Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (11 page)

“Here is the hotel.” Dupin pointed at Dover Street where there was a tiny square drawn in black ink. “And here are the three locations the Arnolds resided at in London.” He indicated small black squares at twenty-seven Bury Street, twenty-two Jermyn Street and ninety-three Jermyn Street. “And these initials mark where the attacks described by Elizabeth Arnold and Henry Arnold occurred.” A minute “E” or “H” was inscribed in blue ink at Cannon Street, Bow Lane, Johnson's Court, St. James's Place and Jermyn Street.

“The attacks described in the letters that came with the mahogany box?”

“Yes. And these in green ink indicate the assaults described in the letters delivered to you at Brown's Genteel Inn, a number of which you have yet to read.” He indicated Charlotte Street, Bennet Street, New Boswell Court and St. James's
Street. A small black square was labeled “Covent Garden Theatre.”

I traced out our recent walk with my finger. “And so we visited the sites of five attacks today.”

“Yes, of course. All very near your grandparents' lodgings, which makes it clear that the logistics of these attacks are credible.”

I now understood Dupin's use of his pocket watch and careful surveillance of the areas we visited.

“They are also near enough to Brown's Genteel Inn, which is intriguing,” he added.

“Surely a coincidence?”

Dupin raised his brows slightly, but ignored my comment. “I have also noted on the map where you lived as a child and the location of the attempted abduction and yesterday's assault, as I believe them relevant, given the location of the attacks, the mysterious boutonniere and the recently delivered letters.” He indicated the red-inked P's drawn on Southampton Row and Russell Square, then settled back in his armchair, filled his meerschaum and lit the tobacco. “Now, let us analyze the situation, beginning with the earliest two letters. We understand that the Arnolds were actors, performing at the Royalty Theatre as noted in the letter dated the fifth of March 1788. Henry Arnold frequently neglected to go home of an evening, which did not please Elizabeth Arnold. As we ascertained from her handwriting, she was a passionate woman—dictatorial, but feminine, spirited and forceful. She decided to take revenge on her husband's mistress, but in a peculiar manner. Mrs. Arnold borrowed a costume from the theater, transformed herself into a man and slashed her rival's dress and hindquarters—a very pointed lesson indeed. She then informed her husband of her crime, albeit obliquely. She repeated this strategy on the twentieth of March 1788, slashing Mrs. Wright's gown and posterior.”

“Or a hoaxer would like us to believe that Elizabeth Arnold slashed those dresses.” I interjected.

“I agree that we must consider whether a hoaxer might wish to falsely accuse Elizabeth and Henry Arnold.”

“Perhaps they had enemies.”

Dupin exhaled impatiently and smoke whirled around him as if he were the Devil himself. “Perhaps. In any case, it is very obvious that you do.”

His words unsettled me deeply, and truly I did not wish to believe them despite the compelling evidence. “We all make enemies when our ambitions collide with another's, but I do not fathom how my enemies might be connected to the letters.”

“This is clearly our main task. And it will not be a simple mystery to solve.” He puffed on his meerschaum for a time, in apparent contemplation. “We have agreed to discard the notion that your adoptive father's wife sent the letters—this was merely a ruse to persuade you to take a serious interest in the contents of the mahogany box. And while the note, purportedly from Mrs. Allan, is a forgery, the message itself contains truthful information and, therefore, is an important clue.” He retrieved the missive from the box and read it aloud: “ ‘Dear Mr. Poe, I am turning over to you certain artifacts that are your birthright. Most truly, Mrs. John Allan.' The letters and the box are your birthright as the grandson of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold. We can presume, I think, that the mahogany box is the one referred to in the rather poor acrostic Valentine written in your grandmother's hand and delivered with the latest set of letters.”

Dupin's condemnation of the little poem, weak as it was, irritated me, but I shrugged to acknowledge the possibility of his words and nodded for him to continue.

“I would propose that with the use of the term ‘birthright', the forger is insinuating that you have inherited responsibility for the actions of your forebears as described in the letters.”

“What? Surely not. There is no logic to that.”

“We need not consider something logical to discover that it is true, particularly in matters that contravene law or principles of honor.”

I had to concede that this was correct.

“So let us return to the correspondence and your grandparents' relationship portrayed therein. The letters delivered anonymously to Brown's Genteel Inn include three missives dated April 1784, which refer to the elopement of Elizabeth Smith and Henry Arnold. It is clear, then, that the impressionable sixteen-year-old Miss Elizabeth Smith was infatuated with the bombastic Mr. Henry Arnold, who carefully seduced her. She risked disinheritance to elope with him.”

“His manner may be florid, but my sense is that Henry Arnold truly pledged his heart to Elizabeth.”

“As you wish,” said Dupin, pausing again to puff on his meerschaum as he gently shuffled through the correspondence in question. “But we know from the letters sent to you in the mahogany box that his fidelity did not last—or so his wife believed—for her jealousy drove her to extreme measures. The letters between the Arnolds then cease until the clumsy acrostic Valentine dated the fourteenth of February 1789 and ten more letters dated from May to September 1789. We might observe from the letters that the disharmonious relationship of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold improved greatly by the spring of 1789.” Here he paused and directed his glance from the pages in his hands to me.

“To confirm your surmise, I would have to read all the letters, but of course I presume you to be correct.”

“One must also notice,” he continued with a rather unnecessary sense of drama, “that the act of disguising themselves in order to accost women on the London streets and slash their garments and posteriors had such a beneficial effect on your
grandparents' marital harmony that, by May 1789, the letters are positively amorous.”

A smile seemed to tilt Dupin's lips, and I flushed to wonder what he might have read. Why had I given him those letters before reading them myself?

“All these uncontrolled emotions and peculiar actions make it difficult for me to believe that a hoaxer concocted the tale within the letters,” he concluded. “Do you see, Poe?”

It was difficult to dispute Dupin's dry analysis, but I could not believe that my grandparents were base criminals. “I will clear their names, Dupin, I must!”

A look of contrition softened Dupin's face. He picked up the mahogany box and placed it on the marble table in front of me. “Read all the letters,” he said. “It was not appropriate for me to study them before you. I am sorry.”

“Please do not apologize—I insisted upon it.” But I was grateful for his words and Dupin nodded as if in acknowledgement of my unspoken sentiments.

“I strongly believe that delving more deeply into your past here in London will reveal useful information, but remember that a surfeit of emotion will seduce you into error or hurry you into miscalculation. We must employ the art of ratiocination above all else.”

“Of course.”

Dupin retreated into silence as he puffed on his meerschaum, then gently ran his finger from one mark on his extraordinary map to the next. “I do comprehend the need to defend one's family honor, Poe. Particularly when one is the last to remain outside the familial tomb. It is both a duty,” he said softly, “and a curse.”

22 Jermyn Street, London
3 June 1789

Dearest Wife,

How is the air at Margate? Is it true that half of London society has decamped to the seaside to enjoy its effects? As you so wisely recommended, I have spent my time educationally while denied the company of our Lady the Theatre, but I long for our reunion. Have you advanced our cause?

And now I must apologise for my tardiness in writing. I was determined to fulfil the delightful challenge you set me before putting pen to paper, but have met with unforeseen obstacles. The path to success is never without adversity! I had hoped to take to the London stage on the night of the Spanish Ambassador's gala to celebrate the renewed health of our King. There was to be a display of fireworks, which I felt would be a fitting backdrop for my performance. However, the damnable girl failed to arrive at our lodgings, and I had no mind to leave our little Eliza with that gin-soaked wretch downstairs again, so I postponed my performance and took a summer evening perambulation in Green Park with our daughter.

Our journey to the park was made jolly by the festive household illuminations—lighted candles glowed in windows and pretty lamps in a multitude of colours hung outside the houses, some with the most glorious transparent paintings. Eliza clapped her hands to witness those! She is very much the little
lady and insisted on toddling a distance without the aid of her wooden walker, although she was happy enough to ride upon her horsey's shoulders when her little legs tired.

The park was lively with folk hoping to catch sight of the fireworks, and Eliza drew female strollers to her like bees to honey The ladies were admiring of our daughter's sweet features and astonished that her dear Papa was playing her nursemaid. Eliza revelled in the attentions of her audience—how like her mother, even at the tender age of two. The sooner her education begins in the theatre itself, the quicker she shall achieve greatness. A worthy rival in time to Mrs. Siddons! Distinction is in her blood.

Yours,

Henry

The King's Head, High Street, Margate
4 June 1789

Dear Henry,

It makes me happy to hear that you and Eliza are doing so well in my absence, although I am quite certain that Eliza was not the only one revelling in the attentions of the female strollers. But it cannot be a bad thing for a father to play nursemaid on occasion, particularly when the daughter is such a delightful creature, the perfect combination of her parents with her ability to charm and her delight in independence. She will prove herself in the theatre before much longer as distinction is indeed in her blood.

Happily, my journey to Margate has not been a waste of time nor money. I have secured a role for myself in
A Bold Stroke for a Husband
, playing Carlos's mistress, Laura. An adventurous casting against type! It is not
Covent Garden
, but it is a good rehearsal for better things and to be paid for one's Art must only be good. Unfortunately, it was impossible for me to secure you a role, but please join me here with speed since you may then become your own petitioner.

I hope I do not need to remind you that you must take good care and attention when rehearsing upon the open stage. Teach a lesson, but do not tarry for the applause. Make your exit quickly—your audience will not always be kind.

With love,

Elizabeth

22 Jermyn Street, London
5 June 1789

Dear Elizabeth,

To be paid for one's Art is no bad thing, of course, but on occasion the Muse commands that we take to the boards without recompense and without the confines of a simple theatre. Let me tell you, dearest, of the most extraordinary, the most daring performance that has just taken place on the greatest stage of all—London itself!

The story begins yesterday evening. Eliza was in the care of a good lady friend, and I prepared my costume carefully, contriving curly hair in abundance and a very long nose, which looked convincing by evening light. I made my way to Vauxhall Gardens as it attracts self-important ladies in need of a
sharp
reprimand. I soon noticed a young woman quite alone in the gardens—uncommon for a lady of good character. Indeed, I recognised her from a tavern in St. James's Street I visit on occasion, a pretty enough girl known as Kitty for her sharp-clawed manner, daughter of old Parsloe the tavern owner. I prepared for my attack by way of some remarks designed to unsettle her, but the wretch was quite unfazed and shouted to a pack of philanderers who had also been observing her. They thought to teach me a lesson to impress her, and I thought it best to beat a hasty retreat.

But it is the man of fortitude who achieves success. This very afternoon I resumed my costume and took
to the tavern in St. James's Street. My disguise proved a success. Some who know me well failed to recognise me, which reflected positively on my artistry, but Kitty the tavern owner's daughter was not serving ale that day. I was told she had gone to Green Park for a perambulation with her sister.

Undeterred, I made my way to the footpath near the edge of the park, certain I would spy the wench and her sister on their way home. My prediction was correct, and I followed them to Bennet Street, where I made my approach—
swish!
My blade cut through her skirts with one slash, and I ran off as they shrieked, “Monster! Fiend!”

It is indeed time to leave London. Eliza and I will make our way to Margate as soon as I have sold some old things unworthy of transport.

With anticipation of seeing you,

Henry

The King's Head, High Street, Margate
7 June 1789

Dear Henry,

While your tale is undoubtedly very well-told, I wonder if you have taken dramatic liberties with it to spare me worry? The attack upon Miss Kitty Wheeler was reported to the Bow Street magistrate and published in
The World
. The account claims that when a rogue insulted the girl, he was tackled by her father, Parsloe Wheeler, who shook him ferociously. The rogue shouted, “Murder!” as the two grappled, and a
rough crowd gathered around them. Mr. Wheeler was deemed the villain and the crowd secured the release of the man in his clutches, who quickly ran away. It was also noted in the paper, in far less detail, that a pretty servant girl was accosted on New Boswell Court and had her thigh cut.