Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster by Karen Lee Street Read Free Book Online Page B

him to be a kindred spirit and expressed my hope that Mr. Charles Dickens’s schedule would allow for a meeting. I enclosed a copy of my Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque with my letter and put my position to him honestly: I wished to find a publisher in England and his assistance in this would put me forever in his debt. If the opportunity to read some of my own tales to a London audience arose, or perhaps to give a lecture on the art of composition orliterary criticism, I would be highly gratified to do so. It seemed from the newspaper announcement, which Mr. Dickens had surely placed, that the honorable man was advancing my cause in a careful and delicate manner. I could now look forward to receiving some communication from Mr. Dickens with details of this lecture.
    I finished my tea and rose to my feet feeling invigorated. I would write my daily letter to Sissy, have a perambulation in Green Park, and return well before eleven so I might collect myself before meeting Dupin. Perhaps correspondence from Mr. Dickens would be awaiting me at that time.
    * * *
    My walk in Green Park did much to revive me, but my hopes of hearing from Mr. Dickens were dashed when I re-entered Brown’s. I retrieved Mrs. Allan’s letter from my room, then made my way to Dupin’s chambers. The welcome smell of coffee greeted me as my friend opened the door.
    â€œI hope you are feeling rested, Poe. The coffee is very good here—a fine restorative. Shall I pour you some?”
    â€œPlease. And here is the letter from Mrs. Allan that you requested.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    Dupin placed it on top of the other letters, which were stacked neatly on the octagonal table next to the mahogany box. We settled ourselves into the armchairs and sipped at the coffee for several minutes before Dupin spoke. Many would find his lengthy pondering silences unnerving, but I was familiar with his eccentric manners and took no offense.
    â€œThe first question you would like answered is whether the letters are a hoax,” he said, while staring into his coffee cup, as if some vision there had mesmerized him.
    â€œYes, that would seem the correct place to begin.”
    â€œTo elaborate, you wonder if the crimes referred to are fabricated and if the signatures on the letters are forgeries.”
    â€œIndeed. Everything about the letters is a mystery to me. I undertook some research in Philadelphia, but discovered nothing relevant. Perhaps the truth is to be found only in London, where the crimes allegedly took place.”
    Dupin nodded. “As you know from our time together in Paris, I have conducted an extensive study of the science of autography, building on the early research of Camillo Baldo, which indisputably demonstrates that no one person writes like another and that character is revealed through his chirology.”
    â€œYour research is of great interest to me, and I confess that I have dabbled in the subject myself.”
    â€œVery good. I would like to conduct an experiment if you are willing.”
    â€œOf course, I am perfectly willing,” I replied.
    Dupin retreated to another room and returned moments later carrying a portable writing desk, which he placed on the table in front of me. It was a fine piece made of ebony, inlaid with tortoise shell and brass. He lifted the upper lid and exposed a mahogany compartment complete with stationery, two inkwells, pounce holder, pens and other writing utensils. The front panel opened to reveal a leather writing surface, upon which Dupin placed a sheet of excellent paper—stout yet soft, with gilt edges.
    â€œIf you would oblige me with the following—please write your usual signature and today’s date.” After I had finished he said, “Now please write out the names Elizabeth Arnold and Henry Arnold and the year 1788.”
    When I had completed my task, Dupin placed two of the antique letters and the missive from Mrs. Allan that