The Raven Page #2
tinctures. it's rotting your brain.
I only drink occasionally,
to be social,
to alleviate my shyness.
And the tinctures
are purely therapeutic.
A slight palliative against the chill
of an orphan's despair.
- Write me something I can sell.
- You're a real bastard, Henry.
Why are you doing this?!
Why?!
What have I done?!
Please!
No!
Aargh!
Agh! Argh!
Aaaargh!
AAARGHH!
Consider, Carl, if you will,
the human heart.
This small chamber,
a vacancy,
where gases are wed to uids
and all the secrets and mysteries
of our species are hidden.
ls)
Write another "Tell-Tale Heart".
You think you're so clever,
don't you?
Miss Hamilton.
"The angels,
"not half so happy in heaven,
"Went envying her and me -
"Yes - that was the reason,
"as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea,
"That the wind
came out of the clouds by night
"Chilling and killing
my Annabel Lee."
Continue.
"But our love...
it was stronger by far than the love
"Of those who were older than we -
"Of many far wiser than we -
"And neither the angels
in heaven above,
"Nor the demons
down under the sea,
"Can ever dissever my soul
from the soul
"Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
Do you like it?
I think that it is the most romantic
thing I've ever read.
So, I had to hear about your stunt
all afternoon.
I wanted to see if I could get that
vein on the side of his neck
to finally explode.
I think Father has begun to suspect.
Yes, and I consider it my duty
to wrestle you away
from that gun-toting Philistine.
And into the arms of you,
of all people?
- Who better?
- Then why antagonize him?
I can't help it.
I despise people who despise me.
Edgar, we need to talk.
- What is Carl eating?
- A heart.
- A human heart?
- Mm-hm.
- How in heaven did you come by it?
- An admirer works at the morgue.
I was searching for inspiration.
So tell me again exactly...
how much... money you made
from your self-proclaimed
world-famous poem about that bird?
Raven. $9. But did I mention
that it's world-famous?
Edgar... Edgar.
We can't go on like this.
Emily, what do you want?
I want you to get up off your knees
unless you intend to use
that position for another purpose.
The imagination reels
with possibilities.
But what did you have in mind
specifically?
A proposal.
You mean marriage?
It's not such a horrible thought.
People still do it from time to time.
- Really? When?
- When they're in love, I suppose.
If I were in love with that person,
would I think about her all the time?
Most likely.
And would I spend
every waking moment
desiring to smother the other
with affection?
It has been described as such.
Emily, you are my greatest -
and only - inspiration.
Emily Hamilton,
will you be my wife?
Yes.
I love you.
You ridiculous man.
Now, what do we do about
your dear, dear, gun-toting father'?
I've been thinking about that.
We'll tell him at my birthday ball,
in front of all of Baltimore.
If I were a better man,
I'd forbid it.
- But you're not.
- I know.
I found some possibilities
for you, Inspector.
All are gruesome, if you ask me.
"A careful search soon
brought to light the hidden spring.
"I pressed it,
and, satisfied with the discovery,
"forbore to upraise the sash."
That's it.
Edgar Allan Poe.
Find the Raven, never flitting
still is sitting, still is sitting
On that pallid bust of Pallas
And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him steaming
throws his shadow on the oor;
My soul from out that shadow
that lies oating on the oor
Shall be lifted...
nevermore.
Who's next?
It's called
"The Buttery and the Bee".
An exquisite title, Mrs. Bradley.
"The buttery to her brother bee
did sing a song of spring.
'"Come, listen to my ode of thee,
thou honey-making thing..."
Stop, please.
It's terrible. I suspected it was.
"Thou honey-making thing"?
- I attempted to rhyme the lyric.
- You've succeeded.
The juxtaposition
of the beauty of nature
with the whores
of our recently mechanized society,
reducing brother bee to nothing more
than a "honey-making thing",
a meaningless cog
bound for destruction
within the machine of nature.
It's brilliant, Mrs. Bradley!
It's terrifying, but it's brilliant.
I'm so sorry to interrupt.
- Someone's here to see you.
- Excellent. Who?
Mr. Poe?
Barbarian with a badge.
What's going on?
- Why is hair attracted to a magnet?
- What?
Soot is merely carbon residue
from coal and wood.
Am I under arrest?
I'm Detective Fields.
Please, sit down, Mr. Poe.
Yes, the infamous Detective Fields.
Am I under arrest?
No. Not as yet.
Then I'd rather stand.
It makes it easier to leave.
I am...
I'm a reader of your work.
I admit my admirers have gone
to great lengths to meet me.
I didn't say I was an admirer.
And yet you read them.
The night before last a girl
and her mother were found murdered,
the daughter lodged in a chimney,
the mother's head nearly severed
with a straight razor.
The killer ed through a window
in which a lock was feigned
with a nail sawn in half.
Does any of this
sound familiar to you, Mr. Poe?
But you're talking about my story.
A work of fiction.
I'm afraid I'm not.
According to various witnesses,
you were seen drunk two nights ago
in a tavern near the harbour.
What time did you leave?
I don't remember.
My leaving was... involuntary.
Do you actually think
that I murdered these people?
May I see your hand?
Which one?
Either will do.
Perhaps with the aid of accomplices
such a scenario
might be conceivable,
however improbable.
Yet what cannot be disputed
is the fact that your imagination
has inspired a horrendous crime.
Am I to be charged, then?
Is imagination now a felony?
Come!
Inspector, can I have a word?
This is Henry Maddux,
editor of the "Baltimore Patriot".
He was brought in
to identify the body.
His name is... I mean, was...
Gris... Griswold.
- Ludwig Griswold.
- He worked for you?
- Freelance writer.
- What things did he write?
Some poetry. Mostly criticism.
You know, the easy stuff.
Did he have a relationship
with Edgar Allan Poe'?
Of course. They hated each other.
Had a vicious feud a year ago.
Sold a lot of papers.
- How long have you known Mr. Poe?
- Edgar? Well, the past ten years.
You published his story,
"The Murders in the Rue Morgue".
He wrote that several years back
in Philadelphia.
I reprinted it
a couple of times here.
People love the gory ones.
So they do.
Edgar isn't a suspect,
is he, Inspector?
At this point everyone is a suspect,
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