Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (33 page)

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.

“Fear not. I dearly enjoy the water.”

The dipper was not convinced by this declaration and hovered in the sea near me as if worried that I might plunge beneath it again.

I noticed with some surprise that I was the only bather wearing a costume. While it is not uncommon practice in my homeland for men—particularly amongst the lower classes—to swim as God made them, this is never tolerated if females are present. I glanced over to the ladies' bathing machines and saw that the nearest had an awning that stretched out from the machine to the water, completely covering the bather therein. Thus, the ladies remained obscured from male sight and vice versa, preserving modesty for all.

It was then that the door to Dupin's bathing machine finally opened. He emerged and stood at the top of the stepladder, staring out at the water all around him. Silence fell on the bathers as they stared up at Dupin, for he was dressed, most improbably, in a long flannel gown. His complexion had a green hue, extreme biliousness or perhaps merely the reflection of seawater upon his skin. He took two steps down the ladder and gripped its sides. His dipper approached, clutching a length of rope that was securely fastened to the bathing machine.

“Allow me, sir,” he said, tying the rope around Dupin's waist, which gave him the look of a penitent monk. The dipper offered his hand, but too late—a large wave surged forward and, without any regard for Dupin's dignity, dislodged him from his perch. He disappeared beneath the water while his skirts billowed up like an inverted parachute. Truly Dupin's element as a Frenchman was air and not water. I swam toward him, but the canny dipper used the rope to yank him up. Dupin spluttered and gasped.

“Are you all right?”

“Quite fine,” Dupin said, glaring. He staggered on the sandy bottom and paddled wildly with his arms to steady himself. His composure lapsed again when he noticed the other bathers' state of undress and his complexion instantly shifted from green to pink.

I nodded at the flannel gown. “Does it fit?” I could not resist asking.

Dupin narrowed his eyes, but did not respond.

“Would sir care to dip?” his attendant asked. “Very good for the constitution.”

“Yes, of course he must dip.” The malicious words came forth before I could stop them.

The dipper grasped Dupin by arm and with the other hand, pushed his head underwater. He hauled him up again and dipped him twice more, as if baptizing him. Dupin spluttered and flailed like a cat in water, but was no match for his assailant. When at last the ritual was finished, Dupin's eyes were ablaze and, without a word, he climbed into the bathing machine and shut the door.

“A few more minutes, sir,” I said to my dipper before striking out away from the shore. With each stroke, I wondered if Henry Arnold had tried to swim through these waters one dark July night, only to succumb to the waves. Had he managed to
struggle to the shore and seek refuge in the bathing machine, a place that was a comfort to him as he lay dying? Or had he been placed there by someone who failed to save his life and abandoned his corpse in that makeshift tomb? Or, worse still, had he been murdered and his body hidden inside the vehicle, the villain knowing that he would not be discovered until morning? And
how
had he been murdered? The obituary revealed nothing concrete about my grandfather's cause of death and none of the letters clarified the circumstances of his demise. When I climbed into the bathing machine, I was no closer to a solution.

* * *

My dipper had instructed us to follow the footpath that hugged the shoreline, and we found four Neptune Square without difficulty. The lodging house was very charming and Mrs. Coleman, the wife of Miss Porter's nephew, was a cheerful pink-faced woman of middle years. I introduced us as journalists who were writing an essay concerning the affects of violent crime on innocent victims and said we wished to interview Miss Porter about the London Monster. Mrs. Coleman seemed oddly unsurprised; she merely requested that we take a walk along the promenade and if Miss Porter were happy to speak with us, she would be prepared by our return. We followed Mrs. Coleman's instructions, and when we arrived back at the lodging house, Mrs. Coleman ushered us in.

“Miss Sarah will see you in her sitting room.” She led us up a flight of stairs to a gloomy room and indicated that we should sit facing a gilded armchair I feared was decorated to resemble a throne. “She won't be long.” And she closed the door.

Velvet draperies like theater curtains concealed two windows and repelled the light. The room was oppressive with stale air
and extraneous furnishings. A crowd of porcelain figurines—all courting couples dressed in garish costumes—was gathered on the mantelpiece, as if at a ball. Framed prints covered the walls.

Dupin noticed where my gaze was directed and said, “Each is concerned with the London Monster. It is quite a collection.”

Upon closer inspection, Dupin proved to be correct. There were colorful illustrations of ferocious knife-wielding demons chasing their victims, young ladies donning copper pots to protect themselves and lively courtroom scenes along with newspaper stories and pamphlets about the Monster.

“It seems Miss Porter is accustomed to giving presentations about the Monster and for being recompensed for her time.” Dupin drew my attention to a faded, handwritten card that said
Gratuities
, which was placed next to a brass bowl on the occasional table adjacent to the throne-like chair. “Perhaps she is waiting for the sound of coins before she makes her entrance,” Dupin said sardonically, as he placed several coins in the bowl. “Let us hope my offering meets her expectations.”