At this point, Muddy rapped upon my chamber door and—in response to my summons—entered with a platter and teacup in her hands. Setting these items directly before me on the writing table, she bestowed a fond maternal kiss upon the top of my head, then tiptoed from the room. No sooner had she departed than I snatched up the sandwich and greedily devoured it, washing down each delicious mouthful with a gulp of the invigorating brew. Feeling much restored by this simple yet savory repast, I decided to abandon my efforts at interpreting the mysterious word and turn instead to the tantalizingly familiar name of the vanished, elderly recluse. Brushing a sprinkling of bread crumbs from the paper, I lifted my quill and, directly below the word “Nevermore,” inscribed “Alexander Montague.”

The nagging sense that I knew this name from somewhere had grown into a near-certainty. Keeping my gaze fixed upon the appellation, I began to review within my mind every conceivable context—professional—personal—familial—in which I might have encountered it. After fifteen full minutes of this effort, however, I was no doser to a solution than I had been at the start.

In making her egress from my room, Muddy had inadvertently left the door slightly ajar. Now—as I continued to stare at the paper, cudgelling my brain—I became dimly aware of a singularly poignant melody drifting from the parlor. Pricking up my ears, I listened more attentively to the mellifluous sound. It was the honeyed voice of my darling Sissy, performing a song that possessed a particular—indeed, an exceedingly personal—significance to me.

The song was “Nobody Coming to Marry Me”—a tune that my dear, departed mother, Eliza Poe, had performed as a regular part of her theatrical repertoire. Indeed, so closely associated was she with this simple yet heart-piercing ballad that it came to be regarded, by admiring audiences everywhere, as her professional “signature.” Many years had elapsed since I had heard its touching lyrics and captivating melody. Now, leaning my weary head back on the crest of my chair, I closed my eyes and let the sweet, affecting music suffuse my soul:

“Come blind, come lame, come cripple,
Come someone and take me away!
For ’tis O! what will become of me,
O! what shall I do?
Nobody coining to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo!”