Trying to steady himself, Dupin passed a hand over his face. Suddenly he understood who these monsters were: They were his own creations, his own torments, his own pain. Confront them, he said to himself. Tell them what they are and they will go.
“Evil,” he began … but faltered. “Evil is only the name we give … our secret fears.”
“Fears?” Dr. Dillard demanded from across the room. “Of what?”
“The fears … in our hearts,” Dupin continued, trying to untangle his thoughts, and speaking barely above a whisper.
“Ah!” Arnold cried, “as in your ‘Tell-Tale Heart,’ and ‘The Gold Bug’?”
“‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”
“I must protest,” Dr. Dillard declared. “I, for one, have no such fears within me.”
“Quite right, Dr. Dillard,” McFarlane was quick to add. “Nor do I. As for the ladies, certainly they have no such fears.” He made a bow toward Mrs. Whitman.
“Could you give us more of an explanation?” Dr. Dillard asked.
Dupin pressed his hands together tightly, tried to smile, but failed. “What I believe,” he said finally, his voice strained, “is that writers write about what they know best. And,” he concluded, “what some writers know best is what they fear.”
“Could you,” McFarlane said, “give us an example?” There was a trace of mockery in his voice.
Dupin, aware that he was being put to a crucial test, felt a renewed onslaught of nervousness. His eyes swept around his tormentors.
“Anything?” Arnold insisted from across the room.
Dupin found himself floundering again. With a look he appealed to Mrs. Whitman.
“Perhaps,” she prompted, “from ordinary life.”
It was the help Dupin needed. He remembered something. “Yes,” he announced, “I can give you an example. A puzzle.” He studied the grotesque faces before him. “A puzzle which, if we could fully understand it would bring … truth.”
“Do say,” urged Mrs. Powers.
“If a man,” Dupin began, “if a man orders a coat, a fine coat, has it made and fitted, and yet, at the last moment chooses not to take it, might … might not the reason why he decides thus yield some important facts, so that what appears to be irrational becomes rational?”
“What has this to do with fear?” Mrs. Powers exclaimed. “Why, Mr. Arnold, where are you going?”
Dupin, startled, swung about. Mr. Arnold, red-faced and flustered, was standing by the door. “My apologies. I must go!” he announced.
“But, Mr. Arnold …” Mrs. Powers called.
“Urgent business,” he murmured and bowed himself out.
Dupin stared after him trying to make sense of what had just happened. He decided he had smitten one of his enemies. He felt his tension ease.
While the other guests chatted quietly amongst themselves, Dupin carefully sipped his tea and tried to calm his nerves. The creatures in the room were beginning to look more like people. To his left sat Mrs. Whitman. Mr. McFarlane was on his right.
“I should think,” Mrs. Whitman said to McFarlane, “that Mr. Poe’s poem ‘The Raven’ is the most profound poetic expression America has ever produced.”
“Oh, yes,” McFarlane agreed, “we can all readily agree to that. But it just seems so … What shall I say, Mr. Poe? … so different from your tales, sir.”
“How are my tales different?”
“I must admit,” McFarlane said, “they make me feel very uncomfortable. Almost unclean. There is something of the sublime in ‘Nevermore …’ But then we have ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ with this character you invented, this Auguste Dupin. I must say he’s a most improbable personage.”
“What are your objections?” Dupin asked.
“Why, sir, to speak with honesty, no man could reason as your Dupin does. Besides, I felt the story to be a low, bestial, sordid thing. It appalled me. And, sir, I mean you no offence but I see none of that sordidness on your face.”
Mrs. Whitman attempted to laugh lightly. “Come now, Mr. McFarlane,” she said, “can you read so much from a face?”
McFarlane smiled. “I for one believe in the reading of faces. Don’t you, Mr. Poe?”
Dupin, no longer feeling himself under attack, turned to Mrs. Whitman and gazed calmly at her. He even smiled, then looked about the room. There were only people now. He had won. “Every fear, every image,” he said as much to himself as to the others, “has two sides.”
“I quite agree,” McFarlane interjected. “Good things seem to be readily apparent. But the bad —”
Again Dupin addressed Mrs. Whitman. “What can you read from my face?” he asked.
Mrs. Whitman blushed. “I should need more time,” she managed to say.
“As much as you need,” Dupin returned gallantly.
“Did you know,” she informed him with a nervous laugh, “an establishment for the making of daguerreotypes has opened in the city.”
“Ah, yes,” McFarlane interjected. “In the Arcade. I have heard they make fine images.”
“Now, Mr. Poe,” Mrs. Whitman went on, “if you were to have a portrait made and I had it in my possession, I might be able to study your character at my leisure.”
“Where are you staying, Mr. Poe?” Mrs. Powers suddenly interjected.
“With some friends,” he replied.
“With anyone we might know?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“And how long shall you be staying?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On Mrs. Whitman.”
Mrs. Whitman blushed again.
Dupin set aside his tea cup and stood. “I am going directly to that daguerreotype studio,” he announced. “I shall see what kind of an image they can produce and I shall offer it to you, so you may study it at your leisure.”
“But Mr. Poe,” Mrs. Powers snapped, “which image of yourself shall you present?”
“I never know,” Dupin returned.
“IT’S MASTER EDMUND!” Captain Elias cried when Edmund approached him on the quay. “You’ve been keeping yourself away. Did that sparkling sister of yours turn up right enough?”
In the short while Edmund had been in Providence he’d spent enough time at the docks — in the company of his sister — to have made friends with some of the regular workmen. In particular he’d become close to a dock hand he knew as Captain Elias.
The man had spent most of his life at sea. Now old, he’d been given a job of weighing out small cargoes on the wharves. Even Edmund suspected that the rank “Captain” was one he’d given himself, but he seemed to know everything about the port of Providence. In exchange for their meager news — their dull days, his sister’s complaints about Aunty Pru — to which the captain had listened with considerable sympathy, he had been more than willing to share his mind and experience.
But as glad as Edmund was to see his friend, he had no heart to explain about his sister. It was information he wanted. “She’s home,” he said.
“Well then,” the captain returned, “it’s not much good for anyone to be out today. And your proper aunty?” he inquired.
“Home too,” Edmund said, feeling obliged to spin out the lie.
“Do you know,” the captain said, dropping a wink even as he set a tea chest on his scales. “I thought I saw your aunty.”
“Did you!” Edmund cried. “When?”
The captain grinned at the boy’s reaction. “I said I only thought so, lad. Mind, you’ve never brought the lady ’round so I’ve not had the pleasure of her acquaintance, have I?”
Edmund shook his head.
“But I’ll tell you. This morning, early as can be, a lady rather like what you’ve described was wandering about. Half distracted she was, her clothing in terrible tatters.”
“It wasn’t my aunt.”
“Oh, I realized that soon enough,” agreed the Captain. “For like I said, Master Edmund, this one only reminded me of
your description in a kind of interesting way. As for this unfortunate lady she was asking about the dead woman.”
“The one found in the bay last night?”
“It’s all the talk here. A ghastly thing. There was to be an inquest today which is what I told this lady. She was that interested. Distracted ones get drawn to such things, you see.”
“Who was she?”
“So I asked myself, Master Edmund, not that I have a start to knowing. But I can see by your eyes you take such things to heart too. Well you might. Every death is a mortal warning. Mind, I never saw the dead woman myself though I had my part in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“See, it was Fortnoy who found her.”
“Mr. Fortnoy?” Edmund said, remembering what Mr. Dupin had said about the man.
“Himself. He’s a good friend of mine.”
Edmund backed up a step. “He is?”
“To be sure,” the captain returned. “It was when Fortnoy was rowing back from his watch that he found her. That’s where I came in. It was me who relieved Fortnoy so he could come ashore.”
Edmund’s heart seemed to stand still. “Do you know where he had been?”
“Like I said, lad, on his ship.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You see his ship was —”
“The Lady Liberty!” Edmund blurted out.
“Ah, you know her! She’s an old ship. A Nova Scotia brig out of Halifax. Captain Davis her master. And a hard driver, that one. It was he who made Fortnoy stand watch three days running without a break.” Elias shook his head. “Can you imagine. Locked up, so to speak, for three days.”
“Three days?” said Edmund weakly. If that were true perhaps Mr. Dupin was wrong about the man. …
“Three days,” said Captain Elias emphatically. “Not once was he let off till I went to relieve him.”
“Captain Elias, are you very sure?”
“I’ve not the slightest doubt. These things have a way of getting known. No one will stand watch on her now. Not for love nor money.”
“Is she in port?”
“Sure she is. And this Davis has got to do the watch himself. Now, Master Edmund, if you’ve time to hear a good yarn, I’ve one for you. You see, The Lady Liberty had a sister ship. Seahawk, her name was —”
“Captain Elias, are you so very sure your friend was on The Lady Liberty for three days?”
“Master Edmund, I’m as sure as I’m sitting here and talking to you. Did you want to hear that other yarn?”
“I don’t have time now.”
“Right. I daresay your aunty will be after you. Well, you come back when you have an hour. And, mind, next time bring your sister. She’ll like it particular.”
Edmund thanked him and went off. But the thought of waiting alone in his room was too depressing. Besides, all he could think of was that if Mr. Dupin was wrong about this Mr. Fortnoy, perhaps it meant he was wrong about all the other things of which he’d been so sure.
Restless, Edmund began to wander aimlessly about the docks. There was enough to hold his interest. The on-and-off drizzle had brought a glossy wet shine to every surface. Flares burned with smoky fumes. Goods, coils of rope, piles of spars were everywhere. Now and again he chatted with men he had previously befriended. All had a kindly word. Many asked about his sister.
As he and Sis liked to do, Edmund began to search out interesting ship names. He found a fishing boat called Sea Swan, a coastal skiff named Ebony, and an old square-rigged merchant brig called General Jackson. Many a shared daydream had begun with such names. Seeing them now made Edmund sad. He turned away.
With no fixed purpose in mind, Edmund made his way to the eastern end of the docks, around Fox Point, to the river wharfs where small fishing boats and ferries berthed. With weather so foul, work had ceased. And the longer Edmund wandered the more desolate the scene became. It matched his mood.
At last, he turned mournfully for home. But as he did he saw someone leap behind a stack of barrels. It was as if the person were trying to hide.
Edmund stood stock still, staring into the dark. Once again he recalled his notion that someone — or something — had followed him when he left his room the night before. And, yes, wasn’t it the same, someone following Mr. Dupin as he went to Mrs. Whitman’s just before? Now Edmund was not so ready to dismiss the idea.
Seeing nothing, he shifted his eyes. He realized suddenly just how alone he was. His apprehension grew. Then he checked himself. What had Mr. Dupin taught him? Be certain. He must be sure he was being followed.
Determined not to lose self-control, Edmund turned and continued along the deserted quay. To his left, across the river, city lights glowed. To the right rose College Hill, dark but for a few gas lamps. He saw no other person.
For a few more moments he went on, then abruptly stopped and spun about. A figure scurried behind a box. Was it, he wondered, someone intent upon stealing him as his sister had been stolen? Perhaps he would be taken to where she was. But what if she, like his aunt, had been murdered?
Trying to keep calm, Edmund spied a wharf which extended fifty or more yards into the river. It was, he saw, made of great crossed beams of wood, arranged trestle-fashion. Two boats were tied to it. Otherwise it appeared to be deserted.
An idea came to him. If he went out to the end of the wharf, the person following him, thinking him trapped, might follow further. And if he, Edmund, reached the wharf’s end first, he also might go under the wharf, scramble beneath it, then come up behind the person and see just who it was.
Moving slowly, as though he were not being pursued, Edmund stepped onto the wharf. At the halfway point he halted and pretended to look at one of the two boats docked there. She was a small packet boat, a sloop which bore the name Sunrise. He stole a glance behind him. Through the murk he could just make out that whoever the stranger was, he had followed.
Fifteen yards from the end, Edmund paused again. He took a deep breath. After reminding himself what he was going to do, he took another breath, then burst into a run.
The moment he reached the wharf’s end he threw himself down, then swiveled so as to let his legs dangle over the edge while his arms and hands, stretched to their limit, gripped the top surface planking. The wood was very splintery, and cut his fingers painfully.
Hand over hand, legs kicking madly, Edmund lowered himself into the inky blackness, each moment praying that his toes would find a crosspiece to settle on. His foot touched wood. Though he couldn’t see the support he had to trust that it was wide enough, strong enough to hold him.
He swung in his other foot. It too found a surface. Held. Now, with both feet on the cross brace, he edged inward until he was standing firmly. The most difficult moment had come.
Wanting to ease down on the piece where his feet were resting so as to get under the wharf deck, Edmund knew he had to shift his grip. He must release his hold on the top with one hand then move that same hand down and grasp another support below. He made a tentative try, but he could not reach anything below the dock while simultaneously holding on to the top. His arms were too short. It was then that he realized he was going to have to let go of the top — completely — and allow himself to fall. He’d have a chance, one chance only, to make a snatch at a grip underneath. If he missed he’d be in the freezing black waters below.
His courage failed him. He could not do it. Frightened, he made an attempt to go back up. But he had gone too far. There was nothing to do but continue.
Swallowing hard, spreading his feet a little wider to gain more balance, heart racing madly, Edmund let go.
In the instant of falling from the wharf end he managed to shoot forward the hand already under the dock, swing down the other arm, then snatch at the wood with the tips of his fingers. The effort was just enough. He had grabbed hold of something. And he was quick enough to strengthen that small grip into a firmer hold. Though he had to gulp great drafts of air just to breathe, Edmund
knew he was safe.
Even so there was no time to pause. It was impossible to know if the illusion he had meant to create — that of going off the wharf’s end — had successfully fooled the person following him. Besides, even if he had succeeded, it meant only that the first part of his scheme had worked.
Like a monkey in a cage, Edmund scrambled beneath the dock. It was cold and slimy there. Masses of seaweed clung to the timbers around unexpected and painfully sharp clusters of barnacles. Still, he managed to move along the beams, over and under, until he was sure he was completely hidden.
He paused. Using his arms for balance, he was able to stand with some ease. As his breath returned to normal he attempted to look about. It was too dark. Instead he listened to the slap of water right below. The next moment he heard steps on the wharf deck directly overhead.
Crouching beneath the deck of the wharf, he listened as the footfalls passed and moved toward the end. There they stopped. Edmund held his breath. In moments the steps returned. Again they moved directly above him, then trailed back in the direction of the shore.
Sighing with relief, Edmund put the last part of his plan into action. He began to follow along the beams, hoping to see whoever it was.
He reached the shore end quickly. Once there he groped about for some way to get back to the top of the wharf. He was in luck. Where the wharf met the quay someone had built a crude ladder. He pulled himself up, poked his head out cautiously, and looked around.
At first it was too dark, too misty to see anything. And he heard not a sound. Then, gradually, some twenty feet away, he was able to make out what looked like the shadowy form of a man. But in the darkness all that Edmund could be sure of was a glow — rather like a halo — of white hair. White hair. Was it, he wondered with new excitement, Mr. Fortnoy?
Edmund searched for some way of getting closer. But before he could, the man began to move away until, to Edmund’s dismay, he disappeared. All that was left was the sound of retreating footsteps.
Edmund allowed himself to relax. Though disappointed to have learned so little, he felt real satisfaction, even a little pride. He had not the slightest doubt that the stranger had followed him in order to take him, as he had taken Sis. On his own he had managed to avoid that.