The Poe Shadow

be popular, it was not meant to have a principle or a moral sense, but it was his true form of being.'

As he spoke, Neilson situated himself in the corner of his library and, as he swiveled his chair for a volume of Edgar Poe's Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, there was a twitch at the side of his mouth that seemed a distinct quality of Edgar Poe's. To hide my observation of him, I removed from the shelf the April 1841 number of Graham's, containing the first tale of Dupin, 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' I held it reverently and thought of my own library, my own collection, my home, Glen Eliza, which no doubt had been disturbed and ruined by the police in their various searches for evidence of my guilt and obsessions.

'Do you know he was paid only fifty-six dollars for his first Dupin tale?' Neilson said, seeing the object of my interest. 'In the time since his death, I have seen the press push and splatter him. I have seen that shameful and unjust biographer make Edgar whomever he would like. Remember, this is my name, too, Mr. Clark. Poe is the name of my wife, and my children are Poes-as my sons' children will be. I am Poe. In the last months, I have read and reread nearly all that my cousin wrote, and have felt with each turn of the page greater affinity with him, a closeness of the highest order, as though the same words might have come from me that he had managed to extract from our common blood. Tell me, Mr. Clark, you had met him?' he asked offhandedly.

'No.'

'Good!' said Neilson. Seeing my puzzled reaction, he continued. 'I mean only that it is better that way. Seek to know him through the words he published. His genius was of such a rare quality, hardly to be sustained in this world of magazinists, that he could not but believe all were against it and that, given time, even friends and relatives would turn into enemies. His perception, frightened and anxious on this point, was a result of a world harsh to literary pursuits-a harshness I discovered for myself in my youth. His life was a series of experiments on his own nature, Mr. Clark, that brought him far from the movements of our world into a knowledge only of the perfection of literature. We cannot know Edgar Poe as a man, but can know him well as the genius he was. This is why he could not be fairly read until after his death-by me, by you, and now, perhaps, by the world.' He paused. 'You are feeling better now, Mr. Clark?'

I found I could think more clearly and had been freed of a surge of wild emotions that had before consumed me. I could only remember my latest actions as one thinks of a dream, or a distant memory. I blushed a bit in embarrassment to think of how Neilson had found me. 'Yes, many thanks. I fear I had been rather overexcited when you came upon me at Amity Street.'

'Please, Mr. Clark,' he chuckled in surprise, 'you must hardly blame yourself for being poisoned.'

'What do you mean?'

'The doctor who examined you was quite certain that you had been mildly poisoned. He found traces of the white powder still in the posterior of your mouth, an expert mixture of several chemicals. Do not worry. He was also rather certain the effects had quite exhausted themselves and were not permanently harmful in these doses.'

'Poison? But who-' I stopped myself, knowing with sudden clarity the answer. The guards at the prison who, with great vigilance, constantly replaced the pitchers of water on my cell table. Officer White, frustrated with my continued denials in the interviews with him, had likely been the one to order it: to confuse my mind enough to extract some kind of statement of responsibility, to ensure a confession of my wrongs! Indeed, I now also possessed Neilson Poe's information about White's desire to suppress the inquiry I had demanded. He would have poisoned me until I confessed or died, or was driven to harm myself. My life had been saved through the means of my chance escape.

All the derangement of my mental state in the hours after leaving the prison became clear to me and stung my mind. Searching for Poe-digging his grave with the belief that he was alive-invading his former home from so many years earlier! That person had dropped from me and I stood taller now, seeing all that was happening with perfect vision.

Neilson seemed momentarily thoughtful and, perhaps, anxious. 'Perhaps you do need more rest, Mr. Clark.'

'The boy,' I said suddenly. 'The messenger boy of whom you spoke, the one who helped you carry me, and then who returned with the doctor. Where is he?' I had not seen anyone in the house other than the children.

Neilson hesitated. I could hear a new sound, unmistakable and increasing. Horses, high-stepping through the watery streets; a carriage's wheels splashing behind.

Neilson raised his head at the sound. 'I am a member of the bar, Mr. Clark,' he said. 'You are a fugitive from justice, and I have done my duty by sending the police word of your presence. I have a responsibility. Yet, somehow, I cannot help but think that you, of all people, have the ability to vindicate the memory of my unhappy kinsman and my name. I would be pleased to serve as your defender in court, should you wish.' I remained frozen in place. 'Remember, Mr. Clark, you were an officer of the court, too. You have a duty to choose.'

Neilson stepped slowly in front of the door, and in my weakened state he would have likely subdued me with ease until his messenger boy entered with the police.

'The children,' Neilson said suddenly. 'Do not think me too strict, Mr. Clark, but I must see to it that they are sleeping.'

'I understand,' I said, nodding with gratitude.

As he started into the hall toward the stairs, I dashed out of the room and did not look back.

'God watch over you!' Neilson called after me.

***

My mission was clear. I would find Auguste Duponte. He alone could provide the definitive proof of my innocence. Now that Bonjour had revealed to me that no harm had been done to him, even thinking of how close he might be lent me an air of invincibility that moved me rapidly through the drowned streets of Baltimore. Indeed, perhaps Duponte had already begun to investigate the shooting of the Baron. Perhaps he had even come to the lyceum that evening, before it occurred, had witnessed it and fled in preparation for the troubles he knew would come from it.

It seemed the most necessary objective in the world to prove my name to Hattie, for she had persisted in her friendship to me throughout my stay in prison when others had abandoned me. It might seem small compared to the fact that my life could end as a criminal, and she was marrying another man anyway, but my goal now was to prove myself to Hattie.

I would not dry thoroughly for days; my ears, lungs, and insides were swimming long after I'd waded and splashed through the treacherous streets of Baltimore. It felt as though the Atlantic had broken over the shores and was moving across to unite with the Pacific. I was able to locate Edwin, and he secured me changes of linen and modest suits of clothing. He wished to assist me in obtaining a place safer from the eyes of the police. He had brought clothing in bundles to an empty packinghouse, once belonging to my father's firm, where I took refuge by remembering a loose door hinge from years ago that had never been repaired.

'You have helped me enough, Edwin,' I said, 'and I should not wish to risk your safety any further. I have called down enough trouble on everyone's heads for a lifetime.'

'You have done what you believed right, you have bet your life on it,' he said. 'Poe is dead. A man has been shot. Your friend, disappeared. And enough people have been hurt. You must stay safe, at least, so there is someone sure of the truth.'

'You must not be thought committing any crime, for aiding me,' I said. This was a serious point. If a free black was convicted of a significant offense, he could be punished in the worst way imaginable for a freeman: by being entered by the authorities back into slavery.

'I was not born in the woods to be scared by an owl.' Edwin laughed his reassuring laugh. 'Besides, I think not even Baltimore has punished a man yet for giving some old duds to a man whose linen is out at the elbows. Now, will you be able to rest here for the night?'

Edwin continued to lend his aid and searched me out at the packinghouse at regular intervals. Although tempted to do so, I refrained from trying to make any calls on Hattie out of concern that they might endanger her. My outings were severely restricted, and I knew not to go anywhere near the grounds of Glen Eliza for fear of