“In contrast, Poe loved his foster mother, but he was barely an adult when he lost her, as well, another motivating factor in the omnipresence of the dead, dying and decaying in so many of his works. He fell in love with and married his cousin, Virginia, and she, too, was frail, and died at a young age. Perhaps it was only natural that Poe should be obsessed with death. We recognize Poe now as one of the great literary geniuses of American history, but in his time, he struggled. He longed to be respected by his peers, but that respect was never forthcoming. The ironic tragedy is that he was on the verge of achieving all that he craved at the time of his death, and in fact, his own death was shrouded in mystery.
“He was in love with Elmira Shelton, who had been a childhood sweetheart and was then a widow. She had accepted his marriage proposal, and might have had the age and wisdom to curb the drinking that was his ongoing downfall. He had written happily to his aunt and mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, to say, ‘I hope that our troubles are nearly over.’ Here in Richmond, he was becoming a fixture on the lecture circuit. He wasn’t getting rich, but he was being well received. And then…he headed for Baltimore. He disappeared for several days, then was discovered in the street, delirious, wearing another man’s clothing. He died on October seventh, eighteen-forty-nine, and his last words were, ‘God help my poor soul.’ His life was a litany of depression, alcoholism, lost love and great sadness, his death a mystery as dark as any story he ever penned.”
The docent nodded gravely, and her audience was spellbound as they followed her into the museum. All except for Gen and Nikki, who remained standing outside in the sunshine. Genevieve, frowning, kept watching the spot where the woman had stood.
“What is it?” Nikki asked.
“Something she said.”
“That his death was a mystery?”
“No…no. I’ve heard all the theories on his disappearance. I have a feeling that it had to do with the voting scandal of the time.” When Nikki looked at her curiously, she explained. “A candidate’s supporters would find a man, keep changing his looks and send him out to vote over and over again. By giving him a lot to drink, they kept him docile and willing to do whatever they told him. And then, when they were done with him, they assumed he would be all right and sent him on his way. Unfortunately, Poe was an alcoholic and he wasn’t all right.”
“So what’s bothering you?” Nikki asked.
“It’s the whole tortured-genius concept,” Genevieve said. “She said, ‘he longed to be respected by his peers.’ I don’t know why, but that just keeps coming back to me. The whole tortured-genius thing. If we were only looking at the murder of Thorne Bigelow, Jared would be the prime suspect. Even Lori Star was probably only killed to cover up the first murder. But if the deaths here and in Baltimore are related, we need to look at the bigger picture, at different motives. So…Poe was a tortured genius. Maybe the killer sees himself as a tortured genius, too.”
“You could be on to something,” Nikki said. Then she grinned and said, “But don’t torture yourself over it. We’ll figure it out soon enough.”
She sounded so certain, Gen thought, and asked, “Where to next?”
“Let’s do the churches. Monumental Episcopal and St. John’s.”
Monumental had been built on the site where Elizabeth Poe, Edgar’s mother, had once worked as an actress. They were able to sit in the same pew where Edgar Allan Poe had gone to services with his foster parents. From there, they moved on up East Broad Street to St. John’s, the church where Patrick Henry had given his famous “Give me liberty or give me death” speech. There the historical marker at the churchyard entry claimed two very famous grave sites, one for the patriot George Wythe, and another for Elizabeth Arnold Poe. A local guidebook that Nikki had picked up at the museum explained that Elizabeth’s grave was at the far eastern edge of the churchyard for a reason.
She’d been an actress. And that, in her day, had been scandalous. The congregation of the time had been appalled that she was allowed to be interred in their graveyard at all.
As they walked the grounds, Genevieve kept her eyes on Nikki. But if the other woman was seeing ghosts, she gave no sign.
Inside the church, they couldn’t help being swept up in the building’s revolutionary history. But because her mind was so heavily on the task at hand, eventually Genevieve found it wandering to her own mystery.
Then she noticed the memorial. “Nikki, look.”
It was the kind of marker that usually noted the fact that a certain person had been laid to rest beneath the floor. But this one wasn’t old, and it didn’t refer to anyone buried in the church. It was just a memorial.
To William Morton.
According to the inscription, he had not only attended the church, he had helped to keep up the building and grounds, and he had given generously of his time and his earnings.
And he was buried in a nearby cemetery.
“Let’s go,” Nikki said.
They hurried back out to the car, where Nikki glanced at a map for a moment, then started the engine and pulled back onto the road.
Genevieve read from the guidebook as they drove. “This says there are three presidents buried there,” she told Nikki. “James Monroe and John Tyler and Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America.”