Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  A hush fell over the unmasked guests, but the silence was pierced by an unearthly cry as Dupin, in one fluid movement, unsheathed the rapier from his cobra-headed walking stick and leapt at the man seated before us. Like a dark avenging angel, he plunged his glittering sword deep into the heart of Monsieur Victor Delamar. A gasp erupted from the mob as they took in the blood-red scene, but Delamar remained silent and very still. I watched as Dupin’s face contorted with absolute horror. Then he collapsed, as if dead, at Delamar’s feet.

  MARGATE, WEDNESDAY, 15 JULY 1840

  The maroon and black mail coach—Meteor was its name—had red painted wheels, brightly polished brass work and four handsome jet-colored horses. It created a dashing picture as it sped through verdant countryside on the road from London to Margate.

  Comfort and conversation were utterly absent from the first part of our journey. Six of us were crowded into the coach and ten more people were perched on its roof, but the number of passengers did not diminish the driver’s ambition to travel at breakneck speed. This had a negative effect on the constitution of a young man who sat across from us, hemmed in by two burly fellows. His complaints of seasickness were met with boisterous ridicule until the contents of his stomach were nearly deposited onto the coach floor. The unfortunate fellow was forced by his companions to take a seat on the roof, which was unlikely to improve how he was feeling, but alleviated the necessity of making any more emergency stops.

  Dupin seemed not to notice any of this, and my efforts to break his brooding silence were rebuffed. It was not until he had drunk liberally from a second flask of brandy that he said a word.

  “I was certain it was him. Certain of it. Madame exceeded herself.”

  “It is undoubtedly a good thing that your victim was made of wax or you would be in Newgate, as would I as your accomplice.”

  Dupin tensed and lowered the flask. “I knew the repercussions of taking action,” he said, jabbing at his head. “But I reacted from here.” He pulled at the fabric above his heart. “I should have seen the truth.”

  “The theater of the event was irresistible. It seduced all who were there.”

  Dupin sighed and took another swallow of brandy. “You cannot comprehend what I would sacrifice to turn the heart I impaled with my rapier from wax to beating flesh.”

  “I do not know what quarrel you have with Victor Delamar, but it is not worth losing your liberty or your life for him.”

  “You do not understand,” he snapped.

  “Then illuminate me.” My recalcitrant companion had sorely thinned my patience.

  Dupin blinked his eyes disdainfully like a cat. They were full of the coldest anger when he turned to face me fully. “It was not Victor Delamar that I ran through with my blade, nor was it his wax effigy. It was Ernest Valdemar, the monster that betrayed my grandparents and then took everything they had of value for his own. The devilish figure Madame Tussaud was paid so well to create is the man who did his utmost to destroy the Dupin family.”

  “He and Delamar are working together?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “And what will you do?”

  Dupin turned his gaze to the window and the world outside. “For now I will do nothing. We will solve your mystery, then I will find a way to force Delamar to lead me to his master.”

  Any hopes I had of Dupin telling me more about Victor Delamar or the treacherous Ernest Valdemar were dashed as Dupin managed to sleep, or perhaps feigned it, until we stopped at a coaching inn for food, where he ate sparingly and drank liberally, which facilitated his slumbers when we resumed our journey. I was left to answer my fellow passengers’ questions about America, which I did as thoroughly as I was able, despite the aggravating persistence of a fellow whose impression of my homeland was formed solely from The Leatherstocking Tales. He thought me an English impostor who had never been to that great frontier across the Atlantic as I was not dressed in buckskin leggings and beaded moccasins like Natty Bumppo. Eventually I too retreated into feigned sleep until true slumber possessed me.

  When the coach bounced through a large hole in the road and jolted me awake, I wondered if Dupin’s theories about the importance of dreams to unlock one’s memories were correct, for the grand balloon we had seen above Hyde Park had sailed persistently through my slumbering mind. Once awake the image continued to haunt me—the golden sea-serpent swimming through the cobalt waves, poised to devour the sun with the face of Louis XVI, and the words in golden letters: Le Grand Serpent de la Mer. Then an image from the victim’s ball came back to me—the dragon on the tapestry in the blue chamber. It was so like the creature adorning the balloon! Le Grand Serpent de la Mer . . . so similar to Delamar, indeed to Valdemar. And then it came to me.

  “Dupin.” I shook his shoulder. “It was hidden in plain sight.”

  “What was?” he snapped.

  “Victor Delamar is a partial anagram of Ernest Valdemar.”

  Dupin frowned, his humor still very dark.

  “Le Grand Serpent de la Mer—the words on the balloon with the golden sea-serpent. There were seven chambers at the victim’s ball, each in a different color. We pondered the meanings of each color, but what we failed to consider was that each chamber featured a dragon or a serpent.”

  Dupin’s brow furrowed in concentration as he summoned back the night of the ball and his eyes flicked back and forth as he looked inwardly, mentally dissecting each of the seven chambers.

  “There was indeed a dragon on the blue tapestry,” he said slowly. “And there was a serpent with the green apple in its mouth, and the brazier shaped from a golden dragon spewing orange flames.”

  “The yellow Chinese lanterns had dragon decorations, the glass bowl in the winter chamber had a frosted dragon etched upon it, silver serpents held platters full of grapes in the Dionysian room and the final room had the magnificent dragon chair. A most purposeful motif. Indeed, the invitation had the peculiar caduceus seal imprinted on it.”

  “Yes,” Dupin nodded. “The serpent that I would crush beneath my heel considers himself a dragon. How like Valdemar.”

  And suddenly it was very clear. “Valdemar wanted you to attend le Bal des Victimes. He knew that Madame Tussaud as your dear friend would secure you an invitation.”

  “And Valdemar was there somewhere, watching me humiliate myself by thrusting a sword through a waxen heart.” Dupin glowered with a darker fury, which made me sorry that I had solved the little puzzle.

  For the rest of the journey I feigned sleep so I would not have to contend with his foul humor, but his self-pitying behavior had a surprising effect on me. I felt galvanized. It was not a demon or malevolent ghost terrorizing me: it was but a man, and the villain needed to be apprehended. If I let my emotions conquer me as Dupin’s had him, my aggressor would never be brought to justice. I was determined to forget what I had suffered and continue my own investigation with a calm heart and clear head.

  When we arrived at last in Margate, darkness had fallen, but perambulators were enjoying the night air, which was much fresher than that of London. We rolled along the seafront, where a number of shops faced the road, their windows covered with highly polished and pleasingly decorated shutters; although it was nearly ten o’clock, some of the premises were just closing. Minutes later, we arrived at the White Hart Hotel, which had a rather grand exterior and was situated on the Parade facing the sea.

  “Shall we take a walk along the promenade and refresh ourselves?”

  Dupin winced as he picked up his bag. “I am afraid I would prefer to retire for the night. Let us meet again at breakfast.”

  “Very well, Dupin. I hope a good night’s sleep awaits you.”

  “Unlikely,” he said as he strode into the hotel.

  * * *

  My chamber was not so fine as my rooms at Brown’s Genteel Inn, but was perfectly pleasant. I opened the window to breathe in the air and discovered a panoramic view of the sea. The moon was a day past full and silvered the b
reakers as they roamed to and fro. My limbs ached from their lengthy imprisonment in that uncomfortable coach, which had the perverse effect of banishing sleep, so I retrieved the mahogany box from my suitcase and re-read the letters that referred to the attack on the Porter sisters after the Queen’s birthday ball. It was Anne Porter who accused Rhynwick Williams on that fateful thirteenth of June and both she and her sister Sarah Porter swore in court that Rhynwick Williams was the Monster. Mr. Coleman collected Angerstein’s reward and, purportedly, used it toward the purchase of the lodging house in Neptune Square, so Miss Anne Porter had benefitted from the reward indirectly if she had not received a share of the money. Meeting with Miss Porter was bound to reveal some vital information, I was certain of it. If she had knowingly committed perjury in court I could not fully condemn her, for Rhynwick Williams’s incarceration surely saved my grandparents from hanging or, at the least, from being transported. Would I have existed at all if the Porter sisters had recognized Elizabeth Arnold as the Monster?

  I looked at the address Mrs. Fenton had written down and then at the handsome map that was drawn on the verso of the White Hart Hotel handbill. I could not see Neptune Square on the map, but Margate was of a modest size compared to London, and I was confident we would manage to find Miss Porter. Whether she would speak to us was quite another thing.

  Margate, 20 July 1790

  Dear Accomplice,

  While you were at the theatre, singing songs written for anyone at all to perform, I was on the promenade, blade in hand, ready to improvise an original performance. It was very dark and the promenade was empty but for those of dubious character—persons who might benefit from a taste of the Monster’s blade. I proceeded cautiously, as you have advised so often, and soon spied a woman walking quite alone. She seemed in no fear of her surroundings or circumstances—she was decidedly wishful of companionship and so I moved forward to join her, wielding a sharp surprise for the lady! I crept along cautiously, ever so cautiously, but stumbled on something in the shadows and she was alerted to my presence. As she turned to greet me, I shouted “Ho! Have a taste of my famous blade!” And it cut through her skirts so sweetly. But then, as her face looked into mine, I saw that I knew her. From the theatre chorus—not so pretty as she herself thinks and risen up from the streets. She did not quake nor quail at the sight of the Monster, no indeed. She shouted, “You!” And the Monster ran off into the darkness, his reputation established.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  the Monster of Margate

  MARGATE, THURSDAY, 16 JULY 1840

  The air was scented by the plants that grew along the beach—wild carrot, toadflax, catmint, burdock, rocket—and bees darted amongst large hedges of wild fennel topped with yellow flowers that flavored the breeze with licorice. Dupin followed me across the sands, reluctance seeping from his every footstep. Coffee had not relieved his pallor and the morning sunlight made him wince.

  “I give you my word. The seawater will clear your head.” The knowledge that Dupin did not favor the water filled me with ungentlemanly delight, for I had grown decidedly weary of his self-pitying demeanor.

  “My head is perfectly clear,” he snapped. “Persist in taunting me, and I will change my mind about this ridiculous enterprise.”

  “Then let us concentrate on what we know from the letters. Henry Arnold came to Margate some time between the fourteenth of June and the seventh of July 1790, and Elizabeth Arnold followed him to Margate after Rhynwick Williams’s trial on the eighth of July. She secured a role with the Theatre Royal Margate whereas he did not. Henry Arnold died on the twenty-fifth of July 1790 and his body was discovered in a bathing machine,” I said, indicating the painted wagons before us.

  “Or he was murdered and his body hidden inside a bathing machine,” Dupin interjected.

  “Murdered? There was no suggestion in the obituary that Henry Arnold was murdered.”

  “The obituary notes that a bottle of belladonna was found in Henry Arnold’s pocket when his body was discovered and the doctor’s opinion was that belladonna caused his demise. We also know that Elizabeth Arnold was desperate for her husband to relinquish the role of the Monster, particularly after Rhynwick Williams was found guilty at trial, but according to the letters exchanged between Elizabeth Arnold and Mrs. Smith, Henry Arnold was accused of attacking a woman on Margate promenade. He died very soon after that.”

  “And why is this relevant?” I asked.

  “Surely it is overly convenient that Henry Arnold poisoned himself with belladonna before he was interrogated for accosting a woman in the same manner as the Monster,” Dupin said in a tone that made it clear he thought I was being especially slow. “And why was he discovered inside a bathing machine? Did Henry Arnold have a penchant for night swimming in the sea? Or was someone trying to hide his body? I would presume the latter.”

  “You do not truly believe Elizabeth Arnold would murder her own husband, a man she clearly loved and for whom she abandoned the comforts of a privileged life?”

  “Remember what was at risk when Henry Arnold played the Monster at night. If he were caught, he was unstable enough to blame his wife as the originator of the Monster’s crimes, and if he and she died at the end of a noose, what would become of their daughter? At best she would be taken into the care of Elizabeth’s father and stepmother; at worst she would be treated as an orphan.” Dupin’s gaze was of cool detachment rather than empathy, which raised my ire, but I kept my counsel.

  We had reached the bathing machines, which were lined up near the sea’s edge like a cavalcade of gaily-painted covered wagons. The bathing attendants or “dippers” stood near their vehicles, burly sun-burnt men in rolled up trousers and cotton shirts, some with straw hats and others with handkerchiefs knotted over their heads. The female dippers were equally burly and sun-burnt and were gathered near the ladies’ machines a respectable distance away.

  One of the great pleasures of life in Philadelphia is the Schuylkill River, and being a keen swimmer, I would have traveled to Margate to experience the novelty of the bathing machines. My enthusiasm was tainted by the idea that my grandfather might have been murdered and his body disposed of in one of the handsomely painted vehicles before us.

  I moved closer to a bathing machine of buttery yellow with red trim where an attendant was securing a horse to the front of the machine. The vehicle was cleverly designed: the length and width of the base was about six feet and the wooden walls were without windows; the height was roughly eight feet with a peaked roof—ample room for any man to stand inside it. Large wheels suspended the body of the machine four feet above the ground and there was a door to enter the machine from the sands and a second door at the front from which the bather exited into the sea.

  “If Henry Arnold’s mind was compromised by a surfeit of belladonna, it could be that he nearly drowned and sought refuge inside a bathing machine for the night,” I said.

  “It would be difficult for a person in pain or compromised mobility to climb inside such a machine,” Dupin replied, indicating the ladder that led to the back door.

  “Truly it is not difficult,” the attendant protested as he approached us. “Would you care to dip? I have two machines available.”

  “Where are the bathing machines stationed overnight?” I asked him.

  “On the sands near the bathing house, sir.” He indicated a rather makeshift structure.

  “Do you lock the bathing machines when your work is finished?” Dupin asked.

  “There is nothing inside likely to tempt a thief. We keep the bathing costumes in the bathing room at night.” The attendant looked from Dupin to me and back again, his gaze filled with suspicion.

  “Thank you. Most informative. And yes, we will certainly dip.”

  “We might simply observe the machines,” Dupin suggested.

  “I insist. We must experience the sea and the bathing machines to understand what is possible and what is not.”

  Dupin narrowed his eyes
, but shook his head once.

  “Very good, sirs. This way.” The attendant indicated that I should enter the yellow and red bathing machine and led Dupin to a sky-blue one. His face was grim as he climbed up the wooden stepladder that led to the back door, and I clambered into mine, feeling satisfied with Dupin’s discomfort.

  The inside of the bathing machine was very practical: a bench, a raised compartment for storing clothing, two towels and a flannel gown for female bathers. Light trickled in through an opening in the roof. I was thrown unceremoniously onto the bench as the bathing machine began to move forward, and it occurred to me that the bench was far too narrow to recline on. My grandfather would have spent his final hours lying on the floor of that bathing machine.

  When my carriage came to a rest, I heard the attendant making soothing noises to the horse as he released him from the front of the machine and led him to the back, where he would be yoked for the journey inland. I quickly changed into the bathing costume I had brought with me and folded all my clothing into the compartment. When I opened the door at the front of the carriage, the sea was just below floor level and my dipper was waiting to assist. A number of other bathers were in the sea, but the door to Dupin’s machine remained closed. My dipper reached out to help me down the ladder into the water, but I dove in. When I resurfaced a good ten yards further out, it was clear that my actions were not typical. Fellow bathers who stood chest deep in the water stared at me as I swam back toward the bathing machines.

  “Sir, I feared that I lost you,” the dipper said, his face the picture of dread.