Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy Read online

  Forevermore

  Disappearance at Mount Sinai

  Jane the Grabber

  Pat O’Malley Historical Steampunk Trilogy

  JIM MUSGRAVE

  Copyright © 2013 Jim Musgrave

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1492202452

  ISBN-13: 978-1492202455

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  5.0 out of 5 stars "Forevermore" would have certainly qualified for Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination!!, May 2, 2013

  By

  The Kindle Book Review (Indianapolis, IN) - See all my reviews

  This review is from: Forevermore (Pat O'Malley Historical Mysteries) (Kindle Edition)

  I adore Edgar Allan Poe and when I started "Forevermore" by Jim Musgrave I thought, "Oh no...another book about how bad Poe was." Was I in for a marvelous shock! The author, Jim Musgrave, envisioned a young man who admired Poe, even lived in his cottage, and wished to find out what Poe died of, why and who was responsible for the death of the dark poet.

  5.0 out of 5 stars Loved it!, April 22, 2013

  By

  Rabbit51 - See all my reviews

  Amazon Verified Purchase

  This review is from: Forevermore (Pat O'Malley Mysteries) (Volume 1) (Paperback)

  I picked up this book because I am a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan and the book was terrific. Very exciting right down to the end. A quick read!

  5.0 out of 5 stars Interesting, May 19, 2013

  By

  RaeRaeBear "raeraebear" (Arizona) - See all my reviews

  This review is from: Forevermore (Pat O'Malley Historical Mysteries) (Kindle Edition)

  I found this book very interesting. It is a mixture of fiction and truth. I liked it very much. The writing style was easy to follow and made the reading of the book easy. It had a nice flow to the story. If you like mysteries and classic Poe-like stories you will like this book. It isn't terribly long but that is not a flaw. All in all a very good book.

  12 Reviews

  Average Customer Review

  4.7 out of 5 stars (12 customer reviews)

  Prologue: The Murder

  October 3, 1849, Baltimore

  Edgar fingered the outline of the Uberti pocket revolver. It was resting in a leather holster strapped diagonally across his chest beneath the black vest and under the black waist coat. As the hunted, he was well aware of the extra thunder he required in order to even the odds against the hunter. Where could his antagonist be? Was he perhaps the tall gentleman sitting in the window seat across the aisle from him? Edgar thought he saw the man glance in his direction several times after they both got on in New York.

  It was so much easier writing down the plots of his mysteries. The writer is his own master, and the machinations of both hero and villain are clearly delineated in his mind from the outset. The reality of sleuthing in real time was quite different, however. He was at once aware of the immediate and infinite possibilities surrounding him. It was as if he were tasked with the job of describing every detail in this club car. There were two rows of seats on each side of the aisle, but not all seats were taken. He would need to walk slowly down the aisle to look at each suspect, evaluating his demeanor for telltale signs of nervousness or some tick in his mannerism that might give him away. This person could even be female, which would put into play even more possibilities for hidden weapons.

  Instead, Edgar stared out of the window at the passing scenery, keeping his fingers folded over the gun, willing the courage into his being, as if the passage of time in the moment could inoculate him against the evil forces outside his mind. The green farm land rolled past like an emerald ocean. The speed of the powerful steam locomotive made Nature its plaything.

  Edgar knew he had the upper-hand because they did not know he was on to them. Yes, the fictitious Detective C. Auguste Dupin would have had the advantage of assembling his evidence at a much slower pace. He would have sipped at his cordial while lounging inside his boudoir, fitting the evidence together as one fits together a picture puzzle. The pieces of his urgent puzzle, however, were assembling themselves all around him, and he was not in charge of their arrangement. Instead, it was his job to be the subservient mouse, the obsequious deer, or the meek rabbit. His sole advantage was the element of surprise and the hard lump of insurance under his jacket.

  The conductor made his way down the aisle, his pocket watch bobbing up and down on its chain over his portly frame, his black uniform cleanly pressed with brass buttons gleaming under the lights as he shouted, “Bal-ti-more station! All those disembarking, please assemble at the double-doors! Last call for Bal-ti-more!”

  Edgar slowly rose from his seat, keeping Dr. Carter’s expensive Malacca cane in his right hand, watching the other passengers carefully to ascertain their demeanor towards him. He had accidentally taken the Richmond, Virginia physician’s cane instead of his own. Edgar’s right upper molar was bothering him again. It throbbed like a hellish demon, but his fear of the dentist had kept him in this insufferable state for three weeks now. He waited until all the others had formed a queue at the doors before he stepped out into the aisle. A woman in an ostrich feathered hat, a man in a bowler, and three youths in knee pants chasing each other around their mother. He moved behind them all as the doors whooshed open and their little crowd stepped down the steps onto the station platform.

  The others scattered like chickens in the barnyard, and Edgar just stood there, looking up and down the train depot, watching for approaching danger. The devil winds were licking up eddies of abandoned rubbish, whirling it in haphazard, circular gusts. He could smell the engine exhaust, as it began its combustion process. The loud steam whistle blared out over the wooden platform, and the wheels of the train began to circle, slowly at first, and then with more speed, as the gigantic metal beast made its way out of the station.

  Everything he observed took on ominous features as he walked out onto the paved street that led down to the wharf toward the pier where the ships were docked. They would soon be after him, and his entire body was on alert. He again fingered the pistol, and his other hand went up to his cheek to press on the throbbing toothache. He tried to walk as casually as possible down Light Street on the inner harbor. He didn’t know where he was headed; he simply wanted to show himself to the ones he knew were after him. The passing pedestrians nodded to him as he walked, and he nodded back.

  He was struck from behind. The tall man in a gray top hat and matching frock coat had raised his arm with a quick motion and then brought the leather sack filled with musket balls down upon Edgar’s head. The other man, a short, stocky gent in a brown bowler, caught the falling victim and immediately wrapped Edgar’s left arm around his own shoulder. The gray man took Edgar’s right arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, and they both began to drag the body down the street toward the docks.

  When they passed inquisitive faces, Gray said, “Poor Bill’s in his cups, again, I’m afraid,” and they continued to drag Edgar down the street. It was now dusk and the gas lights were being lit all along the walk. The horizon in the west was bleeding scarlet and blue as the sun sank behind the hills. The two men came up to a dilapidated shed on the waterfront, and Gray put a key inside the mortise lock, opened the door, and they carried Edgar inside.

  * * *

  When he came to consciousness, Edgar could smell the odor of alcohol all over his person. As a recently sworn member of t
he Sons of Temperance, this appearance of inebriety was most unseemly to him. He no longer wore his black frock coat and cravat. Instead, he wore tattered pantaloons that were too short and a long-sleeved white shirt and a black Bombazine alpaca coat that was soiled, ripped at the seams and reeking of robust spirits.

  As his blurry vision improved, he looked around. He was downtown in Baltimore, and he was sitting on a bench in front of a tavern. He could hear the loud shouts of the patrons inside and the odor of burning cigars and pipes made his stomach lurch. He felt the top of his head, and it was adorned with a frazzled straw hat, something he would have never worn. Strangely, he still had the cane given to him by Dr. Carter. The blackguards had not taken that. He absent-mindedly twisted the gold hound’s head at the top of the cane and it unscrewed and pulled forth to reveal an eight-inch blade. Dr. Carter’s cane was also a weapon, it seemed, and something he had no use for now. His Italian pistol, of course, had been confiscated, and he had been dropped off in front of this tavern. He turned around to see the name on the building’s façade: Gunner’s Hall.

  He could barely stand, and his mind kept playing tricks on him. Was it a fever that seemed to be spreading throughout his body? He grabbed the cane and lurched toward the entrance to the tavern. Perhaps he could get help from someone inside. However, when the swinging doors opened, he saw dozens of men standing about, and they each had the head of a cat! The pointed ears, the large pupils, the needle whiskers sprouting from a furry snout, and they all turned toward him in unison and snarled to reveal their sharp fangs! Was he insane?

  Edgar turned around and staggered back out onto the boardwalk. The earth began to spin, out of control, and he sat backward down on the bench. He remembered the story he once wrote about a black cat that was buried inside the wall along with the murder victim. He felt as if he had been buried inside himself, as he could not make sense of his own thoughts as they tried to assemble in his brain. Instead, he lay down on the bench, and his throat constricted like it was inside a noose, and then he screamed, at the top of his lungs, “Reynolds! You bastard! Reynolds!” The darkness closed in upon him, and he passed into a state of delirium, never to fully revive again upon this earth.

  Chapter 1: I Knew Mister Poe

  1865, Poe’s Cottage, Bronx, New York.

  I found the cryptic message pasted inside the bed where she died. After several nights of tossing and turning in that same bed, my mind became filled with the nightmarish vision of my benefactor, “The Divine Edgar”; his large head came at me, that wide forehead, those penetrating dark eyes hidden within their cavernous sockets, his accusing lips writhing beneath that famous black mustache, and his visage shouted at me concerning the most foul, immodest and unwholesome behaviors I could have ever imagined a man could profess.

  I awoke, thus, with a start, perspiring freely, my bedclothes quite drenched, afeared beyond mortal reason. Quite unintentionally, I found myself lifting the mattress upon that same bed where, upon a midnight dreary, his beloved Sis had perished from this earth, and I spied the long letter affixed to the headboard. I pried it off, as it was pasted with some sort of glue, carefully preserving its parchment, and brought it to my eyes under the gas light on my bed stand.

  I must confess I knew him as he lived and breathed, in this same residence, in which I now reside. His aunt, Mrs. Maria Clemm, having sold this cottage in 1849, following her son-in-law’s tragic death in Baltimore, wrote to the owners, the Valentines, allowing me to live here following the war. A union veteran, I served under General William Tecumseh Sherman in his campaigns at Shiloh, Vicksburg, Chattanooga, and Atlanta. I was heartily decorated as a war hero, receiving the highest award, the Congressional Medal of Honor, in a ceremony just before Mister Lincoln was assassinated in April of this year. My honor was for shielding, with my own body, the great general as he stood above the town of Atlanta and watched it burn. I spied a Confederate, in rags, as he took aim at the general from the woods near our regimental tent. Acting quickly, I dove in front of the speeding bullet and took it into my own body, inside my left shoulder blade, and thus I spared the life of my leader. I, like Edgar, served under a pseudonym during my military duties, as I had been paid handsomely by a wealthy business man in New York to serve in his stead. My warrior’s name as Staff Sergeant was Stephan Pullman, but my real name is Patrick James O’Malley.

  However, it was my love of Edgar and his writings that gained me the employment as manuscript messenger to his publisher in New York, as a mere lad of 18. I often came to this same cottage, during the year of 1846, until Virginia’s death from consumption, at 24 years of age, on January 30, 1847.

  It was the following poem I read on that day in 1865, my mind war-weary and my breast heaving with fright, as the storm clouds poured down their vicious torrents upon my cottage:

  Ever with thee I wish to roam—

  Dearest my life is thine.

  Give me a cottage for my home

  And a rich old cypress vine,

  Removed from the world with its sin and care

  And the tattling of many tongues.

  Love alone shall guide us when we are there —

  Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

  And Oh, the tranquil hours we'll spend,

  Never wishing that others may see!

  Perfect ease we'll enjoy, without thinking to lend

  Ourselves to the world and its glee —

  Ever peaceful and blissful we'll be.

  However, it was the small cypher at the end of this poem that drew my attention. It said, “I shall protect you, Sis, and I shall avenge the poor girl from the tobacco shop, bringing home money so we can live in our rural cottage, away from the trials and tribulations of this wretched age! Signed, Your beloved Eddy.”

  As an avid reader of Edgar’s famous poems and stories, I was also an avid follower of his untimely demise, at the age of 40, allegedly from alcoholic delirium tremens, or what was known then as “mania-à-potu.” The story had it that after receiving news by letter from Maria Clemm that his childhood sweetheart, Sarah Elmira Shelton, had accepted his proposal of marriage, Edgar had planned to travel to New York to retrieve Mrs. Clemm, but he had, instead, begun drinking and ended up in Baltimore. He continued his spree of spirit consumption and on October 3, 1849, an election day, he was discovered in a comatose condition at the polling place for Baltimore’s Fourth Ward. He supposedly died of delirium tremens at the Washington College Hospital on 7 October.

  This case was supposed to be closed, but now, with my new bit of evidence, I was going to attempt to bring truth to light. Edgar would have wanted me to do this, and I believe this was why I was being tormented inside Poe Cottage. Like Edgar, I am also an Irishman, and we Irish have been often scourged with the disease of alcoholism, and it was this malady that brought asunder his brother, Henry, and my own brother, Timothy. I have abstained from John Barleycorn my whole life because of my brother’s death, and when I read that Mister Poe had joined the Sons of Temperance in Richmond, on August 27, I became curious about whether or not he was indeed under the influence of alcohol in Baltimore. We Irish have been saddled with the ugly image of inebriety from our first appearance on the shores of this great land in the 1820s, and I wanted to prove that Edgar had not succumbed to drink, as they had reported in the press, as I knew him to be a most fine and kindly gentlemen during his employ, and it was he that encouraged me to write. I, like his famous detective, C. Auguste Dupin, will not give up until I arrive at the truth of the matter in the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe!

  The note I found under Poe’s bed led me to my first inquiry into this case. Who was this “poor girl from the tobacco shop” to which Edgar referred? Why did she need to be avenged? But first, I wanted to prove that Edgar Allan Poe was not drunk when he was in Baltimore, and for that I needed to talk to the only man who saw the writer during his last days on this earth, one Doctor, and a fellow Irishman, John J. Moran.

  * * *

  I took t
he train down to Baltimore, and it was filled with the usual collection of uniformed stiffs awaiting word on payment from the government. They were talking of riot and were quite inebriated, complaining of “damned President Johnson” and “we better get our just desserts.” The civilians on the train would listen sympathetically, but I supposed they were as irritated at their drunkenness as I was.

  I enquired at the Church Home and Infirmary in Baltimore, which was known in 1849 as Washington University Hospital, as to the whereabouts of Dr. Moran. A kindly Episcopalian woman by the name of Mrs. Drew told me I could find him at the Barnum House, 154 Baltimore Street. I recalled that earlier in the year this hotel was made famous up north for the Rebel raids which took place. In February of 1865, a band of Confederates known as McNeill's Rangers made a daring raid on Cumberland and entered the city undetected and captured General Benjamin Kelley who was asleep in his bed in the hotel. Union General George Crook was also captured at the nearby Revere House.

  The hotel was four stories tall, and when I asked at the desk as to which room Dr. Moran might be staying, the attendant seemed bothered by my Yankee attire and voice. I had to repeat to him twice the name, and then he finally began to nod and told me I could find him in Room 218. “Dr. Moran stays inside, mostly,” the young man stated, “except when he’s seein’ the haints.”