This name was immediately recognizable to me from various newspaper accounts I had perused over the years, involving manifold crimes, accidents, and fatalities. It was none other than the Coroner’s Physician of the City of Baltimore, Mr. Augustus Bedloe. Never having set eyes on this individual before, I took a moment to study his appearance. Clad entirely in black, he was inordinately tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceedingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large, pale, and arranged in a perpetual frown. His eyes, though abnormally large, were so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as to suggest the idea of a long-interred corpse. Altogether, he conveyed an impression of profound melancholy—of phaseless and unceasing gloom.

Speaking not a word, nor pausing in his stride, Bedloe swiftly crossed the room and, bending to the bulkier of the two shrouded forms, reached down one long, bony hand and swiftly drew aside the blood-stained sheet. So sudden was this motion that—before I could avert my eyes—I found myself staring directly at a sight that chilled the very marrow in my bones.

The mutilated corpse of Mrs. Nicodemus lay flat on its back, legs extended and slightly apart, arms out-stretched, palms turned upward. Not merely the head but the entire neck was severed from the body, the death-blow having been delivered at the level of the shoulders. The ghastly condition of the maimed, truncated cadaver, its upper torsal region embrued in gore, was in itself profoundly appalling. Adding to the horror, however, was the sight of the severed head. Situated directly above the left shoulder, it sat upright on its neck-stump, its glassy eyes wide open, its bow-shaped mouth forming a perfect O, as though it were issuing a small exclamation of surprise at finding itself thus detached from the trunk.

At the first glimpse of these grisly remains, I could feel the blood drain completely from my countenance. A wave of nausea rose up in my bosom, which I struggled in vain to subdue. Perceiving the intensity of my distress, the frontiersman tapped a forefinger on Captain Russell’s shoulder and addressed him thusly: “Cap’n, I reckon I’d best take Poe back home, for he is looking mighty poorly.”

“Very well,” said Russell. “I see no reason why he should not return to his domicile.” Then, turning to me, he inquired: “You are quite certain that you have told us everything that transpired here tonight, Mr. Poe?” As before, the tone of his voice conveyed a sense of the liveliest suspicion.