULY 1840
“Dickens’s infernal bird had flown in through the window and landed upon my writing desk, a folded paper grasped in its beak. The missive contained a vital clue, but the devil would not relinquish it, and when I reached out to steal it, the creature flitted from one corner of the room to the other, eluding my grasp. I recited its repertoire to it, hoping it would respond and drop the paper, but Grip the Clever maintained his silence and kept his prize.”
“A most revealing dream. You fear you will never solve your mystery, despite the clues delivered to you,” Dupin observed.
“That is certainly true. And it seems that the raven was indeed a harbinger of death as you suggested.” I picked up the obituary from the Kentish Gazette that had been included in the packet discovered by the raven. Learning of my grandfather’s demise had filled me with regret—of course it was highly unlikely that he was still alive at eighty years of age, but I had nursed a fantasy that I might discover Henry Arnold performing the role of revered patriarch in some London theater. Instead he had died in peculiar circumstances, leaving my grandmother at the mercy of her odious father and stepmother. This knowledge made me all the more determined to solve my mystery.
“Obviously the raven was not truly a harbinger of death, but rather a serendipitous embellishment to the supernatural effect your aggressor was striving for,” Dupin remarked.
“If only Grip the Wise could tell us who delivered the packet rather than reciting such nonsense! The bird is a devil with his endless patter of nonsense and irksome ways. It is surprising that Mr. Dickens keeps the creature indoors with such young children and a wife who clearly dislikes it.”
“Perhaps he uses the creature to escape from his family and work on his books.”
At first I presumed Dupin was jesting, then realized he was perfectly serious. “Escape his family? The children seem well-mannered and his wife was very pleasant, particularly when one considers the goading raven and our unannounced arrival.”
“The responsibilities of a family keep a man from accomplishing great things.”
“Absurd! History is full of examples of exemplary, accomplished men with families.”
“But how much more would they have accomplished without their time—and their thoughts—consumed by a wife and progeny?”
“Surely the affection a man receives from his wife and children more than compensates for the time not spent pursuing intellectual and creative endeavors. Indeed, such affection inspires a man.”
“Ah, the myth of the muse. If inspiration and genius does not rain upon us from God himself, then it springs from one’s muse, who may conveniently be one’s wife.” Dupin shook his head. “I believe that inspiration and genius are born from assiduous work—wide reading, deep study, contemplation and toiling at one’s chosen discipline as if exercising the muscles. The true scholar is not a lazy man, nor a man with a mind divided by the duties of providing for a family. The true scholar sacrifices all in the pursuit of knowledge and truth. My talent is ratiocination, and truly I believe that affections of the heart fog the mind.”
Dupin’s expression showed his commitment to this philosophy, and I realized that I had no idea if he had ever ardently admired a woman or had experienced all the emotions of love, and yet I could not bring myself to ask him about his experiences of the heart. I suspected that such emotions were foreign to Dupin.
“It is clear we will not agree on the merits of love and family. In all honesty, if it is true that I will achieve less as a writer because I have a wife and children, then it is a sacrifice I am more than happy to make.”
“‘Tis a pity,” Dupin said softly.
His words brought a rush of emotion into me, and I could not stop the flurry that came from my mouth. “Without my wife and her mother, I would be nothing at all. My own dear mother was lost to me, but fate showed kindness when I was taken in by my adoptive mother and father. Fate turned on me again when my adoptive mother died, and I was replaced in my adoptive father’s affections by his bastard child and new wife. The imp of the perverse would have conquered me if it were not for Sissy and Muddy—they undoubtedly saved me from myself. I could not write without my wife’s steadying influence and dare say she is indeed my muse.”
Dupin shrugged his shoulders and sighed lightly. “I understand your grief at the behavior of your adoptive father. It is not how a father should act toward his son, whether natural or adopted. He made a pledge to you and was without honor when he broke that pledge. We must remember, however, that when a man is treated dishonorably, whether by family, friend or stranger, he has a choice: allow grief to overcome him or resolve to find justice.”
“Justice? I will never have the life I was promised. My adoptive father is dead and my inheritance is gone forever. All that remains is my talent—such that it is—and I must rely upon it and those I love. Never shall I commit the pernicious actions of my father and my adoptive father. I will cherish my offspring no matter what errors they may make for they are my future and through them my name will live on, if only in their hearts.”
Dupin considered my words, then said quietly: “It is true that my parents and my grandparents are immortal within my heart, and I will not rest until I restore their reputations. But I have no ties that interfere with my life’s purpose. Your family is your Achilles heel, Poe. You have described how losing them would affect you. What if the reverse were true?”
Dupin’s words hit me forcibly as he intended. “They would be left to beg for charity like my grandmother and my mother after her. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”
“Of course,” he said coolly. “Just as my father was forced to rely on charity. It is our duty to protect those we love from the same fate, is it not, Poe?”
My pride was quelled by truth. “It is our first duty, of course.”
“Our investigation is in support of that duty and each clue we uncover brings us closer to defeating your aggressor,” Dupin said. “The new letters reveal much. Now we know the precise details of your aggressor’s accusation.”
My heart sank as I recalled the letter my grandmother had written to my grandfather on the eighth of July 1790, describing Rhynwick Williams’s first trial. “Elizabeth Arnold’s treachery,” I muttered.
“Indeed,” Dupin said. “And it is clear from her letter that she was not the only person who acted treacherously. Miss Anne Porter accused Rhynwick Williams on the thirteenth of J
une and he was arrested. The Porter sisters then swore in court that Williams was their attacker, which is undoubtedly a lie. While Elizabeth Arnold twisted the truth to save her husband and herself from Newgate, the Porter sisters committed perjury to secure Mr. Angerstein’s reward.”
“It is surprising my aggressor did not take revenge upon the Porter sisters, given that they were directly responsible for Rhynwick Williams’s arrest and testified against him.”
“We do not know that Williams did not take revenge upon them,” Dupin pointed out.
This thought filled me with an odd sense of hope. “Quite right, Dupin. We might discover important information if we are able to find the Porter sisters. They were not yet twenty years old in 1790, so there is a good chance that one or both is living.”
“True, but surely it will be difficult to locate them.”
“I think it is worth the effort. We might begin with the family home and business—Pero’s Bagnio. If the Porters no longer run the establishment, someone at the address may know what became of them.”
“It is possible,” he said reluctantly.
“Shall we try? Surely it is better to speak with the living about what happened during the Monster’s reign than to rely on such material that might be found in the British Museum library. Gossip and lies oft reveal as much as purported factual records.”
Dupin glanced at his time-piece. “I wish you good luck in finding the Porter sisters, but I must decline your invitation for I have arranged to meet Madame Tussaud.”
“The clandestine event she so dramatically referred to?”
“Indeed.” The idea seemed to imbue him with a peculiar energy. “Until later, Poe. Let us discuss the other letters then.” And he was gone.
* * *
“Mackerel! Fresh mackerel!”
“Hot peascods!”
“Oranges. Lovely oranges.” A pretty girl held an apron full of the fruit toward me.
“Sheep’s feet!” a matron shouted.
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster Page 22