Taken individually, each of these elements displayed a considerable degree of tasteful craftsmanship. I could not help but be impressed, for instance, by the exceedingly fine example of arabesque tilework that coveted the architrave above the main doorway, and that appeared to be modelled on the glorious mosaics embellishing the fabled tomb of Itimadud-Daula in Agra, India. The sheer profusion and inconsistency of the countless decora, however, bespoke a sensibility that was the very opposite of tasteful—i.e., one given to the most vulgar display of garish ostentation. Indeed, thought I as I contemplated the surpassingly gaudy manse, only someone entirely devoid of aesthetic sensitivity would mistake such flamboyance for true elegance and grandeur.

This reflection was confirmed only seconds later when, stepping to my side, my companion glanced upward at the extravagant façade and exclaimed: “Well, I’ll be jiggered if this-here Nicodemus lady ain’t got the bullyest place I ever struck. Makes that ol’ Asher house look as low-down as the south end of a northbound horse.”

Curbing my impulse to reply to this observation with a suitably sardonic rejoinder, I ascended the steps and pounded on the wrought-iron knocker. Seconds later, the front door was opened by a stooped and white-haired manservant, who—after giving us a slow, appraising glance—politely inquired as to our business.

“We are here to speak to Mrs. Henrietta Nicodemus about a matter of the utmost importance,” I replied “My name is Mr. Edgar Poe, and this,” I added, gesturing towards my companion, “is Colonel Crockett of Tennessee.”

The mere mention of the latter’s name elicited a singular response from the elderly servitor. His eyes seemed to protrude from their sockets, and his mouth fell open to its fullest extent.

“Colonel Crockett? You mean Davy Crockett?”

“The original ripsnorter,” said the frontiersman, crossing his arms over his brawny chest.

“Naw,” exclaimed the incredulous servant. “Can’t be!”

“It’s me for a fact,” Crockett asserted. “Tough as a hick’ry branch, savage as a meat-axe, and fierce as a Texas tornado.”

“Well dog my cats,” said the old man with a chuckle. “You two gen’mun wait right here while I go tell Miz Henrietta. Why, she’ll be fit to bust when she hears this.” So saying, he swivelled on his heels and shuffled away with a rapidity that seemed wholly anomalous in one whose grizzled head, wrinkled visage, and shrivelled frame clearly marked him as a septuagenarian.

As the elderly—if still remarkably spry—manservant vanished into the extensive interior of the Nicodemus manse, I turned to my companion and dryly remarked: “Your name, Colonel Crockett, appears to be a veritable open sesame.”

“An open what?” he replied with an expression of intense puzzlement.