Poe shadow (46 page)

Neilson, finding this coincidence most bizarre and disturbing, considering his current destination of Edgar’s grave, had the driver return in this direction. Stepping down on the pavement, he began to investigate, but remembering that he should continue to the cemetery to inquire into those strange happenings, he instructed his driver to turn the carriage back around, facing the other direction, to save time. At this point, with the driver engaged in this task, I was seen emerging from the street door and, finding that I had placed myself in the immediate path of the carriage and would be crushed, Neilson pulled me down to the pavement, where I fainted.

Having seen the layer of dirt on my clothing as he lifted me into the carriage, Neilson Poe considered that the complaint he had received from the cemetery might not be entirely unrelated to my presence at Amity Street.

I remained silent, unsure how much to say. He went on.

“I transported you here at once, Mr. Clark, and my messenger boy assisted me in lifting you onto this board. The boy then brought back a doctor from the next street, who examined you and departed only a short time ago. My wife has been upstairs praying for you to recover your strength. Had you been at the Westminster burial yard tonight, sir?”

“What is that?” I asked, pointing at the sketch of the grave marker. It sat on a shelf harmlessly with other papers and books but, having initially been illumined by a little light in the chamber, had been the sole and dreary object of my attention during my brief revival of consciousness earlier.

“It is a sketch by the man I have hired to build a suitable marker for my cousin’s grave. Perhaps we should speak of this later. You seemed excessively overtired.”

“I will sleep no more,” I said to him. Indeed, I felt my slumber had rapidly rejuvenated me. There was something more, too. Although Neilson Poe had doubts about my affairs, and I had my own about him, he had protected me—his children had protected me. I felt safe. “I am appreciative of your family’s assistance this evening, but I’m afraid I know more than you may realize. You have told me and the police that Edgar Poe was not just cousin but friend. Yet I know what your cousin called you.”

“What is that?”

“His ‘bitterest enemy in the world’!”

Neilson frowned, stroked his mustache, and calmly nodded without recoil. “It is true. I mean that he was known to make comments such as that, about me as well as others who cared about him.”

“What would lead him to think that of you, Mr. Poe?”

“There was a time, when his affections for young Virginia had just developed. I had married my wife, Josephine, who was Virginia’s half-sister, and, feeling that my sister-in-law at thirteen was too young to leave with him, I offered to provide for her education and allow her to enter into society if she remained with us in Baltimore. Edgar saw this as an insult. He said he would not live another hour without her. He felt that I was seeking to ruin his happiness and that he would never see his ‘Sissy’ again. He could not bear himself under the pressure of any grief.”

“What of his suggestion, made in a letter to Dr. Snodgrass, that you would not help his literary career?”

“Edgar believed I was jealous, I suppose,” Neilson answered forthrightly. “I myself attempted something of a literary career in my youth, as I have said to you before. Because of this, he concluded that I was envious of the amount of literary notice he did achieve, both positive and negative.”

“Were you?”

“Envious? Not in the way Edgar believed. I did not perceive myself equal to him. Rather, if I ever were jealous, it was from an observation that his writing carried a quality of
genius,
of naturalness, that my own lacked however meticulously I labored at it.”

“I can’t forget,” I said firmly to my host, “that you hindered the chance for the police to investigate your cousin’s death, Mr. Poe.”

“Is that what you think?” He remained placid. “I understand why you would believe that. However, it was Officer White, before you arrived at the police station house, who was quite adamant that there should not be the least investigation made, for, you see, the Baltimore police are in the habit of fancying that there are no crimes in our city, particularly any crimes toward tourists. In my practice, I often represent those accused of petty wrongs, and depend much on the police to be reasonable to certain offenders, and felt I had little choice but to cooperate with Officer White’s desires in the matter. I could see that he was wont to make an example out of those who tried to demonstrate more criminal acts in Baltimore than were already known, and so when I saw you at the police station house, I tried my best to dissuade you from any further pursuit for your own good. Sometimes I do not think our justice is so different from the days of witchcraft—crimes are seen only when it suits the accusers.” He walked toward the door of the room. “I see that you believed me overly hostile toward my cousin in our first meetings. Follow me, Mr. Clark.”

We moved into Neilson Poe’s library. There was a row of books and magazines of Edgar Poe’s writings that nearly rivaled my own. In my great surprise, I examined its contents, removing a particular volume or periodical from the impressive collection as I went.

Neilson could see that I was taken aback at his apparent devotion to Edgar’s writings. He smiled and explained. “I had been angry at Edgar in his last years, and even after his death, for I knew he saw himself as superior to me all along. He saw my life as dilapidated in its artistic qualities. I knew, in short, that he had
hated
me for many years! Yet it occurred to me that I had never hated him. It has occurred to me, further, that Edgar was a man who represented himself through his literary productions—that was him, more than the physical form and character he presented in person, more than any letter he might write in a fit of anger, or some comment he might pass in an excited state to an acquaintance. His art was never meant to be popular, it was not meant to have a principle or a moral sense, but it was his true form of
being.
”

As he spoke, Neilson situated himself in the corner of his library and, as he swiveled his chair for a volume of Edgar Poe’s
Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,
there was a twitch at the side of his mouth that seemed a distinct quality of Edgar Poe’s. To hide my observation of him, I removed from the shelf the April 1841 number of
Graham’s,
containing the first tale of Dupin, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” I held it reverently and thought of my own library, my own collection, my home, Glen Eliza, which no doubt had been disturbed and ruined by the police in their various searches for evidence of my guilt and obsessions.

“Do you know he was paid only fifty-six dollars for his first Dupin tale?” Neilson said, seeing the object of my interest. “In the time since his death, I have seen the press push and splatter him. I have seen that shameful and unjust biographer make Edgar whomever he would like. Remember, this is my name, too, Mr. Clark. Poe is the name of my wife, and my children are Poes—as my sons’ children will be. I am
Poe.
In the last months, I have read and reread nearly all that my cousin wrote, and have felt with each turn of the page greater affinity with him, a closeness of the highest order, as though the same words might have come from me that he had managed to extract from our common blood. Tell me, Mr. Clark, you had met him?” he asked offhandedly.

“No.”

“Good!” said Neilson. Seeing my puzzled reaction, he continued. “I mean only that it is better that way. Seek to know him through the words he published. His genius was of such a rare quality, hardly to be sustained in this world of magazinists, that he could not but believe all were against it and that, given time, even friends and relatives would turn into enemies. His perception, frightened and anxious on this point, was a result of a world harsh to literary pursuits—a harshness I discovered for myself in my youth. His life was a series of experiments on his own nature, Mr. Clark, that brought him far from the movements of our world into a knowledge only of the perfection of literature. We cannot know Edgar Poe as a man, but can know him well as the genius he was. This is why he could not be fairly read until after his death—by me, by you, and now, perhaps, by the world.” He paused. “You are feeling better now, Mr. Clark?”

I found I could think more clearly and had been freed of a surge of wild emotions that had before consumed me. I could only remember my latest actions as one thinks of a dream, or a distant memory. I blushed a bit in embarrassment to think of how Neilson had found me. “Yes, many thanks. I fear I had been rather overexcited when you came upon me at Amity Street.”

“Please, Mr. Clark,” he chuckled in surprise, “you must hardly blame yourself for being poisoned.”

“What do you mean?”

“The doctor who examined you was quite certain that you had been mildly poisoned. He found traces of the white powder still in the posterior of your mouth, an expert mixture of several chemicals. Do not worry. He was also rather certain the effects had quite exhausted themselves and were not permanently harmful in these doses.”

“Poison? But who—” I stopped myself, knowing with sudden clarity the answer. The guards at the prison who, with great vigilance, constantly replaced the pitchers of water on my cell table. Officer White, frustrated with my continued denials in the interviews with him, had likely been the one to order it: to confuse my mind enough to extract some kind of statement of responsibility, to ensure a confession of my wrongs! Indeed, I now also possessed Neilson Poe’s information about White’s desire to suppress the inquiry I had demanded. He would have poisoned me until I confessed or
died,
or was driven to harm myself. My life had been saved through the means of my chance escape.

All the derangement of my mental state in the hours after leaving the prison became clear to me and stung my mind. Searching for Poe—digging his grave with the belief that he was alive—invading his former home from so many years earlier! That person had dropped from me and I stood taller now, seeing all that was happening with perfect vision.

Neilson seemed momentarily thoughtful and, perhaps, anxious. “Perhaps you do need more rest, Mr. Clark.”

“The boy,” I said suddenly. “The messenger boy of whom you spoke, the one who helped you carry me, and then who returned with the doctor. Where is he?” I had not seen anyone in the house other than the children.

Neilson hesitated. I could hear a new sound, unmistakable and increasing. Horses, high-stepping through the watery streets; a carriage’s wheels splashing behind.

Neilson raised his head at the sound. “I am a member of the bar, Mr. Clark,” he said. “You are a fugitive from justice, and I have done my duty by sending the police word of your presence. I have a responsibility. Yet, somehow, I cannot help but think that you, of all people, have the ability to vindicate the memory of my unhappy kinsman and my name. I would be pleased to serve as your defender in court, should you wish.” I remained frozen in place. “Remember, Mr. Clark, you were an officer of the court, too. You have a duty to choose.”

Neilson stepped slowly in front of the door, and in my weakened state he would have likely subdued me with ease until his messenger boy entered with the police.

“The children,” Neilson said suddenly. “Do not think me too strict, Mr. Clark, but I must see to it that they are sleeping.”

“I understand,” I said, nodding with gratitude.

As he started into the hall toward the stairs, I dashed out of the room and did not look back.

“God watch over you!” Neilson called after me.

My mission was clear. I would find Auguste Duponte. He alone could provide the definitive proof of my innocence. Now that Bonjour had revealed to me that no harm had been done to him, even thinking of how close he might be lent me an air of invincibility that moved me rapidly through the drowned streets of Baltimore. Indeed, perhaps Duponte had already begun to investigate the shooting of the Baron. Perhaps he had even come to the lyceum that evening, before it occurred, had witnessed it and fled in preparation for the troubles he knew would come from it.

It seemed the most necessary objective in the world to prove my name to Hattie, for she had persisted in her friendship to me throughout my stay in prison when others had abandoned me. It might seem small compared to the fact that my life could end as a criminal, and she was marrying another man anyway, but my goal now was to prove myself to Hattie.

I would not dry thoroughly for days; my ears, lungs, and insides were swimming long after I’d waded and splashed through the treacherous streets of Baltimore. It felt as though the Atlantic had broken over the shores and was moving across to unite with the Pacific. I was able to locate Edwin, and he secured me changes of linen and modest suits of clothing. He wished to assist me in obtaining a place safer from the eyes of the police. He had brought clothing in bundles to an empty packinghouse, once belonging to my father’s firm, where I took refuge by remembering a loose door hinge from years ago that had never been repaired.