Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster by Karen Lee Street Page A

exchanged letters with my Pa’s wife as she did not deign to respond to anything I sent her. Her lawyer communicated with me about my disinheritance.”
    Dupin nodded, a satisfied expression on his face.
    â€œWhy do you ask? Do you suspect that the letter is not from Mrs. Allan?”
    â€œDo you?” Dupin puffed on his cigar and studied me, which lent the uncomfortable sensation of being on trial.
    â€œNo, why would I? Does the handwriting indicate that someone else penned it? What does the handwriting suggest of Mrs. Allan’s character?” I hastily added before Dupin could counter my question with one of his own.
    He scanned the page again. “The author seems to take pains with her handwriting—the letters are well-formed, every ‘t’ is crossed, every ‘i’ dotted, the punctuation is very precise and there is a sense of uniformity throughout. This suggests a methodical, determined character with a steadiness of purpose. An autocratic air pervades the whole, however, and the sharpness of the upstrokes and the downstrokes indicates a vengeful nature. The flourishes, which are not many, seem deliberately planned and firmly executed, as if the author is consciously presenting a cultured façade to the world. The paper is very good and the seal is gold, which adds to this illusion of cultivation. And while the handwriting has a pleasing overall appearance, it differs from that of her sex in general by an air of great force and its lack of feminine delicacy.”
    â€œI must say that this description of Mrs. Allan is more than accurate. I am astonished how much of her character you are able to fathom with the aid of such a short text.”
    Dupin narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing as he looked carefully at each letter again before setting them down upon the table. “Of course we must also reflect on thesimilarities between elements of your handwriting and that of Elizabeth Arnold’s. What secrets might this hold?” Dupin scrutinized my face as if it were handwriting on the page.
    My desire to escape Dupin’s questions overwhelmed me. “I am sorry, but I suddenly feel most unwell. I must either retire to my bed or seek air to refresh me.”
    Dupin gently placed his fingertips upon the letters before him and adjusted them into a perfect line. “I would advise fresh air,” he said. “Perhaps you should visit the haunts of your youth, those associated with happier times. It is all too common to be held captive by one’s own darker thoughts, and too much solitary contemplation leads one down the path toward madness.” I felt my hackles rise at Dupin’s unflattering words, but he continued before I could speak. “Your company in Paris saved me from myself, Poe. I did not like to admit it then, but I see it now. I trust you will allow me to return the favor. You were truthful with me then, and I hope you will always do me the honor of such candor.”
    No suitable response came to me, so I simply nodded.
    â€œI have research I can pursue for the remainder of the day,” Dupin continued. “Might we meet again this evening with refreshed minds? At eight o’clock at the Smyrna Coffee House in St. James’s?”
    â€œVery good. Thank you, Dupin.”
    He shrugged away my thanks. “May I keep the letters for now? I would like to study the details of the crimes.”
    â€œOf course.” I left Dupin’s rooms, already knowing what my destination would be that afternoon. I would walk to Bloomsbury parish where my Pa had rented apartments for our family more than twenty years previously. I had long been curious to see the place again.
    * * *
    The desk clerk that morning was a middle-aged man who was immaculately dressed but of dour demeanor. While I had the fanciful notion that my feet would guide me to my childhood home, I asked him for guidance in finding my destination and also some shops where