The Return Of The Raven

‘It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.’—Edgar Allan Poe

On the 18th of April, 1892, I received a unique correspondence from abroad that had reached my address at 23 Whitehall Place in London. It was, apparently, from Baltimore, sent by a certain English gentleman by the name of Julian Winsor. In his respectful letter, Mr Winsor had requested my assistance in resolving a mysterious case of unsolved murders.

My name, you ask, is Jack Cauvain—a meticulous Chief Inspector from London. I had previously worked on many infamous cases, such as The Riddle of the Skull Murders in London, and The Vesper Bells of Notre Dame in Paris, but this case from America would prove the most challenging and difficult of all to solve.

It would require extraordinary perception and diligence that few detectives in this profession possessed. From the scant details I had to read, the murders suggested the involvement of the ambiguous group known as the Freemasons, as well as a strange link to the raven of the deceased poet Edgar Allan Poe. These intriguing elements drew me into a heightened state of fascination.

After further deliberation, I decided to accept the case and departed the following week for Baltimore. When I at last arrived in the city, I was cordially greeted by a representative of Mr Winsor, who kindly escorted me by carriage to the opulent home of his employer.

From the harbour, I descried the conspicuous Washington Monument towering above. I had never been to Baltimore before—New York City had been the only American city I had previously visited. Baltimore was an industrial and prosperous place. Along the way to Mr Winsor’s home, I witnessed a vibrant and obstreperous city and was impressed by the bustle stirred by the immense population and commerce, stretching from the harbour and beyond.

I arrived at Mr Winsor’s lofty residence—a colonial brick mansion along Goodwood Gardens in the Roland Park district. The house featured a portico on the front façade with a projecting bay, and the upper bay bore a fanciful Palladian window. It was the very image described by Englishmen who had travelled to these parts of America.
I considered what to expect from Mr Winsor, and upon meeting him, he was every bit the dapper Englishman. My first impression was that he was willowy in constitution, dressed elegantly, and smoked expensive imported cigars.

He had a distinctive look in his eyes that conveyed a hint of hauteur, and his mien reflected his refined persona. When we shook hands, his grip was firm and commanding, as was his salutation.

‘Inspector Jack Cauvain, it is a pleasure to meet you at last in person and to have you here in my home’.

‘The pleasure is mine, Mr Winsor’, I replied.

‘I have heard so much about you, and to finally meet you is indeed an honour’.

‘I would hope those things you have heard are more worthy than unworthy’.

‘You have established a well-known reputation, Inspector’.

‘My reputation follows me wherever I go, it seems’.

‘I am told you are one of the best sleuths in England’.

His words made me grin. ‘I shall take that as a compliment, sir’.

‘Naturally, you must be weary from your long trip abroad’, he remarked.

‘If you must know the truth, sir, I am as tired as an ox and would love to get some needed repose, if possible’.

‘Then let me not delay you further. Rest a bit. We shall speak of the case at dinner. The guest room has been prepared for you in advance’.

‘I shall be looking forward to that conversation’, I said with a cordial smile.

Later that evening at dinner, I learnt that Mr Winsor had accumulated his wealth through the trade of antiquities and treasures, though his principal passion was his timeless coin collection. He had lived in America for many years. His profitable business had brought him to Baltimore, where he had amassed a good fortune and a noteworthy reputation. He was a keen connoisseur of the arts, and his knowledge of international affairs was impressive, to say the least.

After we finished dinner, we spoke at length in the dining hall about the case that had brought me to Baltimore. He revealed the known and public details. The men murdered were prominent figures from the local aristocracy and affluent neighbourhoods.

Their names were Mr Harwood, Mr Chapman, Mr Trammel and Mr Hutchinson. In total, four men had been brutally murdered. The interesting fact about the murders was that most occurred near the victims’ residences.
There was no discernible pattern in the timing of the killings — they transpired indiscriminately, whether by day or night. The strange connection to the Freemasons and Poe’s poem The Raven still confounded me, and I had to enquire further.

‘Mr Winsor, if I may ask—what does the poem The Raven and the Freemasons have to do with the murders?’
‘That is a good question, inspector. I shall attempt to explain that oddity as best I can. You see, from the evidence gathered, all the victims were alleged to be Freemasons. As for the link to Edgar Allan Poe, a copy of his poem was left behind by the culprit after each murder. Hitherto, these are the incontrovertible facts’, he answered.

‘I have worked on many fascinating cases of unsolved murders with mysterious circumstances involved, but this case—which I now attempt to unfold—is a daring one. To be honest, it presents quite the challenge. And I must admit—I enjoy a good challenge'.

‘I know if there is a singular man who could solve this mystery, it is you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend an engagement at the local theatre. If you decide to seek accommodation elsewhere, I shall inform the carriage driver to take you there. There are many good hotels in the city. As for the police, I have already informed them of your involvement in the case’.

‘If you have no objection, I would like to spend the night here. Tomorrow, I shall find a room in a nearby hotel’, I requested.

‘Of course not! All your expenses at the hotel will be paid by me’.

‘That is very gracious of you’.

‘There is no need to thank me, inspector. After all, you are my invited guest’.

‘I shall do my best to solve the enigma of this case and bring whoever is behind these crimes to justice’.

‘I have trust in your ability, inspector. Otherwise, I would not have requested your presence. I sense you enjoy the challenge’.

‘I would prefer to acknowledge it as my solemn duty, Mr Winsor’.

‘That is an admirable trait—one that inspires me to perhaps seek the prestige of duty and honour myself’.
After he departed, I retired to the comfort of my chamber, where I rested upon the bed. Though I was extremely fatigued from the trip, my enquiring mind soon began pondering the details of the case. The precedence of this impending mystery had to be associated with the activities of those prestigious men—regardless of the nature of their exploits.

The connection to The Raven did not seem to offer any logical explanation. What was the true intention of the murderer or murderers in leaving, as a vestige of proof, this particular Gothic poem? Was it a bid for infamy? And what of the inclusion of the occult Freemasons? Was there a deeper motive yet unrevealed?

I could not underestimate the full capability of my adversary—a lesson I had learnt well in dealing with the criminal mind. For the nonce, there was little I could unravel. I left the unanswered questions for the morrow and slept for the remainder of the night, as the signs of lassitude were manifest in my weary gestures.

In the morning, I awoke with an eagerness to commence the investigation. I had breakfast and left the home of Mr Winsor. Then, I headed towards the police station to speak with Officer Higgins at once, whom Mr Winsor had mentioned the previous day. Once I had informed him who I was, he was prepared to assist me in whatever endeavour was necessary. I also met his superior, Captain O'Malley.

‘Inspector Cauvain, I am at your service, and happy to work on this case with you!’

‘Good! I like your firm resolution, Officer Higgins. Now, there is so much to do. If you have no objection, let us begin with the preliminary report and proceedings’, I responded.

‘None at the moment, inspector. I have absolute confidence that together, we will solve this case’.

‘That is good to hear. There is nothing more admirable in our profession than the determination we demonstrate, with our coherent effort’.

‘Those are inspiring words. I try to do my best in solving every case possible’.

‘That is all that I can ask of you, Officer Higgins’.

‘I have prepared the list of people we shall be questioning’.

‘Good. We must speak with them at once’.

‘Will you be needing anything else, inspector?’

‘Not at the moment, but if there is something I need, you will be informed’.

‘I must warn you that there are times when the witnesses tend to embellish their testimony’.

I smiled, then replied, ‘I am very accustomed to the behaviour of witnesses, Officer Higgins’.

Several witnesses and suspects were interrogated, but nothing of substance or precedent was established. The clues retrieved were too vague and indeterminate to discern the original disposition of the culprit or culprits.

Thus, I decided to concentrate on the indisputable facts that were disclosed. First, the victims were all wealthy businessmen from Baltimore. Second, the proximity of the murders was within the essential circumference of the area. Third, the dastardly deeds committed were executed with the same premeditated manner and efficiency. Fourth, the preferred weapon of the murderer was a tool with a blade of some sort. Fifth, a copy of The Raven was discovered at each murder. The dubious connection to the Freemasons was, at this point, a mere speculative assumption.

There was no concrete evidence that the murders had any specific relation to Freemasonry, except for one small detail: according to some of the witnesses, the weapon used in the murders resembled a trowel or rapier. Even if the trowel or rapier had been utilised—which I considered primitive—it was not sufficient to build a case of clear confirmation. Higgins concurred with my analysis, and we would have to rely on our intuitive suppositions and correlative facts.

At times, these sources were not always reliable or efficacious. Therefore, we studied the perimeters of the crime scenes on a map of Baltimore, in particular the neighbourhoods of Federal Hill and Cherry Hill. Hanover Street Bridge became a focus, as a witness had seen a mysterious carriage pass over it on one occasion.
We had to start from somewhere pivotal to the progression of events. We decided to head to the bridge, in order to relate the horrid sequence of that night with the murder that had occurred afterwards. If my theory of cause and effect was correct, then the murderer must have taken a particular route.

That is to say, within his plan, there had to be a route of escape. Not only would the culprit or culprits require this option, but also a highly significant assumption: the escape would have to be executed swiftly, with minimal detection. It was a tremendous risk, but it had been carried out. The murder—like the others—was executed with precision: a deep cut to the throat.

Upon reaching the bridge, no visible or immediate clues were found, but we began to examine the area. We determined, from the weight-bearing structure of the bridge and the urgency to escape, the probable speed of the carriage. After deducing the escape path and velocity, I sought to connect the significance of that route with the adjoining area. Being unfamiliar with Baltimore, I asked Higgins about any local features I might overlook.
Higgins informed me that the bridge led to one of the main thoroughfares to both the city and the countryside.

This revealing detail explained the access and ample time the culprit had in evading the authorities — and escaping the notice of neighbours.

The next question that entered my mind was: where had the carriage ultimately gone? That answer would have to be resolved another day with further information. We left the area and returned to the police station to see whether any new tidings had been reported. There was nothing of note.

This might have disconcerted other detectives, but not me. On the contrary, it only increased my firm resolve. The pressing matter of my accommodation had to be settled, and Higgins was kind enough to assist in the search. I registered at a hotel on Russell Street, a main street in the city centre. Afterwards, we resumed the thorough investigation. The disturbing pattern behind the murders was the next thing to resolve. The method of death: a slashed throat.

Although witnesses had claimed that the weapon used was a trowel or rapier, there was no substantial proof to verify this—nor was either weapon found at the crime scenes. The murder weapon was truly decisive, as was the identity and motive of the killer. It was imperative to establish that connection. I recalled the methods used in the Notre Dame murders in Paris, the Cult of Death, and the riddle of the skull murders in London.

Higgins was initially unaware of my references. Gradually, he understood, after I expounded my thoughts. There was a definitive reason behind the murders, and that purpose appeared to relate to admiration for Edgar Allan Poe.

As for the Freemasons, could this mention also be linked to the deceased poet? Let me elucidate. In the short story The Cask of Amontillado, the villain Montresor used a trowel and a rapier for his devilish deed against poor Fortunato. Could the culprit be emulating this episode? Could he truly be a hidden Freemason?

Perhaps I was correct in my pensive presupposition — or perhaps I was simply erroneous. What if the concept was twofold and feasible from either interpretation? That was a radical notion, ripe for confutation. The key to solving this enigma lay in uncovering the elusive identity of the murderer. My intrigue in the secret society of Freemasonry was growing, drawing me into an introspective depth.

I instructed Higgins to obtain as much information as he could regarding the final transactions of the victims, while I investigated the activities of the Freemasons. It was crucial to prove that the deaths of these men were linked to their business dealings. Equally paramount was acquiring more insight into their private affairs.

My old recollection of the Freemasons in England was somewhat unclear. What I remembered was that they were fraternal organisations with clandestine roots dating back centuries. They were embedded in the core of English society and found throughout Britain and much of Europe. Their extent in America, however, was a mystery to me.

Where could I find a Masonic lodge in Baltimore? That was not an immediate priority. If the murders continued and the evidence increasingly pointed in this direction, I would be forced to consider the Freemasons' complicity.
The following morning, as I sat in the foyer of the hotel, Higgins arrived with the records of the deceased victims’ transactions. I was eager to peruse the documents, and what I read contained valuable information and specific details.

The victims were bankers, politicians, lawyers or merchants. I discovered that all their final transactions had corresponded to the same address — and involved considerable sums of money.

‘Why would they all make contributions to the same address, inspector?’ Higgins asked, bemused.

‘Perhaps it is nothing but a mere coincidence, Higgins — or perhaps the murderer knew the victims and had a rapport with them’, I answered.

‘Could this be true?’

‘What I am certain of is that whoever received this contribution is smiling at us right now with a pretentious smirk’.

‘What do you mean, inspector?’

‘I have the intuitive sense that we are dealing with a criminal mind who has a furtive regard for rules’.

‘What makes you believe that?’

‘It is something you learn as a detective—and apply to every case. You see, Higgins, the criminal will always seek to challenge our wits, misleading us with clues’.

‘That would imply he is one step ahead of us’.

‘Exactly! If Mr Poe were alive, he would concur with that analogy. But as he is not, we must accomplish the task on our own’.

‘As a true admirer of Poe, I am certain he would be impressed with your diligence and intellect, inspector’.

‘I accept that compliment. And if you must know, I too am an admirer of his, Higgins’.

The address was located on Lombard Street—our first real indicative clue. When we arrived, we found the building completely abandoned. Apparently, it had been so for some time. The implication was clear: the transactions were either illegal or misappropriated. But how could we prove it?

We needed strong evidence to lead us to that conclusion. One thing was certain—whoever orchestrated this scheme intended for their identity to remain hidden. Clearly, the purpose was to keep the transactions secret, their duplicity shielded by the violence that had claimed the lives of those who had contributed.

The question that intrigued me was this: was the benefactor directly involved in the murders? If so, it was an elaborate plot of connivance. It seemed we would need to seek our answers elsewhere—a concession I was loath to admit...

After we had left the derelict building, we returned to the Police Station and pondered our next move. The identity of the unknown benefactor was as ambiguous as the identity of the culprit. The plot of the mystery had thickened even more than before. It was obvious we were not dealing with a conventional criminal mind, but rather an audacious and meticulous one.

Baltimore was a large city, full of many eerie and hidden places of dread and horror. There was still much to unravel about the intricacies surrounding the murders. The only auspicious gleaning that resulted in a boon was the fact that we had the certainty of the name and address of the proprietor of the property.

The notion of the involvement of the Freemasons was starting to occupy my thoughts continually. The suspense would heighten upon my visit to the home of Mr Winsor. Higgins had accompanied me to the house, where Mr Winsor was in the parlour, playing his piano.

When he was told about our visit, he was excited to hear our discoveries about the case. His excitement did seem a bit odd, but I informed him of the interesting information we had gathered, especially the disclosure of the victims' financial transactions.

The irony of the transactions was compounded by the fact that we had discovered the address to be a deserted building. This peculiar evidence was a contradictory inversion that did not make any practical sense. There were more questions to be asked about these transactions than answers.

‘The revelation of the transactions, inspector, although strange, can be interpreted as charitable purposes', Mr Winsor said.

'True, but sent to an abandoned building? That does not equate with my logic, sir', I rejoined.

'Frankly, it is a complex matter to explain, but I shall attempt to. You see, Americans have this propensity to give shelter to the poor and destitute in buildings no longer operable or desirable, for that matter. Thus, the organisers of these activities tend to rent old, dilapidated buildings for this function. It is fully legal and comprehensible', Mr Winsor explained.

'How do you explain why these transactions were done so surreptitiously, and the charitable group that had donated these contributions was not mentioned in the transactions?' I asked.

'I believe I can answer that question by saying that there is a natural tendency for contributions given to charity to sometimes end up with the benefactor, who then distributes those contributions. It is the actual beneficence of the donation', he replied.

'That is an inventive enterprise undertaken. Even though it is precarious, it is still charitable', I reciprocated.

'You are an intelligent man, inspector. You should know how the operations of an organisation function'.

‘There are things in a case like this where the smallest details matter, even if they appear to be intricate in their nature'.

‘Indeed, inspector'.

‘I sense we are closer to unravelling the intention of the murders'.

I perceived a sarcastic quirk in Mr Winsor as he responded to my enquiry so fluently. I also had the impression that he did not expect me to discover much in such a brief period of time. When I mentioned that I, along with Higgins, were to interview the few witnesses who had seen the murders or the culprit the following day, he would be taken aback by my next admission. I told him that I would solve this murder sooner rather than later.

We left the house of Mr Winsor, and our intention was to retire for the night, but a harrowing incident occurred afterwards that I did not welcome or foresee. As I was waiting in the street for Mr Winsor's carriage to escort me to the hotel, the horses of the carriage were frightened by a sound, causing them to gallop forth with celerity. Luckily for me, Higgins saw the carriage approaching and warned me suddenly.

When the horses finally halted at the quadrivial edge of the street, they nearly collided with a waggoner driving a team of eight horses. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the incident, and a serious accident was avoided. It was not revealed at that moment what actual noise had caused the horses to react in that skittish manner. I dismissed the occurrence as nothing more than an unsettling experience. Little did I know; this small incident would quickly change the nature of this murder investigation.

The next morning, I arrived at the Police Station to reunite with Higgins, as we had agreed. We had planned to visit first the proprietor of the abandoned building at his address, and then speak to the few witnesses of the case.

Once we arrived at the residence of Mr Gillespie on Charles Street, we spoke to him as he greeted us at the front door. Charles Street was an important street leading to the arterial roads of Baltimore. Mr Gillespie was a simple man, small in height but rotund in corpulence. His visible moustache was neatly trimmed, and his glabrous head was noticeable.

When we shared our private conversation about the building and the charitable events that took place within the edifice, he did acknowledge the events and corroborated what Mr Winsor had explained earlier. When I requested what was called the lease, he said he did not have it with him at that time. He assured me that once he found the document, he would inform me. When I demanded to know the name of the tenant, he was evasive and could not recall the name of the tenant.

He tried to assure me that once the lease was found, the name of the tenant would be readily recognisable. It was evident that he was concealing something, though I was not yet certain what. Not wanting to seem overly adversarial in my approach, I thought it prudent not to impose my authority over him. We finished the conversation, and I told Higgins we would proceed to the Police Station to interview the witnesses. One by one, the witnesses were interrogated, and each version given was exactly the same as before.

If I had hoped to uncover any pertinent information or clues about the murders, I was sorely disappointed. I was not confident that I could obtain any valuable details from these witnesses. I realised I needed to seek other witnesses and devise a meaningful plan. The question was where and who?

The new plan would have to be carefully designed to entice the murderer, not simplified, as the culprit was no ordinary criminal. I began to believe that the criminal wanted to remain anonymous and that the poem The Raven found at the crime scene was nothing more than an elaborate deception.

I analysed the poem and the signature written in the bottom right-hand corner, and noticed through clear observation the intricate handwriting used. There was no apparent distinction in the poems left behind, except the tincture was smooth and elegant. I was no expert on handwriting, but I surmised that the author of the signature was a polished, sophisticated gentleman. There had to be a logical connection between the murders and the poem.

The culprit had to be either an admirer of Poe, or this was a pretext to mislead the authorities. Naturally, the conjecture of his sanity had been a speculation, but that was before the recent developments. I was preparing to devise the next action when we were at the hotel, taking a drink to relax a bit, when a note was handed to me.

It was from Mr Gillespie, and he requested my presence at the abandoned building on Lombard Street as soon as possible. I told Higgins about the note, and we went to the location immediately. Once we arrived, we noticed that he was not outside. We stepped inside, but he was not in the hall to be plainly seen either. A queer sensation overtook me forthwith. As we passed the hall, we found Mr Gillespie dead. His motionless body was hanging from the top of the stairway.

It was apparent that his death appeared recent, but what was not certain from the outset was whether he had committed suicide or been murdered. The only certainty was that he was dead. I could not bear the image of his listless body hanging, and I unfastened the rope and removed Mr Gillespie's body.

It was a lamentable death, and one I felt had a macabre purpose. The purpose would soon be understood. As I was removing the body, Higgins discovered the familiar poem The Raven near the body. The poem was a visible sign that the murderer had returned to his escapade. The pressing question was, were there any witnesses? There were none. I learned the lesson that the poem was a prerequisite and death a requisite.

Higgins also discovered a ring with a shining ruby on the floor. What was not known was whether the ring had belonged to Mr Gillespie or the killer. I kept the ring until I spoke to the widow. There was no doubt that Mr Gillespie had been murdered to prevent the exposure of the murderer.

The murderer was aware of our investigation, and he was one step ahead. The question that had lingered was: how did the criminal know we were going to speak to Mr Gillespie, at the building, and today? I told Higgins that I had wanted to peruse the poem leisurely within the commodious space of my hotel room. There, inside my room, I began to study the pattern of alliteration and metaphors used in "The Raven." Was the key to solving this case hidden in the structure of the poem? The rhyming of the poem, uttered in cadent enunciation, was analogous to the bel canto of the theatre.

It was unmistakable to me, a judicious thinker working on this case, that the criminal had sought provocation and recognition through this poem and his acts of depravity. The signature, too, had continued to consume my thoughts and assertions. It was conceivable to imagine the killer as a product of social acclamation.

It was horrible to fathom the mortification imposed by his indefatigable actions. Although the criminal mind of my foe was discerning, I was confident that the culprit—perfectionist or not—would have to commit a mistake. I had to be prepared to pounce on him like a raptor on its prey with talons. I had instructed Higgins to investigate any associations the victims had previously participated in. The idea of a link to the Freemasons remained a credible possibility, as they were an enigmatic mystery not easily resolvable.

That evening, I received another note at the hotel, and this time, it was from the widow Mrs Gillespie. I had not expected another note, nor anything relevant from it. However, when I began to read it—succinct in length—I was informed of an urgent secret that she desperately wished to reveal to me, but in privacy. Indeed, it must have been something essential to the cause of her husband’s death, Mr Gillespie.

I sent a note to Higgins, instructing him to wait for me at the Police Station, while I made my way to Mrs Gillespie's residence. Once I arrived, I spoke to the widow and sensed her profound apprehension in her hesitance to speak calmly. She was petrified with palpable fear, looking around to see if anyone with vigilant eyes was observing us. I did as she requested, arriving alone, and we entered the home. Inside, she seemed slightly more relaxed, though still unsettled.

Shortly after, I asked her about the matter that had brought me to her residence. She began to speak about the mysterious organisation her late husband had been a member of. Her striking revelation would provide fundamental evidence crucial to solving the case. This was the evidence that would begin to unravel the mystery that had eluded us from the outset of the investigation.

'Inspector Cauvain, we do not have much time—for I know in my heart they are watching us now. They have spies among us. I shall be brief and direct, sir. My husband Warren was involved with a chapter of the Freemasons. I am sure you are aware of their association. My husband had rented the building to them so that they could do their charitable work without revealing their true intentions’.

'What exactly are you referring to, Mrs Gillespie?' I enquired.

She handed me important documents of her husband’s, 'It is all here. Take these documents and go. I must leave the city now. I have a train to catch.'

'Where will you be heading?'

'Somewhere they cannot locate me. Do not worry, once I am there, I will send you a letter. As you can imagine, a telegraph would be faster, but I cannot allow myself to be exposed so foolishly', she replied, her expression singular and resolute.

'Of course! You must do what you must. Your safety is paramount. Before you leave, I would like to know if this shining ring with the ruby belonged to your late husband'.

Her response was firm, 'No, I have never seen this ring'.

'Are you certain of that?'

'Yes, I am. I would have recognized it immediately'.

'Do you know anyone to whom this ring might belong? Think carefully'.

'I am afraid I don’t know of anyone to whom that ring would belong, inspector'.

'If you do discover the owner of the ring, please notify me'.

'Of course'.

She gathered her luggage and stepped into the carriage waiting outside, whilst I exited through the back door to the street. I was relieved to know she was leaving the city safely. Yet, a murderer or murderers still roamed free in Baltimore, and the reality of that was daunting to accept.

I returned to the hotel to wait for Higgins. I was eager to learn what he had uncovered and to examine the documents. In my hotel room, I began to peruse them. Each page detailed the precise transactions of Mr Gillespie, along with the names and addresses of all the Freemasons of Baltimore, except for the Master Mason, the leader of this fraternal chapter. The names of the victims in this case were included in the list of members'.
At last, I had conclusive proof that the Freemasons were involved in the murders. It seemed Mr. Gillespie had been the treasurer of the Freemasons. The questions that remained unanswered were the identity of the Master Mason and the identity of the actual culprit. The murderer had been careless in failing to destroy these documents, leaving behind a trail that implicated him in criminal activity.

I was still not convinced that there was only one killer, but I was certain that the signature on the poem "The Raven" belonged to a single man. When Higgins arrived, I handed him the documents and instructed him to take them to the police station. I then set out for Mr. Winsor's house to update him on the status of the case, now that I had more information.

By the time I reached Mr. Winsor's home, it was evening. As usual, he was in the parlour, playing the notes of his priceless piano, his pride and joy. Upon seeing me enter, he stopped playing, finishing his melancholic ode before turning to face me with his usual eager expression. I proceeded to explain the current state of the case, including the evidence we had gathered.

I also informed him of the tragic death of Mr. Gillespie, mentioning the possible involvement of the Freemasons in a broader conspiracy tied to the crimes. I shared with him my private conversation with Mrs. Gillespie, but I refrained from mentioning my observation of the signature in "The Raven," as it was merely a hypothesis and not yet substantiated. However, the matter of the documents Mr. Gillespie had left behind seemed to spark his immediate interest.

‘Interesting, inspector. I must commend your efforts. If I may ask, where are these documents kept?’ He inquired.

‘Unfortunately, that information is not for me to disclose', I replied.

‘There must be something damning in those documents’.

‘That would be my assumption as well. However, I cannot afford to underestimate the cunning of the criminal mind’, I said.

‘I admire your dedication, inspector. Above all, your persistence. Keep up the good work. And before you go, allow me to give you a check for your hotel expenses. Now, I must leave for my usual engagement at the theatre. I believe tonight’s play is The Cask of Amontillado. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish’.

‘Perhaps on another occasion, when I’m not busy with my duties as an inspector’, I replied politely.

I accepted the check but declined his invitation. As he handed it to me, I noticed an imprint on his index finger that suggested he had once worn a ring—one that must have been quite large and distinctive.

There was another detail that caught my attention as I examined the check while leaving his estate. The letter "r" in his signature, in the middle name "Robert," matched the "r" in the signature on "The Raven." When I made the connection, along with the ring imprint, it became clear to me. Mr. Winsor was the fiend I had been seeking. I wasn’t absolutely certain, but my intuition made his guilt seem undeniable.

I needed to confirm this. I quickly hailed a hansom cab and followed Winsor’s carriage through the streets of Baltimore. Eventually, it stopped in a dark, remote corner of the city, in a location I didn’t recognise, which seemed to serve as a place of worship. I instructed the cab driver to leave me near the area, and I followed Winsor inside.

I trailed him down a narrow corridor until I found myself in a cellar. Inside, I saw Winsor conversing with someone while holding a rapier in his right hand. The figure he was speaking to was a stranger, but as I drew closer, I noticed a high wall of plaster being constructed. The wall appeared unfinished, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Who was behind it?

To my horror, I discovered that the person behind the wall was none other than Officer Higgins. The sight was ghastly. Why was Higgins trapped behind this wall? What was he doing in the cellar in the first place? I had a pistol with me, but I waited for the right moment to act. When Winsor began to build the next layer of the wall, I emerged from my hiding place and pointed the pistol at him.

His surprise was immediate, but that moment of shock quickly turned to mine. I failed to notice the pistol aimed at me from behind. It was Captain O'Malley from the police station. What I hadn’t known was that he was a member of the Freemasons in Baltimore. The revelation was shocking, a grim reminder of the powerful reach of the organisation.

‘Inspector Cauvain, what a pleasant surprise! I seem to have underestimated your skill once again. However, fortunately for me, this will be the last mistake I make. Now, I regret that this must end like this. If you would be so kind as to drop your pistol’, Winsor said, his voice dripping with pretension.

I had no choice but to comply. I dropped the pistol on the ground, and Winsor ordered me to walk up the stairs. I seized the opportunity as I reached the top, knocking the pistol from Captain O'Malley’s hand and kicking him down the long staircase, incapacitating him.

I slowly descended, conscious of Winsor’s presence. By the time I reached the cellar again, he had vanished. It seemed he had escaped through a secret passage. I could not let him get away, but I could not leave Higgins behind the wall either. Just then, officers from the Baltimore Police arrived and freed Higgins from his premature immurement. They arrested Captain O'Malley, and I took off after Winsor.

At the end of the passage, I emerged into the street and quickly scanned the area. I spotted Winsor running into a dead-end cul-de-sac. There was nowhere for him to run. He turned to face me, his mercurial temperament apparent as he braced for confrontation.

'It would appear that I am at a clear disadvantage now, inspector'.

'As you would say in chess, checkmate,' I had rejoined.

'I suppose that this means the end is near for me?'

'I believe so, Mr Winsor. The Baltimore Police are informed of everything. You cannot hide or run from the law any longer. You have nowhere to go'.

'Bide my time in the dreary cell of a prison? I do not think so, fain fellow. You see, Inspector Cauvain, there is always an escape, even in the darkest hour of our death'.

'Give up, Mr Winsor. It's finally over. You are trapped'.

'Never!' He ejaculated.

'Don't be foolish!'

'We shall see, who is the fool'.

He had grabbed from his waistcoat a white powder and threw it at me. I was blinded for a moment, allowing him to run away. He would not get too far. As he ran from the cul-de-sac to the street, a heavy waggon, with a team of horses, struck Mr Winsor—killing him instantly.

When my vision had cleared, I saw him lying in the street, dead. Dead was Julian Winsor, the Raven murderer, as he would be referred to posthumously. The actual reasons for his crime spree would never be confessed through his reluctant admission.

Perhaps, in the end, it was an unconquerable and persistent compulsion of his to murder, and an execrable avidity for power. It is a distortional involution that had embodied the inflexible nature of the determination of the murderer. The undeniable facts and the unaccountable iniquities of Mr Winsor had been propagated, within the concurrent recrimination of his character. All the remaining evidence was gathered in the dispositions taken.

It was discovered afterwards that Higgins had been accompanied to the Lodge of the Freemasons by Captain O'Malley, who was a secret member of the fraternity. From the evidence found at the home of Mr Winsor, he had killed the others, who were direct rivals and would not demit. He alone would be the Master Mason, and this was incentive enough to murder the others. At times, the implausible nature of murder is a simplicity we overlook.

The fog rolled low and thick across the cobbled streets of Baltimore, cloaking everything in an ashen blur. The gaslamps gave no comfort, their flames swallowed by the heavy air. I had ventured out again that night, drawn by an unspoken instinct more than any direct lead. My thoughts were still clouded with the implications of Winsor’s cryptic words. The raven, memory, darkness—it all circled back, unbroken.

It was near St. Paul Street where I first saw the figure—an indistinct silhouette, motionless beneath the skeletal limbs of a leafless tree. At first I took him for a vagrant or mourner, but as I drew closer, I could discern the deliberate stillness of someone waiting. His wide-brimmed hat was lowered slightly, casting his face into shadow, and his long coat—of thick wool, perhaps naval issue—bore a peculiar silver clasp shaped like a square and compass. My heart gave a quiet lurch.

‘You are not here by accident’, the man said before I could utter a word. His voice was calm, but deep and threaded with a deliberate cadence—like a sermon or an oath once sworn.

‘I walk this city as an inspector of the law’, I replied plainly. ‘If you have knowledge of the murders, speak’.

‘Ah, but the law is a circle, inspector—and the Mason lives within the square’, he murmured.

I narrowed my eyes. ‘You are a Freemason, then?’

He chuckled—not warmly. ‘I was. Some say I still am. Depends on whom you ask—and which Lodge’.

There was a pause. The wind shifted, drawing the fog momentarily aside. His eyes caught the dim light and glinted—a piercing grey, like old steel.

‘Winsor was never truly one of us,’ he continued, tilting his head slightly. ‘Oh, he held the title, recited the rituals, stood within the Temple. But he misunderstood the craft. He sought mastery, not mystery. Power, not parity. That was his undoing’.

‘Then you knew of the killings?’

‘I knew of the rivalry. I warned them. But the pillars had already cracked’.

‘You could have come forward,’ I pressed. ‘You could have helped’.

‘And broken the covenant?’ He gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Some truths are too sacred to speak aloud. Even to those who seek justice. Especially to those’.

The fog folded round us again, silencing the street as though the city held its breath.

‘Inspector, be wary. The compass does not always point to virtue, and the square can be a trap as much as a guide. There are those among us still loyal to shadowed oaths. Winsor may be gone, but his philosophy is not’.

‘And what would you have me do?’ I asked, unsettled.

‘Watch. Observe who walks freely now that he is dead. Those who smile too readily, who nod at funerals but never weep. The Lodge is older than your badge, and it outlasts even its own corruption’.

Before I could respond, he stepped backward into the mist—and vanished. Not fled, nor ran. Vanished. As if swallowed by the fog and silence itself.

I remained a long while in that haunted street, listening. But the city offered no answers, only the quiet beat of my own pulse, and the creeping sense that something older than guilt had just spoken through human lips.

The prima mobilia is so elemental that its visible circumspection is terribly misunderstood. Its protractive crimes we seek prosecution and deliberation, but fail to fully comprehend the ineffable nature of that antagonistical side of the displacement of those inevitable thoughts of the mind.

I had shortly departed Baltimore afterwards, but not before I went to the Police Station to thank personally Higgins. He was convalescing from his wounds or injuries received at the Lodge. He was very grateful for the experience and collaboration between our two countries. I had invited him to London and he cordially accepted. As for Mrs Gillespie, I had received a correspondence from her once in London, informing me that she was in Toronto, Canada. I was pleased to know that she was safe and under an anonymous name.

There was one small pending thing I had left to do before I left Baltimore completely. The events had unfolded in a manner so peculiar, so filled with intrigue, that I felt it would be remiss not to pay my respects to a man whose words had eerily mirrored the case I had been unraveling. I made my way to the grave of Edgar Allan Poe, the renowned author of The Raven. It seemed a fitting place to reflect on the darkness that had shadowed this city and my investigation.

The cemetery was quiet, its grounds stretching out in the crisp evening air, infused with the soft glow of the descending twilight. The tall trees, their bare branches creaking in the wind, seemed to watch over the place with a solemn patience. The last remnants of autumn clung to the branches, a pale reminder of the passing season.

As I walked through the countless rows of headstones, the solemnity of the place filled me with a quiet melancholy. Though I had been in Baltimore for many weeks now, it was here, in this cemetery, that I felt most connected to the heart of the city. The presence of the dead seemed to linger in the air, and their stories, woven into the stones, whispered softly to anyone who cared to listen.

I reached the corner of the cemetery, where Poe’s grave lay, surrounded by a wrought-iron gate that had long since rusted and worn with time. The headstone itself was unassuming, a modest tribute to a man whose work had left an indelible mark on the literary world. But it was the raven—the bold, ebony bird etched into the stone—that drew my attention.

I stood before the grave for a moment, allowing the stillness of the place to consume me. Poe’s words echoed in my mind, the opening lines of his famous poem rising unbidden to my thoughts:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…

The melancholy rhythm of his verses had long fascinated me, but now, in the dimming light of the evening, they seemed to take on a deeper, more unsettling meaning. The Raven, the creature that had haunted Poe’s dreams, now seemed to haunt my own. I had thought that the death of Julian Winsor had brought an end to the mysteries surrounding the case, but the events of the past days had shown me otherwise. There was something still lingering, something unspoken.

It was here, standing before Poe’s grave, that I saw it clearly—what I had failed to see before. The Raven was not just a symbol of death or despair. It was something more, a manifestation of something darker, more persistent. The creature that had spoken the fateful word nevermore seemed to return again and again, just as the shadows I had been chasing seemed to circle back upon me.

I bent down, tracing the contours of the raven's silhouette with my fingers, feeling the cool stone beneath my touch. For a moment, it felt as though the bird’s eyes were watching me, as if it had a message of its own to impart. Was this the final riddle? Was I to understand, at last, that the pursuit of this darkness—this Raven—would never truly end?

As I stood there, lost in thought, I felt a sudden chill in the air, a coldness that did not belong to the season. The wind picked up, rattling the bare branches above me, and I turned sharply, sensing something behind me. For a brief, unsettling moment, I thought I saw a figure moving among the shadows—just a flicker, a shape in the corner of my eye.

I stiffened, my instincts on high alert. But when I looked again, the figure was gone, leaving only the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

My mind raced, trying to reconcile the fleeting image with the rational part of my brain that sought an explanation. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was still watching, waiting.

The Raven had spoken the word nevermore I thought I heard. But was that truly feasible? Or was it merely my mind deceiving me?

With a final glance at Poe’s grave, I turned to leave the cemetery. The shadows seemed to stretch long behind me, as if the very earth itself was reluctant to let me go. My footsteps echoed in the stillness, a reminder that even in death, the past has a way of following us, of returning when we least expect it.

As I passed through the iron gates, I glanced back one last time, the words of Poe’s poem lingering in my mind:

Nevermore.

And in that moment, I understood. The Raven’s flight was not over. It had merely begun again.

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