The mere prospect of recollecting the abomination I had witnessed, of reliving the terror—the enormity—the sheer, indescribable hideousness—of Mrs. Nicodemus’ death caused my heart to sicken. Inhaling a deep breath, I proceeded to recount the ghastly narrative, beginning with my decision to retire temporarily from the ballroom, and concluding with the murder itself. Notwithstanding Captain Russell’s recent admonition, however, I refrained from describing the terrible revelation which had been vouchsafed me in the instant before I fainted.

Following the conclusion of my recitation, a moment of silence ensued, during which Captain Russell—his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed—continued to regard me with an inscrutable, though distinctly appraising, look. “So the perpetrator of this ghastly deed was costumed as the Angel of Death?”

“That is correct,” I replied.

“And the killing occurred so near to your vantage point on the bed that your own costume became embrued with the blood issuing from the poor woman’s neck.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“I take it that the same phenomenon accounts for the blood on your hands, as well.”

Taken aback by this observation, I instantly lifted my hands and scrutinized my palms. To my surprise—for I had not, until that moment, been cognizant of the fact—they were indeed mottled with blood. “When the atrocity occurred,” I said musingly, “I must have raised my hands before my face in an instinctive, shielding motion.”

Slowly stroking one end of his extravagant moustache, Russell subjected me to a prolonged and intensely discomfitting period of inspection. At length, and in a voice whose tone possessed a strangely insinuating under-current, he declared: “You appear to have a peculiar habit of being present whenever disaster strikes, Mr. Poe. I first set eyes upon you over the ghastly remains of Elmira Macready. You were a guest at Roger Asher’s when he and his sister perished in the dreadful conflagration. It was you who discovered Alexander Montague’s horribly mutilated corpse. And now this.”

“There’s a right smart chance of funerals whenever Poe is around, for a fact,” Crockett said, casting a quizzical look at the police captain. “But you ain’t suggesting that he—?”

“I am suggesting nothing,” said Russell. “I am merely offering a detached observation.”

Despite the latter’s protestation, it was now unmistakably clear that Russell had begun to perceive me as a suspect in the series of unparalleled atrocities that had commenced with the slaying of Elmira Macready. An icy chill coursed through my spine—my heart began to palpitate uncontrollably—my mouth grew parched with fear. At that instant, Count Languedoc—who had been hovering several paces to the rear of Captain Russell—stepped forward and declared: “Excusez-moi, Monsieur le Prefect. I could not help but overhear. While I am reluctant to cast doubt on the testimony of Monsieur Poe, I must in good conscience declare that I myself saw no one at poor Mrs. Nicodemus’ ball who was costumed as La Mort.”