My Clockwork Muse by D.R. Erickson Read Free Book Online

tone of a confessional, but stopped. His voice trailed off,
almost bashfully.
    I looked up, slightly alarmed. "Of what?" I
asked. The man who had whisked me from my sleep one day and then
broke into my house the next was too ashamed to admit to taking
some additional liberty ... One could not help but be alarmed.
    He nodded sheepishly toward the thin sheaf of
papers in my hands. "I took the liberty of glancing at your
tale-in-progress. I certainly hope you don't mind..."
"Mind? Of course not," I assured him when, in fact, I did mind. And
very much. My first impulse was anger that the man should have
presumed to pry into what was clearly not yet intended for the
public. On the other hand, I was relieved that his transgression
had not been something more.
    He breathed a sigh, smiling. "It is shaping
up to be another triumph, Mr. Poe!"
    "Oh?" I remembered Gessler as he had come to
me after my lecture at the New York Society Library. He was
obviously well-read with an enthusiasm for literature that I found
charming in a man of his profession. It occurred to me that I
valued his opinion.
    "Yes, maybe your best work since the
Amontillado story. It is easily as chilling as that tale. I can't
imagine how you will conclude it, but I fear it will cost me sleep
when you do."
    It was amazing to me that he had hit upon my
exact thoughts while writing the story. 'Berenice' I was going to
call it.
    Gessler went on. "My only criticism..."
    I looked up with a start. "Criticism?" I felt
my anger rising again. "You must know, Inspector, that it is an
incomplete work. It is not intended for any eyes at this point but
my own, certainly not for criticism."
    "Of course not, Mr. Poe. I apologize. I
should not have presumed to look. It is beyond presumptuous of me
to question your work on any point at all—whatever the state of its
completion. I beg your forgiveness."
    I looked at him for a moment and realized
that he meant every word of what he said. The man's sincerity was
disarming.
    "Oh, out with it, then," I relented. "If I am
ever to finish it in peace, I cannot have your unvoiced criticism
hanging over my head! What is it?"
    "Probably not what you think, my dear fellow.
Oh, no, I daresay not at all! My only point of criticism is that it
is not a Dupin story. Unless the great detective comes in at the
end...?" he added hopefully.
    I laid the papers down, shaking my head.
"Dupin again..." I felt a twisting snake squirm in my gut. It could
not have been worse had he said "Burton" instead. It was all mixed
up in my mind, now—Burton, Fortunato, Dupin, murder, Rue Morgue,
brick walls, Gessler himself... "They cannot all be Dupin stories,"
I said.
    "Oh, would that they were, Mr. Poe," Gessler
laughed. "Would that they were... Although it would not have
required Dupin to find that fellow under the floorboards, would it,
Mr. Poe? Not with the murderer himself confessing to the very deed
he had sought to conceal!"
    I chuckled, amused to hear my tales spoken of
as if they were real events. "Indeed!" I agreed. "But you must
remember that it is not only the mind of the genius I seek to
illuminate, Inspector, but that of the lunatic as well."
    "Excellent, Mr. Poe!"
    "Please. Call me Edgar."
    Eddy.
    Tap?
    I heard the word distinctly and my heart
leapt into my throat. Had Tap returned? I looked around and behind
me, but there was no sign of him. I suspected the sound must have
been my own thought, coming to me overloud in the raven's maddening
voice. I had, after all, spent a night of delirium in a graveyard.
I needed rest — es New
Roman" \s 12or at least a change of clothes.
    Gessler was sputtering something I didn't
catch. Probably agreeing to call me by my given name. Or not.
Whatever, I missed it.
    "Tea?" I asked.
    "Ah, thank you, Mr. Poe," Gessler exclaimed.
He gave me a broad wink. "Although I wouldn't decline something a
little stronger, if you were to offer."
    "Sorry to disappoint, but I never touch the
stuff," I said, wondering on what grounds he