The Pale Blue Eye: A Novel (40 page)

I barely listened to what he said. No, I was far more conscious of the fact that he was saying it in the full hearing of Poe, someone he might as easily have sent away with one wave of his hand. Something had changed, that was clear enough. The rules of decorum that guided Hitchcock from the moment he woke to the moment he fell asleep had been swept aside.

"No," I answered, strangely calm. "That's impossible."

"I only wish it were," he said.

Poe's head drew back. A quick shiver took hold of him from heel to crown.

"But which one?" he asked.

A long pause before Hitchcock answered: "Mr. Stoddard."

"Stoddard," I echoed, dully.

"Yes. Don't you relish the irony, Mr. Landor? The last cadet to see Leroy Fry alive may now himself have met the same fate."

"Ah!" came the cry from the doorway.

And now it was Hitchcock's turn to be surprised. Hitchcock's turn to spin round and find a silhouetted figure. The figure of Lea Marquis.

She didn't faint, I won't go that far, but she dropped, yes. Dropped to one knee. The wide skirt of her dress turned to aspic round her, but her eyes--her eyes stayed fixed the whole time. Never so much as blinked.

Poe was the first to rush to her side. Then me. Then Hitchcock, more flustered than I had ever seen him.

"Miss Marquis, please accept... I had no idea you were... I should have... you must..."

"They'll keep dying."

That was what she said. Under her breath--and over it, too, somehow. Said it with her blue eyes blazing. Said it as though there were no one else on that verandah.

"One by one," she said. "They'll keep dying until nobody's left."

Narrative of Gus Landor

31

December 8th to 9th

By the time tattoo came round that night, word of Stoddard's disappearance had spread to every cadet, bombardier, and instructor. Theories blazed like fireflies. Mrs. Cutbush continued to insist that Druids were involved; Lieutenant Kinsley said the answer lay in the stars; Mrs. Thompson, the boardinghouse proprietor, was putting her money on Democrats; and more and more cadets were subscribing to the idea of a vengeful Indian spirit. No one went easefully to bed. Several of the faculty wives had already announced their intention to spend the remainder of the year in New York (one even stayed up until dawn supervising the packing). The cadets who held sentinel duty that night stood back to back so nothing could catch them by surprise, and at least one upperclassman woke in a terror, screaming and grabbing for his musket on the wall.

Yes, fear was abroad, but you wouldn't have known it by the appearance of the West Point commandant. When I stopped by his quarters shortly after ten the next morning, Hitchcock was sitting at his desk, looking serene and maybe a bit forgetful, as if he were trying to locate his crossbelt. The only sign that something was amiss was his right hand, which had set off on a mission all its own, combing the Hitchcock hair in endlessly repeating strokes. "We sent out another search party at dawn," he said, "though I can't imagine what they might find that the last one didn't." His hand paused.

His eyes closed. "No. No, I can imagine."

"Oh, now, Captain," I said. "I wouldn't give up hope just yet."

"Hope," he repeated in a lower register. "I'm afraid it's too late for that, Mr. Landor. I'd settle for a good night's sleep."

"Then please get some," I said. "I've just been to Mr. Stoddard's quarters."

"Yes?"

"And I made an interesting discovery."

"Yes?"

"Mr. Stoddard's trunk was empty."

He looked at me with an air of suspension, as though the rest of my sentence had been sheared off in midflight.

"There were no clothes in it," I prompted. "No civilian clothes."

"And what are we to make of that?"

"Well, for one thing, I don't think we have another corpse on our hands, Captain. I believe Mr. Stoddard has run off on his own two legs."

He sat up. Drew his hand from his hair. "Go on," he said.

"Well, I'm sure you'll recall that Mr. Stoddard was one of--no, he was the only cadet petitioning to cancel the term. Isn't that so?"

He nodded.

"Now, I know," I said, "believe me, I know you've got some anxious fellows running about. Why, you've got young men seeing Iroquois in bushes! But to the best of my knowledge, only Stoddard has begged to be sent home. Why?"

Hitchcock regarded me for a few seconds. "Because he had a particular reason to fear for his safety," he said.

"That's my thinking, too, yes. As you remember, Captain, we had occasion to talk to Mr. Stoddard very early on in our inquiry. He was the one who told us of running into Leroy Fry in the stairwell. That strange meeting, that remark of Fry's about necessary business."

"So you think he may have seen something that night? Something else?"

"Well, it's possible, that's all I'll say." "But why would he have held it back, when we gave him every chance to tell us?"

"All I can think is he had more to fear from telling."

Hitchcock sat back in his chair. His eyes drifted toward the leaded casement window.

"You mean to suggest that Stoddard might be implicated in the other deaths?" he asked.

"Well, he's deep into something or other. Deep enough, at any rate, that he thought it better to run away than confess."

Suddenly he was standing. Making straight for the bookshelf, as if he had a specific title in mind, but then stopping a yard short.

"We know that Stoddard was an intimate of Fry's," he said.

"Yes."

"But we don't know of any connection between Stoddard and Ballinger."

"Oh, we do, actually. You'll find it in the next transcription of Fry's diary. Two summers ago, both Stoddard and Ballinger were good mates with one Leroy Fry."

His eyes took on a damp, avid cast. "But how is Stoddard connected with Artemus Marquis?"

"That's not clear as yet. One mystery at a time. In the meantime," I said, "it's most important that we find Mr. Stoddard. I can't stress that too highly, Captain. We must track him down wherever he's gone."

He watched me for a time. Then, speaking low and firm, he said:

"If Mr. Stoddard is hiding on the reservation, we shall find him soon enough."

"No, Captain," I said, kindly. "I think he's probably left us for the time being."

I began to wriggle into my cloak--then thought better of it. Draping the cloak back on its hook, I settled into my chair and looked into Hitchcock's one candle and said:

"Captain, if you don't mind..."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to beg mercy for Mr. Poe."

One corner of his mouth tilted down; his eyes began to glitter.

"Mercy?" he said. "Do you mean for his little coup de theatre last night? That would seem a bizarre request, Mr. Landor, when you, better than anyone, can enumerate all his infractions. Begin with leaving the Academy reservation after hours. Continue with the imbibing of spirits--a goodly quantity, by the looks of him. Let us not forget presenting himself under an assumed name."
"He wouldn't be the first cadet to--"

"He is the first in my tenure, Mr. Landor, to have the temerity to impersonate an officer of the United States Army. You may imagine how I regard that particular subterfuge."

Strange. I couldn't help feeling--as I always did in Hitchcock's presence--that I was myself on trial. I bowed my head over my hands, and the words came jittering out, like spasms of sin.

"I believe--I believe he was--under a certain impression."

"Which was?"

"That he was helping me."

Hitchcock eyed me coldly. "No, Mr. Landor. I don't believe that was the impression he was under. I believe I know the impression he was under."

I might have begged him then to recall what love can do to a young man. But this was Ethan Allen Hitchcock. Against his hide, Cupid's whole arsenal had made scarcely a nick.

"As you know," he continued, "this is far from being Mr. Poe's first infraction. I have not even mentioned the dozen or so occasions over the past few weeks alone when he left his quarters after tattoo for the purpose of... well, why don't you tell me, Mr. Landor, what is it that draws him to Mr. Cozzens' hotel night after night?"

Oh, my.

Well, in the end, I had to smile, Reader. Thinking how clever Poe and I had believed ourselves in hiring a paid Army escort and shutting ourselves behind closed doors, drinking and chattering until dawn. Poe hadn't seen anyone following him, had he? And so we trusted the evidence of our senses, when we should have relied on our history with Thayer and Hitchcock. These were men who had to know everything. Hence, they knew everything.

Hitchcock laid his hands on his desk and drew himself toward me. "I never had him intercepted, Mr. Landor. I granted you both that latitude and never cried foul and never once demanded an explanation. Nor did I ever hold you to account for frequenting Mr. Havens' establishment. You will see, perhaps, that I am not so rigid a man as you believe. And should you need further confirmation, I will gladly inform you that the only person to be disciplined for last night's fiasco is Lieutenant Kinsley."

"Kinsley?"

"Of course. He was the officer detailed to watch South Barracks last night. He manifestly failed in his duty."

"But Poe was--"

"Indeed he was. However, my running into him must fall under the category of an unfortunate accident. Had I not been preoccupied by business, I might well have toasted his good health and congratulated him on his pluck. Even now, I cannot in good conscience punish a fellow simply because fate contrived against him."
I waited for all the physical signs of relief--the uncoiling in my shoulders and chest, the lightening of my heartbeat--but none of them came. I couldn't believe it, you see. I couldn't believe we were in the clear, and in fact, we weren't. Stealing after us came Hitchcock's voice, a straight line through the dark.

"Nevertheless, Mr. Landor, I can no longer consent to Poe's being your agent in this affair."

I stared at him.

"I don't see... we've made... Captain, we've made great progress thanks to him. He's been a great help to me."

"I don't doubt it. But with two cadets dead and a third missing, I cannot even think of placing another young man in harm's way."

The oddest sensation then, Reader: a kind of searing in my face and my neck. Shame, I now suspect. For until very recently, how little care I had ever given to Poe's safety! I had followed his meetings with Lea and Artemus as a reader would, never once thinking that behind the yarn lay a real person, with real flesh and blood--which might at any second be forfeited.

"That's not the only reason," I said.

"No, it's not," he allowed. "I've told you before, I believe your proximity to Poe has cost you a certain amount of objectivity. Perhaps when you're no longer in regular contact with him, you may be better equipped to..."

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. I straightened myself in my chair; I took a deep breath; I said:

"Very well. You have my word. Poe will no longer be part of the investigation."

There was, at least, no triumph in Hitchcock's manner. His eyes were turned inward, and his hand was brushing the top of his desk, clearing away shadows.

"You should know," he said. "Colonel Thayer has reported Mr. Stoddard's disappearance to the chief of engineers."

"The chief won't be pleased. Coming right on top of Ballinger's death..."

"Yes, I think it fair to say he will not be pleased. And so long as we are playing soothsayer, I think it fair to expect that Colonel Thayer will be reprimanded for the unconventional manner in which he has pursued this matter."

"They can't blame him, surely, for--"

"He will be reminded that from the very outset, he should have engaged an officer to conduct these inquiries, not a civilian."

Something in the way he said that, something rigid and rehearsed, gave it a trailing echo in my mind. I felt as if I were eavesdropping on conversations that had taken place days earlier, in closed rooms.
"I'm sure you've been reminding him, too," I said, calmly. "But then you never wanted me here in the first place. It was Colonel Thayer's idea from the start."

He didn't bother denying it. Kept his voice as even as the horizon.

"It scarcely matters now, Mr. Landor. Colonel Thayer and I must both take responsibility for what will doubtless be perceived as a want of judgment. I fully anticipate that as a consequence, the chief of engineers will send his own investigator here posthaste. Someone with carte blanche to see this business to its end." His hand started up again: clearing the desk, clearing the desk. "Now, if the chief of engineers acts as precipitately as is his wont, I believe we can expect this investigator to arrive in, oh, three days' time." His lips worked for a few seconds, checking his figures. "We find ourselves, then, with something we did not have before: a term of expiration, Mr. Landor. You have three days to find the perpetrator of these crimes." He paused, then added, "If it is still your desire that he be found."

"My desire doesn't enter into it," I answered, shifting in my chair. "I agreed to take it on, Colonel. We shook hands on it. That's all that matters."

He nodded, but his eyebrows had sharpened at the corners, and when he laced his hands together and leaned once more over his desk, I could tell he was far from appeased.

"Mr. Landor," he said. "I hope I don't presume too far when I suggest that you harbor a latent hostility toward this Academy. No, wait." He put up a finger. "This animus, I have intuited from my very first meeting with you. Until today, I never thought it a fit subject for inquiry."

"But now?"

"Now I fear that it might present yet another obstacle to the prosecution of your inquiries."

Oh, I was boiling then! I remember actually looking for something to fling--an inkwell, a paperweight--but nothing seemed equal to my anger. Which meant I had only words to toss back at him.

"In Christ's name!" I growled, jumping to my feet. "What more do you want from me, Captain? Here I am, working with no compensation--"

"By your own request."

"--working like a dog, if you must know. Thanks to you, Captain, I have been... I've been bludgeoned, nearly filleted. I've risked my life, all in behalf of your precious institution."

"Your sacrifices are duly noted," he answered dryly. "Now, if you could return to my earlier question. Are you intrinsically hostile to this Academy?"

I ran my hand across my brow. I let out a scoop of air.

"Colonel," I said, "I've no quarrel with you. I hope you and your cadets will thrive and flourish and--and kill and do whatever soldiers must do. It's just..."

"What?" "This little monastery of yours," I said, holding his eye. "You know it doesn't make saints."

"Whoever said it did?"

"Nor does it always make soldiers. Now I don't align myself with the president or any of your enemies, but I do believe when you take away a young man's will, when you fence him round with regulations and demerits and--and deprive him of his use of reason, well, I think you make him less human. And more desperate."

The slightest flare just then in Hitchcock's nostrils. "You must assist me here, Mr. Landor. I'm trying to follow your train of logic. Do you mean to imply that the Academy is to blame for these deaths?"

"Someone connected with the Academy, yes. Hence the Academy itself."

"But that's ridiculous! By your standard, every crime committed by a Christian would be a stain on Christ."

"And so it is."

It may have been the first time I ever caught him off guard. His head drew back and his hands came together again and he was, for a short while, without words. And in the silence that spilled over us, I came to a clear reckoning.

Captain Hitchcock and I would never be friends.

We would never drink Madeira together in Gouverneur Kemble's study. We would never play chess or listen to concerts, we wouldn't stroll up to Fort Putnam or read newspapers over grapefruit. We would never, from this moment on, spend a minute in each other's company that wasn't strictly required by our jobs. And all for the simple reason that we would never forgive each other.

"You have three days," said Hitchcock. "In three days, you'll be done with us, Mr. Landor."

I was just walking out the door when he thought to add, "And we with you."

Narrative of Gus Landor

32

December 10th

Well, Captain Hitchcock could have said a great many things about me, but not that I was wrong about Cadet Stoddard. The very next morning, a local fisherman, name of Ambrose Pike, came forward to say he'd been flagged down by a young cadet who'd offered him a dollar to be oared downriver. Pike took him as far as Peekskill, then watched as the young man drew another couple of dollars from his leather pouch and booked passage on the next steamer to New York. Pike would have thought nothing more of it, but his wife had told him the cadet might be a fugitive, in which case Pike himself could be sent to Ossining for abetting a criminal unless he came forward, and so here he was, ready to tell anyone who'd listen that Ambrose Pike was no abettor.
How had Pike known it was a cadet he was transporting?

Well, the lad was still in his uniform, wasn't he? It was only when they got downriver that he put on his homespun shirt and his neckerchief and his fur cap and became just another river rustic.

What explanation had the young man given for wanting to leave the Point in such hurry?

Said there was a crisis back home. Said he couldn't wait for the Academy longboat. And that was all he said until they got to Peekskill. Not even a farewell.

Was there anything else he could tell us about the young man?

He was plenty pale in the face, that much Pike had noticed. And though the sun was strong and the boy was mighty well bundled, he would now and again break into a fit of shivering.

What did Pike take that to mean?

Well, it was hard to say. But he looked like he had Old Scratch on his tail.

That same day, I got in the mail an interesting package from my New York correspondent, Henry Kirke Reid.

Dearest Gus,

Always a terrific pleasure to hear from you--even if business must protrude its ugly head. I must beg you, the next time you give me an assignment, grant me a little more than four weeks to accomplish it. The dispatches from Richmond have only just arrived, and with another week or two at my disposal, I might have gleaned a good deal more about your man. In any event, I am duly enclosing what I have, which includes the results of inquiries in Boston, New York, and Baltimore.

Your Poe is many things, Gus. I'll leave it to you decide if he is any one thing in particular. I will only say that while his past is as littered with dead bodies as anybody's, none of these departed souls has yet risen up to arraign him. Nor is there a warrant on his head. All of which means, as you know, exactly nothing.

In your letter, you mentioned my compensation. Would you do me the favor of forgoing that? The inquiries were not overstrenuous, and it would be my own humble way of honoring Amelia's memory. I never did send adequate condolences.

New York is not quite so merry a place without you. But I expect we'll survive until the next Landor sighting. What choice do we have?

With fondest wishes, H.K.R.

That night, I sat down and read Henry's dispatches--read them over and over again, with a mounting sadness. I could feel things coming to a breach, you see. And when I heard the familiar rap on my hotel-room door, I congratulated myself for having turned the key in the lock. The door knob jiggled, gently at first, then with greater insistence, before at last falling still. I heard the sound of retreating steps. I was alone again.
Report of Edgar A. Poe to Augustus Landor

December 11th

Landor, where were you last night? I found your door unexpectedly barred and, upon knocking, received no answer. I was the more bewildered as I was nearly certain that I had glimpsed a light in your window. You must take greater care, you know, to extinguish your tapers when you go out. You wouldn't want to burn down Mr. Cozzens' magniloquent hotel when it has only just been built.

I wonder, though, will you be "at home" tonight? I am quite beside myself in regard to Lea. She has resisted all my best efforts to see her, and I am left to suppose that the fresh horrors occasioned by Mr. Stoddard's disappearance have wrought havoc with her exceedingly delicate sensibilities. Perhaps she wishes to conceal from me all evidence of feminine infirmity? Alas, then! How little she knows me, Landor! I should love her still more in weakness than in strength; I should prize her more at Death than at Love's Nativity. She must know! She must!

Landor, where are you?

Narrative of Gus Landor

33

December 11th

He was back again that night. A frigid night, I remember. I had opened Leroy Fry's diary, but the symbols seemed to fly away from me, and in the end, the book just lay there in my lap like a sleeping cat. The embers were dying in the grate, and my fingers were white-tipped with cold because I couldn't, for some reason, manage to throw another log on the fire.

This, too, I failed to do: lock the door. Shortly after eleven, I heard the soft rapping... saw the door open... spied once more that familiar head...

"Good evening," said Poe, as he'd always said before.

Except that we stood now on changed ground. Neither of us could have defined the difference, exactly, but we both felt it. Poe, for instance: he couldn't sit, couldn't stand. Wandered through the room, in and out of shadows, glancing out windows, tapping rhythms on his flanks. He was wishing, maybe, that I'd offered up my usual bottle of Monongahela.

"Private Cochrane wasn't there to escort me tonight," he said at last.