The Man Who Was Poe Read online

  FOR DOROTHY MARKINKO

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  1 MIGHT I KNOW YOUR NAME?

  2 BENEATH A COLD NOVEMBER MOON

  3 STEPS IN THE NIGHT

  4 MEDDLE AT YOUR PERIL!

  5 AN OLD MAN WITH WHITE HAIR

  6 THE PROVIDENCE NIGHT WATCH

  7 JUDGMENT OF MURDER

  8 A PERFECT TOMB

  9 NEWS OF SIS

  10 THE ONE WHO MURDERED HER

  PART TWO

  11 BEYOND THE CEMETERY GATE

  12 TO SEE A GHOST

  13 OUR SECRET FEARS

  14 OVER THE EDGE

  15 THE FACE ON THE WALL

  16 THE MAN WHO WAS POE

  17 NO DETAIL TOO SMALL

  18 THE WOMAN IN THE CHURCH

  PART THREE

  19 THE STORY

  20 SUNRISE

  21 THE CHASE

  22 THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY

  SOMETHING ABOUT EDGAR ALLAN POE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY AVI

  COPYRIGHT

  AT THE FAR back of the top floor of an Ann Street tenement was a room. It was a small, single-windowed room, not much warmer than the outside, for there was only a solitary candle to heat it. The room contained a table, a chair, and against one wall, a trunk. Opposite the trunk was a narrow bed upon which sat a boy. His name was Edmund.

  He was a frail boy, as thin as the clothes he wore, with light hair and a face both sad and pale. His knees were drawn up and he was hugging them, head down. But all the while he was watching his sister.

  Sis — that was Edmund’s name for her — was a little taller than her brother, her hair a shade lighter, but otherwise they shared a close resemblance. She was sitting by the table, a blanket draped across her shoulders. Her feet, in high-buttoned shoes, were hooked over the lower rung of the chair. Open before her lay a tattered book of fairy tales. But it had been hours since she’d read a word.

  “Edmund?” she said in a low, empty voice.

  “What?”

  “How long is it now?”

  “Two days.”

  Sis continued to stare at the door. Then, in a breaking voice, she said, “But what reason could there be for Aunty staying away so long?”

  Edmund sighed. “She must have some.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  Edmund squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Do you truly think it has to do with Mum?” Sis continued.

  “I’m sure it does,” Edmund said. “Aunty’s found her and together they’ve taken a lovely house. They’re only making it right for us.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I want to,” Edmund said.

  Sis leaned over the table again and made another attempt to read. Edmund could see she was too weary.

  “I’m beastly hungry,” she said finally.

  Edmund closed his eyes.

  Sis took a coin out of her pocket and placed it on the table. “We’ve got a half dime left,” she announced.

  “I know.”

  “It could buy something.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Aunty said we were not to go out, that we were to stay here.”

  “But Edmund,” Sis cried. “Something must have happened to her! In all the month we’ve been here, in all her going about and looking for Mum, never once has she kept away this long. Now has she?”

  “No,” Edmund admitted.

  “And we’ve eaten everything we had. She wouldn’t want us to starve, would she?”

  “We promised not to go out,” Edmund said resolutely. “What if we went and she returned? She might think something awful had happened to us. It would be a dreadful shock. You know the way she is.”

  “It’s you who mind her so,” Sis said. “I don’t.”

  Edmund looked down. How many times had he explained to Sis that since he was the sole man of the family, he had a responsibility to meet. Going out at this hour would have been dangerous enough in England, their home, but here in America, where they were still strangers … No, the safest thing to do was to obey Aunty.

  “We’d only be gone a tiny bit,” Sis coaxed.

  “No.”

  “Then you go,” Sis said suddenly. “I’ll stay.”

  Edmund lifted his head. “Alone?”

  “Somebody has to!”

  “Nothing will be open.”

  “That saloon on Wickenden keeps night hours. They might have something there.”

  “Aunty says it’s a wicked place.”

  “Oh, Edmund,” Sis cried, “Aunty Pru isn’t here! We have to do for ourselves! And if you won’t, I will.”

  For a long while Edmund said nothing. But when he saw a tear trickle down his sister’s cheek he drew himself to his feet. From his pocket he took out a key. “I’ll go on one condition,” he said. “I’ll lock the door once I’m out. That way no one but me can get in and I’ll feel better about leaving you.”

  “Edmund, really!” she said as she pressed the half dime into his hand. “Nothing will happen. You’ll be only a few moments.”

  “I’ll run both ways.”

  “And Edmund,” Sis said, drawing the blanket more tightly about her shoulders, “if Aunty does come back while you’re gone, I promise I’ll say it was all my idea. I’ll say I hounded you out.”

  “You may tease,” Edmund said solemnly, “but it’s not right to leave you alone.”

  Sis tried to keep from smiling. “Mustn’t worry. I’ll be a perfect lady and sit quietly reading ‘Hansel and Gretel’ again and I won’t ever stop until you come back. There! Does that make you feel better?”

  Before he changed his mind, Edmund went out the door. Once in the hall he put the key in the lock and turned it.

  “The door is locked!” he called.

  “And I’m safe,” he heard her say. “Now, just hurry!”

  Clutching the key in one hand, the coin in the other, Edmund scurried down the steps.

  In the cold outside, not a soul stirred. Decrepit buildings three and four stories high appeared to teeter over broken sidewalks and narrow, muddy streets. The stench of garbage thickened the dismal air. The only light was the occasional blue blur of candles behind dirty windowpanes.

  Edmund kept telling himself that it was wrong to leave Sis. Hadn’t Aunty warned that this city was full of danger for them? But then, they did have to eat. And Sis was right: Aunty was always saying things were dangerous.

  Oh, why was it so hard to know what to do? Because I’m young, Edmund answered himself. Grownups know what’s right. Then he thought, If only I were older and a real man!

  An aching isolation filled him. Where was Aunty? What could have kept her away so long? When no answers came, he bucked himself up to be brave, then began running.

  The saloon on Wickenden Street was a small, dirty place, reeking of soured rum. Two low-burning oil lamps shed dim light, and in the corner a rusty iron stove offered more smoke than heat. The only decoration was a hodgepodge of posters and public bills on one wall. Two tables meant for customers were deserted.

  But behind the counter was a burly bear of a man. Bearded, he wore an ill-fitting dinner jacket, and a tilted stove-pipe hat on his head. A pile of old newspapers lay before him.

  Edmund made his way to the counter. The man looked down. “Yes, boy,” he said gruffly. “What do you want?”

  “Please, sir,” Edmund whispered. “I’d like some food.”

  “I’ve meat pies,” the man growled. “And bread. How much money do you have?”

  Edmund put down his coin.

  After studying it with a baleful eye the man scooped the coin up. From below the counter he
pulled out a loaf of bread, cut it in two, wrapped one half in a sheet of newspaper, then handed the package to Edmund. “There you are,” he said.

  Edmund’s heart sank. “Is that to be all?” he asked.

  “You’re lucky to get that,” the man told him.

  “Thank you, sir,” Edmund mumbled. Relieved that he had at least found them something, he raced out.

  He was still running when he turned into Ann Street.

  “Here! Boy!” came a cry.

  Edmund stopped and looked about. Across the way he saw what appeared to be a very old man. He was quite bent over, covered with a coat and scarf which he’d wrapped around his face against the cold. Only his eyes and white hair could be seen. One hand held a cane.

  “Would you help me, boy!” the stranger cried in a pitiful, shaky voice.

  Edmund approached timidly. “Yes, sir. What’s the matter, sir?”

  “I’ve lost my way.”

  “Where might you be going, sir?”

  “Shamrock Street. Is it that direction?” The man pointed to the right.

  “No, sir,” Edmund said. “It’s quite the other way.”

  “I’m all confused,” the man said with a shake of his head. “It’s my eyes. My age … Would you be charitable and guide me there?”

  Edmund looked toward the tenement where he knew Sis was waiting.

  “I’m an old man,” the stranger begged piteously. “And cold. I’ll perish if I don’t find my way!”

  Shame filled Edmund. He could hear his Aunty Pru saying how wicked it would be to refuse such a request. He had done wrong in leaving Sis. He knew that. But having done so, he must now do the right thing. He must. “Very well, sir,” he said, pocketing the door key. “I’ll show you.”

  “Bless you, boy. Bless you …”

  Edmund drew close. The man reached out and clutched his arm.

  “This way …” Edmund said.

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  They began their walk, the man maintaining a tight grip as though fearful the boy might bolt.

  A journey which Edmund could have accomplished in five minutes dragged out to twenty and sorely tried his patience. More than once he reminded himself that to help such an old man was the proper thing. He only hoped Sis wasn’t worrying.

  At last they reached the corner of Shamrock Street.

  “This is it,” Edmund announced.

  “Thank you, boy. Thank you,” the man murmured. Without a backward glance he moved away.

  For a moment Edmund watched the bent and white-haired figure disappear into the dark. Then, recollecting himself, he raced back to Ann Street, up the steps to the top floor of the building, then down the hallway. Reaching their room, he tried to open the door. When it didn’t give, he remembered he’d locked it. It was the work of seconds to get the key out, insert it in the keyhole, twist, and throw the door open.

  With horror Edmund stared into the room. Sis was not there.

  THE OLD CITY lay dark and cold. A raw wind whipped the street lamps and made the gas flames hiss and flicker like snake tongues. Fingers of shadow leaped over sidewalks, clawing silently upon closely set wooden houses. Stray leaves, brittle and brown, rattled like dry bones along cold stone gutters.

  A man, carpetbag in hand, made his way up College Hill, up from the sluggish river basin, battling the steep incline, the wind, and his own desire. He was not big, this man, but the old army coat he wore — black and misshapen, reaching below his knees — gave him an odd bulk. His face was pale, his mustache dark, his mouth set in a scowl of contempt. Beneath a broad forehead crowned by a shock of jet black hair, his eyes were deep, dark, and intense.

  Sometimes he walked quickly, sometimes slowly. More than once he looked back down the hill, trying to decide if he should return to the warm station and the train he had just left. There were moments he could think of nothing better. But he had traveled all day and was exhausted. What he wanted, what he needed, was a place where he could drink and sleep.

  And write. For the man was a writer very much in need of cash. A story would bring money. But of late he had been unable to write. Idea, theme, characters: he lacked them all.

  Short of breath, he reached Benefit Street. There, he stopped beneath a lamp post and looked south. The porch lamp of the Unitarian Church was glowing, indicating that its doors were open to the homeless. If he had no choice he knew he could sleep there. But his gaze turned north. That was where he wanted to go.

  Opening his carpetbag he rummaged through clothing, bottles, a notebook, until he found a letter. He read it. Though he himself had written the letter many times, he still found it unsatisfactory. Still, he felt he’d best deliver it before he changed his mind.

  More slowly than before, the man walked north along Benefit Street until at last, seeing the house where he intended to leave the letter, Number Eighty-eight, he paused. The door to the dark red building — ordinary a moment before — now appeared to him like a gaping, hungry mouth. He felt suddenly that he was looking through the mouth to a graveyard situated just behind.

  Despite the bitter cold, he began to sweat. Pain gripped his heart. He felt as if a million needles were pricking him. Against his agony he shut his eyes until, unable to bear it, he turned and fled. Even as he did someone flung himself from the darkness, crashing into him, and all but knocked him to the ground.

  Gasping for breath the man attempted to see who had attacked him. Seeing no one, he was seized with terror. A demon had struck. Then he saw: sitting on the pavement, equally stunned, was not a demon, but a boy.

  The man drew himself up. “That,” he managed to say, “was a vicious blow.”

  “I didn’t see you, sir,” Edmund whimpered. “I’m very sorry.”

  “I should think you would be,” the man said as he brushed off his greatcoat. “You could have sent me to the grave.” With a quick step he started off, only to stop. Something about the boy’s wretchedness had touched him. And when the boy shivered — he was wearing little more than a shirt and trousers and even these were ragged — the man came back.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Edmund was too frightened to say.

  “I asked you a question,” the man said, his voice turning harsh.

  Edmund attempted to reply but gave up. Instead he buried his face in his arms and began to sob.

  The man knelt. “What are you doing here at such an ungodly hour?” he demanded. “Why have you nothing warmer to wear? What is the matter?” He drew up Edmund’s face. When he saw how dirty, red-eyed, and streaked with tears it was, he softened. “Why are you so troubled?” he asked.

  “She’s gone,” Edmund blurted out, trying to knuckle the tears from his eyes.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Sis.”

  “Sis?” the man repeated in a shocked whisper.

  “My sister,” Edmund explained, not noticing the strange look which had come into the man’s face.

  “Gone … where?”

  “I don’t know.” Edmund began to sob again.

  “Your mother? Your father?” The question was asked with new urgency. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t have a father, sir. Nor a mother.”

  The man stared fixedly at the boy. “How long,” he whispered, “have you been without them?”

  “My mum left a year ago,” Edmund answered.

  “And your father?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your father.”

  Edmund turned away. “He was lost at sea.”

  “Then who looks after you?”

  “Aunty Pru. And … now she’s been gone three days.”

  “Three days!”

  “Aunty told us to wait. She said she’d come back after two hours, that since I was the man of the family, it was my job to take care of Sis. But though we waited, sir — never budged — Aunty didn’t return. It was only when we had no more food that I went out to get some bread. It wasn’t far. To the saloon on Wickenden
Street. I know I wasn’t supposed to leave her, but, sir, there was nothing left. And Sis was beastly hungry. I had to. It had been two days!

  “I did lock the door behind me. And I did come right back. But when I did, though the door was still locked, Sis was gone. Ever since, I’ve been searching for her. All over the city. And, sir, I’ve tried to get help, but no one would give it!” Edmund burst into tears again.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  The man stood. “On your feet,” he said.

  Shivering from nervous exhaustion as much as from the cold, Edmund got up. “Please, sir,” he said, “I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?”

  “Perhaps. Do you know your numbers?”

  “Yes, sir. I can read.”

  The man took his letter from his pocket. “Take this to Number Eighty-eight. Deliver it to a Mrs. Helen Whitman. Can you do that?”

  “But my sister …”

  “The letter,” the man snapped. Then, more softly, he added, “Afterward we shall see about you.”

  Edmund, willing to do anything for even the hope of help, struggled to pull himself together. “Shall I say who it’s from, sir?” he asked.

  “She’ll know when she reads it. Go on now. I’ll wait for you here.”

  Edmund dashed down the street. As soon as he went, the man stepped into a shadowy recess. From there he watched the boy reach the door of Number Eighty-eight. Saw him knock. There was no answer. The boy knocked again, then looked around as if seeking advice. Even as he did, a gleam of light appeared behind the glass at the top of the door.

  The man’s heart began to pound. The door opened a crack. The boy was now talking to someone. A hand — to the man’s eyes it had the whiteness of a ghost’s hand — reached out, withdrew the letter, and quickly shut the door.

  Edmund raced back. But when he returned to the place where he’d left the man, it was deserted. His heart sank.

  “Here I am,” came a voice.

  Edmund whirled.

  “Did Mrs. Whitman say anything?”

  “I don’t know if the lady was Mrs. Whitman, sir,” Edmund said. “All she said was, ‘Thank you.’”

  The man looked toward Number Eighty-eight. A candle appeared in a second floor room.

  “She’s reading it,” he whispered.