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

I might purchase some charming fripperies for my wife and mother-in-law. The fellow was left-handed and held his pen at an awkward angle to avoid dragging his hand through the ink, but the map was elegantly drawn and noted several purveyors of ladies’ finery.
    I left Brown’s Genteel Inn, map in hand, using my umbrella as a walking stick, and made my way down Dover Street to Piccadilly and on through Burlington Arcade, which had an array of wonderful shops. I was particularly captivated by window displays that ingeniously promoted the virtues of the products sold within. The hatters, for example, had a pair of scales in the window to prove the lightness of a hat and a glass globe filled with water in which a hat was placed to demonstrate its superior waterproofing. But it was on Oxford Street that I saw a window display that stilled my breath. A company of varying ages—three gentlemen, four ladies and three children—dressed in elegant mourning costumes, stood solemnly before an ornate casket decorated with a large immortelle wreath of porcelain lilies. This tableau vivant proved to be an illusion when a window dresser stepped amongst the wax figures to make adjustments to their funereal accouterments—black kidskin gloves, sober hats, necklaces of jet. I hurried away, determined to shake off the gloom that had descended upon me. I would look for gifts on the way back to Brown’s.
    My mood lightened again as I neared High Holborn, which was lively with a variety of pedestrians: coal-men delivering small barrows of coal to houses; girls carrying baskets upon their heads containing fresh vegetables and herbs for sale; men hurrying toward their places of employment; and womenattending to the purchase of household necessities in the shops. A milkmaid wearing a yoke to carry her wares shouted “Milk!” at each person she wandered past, with little strategy and even less success in terms of selling her load. The distinctive sound of horse hooves on cobbles mixed with the rattle of the coaches, and the shouted commands of their drivers added to the bustle of this busy thoroughfare. Two men armed with shovels roved the area, collecting the manure deposited in copious amounts by the carriage horses. Straw was scattered on the walkways and in front of shops to aid the absorption of the previous night’s rain, the mud and other less pleasant effluvia, but it did little to alleviate the stink, which was pungent as old meat and amplified to a terrible degree. I soon wished that I had doused my handkerchief with cologne.
    After turning into Southampton Row, I quickly located number forty-seven. It was our first home in London, quite a cozy place where I spent a few pleasant months with Ma and her sister Nancy before being sent away to boarding school in Chelsea. The exterior was tidy enough but not exceptional—a plain brick façade similar to its companions along the row. I had remembered the architecture as far more imposing, but youth’s perspective tends to exaggerate the scale of things. I felt an urge to knock on the door and ask to see inside, but decided against this foolish whim. Instead, I walked the short distance back down to number thirty-nine, a rather larger apartment my Pa had rented during our final year in London. While the lodgings were more commodious, they had held little joy for me during my brief time spent within their walls due to my dear Ma’s unhappiness. As if in sympathy with this memory, a light rain began to fall, and I unfurled my umbrella. Tempted as I was to return to the comfort of Brown’s Genteel Inn, first I wished to go to Russell Square, a park I had visited often with my Aunt Nancy. She was charged with my care when I returnedhome from boarding school for holidays or a special weekend, and was typically as eager as I was to escape the confines of our Bloomsbury home when the weather was fine.
    When I turned into Russell Square, I entered the