The Poe Shadow Read online

  The Poe Shadow is a work of fiction. Many of the characters are inspired by historical figures; others are entirely imaginary creations of the author’s. Apart from the historical figures, any resemblance between these fictional characters and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Matthew Pearl

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The

  Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,

  New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.atrandom.com

  eISBN: 978-1-58836-517-0

  v3.0_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Publisher’s Note

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Book Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Book Three

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Book Four

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Book Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Historical Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Also by MATTHEW PEARL

  About the Author

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The mystery related to the strange death of Edgar Allan Poe in 1849 has been uncovered through the following pages.

  I PRESENT TO YOU, Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, the truth about this man’s death and my life. The narrative has not been told before. Whatever has been taken away from me, one last possession remains: this story. There are those of our city today who tried to stop it. There are those sitting here among you who still believe me a criminal, a liar, an outcast, a clever, vile murderer. Me, Your Honor: Quentin Hobson Clark, citizen of Baltimore, member of the bar, a fond reader.

  But this story is not about me. Please think of this, if you think of nothing else! It never was about me; ambition had never been my chosen stimulus. This was not motivated by my own fortunes among my fellow class or reputation in the eyes of higher judges. It was about something greater than I am, greater than all this, about a man by whom time will remember us though you had forgotten him before the earth settled. Somebody had to do it. We could not just keep still. I could not keep still.

  All that follows will be the plain truth. And I must tell you it because I am the one nearest the truth. Or, rather, the only one still living.

  It is one of life’s peculiar facts that it is usually those no longer alive whose stories preserve the truth….

  These statements above I scribbled in the pages of my memorandum book (the last sentence is crossed out, I notice, with “philosophical!” written in my hand beside it as critique). Before walking into that courthouse, I scribbled these words in desperate preparation to face my defamers, those who thought ruining me rescued themselves. Because I am an attorney, you may think the prospect of all this—I mean standing before a courtroom of onlookers and former friends, and two women who might love me—you might think the prospect of doing that would be fairly effortless to the experienced Baltimore attorney. Not so. To be an attorney, you must be interested above all else in the interests of others. It does not prepare a man to decide what must be saved. It does not prepare a man to save himself.

  Book I

  OCTOBER 8, 1849

  1

  I REMEMBER THE day it began because I was impatient for an important letter to arrive. Also, because it was meant to be the day of my engagement to Hattie Blum. And, of course, it was the day I saw him dead.

  The Blums were near neighbors of my family. Hattie was the youngest and most affable of four sisters who were considered nearly the prettiest four sisters in Baltimore. Hattie and I had been acquainted from our very infancies, as we were told often enough through the years. And each time we were told how long we’d known each other, I think the words were meant also to say, “and you shall know each other evermore, depend upon it.”

  And in spite of such pressure as might easily have pushed us apart, even at eleven years old I became like a little husband toward my playfellow. I never made outward professions of love to Hattie, but I devoted myself to her happiness in small ways while she entertained me with her talk. There was something hushed about her voice, which often sounded to me like a lullaby.

  My own nature while in society as it developed was markedly quiet and tranquil, to the degree that I was often asked at any given moment if I had only just then been stirred awake. In quieter company, though, I had the habit of turning unaccountably loquacious and even rambling in my speech. Therefore, I savored the stretches of Hattie’s animated conversation. I believe I depended upon them. I felt no need to call attention to myself when I was with her; I felt happy and modest and, above all, easy.

  Now, I should note that I did not know that I was expected to propose marriage on the afternoon with which we begin this narration. I was on my way to the post office from the nearby chambers of our law practice when I crossed paths with a woman of good Baltimore society, Mrs. Blum—Hattie’s aunt. She pointed out immediately that the errands of retrieving waiting mail should be assigned to one of my lesser and less occupied legal clerks.

  “You are a specimen, aren’t you, Quentin Clark!” Mrs. Blum said. “You wander the streets when you are working, and when you’re not working, you have a look upon your face as though you were!”

  She was your genuine Baltimorean; she suffered no man without proper commercial interests any more than she would tolerate a girl who was not beautiful.

  This was Baltimore, and whether in fine weather or in this day’s fog it was a very red-brick type of place, where the movements of the people on well-paved streets and marble steps were quick and boisterous but without gaiety. There was not much of that last quality in supply in our go-ahead city, where large houses stood elevated over a crowded trading bay. Coffee and sugar came in from South America and the West India Islands on great clipper ships, and the barrels of oysters and family flour moved out on the multiplying railway tracks toward Philadelphia and Washington. Nobody looked poor then in Baltimore, even those who were, and every other awning seemed to be a daguerreotype establishment ready to record that fact for posterity.

  Mrs. Blum on this occasion smiled and took my arm as we walked through the thoroughfare. “Well, everything is quite perfectly arranged for this evening.”

  “This evening,” I replied, trying to guess what she could be referring to. Peter Stuart, my law partner, had mentioned a supper party at the home of a mutual acquaintance. I had been thinking so much of the letter I anticipated retrieving, I had until then forgotten completely. “This evening, of course, Mrs. Blum! How I’ve looked forward to it.�
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  “Do you know,” she continued, “do you know, Mr. Clark, that only yesterday I heard dear Miss Hattie spoken of on Market Street”—this generation of Baltimoreans still called Baltimore Street by its former name—“yes, talked about as the loveliest unmarried beauty in all Baltimore!”

  “One could argue the loveliest above all, married or not,” I said.

  “Well, isn’t that clever!” she replied. “Oh, it won’t do at all, twenty-seven and still living bachelor and—now don’t interrupt, dear Quentin! A proper young man doesn’t…”

  I had trouble hearing what she said next because a loud rumble of two carriages grew behind us. “If it is a hackney approaching,” I thought to myself, “I shall put her into it, and offer double the fare.” But as they passed I could see both were private carriages, and the one in front was a sleek, shiny hearse. Its horses kept their heads low, as if in deference to the honorable cargo.

  No one else turned to look.

  Leaving behind my walking companion with a parting promise of seeing her at the evening’s gathering, I found myself crossing the next avenue. A herd of swine swarmed past with belligerent shrieks, and my detour ran along Greene Street and across to Fayette, where hearse and mourning-carriage were parked together.

  In a quiet burial ground there, a ceremony began and ended abruptly. I strained through the fog at the figures in attendance. It was like standing in a dream—everything blurred into silhouettes, and I swallowed down the vague feeling that I should not be there. The minister’s oration sounded muffled from where I stood at the gates. The small gathering, I suppose, did not demand much effort from his voice.

  It was the saddest funeral ever seen.

  It was the weather. No: the mere four or five men in attendance—the minimum needed to lift an adult coffin. Or perhaps the melancholy quality came chiefly from that brisk, callous completion of the ceremony. Not even the most impoverished pauper’s funeral that I had observed before this day, nor the funerals of the poor Jewish cemetery nearby, not even those exhibited such unchristian indifference. There wasn’t one flower, wasn’t one tear.

  Afterward, I retraced my steps only to find the post office had bolted its doors. I could not know whether there was a letter waiting for me inside or not—but I returned to our office chambers and reassured myself. Soon, I’d hear more from him soon.

  That evening at the social gathering, I found myself on a private stroll with Hattie Blum along a field of berries, dormant for the season but shadowed with summer remembrances of Champagne and Strawberry Parties. As ever, I could speak comfortably to Hattie.

  “Our practice is awfully interesting at times,” I said. “Yet I think I should like to choose the cases with more discrimination. A lawyer in ancient Rome, you know, swore never to defend a cause unless he thought it was just. We take cases if their pay is just.”

  “You can change your office, Quentin. It is your name and your character hanging on the shingle too, after all. Make it more like yourself, rather than make yourself more suited to it.”

  “Do you believe so, Miss Hattie?”

  Twilight was settling and Hattie became uncharacteristically quiet, which I fear meant that I became insufferably talkative. I examined her expression but found no clues to the source of her distant bearing.

  “You laughed for me,” Hattie said absently, almost as though I would not hear her.

  “Miss Hattie?”

  She looked up at me. “I was only thinking of when we were children. Do you know at first I thought you were a fool?”

  “Appreciated,” I chuckled.

  “My father would take my mother away during her different sicknesses, and you would come to play when my aunt was minding me. You were the only one to know just how to make me smile until my parents returned, because you were always laughing at the strangest things!” She said this wistfully, while lifting the bottom of her long skirts to avoid the muddy ground.

  Later, when we were inside warming ourselves, Hattie talked quietly with her aunt, whose entire countenance had stiffened from earlier in the day. Auntie Blum asked what should be arranged for Hattie’s birthday.

  “It is coming, I suppose,” Hattie said. “I should hardly think of it, typically, Auntie. But this year…” She trailed off into a cheerless hum. At supper, she hardly touched the food.

  I did not like this at all. I felt myself turn into an eleven-year-old boy again, an anxious protector of the girl across the way. Hattie had been such a reliable presence in my life that any discomfort on her part upset me. Thus it was perhaps from a selfish motivation I tried to cure her mood, but at all events I did wish her to be genuinely happy.

  Others of the party, like my law partner, Peter, joined in attempting to raise her spirits, and I studied each of them vigilantly in the event that one of them had been responsible for bringing Hattie Blum into a fit of blues.

  Something was hindering my own role in cheering her on this day: that funeral I had seen. I cannot properly explain why, but it had thoroughly exploded my peace. I tried to call to mind a picture of it again. There had been only the four men in attendance to listen to the minister. One, taller than the others, stood toward the rear, his gaze floating off, as though the most anxious of all to be somewhere else. Then, as they came toward the road, there were their grim mouths. The faces were not known to me but also not forgotten. Only one member delayed, staying his steps regretfully, as though overhearing my private thoughts. The event seemed to speak of a terrible loss and yet to do it no honor. It was, in a word, Wrong.

  Under this vague cloud of distraction, my efforts exhausted themselves without rescuing Hattie’s spirits. I could only bow and express my helpless regrets in unison with the other guests when Hattie and her Auntie Blum were among the first to depart from the supper party. I was pleased when Peter suggested we bring an end to the evening, too.

  “Well, Quentin? What has come over you?” Peter asked in an eruption. We were sharing a hired carriage back to our houses.

  I thought to tell him of the sad funeral, but Peter would not understand why that had been occupying my mind. Then I realized by the gravity of his posture that he referred to something altogether different. “Peter,” I asked, “what do you mean?”

  “Did you decide not to propose to Hattie Blum this evening, after all?” he demanded with a loud exhalation.

  “Propose! I?”

  “She’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks. For a Baltimore girl today, that is practically an old maid! Do you not love the dear girl even a little?”

  “Who could not love Hattie Blum? But stay, Peter! How is it you came to assume we were to be engaged on this night? Had I ever suggested this was my design?”

  “How is it I—? Do you not know as well as I do that the date today is the very same date your own parents were engaged? Had this failed to occur to you even once this evening?”

  It had indeed failed to occur to me, as a matter of fact, and even being reminded of this coincidence provided little comprehension of Peter’s queer assumption. He explained further that Auntie Blum had been sagely certain I would take the opportunity of this party to propose, and had thought I had even hinted such earlier in the day, and had so informed Peter and Hattie of this likelihood so they would not be surprised. I had been the unwitting, principal cause of Hattie’s mysterious distress. I had been the wretch!

  “When would have been a more reasonable time than tonight?” Peter continued. “An anniversary so important to you! When? It was as plain as the sun at noon-day.”

  “I hadn’t realized…” I stammered.

  “How couldn’t you see she was waiting for you, that it is time for your future to begin? Well, here, you’re home. I wish you a restful sleep. Poor Hattie is probably weeping into her pillow even now!”

  “I should never wish to make her sad,” I said. “I wish only that I knew what seemed to be expected from me by everyone else.” Peter gruffly muttered agreement, as though I had finally struck upon
my general failing.

  Of course I would propose, and of course we would marry! Hattie’s presence in my life had been my good fortune. I brightened whenever I saw her and, even more, whenever we were apart and I thought about her. There had been so little change all this time knowing her, I suppose it had just seemed odd to call for it now with a proposal.

  “What do you think about?” Peter seemed to say with his brow as I closed the carriage door to bid him good night. I pulled the door back open.

  “There was a funeral earlier,” I said, deciding to try to redeem myself with some explanation. “You see, I watched it pass, and I suppose it troubled me for a reason I had not…” But no, I still could not find the words to justify its effects on me.

  “A funeral! A stranger’s funeral!” Peter cried. “Now, what in heaven does that have to do with you?”

  Everything, but I did not know that then. The next morning I came down in my dressing gown and opened the newspaper to distract myself. Had I been warned, I still could not have predicted my own alarm at what I saw that made me forget my other concerns. It was a small heading on one of the inside pages that caught me. Death of Edgar A. Poe.

  I would toss the newspaper aside, then would pick it up again, turning pages to read something else; then I’d read again and again that heading: Death of Edgar A. Poe…. the distinguished American poet, scholar, and critic in the thirty-eighth year of his age.

  No! Thirty-nine, I believed, but possessed of a wisdom worth a hundred times that…Born in this city. No again! (How questionable it all was, even before I knew more.)

  Then I noticed…those four words.

  Died in this city.

  This city? This was not telegraphed news. This had occurred here in Baltimore. The death in our own city, the burial, maybe, too. Could it be that the very funeral on Greene and Fayette…No! That little funeral, that unceremonious ceremony, that entombment in the narrow burial yard?

  At the office that day, Peter sermonized about Hattie, but I could hardly discuss it, intrigued instead by these tidings. I sent for confirmation from the sexton, the caretaker of the burial yard. Poor Poe, he replied. Yes, Poe was gone. As I rushed to the post office to see if any letter had arrived, my thoughts revolved around what I had unknowingly witnessed.