{"product_id":"the-poe-shadow-isbn-9780812970128","title":"The Poe Shadow","description":"“I present to you . . . the truth about this man’s death and my life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBaltimore, 1849. The body of Edgar Allan Poe has been buried in an unmarked grave. The public, the press, and even Poe’s own family and friends accept the conclusion that Poe was a second-rate writer who met a disgraceful end as a drunkard. Everyone, in fact, seems to believe this except a young Baltimore lawyer named Quentin Clark, an ardent admirer who puts his own career and reputation at risk in a passionate crusade to salvage Poe’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Quentin explores the puzzling circumstances of Poe’s demise, he discovers that the writer’s last days are riddled with unanswered questions the police are possibly willfully ignoring. Just when Poe’s death seems destined to remain a mystery, and forever sealing his ignominy, inspiration strikes Quentin–in the form of Poe’s own stories. The young attorney realizes that he must find the one person who can solve the strange case of Poe’s death: the real-life model for Poe’s brilliant fictional detective character, C. Auguste Dupin, the hero of ingenious tales of crime and detection.\u003cbr\u003eIn short order, Quentin finds himself enmeshed in sinister machinations involving political agents, a female assassin, the corrupt Baltimore slave trade, and the lost secrets of Poe’s final hours. With his own future hanging in the balance, Quentin Clark must turn master investigator himself to unchain his now imperiled fate from that of Poe’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFollowing his phenomenal debut novel, The Dante Club, Matthew Pearl has once again crossed pitch-perfect literary history with innovative mystery to create a beautifully detailed, ingeniously plotted tale of suspense. Pearl’s groundbreaking research–featuring documented material never published before–opens a new window on the truth behind Poe’s demise, literary history’s most persistent enigma. The resulting novel is a publishing event that, through sublime craftsmanship, subtle wit, and devious twists, does honor to Poe himself\u003cb\u003eMatthew Pearl\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Club, The Poe Shadow,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Last Dickens, The Technologists, The Last Bookaneer, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Chamber,\u003c\/i\u003e and the editor of the Modern Library editions of Dante’s \u003ci\u003eInferno\u003c\/i\u003e (translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) and Edgar Allan Poe’s \u003ci\u003eThe Murders in the Rue Morgue: The Dupin Tales\u003c\/i\u003e. His books have been translated into more than thirty languages, and his nonfiction writing has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Boston Globe, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSlate\u003c\/i\u003e.I remember the day it began because I was impatient for an important   letter to arrive. Also, because it was meant to be the day of my   engagement to Hattie Blum. And, of course, it was the day I saw him   dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The Blums were near neighbors of my family. Hattie was the youngest   and most affable of four sisters who were considered nearly the   prettiest four sisters in Baltimore. Hattie and I had been acquainted   from our very infancies, as we were told often enough through the   years. And each time we were told how long we'd known each other, I   think the words were meant also to say, \"and you shall know each   other evermore, depend upon it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    And in spite of such pressure as might easily have pushed us apart,   even at eleven years old I became like a little husband toward my   playfellow. I never made outward professions of love to Hattie, but I   devoted myself to her happiness in small ways while she entertained   me with her talk. There was something hushed about her voice, which   often sounded to me like a lullaby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My own nature while in society as it developed was markedly quiet and   tranquil, to the degree that I was often asked at any given moment if   I had only just then been stirred awake. In quieter company, though,   I had the habit of turning unaccountably loquacious and even rambling   in my speech. Therefore, I savored the stretches of Hattie's animated   conversation. I believe I depended upon them. I felt no need to call   attention to myself when I was with her; I felt happy and modest and,   above all, easy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Now, I should note that I did not know that I was expected to propose   marriage on the afternoon with which we begin this narration. I was   on my way to the post office from the nearby chambers of our law   practice when I crossed paths with a woman of good Baltimore society,   Mrs. Blum--Hattie's aunt. She pointed out immediately that the   errands of retrieving waiting mail should be assigned to one of my   lesser and less occupied legal clerks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You are a specimen, aren't you, Quentin Clark!\" Mrs. Blum said. \"You   wander the streets when you are working, and when you're not working,   you have a look upon your face as though you were!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She was your genuine Baltimorean; she suffered no man without proper   commercial interests any more than she would tolerate a girl who was   not beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This was Baltimore, and whether in fine weather or in this day's fog   it was a very red-brick type of place, where the movements of the   people on well-paved streets and marble steps were quick and   boisterous but without gaiety. There was not much of that last   quality in supply in our go-ahead city, where large houses stood   elevated over a crowded trading bay. Coffee and sugar came in from   South America and the West India Islands on great clipper ships, and   the barrels of oysters and family flour moved out on the multiplying   railway tracks toward Philadelphia and Washington. Nobody looked poor   then in Baltimore, even those who were, and every other awning seemed   to be a daguerreotype establishment ready to record that fact for   posterity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Mrs. Blum on this occasion smiled and took my arm as we walked   through the thoroughfare. \"Well, everything is quite perfectly   arranged for this evening.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"This evening,\" I replied, trying to guess what she could be   referring to. Peter Stuart, my law partner, had mentioned a supper   party at the home of a mutual acquaintance. I had been thinking so   much of the letter I anticipated retrieving, I had until then   forgotten completely. \"This evening, of course, Mrs. Blum! How I've   looked forward to it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Do you know,\" she continued, \"do you know, Mr. Clark, that only   yesterday I heard dear Miss Hattie spoken of on Market Street\"--this   generation of Baltimoreans still called Baltimore Street by its   former name--\"yes, talked about as the loveliest unmarried beauty in   all Baltimore!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"One could argue the loveliest above all, married or not,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, isn't that clever!\" she replied. \"Oh, it won't do at all,   twenty-seven and still living bachelor and--now don't interrupt, dear   Quentin! A proper young man doesn't . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I had trouble hearing what she said next because a loud rumble of two   carriages grew behind us. \"If it is a hackney approaching,\" I thought   to myself, \"I shall put her into it, and offer double the fare.\" But   as they passed I could see both were private carriages, and the one   in front was a sleek, shiny hearse. Its horses kept their heads low,   as if in deference to the honorable cargo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    No one else turned to look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Leaving behind my walking companion with a parting promise of seeing   her at the evening's gathering, I found myself crossing the next   avenue. A herd of swine swarmed past with belligerent shrieks, and my   detour ran along Greene Street and across to Fayette, where hearse   and mourning-carriage were parked together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In a quiet burial ground there, a ceremony began and ended abruptly.   I strained through the fog at the figures in attendance. It was like   standing in a dream--everything blurred into silhouettes, and I   swallowed down the vague feeling that I should not be there. The   minister's oration sounded muffled from where I stood at the gates.   The small gathering, I suppose, did not demand much effort from his   voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was the saddest funeral ever seen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was the weather. No: the mere four or five men in attendance--the   minimum needed to lift an adult coffin. Or perhaps the melancholy   quality came chiefly from that brisk, callous completion of the   ceremony. Not even the most impoverished pauper's funeral that I had   observed before this day, nor the funerals of the poor Jewish   cemetery nearby, not even those exhibited such unchristian   indifference. There wasn't one flower, wasn't one tear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Afterward, I retraced my steps only to find the post office had   bolted its doors. I could not know whether there was a letter waiting   for me inside or not--but I returned to our office chambers and   reassured myself. Soon, I'd hear more from him soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    That evening at the social gathering, I found myself on a private   stroll with Hattie Blum along a field of berries, dormant for the   season but shadowed with summer remembrances of Champagne and   Strawberry Parties. As ever, I could speak comfortably to Hattie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Our practice is awfully interesting at times,\" I said. \"Yet I think   I should like to choose the cases with more discrimination. A lawyer   in ancient Rome, you know, swore never to defend a cause unless he   thought it was just. We take cases if their pay is just.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You can change your office, Quentin. It is your name and your   character hanging on the shingle too, after all. Make it more like   yourself, rather than make yourself more suited to it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Do you believe so, Miss Hattie?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Twilight was settling and Hattie became uncharacteristically quiet,   which I fear meant that I became insufferably talkative. I examined   her expression but found no clues to the source of her distant   bearing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You laughed for me,\" Hattie said absently, almost as though I would   not hear her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Miss Hattie?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She looked up at me. \"I was only thinking of when we were children.   Do you know at first I thought you were a fool?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Appreciated,\" I chuckled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"My father would take my mother away during her different sicknesses,   and you would come to play when my aunt was minding me. You were the   only one to know just how to make me smile until my parents returned,   because you were always laughing at the strangest things!\" She said   this wistfully, while lifting the bottom of her long skirts to avoid   the muddy ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Later, when we were inside warming ourselves, Hattie talked quietly   with her aunt, whose entire countenance had stiffened from earlier in   the day. Auntie Blum asked what should be arranged for Hattie's   birthday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It is coming, I suppose,\" Hattie said. \"I should hardly think of it,   typically, Auntie. But this year . . .\" She trailed off into a   cheerless hum. At supper, she hardly touched the food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I did not like this at all. I felt myself turn into an   eleven-year-old boy again, an anxious protector of the girl across   the way. Hattie had been such a reliable presence in my life that any   discomfort on her part upset me. Thus it was perhaps from a selfish   motivation I tried to cure her mood, but at all events I did wish her   to be genuinely happy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Others of the party, like my law partner, Peter, joined in attempting   to raise her spirits, and I studied each of them vigilantly in the   event that one of them had been responsible for bringing Hattie Blum   into a fit of blues.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Something was hindering my own role in cheering her on this day: that   funeral I had seen. I cannot properly explain why, but it had   thoroughly exploded my peace. I tried to call to mind a picture of it   again. There had been only the four men in attendance to listen to   the minister. One, taller than the others, stood toward the rear, his   gaze floating off, as though the most anxious of all to be somewhere   else. Then, as they came toward the road, there were their grim   mouths. The faces were not known to me but also not forgotten. Only   one member delayed, staying his steps regretfully, as though   overhearing my private thoughts. The event seemed to speak of a   terrible loss and yet to do it no honor. It was, in a word, Wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Under this vague cloud of distraction, my efforts exhausted   themselves without rescuing Hattie's spirits. I could only bow and   express my helpless regrets in unison with the other guests when   Hattie and her Auntie Blum were among the first to depart from the   supper party. I was pleased when Peter suggested we bring an end to   the evening, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, Quentin? What has come over you?\" Peter asked in an eruption.   We were sharing a hired carriage back to our houses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I thought to tell him of the sad funeral, but Peter would not   understand why that had been occupying my mind. Then I realized by   the gravity of his posture that he referred to something altogether   different. \"Peter,\" I asked, \"what do you mean?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Did you decide not to propose to Hattie Blum this evening, after   all?\" he demanded with a loud exhalation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Propose! I?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"She'll be twenty-three in a few weeks. For a Baltimore girl today,   that is practically an old maid! Do you not love the dear girl even a   little?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Who could not love Hattie Blum? But stay, Peter! How is it you came   to assume we were to be engaged on this night? Had I ever suggested   this was my design?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How is it I--? Do you not know as well as I do that the date today   is the very same date your own parents were engaged? Had this failed   to occur to you even once this evening?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It had indeed failed to occur to me, as a matter of fact, and even   being reminded of this coincidence provided little comprehension of   Peter's queer assumption. He explained further that Auntie Blum had   been sagely certain I would take the opportunity of this party to   propose, and had thought I had even hinted such earlier in the day,   and had so informed Peter and Hattie of this likelihood so they would   not be surprised. I had been the unwitting, principal cause of   Hattie's mysterious distress. I had been the wretch!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"When would have been a more reasonable time than tonight?\" Peter   continued. \"An anniversary so important to you! When? It was as plain   as the sun at noon-day.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I hadn't realized . . .\" I stammered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How couldn't you see she was waiting for you, that it is time for   your future to begin? Well, here, you're home. I wish you a restful   sleep. Poor Hattie is probably weeping into her pillow even now!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I should never wish to make her sad,\" I said. \"I wish only that I   knew what seemed to be expected from me by everyone else.\" Peter   gruffly muttered agreement, as though I had finally struck upon my   general failing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Of course I would propose, and of course we would marry! Hattie's   presence in my life had been my good fortune. I brightened whenever I   saw her and, even more, whenever we were apart and I thought about   her. There had been so little change all this time knowing her, I   suppose it had just seemed odd to call for it now with a proposal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What do you think about?\" Peter seemed to say with his brow as I   closed the carriage door to bid him good night. I pulled the door   back open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There was a funeral earlier,\" I said, deciding to try to redeem   myself with some explanation. \"You see, I watched it pass, and I   suppose it troubled me for a reason I had not . . .\" But no, I still   could not find the words to justify its effects on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"A funeral! A stranger's funeral!\" Peter cried. \"Now, what in heaven   does that have to do with you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Everything, but I did not know that then. The next morning I came   down in my dressing gown and opened the newspaper to distract myself.   Had I been warned, I still could not have predicted my own alarm at   what I saw that made me forget my other concerns. It was a small   heading on one of the inside pages that caught me. Death of Edgar A.   Poe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I would toss the newspaper aside, then would pick it up again,   turning pages to read something else; then I'd read again and again   that heading: Death of Edgar A. Poe. . . . the distinguished American   poet, scholar, and critic in the thirty-eighth year of his age.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    No! Thirty-nine, I believed, but possessed of a wisdom worth a   hundred times that . . . Born in this city. No again! (How   questionable it all was, even before I knew more.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Then I noticed . . . those four words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Died in this city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This city? This was not telegraphed news. This had occurred here in   Baltimore. The death in our own city, the burial, maybe, too. Could   it be that the very funeral on Greene and Fayette . . . No! That   little funeral, that unceremonious ceremony, that entombment in the   narrow burial yard?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At the office that day, Peter sermonized about Hattie, but I could   hardly discuss it, intrigued instead by these tidings. I sent for   confirmation from the sexton, the caretaker of the burial yard. Poor   Poe, he replied. Yes, Poe was gone. As I rushed to the post office to   see if any letter had arrived, my thoughts revolved around what I had   unknowingly witnessed.New York Times bestseller; Author of The Dante Club; [quote]--Caleb Carr, authorof The Alienist","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304426787045,"sku":"NP9780812970128","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812970128.jpg?v=1767740987","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-poe-shadow-isbn-9780812970128","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}