Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (3 page)

I presented a nervous smile to my fellow diners and noted that one person had yet to comment on my appearance. He was a short man of athletic build—thirty years old, perhaps—with auburn hair and mustache, dressed in an alarming green frock coat, yellow neckcloth and dandyish trousers with a wide green stripe down the leg. He might be considered handsome if one overlooked his arrogant expression and garish clothing. The fellow shifted his insolent green eyes from the doctor's wife and focused on me like a cat stalking a wounded bird.

“Ah, Poe. We are indeed delighted to see you on your feet again. Much more befitting for a man of your position.” His theatrical voice boomed through the small room, and I recognized an accent from my childhood—Virginia or further south.

“Mr. Poe, do sit. The food will be here shortly, or so we all hope. They are devilishly slow with supper most nights.” The doctor indicated the bench in front of me and once I had seated
myself, he took the position to my right. His wife gracefully arranged herself on my left.

“You were privileged to have Mrs. Wallis as a nurse. I was almost envious of your compromised health.” The man in the vulgar frock coat inflected the last two words with just enough sarcasm to avoid straying from the bounds of polite conversation. Mrs. Wallis flushed. I awaited a remonstrance from her husband, but he was focused on lighting a cigar and appeared oblivious to the scoundrel's words. “And please know that I have taken no offense at your critique of my pathetic scribblings. It was educational to have the opinion of a professional editor.”

I could feel a wave of heat rush up from my neck to my face, but was saved the embarrassment of making an immediate reply by the arrival of two young men carrying in soup, meat and bread.

“Mr. Mackie, please,” the doctor's wife intervened in a soft voice. “The food is here. Now is the time for pleasant conversation.”

Mr. Mackie nodded his acquiescence to her and smiled, but his eyes were chill when he gazed back at me. Pathetic scribblings—his words or mine? I had no recollection of the man and certainly no memory of his writing. But making an enemy when imprisoned on a vessel in the middle of the sea was not a terribly prudent course of action. The smell of the food and Dr. Wallis's newly lit cigar had an unpleasant effect on my stomach. Anxiety added to my discomfort.

“Stick with the soup, Mr. Poe,” Dr. Wallis said through a cloud of smoke. “Your stomach is unlikely to be ready for meat yet.”

Mrs. Wallis filled my bowl with a dark broth and placed it in front of me. I managed a few spoonfuls, but as the pungent steam rose up and mixed with cigar smoke, cooked
meat and potatoes, the ship commenced a terrible dipping and rising. The effect on my senses was immediate and awful. I struggled to escape my position on the bench, and when at last I was on my feet, rushed from the saloon before I could disgrace myself further. The booming laughter of the man in the terrible suit followed me as I emerged into open air and staggered for the side of the ship, where I expelled the contents of my stomach, thankfully without witness. After the waves of dyspepsia passed, I gulped down the night air. How could I rejoin my fellow travelers after my uncouth exit? Then I remembered the letter. I retrieved it from my pocket and hurled it toward the hungry sea before my mission could be interrupted again. As the sheets of paper disappeared into the night, I wished my humiliation would fly away with them.

When at last I turned from the water, fear tugged at me as a shadow flitted across the deck and hid itself in the murk. Had the antagonized scribbler come to defend his artistry in a cowardly manner? I stood there, frozen, fear prickling up and down my back with each creak and groan of the ship, knowing that in my enervated condition, a confrontation would surely not go my way.

“Wandering the vessel alone in darkness is foolhardy, Mr. Poe,” Dr. Wallis said, as he and his wife emerged from the gloom to rescue me again. “The decks are treacherous when slick with seawater. Come, let us lead the way.” My new friends linked their arms through mine, led me to my stateroom, and bade me goodnight.

If I had hoped that solitude would provide succor from my shame, I was wrong. The wan candlelight and creeping shadows added unease to my self-reproach. Finally I put pen to paper and wrote a letter to my beloved wife, describing the camaraderie amongst the passengers, the benevolent weather,
the halcyon sea, the tales and poems I had completed to profitably pass the time. And then I sealed that wild fiction with wax and left it in my writing desk until it could be sent back to Philadelphia when the ship returned.

27 Bury Street, London
Wednesday morning, 19 March 1788

Henry, dearest,

I am relieved to find you at home this morning, seemingly well but for some over-indulgence in drink, judging by the heaviness of your slumbers. Our little company was concerned when you failed to arrive at the chophouse after the performance last night, and we awaited you in vain throughout supper.

Miss Cole was in a temper as she had witnessed you in lengthy conversation with a Mrs. Wright and her younger sister Miss Pierce, who has yet to snare a husband. The two sisters attend the theatre regularly, but Miss Cole swore that Mrs. Wright had designs on someone associated with the Royalty. Indeed, she was adamant that the lady was in pursuit of
your
attentions.

When I confessed that I really could not place Mrs. Wright at all, Miss Cole obliged me with a description: “Scrawnier than a drowned cat, but with feet as large as an elephant's and a pockmarked face shaped like that of a horse.” This melange from the animal kingdom did little to focus the woman in my mind's eye, but when Annie added that the lady in question had been wearing a blue and yellow ensemble and a necklace of large blue stones set in what looked to be gold, I instantly knew of whom she was speaking. The dress was an unattractive combination of cerulean blue and canary yellow, made more vulgar with three
flounces around the hem, lace ruffles on the sleeves and neckline, and an unfashionable red sash.

Mr. Blanchard confirmed your lengthy dalliance with Mrs. Wright. He had been obliged to make small talk with her spinster sister while Mrs. Wright regaled you with fascinating tales of her deceased husband's stationery shop on Watling Street, where she spends her afternoons assisting customers. How sorry I am to have missed such delightful conversation. Mr. Blanchard also rescued me from the intolerable embarrassment of confessing to all assembled that I did not have the price of my supper in my pocket. I have assured him that you will reimburse him in full tomorrow. I trust you will create a splendid story to explain your absence to Mr. Blanchard and will ensure that my dignity is not damaged further.

Your Wife,

Elizabeth

27 Bury Street, London
Friday, 21 March 1788

My dear Elizabeth,

Please forgive my delay in responding, but I have only just found your letter tucked under a flask of gin on the shelf. If my thirst had not got the better of me, I might not have discovered it at all!

First, I am sorry I failed to escort you to the chophouse on Tuesday night, but have no fear—your reputation is intact with Mr. Blanchard. He was most concerned when I informed him that a pickpocket
accosted me outside the theatre and when I gave chase, the ruffian clouted me about the head. The blows left me disoriented, and I had no recourse but to proceed home for fear of ending up senseless in the street. Mr. Blanchard agreed to accept reimbursement for your supper after wages are distributed at the theatre.

As for Mrs. Wright, I am once more wounded by the envenomed tongue of slander. But unlike Lady Sneerwell, I take no pleasure in reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation. I really cannot say whose attentions Mrs. Wright was pursuing on Tuesday night, but yesterday evening she was courted in a most pointed manner. The tantalising theatrical unfolded thusly:

Mrs. Wright locked up her stationer's shop, walked down Watling Street and turned into Bow Lane. She had progressed a short distance when she felt someone brush against her and a sharp scratch upon her haunches. As she cried out, a man in red breeches, black surtout and a cocked hat with high brim and a cockade ran like the Devil down Bow Lane. Worse still, the culprit was laughing, and Mrs. Wright fell to the ground dizzy with fear and pain. She struggled back to the shop to collect herself and discovered to her distress that the backside of her dress had been slashed. That dress of cerulean blue and canary yellow you disliked so much is tattered, as is Mrs. Wright's posterior. She is quite unable to salve her nerves.

It is particularly disconcerting to note that details of Mrs. Wright's ordeal have a startling similarity to the assault upon Miss Cole—a slash across the hindquarters, a ruined dress and the danger of a ruined reputation. And is it not peculiar that both women had
been to the Royalty before they were attacked? This makes me fear for your safety, my dear, as these violent escapades occurred in broad daylight, were completely unprovoked, and, inexplicably, the ladies were not robbed. Please exercise utmost caution when going about your business.

With concern,

Henry

LIVERPOOL TO LONDON, WEDNESDAY, 1 JULY 1840

More than three weeks at sea took me to the brink of madness, but I survived the remainder of the journey without further recourse to intemperance. Daily I wrote to Sissy and Muddy, my mother-in-law, a diary of my journey that was rather maudlin. I had promised my wife that I would use my time at sea productively to write a collection of stories and tried to draw inspiration from my monotonous surroundings, but after penning the beginnings of some sea adventures and pirate stories that sent yet another ship and its crew to the bottom of the ocean, I threw my half-hearted tales to a watery grave instead.

When the
Ariel
finally sailed into the port of Liverpool at dawn, my heart lifted. At last! I could put my sins behind me and become
Edgar Poe
—writer, critic and scholar. The man who inhabited my stateroom on the ship would be left behind. I pondered how arriving in another country gave a man the opportunity to begin again. It was possible to redefine one's character, adjust mistakes and start over if determined enough. This thought struck me as important, and I vowed to return to it when in a less anxious state of mind. First I had to find my way to the railway station and board a train bound for London
without falling prey to the unsavory characters who frequented Liverpool's tippling dens and spent their days and nights wandering the vicinity's streets and alleys, looking for the chance to swindle an honest citizen. It was the same in every port, or so I presumed from the tales I had heard in the taverns down near the docks of Philadelphia.

It was still early morning when we were released at last from the
Ariel
; my fellow passengers and I made our way to Lime Street Station where we cordially said our goodbyes. Dr. and Mrs. Wallis were remaining in Liverpool where she had family. Mr. Asquith was going on to Manchester to give a lecture on the moral benefits of temperance, and Miss Nicholson was returning to Preston to visit with her aged mother. Mr. Mackie was traveling to London for a “rich theatrical engagement of his own devising.” I wondered if a play he had penned was to be performed in some small theater, or if the dandified fellow had managed to persuade an innocent damsel of wealthy means to marry him, but I did not inquire further. We both boarded the London train, but made no plans to meet again, and seated ourselves in separate carriages.

My compartment was reasonably comfortable and once settled in, I began to contemplate my assignation at Brown's Genteel Inn with the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. I had first made Dupin's acquaintance in 1832, when staying in Paris. The location of our meeting was a library on the rue Montmartre where we were searching for the same rare volume of verse,
Tamerlane and Other Poems
, and this coincidence provoked a lengthy conversation about our interests, revealing a shared passion for enigmas, conundrums and hieroglyphics. After a time, Dupin offered me accommodation at his residence, which I gratefully accepted as I was running low on funds. Dupin, it seemed, was also in straitened circumstances, but the neglected state of his house did not reflect that of his mind; he
was a great scholar and ratiocinator who never failed to find the solution to any puzzle. Rarely have I enjoyed a more intellectually stimulating evening than those spent with Dupin, discussing the contents of his extensive library or exploring the city by night. This shared sympathy made me confident that together we would answer all the questions that had tormented me since the day my Pa's new wife had sent me the mahogany box of letters and told me it was my legacy.

My restless mind was eventually lulled by the hypnotic view through the carriage window: endless green fields, tenebrous woodlands and cloud-speckled sky, until that vision faded, and I fell into unquiet slumber. I know not how much time passed, but my eyes opened to utter darkness and the sense that someone was in my compartment. And then, in the blackness, I perceived the glint of two wild, violet-colored eyes. My body was chilled to stone as a pale-skinned woman with long curling ebony hair emerged from the shadows and moved toward me, gliding noiselessly as if she were a part of the night itself. She held a goblet in her hand and as she loomed above me, three or four drops of ruby-colored fluid fell into the goblet, like drops of brilliant blood, and she pressed the malevolent vessel to my lips, forcing me to drink the contents. As she pressed in closer still, her hair—blacker than raven wings—enveloped me, dragging me deeper, ever deeper, into the suffocating darkness.

* * *

The train's whistle and my own ghastly yowl juddered me awake just as we pulled into Euston Station. I emerged into an eerie gas-lit world and quickly made my way to a hackney coach, bidding the driver to take me to Brown's Genteel Inn. We moved at an uncanny pace through the streets of London, the horse's hooves clattering like the Devil's on the
pavements. There were times when I wondered if the coach would fit through the narrow passageways, and if we would stay upright as we careered around a corner. I perceived very little of the city due to the soot-stained windows and my attempts to retain my dignity upon the slippery seat. When the coach stopped, I felt quite without breath, as if I had just finished a foot race.