Nevermore, p.25
Nevermore, page 25
Before I could complete more than a few sentences, however, Russell interrupted me with a dismissive wave of the hand and declared: “Colonel Crockett has already informed me about the contents of the newspaper article that aroused your concerns over Mrs. Nicodemus’ safety—concerns that have now been all-too-fearfully realized. I must confess, Mr. Poe, that I am dismayed at your having withheld such vital information from me.”
“There were compelling reasons to do so,” I softly replied.
“Be that as it may,” he declared, “I must request—no, demand—that, in the future, you apprise me of any discovery that may have bearing on this case.”
Arranging my features into an expression of sincere compliance, I gave a nod of assent.
“Now, Mr. Poe,” said Russell grimly. “Since you have fully regained both your conscious faculties and powers of speech, please tell us in as much detail as possible precisely what transpired in this room.”
The mere prospect of recollecting the abomination I had witnessed, of reliving the terror—the enormity—the sheer, indescribable hideousness—of Mrs. Nicodemus’ death caused my heart to sicken. Inhaling a deep breath, I proceeded to recount the ghastly narrative, beginning with my decision to retire temporarily from the ballroom, and concluding with the murder itself. Notwithstanding Captain Russell’s recent admonition, however, I refrained from describing the terrible revelation which had been vouchsafed me in the instant before I fainted.
Following the conclusion of my recitation, a moment of silence ensued, during which Captain Russell—his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed—continued to regard me with an inscrutable, though distinctly appraising, look. “So the perpetrator of this ghastly deed was costumed as the Angel of Death?”
“That is correct,” I replied.
“And the killing occurred so near to your vantage point on the bed that your own costume became embrued with the blood issuing from the poor woman’s neck.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“I take it that the same phenomenon accounts for the blood on your hands, as well.”
Taken aback by this observation, I instantly lifted my hands and scrutinized my palms. To my surprise—for I had not, until that moment, been cognizant of the fact—they were indeed mottled with blood. “When the atrocity occurred,” I said musingly, “I must have raised my hands before my face in an instinctive, shielding motion.”
Slowly stroking one end of his extravagant moustache, Russell subjected me to a prolonged and intensely discomfitting period of inspection. At length, and in a voice whose tone possessed a strangely insinuating under-current, he declared: “You appear to have a peculiar habit of being present whenever disaster strikes, Mr. Poe. I first set eyes upon you over the ghastly remains of Elmira Macready. You were a guest at Roger Asher’s when he and his sister perished in the dreadful conflagration. It was you who discovered Alexander Montague’s horribly mutilated corpse. And now this.”
“There’s a right smart chance of funerals whenever Poe is around, for a fact,” Crockett said, casting a quizzical look at the police captain. “But you ain’t suggesting that he—?”
“I am suggesting nothing,” said Russell. “I am merely offering a detached observation.”
Despite the latter’s protestation, it was now unmistakably clear that Russell had begun to perceive me as a suspect in the series of unparalleled atrocities that had commenced with the slaying of Elmira Macready. An icy chill coursed through my spine—my heart began to palpitate uncontrollably—my mouth grew parched with fear. At that instant, Count Languedoc—who had been hovering several paces to the rear of Captain Russell—stepped forward and declared: “Excusez-moi, Monsieur le Prefect. I could not help but overhear. While I am reluctant to cast doubt on the testimony of Monsieur Poe, I must in good conscience declare that I myself saw no one at poor Mrs. Nicodemus’ ball who was costumed as La Mort.”
Swiftly turning on the Frenchman, Crockett—his handsome visage wrought into an irate scowl—said: “Are you calling my pard a liar, mon-sewer?”
“Pas du tout,” replied the other indignantly. “I am merely stating that—though present from the very commencement of the ball—I observed no such masquerader.” With a haughty elevation of one eyebrow, he inquired: “Did you?”
This query appeared to catch the frontiersman off guard. “Why, no,” he replied in a somewhat flustered manner, “I can’t rightly say as I did.” Turning quickly to Russell, he proclaimed: “But that ain’t nothing. The keenest-eyed injun scout in the whole blamed world wouldn’t of noticed everyone. Why, there was as many folks at that shindig as piss-ants in a holler log.”
For a moment, Captain Russell stood in silent rumination, pinching his lower lip while casting a speculative gaze at Crockett. At length, he turned towards his young subordinates and declared: “McGrath. You and Blair go into the ballroom and interview the other witnesses. See if you can ascertain whether anyone observed a guest who was attired in the manner Mr. Poe has described.”
At this reference to the remaining partygoers, I was seized with a spasm of sudden and overpowering alarm. So distraught—so disoriented—had I been rendered by the catastrophic events of the evening that I had entirely forgotten about Virginia!
Reaching out a hand, I clutched at the fringed right sleeve of Crockett’s deerskin shirt and, in a tremulous voice, anxiously inquired as to my darling Sissy’s whereabouts.
“Don’t you fret none, ol’ hoss,” replied the frontiersman consolingly. “Maryanne Mullany has fetched her back home. I figgered this scene of infernal butchery wasn’t no place for the gals.”
Relinquishing my hold on the frontiersman’s garment, I emitted a heartfelt sigh of gratitude and relief. All at once, I grew cognizant of a peculiar commotion emanating from the direction of the doorway. Casting my gaze thitherward, I perceived that this disturbance was occasioned by a new arrival, who was attempting to make—or rather to force—his way through the press of onlookers congregated outside the room. A moment later, the crowd gave way, and a singular personage strode across the threshold. His identity was quickly established when—noticing his entrance—Captain Russell took a step in his direction and declared: “Welcome, Mr. Bedloe. I have been expecting you.”
This name was immediately recognizable to me from various newspaper accounts I had perused over the years, involving manifold crimes, accidents, and fatalities. It was none other than the Coroner’s Physician of the City of Baltimore, Mr. Augustus Bedloe. Never having set eyes on this individual before, I took a moment to study his appearance. Clad entirely in black, he was inordinately tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceedingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large, pale, and arranged in a perpetual frown. His eyes, though abnormally large, were so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as to suggest the idea of a long-interred corpse. Altogether, he conveyed an impression of profound melancholy—of phaseless and unceasing gloom.
Speaking not a word, nor pausing in his stride, Bedloe swiftly crossed the room and, bending to the bulkier of the two shrouded forms, reached down one long, bony hand and swiftly drew aside the blood-stained sheet. So sudden was this motion that—before I could avert my eyes—I found myself staring directly at a sight that chilled the very marrow in my bones.
The mutilated corpse of Mrs. Nicodemus lay flat on its back, legs extended and slightly apart, arms out-stretched, palms turned upward. Not merely the head but the entire neck was severed from the body, the death-blow having been delivered at the level of the shoulders. The ghastly condition of the maimed, truncated cadaver, its upper torsal region embrued in gore, was in itself profoundly appalling. Adding to the horror, however, was the sight of the severed head. Situated directly above the left shoulder, it sat upright on its neck-stump, its glassy eyes wide open, its bow-shaped mouth forming a perfect O, as though it were issuing a small exclamation of surprise at finding itself thus detached from the trunk.
At the first glimpse of these grisly remains, I could feel the blood drain completely from my countenance. A wave of nausea rose up in my bosom, which I struggled in vain to subdue. Perceiving the intensity of my distress, the frontiersman tapped a forefinger on Captain Russell’s shoulder and addressed him thusly: “Cap’n, I reckon I’d best take Poe back home, for he is looking mighty poorly.”
“Very well,” said Russell. “I see no reason why he should not return to his domicile.” Then, turning to me, he inquired: “You are quite certain that you have told us everything that transpired here tonight, Mr. Poe?” As before, the tone of his voice conveyed a sense of the liveliest suspicion.
Assuring him—with all the sincerity I could muster—that I had omitted nothing from my testimony, I set my feet upon the floor, placed my hands against the edge of the mattress, and pushed myself into a standing position. So debilitating, however, had been the effects of that evening of madness that—when I endeavored to walk—my knees immediately buckled, and I nearly collapsed to the floor. I was rescued from this mishap by Crockett, who—swiftly grabbing me by the upper portion of my right arm—prevented me from falling.
“Let me give you a hand, ol’ hoss,” he said, as—with his stabilizing assistance—I slowly made way across the room. “I’ll be hanged if you ain’t as unsteady as a steamboat with one wheel.”
CHAPTER 25
The barouche which bore us to the party having been employed to transport Sissy and Miss Mullany back to Amity Street, it fell to Crockett to secure another conveyance for our use. How this was accomplished, I cannot say My mental condition was one of extreme stupefaction. Though my limbs retained their power of locomotion, my conscious mind had ceased to operate with any degree of autonomy. I can compare this state to no phenomenon more properly than to a waking dream—or, rather, nightmare. Even with my eyes fully open, I saw nothing but the all-too-vivid image of Henrietta Nicodemus’ savaged body—severed neck—and sundered head. The awful spectacle I had witnessed continued to possess me with a fierce and unrelenting hold.
At some point, Crockett must have succeeded in obtaining a carriage. He must have led me to the passenger’s side and helped me to clamber on board. Then—assuming the driver’s position and taking hold of the reins—the steadfast backwoodsman must have maneuvered the vehicle through the dark, cold, and empty streets, while I sat shivering beside him.
I know these things, not because I possess any positive memory of them, but rather by inference; for—following the lapse of an indefinite period of time—I found myself standing before the doorway of my modest domicile on Amity Street, with Crockett’s steadying hand grasping one of my elbows. Of the circumstances which ensued I retain only the vaguest and most fragmentary of impressions: ill-defined recollections of the door being flung open by Muddy; of the good woman’s cries of alarm as she perceived my blank eyes, pallid countenance, and blood-spattered attire; of Crockett’s warm reunion with Maryanne Mullany, who—after escorting Virginia back to our abode—had awaited the arrival of the frontiersman; of Muddy’s welcome tidings that Sissy, although deeply distressed by the events of the evening, was now soundly asleep; of Crockett’s prompt and considerate leavetaking, after assuring me that he would return on the morrow for a “pow-wow”; and of Muddy’s strong and indescribably consoling arm wrapped about my shoulders as she assisted me into my bedroom, where—without bothering to exchange my garments for a nightgown—I staggered towards my bed and fell face forward upon my mattress. Instantly, I found myself submerged in a long, profoundly unsettling, and uncannily vivid dream in which the condemned queen Marie Antoinette sat keening in a great wooden-wheeled tumbrel as it clattered through the serpentine streets of Paris on its way to her dread appointment with the “Nation’s Razor”
Awakening with a groan, I found my chamber suffused with sunlight. For several moments, I was incapable of coherent thought. Though possessed of a dim, yet intensely disquieting, sense that events of a highly anomalous nature had occurred the evening before, I could conjure up no definite recollection of them. What precisely had transpired? How had I come to be reposing on top of my bedclothes, instead of comfortably beneath my blankets? And why was I garbed in such extraordinary attire?
All at once, I became aware of an odd and wholly unpleasant sensation on the palms of my hands. Raising them to the level of my eyes, I saw that they were dabbled with reddish-brown stains. At that instant, the truth came rushing back upon me. Leaping from my bed, I hurried to my washstand and vigorously scrubbed away the sanguinary vestiges of the awful atrocity. Then, divesting myself of my bloodsoiled costume, I rapidly changed into my customary attire and strode from the room.
Muddy was not in the kitchen. Repairing to Virginia’s chamber, I discovered the good woman at her dear daughter’s bedside. Only Sissy’s empillowed head was visible, the remainder of her body being concealed beneath her quilt. Her eyes were closed—her features were utterly immobile—and her complexion was exceptionally pallid. In all, she resembled nothing so much as recently deceased corpse—an appearance which, I could not help but observe, endowed her with a strange, supernal beauty. A tremulous gasp escaped my lips, at the sound of which Muddy became aware of my presence. Perceiving the distressed look upon my face, she quickly assured me that—though the intensely trying events of the ƒête, as well as an excessive indulgence in its many culinary delights, had left Sissy somewhat indisposed—there was nothing seriously amiss with the angelic creature.
After inquiring as to my own state of physical and emotional health—and learning that I was as well as could be expected—Muddy declared: “There is some nice porridge for you on the stove, Eddie. Go and help yourself to some. It will do you good. I will stay here with Virginia a bit longer.”
Obeying the good woman’s injunction, I proceeded to the kitchen and quickly fortified myself with a large portion of the bracing substance. I had just finished scraping the last remnants from my bowl when a vigorous rapping upon the front door signalled Crockett’s arrival.
Within moments, I had admitted the frontiersman to our domicile and escorted him into my study, where we took our accustomed places—I in the seat behind my writing table, he in the facing chair. Having exchanged his backwoods raiment for his ordinary attire, he looked much the same as I had grown used to seeing him. There was, however, a peculiarly troubled expression upon his rugged, sun-browned countenance.
“I am right happy to see you back on your feet, Poe,” he said, scrutinizing me with a gaze of singular intensity. “You was looking mighty poorly when I fetched you home last night. How’s Miz Virginny faring?”
“She is resting comfortably in her chamber, attended by our ever-faithful Muddy, who has assured me that the dear child is expected to achieve a complete and rapid recuperation. In view of the extreme fragility of Sissy’s youthful constitution, it is a wonder that she has not been rendered even more severely incapacited by the shocking events of last evening.”
“Shocking is right,” exclaimed Crockett. “Why, I ain’t seen such deviltry since the bloody massacre at Fort Mimms, when that infernal varmint Red Eagle and his band of cutthroats carried out the work of death as a butcher would in a slaughter pen.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I can perceive by the lineaments of distress engraved upon your visage just how deeply you have been affected by the appalling tragedy whose occurrence we foresaw, but were helpless to prevent.”
“I reckon so,” the frontiersman grimly replied. “Why, there wasn’t but one thing you and me was supposed to be doing at that shindig—an’ that was making sure no harm come to poor Miz Nicodemus. I don’t know about you, Poe—but failing is mighty bitter medicine for Davy Crockett to swallow.”
“I am entirely sympathetic to your feelings,” I said gravely. “And yet, I cannot help but wonder whether any efforts on our part would have sufficed. I have begun to conceive”—and here, I could not keep my voice from betraying a slight, though noticeable, quaver—“that the adversary with whom we are faced is a being possessed of no ordinary human powers”
For a moment, Crockett merely stared at me in silence. Then, shifting uneasily in his seat, he declared: “There is something else that’s got me a mite discombobillated, Poe.”
There was, in his voice, a strangely hesitant quality, as though the matter he felt obliged to broach were fraught with the most acute embarrassment An irrepressible tremor of premonitory alarm pervaded my bosom.
“Has anything else transpired since we parted last night?” I nervously inquired.
“I’ll be shot if there ain’t,” Crocket confirmed. “Something mighty troubling.”
With their digits so tightly interwoven that the knuckles showed white, I placed my folded hands upon the surface of the writing table and leaned forward in my seat. “Please apprise me of this matter at once,” I urged.
Several tense and discomforting moments elapsed while the frontiersman continued to scrutinize me in silence. “Dagnab it, Poe,” he ejaculated at last “It’s Cap’n Russell. He came to see me at the hotel this morning while I was eating breakfast. Sat himself right down at the table and begun asking me all sorts of questions.”
“And what was the subject of his inquiries?” I barely managed to utter, my organ of vocalization having been seized with a sudden onset of extreme nervous constriction.
“Why,” exclaimed Crocked, “they was all about you!”
Far from being unexpected, Crockett’s reply only confirmed the foreboding conviction that had been mounting within my bosom for the past several moments. The predictability of his remark, however, in no way mitigated its singularly unnerving impact. Uncoupling my hands, I extended my arms sideways and tighty grasped the edge of the writing table. “And what were his reasons for propounding these queries?” I asked in a tremulous voice.
