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

Ophelia when you think of me! And pray, be constant to one of the Bard’s plays, one about love and with a happy resolution. Consider A Midsummer Night’s Dream —it holds a mirror to some scenes from our story. It is indeed true that the course of true love never did run smooth.
    These last few days I have tried to reason with my father, who thinks me a child at sixteen—a child he would marry off to a man twenty years my senior, with one wife already dead and buried. Marriage must be wed to love, but my father would invoke Athenian law given the opportunity. He cares not that I have no feelings for the banker, only for my security and status, both of which he threatens to withhold if I disobey him.
    Could you still love me if you were all I had in the world? I await your answer.
    Yours,
    Elizabeth
    The Cooper’s Arms,
Rose Street, Covent Garden
14 April 1784
    My Dearest Love,
    One play is not enough to reveal my heart to you. If I must borrow every line of Shakespeare to persuade you to be mine, then borrow with abandon I will.
    Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love you and you alone. Your father could indeed find you a better match if marrying happily is wealthily. Who steals my purse steals trash,but he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him and makes me poor indeed. I have little to offer of material riches, but all that glisters is not gold. Devotion is the jewel of my soul.
    If your father must play the role of Egeus, then you must be Hermia and I, Lysander. My childless Aunt in the country is called Gretna Green. Let me take you to visit her. Your father will forgive us in time. No father can abandon his only daughter forever.
    Yours and yours alone,
    Henry

LONDON, THURSDAY, 2 JULY 1840
    It was six o’clock by the time I arrived back at Brown’s, where the desk clerk greeted me with a smile, despite my unfortunate appearance. He acquiesced politely when I requested that a hot bath be drawn for me and brought out a small packet from behind the desk.
    â€œThis arrived not long after you left, sir.”
    My heart leapt with expectation—a letter from Mr. Dickens! But when I looked more closely, I became doubtful, for surely the packet contained more than one letter. Perhaps Mr. Dickens had entrusted me with a tale—I had, after all, sent him a full collection. Or perhaps he was returning my tales with unfavorable news. It was with these conflicting emotions that I took the packet to my room.
    I discovered that it was not from Mr. Dickens at all; in fact, the identity of the sender was a mystery, as no note was included, which made the packet’s contents all the more chilling. Fourteen letters were inside, all antique, separated into two bundles, each tied with a length of green ribbon, which looked to be very new. I untied the first bundle of three letters and instantly recognized the handwriting as that of Elizabeth and Henry Arnold. The letters dated from 1784 and were olderthan the others in my possession; I read them with numbed stupefaction. I then untied the ribbon that secured the second bundle and glanced at the first few missives: one a peculiar Valentine and the next an account of yet another attack. Nausea overwhelmed me and my vision was so compromised I could barely see the third letter. I was finally released from my torpor by a knock upon my door and the voice of a servant informing me that my bath was ready. I thanked the girl for her timely arrival and scurried to the bathroom, relieved to escape whatever miserable tale the other letters held.
    As I eased into the steaming water, confusion misted my mind. If Mrs. Allan—my adoptive father’s widow—were the author of this dreadful hoax, how could she have known I was in London and staying at Brown’s Genteel Inn? The bruises I had sustained in the attack began to throb, so I sank further into the bath, but felt the tip of