Mystery Writers of America Presents
In the Shadow of the Master
Classic Tales by Edgar Allan Poe and Essays by Jeffery Deaver, Nelson DeMille, Tess Gerritsen, Sue Grafton, Stephen King, Laura Lippman, Lisa Scottoline, and Thirteen Others
Edited by Michael Connelly
Illustrations by Harry Clarke
Contents
About Edgar Allan Poe
About the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award
About the Illustrator
What Poe Hath Wrought by Michael Connelly
A Descent into the Maelström
On Edgar Allan Poe by T. Jefferson Parker
The Cask of Amontillado
Under the Covers with Fortunato and Montresor by Jan Burke
The Curse of Amontillado by Lawrence Block
The Black Cat
Pluto’s Heritage by P. J. Parrish
William Wilson
Identity Crisis by Lisa Scottoline
Manuscript Found in a Bottle
In a Strange City: Baltimore and the Poe Toaster by Laura Lippman
The Fall of the House of Usher
Once Upon a Midnight Dreary by Michael Connelly
The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar
The Thief by Laurie R. King
Ligeia
Poe and Me at the Movies by Tess Gerritsen
The Tell-Tale Heart
The Genius of “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Stephen King
The First Time by Steve Hamilton
The Pit and the Pendulum
The Pit, the Pendulum, and Perfection by Edward D. Hoch
The Pit and the Pendulum at the Palace by Peter Robinson
The Masque of the Red Death
Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, and Me by S. J. Rozan
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
The Quick and the Undead by Nelson DeMille
The Gold-Bug
Imagining Edgar Allan Poe by Sara Paretsky
The Raven
Rantin’ and Ravin’ by Joseph Wambaugh
A Little Thought on Poe by Thomas H. Cook
The Bells
Poe in G Minor by Jeffery Deaver
Excerpt from The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket
How I Became an Edgar Allan Poe Convert by Sue Grafton
About the Editor
Other Books by Michael Connelly
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
About Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–49), while a mainstay of literature today and the recognized creator of the modern genres of horror and mystery fiction, spent much of his life chasing the public and literary acclaim he craved.
Born to David and Elizabeth Poe, young Edgar knew hardship from an early age. His father abandoned the family a year after Edgar’s birth, and his mother died of consumption one year later. Taken in, but never legally adopted, by John and Frances Allan, Edgar traveled with his new family to England in 1815, then continued on alone to study in Irvine, Scotland, for a short time. Afterward he studied in Chelsea, then a suburb of London until 1817. He returned to Virginia in 1820, and in 1826 he enrolled in the newly founded University of Virginia to study languages. During his college years, he became estranged from his foster father, claiming that John Allan didn’t send him enough money to live on, but the reality was that Poe was losing the money on gambling.
In 1827 Edgar enlisted in the U.S. Army at age eighteen, claiming he was twenty-two years old. It was during this time that he began publishing his poems, including an early collection, Tamerlane and Other Poems, printed under the byline “A Bostonian.” He attained the rank of sergeant major of artillery and expressed a desire to attend West Point for officer training. Once accepted to the academy, however, he was dismissed for not attending classes and formations.
After the death of his brother, Henry, in 1831, Edgar decided to try making a living as an author. He was the first well-known American to make such an attempt, but because of the lack of an international copyright law and the economic effects of the Panic of 1837, he was often forced to ask for the monies owed him and compelled to seek other assistance. After winning a literary prize for his story “Manuscript Found in a Bottle,” he was hired as the assistant editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, but he was fired several weeks later for repeated drunkenness. This pattern of dissipation would haunt Poe for the rest of his life.
After marrying his cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1835, Poe returned to the Messenger, where he worked for the next two years, seeing its circulation rise to 3,500 copies, from 700. His only full-length novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, was published in 1838 to wide review and acclaim, although once again Poe received little profit from his work. The year after saw the publication of his first short story collection, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, which received mixed reviews and sold poorly. He left the Messenger and worked at Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine and Graham’s Magazine before announcing that he would start his own literary publication, The Penn, later to be titled The Stylus. Tragically, it never came to print.
Virginia first showed signs of tuberculosis in 1842, and her gradual decline over the next five years caused Edgar to drink even more heavily. The one bright spot in this time was the publication in 1845 of one of his most famous works, “The Raven,” which brought him widespread acclaim; unfortunately, he was paid only nine dollars for the poem itself.
Shortly afterward, the Poes moved to a cottage in the Fordham section of the Bronx, New York, where Virginia died in 1847. Increasingly unstable, Edgar tried to secure a position in government, unsuccessfully courted the poet Sarah Helen Whitman, and eventually returned to Richmond, Virginia, to rekindle a relationship with Sarah Royster, a childhood sweetheart.
The circumstances surrounding Poe’s death remain shrouded in mystery. Found on the streets of Baltimore, Maryland, delirious and dressed in clothes that weren’t his, Poe was taken to Washington College Hospital, where he died on October 7, 1849. It was reported that his last words were “Lord help my poor soul,” but this cannot be proven as all records surrounding his death have been lost. Edgar Allan Poe’s death has been attributed to various causes, including delirium tremens, heart disease, epilepsy, or meningeal inflammation. He was buried in a Baltimore cemetery, where a mysterious figure has toasted Poe on the anniversary of his birth since 1949 by leaving cognac and three roses at his headstone.
Recognized primarily as a literary critic during his lifetime, Poe’s work became popular in Europe after his death owing mainly to the translations of his stories and poems by Charles Baudelaire. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle cited him as the creator of the mystery short story with his C. Auguste Dupin stories, saying, “Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?” Poe’s work also inspired later authors of science fiction and fantasy, including Jules Verne and H. G. Wells. Today he is recognized as a literary master who both created new genres and reinvigorated old ones with a unique combination of story and style.
About the Mystery Writers
of America’s Edgar Award
In 1945, when the Mystery Writers of America was just being formed, the founders of the organization decided to give an award for the best first American mystery novel, as well as awards for the best and worst mystery reviews of the year. Initially they were going to call it the Edmund Wilson Memorial Award (partly in revenge for Wilson’s disdain for the genre), but calmer heads prevailed. Although it is unknown exactly who came up with the idea of naming the award for “the Father of the Detective Story,” it was an immediate success, and the “Edgar” was created.
The
first Edgar Award was bestowed in 1946 on Julian Fast for his debut novel, Watchful at Night, and in the more than fifty years since, the stylized ceramic bust of the great author has become one of the top prizes in the field of mystery fiction. The award categories, in addition to Best First Novel, have been expanded over time to include Best Novel, Best Short Story, Best Paperback Original, Best Young Adult Novel, Best Juvenile Novel, Best Fact Crime, Best Critical/Biographical, Best Play, Best Television Episode, and Best Motion Picture. The Edgar has been won by many noted authors in the field, including Stuart Kaminsky, Michael Connelly, T. Jefferson Parker, Jan Burke, Lisa Scottoline, Laura Lippman, Laurie R. King, Steve Hamilton, Peter Robinson, Edward D. Hoch, S. J. Rozan, Thomas H. Cook, Joseph Wambaugh, Jeffery Deaver, Rupert Holmes, Anne Perry, Patricia Cornwell, Ira Levin, Thomas Harris, Dick Francis, Ruth Rendell, Lawrence Block, Elmore Leonard, Ken Follett, Frederick Forsyth, Harlan Ellison, and many, many others.
About the Illustrator
Harry Clarke (1889–1931) was a renowned stained-glass artist of the early twentieth century, and several examples of his work still exist today, most notably at the Honan Chapel in Cork, Ireland. It was during his education at Dublin Art School that he developed an interest in book illustration. After winning the gold medal in the stained-glass category at the 1910 Board of Education National Competition, he traveled to London to find work as an illustrator.
His first commission—illustrating a trade and deluxe edition of Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen—came from George Harrap in 1913. For the next six years, he worked at the same time on illustrating the Edgar Allan Poe collection Tales of Mystery and Imagination. Clarke used the techniques he learned from working in stained glass on his macabre illustrations of Poe’s dark stories. The resulting work, Poe’s dark vision brought to stunning life by Clarke’s detailed imagery, created a sensation when the first edition was published in October 1919. Other books that Clarke illustrated include The Years at the Spring, Fairy Tales by Charles Perrault, Goethe's Faust, and Selected Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne. He also created more than 130 stained-glass windows, one of which, “The Baptism of St. Patrick,” was selected for exhibition at the Louvre in Paris.
Unfortunately, the unceasing, grueling pace of his work, perhaps along with the toxic chemicals used in the stained-glass process, cut his life short. In 1931, at the age of forty-one, Harry Clarke died in Switzerland while trying to recover from tuberculosis.
What Poe Hath Wrought
BY MICHAEL CONNELLY
Happy birthday, Edgar Allan Poe. Seems strange using that name and that word “happy” in the same sentence. A tragic and morose figure in his short life, Poe is celebrated today, two hundred years after his birth, as the mad genius who started it all rolling in the genre of mystery fiction. His influence in other genres and fields of entertainment—from poetry to music to film—is incalculable. To put it simply, Edgar Allan Poe’s work has echoed loudly across two centuries and will undoubtedly echo for at least two more. He walked across a field of pristine grass, not a single blade broken. Today that path has been worn down to a deep trench that crosses the imagination of the whole world. If you look at best-seller lists, movie charts, and television ratings, they are simply dominated by the mystery genre and its many offshoots. The tendrils of imagination behind these contemporary works can be traced all the way back to Poe.
This collection is presented to you by the Mystery Writers of America. Since day one this organization has held Edgar Allan Poe as its symbol of excellence. The annual award bestowed by the MWA on the authors of books, television shows, and films of merit is a bust of Edgar Allan Poe. It is a caricature, and what is most notable about it is that the figure’s head is oversized to the point of being as wide as his shoulders. Having the honor of guest-editing this collection of stories and essays, I now realize why Edgar’s head is so big.
I’m not going to get analytical about Poe’s life or work here. I leave that to his disciples. Gathered here with his most notable works are the long and short thoughts of those who follow Poe—the writers who directly or not so directly have taken inspiration from him. These are Edgar winners, best-selling authors, and practitioners of the short story. From Stephen King, who writes so eloquently of his connection to Poe, to Sue Grafton, who lovingly, grudgingly, gives Poe his due, to the late Edward Hoch, who penned over nine hundred seventy-five short stories, these writers are the modern masters of the world Poe created. The idea here is simple. This is a birthday party. The twenty guests invited here by the Mystery Writers of America have come to honor Edgar Allan Poe on his two hundredth birthday. We celebrate his work, and we celebrate all that his work has wrought.
I wonder what Poe would think of this. My guess is that it would give him a big head.
A Descent into the Maelström
The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus.
—JOSEPH GLANVILL
WE HAD NOW REACHED the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. “Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy?”
The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to be within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the distance.
“You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned—and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye.”
“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher—hold on to the grass if you feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea.”
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more
properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction—as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks.
“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Keild-helm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off—between Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places—but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear any thing? Do you see any change in the water?”