Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (12 page)

Dearest, I urge you to exercise caution and retreat to Margate immediately. The best disguise is one used at a good distance from your audience.

With concern,

Elizabeth

LONDON, SATURDAY, 4 JULY 1840

The journey to Stoke Newington was reasonably comfortable and our speed was good, the navigation steady. I felt quite confident we would reach our destination without mishap. Dupin seemed less certain as he muttered with each bump we hit and gripped the edge of the seat whenever the coach veered sharply. He had planned to spend much of the day engaged in research at the British Museum, but when at breakfast I confirmed that I had read all the newly delivered letters and intended to take an excursion to the school I had been sent to after leaving the Dubourg sisters, Dupin declared a wish to join me.

The desk clerk directed us to Bond Street for a coach and advised us to carefully inspect them at the stand to ensure a peaceful journey. I settled on a solid-looking green vehicle with yellow wheels that appeared to be all the same size. Both horses seemed well-conditioned fellows with calm dispositions and the interior of the coach was clean enough. Once underway, we moved at a steady if slow pace through London, Dupin playing the role of Grand Tour guide, pointing out places of interest, including St. George's Church, where my grandparents had been married. Our speed increased
when we reached Islington and continued on to Newington Green, where the noxious air of London began to recede. Eventually we came to Green Lanes, a long rather winding road leading to Enfield, which I remembered well from my youth.

“Any memories, Poe?” Dupin asked as if he had read my mind.

“Nothing significant. I absconded from school several times to come here with the older boys and watch trotting matches held by the trades-folk. On a few occasions we were taken for a swim in the New River, which I greatly enjoyed.”

“I believe that is now forbidden as the river supplies the reservoirs.”

“What a pity,” I said.

“Not for the Londoners who now have clean water,” Dupin observed.

I prickled with annoyance. Hadn't Dupin asked me to look to my past for answers? And yet when I confided my memories, Dupin dismissed them as little more than nonsense. It seemed that he had never had a childhood. Certainly he had never swum in a river for the sheer pleasure of it.

From Green Lanes we turned into a narrow road, Church Street, which was lined with attractive red-brick dwelling-houses fronted by decorative iron railings to screen them from the street. Stoke Newington, or “new town in the wood,” had expanded considerably since I lived there twenty years previously. London was creeping ever closer, like a subterranean creature looking to feed on fresh flesh.

I had instructed the driver to stop about half-way down Church Street, but the coach rumbled past our destination despite my poundings on the coach wall. When at last we came to a stop and I exited, an unsettling scene met my eyes.

“What is this place?”

The jovial and, I suspect, somewhat intoxicated driver squinted at the scene in front of us. “Looks like there's a burial ground in there, sir.”

It did indeed, but I had no recollection of such a place in Stoke Newington. The air in my lungs fizzled away, and a sense of foreboding settled upon me—what I had remembered as genteel parkland was now a congregation of the dead.

“Are we in the wrong location?” Dupin asked.

“No, this is the correct street.” I smoothed the perspiration from my brow and breathed deeply. “It's just that this was not here before.” I indicated the burial ground.

“Well, it seems a good place to wait,” Dupin said, gesturing at the horses that had busied themselves with the grass verge. “I doubt we will be more than an hour,” he said to the driver. “Shall we?” He indicated that I should lead the way and so I set off walking west.

There were more houses than I remembered on Church Street, but the place retained a village atmosphere. My heart's beat accelerated as I caught sight of a large white early eighteenth-century house with grand sash windows. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the building, but Bransby's Manor House School had been my home for two years and the place had made a deep impression upon me.

I walked up to the school gates and peered inside the courtyard. My eyes immediately connected with those of a young boy. He looked to be approximately the age I was when I attended the school, and I was curious to hear the young scholar's opinion of the place.

“You, there. Come here,” I said in a low voice.

The boy stared at me and then at Dupin, his eyes widening as he took a step backward.

“Closer.” I beckoned the boy toward me.

Instead he took two more steps back, his face the very picture of fear, and ran. It was then that a memory began to coalesce.

“Something happened here, something terrible, I remember fragments.”

“Something that made you run from it. Or someone,” Dupin prompted.

“Yes.” The faint picture in my mind became stronger, sharper.

“It was a bright day. Our studies were finished, and I was failing to find ways to amuse myself in the enclosed yard at the rear of the house. We were permitted excursions in the park on Saturday afternoons, in the company of two ushers, but were not permitted out on our own. The alluring weather made me increasingly enamored with the idea of exploring the twin lakes in Clissold Park, where there were a variety of water birds and, allegedly, a population of terrapins. I was determined to capture one, thinking it would make a fine pet. This yearning to escape the boundaries of our school walls would have remained just that, but some force—I cannot remember what—directed my attention to the front gate. It was moving very slightly, pushed by the breeze, unlatched and unlocked. I did not stop to consider any consequences for my actions, but slipped through the gate and scurried down Church Street, jubilant with my unexpected freedom.”

And so I began to enact my childhood adventure, walking away from the school with Dupin following. In truth, I soon forgot he was there, so lost was I in my own reverie. The summer heat faded away—it was spring in Clissold Park and I was ten years old again. Couples promenaded around the perimeter, families sat on the grass with picnics, children threw scraps to the squabbling ducks. When we perambulated the area en masse on a Saturday, Reverend Bransby never missed the opportunity to educate us. The lakes were the last trace of
Hackney Brook, one of London's lost rivers. It had once flowed through Stoke Newington to merge with the River Lea, but had long since vanished beneath London. This tale fascinated me and made the lakes all the more alluring. How could a river simply disappear? What mysterious force had compelled it to sink beneath the earth's surface, into the foul, Plutonian waterways? I had written some childish verse on the subject, which rather impressed my teacher and my dear Ma.

But on the day in question, I was more determined to find myself a pet terrapin. I scoured the lakes' shores for the hiding spots to little avail and began to lose interest in my quest as a feeling of unease settled upon me. Something was not right, but I was determined to wear the bold mantle of an explorer and my terrapin hunt continued until I reached the far side of the lakes. There I came upon a collection of flat stones, the kind best suited for skimming across a lake's surface. Perhaps another boy had collected them and been called away from the pleasure of using his horde.

As I poised myself to hurl one of the stones, a flash of movement startled me. I stared hard at a copse of trees to my left, but could see nothing lurking there. Unwilling to give up my temporary freedom too soon, I continued to skip rocks until I reached four skips in one throw. But as the shadows lengthened, I perceived a
flitting
—something edging ever closer, as if it were tracking me.

Fear rose up in me when I remembered the butcher's lurcher, an evil dog that would appear suddenly and silently, baring its teeth like a wolf. It was no friend to the pupils of Bransby's Manor House School as the older boys had a habit of tormenting the creature. Without the security of the pack around me, I felt increasingly ill at ease, and when the church bells rang out half past five I thought it best to end my adventure.

When I reached Church Street, my sense of being followed became more intense. I listened hard for the sound of a dog's feet skittering on gravel and turned frequently to look behind me, trying to catch a glimpse of my pursuer, but saw nothing. Still, my sense of dread grew.

When I reached the school gates, I discovered to my horror they were locked. I would have to find a way to scramble over the wall or pull the bell and face certain punishment from Reverend Bransby.

Then something caught at my coat and as I turned to free myself, I saw gnarled fingers plucking at the fabric. A thin man with lank gray hair and shabby clothes had my coat in his grip. He was probably in his middle years but looked older, haggard and unhealthy, in the same condition as the beggars I had seen in London. I tried to tug myself from his grasp, but he held on tight.

“I know who you are, boy. I know who you are,” the gray man whispered, his stale breath buffeting my nostrils.

“What?” I tried to answer. “Who are you?” But no words escaped my lips. I wrenched against his grasp but he held tight and tighter still. I reached for the bell pull and yanked at it with all my might.

The gray man reached into his pocket, then silently raised his arm. There was a flash of silver and a knife swept through the air. The gray man hissed, “Tell your mother I know where you are.” His eyes held mine captive. “I
know
where you are.” And he disappeared like the Devil himself. I stood frozen until the sound of feet on gravel turned my fear into words.

“Help! Let me in!” I shouted. “Murder!”

The startled face of the young housemaid Bess peered through the gate. “What in Heaven's name! Get in here right now, young fellow.”

I shook the bars pathetically.

“Locked out after sneaking out, are you? You'll be in a world of trouble.” She pulled a bundle of keys from her apron and unlocked the gate.

I was one of Bess's favorite boys and confess that the comforting sight of her brought tears to my eyes.

“Oh, stop that now.” She pulled me inside and tousled my hair.

“But that man . . .” My words were interspersed by little gasps for air.

“What man? I didn't see any man.”

“He ran away after he tried to murder me. See.” I patted my back and put my hands in front of me, expecting them to be covered with blood.

“And very grubby hands they are too. Let's get you inside and wash those.” As she pushed me through the door, she discovered a long rent down the back of my jacket. “You little scamp! And that a new jacket just last month.”

“It isn't my fault! The man—he tried to stick me with a knife and then ran away!”

“The tales you spin! Sneaking out of the school and ruining your new jacket in the bargain. I have half a mind to tell Reverend Bransby.”

I know who you are, boy
. My attacker's whisper slithered through my mind and the tears came again.

“Stop the play-acting now,” Bess scolded. “I'll try to fix your jacket after supper. But don't you dare be doing anything like that again. Do you know how much trouble you could be in right now?”

I nodded, the tears flowing down my cheeks. Much more trouble than Bess realized. I had no doubt that the gray man would have sliced me to pieces if I hadn't rung the bell.

Bess finally clasped me in a hug and said, “Good boy. No more crying and no more lies.” She held me away from her and dried my cheeks. “Promise me now.”

“And so I did,” I said to Dupin, whose face was the picture of concentration as I concluded my story. “But I could not understand why she made me promise not to lie and then told me to break that promise by hiding the truth of what happened to me on Church Street.”

“Your attacker sliced your school jacket,” he said. “Most interesting.”

“In what way?” I was still shaken by the force with which my memories had come upon me.

“It cannot have escaped your attention that, in slashing your clothes, the old man was making reference to your grandparents' crimes.”

I felt as if the wind had been knocked from me. “Surely not. It seems . . .
implausible
. Why would the attacker from my childhood think I would know anything about the crimes purportedly committed by my grandparents? What would he hope to achieve by terrorizing me at school?”

“That, as yet, is not clear. But we may certainly presume that whoever is stalking you now is somehow connected to this old man and the woman who attacked you as a child. Your nemesis—for that is what he surely is—seems to have a complex plan, and we must presume that he wishes to harm you.”

“Harm?” I exclaimed. “But why?”

“At this point we cannot know. We must keep our wits about us and, of course, put a stop to his plan.”

“I find this very difficult to take in, Dupin. If I have a nemesis with nefarious plans as you suggest, why has he surfaced now after all these years?”

Dupin paced in front of the school gate, taking in all details of the school and its surroundings. “That we shall have to ascertain,” he finally said.

* * *

The journey back to London was slow and tiredness overwhelmed me. When the carriage hit a particularly large hole in the road, I was shaken awake and discovered that we were just nearing the coach stand on Bond Street.

“I am sorry, Dupin. Most impolite of me. I have not been sleeping well.”

“It is understandable given the circumstances,” he said.

We made our way to Brown's Genteel Inn and retrieved our room keys at the front desk. Dupin turned to me and gave a slight bow.

“It was a most instructive excursion. Shall we meet in my rooms for supper? Eight o'clock, perhaps?”