Covent Garden was raucous with life. The streets were crowded with people laden with produce as they exited the grand market, and the voices of food sellers rose up around me.
A mere girl with a fragrant basket at her feet entreated me to buy: “Rosemary, for a good memory, sir. Or mint, for your constitution.”
The music of the streets continued as I exited the market itself: street vendors hawking their wares, an ancient ballad-singer rasping old favorites, the ring of the dustman’s bell. Men wandered up and down the streets wearing boards printed with notices recommending the purchase of household products, patent medicines and other purported constitutionals. The joyous life of the market compensated somewhat for the soot-burnished buildings and noisome effluvia accumulating in the streets. I skirted around brawling customers who had spilled from a public house and quieter ones in the gutter who substantiated the drinking establishment’s promise: “Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for a tuppence.”
My perambulation through Covent Garden had a purpose. My opinion of my grandparents had been shaped by my aggressor; it was time I tried to learn more about them without that malign influence guiding me. I decided to visit the theater where my grandmother had reached her apogee as a performer in England and then to make my way to St. James’s Street in hopes of locating one or both of the Porter sisters.
The entrance to the Covent Garden theater was on Bow Street and very handsome with a symmetrical Greek Doric tetrastyle portico on a podium of three steps. The columns were a good thirty feet high, giving a grand air to the entire structure. I paid a man who was perhaps the theater manager an exorbitant amount so that I might watch the actors in rehearsal, a wish that seemed to cause him quiet amusement.
The auditorium was grand enough to take one’s breath away and built to seat a very large crowd. The drapery was scarlet and enriched with golden wreaths, the moldings were gilt and there was a marvelous gold and crystal chandelier. Over the arch of the proscenium was the stage’s motto spelled out in golden letters: Veluti a Speculum. What a wonderful place to face an audience!
I took a seat and watched as the players assembled. It was not the actual stage that my grandmother had graced, as that had burned to the ground over thirty years ago, but perhaps I would get a sense of the world she inhabited even so. When the musicians began to play, I was hopeful of an operetta of the type she often performed, but instead was presented with a ballet-pantomime of dubious quality. As I watched the dancers perform a piece that would please only the most witless audience, I could not help but imagine the dancers my grandmother had mocked—Gallini’s dancers, with whom Rhynwick Williams had performed on that awful day at the King’s Theatre when they were driven from the stage by an audience threatening murder. These dancers did not seem much better than Gallini’s—far more rehearsal was needed if they were to avoid the hiss of the mob.
I tried my best to feel the presence of my grandmother in that most beautiful of theaters, but she simply was not there, so I left the place of my grandmother’s greatest theatrical triumph, the ghostly admonishments of an exasperated ballet-master ringing in my ears.
* * *
“Pero’s Bagnio” at number sixty-three St. James’s Street had for many years been a cold-bath establishment, and the Porter sisters had lived there in their youth. It had been renamed Fenton’s Hotel, and I hoped that one of the ladies had married a Mr. Fenton, who had taken over the management of what appeared to be a successful enterprise. It was an attractive building of four floors with arched windows and doors on the ground floor and window boxes filled with flowers at the upper windows. I knocked on the door, strangely nervous as to what I might discover. The door was opened by a woman I judged to be but a few years younger than myself, much too young to be either of the Porter sisters. I wondered if perhaps she was the granddaughter of one of the sisters.
“I’m afraid we have no rooms, sir,” she said.
“I am here on other business, in fact. My name is Edgar Poe, and I am a journalist in Philadelphia, visiting London to conduct research for an article I am writing,” I improvised. “I am interested in the Porter family who lived here in 1790 and was hoping to interview Miss Anne or Sarah Porter or a member of their family.”
The young woman looked me over and it seems that I passed inspection, for she said, “Sadly Mrs. Coleman—formerly Miss Anne Porter—passed away several years ago. A kind lady, she was. She would come to the hotel to visit with my mother-in-law—the first Mrs. Fenton,” she said, gesturing up at the name of the hotel. “Mrs. Coleman did tell amusing tales of the peculiar things that happened here when she was a girl.”
“What a pity. To interview her would have been highly illuminating,” I said with unfeigned disappointment. “Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Fenton.”
“Miss Sarah is still with us,” the lady continued. “In Margate, not this hotel,” she added when she saw the hope on my face. “The Colemans bought a lodging house in Margate and she was given a room there.”
“Would you happen to know the address?” I asked. “I would very much like to speak with Miss Porter. It is an important historical matter.”
This piqued her interest. “Miss Sarah is very interested in history,” she said with a wry smile. She beckoned me inside. “Let me search for the card she sent us, Mr. Poe. I did have it, I am certain.”
I stepped through the door into a reception area that doubled as a sitting room. Mrs. Fenton retreated behind the hotel desk and pulled out a leather-bound book in which a quantity of trade and visiting cards were filed.
“My husband and I have not been to the premises, but Miss Sarah posts a letter at Christmas. Her nephew included several trade cards, hoping we would send them custom.” She flicked through the book until she found the card she was looking for. “Four Neptune Place,” she said as she wrote down the address. “Should you travel to Margate, it is said to be a fine establishment.” She handed me the piece of paper with the address written upon it.
“Thank you most sincerely, Mrs. Fenton. I believe I will take an excursion to Margate and will certainly tell Mr. Coleman that you highly recommended his establishment.”
“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Poe. And do stay with us when you return to London.”
“I shall of course. You have been exceedingly helpful.” And I took my leave of the site of the Monster’s most notorious attack.
* * *
I did not consult with Dupin. I went directly to the desk clerk and asked him to book the two of us passage to Margate and accommodation in the city for two or three nights.
“Of course, Mr. Poe. Most happy to oblige you. I will book passage on the mail coach to Margate on the fifteenth of July, returning on the eighteenth of July. We recommend the White Hart Hotel in Margate, and I will do my best to book two rooms for you there. If it happens that they have no accommodation, they will arrange a good alternative hotel and inform us.”
“Thank you, sir. I am appreciative.”
“Brown’s Genteel Inn endeavors to satisfy its patrons,” he said.
“And you have succeeded admirably.”
The desk clerk smiled warmly at my compliment.
* * *
The meat stew was infinitely better this time or perhaps my palette had adjusted to English cooking. Dupin seemed far less repelled by the dish in front of him and consumed most of the Smyrna Coffee House’s culinary offering before I told him what I had gleaned from Mrs. Fenton.
“We have seats on the mail coach to Margate this Wednesday and should have rooms booked at the White Hart Hotel.” I slid the hotel handbill across the table to Dupin. The hotel description was pleasing:
White Hart Hotel
Marine Parade, Margate.
Located directly on the seafront and in close proximity to
Margate Pier, the Theatre Royal Margate,
shops on Queen Street, Margate Sands
and the renowned bathing machines.
“The hotel sounds p
erfectly acceptable and very near to the location of Henry Arnold’s demise. It may not be difficult to locate his grave if he is buried in Margate,” Dupin offered.
“Yes, I would like to search the graveyard there. And I very much wish to examine the bathing machines now we know the peculiar circumstances of my grandfather’s untimely death.” I turned over the handbill and tapped on the map drawn on the verso. “You are aware that I am a keen swimmer. I feel certain I will understand more about his death once I visit Margate Sands.”
“There is nothing to be lost,” Dupin said.
“Indeed. And was your assignation with Madame Tussaud useful?” I asked.
“Extremely.” His eyes took on an acute intensity as he retrieved a folded piece of stationery from his pocket and passed it to me.
The stationery was of excellent quality and its large red wax seal was broken. I noticed that the image pressed into the seal was a caduceus with two fierce serpents that resembled dragons facing each other, jaws agape. Inside was a neatly penned invitation that read:
Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin
Monsieur Victor Delamar cordially invites you to attend
Le Bal des Victimes
at the Baker Street Bazaar,
Nine o’clock on the Fourteenth day of July 1840.
Mask and Appropriate Attire required.
“Who is Victor Delamar?”
“I am not acquainted with Delamar—Madame Tussaud secured me the invitation. Such an event presents the perfect opportunity to ensnare Valdemar.”
“I confess that I am unfamiliar with that particular type of ball.”
“It is meant to be an homage to those who suffered during the Terror, but it makes a mockery of the pain my family endured.”
“I am sorry, but I am not following you.”
Dupin folded up the invitation and got to his feet. “No matter, Poe. No matter, for you shall see.” His eyes fixed on mine, making me shrink back into my chair. “I will arrange our credentials. Your ordinary clothes will do. I will find the masks in the morning.” A wolfish grin contorted his face. “You, my brother, shall attend the ball with me and then everything will be clear to you.”
I gazed at my friend as he stood before me, his face lit up with horrendous hope, and prayed that he would vanquish his enemy, for if he did not, I feared his formidable intellect would poison itself and he would descend into madness born of grief and failure.
The Kentish Gazette
We regret to announce the sudden and melancholy death of Mr. Henry Arnold of London on the twenty-fifth of July 1790. Mr. Arnold was until recently employed as the pianist at the Theatre Royal Margate and performed as an actor and pianist in London. He was found inside a bathing machine by Mr. John Clarke, who is employed as a dipper and had arrived at dawn to prepare the machine for the morning bathers. Mr. Arnold’s clothes were fully ruined by seawater and he could not be roused. Mr. Clarke immediately went in search of a surgeon and brought Dr. Shaw to the scene of Mr. Arnold’s incapacitation. Dr. Shaw had Mr. Arnold conveyed to the infirmary where an empty bottle of belladonna elixir was discovered upon his person. Dr. Shaw was unable to save the patient and believes that a surfeit of the elixir, occasionally prescribed for a nervous stomach, contributed to Mr. Arnold’s demise, rendering him unable to withstand an ill-advised night swim. A letter on his person alerted the surgeon to his wife’s identity, but he passed into the arms of God before she could reach his side. Mr. Henry Arnold is survived by Mrs. Elizabeth Arnold, actress and singer currently performing at the Theatre Royal, and their daughter, Miss Eliza Arnold.
20 Upper Brook Street, Mayfair
5 August 1790
Dear Elizabeth,
My husband, being a kind and charitable gentleman, is prepared to meet the expense of Mr. Arnold’s burial. He will do this for the sake of Eliza as the sins of the father should not be visited upon an innocent child.
Further to this, my husband is prepared to provide you with a most generous stipend to cover the costs of your subsistence and modest lodgings for the remainder of your days. The one condition he imposes upon your receipt of this stipend is that you sign a contract that will make him Eliza’s legal guardian. He wishes her to be raised as a lady within the bounds of good society. You must forfeit the title of “mother” and any conditions of that role just as you have forfeited the role of “daughter”. You will have my husband’s word as a man of honour and a guarantee by contract that Eliza will be provided with all that a young girl of her lineage deserves.
If I may take the liberty of advising you, it would be imprudent for you to deny your daughter everything that you have sacrificed through your impetuosity and ingratitude. You must give Eliza the opportunity to be raised in advantageous circumstances. Clearly you are no Mrs. Siddons and Eliza’s very existence is reliant upon your luck in securing work in a precarious profession. Will you make Eliza beg for her supper on the street should you fail to earn your crust upon the stage? No mother should make such a selfish choice.
I am enclosing your previous missives so that you may review your situation in full and come to the correct decision. Should you agree to my husband’s generous offer, please bring Eliza to our home on the twentieth of August. Arrangements will then be made for your accommodation and stipend. But if you continue on the foolish path you have made for yourself, be advised that my husband’s offer will be irrevocably withdrawn, and all ties with our family severed. Any future correspondence from you will be returned unopened.
I trust that you will, this time, choose wisely.
Yours faithfully,
Mrs. William Smith
LONDON, TUESDAY, 14 JULY 1840
The malevolent night air infected my dreams, and I awoke infernally early. Determined to put my nightmares to good use, I spent a productive morning working on a tale about a murder perpetrated by a sailor’s ourang-outang. It mattered not if the idea came to nothing; the act of exorcising the dark specters that plagued me helped soothe my jangling nerves. I wrote my daily letter to Sissy, conjuring up a false sense of jollity that was the reverse of how I felt after re-reading the letters my nemesis had recently delivered.
To help alleviate the dark feelings that had crept over me, I decided to spend the day visiting the shops of London town until I found the perfect gifts for my wife and her mother. I managed to lose myself for hours in the magnificent Pantheon Bazaar on Oxford Street, which was truly an Aladdin’s Cave with its art gallery, knick-knackatory of gimcracks for children, glass-roofed conservatory with exotic plants, aviary full of raucous parrots, cockatoos and macaws, and the endless array of merchandise for sale. I finally settled on some lace, a paisley shawl and a very pretty scent bottle for Sissy, and a good pair of gloves for my mother-in-law.
I arrived back at Brown’s Genteel Inn just as Dupin did. He had gone in search of the items required for the peculiar ball we would be attending that evening and was clutching several packets. His eyes were strangely glassy; his face had a veneer of moisture.
“Poe! How fortunate. Shall we adjourn to my rooms? I have secured all we will need.”
“Certainly.”
Dupin leapt up each stair, and my attempts to keep pace with him half-winded me. He tore open a packet as soon as we were in his sitting room and held up two black masks that resembled blindfolds with holes for the eyes.
“They are very plain. Surely a more elaborate mask is required for a ball?”
“These are perfect. You shall see.” Dupin’s eyes remained fixed upon me to a disturbing degree.
“I look forward to it. Have you secured costumes as well?”
Dupin took a step back and examined my customary attire: black trousers, waistcoat, stock and coat. White shirt. “A few minor adjustments, and we shall be properly dressed.” Dupin unknotted the black silk stock he wore and removed it from his neck with a flourish, then unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it open at the throat. “Please remove your stock and unbutton your shirt as I have, then turn dow
n the collar of your coat at the back like this,” he commanded.
I tentatively followed Dupin’s lead, concerned that madness had overtaken him, so peculiar were his actions.
“I believe the length of our hair shall suffice. The neck is adequately exposed,” he muttered, then handed me one of the black silk masks. “Please put this on so I might examine the overall effect.” When I had donned it, Dupin drew a circle in the air, indicating that I should turn. “Very good. There is no need for the top hat or gloves.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “You would do me a great honor if you would borrow this for tonight.” He held out a gold ring set with a lapis lazuli intaglio engraving of the Dupin coat of arms: a serpent with its fangs buried in the heel of a bare foot. It was identical to the chevalière Dupin habitually wore on the ring finger of his left hand. I slid on the ring. It fit perfectly. “Now we are indeed brothers and here is the paperwork to prove your right to attend le Bal des Victimes with me.”
I examined the documents Dupin placed on the table: a certificate confirming the executions of Madame Sophie Dupin and Chevalier Charles Dupin and identity papers for C. Auguste Dupin and François Dupin, his twin.
“The right to attend?”
“Only those who descend from the victims of Madame Guillotine and some aristocrats who escaped her bite may attend. Proof is required and must be produced at the door. These papers are the customary proof.”
“I was not aware you had this talent.” I nodded at the forged documents.
Dupin shrugged. “It is a minor talent, rarely worthy of discussion, but on this occasion, it will be useful.”
“If I am to play your twin, surely we must agree all the details of my identity. There hardly seems time.”
“Do not expect to be interrogated, brother. The purpose of the evening for most is senseless celebration. You will be required to do little but eat, drink and dance.”
“Are you not forgetting one important fact? Surely Madame Tussaud will be in attendance if the Ball is held on her premises.”
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster Page 23